Epenstein nods to us. “Perhaps we should walk in the garden,” he says quietly, “and leave Heinrich to enjoy his dreams.”
A PRIVATE AUDIENCE
The next time I visit Burg Veldenstein, I’m alone. Christof would have come with me, had I asked him, but there are things I need to discuss with the ritter. Things Christof wouldn’t understand. Things I can’t talk about with Papa.
Now that I’m having what amounts to a private audience with Epenstein in his trophy room, I’m at a loss for words. I feel like an awkward boy trying to make conversation with the headmaster.
“You wish to speak with me?” The doctor looks at me patiently.
“Yes, sir.” I hesitate before blurting out, “I have so many questions I want to ask you, but I’m not sure how to ask them. I don’t want to offend you.”
Epenstein quirks an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose you could just ask your questions. If I’m offended, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, I’ll try to answer. How’s that?”
“Very well, sir.” I look down at the floor, trying to find a focus. “You know that I’m a Jew.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Well, I’ve heard that your family is Jewish and that you converted. Would you mind me asking why? It’s not that I want to convert. It’s just that….” I trail off, not knowing quite how to voice my thoughts.
Epenstein nods understandingly. “You want to be German.”
“Yes.” I smile with relief.
“To my way of thinking, being Jewish is how you choose to serve God. Being German is how you choose to serve the Fatherland.” He pauses so we both can mull his words. “I know there are Germans and Jews who wouldn’t agree with that. But it’s easier today than it was when I was your age.”
“Is that why you converted?” I ask.
“It probably is what started me thinking. But it’s not the reason. Faith isn’t a matter of convenience – no matter what anyone tells you.” He absently spins an antique globe sitting on the richly carved desk between us. “I’ve always had a lot of curiosity about this world and the next, so I’ve studied a number of religions. I became a Catholic because I believed the teachings of the church.”
Epenstein chuckles softly. “Kov, if my conversion was to become more German, I would have become a Lutheran. It is, after all, a German church.”
“So, do you feel German?”
“I feel like a man who lives in Germany, who has served his country, and is proud of the opportunities his country has given him. If Germany were attacked, I would be among the first to defend the Fatherland – even if it meant my life. So yes, I guess I do feel German.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “But I think the question you’re really asking is whether others see me as German.”
I nod.
“That’s more difficult to answer. Since I also have Burg Mauterndorf in Austria, some may think my loyalties are divided.” He strokes his goatee thoughtfully and then looks at me shrewdly. “What do you think? I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of stories about me.”
I smile sheepishly. “I think you’re German. And the Görings obviously see you as a fellow countryman.”
“Ah, but you’re my friends. I know there are many people in both Austria and Germany who will never view me as anything but an opportunistic Jew who somehow took something that rightfully should be theirs. Some of them are my neighbors and the people I do business with. Others will never know me except by name and rumors.”
Epenstein pauses to choose his words. “The older I get, the more I realize that what other people think about me has little to do with who I am. All of us – Jews, Catholics, Lutherans, even the godless – will always be seen by others through their personal spectacles of perception. Any heroic deeds we accomplish will be filtered and interpreted by their assumptions.” He sighs heavily. “We can’t change other people, and we can’t force them to see us the way we would like to be seen.”
He nods his head toward the door. “Take my friend Heinrich. You couldn’t ask for a better man – or a better German. He was a brilliant, well-connected public servant who sacrificed his life, his family, and his reputation for his country, serving wherever the Chancellor sent him. But look at him now. His only comfort is his stein.”
He leans back in his chair and turns slightly so he can look out the window at the men repairing his castle. “When I first met Heinrich in South West Africa, he was a man with the promise of a bright future. But he was sent on a fool’s mission that was doomed to fail.”
“I thought he got the treaty.”
