“What?” Werner exclaimed.
“The State Department has cut the number of people who can enter the U.S. in half.” His bushy eyebrows went up an inch. “The new quota applies to Jews, gypsies, thieves and undesirables.”
“Undesirables?” Werner repeated in a low angry voice. In the newspaper, he had read that the U.S. had eagerly welcomed the famous scientist Albert Einstein, a brilliant German Jew, into this country. Why wasn’t he considered an “undesirable”?
Werner’s feet dragged as he walked down the marble steps of the office building. Trying to cheer him up, Sam bought him a root beer soda. But even his favorite drink didn’t help.
“How can this be?” Esther moaned when she heard. “The great United States of America once promised: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. She shook her head sadly. “Those are the words writ in big letters on the Statue of Liberty. But now our own country is closing its gates. And if we shut the door, so will every other country in the world.”
For once, Werner had no appetite at all. Still, he opened a can of tomato soup and poured the contents into a pot. He had squeaked into the U.S. through a crack. So had other Jewish children like Anika and the other youngsters on the ship. But what about everyone else? What about Father and Bettina and Anika’s father? What would happen to them?
“I can’t believe the president knows what’s happening,” Esther exclaimed. “If President Roosevelt had any idea, he’d do something.”
Werner stirred the soup and watched the little bubbles rise to the top.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was now his president, too. Most people loved him, especially people in their neighborhood because he helped poor people. Maybe, Werner thought, the president doesn’t know. He doesn’t know there are thousands and thousands of people in Europe who urgently need his help.
“We can write him a letter.”
“What?” Esther asked.
“We can write the president a letter. Then he’ll know,” he replied.
“I have a better idea,” Esther smiled broadly. “We’ll write Mrs. Roosevelt. I’m sure she reads her mail and she talks a lot to her husband.”
The two worked on the letter together. Esther wrote it all down in good English.
When he went down to mail the letter, Esther smiled, “You’re a real mensch, Werner. Now the president will be sure to help out.”
For the first time that day, Werner felt good.
Chapter Fifteen
Soon after that, Werner started school. Esther had always urged him to go, but he had delayed for two big reasons. Number one, he didn’t want to look stupid. He had missed years of school in Germany after schools stopped permitting Jewish students to attend. At the orphanage, an instructor showed up only a few times a week. Werner had always been a good reader and wrote well enough. But in the subjects of math, science, history and geography, he figured he was far behind other children his age.
Another reason was Conrad. The guy had made it clear that Werner’s only excuse for being in the U.S. was caring for Esther. If he went to school, Conrad might decide he was useless. What might happen then? Werner didn’t like to think about it.
Still, he didn’t want to be a greenhorn his whole life. He had to learn how to speak right. And he badly wanted a job. To get any job, he needed to know how to count money and read labels.
So one grey blustery morning he headed for school. He knew just where to go – New York Public School 122.
A few minutes later, he stood on the steps of a large square brick building. Inside, he could hear a jumble of children’s voices and the clatter of little feet. Someone yelled loudly, “No running in the hall!”
Taking a deep breath, Werner climbed the steps and pushed open the heavy door. The wide hallway was empty; the kids were now all back in their classrooms.
He had barely stepped onto the polished wooden floor when a plump man with a round face and thin dark mustache spoke to him. “Who are you? And what are you doing here, young man?”
“I’m…I’m Werner Berlinger, sir. And I want to go to school.”
The man stuck out a hand. “I’m Mr. Stromboski, the school principal. You’ve never been to an American school before?”
Werner shook his head.
Mr. Stromboski’s little mustache twitched. “Please come with me,” he commanded, leading Werner into his office and handing him a piece of paper. “Now sit down and fill this out.” It was a short test.
The principal watched as the boy struggled to read and answer the questions. Werner finally handed the quiz back to Mr. Stromboski. The paper was mostly smudges and blank spaces.
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Stromboski, examining it seriously while stroking his thin mustache. “Why don’t you come with me?”
He led Werner down the long wide hall. Finally he stopped and opened the door to a classroom filled with tiny children, younger than his sister. Mr. Stromboski nudged Werner inside with a nod. “Here’s where you belong at present.”
Werner stared; his face and hands felt hot and sweaty. He turned and glared at Mr. Stromboski. “You can’t stick me with these little kids. They’re half my age!”
“I’m sorry, young man,” said the principal, looking genuinely sorry. “This is the class you belong in because of your skills. You will be moved to another class as soon as you are able to do the work.”
Werner opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He slunk into the room and sat down at a little desk. The tiny chair beneath him wobbled. His knees didn’t fit beneath the desk. All the first graders stared at him and giggled until the teacher warned them to stop.
So what, Werner thought, I don’t care. He knew that he had to sit at that little desk. Just like he’d had to come to this country on his own. He had to do whatever it took to become a real American and get a foothold here! He had no choice.
Sam and the other kids his age hooted every time they saw him hunched over his little desk. The first graders, however, loved having a big boy in the class. They became Werner’s pals and willing slaves. “Go sharpen my pencil, Joey,” he’d command, and the youngster would instantly obey. “Pass me an eraser, Nina,” he’d demand and a tiny girl would toss him one.
