Forced Journey

by Rosemary Zibart

  “You won’t learn a thing if you do.”

  “Well, I can see you’re an American now,” said Mr. Mozer. “An American smart aleck!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Mozer,” Werner quickly responded. “It’s just hard to say what happened. It’s…a little unbelievable.”

  Mr. Mozer nodded. “Lots of things that happen when you’re young are unbelievable.”

  Werner looked worried. “You didn’t find anyone else to do my job, did you?”

  The grocer shook his head. “It would be hard to find a good worker like you.”

  “Thanks.” Werner swung around and started to head for the stairs. “I’ll come back later today and help out.” Even returning to an empty apartment seemed like a good idea now. At least his bed was there, his own bed.

  Just as he was reached the door, however, Mr. Mozer called out. “Wait a minute, Werner. Just one minute. I got something for you.” He walked to his cash register and removed something from underneath the counter. Then he walked slowly back toward Werner, gazing at the bundle in his hands.

  “This came while you were away,” he said, handing the boy a stack of letters. Thin, pale blue letters. He watched as Werner thumbed through them, one at a time. The boy examined every envelope, carefully addressed with his own handwriting, as if he’d never seen it before. As if the address had been written in a strange language he didn’t recognize.

  Werner didn’t need to count. He could tell already that each and every letter was there. Every single letter that he had written to Father from the time he arrived ten months ago to the very last letter he had sent so recently. The long letter about Coney Island that he so looked forward to his father reading. The stack, he guessed, contained over sixty letters in all.

  On each was the same official stamp in dark red ink: EMPFÄNGER UNBEKANNT.

  He knew what that meant: PERSON UNKNOWN. It meant that the person who was supposed to receive this letter was no longer living at that address. His father and sister were no longer living in their home. In the home they had shared for as long as he could remember. It meant they were gone, disappeared, hauled away as other Jews had been taken, no one knew where.

  Werner’s eyes rested on the envelopes, but he no longer saw them. What he saw were the faces of Father and Bettina. He saw them as they looked on the afternoon he left. He saw them as they looked other times, too, happier times, long ago.

  Finally, unable to bear the dreaded feelings any longer, Werner burst out, “But tell me, where are they? Where is my Father? Where is my sister? I want to know where they are!” His voice grew higher and higher, almost shrill. His face grew nearly as pale as Mr. Mozer’s apron.

  The old man opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, then shut it. He touched Werner’s shoulder. “I don’t know where they are. Who knows where they are right now?” he said gently. “But there’s hope, always hope, that they have found a safe place.”

  Hope…hope? To Werner, hope seemed like fluffy goose feathers floating skyward, nothing you could grasp onto or hold tight. Where was his family? Where were they?

  All these months he had counted on them reading his letters, learning about Esther, the apartment, his friend Sam, the school, the neighborhood, the United States. He had imagined them pouring over his words, knowing they had a safe place to travel to. He imagined them preparing for their trip, setting out across the ocean, toward the United States, toward him. But now they were nowhere – they had never read a single word of what he’d written. He hadn’t helped them even a tiny bit; he had failed completely. Where were they?

  He looked at Mr. Mozer and the man could see in the boy’s bleak face and hollow gaze that there was no hope. No hope at all.

  Werner staggered back a step or two. He reached out to prop himself against the wall, but even that felt thin and flimsy. Like it might topple over any second. He couldn’t think what to do next, even the next second. Everything had been held in place by that one thought – his family arriving. And what he must do to make that happen. What if they weren’t coming? What if they never came?

  His mind was still reeling from these awful thoughts when Sam bounded through the door. The moment he glimpsed Werner, a grin spread big across his face. His buddy had gone missing for three whole days – he was thrilled to see him alive – and eager to hear his adventures.

  Stepping closer, however, Sam caught the look on Werner’s face – dazed, bewildered, stricken, a ghostly remnant of himself – and Sam’s grin quickly faded.

  He didn’t say a word to Werner. He didn’t ask about the letters in the boy’s hand. Or where Werner had gone for three days or why he’d suddenly come back. The two just stood side-by-side a few minutes, dumb as posts.

