After the Train (5 page)

I
WALK INTO OUR HOUSE
, but I don’t. The boy who walks in isn’t me. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that the house and everything in it has vanished. The boy who isn’t me looks around at all the familiar things, but they look as if they have come from some story that isn’t real, right out of a book or a movie. In spite of what Father says about not knowing who my mother is or where she might be, I wonder if I shouldn’t be there with her instead of here.

Father says, “Peter, please go upstairs and wash up for supper. I’ll call when it’s time to come down.” The words come out sounding like Father is announcing the end of the world.

Mother has a puzzled expression and, underneath it, fear. “What is it, Bernhard? Why are you speaking in
that tone of voice? Has something happened?”

Father shoots me a sharp look that sends me clambering up the stairway. I don’t belong in my room, for the room belongs to the boy I was. My books, records, magazines, even my clothes have nothing to do with me. In all the familiar, I am a stranger. How can it be that they don’t know where my real mother is? What does it mean for mothers to get lost? What if Mother and Father don’t want to find my mother for fear she will take me away? What I can’t decide is whether
I
want to find my real mother. What if I don’t want to be her son? What if I have to move away from school and all my friends and from St. Mary’s?

It doesn’t seen fair to have to give up something just to have what was mine. Why should I have to choose between two lives, especially between a life that I know and a life I know nothing about? I want to stay right where I am, where everything is familiar. Yet the other life is something that belongs to me as well, something I have coming, something I must have. I know my mother and father love me, but what about the woman who is my
leibliche Mutter
, my birth mother—my
wirkliche Mutter
, my
real
mother? If she’s alive, wouldn’t she want her son with her? What if she needs me to take care of her? Maybe I can be with Mother and Father half the year and with her the other half—but then with two
lives, I would be two boys. Wouldn’t that be confusing? And if I turned out to be Jewish, what would that second life be like? And worst of all, Father has said he didn’t know who my mother was. How is that possible? Where have I come from?

On my desk are my notes from Herr Schmidt’s class. I remember how bored I was in that class and how I resented hearing about the fate of the Jews. That might have been my fate. I hear Mother, her voice always so low and calm, give a shrill cry. I head for the stairs and stop when I hear Mother say, “We agreed to silence on the matter.”

Father says, “He has half guessed, Emma. He has a right to know.”

“What is the good of bringing up the tragedy of that poor woman now? War is full of tragedies, but we can’t go back and undo them all. We have to get on with our lives.”

Father says something I can’t hear. He’s calling to me. Step by step I drag myself down the stairs, worried about what Mother will have to say to me. Will she be angry about my reading the letters? When I get downstairs, I see she is wiping away tears and I feel awful, as if all this is my fault.

“Peter,” she says, “your father tells me you recognized the woman in the photo you saw, that she was the
same woman who was in your nightmares, but that’s impossible. You were only a toddler. Can’t you put all that out of your head? It is only a nightmare.”

“I have to know where my—my real mother is,” I say. Immediately I am sorry, for who is more my real mother than the one who stands before me?

“
Real
mother? How can you ask such a question? I am your real mother. I have cared for you all these years. Who could love you more than I do?”

“We had better tell Peter everything,” Father says. He takes a deep breath as though he is ready to run a long race, and then he plunges in, talking rapidly, getting it over with like a quick swallow of medicine. “When your mother and I were married, there was no thought of war. We only wanted to settle down and have a family. The bad days of the Depression were over. New buildings were going up in Germany. As an architect I was getting work. We had a pleasant home in Ulm with a bedroom for the child we hoped to have, but no child came along. We worried that we might never have a baby. Then the war came. I was drafted into the army as an architect; your mother and I were separated.” He looks at Mother.

“I hated the war,” Mother says, “but it was impossible to escape it. I gave up my teaching position and joined the Red Cross, where I thought at least I could
do something to help those who were suffering. We met trainloads of wounded soldiers and tried to comfort them while they were awaiting medical care. It was heartbreaking, Peter. The trains and the wounded never stopped coming, the soldiers getting younger and the number of wounded increasing. Some of the returning soldiers told us stories of German losses that were never reported in the German papers.”

I see Mother clench her hands. I feel terrible for her, but I must know. “Other trains came through the station while we were tending the soldiers. Those trains were boarded shut. They were like the trains that ship animals to a slaughterhouse. Sometimes we could hear pounding on the doors or the voices of people inside shouting. There were many guards with dogs around those trains, and at first we thought the cars were transporting Allied soldiers to prisoner-of-war camps. The German Red Cross distributed food packages sent from overseas to such soldiers, so I knew of those prisons.

