by Elly Welt
The Chief often said that Adolf Hitler must have astute advisers who told him, all along, that Germany did not have the capacity to develop these weapons. On the off chance, however, heavy water was made available from Norway, and a small amount of experimentation was allowed, as if someone was hoping for a miracle, some breakthrough, afraid to let go altogether, for, after all, it was all there in theory. But the technical aspects—anyone with any kind of a brain and some basic knowledge knew that technically it could not be achieved without untold space and untold wealth. But these people were desperate, looking for some miracle to help them, hoping they were seeing it in the purple phosphorescent glow.
We hadn’t even turned on the linear accelerator. Why take the chance, Professor Kreutzer said, that one of the inspectors would be harmed by the radiation or why take the chance that the linear accelerator, itself, would be harmed by the high voltage I was throwing through? After all, it was the center of the Institute. The Chief said it often enough after a vodka or three: “This place is a cow with three hundred teats,” he would bellow, “and the linear accelerator is the bull, and with the coupling of the two, Max and I have pressure over some government officials who have interests in certain businesses which produce things—counting amplifiers or pumps, for example. But to produce these counting amplifiers and pumps, these businesses need raw materials and labor, and for this they need authorization permits, which must be issued by other government officials who, in turn, are made silent partners in the businesses which produce the counting amplifiers and pumps, and who, therefore, are interested in finding research projects which need the products that happen to have the exact specifications of those manufactured by the businesses.”
I thought it like the Contes de ma mère l’oie—the Mother Goose Mother had read to me when I was quite young. It wasn’t “The House That Jack Built,” but, rather, “The House That Fission Built”: This was the house the scientists built, that enriched the government officials and the manufacturers, who protected one another and the Institute, that protected its scientists and workers, who used the Radiation Laboratory to retard the cancer of the Gestapo in the House, who, in return, kept the Chief and Professor Kreutzer informed, and who cleverly denounced the Institute in small, intelligent, harmless ways, regularly enough to keep the pressure off. For example, it was the Security Officer who requested—at the suggestion of Professor Kreutzer—that the ethyl alcohol be delivered adulterated with petrol ether. But it was not he who offered Mitzka as the scapegoat. It was, of course, the Rare Earths Chemist. He had been harassed for information. Denouncing Mitzka, he must have felt, would take pressure off him without jeopardizing the good, secure life he enjoyed at the Institute.
One month after Mitzka’s murder, the police telephoned the Institute to report that an employee had died of a heart attack the night before in a public air-raid shelter during an air raid. The Rare Earths Chemist had waited one month to take the strophanthin in order not to draw attention to the Institute.
By that time, the Roumanian Biologist George Treponesco had already been transferred into the Rare Earths Laboratory, Tanya to that of Frau Doktor to assist with the larval transplants, and Marlene was recalled to work in our laboratory. Her mother took care of the baby.
Professor Kreutzer’s prophecy at the celebration dinner that times would be even worse, that the Nazi reaction to the liberation of Paris would be fierce, was correct. They did strike out in every direction, increasing their efforts to round up and exterminate what remained of the Jews, during those last nine months of the war, from August 1944 until April 1945, when the Americans stopped—just stopped—when they could have marched through with so little resistance and saved so many. Uncle Otto and Aunt Greta, for example.
Uncle, bent over from the pain in his neck and back and extremely agitated, was waiting for me outside his apartment building. Face red, arms waving wildly, he blurted out in a loud, quavering voice, “You must be a good boy and bring us tomorrow two wool blankets and some soap—for the trip. Is it too much trouble?”
“Uncle. Please! Calm down and tell me. What trip?”
“If it’s too much trouble, I understand. Two blankets and some soap. We have the rest.”
Because his building was across from the Farmers’ Market, there were many people on the street, and his excitement was drawing their attention. “I will bring whatever you want, but it would be better to talk about it upstairs.”
“No! No! I don’t want you to upset your aunt.” He shoved an envelope into my hand. “This came yesterday.” Uncle Otto was so weak, and in such pain, that his legs trembled and he hardly could stand.
I put a hand on his shoulder and gently propelled him through the door of the apartment house. Although it was a cool evening, it had been a rare warm day for September, and the heat had amplified the putrid air in the building. “Sit here on the steps, Uncle.” I helped him to lower himself onto a stair, then opened the envelope.
While I read, he chattered nervously. “I served the Kaiser loyally. I was decorated for bravery in the First World War. I am sure I will not be harmed. The Jacoby family have been good German citizens since the beginning of the fifteenth century. That’s almost five hundred years.”
GERMAN INTERIOR MINISTRY
DEPARTMENT OF THE DELEGATE
FOR SPECIAL DEPLOYMENT
18 September 1944
Herrn Otto Israel Jacoby, and
Frau Margaret Sara Jacoby née Braunstein
Berlin Alexanderplatz
Grosse Frankfurter Strasse 47 Fourth
You are herewith advised that you have been selected for special employment for the general war effort of the German Reich.
You have been assigned the following numbers:
Otto Israel Jacoby
236
Margaret Sara Jacoby née Braunstein
752
and are expected to be ready for transportation on 21st September at 2 a.m. to a location that will be announced to you at an appropriate time.
