When Werner nodded, Conrad turned and knocked hard on the door. His voice was now high and chirpy. “Esther, Esther, sweetie, you in there?” he cooed.
A soft voice responded, “Kommen Sie hinein!” Please enter.
The two entered a small but neat apartment. Werner could still hear the noise of traffic outside the window, but inside a sense of calm and stillness reigned. A wonderful aroma filled the air. In a second, he guessed what it was – raisins baking in sweet cottage cheese with noodles – Nudel kugel. How Werner loved that smell. His mother had baked the dish several times a year as a special treat. His sister adored it. He imagined her here this moment sniffing the air with delight.
A woman in a wheelchair sat near the window. Her skin was pale as though it hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. The smile lighting up her gentle face, however, was like a lullaby.
“You wanted him, here he is, Esther,” the short man said gruffly, and pushed the boy toward her.
“How very glad I am,” said the woman. “Please come here, dear Werner.”
He walked toward her. Esther’s long hair, pulled back in a bun, was fair but streaked with grey. Her eyes were light, too, a soft blue.
She gently took his hand. “You look so much like your mother,” Esther said. “It takes me back many years.”
Werner tried to remember what Father had said. How did this strange woman in America know his mother? Seeing the boy’s puzzled look, Esther spoke again, “Your mother, Hannah, was my first cousin, so I knew her well. We spent many happy holidays together until my family moved here,” she explained. “That was a long time ago, though, so perhaps you never heard of me.”
Werner shook his head. He could remember so little of what his mother had said. Often she had talked of her childhood, her family and friends. But he hadn’t bothered to listen, not knowing that she wouldn’t always be there to tell about her life. He couldn’t recall hearing about any cousins in the United States.
“I was very sad when I heard of her illness and death.”
Werner’s gaze dropped; he stared at Esther’s thin hands lying quietly in her lap.
“I would have come to see your family then, except for this.” She tapped the arm of the wheelchair.
At the mention of the wheelchair, Conrad frowned and shifted restlessly. “I gotta be going, Esther. Hope this young guy doesn’t cause you any trouble. No trouble at all.” He scowled at Werner for a second and then looked back at Esther. “Here’s his documents. I’ll be back next week, as usual.”
She nodded and smiled graciously at him. He received her smile like a dog lifting its head for a bone. “Thanks, Conrad,” she murmured. “You are always so good to me.”
Once he was gone, Esther gazed thoughtfully at Werner, then gestured around the small plain room. “This probably wasn’t what you were expecting,” she said. “Most people think all Americans are rich. I wish it were so.”
Again, Werner’s eyes dropped, and he stared at his oversized boots. What had he been expecting? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t expect a palace, of course, but perhaps he had hoped for more than this. The apartment appeared to be one room for cooking and living plus a bathroom. Esther’s bed was in the corner, piled with pillows. Newspapers were scattered on the floor around the bed. There was a tall bookshelf with books on every shelf, a small kitchen table, and a few chairs. A narrow cot was pushed against the wall near the icebox. He guessed that he’d sleep there.
The room was far bigger than the ship’s cabin and far nicer than the orphanage. But it wasn’t nearly as large and pleasant as his family’s home. Was this what Father had dreamed about when he bought Werner a ticket to America? And what would Werner write about the place? Could he honestly say there was enough room here for Bettina and Father? Could they all squeeze together in this little space?
Of course they could! Father and Bettina had to follow him here. They had to know what it felt like to be in a free country. He’d only just landed, but Werner already knew. Crossing the city, he had seen hundreds of people. Some had been Jewish, no doubt. Yet not one person had a yellow star sewn onto their jackets. Not one walked with his shoulders hunched up, guarding himself from a cruel look or sharp blow.
And he recalled that soldier, eating a frankfurter, who had smiled at him. How amazing! To walk across a huge bustling city with no fear in your gut. That was worth the most difficult trip. That’s why Father and Bettina must come too. He would write as soon as possible; he would make them come.
