After the Train (6 page)

Father says, “It’s strange, isn’t it, that you should be getting lessons in your Jewish heritage from a friend you made at a Christian church.”

“Herr Schafer is proud of what he does,” I say. “I don’t think he minds that it is a church.”

“Did you know that on Sundays he works to repair a building he and some of his friends are using as a synagogue?”

“How do you know that?”

“Herr Schafer asked my advice on the plans.” Father takes out a small roll of blueprint and spreads it out facing me on his desk. It shows a brick house only one story high. “Though there are only a dozen Jews in Rolfen, they are anxious to have a permanent home for their synagogue. At the moment they meet in one another’s houses. So you see, Peter, while Herr Schafer is dedicated to his own place of worship, he is perfectly happy to help us with ours. The two faiths can live side by side, each helping the other without giving up its own beliefs. By all means learn what you wish from Herr Schafer, but you already have your faith.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about my birth mother a long time ago?”

“I wanted to tell you the whole story, Peter, but your
mother was against it. She felt it would only upset and confuse you.”

Maybe she was right, for I am upset and I am confused. “Wouldn’t it have been better for me to know right from the beginning so I could get used to it from the time I was little?” I have another thought. “You moved away from Ulm,” I point out. “Isn’t that where my birth mother would have come to look for me?”

“The Jews in Bavaria were among the first victims of the Nazis. Even after the war there were still anti-Semitic groups near where we were living. It turned my stomach. I could not look at you, Peter, and put up with such poison. I couldn’t bring you up in such an atmosphere.”

Father takes out a pile of letters and files from his desk and hands them to me. “We tried everywhere to find your mother. The government has a bureau that helps in such things, and there are Jewish organizations also. All we know is that train was on the way to the Dachau concentration camp.”

The answers to Father’s inquiries used different words, but they all amounted to the same thing:
We regret we have no record that such a person existed.

I want to shout at them that there is a proof that such a person existed, and it’s me.

I
CAN’T TAKE IT
all in. It’s like being served a huge pie. You know you can’t eat it all, so you want someone else to share it with. The next day is Saturday and I head for the marketplace in front of the
Rathaus
, the town hall. I’m looking for Hans and Kurt. After our little problem in Travemünde we decided to stay away from there, and instead we settle for hanging around the marketplace. Farmers have come from the countryside bringing baskets of eggs, raspberries, gooseberries, lettuces, cucumbers, tomatoes, and carrots. Cages hold squawking chickens and geese. All the food is expensive, but because of the food shortages it disappears almost at once. There are stalls where people sell their handiwork: cleverly carved wooden wolves and bears,
marzipan candy, and handmade sweaters and rugs. There are East German refugees presiding over tables spread with the few belongings they were able to bring when they escaped, a sad display of bits of jewelry and quilts or a shabby overcoat they need to sell to buy food. I worry about what will keep them warm when winter comes.

I find Hans and Kurt, and the three of us hurry to the stall where they sell used books. We pool our money and buy a copy of a Western by Karl May,
Winnetou, the Apache Knight.
Karl May has written all these great books about the American West, and the amazing thing is he’s never been there! You have to wonder how he can make it all seem real. Next we head for a stall where we get freshly baked sweet rolls. Frau Lantz greets us. “Well, gentlemen, what will it be this morning for your refined taste,
Nusskuchen
or perhaps a
Buchtel
?” Greedily we each select a
Buchtel
, with its pocket filled with jam, and go off to the steps of the
Rathaus
with our treats.

In as serious a voice as I can manage I say, “I’ve got something to tell you.” They pay me no attention. Hans is busy stuffing his mouth with his
Buchtel
, the jam oozing out in a disgusting way. Kurt is counting his money to be sure he has been given the right change.

“I’m Jewish,” I say.

They barely look at me. “Sure, and I’m Napoleon,” Hans says.

“No, really. I mean it. I just found out.”

“You can’t be,” Kurt says. “Your parents aren’t. I see them in church every Sunday.”

“But they aren’t my parents.”

Kurt gives me a disgusted look. “Sure, your parents are the king and queen of England.”

Furious at not being taken seriously I blurt out the whole story, starting with the letters and ending with my discussion with Herr Schafer. At last I have their attention. Hans and Kurt are staring at me.

“You shouldn’t go around blabbing about it,” Kurt says.

“What do you mean blabbing? Apart from Herr Schafer, I only told you and Hans. Anyhow, why shouldn’t I talk about it? It’s the truth.”

“Maybe it’s the truth,” Kurt said, “but you don’t want people to know.”

“Why not?”

“It could get you in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Kurt looks embarrassed. “Well, I never mention that we come from East Germany, because there are a lot of
people here who resent us, but they would never kill us. Think what they did to the Jews.”

I feel a little scared. “That was under the Nazis.”