  Finally, however, Sam couldn’t remain still another second. “Hey, Werner, whatcha say we get out of here?”

  Werner didn’t answer at first because he didn’t feel he had a voice. Then he shook his head. “Nah, Sam, I don’t want to go no place.”

  He wanted to add – because there’s no place to go. That’s what he was thinking. No place on earth you could go, no matter how fast you run…that life doesn’t sock you in the jaw or kick you in the shins or jab you in the stomach. The dark clouds pursue you…you can’t escape them.

  He felt stupid even thinking that things could be different. Why did he have so much hope for himself and his family? Life was a thunderstorm in the middle of a clear day, a nightmare, a missed chance to grab the golden ring. Did anyone ever grab the golden ring?

  “Come on, pal, things always look different outside,” Sam insisted. “You need some air. You look like you haven’t been breathing for a while. Another minute with no air and you’ll be dead.”

  Werner shrugged; what difference did it make? “Okay, Sam, we’ll go outside.” As the two walked out, they passed Mr. Mozer, but he didn’t look up. The old man stayed hunched over his cash register, looking small and defeated.

  Yet Sam was right. Outside was better than inside. Feeling the air and light on his skin made Werner feel more awake. Sam urged him again. “Hey, Werner, I know a place you never been, a new place we can go.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere new,” said Werner. “I don’t want to go anywhere at all.”

  “Please, please come with me,” Sam begged.

  Werner was about to say “no” again, but at that instant he glanced down the street. Who was the last person on earth that he wanted to see? Conrad Bluesteiner, of course – and the short stocky man was heading straight toward him. It didn’t take a genius to guess why he was coming this way now. He must have bad news about Esther, and he was getting ready to throw Werner out of the apartment.

  But Werner couldn’t bear hearing any more bad news – not now – not on top of everything else.

  He turned quickly to Sam. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The two immediately set out in the opposite direction. Seeing them take off, Conrad immediately yelled and started to run after the boys.

  But Sam led them at a fast pace, and he knew the area well. He cut back and forth between lines of cars and trucks inching down the streets. He skipped through alleys around garbage cans and piles of trash. He leapt over rubble and broken glass in empty lots and sprinted past men at work. They passed men loading trucks, hanging doors, painting signs. They sped across a bridge spanning a wide highway. Glancing at the cars down below, Werner felt dizzy. But he kept going, following Sam’s quick steps.

  Once he glanced back, but Conrad was no longer behind them.

  Finally they reached a big open field. “Come on, Werner, we’re almost there,” said Sam and the two ran as fast as they could.

  A minute later, panting for breath, they stood on the edge of a broad stretch of water. “The East River,” said Sam, sounding as proud as if he’d created it.

  “See that bridge?” he pointed. “That
’s the Manhattan Bridge. “And the one past there, that’s the Williamsburg Bridge.” The tall steel bridges loomed big and powerful against the sky.

  “Guess what’s across the river?” Sam asked.

  Werner shrugged; he had no idea.

  “Brooklyn.” Sam’s eyes lit up. “I got an aunt and uncle in Brooklyn and lots of cousins. Someday we’re gonna live over there.” His face shone with the happy thought.

  Werner looked east toward Brooklyn. But he wasn’t thinking about the peaceful island filled with big families, nice houses, schools and playgrounds. He was thinking about what was on the other side of Brooklyn – the Atlantic Ocean. And what was on the other side of that ocean. He was thinking of guns firing, bombs exploding, women and children screaming and trying to hide, soldiers bloody and dying. All that bad stuff was happening, you just couldn’t see it from here.

  Sam opened his arms wide. “The East River is one great river, ain’t it?”

  The two were standing on a wooden pier twenty feet above the water. Werner could see the swift currents moving past, dragging bits of wood and trash. In the middle, a green tugboat pulled a heavy barge sunk deep in the water, moving so slowly it hardly seemed to move at all. Above their heads, a single white gull flew past, its bright beady eye glancing down at them. A breeze loosened the air.