Without saying a word, Werner raised his eyes to meet Esther’s. Seeming to understand, she smiled, “It’s good you’ve come. Very good.”
He smiled back. There was only one thing lacking at that moment. His stomach yearned for a big dish of Nudel kugel. The sooner the better!
Chapter Eleven
Werner awoke with a start. From habit, his hand felt the sheets beneath. Just in case. The sheets were dry, thank goodness. His muscles relaxed a bit, but only a little. Even though everything seemed fine, how could he be sure? He wasn’t used to smiles and sunshine. He expected a dark cloud to appear in the midst of a cloudless day.
Pale winter light shone softly through the window. The radiators panted, sending warm air into the room.
Turning his head on the pillow, Werner gazed across the room. Esther was still sleeping. Barely two weeks had passed before the word “Mutti” slipped out of his mouth while speaking to Esther. He was surprised to hear himself say it. Then he realized that a mother is not always someone who’s kin to you – it can be the way a woman makes you feel when you’re with her. Esther gave him that feeling.
16 October, 1939
Dear Father,
I am sure you will like Esther. She is a fine person and as kind to me as a mother. . .
Werner paused and laid down the pen for a moment. How could he explain to his father about Esther? It was true that she was like a mother to him, but not like an ordinary mother who cares for her child. Instead, it was he who took care of her.
Esther had explained to him that ten years ago she caught a disease called polio. The disease had robbed her muscles of strength. Now she had her “good days” and her “bad days.” On her good days, she climbed out of bed, grabbed her crutches and limped around the apartment.
Werner picked up the pen to add to the letter.…
Esther loves to feed me. She is delighted when I gobble up all the good food she has prepared. “You gotta fatten up those skinny bones,” she says again and again. She makes big pots of chicken soup on top of the stove. She bakes delicious desserts like Nudel-kugel or Brotort, a cake made from rye bread crumbs and dark chocolate.
She has a canary named Mozart. He’s a mere flutter of yellow feathers but Esther adores him. “Mozart is my hero,” she says. “For my little bird, every day is wonderful. Don’t you wish you felt that way?”
Again, he paused. He didn’t want to tell Father about the bad days, when Esther was too weak to rise from bed. Then she called to Werner. “Please take the cloth off the canary’s cage. It’s morning and he wants to sing.”
Even sweet cherries have pits, he figured, and no cherries were sweeter than Esther. Her heart was far too big for her weak chest. If any person anywhere had a problem, she yearned to help. On every floor of the building, Esther was looking out for someone – she knit socks for any new baby and crocheted shawls for all the old ladies.
Every morning Werner fixed her a cup of weak, sugary tea. He toasted a slice of bread and put it on a plate with a spoonful of strawberry jam. Often he helped her climb into her wheelchair. Then he parked the wheelchair under Mozart’s cage next to the window. She sat there all day, her hands busy mending or knitting while she hummed along with the little bird.
Late in the morning she’d smile. “I bet Mr. Mozer is done with the news.”
Werner knew what that meant. At dawn, bundles of newspapers
were dropped in front of the grocery store. Mr. Mozer unpacked them for customers, always reading four or five. Every day Werner sped down four flights of steps to fetch the papers he’d finished. “Here you go, Werner,” said Mr. Mozer, handing him a pile. “Come back in an hour and I’ll give you another.”
Werner scanned the newspaper for words he could understand. Lots of people in the neighborhood still spoke the languages that they’d used in Europe before coming to the U.S. That’s why you heard German, Yiddish, Russian, Italian, and Polish on the street. But Werner wanted to be American – that meant knowing how Americans talked. He was hungry for every word!
For Esther, the newspapers were a gate to the world. She read for hours, studying every scrap of news or advertisement. “Why, looka here, Werner. You see this? A dozen eggs cost a dime! That’s a scandal! I don’t remember paying more than a nickel!”
