We Were Strangers Once
Page 20
“Kiefer doesn’t wallow,” she answered, pushing back her chair.
“Does this mean you’re in favor of the war?”
“The war’s inevitable. It’s the only way to defeat Hitler,” she said, rising to her feet.
Georg leaned in to Meyer. “Hitler won’t last. The German people will overthrow him. It’s not necessary for the Americans to get involved.”
“They show no sign of wanting to overthrow him,” said Meyer.
“America should take care of itself; we deal with our own problems.”
“We are not them anymore, thank God,” said Meyer, continuing to write. “And I’d prefer to leave Germany’s future, such as it is, in the hands of Mr. Roosevelt.”
Georg’s face reddened. “Your Mr. Roosevelt doesn’t seem to worry so much about the Germans, particularly the Jews, does he?”
“He’s hardly mine, but right now he’s all we’ve got.”
“Please,” said Egon, who sat down in time to hear their exchange. “We see each other so infrequently these days, can we be civil?”
Max waited until the room quieted before he raised his finger and said, “Carola and I have a little news of our own.” He took her hand. “We are expecting a child in June.”
Meyer glanced at Carola’s stomach, willing himself not to imagine the moment of conception. “Wonderful,” he said in his singsong voice. “May I be the first to congratulate you on hatching a Jew at such a propitious time.”
Max’s smile froze. Carola placed her hands on her stomach. Georg held his fork midair and said, “Meyer, why must you always be so vulgar?” In a gentler tone, he said to Carola, “On behalf of Kaethe and myself, I congratulate you. Having a child is not something we all can do. Even those of us with fancy jobs.”
“At least I know where to find my balls,” snapped Meyer, “which is more than I can say for some people here.” He kept writing.
Egon touched his arm. “Look at us. We are in America for three years now, some of us more. First when we came, we slept on each other’s couches and shared our food. Now we bicker like children when we have much to be grateful for. The Cohens will have a child. We all have jobs. America will go into this war and get rid of Hitler. We are here, not there.”
Meyer slammed his notebook shut and called for the check. “Heartwarming speech, Egon, but I’m afraid this little celebration is over. Some of us have work to do.” He threw three dollar bills on the table and walked out.
Egon caught up with him before he reached the subway. “Hey, Meyer, we’re the lucky ones. Remember?”
In the frigid air, Meyer’s mouth twisted as if it couldn’t keep up with his words. “Some of us are more lucky than others,” he said, holding up his notebook. “I got my story, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll tell you something else. If that self-righteous prick Georg says another word to me, I will cram his precious little dinner bell up his ass.”
“Why can you not let him be? He is jealous of you. You have a future. He and Kaethe do not; they are counting the days until the Führer welcomes them home.”
When Meyer laughed, cold-weather tears ran down his face. He grabbed Egon by the shoulders, happy to be sparring with him. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”
Egon jerked away. “Uh-oh, you are not going to kiss me again, are you?”
“No, no, that was a once-in-a-lifetime piece of luck, my friend.”
Meyer couldn’t wait to get back to his typewriter. He wrote his story exactly as it happened:
The Cheese Man shouted, “Bravo!” and rose to his feet. A Pekingese and his plump owner followed. Waiters put down their trays, customers pushed aside their sachertortes and eclairs to stand up and clap. Even the Non-Jew stood up, applauding the man who she hoped would someday defeat Hitler. Only the Loyal Germans stayed seated.