  “I like it here,” Sam said. He glanced at Werner, hopefully. He’d done the best he could, bringing his best friend to his favorite spot. “I come here myself when I’m outta sorts and things aren’t going right.” Sam stared at the river. “Something about the sky and water makes me see myself small and the world big.” He looked at Werner and shrugged. “Sometimes, that helps.”

  Werner didn’t speak for a moment. He knew that Sam was trying to make him feel better. And he wished he could feel better. He wanted to believe that somehow everything in their lives – especially for the people they loved – was going to be all right. But as much as Werner wanted to believe that, he didn’t, not at all.

  Sam turned to Werner and his eyes now held a question. He wanted to know where his friend had been for three days. What had happened? Had it been terrible or terrific?

  Werner tried to speak. He wanted to tell Sam about rescuing Anika, how the two had escaped to Central Park, about Mr. Todd and going to Harlem and everything. It had been an exciting three days, a real adventure. Probably no kid from their neighborhood had ever done anything like that!

  Yet Werner’s brain wasn’t working right. Everything seemed a blur – Sam, the pier, the barge beyond. His legs didn’t feel like they belonged to him; they couldn’t support his weight. And his feet weren’t connected to the pier any more; they weren’t connected to anything.

  While inside, a part of him seemed to collapse, like a kite losing wind that dives to the ground. Swaying, he reached out, but found nothing to grasp onto.

  Darkness flooded his head. Very faintly, he glimpsed Father and Bettina, their faces set in the tender frame of childhood, but gradually slipping away, further and further away. Then he fell…down, down, down…surrounded by a swirl of thin blue envelopes…

  A second later, embraced by cold water, Werner gasped for air and struggled to reach the surface. But the river’s dark swift current dragged him down. He sank deeper and deeper until his mind, his muscles, his heart seemed to give way, to give up…

  “Werner, Werner, grab on!”

  He heard Sam’s voice like a distant echo and felt his friend’s fingers graze his cheek. In the water a foot away, Sam was reaching toward Werner with one arm while thrashing with the other to stay afloat. By now, however, water was streaming into Werner’s mouth and nose, trickling down his throat and creeping into his lungs. In another moment – the boy Werner Berlinger would be drowned – gone forever from this life!

  Yet in that same instant, Werner felt his chest being squeezed in the fist of God. With all remaining strength, his arms and legs desperately flailing, he rose to where water and light meet and spitting out a mouthful of grimy water, he cried, “Sam!”

  A second later, his friend’s free arm locked around him, pulling the two close. And they started swimming, as hard as possible, together. Still, the powerful river carried them along, past some pilings, towards the ocean.

  Werner was too weak to yell, but Sam shouted, “Help! Help us!”

  Above on the pier, someone spotted the two struggling boys. A thick rope was thrown down and both grabbed it. “I’m pulling you out, boys,” a voice called. “Hold tight.”

  The two were dragged out. Werner lay flat on his back for several moments, eyes shut. Beneath him were cool wooden planks. Above, someone was pumping his chest, pushing down hard over and over again, until water gushed from his nose and mouth.

  “You look alive, kid,” the man grunted and stood up.

  Werner opened his eyes a slit, enough to see who was staring down at him. His jaw sagged open in surprise. Conrad stood above, his short stocky legs planted firmly on the pier. What the hell was he doing here? The man’s little eyes gazed intently at him without a word. Then Conrad reached down, grasped Werner’s hand and pulled him to his feet. The boy swayed a moment, dizzy and unsure.

  “Watcha doing, jumping in the river like that, kid?” Conrad grumbled. “Ya wanna git wet, open up the fire plug. That’s what we kids used to do.”

  Minutes later, Conrad drove the boys back to Second Avenue in an old truck. He gripped the steering wheel as he talked. “I wuz looking all over fer you, Werner,” he explained. “Then, just when I spot you and your buddy, you take off for God-knows-where. I can’t keep up with the running, so I borrow this truck from a fella’ to follow.”

