Chapter 41 Moving On
MOVING ON
The office on the second floor turned out to be a large waiting room. People were called through the big doors at the end and came out of them, not in any order I could see—a woman who’d come in after us was seen, while some who’d been there when we arrived were still waiting an hour later.
At first, I was just glad to get out of the heat and into the cool—and to have been able to use the toilet and get a drink of water, too!
I was very hungry, though, and the clock on the wall showed the minutes ticking by.
An hour, then two, and still we sat. It was after three now, and what would happen if we didn’t get in today?
Would we have to come back and repeat the whole performance again tomorrow?
We couldn’t arrive any earlier; I had the bread to bake, and then there were those five miles and the dwindling coins in my purse.
Finally, I’d had enough. I stood up and told Dr. Becker, “Come.” He looked startled, but he followed me.
We went straight through the doors, and found ourselves in a room filled with desks.
Directly in front of us was a young woman wearing red lipstick—who had lipstick now?
—smoking a cigarette—ah, the Americans must have access to lipstick and cigarettes; lucky girl, to get such a job—and talking vivaciously to a colleague.
He was an American in uniform, with some sort of gold emblem on his shoulders.
What the emblem denoted, I didn’t know, but he was an older man.
I stepped up, bold as brass, and said clearly, “Excuse me.”
The young woman broke off and said, “Yes?” Her brows were plucked thin and arched comically, so her face looked eternally surprised.
I skipped all the preliminaries. “This is Dr. Kurt Becker,” I said in English.
“From Dresden. A most eminent doctor with a chair at the University until 1935, former head of the burn ward at Dresden Hospital and the author of an important textbook on the treatment of burns. He is a Jew and has been in hiding with his children.”
The officer—I thought he was an officer—had been walking away. Now, he turned back in surprise. “You speak English,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “I had an English governess and nanny.” I sounded like quite the snob saying it, but surely Americans were as impressed by wealth as anyone else, whatever their democratic leanings.
I wasn’t going to share my title, so I’d have to fall back on the wealth.
I sketched out the story as rapidly as I could manage, before he lost interest.
The officer put out his hand. Not to me; to Dr. Becker. “Colonel Hargreave,” he said. “I run this outfit. What do you need from us, sir?”
Sir. How long since Dr. Becker had been addressed like that?
I translated, and Dr. Becker said, “A place to stay for myself and my children, and a way to eat. And, please, a chance to work. I’ve spoken to the hospital here, but they won’t have me.
You must realize that their chief physician is a Nazi through and through. ”
The colonel said, “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Dr. Becker said firmly, “it is so.”
“But you want to work there anyway?” the colonel asked.
“Not under him,” Dr. Becker said, “for preference. If I must—well, I’ve done harder things.”
“You’d rather stay here in Nuremberg, then,” the colonel said, “and not be with your own people?”
“My own people?” Dr. Becker asked, puzzled.
“Well, yes,” the colonel said. “The Jewish people.”
“Is that an option?” Dr. Becker asked. “Under what circumstances?”
“Nobody’s told you about the Displaced Persons camps?” The colonel looked surprised.
“No,” Dr. Becker said. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”
“Well, we’ve set up quite a few of them. Fohrenwald, for one, outside of Munich. For the survivors of the camps, you know.”
“Yes,” Dr. Becker said heavily, “I know of the camps.”
“The DP camps are pretty good,” the colonel said. “At Fohrenwald in particular, they have schools for the kids, an orchestra, lectures, religious books, and the—” He made a gesture.
“The Torah scrolls, perhaps?” Dr. Becker said. “Although I’m not a very good Jew, I’m afraid. I thought I was German, but …”
“Yes,” the colonel said, “I imagine quite a few Jews found that one out. It won’t interest you much, then, that there’s also a—what’s the name for a Jewish religious school?”
“A yeshiva.”
“That’s the one. All Jews in the camp, you see. Turns out they were more comfortable that way.”