Werner picked up his pen to write more.…
Sometimes she tells me stories from the past.
“Did I tell you, Werner, that when we lived in the village of Buxtehude, my grandmother had forty chickens? Oh my Lord, those chickens ran her life. Black ones, white ones, red ones, even gold chickens. Grandmother called each by name. ‘Greta, have you laid an egg today, you silly ’ole hen? You been lazy for three days. Lay me an egg this minute! And she was so strict, the chickens usually obeyed.” After telling me this story, Esther laughs and laughs.
The news in the newspapers, however, was not a laughing matter. Every day Esther combed the newspaper to find out what was happening in the world. And especially what was happening to Jews in Europe. The words told a terrible story. Nazi soldiers were advancing from country to country and wherever they went, Jews were jailed, beaten, put in work camps or killed outright. Slumping over in her seat with the newspaper sliding from her lap, Esther would weep or sit silent for an hour.
Werner picked up the pen to finish his letter. No, he couldn’t tell Father everything. His father would simply have to come and find out for himself.
I believe you will like Cousin Esther very much. And she’s eager to meet you and Bettina. She says often how much she’d love to have a little girl here.
So PLEASE find a way to come. As soon as you can!!
Kisses and hugs to Bettina.
Your son, Werner
Putting a U.S. stamp on the corner of the letter, he dreamed of their arrival. How great it would be to show them around New York City. How happy they all would be!
Yet soon he learned – with a black eye and bloody nose – that nothing is quite so perfect.
Chapter Twelve
Esther’s apartment was located on Second Avenue, between 10th Street and 11th Street. Mr. Mozer liked to say that the neighborhood was mixed. That meant there were Poles, Russians, Czechs, Hungarians, Serbians, Albanians, Turks, and Armenians, plus a smattering of Irish and Italians. People weren’t too poor or too rich. Almost everyone worked; they made stuff, fixed stuff or sold stuff. There were butchers, bakers, shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, printers and plumbers. People worked from early until late. Even after dark, you could hear the racket from woodshops, the hum of sewing machines and the cries of young boys hawking the evening news.
At first, Werner didn’t explore the neighborhood much. He wasn’t used to freedom. Not after a year in an orphanage. Before that, when he had lived at home with Father and Bettina, it was too dangerous to spend time outside. Trouble could show up anywhere at any time.
So, for the first few weeks, he didn’t venture far from Esther’s apartment.
One day, however, Esther sent him down to Mr. Mozer’s grocery store. She wrote a list on a worn paper bag: 1 can of tomato soup, 1 box of saltine crackers, 1 can of sardines and a chunk of yellow cheese. She dropped a few coins in the bottom. “Here, Werner, get what you can,” she said. “Put the stuff in this old sack. No need to waste a new one.”
He took the bag with the list, put on his mother’s pale blue wool jacket and his father’s big hiking boots and went downstairs. The store was directly below, but he had to step out on the street to enter.
Across the street were three boys his age, just hanging out. He had seen them a few times before. He figured they were the types who were nice and polite as long as they were standing next to their mother. Without her, they weren’t going to be so nice.
On this day, they stared rudely at Werner and muttered to one another. He paused for a second and stared back. That was a mistake. The three marched over. A tall boy with a pale pimply face stuck his nose close to Werner. “Look at those big stupid boots,” he sneered. “Whatcha gonna do with them? Clean out the barn?”
The other boy who was small and dark said, “I bet he never cleaned out any barn in his whole life. He’s a sissy.”
“Yeah,” said the pimply one. “Look at his jacket! That’s a girlie jacket, don’t you think?”
The third boy was chunky and not so quick. “I think it would look really good on my sister. Why don’t you give it to me, putz?”