“Yes, he did. And for a short time, he was seen as a bit of a hero. But the politicians back home still hadn’t committed to supporting a colony in Africa, so Bismarck refused to send the troops needed to provide the protection the treaty promised. It didn’t take long for Maharero and the other chiefs to realize Heinrich lacked the power and the resources to keep up his side of the bargain. He had a few big guns but little else. Those were not pleasant times to be a German official in South West Africa.” He pauses, lost in the faraway places of his memories.
“What happened?” I ask.
“After negotiating the treaty with Maharero, Heinrich set about getting all the other Herero chiefs to sign it. It took some work, but Heinrich was good at diplomacy. Well, diplomacy as we know it, that is.” Epenstein chuckles. “His next step was to get a protection treaty with Witbooi. But the old warrior was a far different man than Maharero. He thought he was called by God to deliver his people from the strangers in their land. To prove it, he constantly made raids on the tribes that signed the treaties. With no troops, Heinrich was powerless to stop him.
“With each raid, Witbooi became bolder – and the other chiefs more desperate. Seeking the protection the treaty promised him, Maharero and many of his people moved with their cattle to Otjimbingwe where we had established the German administration. One night, in his most brazen move yet, Witbooi and his allies slipped into Otjimbingwe and stole our horses and raided Maharero’s cattle. With no horses and no troops, Heinrich couldn’t give chase. And the Herero chief lost all confidence in our ability to protect his people and cattle.
“The chief summoned Heinrich and the missionaries to his house. After declaring the treaty void, he ordered the German officials and the missionaries to get out of his country. There was nothing Heinrich could do but gather his family and trek across the desert to Walvis Bay to wait for orders from Bismarck.” Epenstein turns away from the window to face me. “It was the beginning of the end for Heinrich.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Heinrich was sent to South West Africa, he was well respected and had a bright future in the diplomatic corp. But when the newspapers in Germany got word of the treaty failure, they blamed it all on him. Calling the Herero ignorant heathen who just needed a firm hand to lead them into civilization, they portrayed Heinrich as a weak, bumbling fool who had no business leading a colony.
“Despite the public humiliation, Heinrich remained committed to the treaties he had signed. So when Bismarck sent him back to South West Africa a few years later, he worked diligently to get the treaty with Maharero reinstated.”
“He obviously succeeded,” I say.
“Yes and no,” Epenstein responds. “A lot had happened in the colony during Heinrich’s absence. More troops, led by Captain Curt von Francois, had been sent there to maintain the peace. But Francois and his brother Hugo were more interested in lining their pockets than brokering peace between the tribes. They used their fort in Tsaobis to control the trade routes and build up their own cattle herds. They were hard taskmasters to any native who challenged their authority.
“When Heinrich returned in 1890, the Francois brothers made a big deal of escorting him, with a camel caravan and most of the military troops in the colony, to Maharero’s house in Okahandja. Once again, the old chief was preparing for an attack by Witbooi. Surrounded on all sides by the troops, Heinrich, in all sincerity, offered Maharero German protection in exchange
for a treaty opening up more land for settlement. The chief, out of desperation, accepted.”
Epenstein lights his pipe and takes a long draw on it before continuing. “It didn’t take Heinrich long to realize the Francois brothers had no intention of upholding our side of the treaty. All they were after was more land. Seeing he had been played for a fool, he left Africa for good and requested another post.”
“What happened then?”
“Shortly after Heinrich left, Witbooi attacked the Herero cattle posts. When Maharero appealed to Captain von Francois for protection, he was told the German troops couldn’t get involved in native affairs. Witbooi attacked the Herero again a few months later. This time, German soldiers had coffee with him during a lull in the fighting. And he herded the stolen cattle right by the German fort in Tsaobis, trading with the Francois brothers while he was there. Maharero, who had trusted Heinrich, died a broken man. As for Heinrich, he was sent to Haiti, stripped of his pride, his reputation, and his self-respect.”
Epenstein leans forward. “All Heinrich has ever done was serve his country. But you see, being a good German can come at a high price – perhaps too high. Only you can decide if it’s worth it. As for me, I go on with my life, living it as I see fit. To hell with what everyone else thinks.”
