Chapter 42 Munich
MUNICH
The next part of the story, I told over coffee and treats—Kaffee und Kuchen—the following afternoon. This time, we were in the dining room of my suite, and the Kuchen was a plate of Pfeffernüsse that the hotel manager himself had brought up “with the hotel’s compliments.”
“But this is another Christmas delicacy, like the Lebkuchen,” I said, when I received the little balls of deliciousness, with their coating of powdered sugar and the warm spices nearly bursting out of them. “And your kitchen is making them for the guests in June?”
“Not precisely,” the manager said. His name was Herr Fentermann, and he was a very spruce personage indeed in his quiet, well-fitted charcoal suit.
“We didn’t make them for all our guests.
We made them for our most important guests.
After all, if one has Saxony’s own princess in one’s hotel, one must do everything possible to accommodate her.
Life affords few such opportunities, yet here it is before us. ”
“Are you a Saxon, then?” I asked with pleasure.
He gave a little bow. “Indeed I am. My family was most excited to hear of your presence. My mother in particular insisted that I afford you every courtesy, but alas, you ask for little. Please accept this small token as a tribute from her. She’s a great fan of royalty, you see, and her parents were true admirers of your parents.
Your father, a war hero and a true nobleman, is remembered most fondly here, and your most beautiful mother also.
My mother was not a very good Communist, I’m afraid. ”
“Please tell her,” I said, “that she—and her son—have made an old lady very happy.”
The Pfeffernüsse, it must be said, were excellent, and our little band of adventurers demolished them as I went ahead with my story.
“We walked to Nuremberg the next morning,” I began, “all five miles of it. No choice; I would need a train ticket back from Munich and had to save my money. If I couldn’t sell the brooch, especially—what then?”
I paused, remembering the emotions of that day and the next one, then recounted the rest.
Dr. Becker was terrified of being left behind, and I was nearly as nervous, so we set out before five to make sure of being on time.
“At least it will be cool, starting so early,” I said as we ate a piece of potato bread apiece and drank peppermint tea, sitting together at the kitchen table for the last time.
Nobody answered me. Frau Adelberg was downstairs baking.
I’d done as much mixing, proofing, and shaping as I could manage by rising at two-thirty this morning, but she was going to have to bake and sell the bread by herself today.
She’d been quiet the night before, perhaps feeling guilty about not being able to house everyone, but who could blame her?
Dr. Becker, too, seemed sunk into himself, as if he didn’t dare look past this minute for fear of disappointment, and the little boys were silent and sad.
Only Andrea looked alert—even happy. She asked now, “Will I really get to go to school?”
“Yes,” I said, when her father didn’t answer. “The officer said there would be schools.”
“Real school?” she asked. “With books and maps and paper and pencils?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think the Americans still have such things in their schools, and it sounds as if they’re serious about providing the necessities in these camps.
I hope they’ll have everything you want.
” Andrea had started her period last month, and we’d cut up the faded blue dress, already almost a rag, for supplies.
Imagine the bliss of pads that one could throw away when soiled!
I didn’t mention that, both because of the male presence at the table and because I had no idea if it would happen.
How much were the Americans willing to do for these destitute people?
“And even Jews are allowed to go to school?” Andrea asked.
I wanted to hug her, so fierce was the pity in my heart.
But Andrea had been self-possessed and cautious since the day I’d met her.
The restrictions and persecutions on Jews had started in 1933, the year of her birth, and were all she knew.
We’d shared a bed these past months, but I still couldn’t see into her heart.
“Especially Jews are allowed,” I said. “That’s who the school is for. ”
“And they won’t kill us?” A smaller voice, now. Andrea served customers all morning long, and had heard more than any twelve-year-old should know about the horrors uncovered by the Allies.
“No,” I said, the tears pricking behind my eyelids. “They want to help you.” Now I did squeeze her hand, and she allowed it for an instant before pulling hers away.
Gerhardt said, “I don’t want to go.” The first thing he’d said all morning. “I want to stay here, please, Papa, with Matti.”