Your baggage is limited to 10 kilograms each and should include heavy work clothes and provisions for three days.
Noncompliance will be severely punished according to special provisions by the Law.
With German Greetings!
[illegible signature]
“Uncle, do you know what this means?”
“Yes. Yes. I must do as they say.”
“You can’t let them take you. You must hide. And Aunt Greta.”
“No, no, Josef. Look.” He reached up and took the summons from my hand. “See, they say we are to be employed. And it is so polite—they send greetings.”
“Uncle, they are always polite.” There he sat, a brace from his chin to his tailbone, weak and in constant pain. Heavy work clothes! “Let me go up and get Aunt Greta, and I will take you to our house, to Father. He will help you.”
With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. “No, we could not do that. We must obey the law. Remember your Uncle Philip. We must do as they say. I was decorated by the Kaiser for bravery. They will send us to Theresienstadt.”
Theresienstadt. I could not believe I was hearing this. I shoved my rucksack with their weekly supply of food, money, and ration stamps into his arms, dropped the bag of groceries I had just bought, and, before he could say another word, fled out the door and back to the Farmers’ Market, where I walked back and forth among the stalls. It was inconceivable that he didn’t know. Wasn’t everyone aware that the Nazis put up facades—Potemkin villages, Theresienstadt—advertised as places for certain people who were “acceptable” despite being Jews, people who would be “reabsorbed” when the rage against the Jews subsided? It was all fantasy. There was no one place big enough for every Jew and other undesirable who thought he was special. And besides, going to Theresienstadt was no guarantee—conditions there were horrible and getting worse. Shortly before his death, Mitzka had told me about it and about the jammed boxcars with unhygienic conditions beyond all
imagination. Surely, Uncle knew what this really meant.
At a flower stall I bought six yellow gladiolas for Aunt Greta and raced back to their building. Uncle had started the long climb, and I found him on the third-floor landing, leaning against a wall and panting. I took back my rucksack and the bag of groceries and put an arm about him. He leaned heavily against me as we climbed slowly up the last flight to his fourth-floor apartment.
“Don’t upset your aunt,” he pleaded.
“Does she know?”
“Yes. But don’t upset her more.”
She was waiting for us outside their apartment. “Aunt Greta, please, talk some sense into Uncle.”
“I am sure we will not be harmed, Josef. Don’t worry. Your uncle served the Kaiser loyally and was decorated for bravery—”
“I know, Aunt, but that means nothing to these swine.”
“Hush!” said Uncle Otto, who seemed more in control of himself now that he had his beloved wife to protect. He opened the door to the apartment, and we all went inside. “I have some things for you.” He hobbled over to the dining table in front of the window, where there were two packages neatly wrapped in old newspaper.
“Uncle, listen to me.” I put the grocery bag on the table. “Every day when I walk from the village of Hagen to the Institute, I pass a labor camp—barracks, really—where they have workers from France. They work for the hospital, and they are free to come and go. You speak French like a native. Come with me. Now. Come on the train, you and Aunt, and just walk into the place. They wouldn’t even notice you.”
“Josef,” he said in a patronizing way, “in the first place, you know your aunt doesn’t speak one word of French—”
“She could keep quiet. Really, they wouldn’t even know.”
He held up his hand to silence me. “I have something for you.” He patted the news wrapped packages on the table.
“Uncle—”
“Shhh.” He picked up the larger bundle. “Handel,” he said, “the Concent Grossi. These are my favorite. I want you to have them.”
“Uncle—”
“And this”—he picked up the smaller packet—“this is a prayer book. It belonged to your grandfather Josef Jacoby, after whom you are named.”
“Please, Uncle.”
He shoved them at me. “Take them.”
I was still holding the yellow gladiolas. “Uncle, listen to me—just for a minute.”
“No, Josef. You listen to me.” he said firmly. “Sit down, please.” He lowered himself onto a chair, but I refused to sit with him. “In the book is a paper with the dates of the deaths of your grandmother and grandfather Jacoby. On the anniversaries of their deaths, I ask, as a special favor to me, that you remember them by lighting a candle that will burn for a day and a night and by saying the prayer for the dead—Kaddish. It is in the book.”
“You know I can’t read Hebrew.”
“When the time comes, open the book. You will be able to read it.”
“Uncle, please. Come with me. Aunt Greta . . .”
And then Uncle Otto gave me the ultimate family answer: “When you are more than three cheeses high, perhaps you will understand.” I was too young. I was too young to understand.
It was hopeless. “If you won’t run and hide, then at least turn on the gas for a while, light a match, and blow yourselves up.” I dumped the contents of the rucksack on their table and ran to the door.
“You will bring the blankets and the soap?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.” And without even saying good-bye to them, I was out the door and down the stairs, still clutching the flowers in my fist, Handel and the prayer book under my arm. I will never forgive myself for this, for not saying good-bye, for not staying to plead with them, for not telling them about the gas chambers and the ovens and the trains.