The best part of first grade was its teacher, Mrs. Elinore McIntosh. She was solid and strong as a farmer’s wife and plenty strict. “What is your name?” she asked that first day.
“W-Werner Berlinger,” he said.
“Please repeat after me: ‘My name is Werner.’” she commanded. From then on, he could never just say “yes” or “no”. She insisted that he answer every question in a complete sentence. He worked hard to learn all he could in every subject. After only six weeks, Mrs. McIntosh said, “You know everything I can teach you in first grade, Werner. It’s time for you to try second grade.”
Werner frowned. “But I like it here, Mrs. McIntosh. Please, let me stay.”
She smiled. “You are a hard working student. Come to my room at lunchtime every day. We will continue your lessons.” She looked at him sternly. “No goofing off, no excuses, Werner, You must come every day.” And he did.
19 December, 1940
Dear Father,
I go to school five days a week and spend every lunchtime studying, too. There’s so much to learn. Not just in class. Twice a day, kids line up for their turn at the “water fountain” – such a neat invention. At lunch, we eat from trays in a cafeteria instead of going home for a meal. Like everyone in New York, we kids are too busy to go home in the middle of the day.
And imagine this – I sit next to a girl in class because girls and boys go to the same school. And when the teacher asks a question, girls raise their hands same as boys – and they know the right answer just as often as boys.
Most important, I am learning English quickly. I try to read everything I see – the newspa
per, street signs, the ingredients in soup cans.
Next week we stay home a whole week for Christmas. And I will miss school. Yesterday all the students sang Christmas carols, even the Jewish students. No one seemed to mind. And last night Esther and I lit candles for Chanukah. We prayed you will be here soon. Then Bettina will walk with me to PS 122 every day. How I look forward to that!
Many hugs for my dear sister.
Your son, Werner
One day, as usual, he carefully put his letter in the thin blue envelope for overseas mail. He took it to the postbox on the corner and dropped it in. Turning to leave, however, he saw someone staring at him. The man was tall, completely bald, and wore thick spectacles. He had a pipe clamped tightly between his teeth. “Do you know who I am?” The man spoke in German. Werner gritted his teeth; he hated even the sound of German; it reminded him of bad times. Indeed he’d already forgotten many words in his rush to learn English.
Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t understand. Also, he knew the man’s name was Oscar Buddorf and that he owned a tobacco store on the corner. So he nodded.
“Well, I know who you are, too.” Mr. Buddorf almost hissed the words. “You came here from Germany and you are a Jew.”
Werner couldn’t see the man’s eyes through his thick glasses.
“I belong to a group called the Amerika Deutscher Bund. Do you know what that means?” asked Mr. Buddorf.
When Werner shook his head, the bald man explained, “We come from Germany and we are very proud of being German.” His mouth slid into a crooked smile. “We are also proud of Adolph Hitler. He is the best thing that has happened to Germany in a long time.”
For a moment, Werner thought Mr. Buddorf was going to click his heels together, straighten his arm and say “Heil Hitler.” But he didn’t. He just curled his lips into an ugly sneer. “That letter you just dropped in the box…you think it will reach your family?”
Werner couldn’t speak for a moment. “Sure…sure it will,” he stammered. “Why won’t it?”
Oscar Buddorf didn’t answer. Instead he made a funny noise like he was laughing but it sounded more like choking. Then he turned and strode back to his little shop on the corner.
Watching him go, Werner felt like a large ugly spider was crawling up his back. How did Mr. Buddorf know his name? Did the Bund know the name of every German who came to the United States? And what did Mr. Buddorf know about his family? Did he know something that Werner didn’t know?
Werner couldn’t bear to stand there another second. He started running and didn’t stop until he was back in Esther’s apartment with the door firmly latched.
Chapter Sixteen
As soon as Werner could read, write and count well enough, he got a job at Mr. Mozer’s grocery store. Every afternoon he stacked cans on shelves, poured bags of onions and potatoes into bins, swept floors, wiped off counters and helped customers carry heavy bags to the door.
“When you know your way ’round town better,” said Mr. Mozer, “I’ll lend you a bike so you can go on home deliveries.”
At the end of every day, Werner carried the garbage bags to the alley behind the store. Sometimes he’d see a hobo out there, scrounging for food. That’s how he met Alf.
Just as he was slamming the lid down on a garbage can, a huge guy loomed up in the dark alley. Werner froze with fear. The man’s skin was dark as coffee; his hair was black and hung down his back in a long braid. The giant wore a dingy pair of overalls over a ragged flannel shirt. Underneath, Werner could see that his muscles were big as Tarzan’s in the comic strips. “You skeered of me, kid?” he mumbled.
Werner nodded; he couldn’t move a step.
“You should be,” said the giant. “I’m half Eskimo, half Negro, half Navajo and part skunk.” The man laughed loudly, then stuck out his giant paw. “People call me Alf. What do people call you?”