“We decided,” Matti said. “Because it’s nicer with two, and you have somebody to play with.”
“You can’t stay,” Dr. Becker said. “We must all go now.” He set his cup aside, stood, and settled his rucksack over his shoulders and his old brown coat over his arm.
Who was there to care now that the outline of the star was visible?
How strange that what had been meant as a badge of shame, ordered to mark him out for mistreatment, might now be his ticket to a better life!
Andrea and I stood, too, but Gerhardt didn’t budge. Gerhardt, who never asked for anything, said, “But I don’t want to go! Please, Papa.”
“There will be other boys to play with there,” Dr. Becker said. “Now come.” He fixed Gerhardt with a stare, and the boy rose reluctantly and hoisted the rucksack onto his back, his chin quivering and the tears beginning to well in his eyes. He looked down, trying to hide them.
Matti said, “I told you we should hide under the bed.” His voice, too, was small and sad.
Gerhardt didn’t say anything, for he was crying. Silently, as a child shouldn’t have to cry. Hopelessly.
There was nothing to say, so Dr. Becker turned and headed for the stairs, but Matti shouted, “Wait!”
“We can’t wait,” Dr. Becker said. “You be a good boy and help your mother. Soon there will be a place to kick your ball with your friends again, and your school will be open, too.”
He said all that to Matti’s back, for the boy had rushed over to the shelf and was rummaging there. He ran back on his skinny legs, his blond cowlick sticking up, and pressed something into Gerhardt’s hand. “It’s your favorite,” he said shyly.
Gerhardt looked, then closed his hand over it. It was a tin soldier on a horse. He sniffed hard and said, “Thanks,” in his broken little-boy voice, and I knew he’d go to sleep tonight clutching that soldier still, for that was the kind of boy Gerhardt was.
Oh, what a hard goodbye.
I’d love to say that we got to Nuremberg and were immediately driven gaily off to Munich, but of course it didn’t happen that way.
First there was a muddle about why we were back in Nuremberg and what we’d been promised.
I had to elbow my way to the front of the queue and speak in my most determined tones to the soldier on guard—it was the huge one again, and he of course knew nothing of the matter, as he’d been relieved yesterday before we’d reached the front of the queue.
Eventually, after Dr. Becker showed his note and I explained and then explained some more, we were told to “Wait over there,” and did, both Dr. Becker and I quivering with nerves as the minutes and then the hours ticked by, sure that the Americans would simply forget and leave us here all day.
How hard to believe by now that anything good would come to us! Especially, of course, for Dr. Becker.
When the day had grown uncomfortably warm again and we’d all but despaired, a truck pulled up near where we sat on a rubble pile.
It had green canvas over the back and soldiers sitting on benches along each side, and two of them helped us aboard most good-naturedly, a big one picking Gerhardt right up off his feet and saying, “Come on up here, kiddo, and sit by me. I’ve got a boy at home about your age. ”
The soldiers squashed up to make room for us, but Dr. Becker made sure that Andrea and I sat at the ends of the benches—he too had heard the stories about the animal nature of the foreigners.
Eventually, though, I was able to translate the soldier’s words for Gerhardt.
Gerhardt asked, “Does his boy have to be very quiet too?”
I translated again, and the soldier—he had the same stripes on his sleeves as Joe had sported, so he must be a sergeant—looked puzzled. I said, “They’re Jews, you see, and have been in hiding.”
The soldier didn’t seem to know what to say to that, but opened his rucksack.
He said, “You’re probably hungry, then. Most Germans seem hungry, and I bet the Jews are worse off,” and began to open a can with an opener attached to the chain that had been around his neck, where his identity discs hung.
The can wasn’t anything like the contents of Joe’s meal box; it was just a can—heavy, surely—painted a drab green.
We watched, practically holding our breath, to see what would be revealed when the lid was off.
“Chopped ham, egg, and potato,” the soldier said, handing the can to Gerhardt along with a flat wooden spoon. “Not quite Mom’s home cooking, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Eat up.”