Forced Journey

by Rosemary Zibart

  But he also glimpsed something unhappy in her face. Her eyes didn’t sparkle; her mouth was pinched in a tight line.

  Werner wondered what could be wrong. Her clothes were still fine; she didn’t look starved. And best of all, she lived right across the street from Central Park. Here was one of the greatest places in the city, and she could visit it any day of the week, any time of day. So why was she unhappy?

  Werner stepped closer, calling softly, “Anika.”

  Her head turned.

  He knew the instant she spotted him. There was a quick gasp of surprise and a flash of happiness. She opened her mouth, then shut it again quickly. Her lovely face closed like when a shade has been pulled down over a window. She lifted her chin high, looked straight ahead and marched on.

  Then Werner saw what might be the problem. A chubby girl and boy with frizzy carrot-colored hair followed Anika from the limousine. The twins were both wearing brand new clothes. In fact, they carried big shopping bags like they’d just come from a buying spree at a department store. The looks on their faces, however, were not so nice. Their round freckled faces were conceited and unfriendly.

  The big doorman ignored Anika, but tipped his cap to the other two. “Hallo there, Master Furstburner. Don’t you look spiffy today, Miss Furstburner!”

  “Thanks, Rudolf,” the boy said loudly. He tossed a coin to the doorman, glancing around to make sure people noticed what a big shot he was. His sister gave a prissy little smirk.

  Werner shook his head. Poor Anika. After being forced to leave her beloved father, she deserved a good family, someone like his own dear Esther. Not these stuck-up kids.

  The carrot tops and Anika disappeared behind a glass door that circled round and round.

  “Now I gotta come back,” Werner muttered to himself. He wanted to see Central Park again, of course, but he also wanted to see Anika. He wanted to cheer up his lively fun-loving friend. At least now he knew where she lived.

  “Whatcha sneaking ’round here for!” shouted Rudolf, spotting the two boys. He gave Sam a hard push, so he nearly ended up flat on the pavement. The two didn’t delay; in a second they’d run halfway down the block.

  Rudolf was still yelling, “You scum! Don’t ever come back!”

  The rain let up a bit as the boys dashed back to the subway. They pressed through the crowds, then leaped over the turnstile, just for the heck of it. What an amazing day it had been!

  While waiting for the train, Sam quizzed his friend. “So who was she?”

  “Who was who?” Werner said, staring at the tracks.

  “Your girl, that’s who,” he replied.

  “She’s not my girl.”

  “Oh, no?” replied Sam with a sly grin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as Werner returned from Central Park, he discovered something very wrong. The apartment was dark and cold. He could barely see Esther. When he called her name, he discovered the poor woman in bed covered with blankets. Clothes were piled on top of the blankets for extra warmth.

  Oh my God. He glanced across the room. The window was half open. His mind darted back to that morning. He’d been so excited about the trip that he’d left it like that when he checked the weather. It had seemed fine at the time. Then he recalled the sudden rainstorm that had caught Sam and him in Central Park. The storm had quickly pushed away the spring sunshine, pelting them with rain and chilling the air with gusts of wind. The same storm must have visited here. The radiators had been turned off a month ago. The apartment could easily turn cold and drafty.

  Werner rushed across the room and slammed down the window. Though he knew it was too late.

  “Thanks, Werner,” murmured Esther from beneath the covers. “I meant to get up and do that myself. Just didn’t get ’round to it.” Her voice was weak.

  “Esther, I’m so very…” he mumbled.

  “Don’t you worry, Werner,” she added. “I just hope you and Sam had a good time. And how’s the little guy, what’s his name, your turtle?”

  Werner felt a pang in his heart. A cold dark apartment and an empty crate, not much to cheer him up.

  “Maybe later you can head down to Mr. Mozer’s,” said Esther. “I wouldn’t mind reading the news.”

  Werner opened up a can of mushroom soup and poured it into a pot. “The news, the news – why have you always gotta read the news?” He banged the soup pot down on the burner. “You oughta quit reading the dumb news! It makes you so miserable.”

