Chapter 42 Munich #2
Within seconds, other soldiers added their contributions, until we held a can apiece.
Oh, how we ate! The truck rumbled down the road, and the wheels seemed to vibrate straight up through our benches, every bump threatening to send us flying, the noise making conversation impossible and the dust coating our hair and skin, and I cared not a bit.
I sat amid the noise and dust, finished my can of eggs and potatoes along with the biscuits somebody else had offered, and unwrapped a square of dense candy with the taste and consistency of the thicker type of chocolate icing.
What decadence! I ate that chocolate one tiny nibble at a time, making it last for at least half an hour, drank water from a canteen, and felt fortunate beyond belief.
Our reception was so kind, in fact, that when we reached a terribly destroyed Munich—worse than Nuremberg, if that were possible—and nobody seemed to know what to do with us, we were doubly disappointed, and eventually, nearly despairing.
More queueing, more explaining, more shakes of the head, and Dr. Becker holding out his precious note beseechingly as we were sent from one office to another, nobody appearing to know or care where we would get help or even if help was available.
Andrea and Gerhardt got quiet and obedient again, Dr. Becker looked nearly in tears, and I could have wept myself.
At last, I stepped to a desk in the fourth office and asked, making my voice as much like my father’s as possible—quiet, but absolutely firm—“Who’s in charge here?”
“Colonel Hastings,” the sergeant said. “If you mean of the whole outfit.” (See how useful those stripes were? I knew what he was!)
“Well, Sergeant,” I said, as crisply as I could, “please take us to the colonel now. We have a note for him from his counterpart in Nuremberg.”
“I’ll get the captain for you,” the sergeant said.
“No,” I said. “We don’t need to see the captain.
We need to see the colonel, and right now.
We’ve been walking and standing about since five o’clock this morning, and the children are hungry and thirsty and exhausted.
They’ve been hiding from the Nazis for months, ever since being summoned for transport to the extermination camps.
Their father here is a renowned doctor who wishes only safety for his family and freedom to practice his profession.
Instead, he’s been starved and beaten and persecuted.
Don’t you think they deserve some security now?
You must, for your country has been kind enough to open these special places for them.
Displaced Persons camps, isn’t that right?
” My father always said, ask a question that forces them to agree with you.
“Right,” the sergeant said. “But—”
“I realize everybody is very busy,” I said. “I also realize that the Germans were your enemy. That I was your enemy. But the Jews? Are they your enemy? Are you happy with what’s happened to them?”
“Of course not.” The sergeant was a bit flushed now. “None of us are. It’s terrible.”
“I’m very relieved to hear that,” I said. “Then please—help me find a place for these people to go. Please, for humanity’s sake, help me do that.”
He stared at me. “Lady,” he finally said, “you are one heck of a debater.”
“Thank you,” I said demurely. “I get it from my father.”
He grinned. “I bet you do.” And then he went and got the colonel.
Once again, we heard “tomorrow.” The camp was only fifteen miles south of Munich, but there was no transport until the morning, for the day had grown late during our trials.
We were buoyed, however, by being offered beds and dinner in a shelter run by the U.S.
Army—I was allowed in by special dispensation, but told I’d have to leave in the morning and couldn’t go to the camp with the others.
I’d known that already, however, so I wasn’t disturbed.
We washed—how wonderful to wash away the dust and sweat of the day!
—and sat down to dinner with the other residents.
And what a dinner it was! Potatoes, yes, but mashed with cabbage and served with liberal daubs of margarine.
Applesauce, too, and best of all—heaps of tinned salmon!
I ate sparingly, remembering my stomach’s previous distress at being given more meat than it could handle, the children cleaned their plates, and Dr. Becker looked as if he might soon begin to believe that this paradise of a camp actually existed.
The other refugees—all extremely thin, and most of them Jews—talked quietly around us, trading news as the air practically hummed with suppressed excitement at their imminent departure for a better life.
Under cover of the conversation, Dr. Becker said, keeping his voice low, “I asked around and found a woman who will show us where the black market is.”
“Good,” I said. “Excellent. When?”
“After dark. You’re absolutely sure you want to sell it, though?”