Meyer dubbed himself Struwwelpeter, after the unkempt character in a series of gruesome fairy tales for children, and detailed his argument with the Loyal German. He ended his piece with Herr Blobbo announcing that he and the lovely Schneewittchen were going to have a child:
Only in America do people greet the news of war and the conception of a child with equal optimism and celebration. Struwwelpeter felt neither. He was swamped with desperation and sadness. The world he’d left behind was destroying itself, and his new world was about to enter into a horrific war. He hated Hitler as much as the next man, but he was not a warrior. He was not a lover or a father either, and the prospect of ever becoming any of these things seemed, at that moment, impossible. An isolated angry man surrounded by revelers, Struwwelpeter left Nash’s abruptly and headed for the subway. His friend, the Cheese Man, ran after him and told him not to be such a sourpuss. “We are the lucky ones,” he said. “We have jobs. We are here, in America; we are not there.” His friend’s words did not lift the weight from Struwwelpeter’s heart, but his gesture was a stab at friendship and made Struwwelpeter think that if one is to cultivate an optimistic outlook these days, having a friend is a place to start.
Of all the columns Meyer wrote, this was the one that got the biggest response. People wrote letters to the Aufbau saying they agreed with the Loyal German, asking when Schneewittchen’s child was due, or rooting for Struwwelpeter. Meyer’s editor insisted that he continue to write about these characters because they humanized the immigrant experience.
Meyer tried to explain to the Schnabels and Cohens and Egon and Catrina that the Loyal Germans, Herr Blobbo, Schneewittchen, the Cheese Man, and the Non-Jew were fictional, characters out of his imagination, very loosely based on some of them. “Am I such a masochist that I would call myself Struwwelpeter, the most unappealing of them all?”
The Schnabels had no problem with Meyer’s characterization of them. “That my point of view is public is not a bad thing,” said Georg. Carola and Max were so preoccupied with her pregnancy they barely paid attention, and Catrina, of course, never read the Aufbau. Even Egon, moved by Meyer’s naked display of sentimentality, resigned himself to being the Cheese Man.
22.
Secrets. By now, we all have them.
—Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, February 7, 1941
Catrina slept with her lips pursed, as if she were about to blow a bubble. Her limbs were splayed, and her hair flowed around her like the current in a river. Watching her sleep on this Sunday morning was Egon’s first pleasure of the day. Johnny was curled at his feet, and the sun was striping through the Venetian blinds. Catrina had completely abandoned herself to her sleep. Sleeping in front of another person was the ultimate act of trust. He hoped he was worthy of hers. Maybe she had secrets too. He leaned over and kissed her hair.
There was a noise—nothing startling, the rustle of a curtain perhaps.
Again. This time, an insistent tapping. Careful not to disturb Catrina, Egon got up, walked to the window, and peeked through the blinds. A bird with a red-brown breast and a pattern of mustache-shaped stripes had alighted on the rail of the fire escape. He recognized the head, with its watchful black eyes and short hooked bill: a peregrine falcon. They’d been known to nest on bridges or on the ledges of apartment buildings. The falcon stood stone still. Then a new sound: rehk rehk rehk. A larger falcon alighted next to him. The female. It was winter and they were house hunting. The longer he watched them, the more the falcons, with their eager eyes and imposing statures, made him think of his parents.
Foolish thoughts, he told himself, waving his hand in front of his face. Stare at anyone long enough and they look familiar. The gesture sent the falcons flying.
“Scheisse.”
“What is it?” said Catrina, sitting up. “Come back, I’m cold.”
Egon got into bed and explained what he’d seen: “I know I sound crazy, but they reminded me of my parents.”
“Ah, you’re having a visitation, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean, ‘visitation’?”
“Some part of you believes they were your parents.”
“Nonsense. I know what hap
pens when people die, and I can tell you that they do not come back as birds. What an odd notion.”
Catrina got out of bed and walked over to the window. “Suppose those birds were a sign that your parents were watching over you. Would you find that such an odd notion?”
“Yes, I would. There was nothing affectionate about these birds. They had hard eyes and made a harsh sound. I would like to think my parents were more kindly than that. Now, please, can we stop this foolish conversation? Come back to bed.”
Catrina sat next to him, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I wish I’d seen them.”
