The Price of Escape

by David Unger

  Samuel had wanted to get away from home, and enlisting seemed like the best way to do it. He knew that he wouldn’t be “on his own” in the army, but at least the voices barking orders were unknown. He was tired of the apartment in Hamburg, the daily fighting of his parents and sister—another poseur, siding with his mother. His father Phillip Berkow was coarse, vulgar, and unserious—I make money, so what?—and he had no culture to speak of (unless going shopping was culture).

  Even his good friend Achim Klingman had thought Samuel was bluffing—that is, until Samuel had shown up at the Goldener Stern Café brandishing his enlistment papers. Up to then, it had been just loose talk, the bravado of their classmates who felt that to serve one’s country was not only a duty, but almost a religious calling. Samuel, how could you have done something so foolish? The army is full of drunken louts; it’s no place for Jews. If your mother was driving you crazy, you could have moved in with me. Maybe Klingman was right—well, in a way—but all he could do was shrug. If he had been pushed to supply reasons, he would have said that he was bored by school, felt his life was going nowhere, didn’t have an interest in going to university, and was too young to start working at his father’s store.

  Perhaps, all he sought was adventure. Man isn’t a turnip, he philosophized, so why should he stay rooted to one place? His destiny was to be like a piece of driftwood, floating on the ocean, resting on reefs and islands, until finally he hit solid land …

  Rather than be tugged apart by his parents’ contrary expectations and the usual evenings of bickering, he preferred to weigh anchor and go off on his own. Samuel respected his father for being the kind of person he could never be. His father, forever the extrovert, was a jovial man who gathered friends around him as a bird gathers twigs. It was true that he handled Hamburg’s finest imported apparel—this should have pleased his mother—but that wouldn’t change his clowning ways. Phillip had learned the difference between sheer and taffeta for his trade, between suede and horse leather, not because he attached any social value to it (in fact, he couldn’t care less), but because it offered him the opportunity to be his own boss and, naturally, to flirt with the wives of the men who came to his shops to purchase fine accessories.

  His father refused to enter his rightful place in Hamburg high society, preferring to remain on a first-name basis with carriage operators, laborers, icemen, coal sellers, even street sweepers. Didn’t he offend the haute volé by always sitting next to the driver whenever he rented a one-horse carriage? Wouldn’t he greet great dignitaries and boozers alike in the same manner? Hadn’t he refused to come back from the corner tavern to greet the mayor of Hamburg when he wandered into his store?

  Samuel’s mother would never forgive him for that—for not being more proper, more dignified. His inability to discern the difference between truly remarkable people and the lower class drove her nearly insane. Samuel could forgive his mother her snobbishness, the air of ancienne noblesse that she loved to flaunt, which had nothing to do with birth since her family hailed from a village near Kraków. He could forgive her frequent asides when she belittled people—merchants and clerks—who she felt were below her dignity, but he could never forgive her for the way she treated his father, as if he too were unworthy of her respect. With her constant jabs, which his father either deflected or eventually faced, she had reduced their married life to bad theater that Samuel was forced to witness.

  At a certain point, his father was eating at home no more than once a week and Samuel sometimes noticed him flirting with the cashiers and servers at bakeries and perfumeries. Samuel had no illusions about the state of their married life; he readily admitted, for example, that love had been squeezed out of their relationship if—and this was crucial—it had ever existed. He had viewed their marriage as something brought about by convenience, habit, or even family meddling, but it irked him to witness the day-in, day-out bickering. As a teenager, he still hoped that, at least for his sake, they would come to understand and accept their differing notions of civility and etiquette so that a workable truce could be achieved.

  Was it too much to want there to be peace at home?

  Yes, yes, yes. It was true—the squabbling at home made his leaving so much easier, and of course there was a war to be fought. So he stupidly enlisted, and like all German foot soldiers, he suffered the indignity and sadism of the officers who ruled over them—degrading them, forcing them to march around in circles in the bitter cold, just to test their mettle. Release hens from the hen house and pigs from their sties just to see the soldiers sinking their boots in mud and filth to try to recapture them.