“No disrespect, sir, but you’re at a point in your life where you can get by with that attitude. I’m just starting out.” I hesitate before plunging on. “You say it’s getting easier to be a Jew in Germany, but I don’t see it – not with Fritsch’s new handbook on anti-Semitism and the Dreyfus affair in France.”
My host nods in agreement. “And don’t forget Wilhelm Marr. He’s still being quoted.” He looks down his nose and mimics the author of modern anti-Semitism in pompous, self-righteous tones: “‘Even the most honorable Jew is under the inescapable influence of his blood, carrier of a semitic morality, totally opposed to Germanic values, aimed at the destruction and burial of German values and traditions.’”
We laugh, but the only humor we find in Marr’s words is how off the mark they are.
“Sir, I know the best I can hope for is to be considered a ‘German of the Jewish faith,’ but I have no idea where to begin,” I say. “What would you suggest?”
Epenstein narrows his eyes shrewdly. “You must serve your country.”
“But how?” I ask. “Since I have no family connections, politics is out of the question. And it’s almost impossible for Jews to join the army. The few who do – ” I shudder. “I’ve heard the stories.”
He nods. “Yes, but there is a way in. You could become a doctor. The army desperately needs good doctors, so it couldn’t care less whether they’re Christians or Jews.”
“A doctor,” I murmur. “I could do that. Mama always wanted me to be a doctor or a rabbi – she said I should devote my life to healing people’s souls or their bodies.”
“That’s a worthy ambition,” he says with a smile. “Give it some thought. And if you decide that’s what you want, I can get you into the medical school at Würzburg and then arrange a military post for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I stand up to leave.
“Save your gratitude,” Epenstein says. “Who knows? Someday, you may be cursing me for this.”
THE RABBI
When I get home, Papa and the rabbi are waiting for me. I quickly retrieve my yarmulke from my coat pocket and discreetly put it on my head. Papa clears his throat disapprovingly.
“What is it?” I demand, even though I know what’s coming.
“Yaakov,” Papa says under his breath, “show some respect. Your mama and I raised you better than that.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” I say meekly as I take off my overcoat. I nod to the rabbi. “Good evening, Rabbi.”
The rabbi embraces me, kissing me on both cheeks in the old custom. “Yaakov, where is the little boy I used to bounce on my knee? You have become a full-grown man overnight.” He smiles at me through his thick, gray whiskers.
“Sit, sit,” Papa says, flitting around like a nervous old woman.
I wait for the rabbi to settle back onto the worn sofa before I sit in Mama’s old rocker.
“We have missed you in synagogue,” the rabbi tells me.
“Let me get some tea.” Papa slips away into the kitchen.
“I have missed going,” I reply honestly. “I’ve been so busy studying for the Abitur.”
At the mention of the comprehensive exam that comes at the end of high school, the rabbi smiles understandingly. “And what will you do after you graduate?”
“I’m preparing to go into medicine. The world can never have too many doctors.”
“Ach, that is good.” The rabbi strokes his beard. “We can always use another doctor at our Jewish hospital. Your papa must be very proud of you.”
“I haven’t told him yet,” I confess. “I know he would like for me to continue as a spielwarenmacher. But with all the new mechanism, I could never compete with Bing and the other big toy companies.”
The rabbi nods. “I think your papa would like having a doctor in the family.”
Papa walks into the room bearing a heavy tray laden with Mama’s tea service and a plate of kugel. “What would I like?” he asks as he carefully places the tray on a nearby table. I notice his hand shakes slightly as he pours the tea.
“Yaakov was just telling me he wants to be a doctor.” The rabbi winks at me. “You must be happy.”
“What?” Papa quickly covers his surprise. “Oh, yes, yes.” He looks at me questioningly. “His mama would have liked that – a doctor in the family. But if he’s serious about this, he will have to study harder and stop all his socializing.”
The rabbi turns to me. “Your papa tells me you have struck up a friendship with Ritter von Epenstein.”