“Rumors began to circulate about the sealed trains. The official story was that there were young men on the trains who were on their way to a work camp, but it was whispered that the trains held Jews forced to go to a concentration camp at Dachau. At first I refused to believe such stories; still, the pleadings and the screams from the trains haunted my dreams.

“There was no knowing when the trains with wounded soldiers would arrive in the station. The Allies had bombed the tracks all over Germany, and trains were often delayed, sometimes getting in late at night, so our Red Cross teams had to work around the clock. One night several trucks arrived at the station, pulling up just a few feet from me. Immediately soldiers with their guard dogs surrounded the trucks. When the doors were opened, hundreds of elderly people and women with little children spilled out and were herded by the soldiers toward a train that stood nearby. I saw at once the yellow stars sewn on the prisoners’ clothes and knew they were Jews. We had heard rumors, but we didn’t want to believe. Now the proof was right in front of me. There was a lot of confusion. The children were crying and some of them tried to run away. Peter, I wept. What had my country come to?”

As Mother talks, I think of Herr Schafer’s parents. They would have been sent to their deaths on such trucks.

Mother sees the look on my face. “I am almost finished now, Peter. At that moment the attention of the soldiers was diverted to a truck where men were making an attempt to break loose. Some of the soldiers headed in that direction, leaving fewer to guard the truck near me. The prisoners passed by me in the dark, so close I
could have reached out to touch them. When a woman holding a toddler in her arms bumped into me, I felt the warmth of the child against my chest and instinctively reached out my arms. ‘Take him,’ the woman begged. ‘For the love of God, save him.’” Mother takes my hands in hers and holds them tightly. “Peter, how could I not do as she asked?

“There was only a second before the rest of the soldiers would return with their dogs and their guns. I was alone. The other Red Cross women were busy elsewhere. The remaining soldiers were occupied herding the people onto the train. No one was watching us. I tell you, Peter, to this day I don’t know why I took you. Had I been caught, it would have meant prison or worse. I don’t know whether it was my pity for your mother or my own wish to hold a child in my arms, or both. God will have to judge me, but I saved your life and that is what your mother wanted. You must never forget her sacrifice. To give you up must have been worse than death for her.

“I had a basket of sheets and bandages to use with the wounded soldiers. That is where I hid you, just as his mother hid baby Moses in a basket in the bulrushes.”

I know the story from Sunday school. The pharaoh of Egypt ordered all the sons of the Jews killed. When a son was born to one Jewish woman, she took him and
hid him by a river. The baby was found by the pharaoh’s daughter, who saved the baby. The baby became Moses, who led the Jewish people out of Egypt to the promised land. I can’t take in Mother’s story, but one thing I understand. I say, “I’m Jewish.”

“Peter,” Mother said, “you are our son. That is the important thing.”

“Father?” I look straight at him.

“Since your mother was surely Jewish, then you are Jewish, but the faith that you choose to follow will be up to you.”

“What do you mean, Bernhard?” Mother asks. “Peter has been confirmed at St. Mary’s. Surely he is a Christian.”

There is only one question I want answered. “Where is my mother?”

Father shakes his head. “We have looked everywhere for her, Peter. Those trains went on to Dachau. We believe she was killed.”

“But where did you get the picture?”

Mother says, “The picture was tucked into your jacket. We showed the picture to as many survivors as we could reach. No one could identify her.”

“How do I know you really tried to find her? You say you always wanted a baby. What if you were afraid she would take me away from you?”

Mother begins to cry again. “Peter, how could you think such a thing? Do you believe we are so cold-hearted? It would kill me to give you up, but I would rather die than keep you from your mother.”

Father says, “Peter, locked in my desk is a folder full of letters we sent. I will show them to you. Believe me, we tried. Did we hope she was alive? Of course. In our hearts she had become like a daughter to us. Did we want to keep you? Yes. But did we know you belonged with her? Yes, again. We only hoped that if we found her, she would allow us some part in your life.”

Mother says, “All this is a shock for you, Peter. You must understand we did all we could. We have to put this behind us and get on with our lives.” She stands up and, straightening out her apron, tries a smile, which doesn’t work. She gives me a hug that nearly smothers me, and as she always does, she brushes back the hair that falls over my forehead. “Come—dinner is almost ready,” she says. “I have made your favorite—spareribs and sauerkraut.”

“If I’m Jewish, maybe I shouldn’t eat pork.”

