Berlin Wild

by Elly Welt

  He sat, too, and looked at her—her face, her breasts. “Look,” he said, taking her hand and placing it only briefly on his stiffening sex before releasing it.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  Josef shoved back against the wall. “Most likely, I’m working on a kidney stone.”

  “Oh, no. Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Not yet, but if it’s true to form, I will be before long.”

  She took his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I so wanted to take you to dinner this evening.”

  “Another time.”

  “Of course.” He sighed. “I’m a stone maker,” he said. “Whenever I fail to drink enough fluid—become dehydrated—I can count on it.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have made love.”

  “No, don’t say that. You have no idea . . .” His voice trailed off. He had not so much as jumped on a black spot since Kristallnacht in Montréal in the spring—not with Tanya, who had left shortly thereafter, and not with anyone else.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps something to drink, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve got some wine. Do you drink a lot?”

  “You asked me that in the sweater store. Would it concern you if I did?”

  “Yes. You said you hadn’t been drinking lately.”

  “I said ‘not recently.’”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Not since the war.”

  “Which war?”

  Josef, startled, looked at her to see if she was serious.

  She was not smiling.

  “The Second World War, twenty-two years ago.”

  “I don’t remember much about it. I was only six when it was over.”

  “It would be fair to say that I was at least mildly drunk, at least once a day, each and every working day for the last two years of that war.”

  “Not at work! You weren’t drunk at work?”

  “That’s the only place I was drunk. My parents would not have permitted it at home.”

  She laughed. “Where on earth was it? A winery?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “It would take a long time to tell you. But except for those years, I have rarely been intoxicated.”

  “Except for today.”

  “Except for today,” he echoed. “Today, I drank vodka, which I did not tolerate very well. But to tell you the truth, I did have one bout with drunkenness slightly earlier in my life. Would you like to hear about that?”

  Susan nodded.

  “I was only six or seven, and for some reason I don’t understand, my father had taken me with him to a cafe in the village where he and a client celebrated winning some case or other. My father was a lawyer. They ordered a bottle of champagne and gave me a glass. I thought it quite delicious. They were involved in talking with each other and didn’t pay attention to me, so I helped myself to more champagne and then more—maybe three glasses in all.”

  “Was your father mad at you?”

  “At first. Then. I remember, they both began to laugh—my father and his client—and they half dragged, half carried me to my father’s car and shoved me into the back seat. It was the Duesenberg.”

  “Duesenberg?”

  “Yes. Duesenberg. A year or so later we had, also, a Willys Overland.” Josef stopped and gasped. A sharp pain shot from his kidney, down the ureter track into his groin and testicles.

  “You O.K.?”

  He nodded. “Sorry. I dozed off during the short ride home—our house was only twelve minutes’ walking from the village of Gartenfeld, so the car ride couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes—and I woke up to find myself being carried up the stairs in Papa’s arms. He thought I was asleep, but I was not.” Josef’s voice broke. He was, again, on the verge of tears. He took a deep breath, still musical, but he exhaled without difficulty. “Would you excuse me?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Should I get you some wine?”

  “Water would be fine,” he said, his voice shaking. “I would like to try to float out this stone.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  He nodded, stood, and moved quickly toward the bathroom.

  “I’ll make you some herbal tea.”

  His mother’s and father’s voices had seemed to come from a great distance. “What happened to him?” Mutti said from the top of the stairs; she sounded so worried. Papa’s wool suit was rough against his face, and it smelled of the aromatic pipe tobacco he smoked before the war.

  “He’s drunk,” Papa said.

  “Drunk?”

  “Champagne.” Papa laughed. “Hans Georg and I were talking, and Josef must have helped himself to several glasses before I noticed.”

  Mutti laughed, too. “Better take him in the bathroom, or he’ll wet the bed.”

  They pulled down his pants and Papa stood him at the bowl. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

  “He’s wiry and much stronger than one would think.”