“Yes,” Dr. Becker said. “I imagine they were. And I suppose I may become a more observant Jew now.”
“I won’t say the accommodations are palatial,” the colonel went on.
“The place was a Hitler Youth camp until recently. But it’s houses, not tents, with good sanitary facilities—trust the Army to make sure of that—and you’ll get a lot more food than the average German.
We’ll see to that.” His good-natured face suddenly looked grim.
“These camps,” Dr. Becker said. “Are they guarded?”
“You mean, will you have trouble with the locals? No. That’s not going to happen.”
“You misunderstand me,” Dr. Becker said. “Would I be free to leave?”
He was trembling. I could barely see it, but I felt it in him, a tremor throughout his body.
The colonel stared. “You think we’d put you in a prison camp?
No. It’s a way station, is the idea, whether you decide to stay in Germany or go somewhere else, because there’ll be people to help with emigration, too.
Britain’s taking some Jewish refugees, and so are Canada and the States. Australia, too, I hear.”
“Palestine?” It was barely a breath.
“I don’t know about that,” the colonel said, “but there’ll be somewhere. If you’re a doctor, I imagine they can use you in Fohrenwald. Some of the people down there are in pretty rough shape. You’d likely be paid, too. In American dollars, not marks.”
“And my children and I could be housed together?”
“Well, sure,” the colonel said, looking puzzled. “Why would we do anything else?”
Dr. Becker looked at him, then at me. I said, my heart squeezing with pity, “He finds it hard to believe you.”
“Well, shoot,” the colonel said. “Go on down there, I guess, and check it out for yourself.”
“How?” Dr. Becker asked baldly.
“We have no money for the train,” I said.
“Are you Jewish, too?” the colonel asked.
“Me?” I said. “No. No, I’m not a relation. But we’ve been traveling together, you see. Escaping together, as I was—as my father was …” I trailed off.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the colonel said, “but the camps are not for Germans.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Yes, of course. How silly of me.”
“But you’ll come with me to Munich, Daisy?” Dr. Becker asked. “With the children and me, to see whether it’s safe? To talk to the Americans?” I could tell how exposed he felt, having shown his real Kennkarte to officialdom.
“Of course I will,” I said. “And then I’ll journey back to Fürth again and bake more bread.
” I tried to say it bracingly, but I didn’t feel nearly as confident as that.
What was in Fürth for me, when all was said and done?
If Frau Adelberg turned me out … It didn’t bear thinking of, but I’d have to think of it. I’d have to manage somehow.
“Well, look,” the colonel said. “Show up here tomorrow morning at eight, and we’ll get a lift for you to Munich on one of our trucks, you and your kids. And your interpreter here, of course, if she wants to come along. You’ll have to see the officials there, but I’ll give you a note.”
We rode the train home in near silence. I knew what Dr. Becker was thinking. Can this be real? Can there truly be such a place for us? At last, I said, “I believe I’ll need your help, too, Herr Doktor. There must be many Americans in Munich now, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Dr. Becker said. “Or so I heard today at the hospital. It’s the capital of Bavaria, after all.”
“Then I can sell the brooch,” I said. “On the black market. Only—how does one find the black market? I don’t imagine there are signs. ‘Black Market here—open Monday through Saturday, 1:00 PM to 5:00 P.M.’”
I succeeded in one thing. I made him laugh.
“No,” he said, “I don’t imagine there are.
But we’ll find it. After we see this man—” He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket.
It was already creased and worn; he’d had his hand on it the entire time, as if afraid to let it go for fear this chance, too, would melt away.
“We’ll sell your brooch,” he finished. “We’ll sell it, and you, too, will be taken care of. As your parents would have wished.”
“Yes,” I said, pretending more confidence than I felt. “I have a great deal, really.”
“Well, at least some jewels,” he said, with that small smile I rarely saw. “As long as we remember to trade coats again! And your baking skill.”
“Yes,” I said, “and my English. For all we know, I may be living in Buckingham Palace next year. Maybe they’ll want a baker. Who can say?”