  So after his six months in the Alps, with his lung scars healed, Samuel found it impossible to go back home to live in his parents’ apartment on Lutterotstrasse. He rented a flat in the Reeperbahn area. It was a huge apartment, though unbearably noisy because it was in the red-light district, full of drunks, sailors, pimps, and whores. He figured that his father would leave him alone and that his mother, scared off by the neighborhood, would refuse to come and visit.

  But she insisted that he dine with them at home every Monday and Friday—he was a veteran, a former prisoner of war, and still just twenty-two years old. When his father mentioned that he would be opening a store in Berlin and wanted someone trustworthy to run it, Samuel made the move.

  And that’s when he met Lena. Then, after the fiasco with her, his movements read like a peripatetic’s travel brochure: Bern, Geneva, back to Hamburg, Amsterdam, Paris briefly, once more back in Hamburg. When his mother went to Mallorca to visit with his sister and brother-in-law after his father’s death in 1936, Samuel stayed in Berlin till Kristallnacht—the Night of Broken Glass—in 1938. With the Berlin store burned and ransacked, he returned to Hamburg.

  Samuel scratched his scalp and sighed. He was exhausted from churning up all the dead leaves of the past. That stupid dream of going off to war and seeing the world had started it all: this idea that a new environment would somehow reveal how he should conduct his life. And as miserable as Europe had been, it was now far out of his reach. Yes, the past had been full of obstacles and cul-de-sacs, but there at least, the difference between friend and foe, helper and destroyer, had been crystal clear.

  Here, in Puerto Barrios, he was lost in a swirl of confusion. Samuel closed his eyes and tried to forget.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A little after eight, there was a rapid series of knocks on his door.

  “Berkow? Are you in there? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Samuel struggled up. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat there, rubbing his eyes; his lips were dry and sticky. “Who is it?” he managed.

  “Alfred Lewis, dammit! I’ve been banging on your door for the past five minutes!”

  “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off.”

  “Well, why don’t you meet me downstairs at the bar once you’re ready.”

  “Fine,” Samuel answered. He heard Lewis’s clippitty-clop-clippitty-clop footsteps fading down the corridor.

  His chest and shoulders ached, his legs felt weak, unsteady, as if about to buckle under him. He pulled on the light chain, and even the dim bulb seemed to hurt his eyes. He couldn’t get his mind cranked up, as if it were clogged by some sleeping drug.

  At the wash basin, he splashed warm water on his face. How unrefreshing. He flattened his clothes as best he could with his hands and headed out of his room. He had no choice but to leave the door unlocked.

  Moths circled slowly around the hall bulbs, as if tired of batting giant wings. It was a muggy night and Samuel couldn’t escape the dreary feeling that had parked itself in his heart. Was it sadness or gloom, or just plain hunger? He had eaten no more than a few biscuits in the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps a nice glass of wine and some roast potatoes would stir his appetite, though he was certain not to find it downstairs. Yet, he had to eat to nourish himself, no matter how bad the food tasted.

  A schnaps would do him good.

/>   At the landing by the stairs, Samuel bumped into a tall, drawn man wearing a black robe that reached down to the floor. Pockets of white hair issued like weeds from the furrows of his face. He was going upstairs, but seemed in no rush.

  “Another hot night,” the man said in Spanish. “Like sleeping on coals.”

  “Yes, I can hardly breathe,” Samuel answered, noticing that the man’s eyes were very red. He had an unpolished silver chain around his neck, which held a three-inch iron cross. So this was the priest who lived above him.

  “You would think it would be cooler sleeping thirty feet off the ground. What’s the point of having a room facing the bay if it’s as hot as the ones facing the jungle? What about your room?”

  Samuel shrugged. “The fan does little to help the circulation … Father.”

