‘I’m such an old fool,’ he said. ‘What was I thinking? It didn’t occur to me for a moment that Brynja . . . well, I should have anticipated something like this.’
I let out a long sigh. I’ll confess that I wasn’t ready for this yet, not by a long shot, not so soon after my father. But what choice did I have? I put my hand on his arm again.
‘It’s all right, Alfred. You’re welcome to stay here for another day or two. I’m sure the hospital will have some more concrete information about your granddaughter soon, and then we’ll work something out. In the meantime, is there anyone else I should contact, any other family members?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve nobody else.’
1934 - 1938
Alfred never did find out what was discussed by Nadel and the director on the morning after he arrived at the orphanage. He was never to discover whether Nadel argued emphatically that the asylum was no alternative (Nadel was, Alfred learned later, an emphatic kind of man with a busy, energetic mind and the strongest courage in his convictions), or whether both men decided quickly to adopt Alfred as one of their own, or whether there had been a protracted debate regarding the dangers of taking an eight-year-old German boy into a Jewish orphanage. But whatever the contents of their discussion, the outcome was that Alfred was to spend the next four years there, in a place so very different from the life he’d known so far.
He was roused the next morning by the clanging of a hand bell, and the sound of twelve boys yawning and clambering out of their beds. The dormitory he had been assigned to the night before was more spacious than it had looked in the dark, when he had climbed into bed with limbs and soul aching from grief and exhaustion. When he woke, he lay quietly in his bed, watching the other boys getting dressed and making their beds, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. He felt suddenly overwhelmed and out of place, but it didn’t take long before he was spotted. A small group of boys formed in the centre of the room, staring and whispering. Alfred sat up, half expecting them to start pointing and shouting, feeling acutely vulnerable in nothing but his underwear and wondering where Nadel had put his clothes the night before. But then his empty stomach let out a growl so loud and ferocious that the boys started laughing. One of them, a lanky boy several years older than Alfred, stepped out of the group.
‘Fritz Rosenberg,’ he said. ‘I’m head of the dormitory.’
Alfred sat up straighter. ‘Alfred Werner.’
‘Breakfast is at seven,’ Fritz said. ‘Did you get here last night?’
Alfred nodded.
‘Half or full?’
‘What?’
‘Are both your parents dead or just one?’
Alfred swallowed. ‘Both,’ he said quietly.
‘Like Salomon over there,’ Fritz said, nodding his head in the direction of a boy still in the process of smoothing his blanket down.
‘Hello,’ Salomon called.
‘And this is Walter,’ Fritz continued, nudging a boy on his left with his elbow. ‘Him, Robert, Simon, Hans, little David and big David and me – all still got their fathers. Bert, Horst, Siegfried, Aaron and Günter, well, they’re the mummies’ boys.’ He laughed, but not unkindly.
Alfred got out of bed and looked around for his clothes.
‘They’ll have taken them to the laundry room,’ Fritz said, noticing. ‘Just in case. To boil the lice out. Hey Salomon, you’re about the same size. Let him have some clothes.’
Alfred gratefully accepted a shirt and a pair of shorts from Salomon, quickly dressed and then followed the boys downstairs to the breakfast hall. Nobody spoke to him at breakfast, which suited him perfectly, because he was hungrier than he had ever felt before and ate until he thought his stomach would burst. He had, of course, heard many tales about the Jews, and he glanced around surreptitiously, looking for some sign or mark of difference among the other children there, but they all looked perfectly normal to him. Then, just as he lifted a third glass of milk to his lips, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. It was Nadel.
‘Finish eating, Alfred, and then come with me,’ he said softly.
Alfred swallowed hurriedly and got to his feet.
‘This way.’ Nadel led the way out of the dinner hall, through the hallway Alfred recognised from his arrival, and into a small room at the back of the building. A young woman sitting behind a desk rose as they entered.
‘Is this the boy, Heinz?’ She smiled at Alfred.
‘The very one,’ Nadel answered.
‘Hello, Alfred,’ she said, coming around the desk and holding out her hand. She had raven-black hair and strikingly blue eyes. ‘I’m Fräulein Merz. I’m the girls’ housemother and also resident nurse. I just want to examine you quickly to make sure you’re healthy.’