  Esther was silent a moment. “It’s worse not knowing, isn’t it, bubele?” she murmured. “And if you don’t know what’s going on, how can you do anything?”

  “Do anything? What difference does it make what we do?” Werner muttered. “The Nazis are winning! They’re beating everybody!”

  He poured Esther a bowl of soup and brought it to her on a tray, then hurried downstairs to the grocery. He felt bad about the drafty cold apartment. He also felt bad because all day he’d been having such a swell time. All day he’d forgotten about the news, about the war in Europe, about Father and Bettina.

  What he’d told Esther, however, was true. By late spring, Nazi Germany had gobbled up Czechoslovakia, Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Luxembourg, and Holland. The map of Europe looked like a bottle of black ink had toppled over and drenched the continent with dark blotches. Only brave little England stood fast against the Nazi forces.

  Every day newsboys on every street corner shouted out grim headlines like “HOLLAND FLOODS ITS OWN FIELDS TO STOP NAZI ADVANCE BUT NOTHING STOPS THE HUNS!”

  When he reached Mr. Mozer’s store that evening, he found the old man sitting on a stool behind the counter. After sundown on Saturday night, the grocery opened for a few hours. People who’d run out of eggs or bread on the Sabbath came by. It was also a time for people from the neighborhood to gather together and share news and opinions. Mr. Mozer sat on a stool behind the cash register while a few customers stood nearby.

  “War’s getting closer and closer every day,” said Mr. Mozer. “I can smell it just around the corner.”

  “For Pete’s sake, why should America get into another dirty war from Europe?” said Leo Zinitsky. “We lost plenty of good Americans the last time. We’d be stupid to do it again.”

  “This ain’t the same,” said Emma Krohof. “The Nazis are bad people. They’re killing Jews and communists and any decent person who stands against ’em.”

  “What? You think it’s worse now than the pogroms we faced thirty years ago in Russia?” asked Leo. “Ten, twenty, fifty Jews used to get killed every week! Ain’t that why so many of us came here?” He glanced around the crowd.

  “I can’t see how anybody, even the damn Nazis, could murder people like we hear they’re doing,” said Aron Tishfelt. “It’s propaganda – trying to get us angry so we’ll sign up for another war. Not me, not this time, I ain’t going.”

  “Don’t go, Aron, if you don’t want to, you chump! But I sure will!” exclaimed Himmel Kauffeldt. He was a young man who brought crates of brown farm eggs from Long Island every day. “I’ll fight and fight until the Nazis are all dead.”

  Himmel and Aron looked ready to punch each other right that minute. With a weary look, Mr. Mozer turned to Werner, “You wuz there, kid. You come from Germany a short time ago. Wuz it so bad as they say?”

  Everyone turned and stared at the boy. He wished he could slip between the cracks in the floor. How do you describe a deadly hurricane on a calm sunny day? Who would believe the awful stuff? Yet he knew he needed to speak up. How else would people know what was happening?

  “Is it so bad as they say?” Aron Tishfelt repeated.

  Werner nodded, “It’s worse. Much worse.”

  The little group fell silent. In their bones, many of them knew that the night in Europe was becoming blacker, especially for Jews. Yet what could anybody do about it?
Only the American president, Franklin Roosevelt, could stand up against Nazi Germany. And to do that, he had to gain the support of the U.S. Congress and the American people. According to the news, FDR was slowly, steadily moving the United States into the war on the side of England. Hurray for the president, thought Werner. If only he’d hurry up. President Roosevelt needed to move as fast as the comic hero Superman to beat Adolf Hitler!

  At that moment Oscar Buddorf entered the little store and began buying groceries. He calmly put a hunk of Swiss cheese and a bottle of mustard into his cart. His yellowish teeth tightly clenched a pipe that issued a cloud of sweetish grey smoke.

  Seeing Buddorf, the small group of Jewish customers fell into a gloomy silence. They eyed him tensely and didn’t speak up until he left with a bag of groceries. Then Aron Tishfelt muttered, “That guy gives me the creeps.”

  “He ain’t like other krauts in the neighborhood.” Leo Zinitsky shook his head. “Like Mrs. Schultz that teaches kindergarten, or Mr. Heine that’s a plumber. Buddorf’s a real wacko.”