“Next time,” he said, stroking her foot. “You are cold. Now we concentrate on fixing that.” He kissed her toes, her ankles, and the backs of her legs, working his way up to the flesh of her inner thighs. After all this time, the smell of her and the way her skin pressed against his lips still stirred and welcomed him.
Meyer called the following morning. He resumed his usual banter with Egon, as if nothing had ever come between them: “Hello, Mr. Big Shot, how does it feel to have your name in the paper? What other secrets do you keep from me? Ah, you’re sleeping with Eleanor Roosevelt. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s an item in this morning’s Herald Tribune about you being the favorite animal doctor in Washington Heights. That picture I took of you and Catrina with the boxer, it’s there too. Someone must have read the piece in the Aufbau and given it to the Trib. Did you know about this?”
“Not at all. What does it say?”
“Nice things, although—you’re not going to like this part—they call you a recent immigrant from Germany.”
“In the picture, do they identify Catrina?”
“No, she’s still your assistant, as she was in the Aufbau. But they call you a Good Samaritan.”
“This makes me nervous.”
“You haven’t killed any animals yet, have you?”
“No, but what does that have to do with anything? I still have no license.”
“Everything. The Tribune readers don’t care about your license or if you’re German. All they know is that you’re a good doctor. If things had gone badly, on the other hand, you’d be the Quack Kraut. Worse, you’d be the Quack Kike. So be happy for what you have.”
“Meyer, you are giving me a headache. I have to take Johnny out. We will keep this between us, okay? I am not even going to tell Catrina.”
“It’s not up to us. Have a good walk.”
Egon hung up. He bent down and snapped Johnny’s leash onto his collar. “I do not like this at all,” he said to the dog. They walked to the drugstore on 187th Street, where Egon bought a copy of the Herald Tribune. Thumbing the pages, he stood with his back to the street. There it was, on the bottom of page 8: the picture, the headline, ALL EYES ON WASHINGTON HEIGHTS ANIMAL DOC:
Dr. Egon Schneider, a recent immigrant from Germany and former ophthalmologist, has been treating sick animals for free, or for whatever people can afford, in his cozy Washington Heights apartment since he arrived in this country three years ago. Says one grateful spaniel owner: “I took Nellie to the doc’s office at ten one night. No fuss, no muss, and no bucks either. I came home at midnight with Nellie and three new pups.” When he’s not tending to ailing critters, Good Samaritan Schneider is slicing up cheese and cold cuts at Art’s Grocery Store on Overlook Terrace, where he goes by the name of the Cheese Man.
No one will see this, Egon reassured himself. Such a little picture, so far back in the paper. As he headed into Fort Tryon Park, he allowed himself a moment of private satisfaction: At least they called me Dr. Schneider.
Egon shoved the Tribune into his coat pocket and had nearly forgotten about it until he arrived at the store, where Art was waiting for him with a copy of the paper rolled up in his hand. Art watched Egon take off his hat and coat, slip his apron over his head, and tie it around his waist.
“You’re a graceful man,” said Art.
“Thank you,” said Egon.
“I’ll bet you were a lady-killer in Germany, with those big blue eyes and all.”
“I had some fun.”
“And a doctor no less, that couldn’t have hurt.”
Egon stared at Art, whose narrow eyes seemed barely open this morning. “To what do I owe these kind words?”
“What a comedown it must be to work here. I mean, from doctor to a delicatessen counter, you must hate that.”
“I am grateful for the work.”
“I run a tight ship, you’ve probably noticed.”
“Yes, I admire your efficiency.”
“I keep my nose clean and expect the people who work for me to do the same.”
“Of course.” Egon noticed Art’s liverwurst complexion growing rosier.
“What my employees do in their own time is their business.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But what I cannot tolerate is having my good nature taken for granted, which every now and again happens. What I’m saying is…” He opened the Tribune to page 8. “This kind of thing.”
Puzzled at what Art was getting at, Egon picked up the paper and looked at it again. “So, you are not pleased about this article?”
