Forced Journey

by Rosemary Zibart

  “Whatcha want to do?” he’d ask Werner. “Listen to the radio or play pinochle?”

  Usually they did both until they saw Conrad leave. Always in the same brown suit, his head hunched low between his shoulders. He walked fast on his short legs, like he could leave his troubles behind if he moved quickly enough.

  Werner was curious. Why was Conrad so devoted to Esther? Why was he angry at Werner? He asked Mr. Mozer, but the grocer just shrugged. “You’ll learn some day.”

  One afternoon, however, when Conrad was rushing past, he glanced up and saw Werner. He stopped short. “Hey, you bum,” he said, “you know you’re eating up the little money Esther has. The little she’s got saved in the bank. I try to give her a bit extra to make up for what you eat, but it’s not always enough, is it, Mr. Mozer?”

  “It is nearly enough, Conrad,” Mr. Mozer said gently.

  “You think so?” Conrad sneered. “I don’t. She was better off before that sponge showed up.”

  He started to stalk off, then turned back to Werner. “I should send you back where you came from, that’s what I oughta do.”

  “God forbid, Conrad, you should say such a horrible thing,” Mr. Mozer said sternly. “Shame on you.”

  That made Conrad button up his mouth, but he gave Werner a look as he left that made the boy think he might do it. He might send him back.

  Werner shuddered. Everyone in the neighborhood had heard about the SS St. Louis. Filled with Jews and other refugees from Europe, the ship had come to the port of New York six months ago. Then it had traveled from port to port seeking a place to unload. Yet every place had turned away the ship; not one city had let the people walk down the gangplank to freedom and safety. So the ship had turned around, carrying its poor passengers back to Europe. Back to fear and danger.

  Could such a terrible thing happen to him? Did Conrad hate him that much?

  Seeing Werner’s misery, Mr. Mozer finally explained, “From what I understand, Conrad married the wrong gal. He wanted to marry Esther, but that didn’t work out. Now he’s stuck, stuck with a wife he don’t want to be with.”

  Werner thought for a moment. “But I still don’t understand…why does he hate me?”

  Mr. Mozer shrugged. “He wishes he could be doing what you’re doing, living up there and helping Esther,” he said. “Conrad’s jealous. Jealousy makes a person do mean things.”

  Mean things? Like sending him back to Germany? Werner wondered if that were possible. When he went upstairs, he tried to keep his stomach from growling. What Conrad said was true – he did eat a lot. He was always hungry, though he stayed thin as a broom pole, no matter how much he stuffed himself.

  Esther was propped up on pillows in bed. She was wearing a thin silk kimono and sipping a little glass of kirsch, the sweet cherry brandy Conrad brought as a gift every week. Her eyes looked puffy and pink. Werner guessed that she’d been crying. She patted the mattress next to her and he sat down. “You deserve so much more, Werner. You deserve a mother that can take you places, do things for you.” Esther smiled sadly. “A real Mutti.”

  Werner shook his head. “No, Esther, I like it here. I like being here with you.”

  Esther patted his hand, “Don’t worry about Conrad. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how good you are to me.”

  Werner looked around the little apartment. What more could he do to help? Already he cleared out Mozart’s cage every day, letting the little flutter of bright yellow fly freely as he worked. He cleaned the kitchen ’til it was so tidy, a mouse couldn’t find a crumb. He scrubbed and scrubbed the bathtub ’til it shined, though it still had big bluish green stains on the bottom. Every night, he filled the tub with hot water so Esther could soak her aching muscles.

  What else could he do? Werner jumped up and rolled up some old newspapers to shove under the door. Keeping out drafts was an important job; the apartment had to stay warm and dry. Esther was terrified of catching even a little cold. “The polio hurt these muscles bad,” Esther said, pointing to her chest. “For months I lay in a machine called an iron lung to help me breathe. It was the only way I could sleep. Otherwise I’d stop breathing.”

  Werner stared at her in horror. Stop breathing? That meant she’d die. That would be horrible. Too horrible to imagine. And what would happen to him? Conrad would send him back to Germany for sure. Then there’d be nobody to help Father and Bettina come to the U.S.!