Alfred shook her hand. Her skin was warm and smooth.
‘Please sit down,’ she said and gestured towards a chair. Nadel remained standing near the door.
‘So, Alfred,’ she said. ‘How do you feel?’
Alfred glanced at Nadel, who nodded. ‘Fine, thank you,’ Alfred said.
‘Good.’ She picked up a stethoscope from the desk. ‘Now, I’ll have a quick listen to your heart and lungs, make sure everything’s as it should be. Lift your shirt for me, please.’ She smiled. ‘Might be a bit cold.’
Alfred sat perfectly still as she gently placed the stethoscope first on his chest, then on his back, and then looked in his ears and mouth. Finally, she straightened up. ‘Would you mind undressing for me, Alfred? Just a quick look and then I’ll let you go.’
Alfred did as he was told. But when he dropped his pants, Fräulein Merz let out a small gasp of astonishment. ‘But the boy . . . ’ she said, turning to Nadel, ‘the boy has no foreskin!’
Nadel took a step forward for a closer look. Alfred felt himself blushing and had to fight the temptation to place both hands over his genitals.
‘I thought you said he was goyim,’ she continued.
‘He is,’ Nadel said frowning.
Alfred felt a small twinge of panic, as if he had been caught out, though he had no idea for what.
Phimosis.
He didn’t understand. ‘What?’ he asked out loud.
‘Anno Schmidt told me that you weren’t Jewish,’ Nadel said, adding to Alfred’s confusion.
Phimosis. Go on, just say it.
You were only three at the time, Alfred. You couldn’t possibly remember. But just say the word.
‘Phimosis?’ Alfred said hesitantly, adding in a small voice, ‘I was only three.’
‘Ah,’ Fräulein Merz said. ‘Well, that would explain it.’ Turning to Nadel, she said, ‘A too-tight foreskin. He must have had it removed.’
Nadel shrugged. ‘It’s good, I suppose. He won’t stand out from the others. And . . . ’ he added after a slight pause, ‘if he ever does decide to become a Jew, he has a head start.’ He chuckled.
Fräulein Merz blew out a thin stream of air. ‘It’s still an awful risk, Heinz.’
‘I know. But it’s been decided.’
He waited for Alfred to get dressed again. When they were back in the hallway, he turned to Alfred. ‘We have decided that you may stay with us. At least for the time being.’ He paused as a group of girls skipped past, laughing and chattering when they spotted Alfred. ‘But your stay here is subject to certain conditions.’
Alfred looked down at his shoes. He urgently wanted to tell Nadel about Emil and Johanna, about the fact that some sort of mistake had been made and that his brother and sister were bound to be searching for him.
‘Look at me, boy.’ He cupped Alfred’s chin and raised his head. ‘These are dangerous times. I can’t assume that you fully understand what it means to be . . . ’ he paused and let his hand drop. ‘But perhaps you can. The main thing is that for the duration of your stay here, you will be as one of us. That is the condition. You must do what is asked of you and not question instructions. If you break the rules, you will put us all at risk. Do you understand?’
You understand, don’t you Alfred? This is a kind man, you can trust him.
Alfred nodded.
Nadel stood and gazed at Alfred for a few silent moments. Then he gestured for Alfred to follow him down the hall.
‘I’ve put you in Fritz Rosenberg’s dormitory. They’re good boys, there. High-spirited, a couple of them. Best watch Robert and Simon, if you want to stay out of trouble. Caught the two of them mooning a Hitlerjugend procession from the second floor window last week.’ He shook his head. ‘Silly, silly boys.’
‘Herr Nadel?’ Alfred said.
‘Yes?’
Alfred stopped walking and took a deep breath. It was now or never. ‘About my brother and sister. You see, Herr Nadel, I think there’s been a mistake, and my sister, her name is Johanna and she’s twelve, she says she’ll come for me, but if I’m here she won’t know where to look. So I was thinking, perhaps we could send her a letter.’