  Josef let go a strong stream. His urine smelled pungently aromatic, fruity. He flushed the toilet and put down the seat and lid.

  “We’ve got a doubles date with Kahns in the morning, eight o’clock,” Mutti said. “Our little tennis ball fetcher will, most likely, not be awake. That will make him very unhappy.” She laughed again. “Can he walk?”

  Josef looked at the door. He could have walked, but he let his knees buckle—on purpose—so that Papa, once again, swooped him up. “He is so thin, one would think he would weigh like a feather.”

  Chilled and nauseated, experiencing excruciating intermittent pain originating in the kidney area but radiating across his abdomen and down into his genitals and the inner side of his thigh, wearing, now, his new red sweater, Josef sat at the table in Susan’s tiny living room, before him a pot of herbal tea, a mug, a legal-size lined yellow tablet, his pen, the telephone, and the Iowa City telephone directory. Susan was in the shower; he could hear the water pinging hollow against the metal shower stall.

  He turned to the Yellow Pages—C, Churches—and shivered. Churches-African Methodist Episcopal; Churches-Assemblies of God; Churches-Baptist—two and a half pages. He flipped back to the second page and ran his finger down the C’s, E’s, to the J’s: Churches-Jehovah’s Witnesses; Churches-Jewish, See Synagogues.

  Synagogues

  Agudas Achim Congregation

  602 E. Washington

  555–8818

  B’Nai B’Rith Hillel Foundation

  120 E. Market

  555–8816

  Rabbi David Brockman

  “Hello?” A child answered the phone. Josef couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. He could hear other children shrieking and laughing in the background.

  “Is this Agudas Achim?”

  “What?” shouted the child. “Hey, you guys, shut up, I’m on the phone. Hello?”

  “Is this the synagogue?” asked Josef.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Rabbi there?”

  Josef winced from auricular pain when the synagogue phone was dropped with a reverberating crash onto a tile counter. He could hear the youngster shout, “Hey, you guys, tell Rabbi Brockman telephone.” Then once again into the phone, “Hello? Just a minute, please. I’m in the kitchen and Rabbi’s upstairs.”

  Josef held the phone away from his ear just in time to avoid the resounding of another crash. He listened to the riotous sounds of children playing for several minutes before the Rabbi picked up another phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Rabbi Brockman?” he shouted. “My name is Josef Bernhardt.”

  The noise from the kitchen was so intrusive that Josef could barely hear the Rabbi’s voice. “Just a minute, please.” Rabbi Brockman apparently put his hand over the mouthpiece before shouting, “Robin, will you run down and hang up the phone in the kitchen? I can’t hear a thing.”

  Finally, “Sorry.” A chuckle. “The children. I didn
’t catch your name?”

  “Bernhardt. Josef Bernhardt.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr Bernhardt?”

  “I . . . I was wondering if you were having a . . . a prayer service this evening.”

  “We usually don’t have a minyan during the week, but I can get one together in a hurry. Do you have yahrzeit?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A yahrzeit,” repeated the Rabbi, “the anniversary of a death?”

  “Yes,” said Josef. “That’s it. I . . . I would like you to find someone to say Kaddish for my mother. It is . . .” He stopped.

  “Is it the anniversary of her death?” asked the Rabbi, gently.

  “Rabbi, I don’t know.” Josef’s mouth twisted, his eyes burned with tears, and he had difficulty speaking. “She was taken on this date. I know she’s dead. But I’m not sure how or when that death occurred.”

  “When was she taken?”

  “Nineteen forty-four. In Berlin. We lived in Berlin.”

  “Are you new here, Mr Bernhardt? In Iowa City?”

  “Yes. I . . . I joined the medical faculty just two weeks ago.”

  “Dr Bernhardt, excuse me, but why is it that you want me to find someone else to say Kaddish? Why don’t you say it yourself?”