Mother throws up her hands. “Peter, what are you saying? You are our son. That is all you need to know.” She throws her arms around me, but I squeeze out of them.

It’s too much for me. I run out of the house, slamming
the door behind me. I feel pulled apart, as if someone has one arm and someone else the other and they are both tugging at me. After the shock of hearing who I am—or really, who I am not—it dawns on me that only a miracle has kept me alive. If my mother hadn’t given me up and my other mother hadn’t taken me, I would have been killed like millions of other Jews. What Herr Schmidt taught in his class not only happened, but it happened to me! When I sat in his class bored and wishing I were somewhere else, somewhere I wouldn’t have to listen to such terrible stories, how could I know I was listening to my own story?

All the while I walk, I ask myself questions. What does it mean that I was saved and millions of other Jews died? Was it just chance that the soldiers had their attention turned for a minute so that my birth mother could hold me out and my mother stretch out her arms for me? I can’t get over the idea that maybe it is more than chance. Doesn’t the Bible say a sparrow can’t fall to the ground without God knowing it? So why did he save me and why did so many die? I have never thought about it like that. I had never asked questions; but now it is about me, and I have a lot of questions.

I
THINK ABOUT THE BOY
who wrote the letter to the Stauffenbergs. For a moment I wonder about how much of a hero Stauffenberg really was. When my own mother and the rest of the Jews were being rounded up, Stauffenberg was fighting to help Hitler win. Probably he wanted Germany to win. But he was German, so why wouldn’t he? I don’t feel the same about him now.

For the first time I think of my mother and father and how what they did was brave too. Herr Schmidt told us that it meant death for anyone to hide a Jew. My parents risked their lives just as Stauffenberg did. So weren’t my parents heroes? That seems impossible—my father, with his glasses slipping down on his nose and his hair mussed from his habit of running his fingers
through it when he’s thinking; and Mother, with the carpet slippers she wears when her feet hurt from being on them all day at school, and the way she worries over whether her spätzle will be light enough and not too heavy with flour. Somehow I thought all heroes would be soldiers in the middle of a war. I never thought they could be just everyday people.

Then I think of my birth mother giving me up to save my life. She guessed what was going to happen to her. I imagine her holding on to me when I was little. How she would be careful not to let me wander away even for a minute, and yet she had the courage to put me into the arms of a stranger, knowing she would never see me again.

I can’t find a way to keep all thoughts from jumbling up in my head. Over and over again I think of that night at the railway station. I see my birth mother dragged out of her home. Who was she? Did she lose herself in books the way I do? Did she make strudel like my mother? And who was my father? What did he do and what might I have done if I had followed in his footsteps? There is another whole life out there for me, like a shadow walking side by side with me. When I reach out for it, it disappears.

I have to talk with someone. I consider going to
Kurt’s house or Hans’s, but what will they think of me when they find out I’m Jewish? Will it make a difference? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone, but I don’t see how I can’t talk about it; it’s all I can think of. Without considering where I am going, I walk in the direction of St. Mary’s. When I am a little way off, I look up at the two steeples that once again soar over the houses and watch over the town. I am proud of my part in the rebuilding of the church. Will that change? Maybe now that I know I am Jewish, I shouldn’t have anything to do with St. Mary’s, but I don’t want to turn my back on the church. Herr Schafer is Jewish and he is proud of his work rebuilding St. Mary’s.

As soon as I think of Herr Schafer, I know I must see him. He can explain to me all about being Jewish. He has told me where he lives, and I head there through a part of town that is new to me, so unfamiliar that it seems I am in another city altogether. He is renting two rooms in an old house in a street of ancient crumbling houses. Without considering what he might think of my suddenly appearing on his doorstep, I push the bell.

An elderly woman who looks like the witch in “Hansel and Gretel” lets me in. “Herr Schafer?” she asks. “The third floor. He’s at home. I saw him only an hour ago
mounting the stairs with a bag that I am sure held his dinner. I couldn’t swear to it, but I believe I smelled pot roast. If you hurry up the stairway, you might find a bite or two left over for you.” When she smiles, she no longer looks like a witch but only like a nice old woman you wouldn’t mind having for a grandmother, one who is sure to bake you cookies.

I take the stairs two at a time, but when I reach Herr Schafer’s door and raise my hand to knock, my hand won’t move. I am just about to turn around and escape down the stairs when he opens the door.

“I thought I heard someone on the stairway,” he says. “Come in, Peter. You’re very welcome, but what brings you here? Is there a problem at St. Mary’s?”