  “He calls me Father.” The man smiled and clasped his cross. “The faith of the uninitiated, to be sure. I was a Man of God, and still am in a way, but I am no longer a priest. It’s a rather long story. Father Cabezón at your service, on his way to Delphos. Would you like to join me for a drink in my chambers?”

  “Some other time, perhaps, Father Cabezón. I have a previous engagement.”

  “What a formal man! And how strange—I have never heard of anyone having a previous engagement in Puerto Barrios.” He smiled again, revealing long yellow teeth against red, inflamed gums. He examined Samuel. “Obviously, sie sprechen Deutsch. Ich spreche nur ein bisschen. We must get together some night and talk.”

  Samuel rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m leaving tomorrow on the first train.”

  “What a shame! I would’ve liked to discuss the Old World with you, perhaps give you some insights into Puerto Barrios. It has its charms, but mostly of the satanic kind. I should warn you—it isn’t so easy to leave here. There’s always something pulling you back. That’s been the case with me.”

  “Oh, I am leaving tomorrow. That’s certain. As sure as the sun rises.”

  The priest nodded slightly. “It most certainly does rise, though you can’t always see it. And there’s a point of discussion: can you be certain something happens when you can’t even see it? Religious leaders have long pondered that question.” Noticing Samuel’s impatience, he added: “Now run along to your engagement. By the way, what’s your room number?”

  Samuel stepped past him. “It’s at the very end of this hall.”

  “Below my room! What a coincidence. I hope my chanting won’t disturb you. There are times when I am consumed by the desire to pray. I shall have to be a little bit more considerate.” Before Samuel could answer, the man had begun bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, holding his skirt up with his hands.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Samuel turned right and made his way to the bar, which consisted of a long cedar wood counter facing half a dozen stools and a couple of tables further out on the floor. A fan as drowsy as the one Samuel had in his room sputtered overhead. There were three people there—Lewis closest to the lobby and two dark-skinned men sitting down the other end of the bar, quite apart from him. The bartender was at the far end, attending to something Samuel could not see.

  Samuel cleared his throat as he entered.

  Lewis lurched his head. “Berky!” he yelled, tapping the stool next to him. “Come over here and rest your dogs.”

  Samuel sidled up to him, giving no more than half a glance to the other two men hunched over their drinks—he now recognized that the clerk George was one of them. George glanced blankly at Samuel and then looked back down at his drink.

  “So whaddya think of our tropical showcase, eh?”

  Samuel sat down on a stool. Lewis was drinking bourbon straight from the bottle and drawing heavily on his signature cigar. His body gave off an odor of sour oats.

  “I don’t know what you mean by tropical showcase.”

  “Well, Berky, I don’t think we want to get bogged down in technicalities. In semantics. Call it a showcase, a warehouse, a whorehouse, a cesspool, a honey bucket, the biggest shit dump you’ve ever seen, a pigsty, a dung heap. Call it what you want, my friend, but don’t ever think of this shithole as your home!”

  Samuel gazed down the counter. George met his look, shook his head, and looked back down. It was obvious that Lewis had been drinking for quite a while.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Lewis?” Samuel whispered.

  “Wrong, Berky? What could be wrong? Or maybe you see things differently. Oh yes. Those lovely flowers on the tables, the fine linen tablecloth, friendly broads bringing you drinks? Nice flowers, eh? Ah, and the wonderful party music!” Lewis reeked of booze.

  “Perhaps you’re tired,” Samuel said.

  “Course I’m tired! Been coming in and out of this shithole for more years than I care to remember. Mind you, each time I come back it has more low-down cantinas, more stragglers and bums, the ugliest whores you’ve ever seen. There isn’t a decent blade of grass in this ornery town. I’ve got to stop coming back here, Berkow, and move to a civilized place. Mozo, bring this man a glass—on the double!”

  The bartender took a glass from under the counter and strolled over to where Samuel and Lewis were sitting. He cradled in his right arm something wrapped in a white towel. He put the glass down and poured Samuel a drink out of Lewis’s bottle.