  “I’m not sure I may. I am just half-Jewish. My father was not. And Rabbi, there were others: my uncle—that is, my uncles and aunt—and . . . others, my friends, many of them. Mostly, I know only when they were taken. I have few death dates.”

  “Dr Bernhardt, it’s five o’clock. I’ll be teaching Hebrew school until six. Could you come over then? I’ll get a minyan together, no problem. Do you know where we are?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Wait! Before you hang up.” The Rabbi paused for a moment. “Dr Bernhardt, the old Rabbis were very wise. They tell us that there are only two ways to become a Jew: one is by conversion and the other is if one’s mother is a Jew. There is no other way, and there is no such thing as half a Jew. You are a Jew, Dr Bernhardt, and there is no reason why you cannot say Kaddish for your family and your friends.”

  “Rabbi, some of them were not Jewish.”

  “Why don’t you write down the names—all of them—and give them to me before the service. I’ll read a special prayer. Just a minute, please.”

  Josef could hear papers rustling.

  “Here it is. I’ll read it to you.”

  “‘In this solemn hour, we reverently recall the martyrs whose ranks have been tragically augmented by untold numbers of our fellow men and women in our generation. Never shall we forget those who sacrificed their lives for the sanctification of thy name. We remember also the heroes and righteous men and women of all nations who lived and died for justice, truth, and peace.

  “‘Though our departed are no longer with us, their memories are forever enshrined in our hearts and their influence abides with us, directing our thoughts and deeds toward the lofty purposes they cherished and for which they strived.’

  “And then we say the traditional Kaddish. The whole service—Minha, Ma’ariv, and the memorial prayers—takes about twenty minutes. Does that sound all right?”

  “Yes,” Josef whispered. “Thank you. Rabbi. I’ll be there at six, and I will bring a list.”

  He had one hour until six. The synagogue was not far, only six blocks up Washington from Susan’s apartment.

  Josef turned again to the Yellow Pages: Taxicabs.

  SUPER CAB INC

  404 E. College

  555–0300

  YELLOW CHECKER CAB CO INC

  404 E. College

  555–1313

  “Super Cab.”

  “Yes, please, could you please have a taxi pick me up on the corner of Clinton and Washington, in front of the Burger Owik, at five forty-five?”

  “Burger-Owik on Clinton, quarter to six.”

  “Can I count on it being on time?”

  “Why not?”

  Josef dialed again. Carlos would just be waking from his siesta and would be planning to take a twenty-minute swim in his indoor pool before shaving, showering, and dressing elegantly in a three-piece suit to head over to the hospital, arriving at exactly seven so that he could read for an hour in the anesthesiology library before making rounds.

  His Spanish housekeeper answered. “Dr Borbon’s residence.”

  “Doña Camila, this is Josef Bernhardt. May I speak to Carlos?”

  “Don José,” she exploded. “Where you been? Don Carlos, he is half crazy looking for you. Don’t hang up. You stay.” She put down the phone, and Josef could hear her calling. “Don Carlos! Don Carlos!”

  “Hello? Dr Borbon here.”

  “Charley?”

  “Seff? You goddamned sonofabitch, where the hell are you? Jenkins is ready to kill me, goddammit. He won’t accept your resignation. Jesus Christ!”

  Josef held the phone away from his ear until the tirade subsided,

  “Seff, you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Where the hell are you? Goddammit. Elizabeth says your blood pressure is astronomical. You’ve got her absolutely in pieces. Jenkins said he’ll give you a leave of absence—three months—but no more. Maybe six months. Why the hell—”

  “Carlos, listen to me.”

  “We’ve been so worried, we have the police looking for you. I even called your wife.”

  “Tatiana? You called Berlin? Why in hell did you do that?”

  “What else could I do? I’ve looked everywhere. The police even broke into your house to see if you were hanging in the basement.”

  “Now that’s a novel idea.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you? This is completely out of character.”

  “Charley, I’m in terrible pain.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Kidney stone.”