Herr Schafer leads me inside and motions me to sit down in a big chair. A blanket has been thrown over the chair. Where the blanket is pushed aside, I see holes in the upholstery with stuffing leaking out. The walls of the room are bare, but there are books crammed into a bookcase made from planks of wood and bricks and a small table and two chairs, one of which Herr Schafer now pulls out to sit on. I notice that he is wearing a sort of round circle of cloth on his head. On the table are the leftovers from his dinner. The landlady was right. It’s pot roast.

Herr Schafer sees me staring at his plate. “Can I get you something to eat?”

I shake my head. The place in my stomach where my food usually goes is all closed up. I couldn’t swallow a crumb. I can’t wait another second to tell what has happened. I have so many thoughts in my head, I have to shake some of them out or I’ll explode. What has happened this evening comes tumbling out. “So, I’m Jewish just like you, Herr Schafer. You have to tell me how to act.”

His eyebrows go up. “How to act?”

“I wasn’t brought up that way, so I don’t know how to be Jewish.” I look down at his plate. “Don’t Jewish people have special food?”

“Peter, slow down. You’ve had a shock tonight. Let’s take one thing at a time. Being Jewish has nothing to do with how you have been brought up.”

Then he says just what Father said: “Your mother was surely Jewish; therefore Jews would consider you Jewish. If you choose to continue in the Christian faith, that is up to you. At any rate there is no blame over what you eat. There are many Jews who don’t keep the dietary laws. I myself don’t. There are as many ways of being a Jew as there are ways of being a Christian, and as many in my faith as in yours who are eager to
criticize the choices you make.

“Judaism is a religion, a heritage, and a culture. For you, Peter, it is a heritage, certainly; it is not yet and may never be a religion; and as to a culture, an awareness, and a taking part in things Jewish, we will have to see. I must warn you things are not easy for a Jew even in today’s Germany. Anti-Semitism is still strong in Germany. Chancellor Adenauer, the head of our Federal Republic of Germany, has chosen for his right-hand man a former Nazi official, one who took part in what happened to us Jews. Last year Adenauer went to Russia to demand that Nazi war criminals be released. The people of Berlin cheered Adenauer when he brought the criminals home.

“But Peter, if there are problems in being Jewish, there is also the honor of being one of those chosen by God for great things. Looking over your shoulder are the millions who came before you who have made something very fine from their Jewish heritage.”

I can hardly take in his solemn words. None of that seems to have anything to do with me. What about me? All I care about is what I have learned about myself. “Herr Schafer, do you think my parents did all they could to find my real mother?”

“I know your father is a man to trust. If he told you
he tried to find your mother, then he tried. Even though you may never know her, the love that it took for your birth mother to give you up into the arms of a stranger should mean a great deal to you. When you are older and have a child of your own, it will mean even more. And Peter, consider the risk your mother took in taking you. She risked her life. Your parents were harboring a Jew when that was an offense that could have gotten them both a death sentence. Our Talmud says, ‘When someone saves a life, it is as if that person had saved the whole world.’”

Of course that explains Father saying that he was proud of the chance he had once taken. I am that chance. “But what should I do now?” I ask.

“I think you need to talk with your parents about that and look into your heart, but surely you should learn something of your background.” He notices me staring at his skullcap. He reaches into a drawer and brings out another black skullcap, which he hands to me. “It’s an extra I have. It’s a
kippah
, Peter, which you can keep. The kippah is worn to cover the head.
Kippah
means ‘dome’ in Hebrew. Sometimes it’s called a yarmulke. Jews are aware that the Divine Presence is over us and we are in awe of that closeness. The Talmud says, ‘Cover your head in order that the fear of heaven
may be upon you.’ It is worn especially when we are in a holy place like the synagogue, or we are praying or studying the Torah. I was wearing the kippah because I was eating and we consider our dining table as an altar before God. I do it in honor of my grandfather, whom I loved and who was an observant Jew and followed all the Orthodox rules. I myself am not an Orthodox Jew. So you see, Peter, there are many different ways to be Jewish, and sometimes it takes a lifetime to discover the one that is best for you.”

In all the strangeness I try to find something familiar. “You and I believe in the same God, don’t we, Herr Schafer?”