  He pulled up in front of Mr. Mozer’s store. “And when I finally git there, you nearly drown yourself to death.”

  Werner glanced over. Conrad’s face was cloudy with emotion. He clearly wanted to say more, but was having a hard time squeezing out the words. When he and Sam started to climb out of the truck, however, Conrad caught his arm. “Heard you went missing for a few days.”

  Werner muttered, “Yeah, I did.”

  Conrad eyed him sternly. “You don’t need to do that any more, Werner. You don’t need to run off anywhere.” He turned his gaze back to the steering wheel, still frowning. “What I said about sending you back…I wouldn’t a done it, you know? I never woulda done it.”

  Werner slammed the truck door. “Thanks.” That’s all he could manage at the moment.

  Without another word, Conrad gunned the truck and sped down the street. Werner stared after him dumbly. Was that truly all the short man had to say to him? He still hadn’t explained why he was looking for Werner. But the boy didn’t need his explanation. He knew what Conrad had planned to say. Once he saw what poor shape Werner was in, however, even Conrad had shown mercy. He hadn’t spilled the bad news. And, thank God, he had eached the river when he did. If he hadn’t…

  Sam looked at his friend closely. “You all right?”

  Werner nodded, though still unsteady.

  “Maybe I should go up with you, huh?”

  Werner shook his head. “I’m okay.” He wanted time on his own. He had to think what was next. Even without the threat from Conrad, he was unsure what to do. How he’d live there on his own. Without even a bird or turtle for company…and most of all without the goal of seeing his family, of getting a foothold in this new country, so they’d follow.

  The plunge in the cold East River had waked him up, but it hadn’t cured him of his misery, his sense of losing everything that mattered.

  Sam gazed at his pal another moment, then turned and headed off, ever quick and light on his feet. Werner watched him go. Sam must have dived in a second after he tumbled off the pier. His friend hadn’t given any thought to what might have happened to him in the mighty river. Walking jauntily away, Sam’s clothes were still soaked and filthy, but on him they looked like princely g
arb.

  Trudging upstairs, Werner could feel the stairs beneath his feet. Each step felt as if he was lifting the weight of centuries. Around him, the air reeked as usual of boiled cabbage and fried onions. He was tired, damp, sore and alone. Yet even in his aloneness, he felt close to everyone he had ever cared about. Mother, Father, Bettina, Esther, Mr. Todd, Anika – each would stay in his heart as long as he lived.

  The river hadn’t done its deadly work. He had escaped; he was the lucky one. Werner stumbled and reached for the rail. He hadn’t succeeded in saving anyone, only himself. But wasn’t that something? He recalled his father’s words: “Werner, please understand. You must go. It’s the best chance you have – to stay alive. That’s what counts now. All that counts.”

  Indeed he was alive now to feel the shock, grief, delight, joy and everything that makes being alive what it is – a triumph over darkness, a reaching out for…

  He stopped short. The apartment door was slightly ajar. Inside were sounds, familiar sounds…

  As Werner pushed open the door, a playful breeze washed over his face. Across the room, he saw Esther, seated in her wheelchair under the window – so thin and frail, it seemed a shaft of sunlight might cut right through her. Yet seeing Werner – damp and forlorn – her face flushed with pleasure. She lifted trembling hands in his direction, her voice filled with gladness.

  “Werner, dearest, they said I was all mended and could come home,” she murmured. “Conrad brought me here today. When we didn’t see you, I sent him to find you.”

  A warm smile spread across her face. “It’s wunderbar, isn’t it, Werner? Being home.”

  Above her, Mozart’s bright song spread through the room.

  Epilogue

  A little over a month later, on September 7, 1940, Nazi bombers began shelling London and Werner’s school P.S. 122 opened for the new school year.

  When he got back to school, he learned that Mr. Pendergrast wasn’t teaching fourth grade any more. “He’s moved to Connecticut,” the principal explained to any student who asked. Every kid wanted to cheer but nobody did. They all just looked at one another and winked.