  Werner didn’t dare speak to Esther about his worries. She had enough of her own. But he wished he had someone to talk to. He thought of Anika – where was his friend now? She might cheer him up with her laughter and charm. But there wasn’t much chance of seeing her again, not in this gigantic city filled with millions of people. He also remembered his buddies at the orphanage – Lutz, Mandel, Sammel and Victor. What he’d give to glimpse one of their friendly faces! That’s all he needed…one chum, just one buddy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Werner did make a friend, however, it was a big surprise.

  The day was November 29, unbelievably cold, colder than he could remember, even during Germany’s cruel winters. And wet, too. Wind blew frozen rain across the buildings and stores. People on the sidewalk were bundled in heavy coats, thick scarves, gloves, hats, and boots. They rushed from one doorway of a shop to another, hoping to grab a little shelter or catch a blast of warm air when a door opened.

  Werner was heading down the block to the newsstand to see which comic books had arrived. The cold didn’t bother him much because now he had a warm coat. Esther had gotten it from a Mr. Todeskie who lived two floors down. Mr. Todeskie got it cheap from his son who worked in the Garment District across town where thousands of coats were made. This coat had one sleeve slightly shorter than the other, so it might have been thrown out. But, for Werner, the coat was close to perfect.

  He walked down the street boldly. In such freezing weather, the neighborhood bullies didn’t hang out on the corner. He wasn’t worried that anyone was gonna jump out and steal the nickels in his pocket.

  At the newsstand, the vendor knew what he wanted. “Look at these, boy.” He eagerly pointed to a stack. “Just arrived, brand new comic books.”

  Werner picked up one. Indeed, the cover was an exciting sea battle with a Nazi flag flying over the ship. The new comic series was named MARVEL, in big red letters. He handed over two nickels, then stuck the comic book under his arm and started back. He ducked his head against the driving sleet, thinking how nice it would be to curl up on top of his bed in the warm apartment. He’d listen to Mozart’s perpetual song while smelling cabbage soup bubbling on the stove and read the comic.

  That’s when he saw Sam, the boy who had come to his aid weeks ago. Then Sam had been cocky and confident – someone all the neighborhood kids looked up to. Today, however, he didn’t look so tough. He looked like a pathetic schmo. He was sitting on the edge of the street curb, shivering so hard his cap was sliding off his black curls. His chin was pressed down, his arms wrapped tight around his chest for warmth. His nose was scarlet red and his cheeks were soaked, not from rain, but from tears! Werner couldn’t believe it. The proud, cocky kid Sam was crying! Bawling.

  Embarrassed for him, Werner quickly looked away. But not fast enough. Sam glanced up. The boy’s lower lip bulged and his body stiffened. “Whatcha looking at me for, ya dope?”

  Werner knew he could just walk away. That was the safe thing to do. Yet Sam looked too unhappy, too miserable. And Werner knew those feelings too well. So he stayed, planted to the sidewalk, wishing he could speak better English. Icy rain pelted the two boys; Werner pushed his hands further into his pockets for warmth. At the bottom of one, he felt the hard edge of a nickel.

  “You wanna eat sumptin’?” he muttered to Sam.

  The first words Werner had learned involved food and eating. That’s about all he knew. He pointed to Liesel’s Bakery on the corner. The
smell of freshly baked bread, cinnamon rolls and donuts wafted from the bakery ovens.

  Sam glanced at the bakery, then scowled, like he might say no. His pride was clearly wrestling with his stomach. And Werner knew hunger wins out every time.

  “Sure, okay.” Sam stood up, still shivering. “Better than sitting here doing nuttin.”

  The two walked to the Swiss bakery and sat at the counter. Werner bought two doughnuts, covered with powdery white sugar, and a cup of black coffee. He poured lots of cream into the cup and heaped in spoonfuls of sugar before pushing it toward Sam. Though the cup was still steaming hot, Sam gulped down nearly half. He was that cold.