Werner clutched the coat tightly. “Nein, nein!” he shouted at them. There was no way he was going to give up his mother’s precious jacket. He made a dash for the store. It was only a few feet away but at that moment, a large woman with a heavy bag of groceries blocked the door. Seeing the squabble, she hurried away. But by then, the boys had trapped Werner outside the store. They were still hooting and pulling at the blue jacket. When Werner tried to push past, a fight began. Everyone was hitting and kicking and punching at once. Outnumbered three to one, Werner soon fell to the sidewalk. One of the boys held him down while the other pulled off his jacket. The paper bag was ripped from his hand. Quarters rolled down the sidewalk.
At that moment another boy appeared on the sidewalk. He was sturdy, with thick curly black hair and a wide flat nose. “Whatcha doing?” he demanded of the three who were clobbering Werner. They immediately stopped punching him.
“Nuttin’, Sam. We weren’t doing nuttin’,” said the pimply one.
The little dark kid grabbed some quarters from the sidewalk and offered them to him. “Want some cash, Sam? Easy money. Help yourself.”
Sam waved the boy aside. “Get lost, you creeps. I don’t want any of your stupid money.”
The three grabbed the money and dashed down the street. They held up the coat, waving it like a banner. Meanwhile, Sam reached down and pulled Werner up, bruised and miserable.
“A bunch of dummies,” he said, watching them run down the street. He turned back to Werner. “You okay?”
Werner nodded.
“You gotta stand up for yourself in this neighborhood, or else they think you’re a sissy.”
Werner understood what the boy said, though he could only reply in German. “Ich bin kein Feigling.”
“What’s that mean?” Sam asked.
Mr. Mozer was now standing in the door, “He says he’s not a coward.”
“Yeah, well, tell him that he better learn how to use his fists,” said Sam, showing off his own two. He glanced at Werner’s injured face again, shook his head, then cockily strolled away. Like he had a high opinion of himself and knew other kids in the neighborhood did, too.
Mr. Mozer helped Werner inside. “What kind of a welcome is dis? You deserve better.” He dabbed at the blood on the boy’s lower lip, now swollen and purple. “So, you came to the store to get something. Tell me, whatcha need?”
Werner handed over what remained of the list. The shopkeeper got the bread, sardines, cheese and a can of soup. In fact, he put an extra can of soup into a brand new paper bag. Then the two walked to the apartment hallway. Werner’s nose was leaking drops of blood; one eye was puffy and nearly shut. He shivered – how could he have lost his mother’s coat?
Seeing him upstairs, Esther gasped. “Werner, my poor darling, what happened?”
She hobbled to the icebox and wrapped a dishtowel around a chu
nk of ice. She pressed it to his eye while he sat on his bed and took off his father’s boots. Werner stuck the heavy boots at the back of the closet. He wasn’t going to wear them again. Soon as possible he’d manage to get a pair of flimsy black shoes like the other boys wore.
The rest of the day Esther fussed over him, fixing tomato soup and crackers. Werner kept thinking of the three boys on the street. He was no coward – he knew how to use his fists. He had used them plenty back in Germany. But he wasn’t expecting the same treatment here. Especially when the bullies weren’t Nazi youth who had been taught to hate Jews. They were Jewish boys, just like him.
“I’m no sissy,” he thought to himself. Still, he didn’t want to go looking for fights either. Not when the odds were three against one. So he stayed put in the tiny apartment most of the time. Some days were okay, but often he felt like a prisoner. A prisoner living only a few miles from the Statue of Liberty, how crazy was that?
The bullies on the street were one problem, but there was another – much worse. Conrad Blusteiner. He came to visit Esther every Sunday, arriving almost exactly at 3 p.m., rarely more than a few minutes late. As soon as Werner opened the door, his face screwed up in a tight frown. “Why don’t you find something to do, kid,” he’d say and hand the boy a few cents.
Werner would go downstairs and buy a penny’s worth of candy from Mr. Mozer. The store closed early on Sundays, but the grocer would be there anyway. He was a widower whose grown daughters lived far across the city. The store was the place he most liked to be.
Forced Journey Page 5
