by Herman Wouk
“You’re sure?”
“I had nothing to do with the German embassy.”
“You’ve never heard of a guy named Werner Beck?”
“Werner Beck?” Jastrow repeated, half to himself. “Why, yes, I did know a Werner Beck, years ago. What about him?”
“There’s a Dr. Werner Beck at the gangway. He’s one of the two Germans I saw in your hotel suite in Rome, when Rose and I went looking for you. He just drove up in a Mercedes. He says he’s from the German embassy in Rome, and he’s an old friend of yours. And he says he’s brought your manuscript of The Arch of Constantine.“
In sober silence, broken only by the baby’s snorts and snuffles, Natalie and her uncle looked at each other. “Describe him,” said Jastrow.
“Middle height. Sort of fat. Pale, a lot of blond hair, a high voice. Pleasant manners.”
“Glasses?”
“Thick rimless glasses.”
“It’s probably Werner Beck, though he wasn’t fat then.”
Natalie had to clear her throat to talk. “Who is he, Aaron?”
“Why, Werner was a student in my last graduate seminar at Yale. One of the good German students, a demon for work. He had language difficulties, and I helped him over some hurdles. I haven’t seen or heard from him since then.”
“He says he took the manuscript from your suite,” said Rabinovitz. “He was there, that I can assure you. He was the polite one. The other one was damned ugly.”
“How did he track me here?” Jastrow seemed dazed. “This is very ominous, isn’t it?”
“Well, I can’t say. If we deny you’re here, the OVRA will come on board to search. They do anything the Gestapo wants.”
Shakily Natalie put in, “What about the Turkish flag?”
“Up to a point, the Turkish flag is fine.”
Jastrow took a decisive tone. “There’s really no alternative, is there? Shall I go to the gangway?”
“I’ll bring him to you.”
It was some comfort to Natalie that the Palestinian was showing so little alarm. To her this was a devastating, hideous development. She was frightened to the core for her baby. Rabinovitz left. Jastrow said meditatively, “Werner Beck! Dear me. Hitler wasn’t even in power when I knew Werner.”
“Was he for Hitler?”
“Oh, no. A conservative, gentle, studious sort. Rather religious, if memory serves. From a good family. He was aiming for the Foreign Office, I remember that.”
The baby sneezed. Natalie busied herself trying to clean out his clogged tiny nose. She was too shocked to think clearly.
“Professor Jastrow, here’s Dr. Werner Beck.” Rabinovitz stepped into the cabin. A man in a gray overcoat and gray hat bowed in the doorway, lifting the hat and bringing together his heels. Under his left arm he carried a very thick yellow envelope wrapped in string.
“You do remember me, Professor Jastrow?” His voice was prim and high. He smiled in an awkward, almost apologetic way, half-shutting his eyes. “It’s been twelve and a half years.”
“Yes, Werner.” Jastrow proffered a gingerly handshake. “You’ve put on weight, that’s all.”
“Yes, far too much. Well, here is The Arch of Constantine.“
Jastrow set the package on the bunk beside the restless baby, undid the string with shaking fingers, and riffled through the mass of onionskin sheets. “Natalie, it’s all here!” His eyes glistened at the man in the doorway. “What can I say, Werner, but thank you? Thank you!”
“It wasn’t easy, Professor. But I knew what it would mean to you.” Dr. Beck turned to Rabinovitz. “It was my Gestapo confrere, you see, who got it away from the OVRA. I don’t think I could have. I regret you and he had words, but you returned him some very short answers, you know.” Rabinovitz shrugged, his expression blank. Beck looked back to Jastrow, who was fondling his papers. “I took the liberty of reading the work, Professor. What an advance over A Jew’s Jesus! You demonstrate a very special grasp of early Byzantium, and of the eastern church. You bring that whole lost world to life. The book will seal your popular fame, and this time the academics will praise your scholarship as well. It’s your finest achievement.”
“Why, how kind of you, Werner.” Jastrow assumed his simpering way with admirers. “And as for you, your English has amazingly improved. Remember the trouble at your orals?”
“Indeed I do. You saved my career.”
“Oh, hardly so.”
“I’ve since served seven years in Washington. My boys — I have three — are bilingual in English and German. Now I’m first secretary in Rome. And it’s all thanks to you.”
“Three boys. Well, fancy that.”