“W-Werner,” the boy stammered. In Germany he had never even seen a black person, much less talked to one. He’d seen pictures in books, however, about African cannibals who cooked up missionaries in big pots, then ate them. In New York, he’d seen many Negroes: carpenters, seamstresses, a truck driver, a teacher. But he’d always stayed a safe distance away.
So now his arm was shaking as he reached out and grasped a few of Alf’s dingy fingers. “H-h-how do you do, sir?”
Alf laughed loudly, “Why, listen to you! You’re some kinda polite kid.”
From then on, the hobo visited often to see what kind of food was in Mr. Mozer’s garbage cans. He’d search for mushy fruit, out-of-date cans and stale bread. Sometimes, Werner put stuff like this on the side, just in case Alf showed up.
The hobo brought junk to Werner that he’d found on the streets and alleys. Good stuff like a baseball glove with the stitching missing or a wooden bat only slightly cracked. Best of all, he told the boy stories about growing up out West with wild horses, grizzly bears and rattlesnakes.
Werner couldn’t hear enough about this wild free boyhood, so different from his own. “How come you ended up here, Alf?” he asked.
Looking around, the giant man seemed surprised. “I ain’t sure how I got here.”
Werner shook his head. How could anyone trade a home in the mountains and prairies for a stinky dark New York alley?
One late afternoon, Sam was helping Werner take out the garbage when Alf arrived. The big man’s eyes shone with excitement. “Hey, boys, looka here what I found!” He pulled out a dented wood crate.
“Yuck,” Werner said, holding his nose. A sick aroma like overripe melons or bananas filled the air, but then he leaned in close to look. What was in there? He couldn’t see a thing.
“It’s alive,” Alf exclaimed.
Werner stepped back. “Not a rat?”
The giant man looked disgusted. “For crying out loud, Werner, why would anybody put a filthy rat in a box?”
Sam guessed this time. “A cat, a kitten.” There were always stray cats around, chasing rats in the alleys or snagging fish heads at the market.
“Much better than a pussycat!” said Alf, starting to grin.
“I give up,” Werner exclaimed. “Let’s see.”
Alf reached into the box and lifted out a live creature. Something neither boy had ever seen before, except in books. He handed it to Werner.
“A turtle!” Sam exclaimed. “Where did you find a turtle?”
Alf shook his big head, his eyes filled with wonder. “Can you believe a little turtle like that could be living on the streets of New York?”
He gently touched the turtle’s shell. “I used to find these critters all the time when I was a boy in Montana, but here in New York?”
The three gazed at the turtle in Werner’s hands. Its head was stuck out and so were its stubby little feet. They were speechless thinking of all the things that could destroy a turtle as it marched slowly across the city. Taxis, trucks, trolleys, wagons, police on horseback. How did the turtle get here? How come it was still alive?
Sam knocked on the shell of the turtle. “Pretty tough little guy.” He looked at Alf. “You gonna keep him?” His eyes were dark with longing.
Alf considered a moment, then shrugged. “Nah, I don’t need no turtle. I had plenty of turtles when I was your age. Other good stuff too – lizards, crows, possums. You take him.”
11 March, 1940
Dear Father,
You can’t guess how lucky I am. I have my own pet. Our friend Alf gave me and Sam a box turtle named Julius Caesar. We named him ourselves. Sam has been studying about the Roman general Julius Caesar. His teacher says that one of the amazing things Caesar did was cross the Rubicon. It was incredibly brave, even for a tough Roman general. We’re not sure what the Rubicon is, but we figure for a turtle to cross New York City is equally difficult or more so.
Both of us wanted to keep Julius in our homes. But
Sam was worried about his father. He said, “What if dad gets drunk one day and hurls Julius down the stairwell? Six floors onto a hard floor could definitely crack his shell.”
We put the turtle’s crate behind the heater in Esther’s apartment. The space is tiny but very warm. I can easily find enough onion peels, wilted lettuce and carrot scrapings to feed Julius. Esther doesn’t mind my having a turtle, though she refers to him as the “reptile.”
Every morning I thump on his shell and say, “Are you coming out today, Julius?” Sometimes he does, and then he dashes around the apartment faster than you can imagine. But on the days he doesn’t want to, there’s no way I can entice him out. Not with juicy carrots or soda crackers or grapes.
So you see life in America is filled with surprising and happy events. I look forward to the day when you and Bettina meet Julius in person. I believe you will like him as much as I do.
100 kisses to Bettina.
Your son, Werner
For a boy who’d never before had a pet, who had barely dreamed that he could ever have a pet, Julius was perfect. There wasn’t much Werner wouldn’t do for his little turtle.
Chapter Seventeen
First grade had been wonderful because of Mrs. McIntosh. Werner skipped from her class to third grade and two months later moved to fourth grade. None of the teachers were as great as Mrs. McIntosh but none were evil, either. Not until Werner reached fourth grade. Then every minute in class, he felt like dirt was being kicked in his face. Who kicked the dirt? The fourth grade teacher, Nathanial Pendergrast.
From the first minute Werner walked through the door, he knew he was in trouble.
Seeing him enter, five inches taller than any other fourth grader, Mr. Pedergrast’s face twisted into a peculiar smile.
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