Nadel stopped and placed his hand on Alfred’s shoulder. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Anno Schmidt explained what happened to your family. But Alfred . . . ’ he closed his eyes briefly. ‘Alfred. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do but wait. If . . . if the situation changes, I’m sure we will be able to send news to your sister. But in the meantime, we must wait and see. You must give me your word that you will not try to contact her.’
Alfred felt like crying.
Give him your word, little one. You owe him that. The risk he is taking for you is enormous.
And we will surely find Johanna. Be patient.
Alfred blinked back his tears. ‘I give you my word,’ he whispered.
During his first week, Alfred took every opportunity to search out a spot at the window facing the main street, spending hours with his face pressed up against the glass, hoping with every fibre of his being that the next car to stop in front of the building, the next person to turn into the street, would be Johanna. But she never came.
Then, as first weeks, then months passed, he found it increasingly difficult to remember the details of his earlier life; he grappled in vain to recollect the ripe, fetid odour of freshly spread manure, the majesty of the horizon at sunset, the fragrant verdancy of the forest. But also the bitter cold draughts that shrieked through the cottage in winter, the gnawing hunger in his belly when there had been nothing but turnip to eat for three days in a row, the perpetual fatigue written on his parents’ faces. His world had shrunk and expanded all at the same time. His homesickness was to fade almost completely, appearing only in occasional dreams, from which he would wake with a tear-wet face and an aching heart. In this, he discovered, he was no different than other orphans here. As cheerful and raucous as the boys were during the day, he could hear many of them crying themselves to sleep at night.
The only constant, the only thing that linked his previous and his current life, were the voices. And they, too, settled into the rhythm of Alfred’s new life, were at times admonishing (when Alfred was invited by Simon to an illegitimate excursion over the back wall), at times comforting (when his grief-ripe heart threatened to shatter), and at times mischievous (giving him ideas for pranks to play on the girls). He discovered, too, that he was a skilled football player, making him very popular among the boys; and that his singing voice was as sweet as his mother’s had been, making him very popular among the female members of staff. He had a good memory, for both words and melodies, and was even called upon to sing a stanza of the Ma’oz Tzur during his first Chanukah at the orphanage.
There was, as Fritz had indicated, only a small number of ‘full-orphans’ at the Waisenhaus – those who were both motherless and fatherless; these children were the subject of special attention, both from the staff and the home’s generous patrons. At Alfred’s first Chanukah, a few months after his arrival, he and the other full-orphans each received, in addition to sweets and cake, some wooden toys and a shiny silver Reichsmark from the orphanage’s most generous benefactor, neighbouring cigarette manufacturer Josef Gabárty-Rosenthal. Alfred kept this coin, and those he received each subsequent Chanukah, safely hidden in a pair of socks in his dresser. It was several years before he came to need them.
It was a liberal, not an orthodox religion Alfred encountered here, with days marked by school lessons and physical exercise, music and theatre. There were many chores at the orphanage that the children were responsible for, including peeling potatoes, mopping out the dinner hall, cleaning out the large bird cage situated outside the teachers’ staff room, carrying out minor repairs to broken chairs and wobbly desks, and tending the school garden. Some, although not many, of the children had little knowledge of the Jewish religion, either because their parents had converted to Christianity, or because they were atheists. Thus, Alfred’s ignorance of the existing rites and rituals wasn’t called into question. One of the few aspects of the Waisenhaus that characterised it as Jewish was the imposing prayer hall on the second floor of the building – a breath-taking room with huge candelabras dangling from a coffered ceiling, and on the eastern wall, a Holy Ark crowned by a large Star of David – in which a service took place every Friday evening. To Alfred, the hall appeared more like a theatre – full of unfamiliar rituals and exotic-sounding prayers – than a place of worship. At first, he chose to remain close to the back of the hall during services, holding silent conversations with his voice-women, to ease the feeling of foreignness the place gave him. One day after worship, not long after Alfred had arrived, Nadel approached him. ‘A word please, Alfred?’
After a moment’s hesitation, during which Alfred was afraid he might have broken some rule he was unaware of, Nadel said, ‘I noticed you were praying. If you ever feel the need to talk to God, please tell me and I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Alfred shook his head. ‘Oh, but I haven’t met him yet,’ he answered brightly.