Natalie found it hard to believe that this small talk was going on. It was like dialogue in a dream. There the man stood in the cabin doorway, an official of Nazi Germany, a stoutish harmless-looking person, with glasses that gave him a bookish look. His hands holding the hat were folded before him in a peaceful, almost priestly way. Talking about his boys, praising Aaron’s work, he made a benign appearance; if anything — especially with the alto voice and proper manners — a bit soft and academic. The baby coughed, and Werner Beck looked at him. “Is your child well, Mrs. Henry?”
Harshly she burst out, “How do you know my name? How did you know that we were at the Excelsior? And how did you find out we’d come here?”
She could see that Aaron was pained by her manner. Rabinovitz’s face remained wooden. Dr. Beck replied in a patient tone, “The Gestapo keeps a current list, of course, of foreign nationals at Rome hotels. And the OVRA reported to the Gestapo that you had boarded this vessel.”
“Then you’re in the Gestapo?”
“No, Mrs. Henry. As I said, I’m a Foreign Ministry officer. Now, would you and your uncle care to lunch with me at the Grand Hotel? They say it has the best dining room in Naples.”
Lips parted in silent stupefaction, Natalie looked to Jastrow, who said, “Surely you’re not serious, Werner.”
“Why not? You might enjoy some good food and wine. You’ll be starting tomorrow on a long hard voyage.”
“Tomorrow? That’s more than I know,” Rabinovitz spoke up, “and I’ve just come from the harbor master.”
“Well, that is my information.”
Natalie almost barked, “As soon as we set foot ashore we’ll be arrested and interned. You know that. So do we.”
“I have police passes for both of you.” She shook her head violently at Jastrow. Dr. Beck quietly went on, “Suppose I withdraw so you can talk it over? If you’re hesitant, let’s just chat at the gangway before I leave. But it’s quite safe for you to come ashore with me, and there really is much to discuss.”
Jastrow struck in severely. “What were you doing in my hotel room, Werner?”
“Professor, when Mussolini declared war, I thought I’d better offer you my help. I brought the Gestapo man to handle the Italian police.”
“Why didn’t you call on me long before that?”
With a sudden hangdog look at Natalie, Beck answered, “Shall I be candid? So as not to inflict an odious presence on you.” He lifted his hat, bowed, and left.
Jastrow glanced doubtfully from the Palestinian to his niece.
“Aaron, I’m not getting separated from Louis. Not for one minute!” Natalie turned strident. “I’m not even going out there to the gangway!”
“What do you think?” Jastrow said to Rabinovitz, who turned up his hands. “Well, d’you suppose it’s all an elaborate scheme to collar me? Now that he’s found me, can’t he just get the OVRA to drag me off your ship, if that’s what he’s after?”
“This way he’d avoid a fuss.”
“How much of a fuss?”
Rabinovitz bitterly grinned. “Not much of a fuss.”
Jastrow pulled at his beard, eyes on his glowering niece. Then he reached for his hat and cloak. “Well, Natalie, I’ve been a confounded dunderhead right along. I may as well follow my nature. I shall go ashore with Werner Beck.”<
br />
“Oh, by all means!” The baby was wailing now, and Natalie was beside herself. “Enjoy your lunch! Maybe his Gestapo pals will join you, to make things jollier.”
Rabinovitz helped Jastrow with his cloak. “Find out all you can about our departure.”
“I shall. If I don’t return,” said Jastrow to Natalie, as she rocked the screaming infant in her arms, “you’ll simply be rid of a millstone, won’t you?”
Two hours passed. Hard rain cleared the deck of strollers. Natalie waited alone at the gangway under an umbrella, watching the dripping policeman pace the wharf. A small black Mercedes at last appeared through the rain. Dr. Beck got out to open the door for Dr. Jastrow, waved to her, and drove off. Mounting the gangplank, Jastrow spread his arms under the blue cloak. “Well, my dear! I have returned, you see.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Yes. Now let’s have a talk with Rabinovitz.”
“Sure you don’t want your nap first?”
“I’m not sleepy.”
The Palestinian, in his greasy coveralls, opened the cabin door to their knock. The little room smelled strongly of sweat, grease, and cigarette ashes. Jastrow blinked at the pinups of naked women. “Please sit down,” Rabinovitz said. “I’ll have to get rid of those pretty ladies. I don’t notice them, but everybody else does. So. I’m very glad you’re back. You have guts. Was it an interesting lunch?”