I had no stomach for facing Mother with the news, so although it was already eight o’clock and quite dark and cold, I, stupidly, took the train back to Hagen, hoping to get some advice and comfort from Tanya. Since our “talk” by the Geiger counters, we had been going together, more or less; that is, Tanya was not the kind of girl one took to the darkroom. I had virtually stopped seeing Monika—one cannot be totally impolite—my visits to the two girls in the village, about which Tanya never knew, were less frequent, and I would leave them, now, after the British had finished bombing, around midnight or so, and take the train back to Gartenfeld, which meant that I was not getting much sleep and was very tired.
I ran the three kilometers from the station to the Institute and through the park to Tanya’s building. It was dark, and the weather was unyieldingly Berlin—damp and cold. I raced up the stairs and knocked on her door. She had not yet let me come in her apartment, and there was to be no exception this night.
“Oh, Josef. I thought you’d gone home.” She opened the door a crack.
I bowed, slightly, and handed her Aunt Greta’s gladiolas. “Please, I need to talk to you.”
“Is something wrong?”
I nodded.
“Just a minute, I’ll get a sweater, and we can walk around the park and talk.”
“It’s getting quite chilly outside.”
“Then I’ll get a coat.”
As we walked, I told her exactly what had been said at my uncle’s. At one point, we sat on one of the stone benches along the winding drive. She, bundled in her warm coat, a wool scarf over her head, did not sit close to me. The bench was cold and hard. I was not dressed warmly enough. I am not certain what I expected from her.
“Your uncle is a fool!” she said. “One must fight! One must see the danger and use one’s strength and will.”
And then, as I sat there turning to stone, she told me a long story of how, when her mother received word she was to be taken, Tanya’s father put her on a train and had her ride around for days and days; then he sent her to a farm they knew in the country. At the same time, he sent Tanya to his friend—the Chief—at the Institute. The narration was filled with irrelevant detail—every train, every stop, the mechanics of contact—and full of sermons and vehemence. By the time she was through, I was frozen to the core.
“And that is why I am here at the Institute. I have no patience with people who will not fight! It is cold. I am going to my room.”
I walked her to her door. She unlocked it and stepped across the threshold.
“May I come inside?”
“You know I don’t permit that.”
Before she could shut the door in my face, I turned and ran down the stairs. I was a fool for looking for any comfort from her. She was a selfish, coldhearted bitch, as unlike Sheereen or Sonja Press as one could be, and any budding affection I might have had for her was killed that night.
I walked the three kilometers back to Hagen, took the train through Berlin, was held up for three hours because of the British—God bless them and help them smash the place to hell—arrived in Gartenfeld at three in the morning, and tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom. Dritt, who always slept on their bed at my father’s feet, raised his sleepy head and smiled at me. Good old Dritt. Mother slipped out of bed without waking Father.
In the kitchen, I told Mother about the summons and about Uncle and Aunt’s request for two blankets and some soap.
She, of course, was horribly upset by this, and began to wring her hands. “The blankets, yes, and soap. I will wake your father. He will give them money. They’ll need money if they are to make a journey.”
“Mutti, I think they should not go. They need to hide.”
“No, no,” she began.
“Listen to me. I have a friend at the Institute whose mother was sent such a letter, and her father put her mother on a train and had her ride around for days and days and then arranged to have her hidden at the farm of a friend. She is still alive! Surely Papa has family who will hide them.”
“I don’t know . . .” But she was hesitating!
“Mutti, they are shipping the Jews out in cattle cars, packed like sardine
s in a can, and they are—”
“Hush, Josef. Where do you hear such things?”
“Mutti, listen to me. I have not told you these things because I cannot bear to upset you. But it’s true. Mitzka Avilov told me. He saw these things and he heard about them from the Russian prisoners of war. Mutti, there are gas chambers. They use cyanide. They—”
Mother was on her feet. “I’ll talk with your father. He will want to give them some money. If they are to take a trip, they will need money. Are you hungry? There is a potato soup with good garden vegetables in the icebox.”
“Yes. I’ll eat something.” I was hopeful for the fifteen minutes Mother was gone that my parents might, this one time, come to their senses and face reality. While waiting for the water to boil and the soup to warm, I celebrated by helping myself to two liberal slices of bread and wurst. My disappointment, when Mother and Father remained true to form, was tenfold.
Mother returned with a small leather suitcase. “Here are the blankets, soap, some aspirin, money, and ration stamps. Can you think of anything else they might need? You said provisions for three days? There is bread and wurst. I’ll send that.”
“Mutti.”
She raised a hand to silence me. “Your father feels that they must obey the law. Your uncle was decorated for bravery during the First World War and will be treated fairly. Your father assumes they will be sent to Theresienstadt.”
“Mutti, Theresienstadt is not what you think.”
“Josef, you are too young to concern yourself with these things. I know how very tired you must be, but your father feels you must get back to your uncle’s with the suitcase as quickly as you can just in case they are asked to leave earlier. You must catch the first train—but by no means are you to draw attention to yourself by running. Do you understand?”
“Mutti. They will be transported in cattle cars and murdered—”
“Look what you have done! You have eaten the bread and wurst. Now I have no food to send them.”