  After a moment, however, he unfroze enough to talk. Werner listened closely, understanding only half the words but most of what Sam meant. “Every payday my dad gets loaded on whiskey, you see,” he explained. “Then he starts yelling at me or my mom. Mostly it’s me he beats up. A few times, he’s thrown me down the stairs. Nowadays, I head out the door as soon as I smell whisky on his breath.”

  “Here? The street?” Werner pointed.

  “Sure, I hang out with the bums for a few days,” said Sam. “It’s not so bad as you think. I wouldna go back at all ’cept for Mom. She’d have it miserable if I left. I’m the oldest, you see. And she’s got five younger.”

  Most times, he claimed, he did okay. But today the weather was so damn lousy, filthy, cold and wet. Plus he’d run out the door with nothing but the shirt on his back.

  “You think I’d go back and ask Dad for a jacket?” Sam stuck out his bottom lip. “Then you don’t know me, Sam Ublentz.” He glanced at Werner. “I’m no cry-baby neither. I just hit a real bad moment back there.” He jerked his thumb toward the curb outside where he’d been sitting.

  Werner nodded. Even when tears don’t show, he knew, they grow in your heart. How good it felt, for once, to be helping somebody else.

  When the boys had finished every drop of coffee and every donut crumb, they went to Esther’s apartment. Soon as Werner introduced her to Sam, she was her kindhearted self.

  “Run the hot water in the tub,” she commanded Werner, then turned to Sam. “You poor boychik, take a long soak.”

  She rummaged around until she found dry clothes and thick socks she’d knitted. In less than an hour, Sam was fast asleep on Werner’s cot, snoring loudly. When he woke up, they all ate green pea soup. Sam downed three bowlfuls, one after the other.

  Meeting up with Sam marked a big change for Werner. The boys on the street all respected and liked Sam. It was hard not to. He grinned easily – showing off a gap in his mouth – where his dad had knocked out a front tooth. His black hair was so thick it looked as if the curls were wrestling for a spot on his head. His nose was big and flat, though he bragged, not yet broken. Sam wasn’t the smartest kid on the block, but he was known to be honest, affectionate and reliable.

  With Sam as his pal, the bullies on the street didn’t dare bother Werner. And with Sam to talk to, his English improved quickly. Words came in bits, then chunks; soon he was speaking whole sentences. He spoke New York style, in a rush, and not always proper English. But what did that matter? What counted was that now he could get a job and a real foothold in America.…

  28 October, 1939

  Dear Father,

  I have good news. Sam Ublentz is my friend. His family came from Czechoslovakia but Sam was born right here so he’s a 100% American. Soon I will be too. He’s helping me learn English. Now I know a hundred words, at least. Soon I can get a job as a newsboy or shoeshine or store clerk that gets me real money. You should see the pocketfuls of change a newsboy takes home every day. There will be plenty for all of us – enough money, enough food. Buy your ticket today.

  Esther sends her best. We both wish for the day when you both arrive.

  Hugs and kisses to the sweetest sister in the world.

  Your son, Werner

  He wrote letters to his family every week, sometimes two or three times, but not one letter arrived from them. Day after day he rushed to see the mail. Again and again, he was disappointed.

  “Don’t worry, bubele,” Esther said. “The war has slowed down the mail from Germany. You gotta keep writing. That’s what gives your family hope.”

  But Werner knew she was worried, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One night Werner and Esther heard a knock on the door. “Who can that be?” she asked.

  When Werner opened the door, a stocky man with grey whiskers and a reddish nose stood outside. Mr. Boronski, the neighborhood butcher, took off his cap. “Is…is Esther Bochmann here?” He stammered.

  Esther looked up from darning a sock. “You know I am, Sol. Where would I be on a cold winter night like this?”

  He grunted and shuffled his feet. “Can I come in?”

  Esther smiled, “We only know each other for the past 20 years. Whatcha need?”

  He came in and took a seat at the kitchen table, still holding his cap.

  “Some of us noticed how you got this young fella out of Germany.” He nodded toward Werner. “Some of us got kinfolk we’d like to get out, too.”

