We Were Strangers Once

by Betsy Carter

  He looked up at Carola’s face. Normally it was pale as wax, but now it glowed with the promise of a child. He put his hand on her belly and spoke to it as if Carola weren’t there: “So, little one, you will be our first American. To you I will be a foreigner. You will think I am odd, and my accent will embarrass you.”

  “It won’t be like that,” said Carola. “You’ll always be part of our family.” She patted her stomach. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Egon, who didn’t really. She was his cousin, the only one of them who had known him as a child, known his parents. He remembered first meeting her, when she came to the house in her too-fancy-for-a-hot-summer-day dress, her pale skin and lace gloves; how she was afraid of his box turtle; how, when he met her again in Berlin, she’d grown into her frail beauty and allowed Meyer to worship her, his Schneewittchen. Then came Max. Max was from a wealthy family. He had ambition and opinions and kept his nose clean. He would do fine in America.

  As he left, Egon looked out at the Virgin Mary again and noticed, for the first time, how her shawl, head, and body were crusted with bird droppings. He hoped Meyer wouldn’t take the news about Carola and Max too badly.

  “That ass-kissing coward,” Meyer said when Egon told him. “I’m going to call him right now.”

  “Please,” said Egon. “I have more things to worry about than you alienating the one relative I have left in this world. We can do without them. There will be others.”

  Catrina called Kiefer and Rose after the meeting with Meyer and asked if they too would write a letter. Kiefer said that as a member of the police force, he felt it wasn’t appropriate for him to get involved.

  “This isn’t about the police force,” argued Rose. “It’s about your sister. She loves this man. Look, I don’t want her marrying a Jew any more than you do. At least this one is honest—for the most part. He’s kind to her and makes her happy. I’m not leaving any money or worldly goods behind when I go. God help me, the least I can do is write a letter, and so can you.”

  That night, they agreed on this compromise:

  To Whom It May Concern,

  The character of one Egon Schneider seems to be in question over a matter of treating animals without a veterinary license.

  I am originally from Ireland. I came here as a young girl. I have worked hard in America and raised two children by myself. I am a Catholic and live according to the teachings of the Bible. I am an old woman now with not much time left. Much of my life belongs to memory. But one thing I have not lost is my ability to recognize the few souls who are pure and decent without motive. Egon Schneider is one of those people. I never knew a Jew before I met Mr. Schneider, but I believe he is a credit to his race. I know this because of the love and generosity he has shown my daughter. She, by the way, is a lapsed Catholic, but a hard worker, and she helps Mr. Schneider with the animals. When customers can’t afford to pay, they treat them for free. With all that’s going on in the world today, does such a man deserve to be punished?

  I hope you will agree with me when I say certainly not. Thank you for your attention.

  Rose Walsh

  P.S. My son, Kiefer Walsh, is a detective in the New York City Police Department. He has read this letter and agrees with everything I say about Egon Schneider.

  When Kiefer walked into the Aufbau offices the next day, Meyer was at his typewriter. He typed with two fingers, and moved his lips as he wrote. He pounded the keyboard so hard that often his D’s and O’s left holes in the paper. Until he finished whatever he was writing, he didn’t look up and was oblivious to the noise and people around him. Kiefer stood silently and studied Meyer. His hair shot up at different angles, and his shirt had ink stains on it. Kiefer nearly smiled at the thought that it looked as if someone had been typing on Meyer. He figured Meyer had hit the last period when he lifted his finger from the keyboard with the bravado of a pianist finishing a concert. “Yah,” he snapped, without looking at Kiefer.

  “I’ve brought you this,” said Kiefer, handing him Rose’s letter.

  Meyer read it carefully, nodding as he went.

  “This is good, excellent,” he said with a smile. “Please tell your mother how much we appreciate her effort.”

  That morning, Egon had explained to Art about the potential hearing and asked if he would write a letter on his behalf.

  One of Art’s rules of management was to never interfere in an employee’s personal life, so his immediate answer was “Absolutely no can do.” Art figured that once you meddled in an employee’s private affairs, the next thing you knew, he wanted to borrow money. Or even worse, he’d confide something awful about himself, like how he liked to dress up in women’s clothes when he was in bed with his wife, and then you were stuck knowing that forever. Also, Art never got involved in politics. Writing a letter to the president wasn’t politics per se, but in this day and age, with feelings running so hot and cold about the impending war, he felt it best to keep his nose out of anything but his own business. Though he had to admit, the whole Cheese Man idea had worked out well. Egon had brought customers into the store. He gave them free cheese and often they bought more than they had expected they would. But this whole thing with the newspaper, the blood-throwing and threats, it was getting to be too much.

  On the other hand… Art had to laugh at himself. To his way of thinking, there was always the other hand. On the other hand, people came into the store and asked how Egon was doing. Egon was the underdog. This neighborhood was crawling with German Jews, all underdogs. They identified with him. Supposing Art did write a letter of support, and then let it be known that he’d written it? Could be good for business. It would make all those immigrants feel as if he understood their problems. Art Able, champion of the underdogs. Big-hearted Art Able. He had to admit, it had a nice ring to it.