“Yes, yes, we worship the same God and we both have Abraham as the father of our faiths. The first five books of the Bible—Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy—are our Torah. We share the other books of the Old Testament as well, but many Jews believe the Torah has something extra. They believe that God had a long talk with Moses. He told Moses how to interpret his laws, everything from rules for marriage to rules for the care of animals. So they didn’t have to guess how to behave in a certain situation—everything was covered. What a long talk they must have had, Peter, and what a memory Moses had to recall all that God
revealed! When years later that conversation between God and Moses was finally set down in writing, it was called the Torah.

“Perhaps most important to you, Peter, Christians have their Jesus, while we are still waiting for our Messiah. But let us concentrate on what we have in common. I am a great lover of our German poets, but for me there is no poetry more beautiful than the Psalms. Christian and Jew alike share every one of those beautiful words. So you see there are many ways in which you and I are the same. And Peter, I know how much you love St. Mary’s. You can love St. Mary’s without being a Christian—I do.

“Now, Peter, that is enough for this evening. Your parents will wonder where you are. You must do nothing to make them unhappy. Remember, there is no need for a hasty decision. You are not an adult yet. Take your time, but let me help you to know something of your heritage.”

I stuff my kippah into my pocket and go out into the street. Everything looks different to me. I know the trees are not Christian trees or Jewish trees and the buildings themselves are not Christian houses or Jewish houses, but things appear to take sides. The people who have planted the trees, the people in the houses
are either Christian or Jewish, but Herr Schafer says to think of what we have in common.

A mutt runs along the sidewalk. He has the muzzle and coloring of a German shepherd, but he is small and his coat is long and shaggy like a collie’s. Can your religion be a mix? Like the dog is? Probably not. There are no skullcaps at St. Mary’s, and I guess they have no crosses in Herr Schafer’s synagogue.

I walk alongside some rosebushes, and the smell of the blossoms is sweet. I think God had a great idea when he made roses; surely he didn’t make them just for Christians or for Jews.

A dark-haired woman hurries out of one of the houses and quickly gets into a car that has pulled up. I only have a glimpse of her face. She is about the same age as my birth mother was in the picture, but of course my mother would be older now. Will I stare at every woman I see, wondering if she is my mother? Would I be disloyal to her to stay a Christian? If I become Jewish, what about Jesus? Can I abandon him? But wasn’t he Jewish? My head is spinning.

Mother and Father are at the window watching for me. For a minute I think about making up some story about seeing Hans, but I am a poor liar. Besides, I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk with Herr Schafer. There are
things he can tell me that they can’t, things I have to know.

Father says, “Peter, let us handle this difficult situation in a mature manner. Nothing good can come from storming off. It is a time for calm and reason, not dramatics.”

“Come and sit down, Peter,” Mother says. “I’ve saved dinner for you.”

I’m tired of my worries, and besides, I’m hungry. I sit down at the table, and tugging it out of my pocket, I put the skullcap on my head. “The table is an altar before God,” I announce.

Mother looks as if I have struck her. Father is silent for a long enough time to make me really worried. Finally he says, “You’ve been to see Herr Schafer. I’m not surprised, but you need to listen a bit before you act. You must give yourself time. These matters have been discussed and argued for a thousand years and more. You want to make a decision at a snap of the fingers. You are too young to make such a decision.”

“Herr Schafer said the same thing,” I tell them, “but he says I should know something of my heritage.”

Mother says, “Your heritage, Peter, is our heritage. You are our son. What could be more simple?”

Father puts his hand on Mother’s arm. “We must be fair to the woman who gave Peter to us. We must think
what she would have wanted.”

“Surely she would have wanted Peter’s happiness,” Mother says. “Hasn’t he been happy all these years? It’s the bringing up of all these things that has made him unhappy.”

We are all worn out. It’s like rowing in the river against the current until you think you can’t lift the oars one more time. We are all tired of the arguing and only want to go back to where we were before all this happened, but we don’t know how. I don’t know what else to do, so I pick up my fork and begin to eat. When I ask for a second helping, Mother smiles as she fills my plate and tells me to save room for the
Apfelstrudel
she has made for dessert.

I remember all the times I watched, fascinated, as Mother rolled out the pastry again and again until it covered the whole kitchen table and was so thin you could read through it. The sweet, crispy pastry melts in my mouth. Somehow the taste of the familiar dessert cheers and calms me.

After dinner Father leads me into the corner of the living room he uses as a study. When I was little, I liked to sit on the floor near the desk and spread out his big rolls of blueprint. I would study the plans and try to figure out what part of the church they pictured. I knew St. Mary’s inside and out. It seemed a kind a miracle to
me that you could go from the small drawings on the blueprints to the great church itself.