Alfred’s best friend was Salomon Bronstein, a fellow full-orphan, whose parents had died of pneumonia, within a week of one another, when he was three years old. His grandparents, a wealthy shoe manufacturer and his wife, had cared for him at home for as long as they could, but had given him over to the care of the orphanage when he turned school age. They visited him regularly, often bringing gifts for Salomon and the other children. Salomon was a shy, stocky boy, one of the few to wear a kippah at all times, at the insistence of his grandparents. He complained that the skullcap impeded his movements, preventing him from climbing and swinging off the trees like the other boys, for fear of it falling off, and he indignantly declined Fräulein Merz’ suggestion that he use kirby grips to fix it in place. Secretly, though – as he confessed to Alfred when the bonds of their friendship had taken hold – he was rather glad of this excuse, because he, like Alfred, was rather cautious when it came to such foolhardy displays of physical exuberance. Thus, the two boys soon became friends – Salomon instructing Alfred on the dos and don’ts of Jewish observance, Alfred in turn teaching Salomon how to fashion a bow and arrow from twigs and twine (he had studied his brother Emil carefully). Most often, however, they were to be found tending the vegetable patch in the school garden, where Alfred would find scraps of memories popping into his head – rhubarb protects beans against black fly, don’t plant potatoes next to cucumber – and year after year, they would harvest the largest pumpkins, the juiciest carrots and the plumpest tomatoes.
One night, Alfred was woken by Salomon tapping him on the shoulder.
‘Can I come in?’ Salomon whispered.
‘What?’
‘My bed’s . . . wet.’
Alfred pulled his blanket back and let Salomon slide in beside him. Alfred closed his eyes and felt Salomon’s warm breath on his face.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Salomon said quietly. ‘I can’t help it. Please don’t tell.’
Alfred opened his eyes. ‘I won’t,’ he said, and felt the warm weight of his promise, like a blanket that had been wrapped around the two of them.
‘I have a secret, too,’ he whispered into the dark, but when there was n
o response, he opened his eyes and saw that Salomon had fallen asleep. He heard a soft cluck of disapproval in his ear. It was an uncomfortable night’s sleep, for the bed was narrow, but Alfred didn’t mind. It reminded him of sharing his bed with Martha. At dawn, Salomon woke him again, and they crept across the dormitory and quietly changed Salomon’s sheets before the others woke. This was the closest Alfred ever came during his years there to spilling his own secret.
Alfred’s tenth birthday coincided with the Olympic Games that the city was hosting, and to mark the event – despite the fact that, or perhaps because of the fact that Jewish athletes were barred from taking part – the orphanage director, Kurt Crohn, organised a Waisenhaus ‘Olympics’. There was a fifty-metre dash across the schoolyard, a football match (Alfred’s favourite – his team won 6–2 on penalties) and an obstacle course involving buckets of water, women’s clothing and copious amounts of Wackelpudding, leaving the children and teachers in hysterics. For the three-legged race, the boys lined up in pairs at one end of the schoolyard, Alfred’s left leg tied with a strip of cloth to Salomon’s right.
‘Auf die Plätze . . . fertig . . . los!’’ Crohn shouted, and the boys began running and limping and stumbling across the yard. Salomon, one of the least athletic of the boys, was a dead weight for his partner Alfred, and they manoeuvred forward in a clumsy, awkward three-legged gambol before landing on the dusty ground in a tangled heap, several metres short of the finishing line. Salomon began to giggle as he and Alfred extracted their limbs from one another, and soon, Alfred was laughing too – in great whoops of excited, breathless hilarity, before oddly, he found himself crying. And then he couldn’t stop, couldn’t calm his shuddering diaphragm no matter how many gulps of air he took, couldn’t prevent the streams of tears that were running down his face, couldn’t interrupt the spasms of grief that shook his small body – even as he heard calls of ‘Is he hurt?’, ‘Quick, someone fetch Fräulein Merz!’, ‘Does he need a doctor?’ – and only managed to calm down a long while later after Heinz Nadel had picked him up off the ground and taken him in a tight, warm embrace.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 8