“Rather.” Jastrow sat stiffly in the desk chair, Natalie on a stool beside him. “To begin with, your Turkish captain betrayed you. He told the coast guard that you would try a clandestine departure. That’s why you were caught. So Werner says.”
Rabinovitz nodded, his face sour. “I thought as much. We can’t charter another vessel, so I have to forget it — for the time being.”
“The Turk also reported our arrival aboard last week. The harbor master decided to notify the OVRA in Rome, and clear up this matter of fugitive Americans, before letting you go. Hence the week’s delay.”
“Well. So it all fits together.” Rabinovitz was clenching and unclenching clasped fingers in his lap. “What about our leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes, he says you will. Now, about that.” Jastrow’s tone sharpened. “Was this vessel formerly called the Izmir?”
“It’s the Izmir.“
“Were you recently checked for seaworthiness?”
“A port inspector came to verify our certificate, yes.”
“Werner says he appended a page of comment. You’re overcrowded and overloaded. The added tanks topside have dangerously decreased your stability. In a panic, if the passengers all rush to one side, this vessel may actually capsize. Is that correct?”
“They’re a disciplined group,” Rabinovitz said very tiredly. “They won’t panic.”
“Your food, water, and sanitary facilities are acutely substandard,” Jastrow went on. “Of course, Natalie and I have already observed that. Medical facilities are poor. The engine is thirty-five years old. Its log shows several recent breakdowns. You’re certified only for coastal waters, not for the open sea.”
Rabinovitz’s tone turned acid. “Did you mention that we Jews have to accept such risks so as to escape German persecution?”
“Almost in those words. He didn’t like it. But he said that if Palestine had been under a German mandate, most of Europe’s Jews would have been sent there long since in seaworthy vessels. Your use of a floating death trap like this is due to Allied, not German, policy. England’s closed Palestine off so as to win over the Arabs — a silly gesture, since they’re heart and soul for Hitler. America has shut its gates. So your organization, which he knows all about, must try to smuggle refugees into Palestine, in derelicts like the Izmir.“
“Yes, the Nazis are ardent Zionists,” said Rabinovitz. “We know that.”
Jastrow took an envelope from an inside breast pocket. “Now, here are the Italian police regulations for American internees. They’re being sent to Siena to await exchange. As it happens, my home is in Siena. My staff is still living there.”
Rabinovitz glanced through the mimeographed sheets, his eyes sad and dull.
“Those regulations could be faked,” Natalie exclaimed.
“They’re real.” Rabinovitz handed the sheets to her. “So, does that settle it? Are you two getting off and going to Siena?”
“I told Werner,” Jastrow replied, “that it’s up to Natalie. If she sails with you, I’ll sail. If she elects to return to Siena, I’ll do that.”
“I see. Very nice.” With a brief shift of his eyes to Natalie, who sat pale and still, Rabinovitz asked, “What did Dr. Beck say to that?”
“Well, as a mother, he says, she’ll no doubt decide wisely. The risks of the voyage for her infant are pointless and intolerable. She’s not a stateless refugee. That’s what he wanted to tell her.”
“You haven’t seen this man in twelve years, Aaron.” Natalie’s voice almost broke in mid-sentence. Her hands were crumpling the mimeographed sheets. “He’s trying to keep you here. Why?”
“Well, why indeed? Do you suppose he wants to murder me?” Jastrow said, with tremulous facetiousness. “Why should he? I gave him straight A’s in my seminar.”
Rabinovitz said, “He doesn’t want to murder you.”
“No. I believe he wants to help his old teacher.”
“God in heaven,” Natalie all but shouted, “will you ever show a trace of common sense? This man is a high-placed Nazi. What makes you willing to accept a word he says?”
“He’s not a Nazi.” Jastrow spoke with calm pedantry. “He’s a professional diplomat. He regards the Party as a pack of gross ill-educated opportunists. He does admire Hitler for unifying Germany, but he has grave misgivings about the way the war is going. The Jewish policy appalls him. Werner once studied for the ministry. I don’t think there’s an anti-Semitic bone in his body. Unlike some American consuls we’ve been dealing with.”
There was a double knock at the door. The rough-looking man who was Rabinovitz’s assistant looked in to hand him an envelope sealed with red wax. Rabinovitz read the letter and stood up, peeling the coveralls off a clean white shirt and dark trousers. “Well, all right. We’ll talk some more later.”