  “What is that group he belongs to? The German Bund?” Emma Krostof shuddered. “They’re…they’re un-American, that’s what I think!”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Mozer soberly. “There’s more Americans think like he does than you ever wanna know.”

  Werner didn’t have time to listen further. He grabbed the used newspapers from under the counter and ran back upstairs to look after Esther. She sounded like she might have gotten a cold in her chest. What if she got any sicker? It would be his fault, completely. And he knew who would be angrier than heck. Tomorrow Conrad would arrive at 3 p.m. exactly. What would he say? What might he do?

  Dashing up the stairs, Werner prayed she’d be well by then.

  Chapter Twenty

  But Esther wasn’t well the next day. Waking a few times during the night, Werner heard hers gasp for air. She sat nearly upright, propped on pillows, just trying to breathe in and out.

  By Sunday morning, she was exhausted.

  “Tell Mr. Boronski and the others that I can’t help today,” she murmured wearily. “I’m so sorry. Maybe later this week.” Werner bent close to hear her voice.

  “You gotta take care of yourself now, Esther,” he insisted, feeding her spoonfuls of sweet hot tea. “That’s what’s important.”

  “But we can’t turn our backs on our neighbors and our relatives,” she whispered to him.

  Werner shrugged, yet he knew she was right. What if she’d turned her back on him? Where would he be now?

  “You want me to cut your hair, Werner?” Esther murmured. “I haven’t done it in a while.” The boy shook his head. Just like her to be thinking of him when she was feeling so low.

  A little later Esther started coughing. Coughing and coughing. Flecks of blood hit the pillow around her. Werner anxiously watched the clock as the hours ticked by…12 p.m…1 p.m…2 p.m…2:50 p.m. He paced back and forth in the tiny space. Conrad would be arriving any minute.

  “I’m going downstairs to see Mr. Mozer,” he said to Esther.

  She barely nodded; she didn’t look good. Paler than usual, she hadn’t put on lipstick and brushed her hair as she usually did for Conrad’s visits. She still struggled to catch every breath.

  Werner passed Conrad on the stairs. In a hurry as usual, the short man didn’t glance over. He didn’t yet know.

  Twenty minutes later, however, Werner stood in front of the grocery store, tossing a ball with Sam. Conrad marched up. His face was beaded with sweat. He looked like steam might spew out of his ears any second.

  Glaring at Sam, he muttered, “Why don’t you get lost for a few minutes!”

  Sam glanced at Werner, who nodded okay. His friend walked slowly away, whistling.

  Conrad didn’t waste any time. “Hey, wise guy, you notice somebody who’s not feeling so good?”

  “Esther’s not feeling well.” Werner stared at the pavement beneath his feet.

  “You figured that out, did ya?” Conrad’s voice seethed with anger. “She was doing fine a week ago. How come she’s so sick right now?”

  “Sh-she didn’t tell you?” Werner stammered.

  “Nah, but I’d bet ten bucks you know what happened and twenty you’re the person responsible!” Conrad wagged his finger in the boy’s face. “You being stupid or lazy. Or both!”

  Werner didn’t answer. What could he say? Conrad was right – he had been stupid and careless. He’d been thinking of his trip uptown, of Julius and beautiful Central Park. He hadn’t been thinking of Esther.

  Conrad wasn’t interested in an answer anyway; he got right to the point. “She’s too sick to stay on her own up there,” he muttered, glancing toward the fourth floor window. “She needs somebody who can really take care of her.”

  Werner’s heart flipped. Was Conrad going to take Esther away? For how long – a week, a month? Would he ever see her again?

  “Where will she go?” he asked.

  “There’s a special hospital for people with her kinda disease. I’m gonna take her there,” Conrad said.

  “N-now?” Werner stammered.

  “Tomorrow. Soon as I can put the money together.” Conrad glared at him. “Doctors don’t come cheap, you know? You been soaking up all the extra cash for months. But that’s finished now. You’re finished now.” His face turned hard. “Get her things ready to go. I’ll be back for her tomorrow, you hear?”

