by Elly Welt
Josef brushed past the chattering old man, up the stairs to the third floor, where he found his room intact, the prayer book on his desk where he’d left it, wrapped in newspaper, tied with twine, just as it was the day Uncle Otto had given it to him, the day he and Aunt Greta were taken. Josef unwrapped it—an old, black book, leather-bound, all in Hebrew, but Uncle had inserted a page in his own hand, a transliteration of the Kaddish so Josef could sound it out himself, and on the same sheet, the Jewish dates of the deaths of Grandfather and Grandmother Jacoby. Intermittently, outside the bedroom door, Baron von Chiemsee’s quavering voice, “You must see your father. He’s in his room. He calls for you.”
The Baron remained outside the door until Josef, suitcase in hand, emerged from his bedroom and headed down the stairs. Von Chiemsee ran after him and as Josef, without pausing on the second floor, where his parents’—his father’s—bedroom and study were located, took one step down toward the first floor, Von Chiemsee shouted, “He is a good man, your father. He saved my life.”
That stopped Josef dead in his tracks. He turned to face the Baron, “He saved your life?”
“Josef, Josef, is that you?” From behind the closed bedroom door, Father’s voice, but thin, without timbre.
Josef stepped up to the second-floor landing and moved menacingly toward Von Chiemsee, who shrank against the wall. He was an old man now, thin and small. Josef dropped his suitcase and knocked on the door.
“It is not locked.”
Father was in the bed, propped up against pillows, his green corduroy dressing gown over pajamas, covered, on that warm August day, with a down quilt. The glass was gone, the windows boarded over, and the only light was from a reading lamp over the bed. His slippers were beside the bed, which meant, most likely, that he was able to walk about. There were legal papers and newspapers stacked neatly on the bedside table. Their cat, Mies, slept at Father’s feet.
Josef stepped to the foot of the bed. Father was emaciated; his right eyelid sagged and the left side of his mouth drooped.
“I came only to pick up some things.”
Father looked down.
“I will not stay.”
“I ask you to hear me out before you leave.” He looked up at Josef. “You are well aware that the events of the recent past have proven me wrong.”
Josef did not answer, but, a jury of one, listened to the obviously rehearsed defense delivered in a voice without emotion but trembling from weakness.
“You must take into consideration, Josef, that you did not have the burden of my generation, which made the past epoch inconceivable. I say inconceivable because it was inconceivable that in a civilized country the government that had remained in power for twelve years was totally composed of criminal elements. I believed . . . I truly believed that the juridical system in Germany would have been strong enough to survive with integrity. But I was wrong.
“In my own defense, I must say that I stayed, hoping to do some good. But the elected leaders and spokesmen opposed to the Nazis just packed their suitcases and saved their own skins first, leaving behind the people who elected them—leaving them defenseless and without representation. The only ones who tried to stay were the Communists—and those who did not go underground were put in concentration camps.
“At the very beginning, when a resurrection of law and order and human decency within the German Reich still would have been possible from within, the surrounding countries—indeed, the entire world—turned a deaf ear—yes, even supported the Nazi government by flocking to the Olympics in Berlin in nineteen thirty-six. The treatment of the . . . the people of your mother’s background in Germany was considered by the rest of the world an internal German affair that had nothing to do with the world at large. That was the beginning of the end.
“I made the decision to stay and to do what I could. I was wrong. I made the wrong decision. I know that now. But before you go, I have something for you. There is an envelope on the desk in my study.”
“Von Chiemsee tells me you were most effective in saving his life.”
“His life? He said I saved his life?”
“That’s what he told me. He said that you are a good man because you saved his life.”
“The Baron is a fool. Shortly after the Russians liberated Berlin, he decided it would be a good idea to turn himself in. ‘I will tell them of my nominal Party affiliation,’ he said to me, ‘and they will treat me kindly if I volunteer.’”
“And you defended him?”
“Nothing of the kind. I merely advised against it and quoted a proverb to the old fool that made him change his mind: ‘Go not to your lord, if you’re not called.’ So he did not turn himself in—and the Americans came shortly thereafter. They are much easier on Nazis than the Russians.”
“I will be going,” said Josef. “I came only to pick up some things.”
“There is a motorcycle for you in the garage, a BMW.”
Josef was silent.
“It is not from me. It is from Reverend Duncan and his daughter, Elizabeth. Do you remember them?”
“They came here in nineteen thirty-six for the Olympics.”
“They sent twenty cartons of American cigarettes. One can buy anything with cigarettes. The motorcycle cost four cartons, the sailboat two. There are fourteen cartons left. Take them. I have for you, also, some papers which I have prepared. There are stocks and money in Zurich, in the Handelsbank and in Bank Leu.”
“I don’t need them.”
“Don’t be a fool. They are—were—your mother’s as well as mine.”
“How long is that Nazi going to stay in this house?”
“He’s leaving soon to go to his estate near Munich. As you no doubt saw when you came today, his house was destroyed.”
“You have been feeding him?”
“He has been helpful to me. I . . . I was unable to . . . to walk after the stroke.”
“You can walk now?”
“Yes. I can make it to the bathroom by myself. And your friend Fräulein Backhaus comes each day, in the morning, to make order in this room.”
“And you have food?”
“Now I do. At first there was no food. But the Americans have been very kind to us. The kitchen is full of K rations. In the winter, however, we will have no fuel.”
Mies stood, stretched his long gray body, yawned, and looked at Josef, who gathered the cat in his arms. “Mies, Miesian,” he said. “How are you, old fellow?”
“Mies has enough to eat, too,” said Father. “He survived on mice and rats and birds. But Dritt. I didn’t have enough for Dritt.” His mouth twitched; his eyes filled with tears.
Josef looked curiously at his father. He had never seen him cry.
“I couldn’t even save little Dritt.” Father put his face in his hands and began to weep. “I had a little stone made for him, with his name. It is in the garden. Would you like to see it? I will show it to you.” Tears streaming, Father threw aside the quilt and stood. “Please, will you hand me that shawl?”
“It is quite warm outside.”
“I cannot get enough warmth.”
Father walked so unsteadily that at the top of the stairs Josef had to put an arm around his waist to support him and, halfway down, when Father’s knees buckled, Josef swept him into his arms—he was fragile as a bird, feather and light bone—and carried him down the rest of the stairs, through the house, and out into the garden. “There is an old motor or so in the basement, Papa. I will make you a little chair to take you up and down the stairs.”
Papa lived seven more years, spending most of his time writing useless letters and receiving useless answers in return:
AMERICAN JOINT DISTRIBUTION COMMITTEE KRONPRINZENALLEE 247 BERLIN-ZEHLENDORF
21 October 1946
Herrn Lothar Bernhardt
Kastanian Strasse 95
Berlin-Gartenfeld
Dear Herr Bernhardt:
Re: Otto Jacoby and Frau Margaret, née Braunstein.
In possession of your writings of September 23, 1946, we have established communications with our official offices. We have now received the report that the above-mentioned were deported to the East with the East Transport on September 22, 1944.
They have not returned and are not on our lists.
We regret that we cannot give you more favorable news and remain
Yours truly,
Larry Lubetski
Tracing Office
American Joint Distribution Committee
AMERICAN JOINT DISTRIBUTION COMMITTEE KRONPRINZENALLEE 247 BERLIN-ZEHLENDORF
21 October 1946
Herrn Lothar Bernhardt
Kastanian Strasse 95
Berlin-Gartenfeld
Dear Herr Bernhardt:
Re: Frau Dr Anna Bernhardt, née Jacoby.
In possession of your writings of September 23, 1946, we have established communications with our official offices. We have now received the report that the above-mentioned were deported to the East with the East Transport on October 13, 1944.
They have not returned and are not on our lists.
We regret that we cannot give you more favorable news and remain
Yours truly,
Larry Lubetski
Tracing Office
American Joint Distribution Committee
Josef had a file drawer filled with such answers, his favorite from the Bubonic Plague Man, Boris Ivanovich Ignatov, answered, in German, three years—three years—after Father’s inquiry.
15 May 1951
Comrade Lothar Bernhardt
Kastanian Strasse 95
Berlin-Gartenfeld
My dear Comrade Bernhardt:
I received your enthusiastic letter shortly after you sent it to me. As you know, I am happily engaged in very important work to benefit all mankind, and you will, therefore, excuse my delayed answer.
Let me assure you that our dear friends and comrades are in the best of health and spirit and are working happily and productively and undisturbed for the betterment and improvement of the human community.
Some of them have finished their important work and are taking their well-deserved rest. Others are well provided with all necessities of life and can dedicate themselves to nothing but their work. So they even get a visit from their barber once a week.
Contrary to what the Western Imperialist Propaganda claims, you can see that justice is fair and equal within the great Soviet Union.
As I am getting older, I experience more difficulty keeping my mind on the scientific problems which confront me, and I, therefore, ask you not to interrupt me again.
Boris Ivanovich
There was no return address.
Josef’s dark eyes brimmed with tears. He lifted his head from his hands, patted his pockets for cigarettes—Carlos—and scanned the entrance area for a cigarette machine: up front, in the corner. He took a deep breath—still musical, but better. He was better. There was just a remnant of the headache; his blood pressure must be slightly lower. The substernal discomfort was gone; probably it was just a muscle spasm from the unaccustomed running. He was slightly nauseated, and he was thirsty, terribly thirsty, dehydrated from the running and sweating. If he failed to keep up on fluids, he would form stones. Ordinarily, he was conscientious about drinking two or three liters a day.
He looked at the bartender, mid-bar, who was engrossed in counting the change in the cash register, then at the signs posted randomly on the mirror behind the bar:
BEER: PITCHER OR FROSTED MUG
NO CHECKS CASHED
NO CREDIT
TRY OUR REFRESHING LEMONADE
KITCHEN CLOSES AT 2:30
Bottles of hard liquor were arranged neatly on a counter behind the bar, and a mimeographed menu with plastic cover was stuck into a metal holder next to an ashtray on the bar.
“I’ll have a lemonade,”Josef called to the bartender. He was a young man, mostly likely a student, but out of uniform. Although he had long sideburns and a handlebar mustache, his moderately short hair was neatly combed, and he wore a black plastic bow tie, black slacks, and a white shirt with his name, Murphy, in spidery red thread over the pocket. Murphy was now writing on a form attached to a clipboard.
“Are you open for business?” Josef raised his voice.
Murphy dropped the clipboard with a clatter and, reluctantly, looked up.
“A lemonade.”
“Large or small?”
“Large.”
Murphy scooped a tall glass full of ice, slammed it on the bar. and before Josef could stop him, filled it from a pitcher with a pale yellow liquid.
“No ice, please.”
“You asked for a large lemonade?”
“I did.”
Murphy pointed to the glass. “That’s a large lemonade.”
“I want a large lemonade without ice.”
With one smooth movement. Murphy swooped up the glass and threw the contents into the sink. He then placed a smaller glass—half the size—onto the bar and filled it from the pitcher.
“This is a large lemonade?” asked Josef.
“Without ice.”
“I see.” Josef drank it in one gulp. “Another, please.”
Murphy, face devoid of all expression, refilled the glass. Josef, again, drank it in a swallow and ordered another.
“Where you from?” Murphy placed the small glass of lemonade on the bar.
“Iowa City.”
Murphy mopped the clean bar in front of Josef with a dry rag. “How long you been here?”
“Two weeks”
“Where were you before you came here?”
“Montréal.”
Murphy stopped polishing for a moment. “You at McGill?”
Josef nodded.
“Great school. I’ve got a friend goes up there.”
Josef drank the lemonade. He needed more fluid.
“Your accent doesn’t sound Canadian.”
“Most likely not.”
“How do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“Here. America.”
Josef leaned back on the backless barstool and fixed Murphy with his eyes. “There seems to be a war going on—at least in Iowa City. Why did the students break the windows in the bookstore?”
“You mean the Screw?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Varsity Book and Screw. That’s what we call it.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, because they screw the students—you know, rip ’em off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Rip off. You know, steal. They’ve got a monopoly, so the professors order textbooks there, and we have no choice. They way overcharge. It’s a rip-off.”
“There are other bookstores. Why don’t the professors order from Epstein’s?”
“A few do. But most of ’em are just motherfuckers.”
“Motherfuckers,” Josef repeated. “Tell me, why don’t the students break the windows here?”
“Here? Are you kidding?” Murphy was astounded. “They know we don’t rip ’em off!”
“What do you call this?” asked Josef, pointing to the small lemonade glass.
“I call that a large lemonade without ice. At least it was before you drank it.”
“I see. What do you think is the liquid capacity of this glass?”
“Five ounces.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.” Murphy reached under the counter and came up with a Pyrex measuring cup; he filled it to the five-ounce mark with water and then poured into the juice glass. “See? Five ounces, exactly.”
“And the large glass?”
“Ten ounces. Double.”
“May I have it, please? The large glass?”
Murphy slammed the large glass onto the bar, and Josef poured the contents of the juice glass into the taller one, motioned for Murphy to fill up the small one again, then poured the additional five ounces of
water, filling the taller glass to the brim.
“Ten ounces, just like I said.”
“Now,” said Josef, picking up the ten-ounce glass, “pour out this water and fill it up to the top with ice and put exactly five ounces of water into the measuring cup.”
The young man did so, grinning slyly at Josef.
“And now pour five ounces of water over the ice.”
Murphy poured slowly. At one and one half ounces, the tall glass was half full. At three and one half ounces it began to overflow onto the bar and he stopped pouring and mopped up the water.
“Do you fill all soft drink glasses with ice?”
Murphy nodded affirmatively.
“If I were the students,” said Josef, “I would break the glass here, too.”
“They wouldn’t!” Murphy was upset now.
“And why not?”
“Because they know I’m one of them.”
“How do they know that?”
To Josef’s amazement, Murphy reached to the top of his head and pulled off his hair. “It’s a wig,” he explained, turning around so that Josef could see that his own long brown hair was pulled tightly back in a ponytail, fastened with a rubber band, and then looped about the top of his head and held in place with bobby pins.
Josef could not help but smile as he watched Murphy’s reflection in the mirror manipulating the wig back into place. “The management lets us have mustaches but no beards.” He tugged it this way and that, tucking up strands of his own hair which had escaped the rubber band and bobby pins, then grimaced at Josef’s smiling image in the mirror. “Go ahead! Laugh! I need this job to get through school.”
“Please excuse me,” said Josef. “You caught me off guard. I had no idea it was a wig.”
“Hey, Murphy,” called a voice from a booth in the back. “How about drawing us another pitcher?”
While Murphy filled a large glass pitcher with draft beer and delivered it to the booth, Josef studied the mimeographed menu. Despite the mild nausea, he was hungry. Forgetting again that he had stopped smoking, he patted his pockets for cigarettes. Damn. Carlos.
