Chapter 40 Scrambling #2
The day was warm—it was nearly June—and we soon grew hot as we waited. An hour later, we’d advanced perhaps a quarter of the way. A man came out of the building and called in German, “All those who need bicycle permits, you must go see the German authorities!”
“They sent us here!” a woman called back.
“I can’t help you,” he said. “We have nothing to do with bicycles.”
About half the group left, though with much grumbling, so that looked more hopeful for us.
After another hour, though, we seemed to be at a standstill.
People still came in and out of the doors of the grand old building, which had somehow not been destroyed in the raids, and the big soldier was replaced by a medium-sized one, but our queue wasn’t moving.
“They’ve probably all gone to lunch,” Dr. Becker said.
“Listen—I have an idea. You stay here and hold our place. I have another errand that may be more helpful.” He looked excited, though I couldn’t imagine why.
He was in his shabby old suit, the only one he owned, but had worn a tie with it today.
He must be very hot, but in his green tie and Homburg hat, freshly shaved and with a shine on my father’s good black shoes, he was really quite smart.
“Very well,” I said. “But try not to be too long. It would be just our luck if the queue started moving like mad and you weren’t here!”
He was gone about an hour and a half, and by the time he returned, I was only four people back in the queue and starting to worry that we’d miss our chance.
I could see his dejection from a hundred yards away.
It was the droop of his shoulders and the heaviness of his walk.
A pair of women at the front of the queue were allowed into the building at that moment, and now I was only two people back.
I was also a little faint with heat and had drunk every drop of the flask of water I’d brought in my rucksack, but surely we’d be allowed inside soon.
Dr. Becker threaded his way through the crowd and come to join me, to the accompaniment of some audible muttering about queue-jumping. When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “What happened?”
I’d never seen him look truly defeated, but he looked that way now. “I went to the hospital,” he said, “and spoke to the administrator there. He isn’t wearing his Party button anymore, of course, but oh, yes, he was a Nazi, and still is, in his heart. Do these Americans see nothing?”
I was beginning to get a glimmer. “And?”
He sighed. “I asked about getting work there. They’re clearly overcrowded and understaffed, as one would have guessed.
How many doctors have even returned from their Army duties yet?
And with all the injuries from bombings and street combat …
I used my real Kennkarte, of course, and gave my credentials—they have a burn ward here, and it’s more than full up—but he looked at me as if considering stepping on a cockroach, if only it wouldn’t dirty his shoe.
He said …” Dr. Becker swallowed. “That he thought Hitler’d made it clear that Germany was no place for Jews.
He told me to go see the ‘Jew-loving Americans,’ that they were sure to have reserved the place of honor for me. ”
“He didn’t want you?” I asked, furious and incredulous by turns. “With all your skill?”
Dr. Becker shook his head. “I recognized his name, and his fat, smug face, too. I met him at a medical meeting, it must have been twelve or more years ago. He came to a talk I gave and spoke to me afterward. I found his knowledge wanting and his arrogance insulting. And this—this!—is the man who turns me down as of no use!”
I was glad he was angry. Anger was surely better than defeat. I was searching for a way to answer when the American soldier said, “Next?” A word that is nearly the same in English and German.
I stepped forward, heart beating hard—surely there would be something for us here!—and said, “I’m here with my friend, interpreting for him. He needs a place to live for him and his children, and—and food assistance, or—”
The soldier said, “Everybody needs a place to live. How could we possibly take care of all of them? He’ll have to take his chances with the others. Next time, don’t start a war you can’t win.” He sounded bored, and was already scanning the people in the queue behind us.
“Wait!” I said in desperation. “Wait. He’s a doctor—a very fine doctor—and a Jew.
He was dreadfully persecuted—marked for transportation to Theresienstadt with his young children when we were bombed in Dresden.
That was how they escaped—the bombing, because nothing worked after that.
But he’s fled with nothing and been hiding ever since, and—”
“A Jew?” The soldier looked skeptical. “I haven’t seen a Jew here yet. I’ve seen a lot of people who say they helped Jews, but—”
I translated, and Dr. Becker, with immense dignity, held up his Kennkarte—the original one. A little battered now, as it had lived for months in my shoe. He said, “Now you’ve seen one.”
The man took it and scrutinized it hard.
There was no mistaking the big red “J” stamped over the entire card, but all the same, he looked at the photo, then at Dr. Becker, then back at the photo, and said, “This isn’t the same person.
You’re too old. According to this, you’d be—” He paused to calculate.
“Forty-one,” Dr. Becker said.
The soldier appeared unconvinced. “You look sixty.”
“Well,” Dr. Becker said with a shred of humor I was surprised he could still dredge up, “it hasn’t been an easy twelve years. I imagine you’re older than when you left home as well. You have a problem with your foot, yes? Or perhaps your hip?”
The soldier looked startled. “How do you know?”
“I am a doctor, after all,” Dr. Becker said.
“OK,” the soldier said, handing the Kennkarte back. “You can go in. Second floor.” He pulled the stanchion back, and Dr. Becker and I passed the barrier, looked at each other in something close to jubilation, laughed, and headed up the steps.
At last, there would be help. At last, there would be hope.
It wasn’t quite as easy as that.