“I would be more pleased if you didn’t make it sound as if working at this place was what you did in your spare time. I mean, I pay you good wages. Do these ‘ailing critters’ of yours bring you in a single penny? Could you afford your ‘cozy Washington Heights apartment’ without your salary? Would you have food on your table or clothes on your back without Art to sign your checks? I think not.”
Egon could see that Art was enjoying his discomfort, but this was no time to be proud. “I am at a loss for words. It is true I treat the animals, but only after work or on my days off. I would do nothing to jeopardize my job here. I know you to be a fair and kind man and I will continue to try to be the best Cheese Man in New York City.” His smile was faint.
“The truth is, even though this place comes off as a second thought, we could turn this article into something useful for us.” Art smiled as if he had suddenly tapped into his own genius. “I’m going to put a copy of it, along with the picture, in the window. I’ll write in big letters, ‘Come In and Meet the Herald Tribune’s Good Samaritan: Our Very Own Cheese Man.’ Good idea, eh? We’ll give it time and see how it works. But listen, no more publicity unless it comes from right here, do you understand?”
“I do. Thank you for your kindness.”
Egon’s stomach gurgled like water draining from a tub. For the first time in months, his insides burned, and a familiar acidic taste filled his mouth. He’d phone Catrina on his break. No, he’d call Meyer.
Meyer answered on the first ring. “Are you busy?” asked Egon.
“No, not at all. I’ve been combing my hair all morning hoping you’d call. What is it?”
Egon told him about Art’s plans. “The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.”
“Too late, that’s already been done for you.”
“And Catrina, she certainly will not want her picture in Art’s window.”
“Catrina will be fine. So you’ll be a little famous. Women like famous men. You’ll see, they’ll line up to take a little nibble out of you.”
“Thank you, Meyer, you’ve been a great help, as always. I am hanging up now.”
Egon took two Tums and went back to work.
Before his next break, a woman with a Polish accent wished him luck. Later, an older man leaned across the delicatessen counter. “Saw the paper today,” he whispered. “We don’t need folks like you being our Good Samaritans, we got our own.”
Egon handed him a piece of cheese. “Thank you,” he said in a loud voice. “I appreciate your business.”
It wasn’t until lunchtime that he finally got around to calling Catrina at the ASPCA. “Hello, Mr. Good Samaritan,” she greeted him. She sounded cheerful.
“Then you have seen the article.”
He told her about Art’s plan. “I am sorry to drag you into it.”
“I don’t care. My name isn’t even in there. And my picture’s so small, who will see me?” She laughed. “But Boris the boxer will be pleased.”
“Well, I am glad you are so good-natured about it, but it makes me uncomfortable.”
“You’re a funny one. You miss being a doctor and how you were regarded in Germany. Then you get praised here for being a doctor, and a Good Samaritan, and now you’re upset about that? Sometimes I don’t understand you.”
Egon whispered down the phone, “This is a conversation for another time.”
23.
The Cheese Man was the first among us to get mentioned in an American newspaper. His fame, such as it was, came at a price.
—Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, February 14, 1941
The cellophane packet of ball and jacks was an easy swipe. Liesl had never played jacks; she’d never even heard of it. But there they were, alone in the toy department, the dull metal jacks and tiny pink ball. They’d been sitting on a back shelf gathering dust for more than a week before she swept them into her smock pocket. Ten jacks and a rubber ball would fit in perfectly with the others: five address books, a set of measuring spoons, six coasters, two ashtrays, and a stuffed toy duck. They had all been rejected by the customers and would have fallen into the trash bin or been taken down to the basement and stashed away with last year’s Christmas ornaments if it hadn’t been for her. In her apartment, they lived together on the nightstand next to her bed. Orphans, that’s what they were. They needed a home, and she had given them one. She wished someone would do the same for her. She knew this would probably sound nutty to most people, but most people didn’t understand the corrupting logic of loneliness the way she did.