“Yes, I have. He’s offered to help me get into the medical school at the University of Würzburg.”
“On what condition?” Papa asks. “The doctor is not known for his charity – except to the Göring family.”
I bristle at Papa’s uncustomary sarcasm. “That’s not true. The doctor is a good man. And there are no conditions.” I look down, knowing I’m not being totally truthful. Papa wouldn’t be happy if he knew I planned to use medical school as my door into the military. He would see it as a personal betrayal, me helping people who wish we didn’t exist.
The rabbi breaks the awkward silence that followed my outburst. “Be that as it may, Yaakov, you would do well to keep some distance from the ritter. Any man who would turn his back on God would do far worse to a friend. It is for that reason that King David warned us not to walk with ungodly men.”
I know better than to argue with the rabbi in front of Papa. But I make a mental note: “He’s not ungodly. He just worships God differently.”
The rabbi changes the subject. “Würzburg. That is where they’ve come up with a way to take photographs inside the body. Röntgen rays – that’s what they call it.” He smiles broadly. “It is a good choice for you. And you will be close enough to come home occasionally, especially for the High Holy Days.”
Papa offers the rabbi more tea before turning to me. “Yaakov, you will make a wonderful doctor. I’m proud of you. But you must understand that Würzburg is nothing like Fürth.”
“I know that, Papa. Fürth is just a village...”
The rabbi interrupts me. “That’s not what he means, Yaakov. For centuries, Fürth has welcomed our people. It has been a refuge for us, and we have grown strong here. We have become a community – with our many synagogues, our own hospital, schools, theater, and all of our stores. Yes, there are people here who barely tolerate us, but they leave us alone.”
“It’s not the same in Würzburg,” Papa says. “They have a history of murdering Jews or banning them from the city.”
“It’s not like that now?” My response is both a question and a statement.
The rabbi laughs rather hollowly. “They haven’t killed any Jews in Würzburg for a f
ew hundred years. But you know, for us, that’s like yesterday.” He sips his tea. “No, Yaakov, you will be physically safe there, but I’m afraid your faith will be tested. You will need to get back into the habit of going to synagogue and studying the Talmud. You should go to the Hauptsynagoge there. Rabbi Bamberger follows in the steps of his father.”
“Ahhh, the Würzburg Rav,” Papa murmurs. “Now he was a Talmudic scholar. May he rest in peace.”
The rabbi nods in agreement. “Unfortunately, Seligmann was the last of his kind. No one can fill his shoes, but his son Nathan is a scholar in his own right and is much loved in Würzburg.”
The rabbi sets his teacup down and stands to go. “Speaking of synagogue, I expect to see you every Sabbath until you leave for university. And when you go, you remember your prayers, young man.”
I smile and nod.
Papa hands the rabbi his overcoat. “Will you give Yaakov a blessing? He will need high marks on the Abitur to get into medical school.”
“Of course.” The rabbi turns toward me and prays solemnly: “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Haolam, shenatan meichachmato l’vasar vadam.”
ON MY OWN
True to his word, Epenstein made sure I was accepted into the medical school at the University of Würzburg. For the first time in my life, I am away from home, from my friends – from Papa. I’m excited about the future, but I’m also afraid. The city, with its Catholic history visibly etched into the town’s structure, can be intimidating for a Jew. Its Christian fervor is evident in the statues lining Old Main Bridge. The four-spired cathedral that has stood for nearly a thousand years. The bigger-than-life sculpture of the Prince Bishop of Würzburg looking up at the 13th-century Marienberg fortress standing guard over the vineyards and red-roofed houses and shops clustered along both sides of the bend in the river.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve heard the stories of the Jewish massacres in Würzburg. I know they happened hundreds of years ago, yet I can’t help but wonder if a young Jewish man will be welcome in this city today. I remind myself that I am a man preparing to serve the Fatherland. I force myself to stand a little taller, to look the Germans walking toward me in the eye, to smile confidently – even though I feel no confidence.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 7