  He whirled around and started down the street, then turned back. “And don’t think you can hang out there forever on your own. No sirree. Not you, not with nothing to do!”

  As soon as Conrad took off, Sam returned. “You okay, pal?” He tossed the ball at him but Werner didn’t catch it. It bounced down the sidewalk as he headed toward the apartment. “I got a lot to do.”

  That evening, he spent every moment tending to Esther. He brought her cups of hot chicken soup, sitting on the bed and spooning the soup to her lips. He read pieces of the newspaper aloud, though some of it was old news.

  “You’re so good to me, Werner.” Esther ruffled his hair gently. He looked away; his stomach was starting to ache badly. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing’s the matter, Esther, I promise,” Werner replied. “Please don’t worry.”

  It was enough for him to worry. He fought off the vision of holding his mother’s hand for the last time. This can’t be, he thought. This can’t happen to me again...it can’t.

  That evening, when Esther fell asleep, he gathered up her sweaters, socks, and underwear. He put them in a little grey suitcase from the closet; inside were cobwebs for it hadn’t been used in years.

  Werner glanced around. There wasn’t much else to do. Not now. His face felt tight, like a thin coat of paint had been brushed across it. He sat on his bed and glanced through all his old comic books, but the stories didn’t draw him in. Then he picked up a shabby geography textbook that Mrs. McIntosh had given him. Werner had thumbed through it again and again, eager to know what the whole United States looked like. Now he flipped through the pages. There were neighborhoods with rows of neat little houses and green lawns. There were farms with red barns and fat cows. But his favorite section was “The West.” He loved the pictures of cowboys roping steers, of Indians on horseback, of mountains, prairies, and deserts. The West looked open and free. Just like Alf’s stories.

  Werner’s head finally dropped to his pillow. Dreams of coyotes and grizzly bears spun in his brain.

  “Open up! You hear me?”

  Conrad was yelling and pounding on the door. It was morning already. He entered with two big men and a stretcher.

  “You got her clothes?” he demanded.

  Werner handed him the little grey suitcase. The two strong guys slowly lifted Esther onto the stretcher. “Careful now. You be careful.” Conrad’s face was stiff with worry. She l
ay on the stretcher limply, barely breathing, only half-awake.

  Conrad followed the men down the stairs. Werner watched through the window as Esther was carefully loaded into an ambulance on the street. It seemed like half the neighborhood was watching as well.

  A minute later, Conrad returned, shut the door and walked straight toward Werner. Though only forty, he looked nearly eighty. His head was sunk in his shoulders, and he gazed at the boy with a hard, unforgiving stare.

  “You know it’s your fault this happened! You lousy nogoodnik.” He jabbed his stubby fingers into the boy’s chest. “You had a job to do and you didn’t do it, did ya!” He poked at Werner again. “Whatcha thinks gonna happen now? What’s gonna happen to my darlin’ Esther?”

  The man’s face was creased with pain. His hands curled into fists and he struck several sharp punches, right and left. Werner stepped back, trying to get clear, but not fast enough. Conrad socked him right below the chest; Werner gasped for breath. Then Conrad peppered him again and again with hard jabs.

  Werner ducked the blows, at first, but didn’t fight back. After all, he figured, Conrad was right. It was his fault that Esther got sick. He’d goofed up; he deserved whatever punishment he got.

  But then Conrad’s fists became hammers, knocking him from side to side. He struck the boy’s face – busting open his lip and bruising his cheek. Werner saw from Conrad’s face that the man was blind with anger. He wasn’t just going to punish the boy, he was going to kill him…He would kill him!

  That’s when Werner raised his fists and began fighting back. He was taller than Conrad, though not as strong. The man knocked him down, but Werner grabbed his shirt and pulled him down, too. The two rolled on the floor, striking and kicking one another. Conrad managed to get on top and slammed the boy’s head against the floor. Once, twice, three times. Werner felt dizzy. In another second, he’d pass out, and if Conrad kept punching him, he’d soon be dead. With all his strength, Werner jabbed a knee hard into the man’s gut, pushed him off, and rolled away.