by Betsy Carter
He began to sweat and had trouble taking in a breath. His heart beat so fast he could hear it. His face and neck turned red. Anxiety, when it spiked, could feel like a heart attack. He knew this from medical school yet was unable to calm himself. He held his hands to his head and tried humming, but the thoughts kept looping. I am humiliated. Catrina will leave me. The authorities will find out. I will be sent back to Germany. If this were a record, he’d smash it. He opened his mouth as if to yawn, then bit down on his tongue as hard as he could. Blood filled his mouth and coated his teeth. His own blood tasted sweeter. Finally, the thoughts stopped coming, all but the shadow of a premonition that this was only the beginning.
The letter arrived on a Tuesday night. The postmark said Washington, D.C., and the return address contained words that were as much of a shock to Egon as blood thrown in his face: Immigration and Naturalization Service. He told himself it was a routine notice, maybe something about his forthcoming citizenship or a form letter that all immigrants received, yet his stomach tightened as he read.
February 21, 1941
Mr. Egon Schneider,
This is to inform you that your presence is requested for a meeting with Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) on Monday, March 24, at 9 a.m. at 29 Church Street, fourth floor, room 407. To confirm that you received this notice to appear (NTA), phone our office at LO7-7085. Your case number is 3619. We require that you bring your passport and this notice with you when you report to INS.
Dean Dowling
Immigration and Naturalization Service
Egon read the letter four times, searching for a grace note, a please or would you be so kind as to…To him, the message was as stark and menacing as the dictates in Germany informing Jews not to enter this park or eat at that restaurant.
24.
Someone left the dog on the Cheese Man’s doorstep. The dog was mangy and had one chewed-up ear. The Cheese Man took him in and fixed him up. Eventually, they trusted one another. The dog and the Cheese Man loved each other like nobody’s business.
—Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, March 24, 1941
Old and blind, Johnny must have smelled his way around the contours of the apartment, because he never bumped into walls. When Egon took him out, he kept him on a short leash, yanking it gently when he was about to step off the curb: a seeing-eye man leading a blind dog. After Johnny’s back legs became wobbly, Egon cooked him chicken and minute steak, hoping to strengthen him, but Johnny kept getting thinner until his ribs poked out, much as they had when Egon first found him. Sometimes Egon had to carry him back from their walks.
A year earlier, Johnny had stopped barking. Whether the effort was too much for him or his voice was gone, Egon couldn’t tell, but conversely, the more he diminished, the stronger his odor became, as if it were the only way he could mark his presence. Not even a weekly bath could wash it away. Egon had been treating sick animals long enough to know when they were close to the end, and he always tried to prepare their owners. But now all his knowledge and experience added up to nothing.
On the evening that he got the letter from the INS, Egon sat on the couch with Johnny on his lap and scratched the ridge on the top of his head. “Spring is coming,” he said. “That means long walks in the park, you and me. We stick together, eh?” Johnny closed his eyes and rested his chin on Egon’s knees.
Johnny must have recognized the new fear in Egon’s voice, because in the month since the Good Samaritan article had come out, he’d stayed as close to his master as possible. These days, when every call seemed to be a threatening one, the ringing of the phone was enough to set them both on edge. Often, Johnny seemed to know before Egon when the calls were coming and would lean against his leg as he answered the phone. At night, he slept snuggled under Egon’s arm. Now Egon bent over the dog as if to shield him from his darkest thoughts: The INS knew he was practicing veterinary medicine without a license. There was a case number. He was a case. Had they figured it out from the newspaper, or had someone reported him? If so, who? They could deport him. The State Department had put a squeeze on visas for Jews trying to leave Germany, claiming that Nazi spies might be hiding among them. Given how suspicious Americans were of the German Jews already here, they could deport a German who had broken the rules with the snap of a finger.
He called Catrina. In a voice that sounded as if he were asking her to the movies, he said, “I would love to come over now, is that okay?”
She heard the false ease and asked, “More trouble?”
“You might say so.”
“Sure, come now.”
Egon hung up and sat back down on the couch. Johnny settled into his lap and licked Egon’s cheek. “I am fine,” said Egon. “It will be okay.” He kissed the dog’s head and stood up. “Going for a walk. I will be home soon.”
Catrina and Rose were in their nightclothes when Egon arrived. Rose was lying on the couch half-asleep, and Catrina whispered that she’d had a bad day.
“Maybe this is not a good time,” Egon whispered.
Rose pulled herself up to a seated position. “What’s going on? I’m fine. Just a little nap.”
Egon held out the letter. Catrina read it to herself and shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would Immigration Services want to see you?”
Rose asked if she would read it aloud. Catrina narrowed her eyes as she read. When she finished, Rose shook her head. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I am afraid this has something to do with the article that talks about me being a Good Samaritan,” said Egon. “I was worried someone would find out that I have no veterinary license.”
Catrina asked if he had told Meyer about this. “Not yet, but I know what he will say. He will start yelling that we need to find out who told the INS. He will make all sorts of accusations. He will write a column, ‘The Adventures of the Cheese Man, Continued…’”
Catrina interrupted him. “This is serious. You’ve been getting threatening phone calls, and now this. We need to figure out a plan or something, I don’t know.”