  Esther’s smile faded. “I know you do. Most every family on the block has got somebody they want to get out.”

  Mr. Boronski held up a thick pile of papers. “Did you hafta fill out all these?” he asked. Esther examined eighteen pages of government forms. “My God, there’s twice as many as I filled out six months ago. You sure you need ’em all?”

  The butcher nodded. “I been trying to get my niece out from Frankfurt for…for over a year.” He pulled out a large handkerchief and blew his nose, then wiped tears from his eyes. “Her parents already are gone, God knows where, maybe killed. Me and my wife want to help out Sofia if we can.” He shook his head. “She’s only fourteen.”

  Esther was silent a moment. “Honest, Sol, I don’t know what I can do. No miracles, for sure.”

  At the word “miracles,” Mr. Boronski raised his hands high in the air. “Whatever you can do is what we want.” He turned to Werner. “She got you out, kid, didn’t she? She’s a real heroine, like Esther in the story of Purim.” Esther laughed at the idea that she could rescue Jews from Hitler the way the biblical Esther had rescued her people from the cruel tyrant Haman. He had planned to kill all the Hebrew people in his empire, but she had outwitted him.

  Still, there was a chance for Sofia, explained Esther, because she was only fourteen. It was the same opportunity that had helped her get Werner into the United States. A certain number of children under the age of sixteen were being allowed in the country. The quota or limit for adults didn’t apply to these young people.

  “That must be how Anika and the other children on the ship came here, too,” said Werner.

  Mr. Boronski left that evening, feeling lucky. Word quickly spread. The next evening came another knock on the door. This time it was Tamara Ezekiel, who was trying to get her twin brother out of Poland. “I been to United States Immigration and Naturalization Services so many times, they’re sick to see my face,” claimed Tamara. “Please, Esther, you help me! He’s my only brother. He’ll think I don’t care.”

  Another unhappy person to climb the stairs was David Sesselbaum. His sweetheart had gone to college in Heidelberg, and now she couldn’t get back.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Esther. “Nancy is an American citizen, even if she was born in Germany. They have to let her back in.”

  David was close to tears. “We gotta get her out. We got to! I gotta see my gal again.”

  “Gimme those forms,” demanded Esther. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Working together, David and Werner laid out the forms on the floor. End-to-end they stretched across the apartment. And the government wasn’t asking for just one copy – they wanted six of each. Every page copied by hand! Esther worked until she was so tired that her fingers cram
ped, her chin dropped to her chest and she dozed in the wheelchair.

  A few days later, Werner said, “I don’t understand why we’re helping everyone on the block, but we haven’t filled out any forms for Father and Bettina!”

  Esther gazed at him without speaking for a few seconds. “A year ago, I wrote your Father and told him I could try to get all of you out together,” she said, “but a month later he wrote back to me.” She sighed deeply. “He said you had a better chance of coming alone.”

  For a moment, Werner couldn’t speak. His chest felt so tight, he could hardly breath. Had his father purposely given up the chance to come, just for him? “Well, I’m here now,” he burst out. “There’s no reason why we can’t get them out, too.”

  “You’re right,” said Esther. “Let’s start right now.”

  When they’d filled out the applications for Father and Bettina, Werner was eager to take them to the Immigration and Naturalization Office. Esther told him, “Stand at the counter ’til the clerk pays attention. Tell him you won’t go ’til he marks the forms received with a date. Then they can’t say later that they didn’t get ’em.”

  Sam helped Werner find the big office building. When the boys reached the room, they saw people lining the benches around the room. Some even sat on the floor. Everyone, guessed Werner, was trying to get a U.S. visa for somebody they loved.

  After waiting over five hours, a man behind the counter called to Werner. The clerk had a bald head and bushy eyebrows. He took the packet of information like it was dirty laundry and started to turn away.

  “Stamp it!” Werner insisted. “Put today’s date on it. I want to see you do it.” The clerk tried to shoo the boy away, but Werner stood firm. “Stamp it now!”

  The INS clerk finally stamped the documents, but he muttered, “Did you know the quota for certain immigrants has been cut in half?”