“I don’t see how I survive otherwise.”
He sighed. “Yes. Well …”
“Both my parents told me to sell it,” I said. “Besides, it’s really rather ugly. Much too large and garish, don’t you think? No, I can let it go quite happily, if only I get a good price for it.”
It was a long walk through the dark, rubble-strewn streets.
The blackout was over, of course, along with the air-raids, but there were no streetlights—how could they have survived so much bombing?
—and the formerly orderly streets were now a warren of paths that resembled nothing so much as a rabbit’s burrow, with the wreckage piled to either side.
Bricks, stone, wood, plaster, broken glass and twisted metal …
it was all the most tremendous mess. I was unsure of our direction after five minutes and completely lost after ten, reduced to following close on the woman’s heels.
Her name was Frau Schneider, and she was a cheerful sort, the type who would be singing in the lifeboats after the ship went down.
She seemed to know the way well, for she never faltered.
Around one last corner, and a man stepped out of the shadows so suddenly, I jumped. “Yeah?” he asked. Actually, he said, “Ja?” Which is not a German turn of phrase.
“She has something to sell,” the woman said, pointing to me.
The man turned on a tiny penlight. He shone it first in my face, which made me blink and shield my eyes, then on Dr. Becker’s, then back to mine. “What is it?” he asked, again in German—very bad German.
I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but something about his voice made my skin prickle.
It was the atmosphere, probably—like a film.
Shady deals in dark places. I reached into my pocket, loosened the drawstring on the velvet bag, and held out the brooch, which was nearly as large as my palm and encrusted with gems, including one very large emerald.
“Napoleon gave it to Josephine,” I said, “on the occasion of their wedding. The stones are diamonds and emeralds.”
“Yeah, right,” the man said. He was a soldier; I could tell that much. He had only one stripe on his shoulder, though. What did that mean? Surely more stripes were better.
I said, “It’s quite genuine.”
He pulled something out of his pocket and put it to his eye. A jeweler’s loupe; I’d seen them before. He tried to take the brooch from me, but I closed my hand around it and said, “I’ll hold it.”
It was a faceoff, but eventually he shrugged and said, “Fine.” I loosened my hold—cautiously—and he aimed the penlight at the brooch and studied it for long minutes through the loupe.
I said nothing. Surely, the person who said least in this situation would maintain the upper hand. Finally, he straightened and said, “A hundred bucks.”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
“It’s worth many thousands,” I said. “Many, many thousands.”
“It’s not worth that to me,” he said, “and I’m your only buyer.”
I felt sick. Panicked. Then I seemed to hear my father’s voice. When you feel yourself panicking and hurrying, stop and take a breath, then proceed with deliberation. Haste kills. I did as he’d told me, and finally said, “Fine.”
The man reached for the brooch, and I held up my free hand in a “Stop” gesture. “Fine,” I said again, “I’ll take it elsewhere.” And tucked it back into the pouch.
“OK, OK,” he said. “A hundred twenty. Just because I’m a nice guy.”
“No.”
“Lady,” he said, “if you want to sell this, you have one choice. Me.” Still in his terrible German.
Another voice, now. Another man stepping out of the shadows. “What’s going on?” he asked in English. His voice was deep and a little harsh. He sounded worse than the first man.
“This little bitch,” the first man said, “is holding out for more. Thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba. I offered a hundred twenty, and she won’t bite!”
“Let’s see it,” the second man said.
I didn’t move. I certainly wasn’t going to let on that I spoke English. When the first man said, “Show it again,” in German, I went through the process once more, and so did the new man. Penlight, loupe, time ticking by.
He straightened at last and said, “Two hundred.” In English, which the first man translated.
“No,” I said, and moved to put it back in the bag.
I was bitterly disappointed, but I was angry, too, and my anger gave me courage.
Dr. Becker was beside me, but I had no idea where our guide was.
Standing back, probably, not wanting to be involved.
But she’d get a cut. Of course she would.
And why not? She was connecting a buyer to a seller, after all.
“Offer more?” the first man asked the other in English. “Thing’s got to be worth at least a thousand to the right guy, because those stones are the genuine article.”