  “On second thought,” he said to Egon, “maybe I’ll give it a try. It will be a business letter, of course, strictly professional. I’ll keep it short and to the point. You’ll have it by the afternoon.”

  Dear Mr. President,

  I run a food establishment in Washington Heights. Egon Schneider is one of my employees and has been for the past three and a half years. He is a hard worker who never complains about long hours or unpleasant duties such as sweeping the floor, throwing out garbage, or handling meat. He has never missed a day on the job.

  As a business manager and a native-born American, I know what it takes to be a good employee and a good citizen, and Egon Schneider has all of those things. His treating the animals has never interfered with his work at the store. If anything, it has made him more popular among the customers and drawn more business for the store. As a manager, I can hardly complain about that.

  Yours truly,

  Arthur Able

  Egon brought the letter to Meyer that evening. Meyer read it and put his hand on Egon’s shoulder. “I commend you on your meat handling. That should do the trick. Americans love their meat.” He put down the letter. “I have something to tell you that will surprise you.”

  “This is what I need,” said Egon. “More surprises.”

  “No, this isn’t that kind of news,” said Meyer. “You’ll never guess who called me first thing this morning. I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t the president or Mrs. Roosevelt, but it was a couple around the same age. Do you give up? Okay, I’ll tell you. Georg Schnabel. Isn’t that something?”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to help him with his letter about you. He called me four times, read me four different versions. He hand-delivered the final one this afternoon. Do you want to see it?”

  “Sure,” said Egon.

  Meyer pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. Egon noticed that the heavy stock was embossed with the name of Georg’s old law firm and that his penmanship was the formal cursive they’d been taught in gymnasium.

  Your Excellency,

  I am writing on behalf of one Egon Schneider. A recent immig
rant from Germany, he has been summoned to appear in front of Immigration Services as it has been called to their attention that he has been practicing medicine for animals without a license.

  I have studied and practiced the law, as you have, and am aware of the implications of engaging in a discipline without the proper license. I understand that consequences for an individual having done so can be harsh. In regard to Mr. Schneider’s case, I urge you to consider that he was a respected ophthalmologist in Germany and he is working hard to find his place in America. To my knowledge, all of the animals he has treated have prospered. Their owners, many of whom cannot afford the fees of licensed practitioners, have paid what they can to Mr. Schneider, and sometimes nothing at all.

  I don’t have to tell you that these are difficult times. Perhaps you can see your way to the decision that in an extreme case such as this one, for once altruism can trump the law.

  With all due respect,

  Georg Schnabel

  Egon read the letter several times. “That is very generous of him, considering…”

  “Considering what?” asked Meyer. “Considering that we’ve treated them like shit? That I’ve nearly torn out his throat more than once?”

  “Well, yes,” said Egon. “All of those things.”

  After returning home from the meeting at Meyer’s, Georg had sat at his desk and Kaethe on the rocking chair they’d brought over from Germany. She was darning a sock as they talked, in German, about the favor Meyer had asked of them.

  “After all we did for him in Frankfurt, and then we come to America and he mostly ignores us,” said Kaethe. “I don’t see why we should now come to his defense.”

  “But you mustn’t forget, Kaethe, he did help us when we came here,” said Georg. “We stayed in his apartment. He introduced us to his friends.” She stopped darning and raised her eyebrows at Georg. “Whether or not that was a good thing is another matter,” said Georg. “Still, he is relatively young and discovering his way. At least he has found something in America he likes to do. We’re old, we don’t have the energy or interest to start a new life the way he does.”

  “Yes, but you’ve said so yourself, to practice medicine without a license is against the law.”

  “Ach, Kaethe, today the law is made of moth wings. Nobody cares like they used to.”

  “Then you are saying we should write the letter?”

  “Yes, I’m saying it would be tragic if Egon was deported. He has a future in America. He has that Irish girl, a job, and something he wants to do. He has a chance.”

  Georg opened his desk drawer. “I’ll try my hand at something and we’ll see what we think.”

  The English was hard for Georg. “I don’t want to sound like a dumb immigrant in front of the president,” he said to Kaethe. “I’m going to call Meyer and get his help.”

  “Don’t call him, he’s crazy,” she said.

  “If he acts crazy, then we stop.”

  Kaethe stood next to Georg each time he read Meyer the letters over the phone. Georg held the earpiece so Kaethe could hear what Meyer was saying. They argued over how to address the president. Meyer said he was being too formal; Georg insisted it was proper. Meyer suggested he take out longer references to Georg’s old law firm; Georg agreed. “You don’t need the paragraph about your World War I experience.” Georg finally agreed to that. On each phone call Meyer was respectful and never said an unkind word. In the end, he thanked Georg for his efforts. “Your letter is very distinguished. I’m sure it will make a difference.”

  Georg said, “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  Kaethe made a tsk sound. “I still think he’s crazy.”

  Twenty-four hours after the meeting in his office, Meyer had heard from everyone except Liesl. The thought of phoning her made him anxious. He would be the last person she’d want to hear from. And he still hadn’t restrung her pearls as he’d promised. But time was running out; he had no choice.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Liesl said when Meyer asked about her letter.