Hans says, “Remember what Herr Schmidt says: There are still Nazis around.”

I remember the couple at Travemünde and turn on Hans and Kurt. Angrily I say, “If you two would rather not be seen with me, just say so.”

“Have you gone crazy?” Kurt exclaims. “That’s not what we’re saying. We’re just saying that there are people around who still believe that awful stuff about Jews, so you ought to think twice about talking about it.”

“Personally,” Hans said, “I think it’s kind of neat. Jews are sort of exotic. I mean, there’s this Jewish man who lives near us and he has a long beard. He looks like something right out of the Bible, like God or something.”

“Well, Herr Schafer looks perfectly normal. You’d never know he was Jewish.” As soon as I say that, I wonder what’s wrong with looking Jewish and if I look Jewish. So I ask.

Hans and Kurt study me for a long time, making me feel really embarrassed. Finally Hans announces, “You look pretty much like you looked before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, normal.”

“Well, then, if that’s how I look, that’s how Jews look. So it shouldn’t make a difference.”

Kurt says, “It’ll still make a difference.”

Hans suggests, “Why don’t you try it out?”

“Try what out?”

“Your being Jewish.”

“How am I supposed to try it out?”

Kurt says, “I’ll pick a place. You and your father belong to the rowing club, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, they don’t let just anyone join. They wouldn’t let my father join because he’s from East Germany and not from Rolfen. See if they let you be a member when they know you’re Jewish.”

“What am I supposed to do, march up to the boathouse and tell them I’m Jewish? Come on with me and I’ll show you you’re wrong.” I want to believe what I say, but deep down I’m unsure. I remember a discussion our coach had with one of the sponsors of our rowing club about admitting a boy. “I don’t know anything about his parents,” the coach said. “You had better check on them.” Now I wonder what he meant.

As usual the clubhouse is a mess of used towels, piled-up street shoes, and clothes. Our coach gives me
an impatient look. “What do you want, Peter? Your team isn’t scheduled until this afternoon, and you had better be in good form. You were lazy out there last week. Or did you come to meet your father? His team won’t be back for another hour.”

I remember how Herr Schafer always leaves work a little early on Fridays. Once he told me the Jewish sabbath is from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. I say, “I was going to ask if I could change the day I race.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been racing with that team all summer.”

I feel Hans prod me. “Well, it’s our sabbath until sundown, and I just think it would be better for me to do it another day, maybe after work some night.”

“What do you mean, sabbath? What’s gotten into you? Sunday is the day for church.”

Suddenly I lose my nerve. “Yeah,” I say, and walk away.

Hans and Kurt hurry after me. “Why didn’t you tell him?” Hans asks.

“I’m not sure what my father would think,” I say. “I should talk with him first.”

“You were scared,” Hans says.

“I wasn’t and it’s none of your business anyhow.”

Kurt snaps, “So why did you tell us?”

“If you are going to make so much of it, I wish I hadn’t.”

After that we make our way in silence to Kurt’s apartment. His father is working all day at the market, and Kurt’s mother is out doing her weekly shopping, so we have the apartment to ourselves. We take turns reading aloud from
Winnetou.
The book is all about Jack Hildreth, a young American from out east who has gone west to survey a railroad. He learns to shoot and use the lasso and track buffalo and grizzly bears and is given the name Old Shatterhand. We stuff ourselves with
Schmierwurst
, a delicious sausage that Kurt’s father brings home from the market. Afterward, our heads full of the book, we head for an overgrown part of the park that stands in for the Wild West. I am Old Shatterhand; Hans is Winnetou, an Apache chief’s son; and Kurt is Kleki-Petrah, a German who has gone to the United States to become an Apache. We sneak behind trees and around bushes looking for Rattler and his gang, the enemy.

We toss around a lot of threats from the book. “My knife shall drink his blood!” I yell. Hans says, “This coyote pig dares insult me; my blade shall eat his bowels!” We hide in the bushes and capture one another. Finally we tie Hans/Winnetou to a tree, and then, crawling on our hands and knees, Kurt and I rescue him. People
stare at us, but we don’t care. We just give one of our bloodcurdling cries.

At the end of the book Shatterhand is adopted into the Apache tribe. He and Winnetou mingle a drop of blood each in a cup of Rio Pecos water and drink it. The chief says, “The souls of these two young men shall mingle until there is but one soul in them.” I think how great it would be if being Jewish were as easy as being adopted into the Apache tribe.

All weekend my lack of courage at the rowing club gnaws at me, and on Monday while Herr Schafer and I are having lunch, I confess to him what happened.

“Peter, there’s no need to go around informing people you’re Jewish. Did you go around announcing you were a Christian? Why confront people? As long as you know what you are, that’s what’s important.”

“But I don’t know.”