  “Make it a double! A triple! Whoa! Them Germans can drink.” He wrangled the bottle away from the bartender and held it from him. “Here’s mud in your eye!”

  Samuel took a sip and winced at the taste, but ended up swallowing his drink in two gulps.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Now there’s a man!” whooped Lewis, glancing right and left down the bar. “Set him up again!” And he poured more bourbon, spilling half of it on the counter.

  Samuel smiled uneasily. The drink had dizzied him a bit. Suddenly the towel that the bartender was carrying moved, and a creature stuck out its horny head. Samuel jumped back.

  “What’s that?”

  Lewis kept drinking and glanced at the towel. “Don’t be scared, Berky. It’s what the natives here consider their poodles. Go ahead and touch it.”

  “I would rather not.”

  Lewis reached over to touch the animal, and the stool almost came out from under him. “It’s just an iguana, for Christ’s sake. A big lizard these hillbillies tame for pets, maybe even fuck with, for all I know. Come to Papa,” he said, trying to yank the iguana out of the towel.

  The animal desperately stretched its legs, bristling its dorsal fin, trying to escape Lewis’s grip. It had brown leathery skin and a tail that had been severed. Its eyes were green.

  “Let it go, mon!” shouted the bartender, yanking back. The iguana opened its jaws and gave a strange yipping cry.

  “I’m not going to hurt it, you ape!”

  The bartender cuddled the iguana like a baby in his arms, tickling its throat with his wide fingers. The iguana arched its back in pleasure, nodding its undersized head. It almost seemed to purr.

  “Get your fucking iguana away from me!” Lewis said. His arm inadvertently struck his bottle, which skidded down the counter a few feet, gushing bourbon on George and his friend, then exploded on the bar floor. “I’m sick of it anyway. I’m sick of this hotel, this poor excuse for a bar. I’m sick of all of you!”

  “No one is forcing you to stay here,” the bartender replied.

  “Well fuck you, then.”

  George walked over to Lewis. “I think it’s about time you go to bed.”

  “Are you throwing me out, Georgie Porgie?” Lewis snarled. “I haven’t even had my dinner yet.”

  “Please, Mr. Lewis—”

  “Shut up, Berkow. This doesn’t concern you. I’m having a private conversation with this half-breed over here.” And turning to George, he added: “Who do you think owns this hotel or this miserable town? Or, for that matter, you?”

  “Nobody owns me. Like Willie says, you shouldn’t touch what’s not yours.”

  “PPssshhaw!”

  “We’re not jus
t rugs you can step on.”

  “Is that so?”

  George shook his head. “You are drunk, Mr. Lewis. Go home.”

  Lewis got off his stool and brought his face to within an inch of George’s. “I could have you arrested for saying that. I could have you dragged away from here and have you cutting bananas for the rest of your life until you rot like the scum you are!”

  George slapped his face with an open hand. Lewis fell against his stool and teetered. George’s friend ran over, wrapped his arms around Lewis, and held him tight to keep him from falling on the floor.

  “Let go of me, you dumb black bastard!” Lewis screamed, trying to grab the man holding him.

  George wrapped his arms around Lewis’s head and began dragging him out of the bar while his friend still held him.

  “You’ll pay for this, you oversized zombie!” Lewis tried hooking his legs around George’s like a blinded crab. “I will have you both executed.” His head was flush against George’s chest, his chin in the crook of his arm. He glanced at Samuel, who seemed paralyzed by what was going on. “You too, Berkow. You don’t know who runs this town, you dumb Jewboy.”

  Samuel stared at Lewis. The word Jewboy swirled in his throat like a loose piece of metal.

  “Rrrrrahhhrrr.” Lewis made a desperate stab with his free hand to reach his hip pocket. George felt the motion, grabbed his hand, and smashed it hard against his raised left knee. Lewis’s hand went limp and a small gun dropped to the floor; a shot fired. The bullet bounced off the fan and perforated the tin ceiling.