  “What’s to think about? I can help you if you’d like.”

  “It’s not that. I’m thinking about whether or not to write one.”

  “Of course you’ll write one, we all have to do that.”

  But she was not so sure. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  Liesl liked to keep score. She tallied the rights and wrongs in her life the way other people kept a budget. She deserved to steal from the store. She was right to go to Egon’s after the news came about her parents. He was wrong to leave her alone after their night of sex. She was wrong to seduce Meyer in an effort to get back at Egon. Egon was wrong to practice medicine without a license. She was wrong to consider turning him in to the authorities in order to get back at him for breaking it off with her. Only when she figured out that writing a letter would allow her to subtract one of the wrongs from her list did she put her pen to paper.

  Dear President Roosevelt,

  You do not know me, but perhaps you have heard of my father, Leopold Kessler. He was president of the National Bank of Frankfurt before the German government removed him for being a Jew. Now my parents are missing in Germany.

  But I am writing you about another matter. A man named Egon Schneider has been called before the Immigration authorities for treating animals without a veterinary license. Like me, Mr. Schneider comes from a prominent family in Germany. He was a successful doctor before he came to America. In fact, he treated me and my friends for many years. Mr. Schneider does not deserve to be punished for treating animals. Like many of us who came here, he works hard to become who he was. Thank you for your attention,

  Liesl Kessler

  Liesl must have slipped the letter under Meyer’s door in the middle of the night, because it was there when he awoke the next morning. He smelled the paper before he read it. Vanilla. Her smell.

  Now it was time for him to write his. He wrote letters to President and Mrs. Roosevelt, long letters similar to what he’d written in the Aufbau. He enclosed a copy of his book, The Pale Princess of Prussia, and, knowing that the president was a birdwatcher, a rare copy of European Ornithology.

  There was only one letter left to be written. The man from Nagle Avenue who’d brought in Boris, the boxer with the broken tail.

  “I don’t write letters,” he said when Egon asked him.

  “A short one will be fine,” said Egon.

  Dear President Roosevelt,

  Egon Schneider is a swell man. He and his girlfriend fixed Boris’s tail. Boris is a boxer. They only charged me $1.00. Pretty square deal. I hope he gets one too.

  Gerald Elmlinger

  27.

  Two thousand and fourteen and counting. That’s how many have, so far, signed the petition urging the government to drop its case against Egon Schneider.

  —Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, April 7, 1941

  The waiting was excruciating. Every routine was fraught.

  At Art’s, Egon worried: Would there be another attack? Would someone approach him with an envelope from the government?

  When he came home, he stared at the wall of mailboxes in his lobby as if facing a firing squad. Slowly, he would turn the key and survey what was inside. Postcards: a relief. Envelopes: threatening. Thin envelopes: better than thick ones. White: ominous. Any other color: safe. New York City postmarks: okay. Washington, D.C., postmarks: not so good.

  Upstairs, the apartment still smelled of Johnny. Egon never unlocked his door without hoping the dog would come bounding out to greet him, and never failed to be heartbroken when he didn’t. His stomach seized up when the phone rang. Now that he’d stopped taking in animals, there were almost no visitors, so every knock on the door felt catastrophic.

  It had been a few weeks since he’d been to the INS. He missed the animals. Even more, he missed taking care of creatures who couldn’t take care of themselves. He missed Rose, who’d passed away days after the INS meeting. He’d hoped she would live long
enough to see he and Catrina not living in sin. Meyer came to her funeral, as did Iris and Susanna from the ASPCA and all the surviving women Rose had worked with at the laundry. Each of the laundresses in turn took Catrina’s hands into hers—scarred as Rose’s had been—and told her things about her mother that she’d never known.

  “She kept a photograph of you in your wedding dress taped up in her locker.”

  “She wrote us funny poems on our birthdays.”

  “On her break, she’d go behind the hospital and feed the pigeons. Scraps from her lunch.”

  This time, Egon held Catrina graveside.

  After that, they took turns trying to bolster each other. “Come, liebchen, let’s walk in the park and look at the new buds.”

  “I bought you a sketch pad so you could draw me a nice fat robin.”

  “Today I have a treat for you, a chocolate peach cake from Nash’s.”

  Talking about marriage turned them toward the future. Egon started looking into schools that offered degrees in veterinary medicine.

  Every few nights, Meyer called to say how many people had signed the petition. Two thousand and fourteen after eight days.

  The group reached for any good news they could find, but the newspapers rebutted their boldest attempts.

  There’s not a Jew left in Mendel or Danzig.

  There was little food in Paris this winter. The Germans collected it before it reached the markets. A turnip was a gourmet meal.

  The population of Jews in Germany has dropped by one-third to 250,000.

  Jews have been completely eliminated from the economic life of Germany. There are no business enterprises, no Jewish lawyers, craftsmen, actors, or doctors. Those who are left perform manual labor upon a virtually slave basis.

  No country is willing to take in European Jews at a sizable number anymore.