“Being Jewish is not a game like checkers with a set of rules. Any Jew, or any Christian for that matter, will tell you we find out a little more about ourselves every day. What we were yesterday we are not today and will not be tomorrow. Don’t be in such a hurry, Peter. Let each day teach you something, even if it comes from a mistake. Sometimes mistakes are the biggest lessons of all. How would you like to lay a course of bricks
yourself? We have left the entrance to the courtyard for last so that the large trucks could go through without damaging the bricks. Now we’ll finish the job.”

For weeks I have been waiting for this chance. I long to be able to be a part of rebuilding St. Mary’s. I want to walk casually by the church and say to someone, “Oh, by the way, you see that row of bricks? Well, that’s my handiwork.” I will show it to my children and they will show it to their children. I can barely hold the trowel. I am sure I will make a mess of it.

“Take your time, Peter. Remember, the bricks you lay will support all the rows that come after. While you are doing my work for me, I’ll just mix a new batch of mortar.”

I know Herr Schafer is leaving me on my own so I won’t be nervous about having him look over my shoulder, but what if I make a mistake and he isn’t there to get me out of trouble? He has told me a thousand times that a building is only as strong as its foundation. I throw a mortar line along the last course of bricks, putting on enough to hold the bricks but not so much that the mortar will get all over the other bricks when I smooth it off. I think of my mother frosting cakes. Mother once said to me, “You have to have enough icing, Peter, so that when you spread it the cake crumbs don’t show
through.” When we go to church on Sunday, I’ll show Mother what I have done. I think how pleased she will be. I lay the bricks, tapping them in lightly and then scraping away the excess mortar.

Soon Herr Schafer is back examining my work. I hold my breath. “Excellent, Peter,” he says. “We’ll make a mason out of you yet. Now, since it’s Friday, I’m off a little early as usual.”

“What do you do on your sabbath?”

“On Sabbath, or what we call Shabbat, I have a special Shabbat dinner with friends of mine.”

“How do you mean, special?”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll speak to my friends and get them to invite you to have dinner with us next week. First I want to ask your father’s permission.”

H
ERR
S
CHAFER DOESN’T FORGET
the invitation. Later that week I hear Mother and Father having a long whispered conversation in the kitchen, after which Mother, looking very upset, and Father, looking sheepish, summon me. Father says, “Peter, Herr Schafer has kindly invited you to a Shabbat dinner with him Friday evening, and we’ve agreed that you may go.”

“You’ll be on your best behavior, Peter,” Mother says. “It’s very kind of Herr Schafer’s friends to include you.”

Mother’s words surprise me. Somehow I expected that she would have forbidden me to go, but what she says next surprises me even more.

“I’ve been thinking this last week, Peter, of your
mother. I’m becoming accustomed to calling her your mother, for that’s what she surely is. She and I are together in that. It would not be fair to her to let you grow up ignorant of the faith of your grandparents and great-grandparents and who knows how many generations before them. Only remember, Peter, you’re our son as well, for we’ve been your parents every minute and every hour all these years. I’ll not say that we love you more than your mother, but I’ll not say we love you less.”

Mother’s words stay with me as I wait for Herr Schafer to take me to the Shabbat dinner. I have no idea what to expect—something different, I’m sure. Will the food be strange and will I be able to eat it? I think of the Jewish people roaming around in the desert eating that weird manna God sent them that tasted like wafers made with honey, so something like that would be all right. When he comes for me, Herr Schafer wears a dark suit and felt hat. I hardly recognize him out of his overalls and cap. He looks to me more like the professor he once was. Father greets him formally, shaking his hand and introducing him to Mother, who also shakes his hand. When all the hand shaking is finished, Herr Schafer says, “It is very kind of you to allow Peter to share in our Shabbat dinner.”

Mother mumbles something, and Father says, “Peter has been looking forward to the evening.”

Looking forward
is not quite the proper phrase;
worried
or even
terrified
would be closer to the truth. I meekly follow Herr Schafer, glad Mother has had me wear my good church suit. We walk down the Mengstrasse with its fine homes and, turning a corner, arrive in a neighborhood of small houses crowded together as if they were hanging on to one another for company. Herr Schafer leads me to one of the smallest. The door is opened by a man and woman even before we push the bell, and standing next to them is Ruth Kassel. I can’t help blushing, remembering how she caught me staring at her in Herr Schmidt’s class.

“Please meet Herr and Frau Kassel, Peter, and their daughter, Ruth. Lisa, Leon, Ruth, this is my young friend, Peter.”

Immediately the Kassels have their arms around me, welcoming me and drawing me into their home while Ruth stands there, grinning at my surprise. All this time, seeing her in school every day, I had no idea she was Jewish. Herr Kassel says, “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Peter. Herr Schafer has said such interesting things about you. Come in, come in.”