Rose tried to speak but began to cough: dry explosions that seemed to come from deep inside her.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Egon.
She waved her hand. “It’s nothing,” she started to say, but the cough came again. “Kiefer,” she finally managed. “He understands all this legal malarkey. Call him. I’m going to bed. I’ll pray for you, Egon.”
He saw the effort it took for Rose to get off the couch, and how Catrina had to put her arm around her waist and nearly carry her up the stairs. When Catrina returned, Egon pulled her onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head on her back. Her pale yellow housecoat smelled of her, of him, and he breathed them in. “I am a burden to you,” he whispered. “All my problems; all my worries. Can you imagine ever marrying a man like me?” He closed his eyes and waited for her to reassure him.
Catrina sat up so quickly she nearly toppled from his lap. “You’ve got to fight back. Nothing’s going to happen if you sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a strong man. You got yourself out of Germany to America and made a go of it. You can get through this.”
“What is it that you think I should be doing?”
“For one, you should talk to Meyer. He writes for a newspaper and has access to many people. I don’t know what he can do, but I’ll bet there’s something. And Ma is right about Kiefer. He can at least show you the ropes.”
“I am scared,” he said quietly.
“I’m sure you are.”
Egon heard the annoyance in her voice. He wanted her to commiserate with him, not get angry. He raised his hands as if to ward her off. “Please, this is bad enough without you being impatient with me. Okay, I’ll call Kiefer. Then can we stop talking about this?”
“Sure,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I’ll dial his number.”
Egon explained everything to Kiefer. He read him the letter, pronouncing INS as ins and NTA as en
ta, and asked him if he knew this Dean Dowling.
“Dean Dowling isn’t a real person,” said Kiefer. “They make up names so the letter can’t be traced to anyone.” He explained that there would probably be a preliminary interview. “If they do an investigation, you’ll need a lawyer. It could go on for months. The Feds take their time.”
“Months,” said Egon, shaking his head at Catrina. “Months seems like a long time.”
Catrina spoke loud enough for Kiefer to hear: “Is there anything he should do now?”
“Yup,” said Kiefer. “Do everything you can to build support for your case.”
When they hung up, Egon shook his head. “This is getting worse.”
“Call Meyer right now.”
He shook his head. “You can be a real bully sometimes,” he said as he dialed.
“Never mind. Talk to Meyer.”
Meyer picked up on the first ring, and in a rush of words, Egon told him about the letter and enta and ins and a man named Dean Dowling, though that wasn’t his real name, and how Kiefer said he needed to build support for his case.
“Slow down,” said Meyer. “What letter? Enta isn’t a real word in any language. Who’s Dean Dowling? What case? Now, we start over.”
Egon read Meyer the letter.
“March twenty-fourth? That’s less than a month away. Not a lot of time at all.”
“Time for what?”
Meyer was clearly picking his teeth because he had stopped talking. “Somebody must have snitched on you. Who do you suppose it was? It sounds like something our law-abiding friends might do.”
“No,” said Egon. “The Schnabels would never do that to me. Anyway, this is not the point. It was there in your article.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Meyer. “The authorities would never even see that article. Besides, they would only come after someone for bigger reasons than treating neighborhood animals. Could it be the owner of one of the pets you treat?”
“Why would they?”
“Do you think it really could be one of ours?” asked Meyer. “Max. Carola. Liesl. Liesl?”
The conversation came to a halt. Both men had their secrets with Liesl.
“This is a discussion we should save for another time,” said Meyer. “To the matter at hand, I will write something in the Aufbau, and you need to start gathering letters.”
“What kind of letters?”
“Letters from anyone you can think of who will say what a good doctor you are, what a fine American citizen you would make, how you are a man of your word, of good character, blah blah blah. We write to newspapers. I write in the Aufbau. All of us. Kiefer. Rose. Art. The people you work with in the grocery store. The man whose boxer we photographed. We write to President Roosevelt. We get everyone and anyone to write on your behalf.”
Egon rolled his eyes at Catrina. “That’s ambitious, Meyer. But what if all that writing does not work?”
“Then,” said Meyer, “we write some more.”
When he hung up, Egon repeated Meyer’s suggestion to Catrina. She grabbed a pencil and paper. “Okay, I’ll start making the list.”
“Must we do this tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You heard what Meyer said. That way you can start asking people tomorrow. And no, I never have second thoughts about marrying you.”
He called the INS first thing the following morning, as if punctuality might work in his favor. The man on the other end was as chilly as the letter itself. Egon wondered if it was Dean Dowling.
“What is your case number?” he asked.
This was worse than he thought.
He read the numbers, then asked in the calmest voice he could summon, “Is there a problem? Is there something I should know? Maybe there is something I can do to fix this?”
“Nothing that I know of, sir,” the man said. “We’d like the opportunity to talk with you. I have you on the calendar for Monday, March twenty-fourth at nine a.m.” The man repeated the address. “Got that?”
Egon said he did.
“Good, so we’ll see you then.”
The man hung up.
On Thursday night nearly two weeks after he received the letter from the INS, Egon came home to a dark and still apartment. He called Johnny’s name, but the dog didn’t come. In the past few days, he had been retreating to a spot in the back of the hall closet. Egon turned on the light in the closet and noticed his mother’s old satchel, where he kept her dishes, silverware, and a few linen tablecloths. That’s when he remembered that it was his turn to host Saturday afternoon’s kaffeeklatsch.
Distracted by Johnny and the meeting on Monday, he couldn’t imagine entertaining those people. He’d have to get the cake, make the coffee, and set the table with the fusty silver forks and fragile cream and sugar bowls. All that phony elegance and pretend formality seemed ridiculous to him. No one, with the exception of Kaethe and Georg, even wanted that life anymore. Look at them: a grocer, a tailor, a cleaning woman, a journalist, a store clerk, and a dry cleaner. Had they not known each other in Germany, would they have even become friends in America? Not likely. The more Egon thought about it, the more impossible Saturday seemed to him. Thank God Catrina was coming. She promised to bring Kiefer and Rose—if Rose was up to it. They would make it more bearable.
On Friday night, Egon began pulling the folding chairs and his mother’s old table settings from the closet. Johnny must have felt the commotion, or sensed Egon’s nervousness. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. He refused his food. He wouldn’t be budged from the corner of the closet, and slept there all Friday night and Saturday morning. At a little before two in the afternoon, Egon tried to coax him out for a walk, but Johnny didn’t move. Egon crouched among the forgotten shoes and placed his hand on the dog’s rump. Johnny didn’t stir the way he usually did when touched. Egon saw that his eyes were closed. He put his arms around the dog, hoping to feel his heart beating. He held his hand to his nose to feel his breath. Egon told himself the dog was resting. He kept his eyes on Johnny, willing him to move, to breathe. He stared at him long enough for his brain to register what his heart could not accept. Johnny was gone. No, that couldn’t be. Johnny would never leave him. He took one of his paws in his hand and gently shook it. The paw was as warm and bony as it always was and it gave Egon a surge of hope. “Okay, you sleep now,” he said, letting go. The paw dropped to the floor.
Egon picked Johnny up. He was heavy and inert, like the slabs of meat Egon handled every day. He laid him back onto the floor and curled up next to him. Death was Johnny’s only betrayal, and he had done that so quietly and uncomplainingly that Egon allowed himself the thought that he might come back.
The tears that had never come when his mother died; when he found the awful writing on his office door; when he had to leave Germany; when he was humiliated at the store; when the boy threw blood on him; when he got the threatening phone calls; when he got the letter from Immigration Services, came now. He heard himself make gulping noises. He cried until his eyes swelled and he could not catch his breath. When he looked at his watch, it was 2:52, eight minutes before eight friends were to show up at his door expecting him to serve them coffee and cake.
There were dust balls on his trousers, and he knew he smelled as putrid as poor Johnny. He figured he’d ignore the bell when it rang and they’d all go away. But with all that was going on, Meyer, in particular, might assume him dead or injured and call the police. The police would break down his door and find him lying in the closet with a dead dog. That wouldn’t look so good. No, he’d have to let them in and explain about Johnny. But where would he put Johnny? It would be unseemly to leave him in the closet. The bathtub? What if one of them had to use the toilet and found Johnny in the tub? No. The oven? Crazy. Best to come out with it. Wrap him up in a blanket and keep him on the floor.
Like the punctual Germans they were, Meyer, Carola, Max, Kaethe, and Georg arrived promptly at three. Egon stood before them in his stocking fee
t and rumpled clothes. He was covered with dust and gave off the unfortunate smell. His eyes were red. A trail of snot ran from his nose. Johnny lay by the closet door wrapped in a beige blanket.
Carola leaned in to kiss Egon’s cheek, then pulled back. “Are you all right?” she asked, then noticed Johnny. “Is he all right?”
Egon blew his nose. “Neither of us is all right. Johnny has passed away. I decided to keep him here until I had time to bury him.”
Carola stepped back into the doorway and looked at Max. He took her arm. “Carole”—he emphasized the American pronunciation—“and I are sorry about the dog, but it’s not healthy for the unborn child to be around certain kinds of pets.”
“You mean dead pets?” asked Meyer.
“It’s best not to take any chances,” said Max.
“I’m so sorry for you, Egon,” said Carola. “But I’m sure you understand.” She and Max headed down the hall.
Meyer leaned against the doorframe. He looked at Johnny, then at Georg.
“What do you think, Georg, maybe you should call Immigration Services to tell them that the animal doctor couldn’t even keep his own dog alive.”
“Why would you say something like this to me?” asked Georg.
“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Meyer.
Kaethe stepped over Johnny and took her place next to Georg. “You make fun, but it’s unnatural,” she said to Meyer. “This attachment to the animals. And now… this.”
Georg turned to Egon. “In Germany, your specialty was the eye; you had a respectable practice. Then you come to America and suddenly you are another kind of doctor? I would never report you to anybody, but do you understand how your duplicity makes the rest of us seem suspicious?”
Egon started to answer, but Meyer cut him off. “Won’t it be a relief to go back to Frankfurt, where all the Jews are being treated so cordially?”