“What is it?” Natalie blurted.
“We’re cleared to leave. I’m to pick up the ship’s papers at once from the harbor master.”
3
BEREL JASTROW, in a tattered Soviet army greatcoat, shuffles up to his ankles in snow along a road in southwest Poland. The long column of Russian prisoners is winding through flat white fields of the area historians call Upper Silesia. Green-clad SS men guard the column, clubs or machine guns in hand. Leading and trailing the column, two large clanking army vehicles full of more SS men ride. This labor draft, culled from the sturdiest prisoners in the Lamsdorf Stalag, has been walking the whole way. Death has shrunken it en route by about a third. The daily meal at 10 A.M. has been a slice of blackish woody stuff resembling bread, lukewarm soup made of nettles, spoiled potatoes, rotten roots, and the like. Even this ration has often failed, and the men have been turned loose in the fields to forage like goats under the SS guns. For twelve to fourteen hours each day, they have had to foot it at the pace of the stout healthy guards, who march and ride in two-hour shifts.
Berel Jastrow’s oaken constitution is nearing collapse. All around him, men have been dropping in their tracks right along; often silently, sometimes with a groan or a cry. When kicking or clubbing does not rouse a man who falls, he gets a bullet through the head. This is a routine precaution, for partisans might otherwise revive and recruit him. Calmly but punctiliously the Germans blow each skull to pieces, leaving a red mass on the snow by the neck of the huddled Russian greatcoat.
The column is walking now from Cracow to Katowice; fresh signposts in heavy German lettering call it KATTOWITZ. Berel Jastrow numbly surmises that the trek may soon be ending, for Katowice is a center of industry and mining. He is too low in vital energy, too shrunken by cold, hun
ger, and crushing weariness, to wonder at the chance that brings him to familiar scenes. All his waning attention is focussed on keeping his eyes on the man ahead, his legs moving, and his knees still;, for he fears if he relaxes the joints they will buckle, and he will go down and get his head blown off.
In forty years the old road has not changed much. Berel can predict each turn. He knows when the next peasant home or wooden church will loom through the fine dry blowing snow. Is the draft going to the Katowice coal mines? Not a bad fate! Mines are warmer in winter than the open air. Miners have to be well-fed to produce.
For all the suffering on this march, Berel is grateful to God that he is in the labor column and out of the Stalag. Nothing in his experience of the last war, nothing in the Warsaw ghetto, equals what he has seen at Lamsdorf. The Stalag is not really a prison camp, for there are no barracks, no buildings, no roll calls, no administration; no means of order, except fear of the manned machine guns on the watchtowers, and of the blazing searchlights at night. The installation is just a barbed-wire enclosure open to the sky, stretching farther than the eye can see, penning in two hundred thousand starving men. On the eastern front the Geneva Convention does not exist. The Soviet Union never signed it.
The Germans are not prepared, anyway, to support such a vast bag of captives. The supply of food and water is scanty. The rule of life at Lamsdorf is self-preservation, in filth, stench, snarling dogfights over edible scraps, and untended sickness. Dead bodies lie about in the muck and the snow. Daily the dead are cremated in heaps, fueled by wood and waste oil, outside the barbed wire. The pyres flame far into the night. The camp stinks as though a huge meat-packing plant were nearby, where animals are rendered and the hair or bristles scorched off their hides.
Prisoners captured in the Germans’ November drive on Moscow make up this labor draft. Those who are dying in Lamsdorf were caught in the summer campaign. Reduced by now to walking skeletons, they collapse randomly, all over the place, day and night. Of the varied Lamsdorf horrors, one still scars Jastrow’s soul. He himself has glimpsed, in the night gloom beyond the searchlights, the small packs of prisoners, insane with hunger, who rove the frozen wastes of the camp, eating the soft inner parts of new-fallen corpses. He has seen the mutilated corpses by day. The watchtower guards shoot the cannibals, when they spot them. Prisoners who catch them kick or beat them to death. But the instinct to live outlasts human nature in these creatures, and cancels fear. The cannibals are crazy somnambulists, idiot mouths seeking to be filled, with enough cunning left in their blasted brains to feed at night, skulking in shadow like coyotes. Whatever lies ahead in Katowice, Berel Jastrow knows that nothing can be worse than Lamsdorf.