I’m amazed that someone has interesting things
to say about me and wonder what they can be. The Kassels shepherd me into a small sitting room as if I were some long-lost son they’ve been waiting for. The room is small, but the furnishings are large, as if a regular-size sofa and chairs have been wedged into a dollhouse. I squeeze myself between a table and the sofa and settle onto a chair. Herr Kassel has an intense, worried look, as if someone has given him an impossible problem to solve and only five minutes to do it. Frau Kassel is more easygoing and not at all flustered to have a strange boy turn up in her home. She pats a cushion on the sofa, a friendly invitation to me to sit next to her. Ruth sits across from us. Instead of the skirt and blouse she wears at school, she has on a dress made of silk, and her long hair, still damp on the ends, is neatly brushed back.

Frau Kassel smiles at me. “Ruth tells me you are in her class and that you are a good student and very polite.”

“Mother,” Ruth says, “I didn’t say ‘polite.’”

The mother gives me a little pat. “Well, we can see that for ourselves.”

Herr Kassel says, “Mama has prepared a fine Shabbat dinner for you, Peter. Herr Schafer tells me this will be your first.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I didn’t know about my being
Jewish until a little while ago.”

Herr Kassel peers at me through his wire-framed glasses. “That must have come as a surprise to you, Peter.”

“Yes, sir. At first I couldn’t take it all in, but now I sort of feel like I got a Christmas present I didn’t expect.”

At that Ruth giggles.

“Yes, yes,” Herr Kassel says. “A Christmas present, eh?”

I blush. Of course the Kassels wouldn’t be giving one another Christmas presents. How stupid can I be? “I should have said birthday present.”

Frau Kassel says, “A present is a pleasant thing, never mind when you receive it. Now, dinner is ready.”

We move into a dining room only large enough for a table and five chairs. Frau Kassel lights some candles and Herr Kassel pours out some grape juice into little glasses that he passes around. Then Ruth says something in a language I can’t understand but I guess is a kind of grace. Ruth recites it just as she does the poetry we are assigned to memorize in school, every word very clear, letting you know she has done her lesson. Then Ruth and the Kassels drink their grape juice, so I drink mine too. Herr Kassel lifts two loaves of bread high and says something else in what sounds like the
same language, then sprinkles the bread with salt and gives us each a piece to eat.

There is no manna. Frau Kassel has cooked a tasty dinner of chicken, potato pancakes, and an A
pfelkuchen
.

Ruth sits next to me, and while the Kassels and Herr Schafer are talking about the building of their synagogue, she says, “It must be strange not knowing who your mother is.”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about her a lot. I keep hoping she didn’t die, and I look at women in the street thinking I might just bump into her.” This is the first time I have admitted that to anyone, but Ruth has been looking at me with her large brown eyes and I feel I could tell her anything.

“My grandparents disappeared,” Ruth says. “I keep hoping that one day they’ll just walk into our house like you did tonight and surprise us. My parents got out just in time—otherwise they would have ended up in a concentration camp like my grandparents did.”

“I didn’t know you were Jewish,” I say.

“I didn’t know you were either,” she says, and gives me one of her grins. I imagine what it will be like to return to school in the fall with Ruth and if we’ll give each other knowing looks like we share a secret.

When dinner is over, Ruth takes me to her room,
which is a tiny cubbyhole just large enough for a bed and dresser. On the walls are Ruth’s paintings. I have seen Ruth’s work in art class. Like most of the girls, she paints pictures of gardens with flowers and the seashore with the sun shining on the water and sailboats riding on the waves, so I am shocked at what I see here. The paintings are of rabbits or squirrels or puppies running around in the grass under some trees, and that’s okay, but overhead in the branches of the trees are huge black birds with bald bloodred heads and great yellow beaks ready to pounce on the little animals. I get shivers. She sees my frown.

“Mother says she wishes I would paint something pretty to cheer her up and Papa won’t come into my room, but I don’t care. I paint what I’m supposed to in class, but in my own room I can paint what I want, only don’t tell anyone in school.”

I promise I won’t. I tell her, “There’s nothing to worry about. That happened a long time ago.” She doesn’t look convinced, and something tells me her mother and father have already said the same thing to her. I don’t know why she is painting such gloomy pictures that are like a warning. I’m anxious to leave the sad room and get back to the Kassels’ living room, where there is laughter and conversation and everyone is alive.

Soon it’s time to go. I thank the Kassels and receive a warm handshake from Herr Kassel, a hug from Frau Kassel, and a shy smile from Ruth, who hangs back as if she is already sorry she showed me her paintings. When I shake hands with her, I give her soft hand a squeeze to let her know she can trust me not to say anything at school.

There is a light drizzle and the buildings and streets are shiny under the streetlamps. As Herr Schafer and I pass the houses, I look into the lighted windows. Every house, I decide, has its own secrets.