  “Again? How bad is it?”

  “Bad. But it’s still intermittent, and I can feel it moving down. It should localize soon.”

  “Where are you? Do you want me to come get you?”

  “Yes. Charley, I am sorry to have been such a pain to you today—and to Elizabeth. It’s been an insane day. I . . . I blanked out in surgery this morning.”

  “You blacked out?”

  “No. I was not unconscious, but I lost track of what I was doing during the operation.”

  “You’re just exhausted, Seff. You need a rest. I’ll take you to my house in the Canary Islands. It’s so peaceful there. You need time to think.”

  “We’ll talk about it.”

  “Look, it’ll take me five minutes to dress and about twenty to drive into town—if that’s where you are.”

  “Yes. Please pick me up at Sixth and Washington. That’s the Agudas Achim Synagogue. I’ll be done there by six twenty or so.”

  “I know where that is. Seff, why the hell didn’t you ever tell me that you were a Jew?”

  Josef’s mouth curled in a paroxysm of pain.

  With his black ink pen, on the legal pad, he built it carefully, printing in large block letters so that Rabbi Brockman would be able to read the list without difficulty. The names came easily, and the dates after only a minute or so of reflection. By the time he was done, Susan was out of the shower and in the bedroom drying her hair; he could hear the whirring of the small motor of her electric dryer.

  Anna Jacoby Bernhardt, taken October 10, 1944, death date unknown

  Otto Jacoby, taken September 21, 1944, death date unknown

  Greta Braunstein Jacoby, taken September 21, 1944, d/d/u

  Philip Jacoby, taken June 21, 1938, d/d/u

  Maximilian Kreutzer, taken August 11, 1945, d/d/u

  Nikolai Alexandrovich Avilov, taken August 11, 1945, d/d/u his wife, Madame Avilov, died in January 1945 his son, Mitzka Avilov, died August 25, 1944

  Dieter Schmidt, taken August 25, 1944, d/d/u

  Sonja Press, taken August 11, 1945, d/d/u

  Abraham Morris Krupinsky, died August 16, 19
45

  Dmitri Varvilovovich Tsechetverikov, died in June 1945

  Lothar Leopold Bernhardt, died November 2, 1952

  Pen poised, Josef hesitated, then added another name.

  Gunther Rathke, died April 21, 1943

  “No.” he said aloud, crossing out Gunther Rathke.

  But there were so many others, he could not begin to list them all. Josef added two more names, thinking for almost a minute before writing their date.

  Frau Levy, taken July 1942, d/d/u

  her grandson, Hans, taken July 1942, d/d/u

  By the time the prayer service was over, there was no longer intermittency. The pain, constant, was the most exquisite Josef had ever suffered. Carlos and the Rabbi helped him out the door of the synagogue, down the steps, and into the back seat of Carlos’s BMW. Carlos slid in beside him, and his driver made a smooth fast acceleration. Down Washington, across Clinton, flying now, over the river, past the train station, the tiny village of Hagen, the little farms, the fields and small forest, through the guardless gate, and around the circular drive. There was no flagpole at all! They had taken even the flagpole. And the Y-shaped building was a shell. The Roumanian Biologist George Treponesco told him, over the beer in the café, that the NKVD loaded everything and everybody into the trucks, even the shelves and shelves and jars and jars of the brains of the fallen aviators, and the racks with the incubators containing the pure-bred Drosophila, and that en route all the happy little winemakers died; that Abraham Krupinsky had a fatal heart attack after four brutal days on the road and that his corpse and his wife were dropped in some small village in the Ukraine; that he was separated from the others in Moscow and had no idea what became of them; that the Security Officer, because he was obviously so ill, was the only one given the option to remain behind, in Hagen, with his wife and children, but that he elected to follow the linear accelerator into Russia, even though the Chief and Professor Kreutzer insisted that it never would be put together again.

  Acknowledgments

  It would not have been possible without the help of my friends: