We Were Strangers Once

by Betsy Carter

  “I can assure you, it will be more civil there than it is right here,” said Georg. “Come Kaethe, I’ve had enough.” The two of them hurried down the hall as Catrina, Rose, and Kiefer came out of the elevator. They all looked startled when Meyer shouted, “Give my regards to the gracious Mr. Hitler!”

  “Good heavens, are we late?” asked Rose. Catrina and Kiefer were on either side of her, holding her arms.

  Meyer was taken aback by Rose’s labored breathing and weakened state. “Come, sit,” he said, pointing her to the couch. He propped a pillow behind her back and sat next to her.

  She spoke slowly. “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s Egon’s dog, Johnny. He died.”

  Catrina took in the sorry sight of Egon, who looked worse than Johnny. “What a terrible thing.” When she put her arm around Egon, she could feel how he was shivering. “You poor man,” she whispered, rubbing his back. She crouched down to kiss Johnny’s head. “We’ll give you a proper burial, I promise.” Then she led Egon into the bedroom. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.’

  Meyer gestured everyone toward the kitchen, where the table was half set and an unopened box from Nash’s sat on the counter. “We’ll start without them.”

  They drank and ate without speaking. Occasionally, one of them glanced at Johnny. Rose broke the silence. “He was an old dog. He had a good life. Now was his time to go. There’s nothing wrong with that. We should all pray that God grants us that kind of death.”

  Her words weren’t lost on Kiefer or Meyer. They exchanged quick glances before Kiefer moved to another subject: “What did you mean when you told those people to give your regards to Hitler?”

  “I was teasing, but not really,” said Meyer, biting into his napoleon. “The Schnabels are very loyal Germans, even now. They follow the rules to a T. I know they’re upset about Egon treating animals without a license, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were the ones who reported him to the INS. Does that sound plausible to you?”

  Kiefer ran his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “It usually is a friend or relative.”

  Catrina sat down and helped herself to a piece of Linzertorte. “He’s showering,” she whispered.

  “We’ve got to get this foul-smelling dog out of here,” said Meyer, dunking his napoleon into his coffee. “Kiefer, you’ll help me, won’t you? We’ll take the dog to Fort Tryon Park, dig a hole, and in he goes.”

  “Burying animals in public parks is illegal.”

  “So we should hide him under the bed? I’m sure the superintendent has a shovel in the basement.”

  “You could carry Johnny out in a laundry bag,” suggested Rose, fingering the cross around her neck.

  “I’ll go hurry Egon along,” said Catrina.

  “Let’s get this done quickly,” said Kiefer.

  While Egon dressed, Meyer stuffed Johnny into a laundry bag that Catrina found in the bedroom. Egon and Catrina walked behind Meyer and Kiefer, who had slung the laundry bag over his shoulder. They went to a corner of the park overlooking the river but obscured by the overhanging oaks. Kiefer dug fast and deep, then gently laid Johnny in the hole.

  Rose crossed herself.

  Catrina stared at Rose as if rehearsing for her own loss while Kiefer kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to take in anybody’s misery.

  Meyer saw the hurt in Egon’s eyes. “We’re all sorry for the loss of your loyal four-legged friend, but you must remember that you will always have your two-legged ones.”

  Catrina held Egon’s hand as he stared into space. If ever there was a time for prayer, this was it, but no one came forward. Egon bowed his head and hummed to himself. It was “Hänschen Klein,” the song about little Johnny, the dog’s namesake, who leaves home but eventually comes back to his heartbroken mother.

  25.

  And then the dog died, and once again the Cheese Man’s world was shaken. Now there was a new crisis on the horizon, this one even more immediate and threatening. He was frightened, but he was not alone.

  —Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, March 31, 1941

  Egon awoke earlier than usual on the Monday of his meeting with the INS. The apartment felt unbearably empty without Johnny—his absence seemed larger than his presence. Egon had to get out. He walked through the park up the hill toward the Cloisters and sat on his favorite bench. Scattering stale bread crumbs around him, he waited for the assembly of pigeons to gather at his feet and hoped it would bring him some peace. He studied the bone-white sky for other birds, falcons perhaps, and thought about what Catrina had said that morning he’d seen two of them at his windowsill: His parents were watching over him. He closed his eyes and tried to summon them. His father’s voice when he said to the turtledove, “Sweet thing, how far away from home you are.” His mother’s colored pencils scratching paper as she sketched a warbler in the Stadtwald. The welcoming smell of coffee in their kitchen. The memories swarmed like the pigeons at his feet, yet on this morning, neither brought him the comfort he craved.

  He walked back to his apartment and changed into the clothes he’d laid out the night before: his blue suit, a white linen shirt, his father’s mother-of-pearl cuff links, and a blue striped tie that Catrina had picked out for him. I am dressed for a wedding, he thought, staring at himself in the mirror. Or a funeral.

  The subway ride downtown took forty-five minutes, though he allotted an hour. Twenty-nine Church Street was a stubby redbrick building that looked as if it had been built at the turn of the century. Room 407 was small and plain, with frosted glass on the top half of the door, a battered oak desk, a filing cabinet, and a window facing a bare tree across the street. Egon had pictured something grander, with a map of the United States and paintings of American landscapes on the wall, maybe even a flag. The person behind the desk was as nondescript as his office. “How do you do,” he said, offering Egon a languid handshake. “I’m Roland Broadman, and you must be…” He pulled some papers from the folder in front of him. “Eh-gon Schneider. Is that correct?”

  “Ee-gon Schneider.”

  “Please, Mr. Schneider, take a seat.”

  The seat was straight-backed and small enough that when he sat, his knees nearly rose to his chest. Mr. Broadman swiveled right and left in his oak chair. He tapped the eraser end of a pencil against his forehead and studied the papers before him. What hair he had was custard yellow, and his eyelashes were so light they appeared to be made of cellophane. He was as thin as he was pale, not a Broad Man at all. Probably not his real name, thought Egon, remembering what Kiefer had said about how they all used fake ones. Certainly not a Roland. More like a Frank or Harry.

  When Mr. Broadman looked up, he said, “So, Mr. Schneider, seems you’ve gotten yourself in something of a pickle here. No veterinarian license, yet you care for animals. In your home, no less. You know this is illegal in this country, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” He poised his pencil over the blank sheet of paper in front of him.

  Egon explained his background, and how he was studying veterinary books in his spare time. “My plan is to become an American citizen and get the required license for treating animals.”

  “Wonderful,” said Mr. Broadman, leaning back in his chair. “But until then, do you plan to continue treating them?”

  “No, sir, not if it is against the laws.”

  Mr. Broadman asked to see Egon’s passport. He asked if he was a member of any social or political organizations. Any Jewish organizations? He asked who he was still in touch with in Germany. Was there any correspondence back and forth? “What about your acquaintances in America? You people tend to stick together, don’t you? What do your other friends do?”

  “By ‘you people,’ do you mean German Jews?” asked Egon.

  Mr. Broadman nodded.

  “We are cleaners, seamstresses, and store clerks. One is a journalist, another mops floors, and another works in a five-and-dime.”

&n
bsp; Mr. Broadman put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands under his chin. “May I have their names and addresses, please?”

  Egon was taken aback. “My friends are not breaking any laws. What I do, I do on my own.” No need to bring Catrina into this.

  “I understand that,” said Mr. Broadman, moving his folded hands in front of his mouth. “I would like their names and addresses, nothing to worry about, it’s routine.”

  Egon felt he was being pushed into a confession. If he objected too much, he’d paint himself a guilty man. Yet giving out names and addresses seemed like a betrayal.

  “If you are wondering whether we are affiliated with anti-American, pro-German groups, then I must tell you, Mr. Broadman, that each of us is grateful to be in America. We are all working hard to become the kind of citizens to make this country proud. None of us would do anything whatsoever to bring shame to America.”

  “Very nice,” said Mr. Broadman, getting ready to write, “but I still need their names and addresses.”

  Egon had no choice but to comply. Roland wrote furiously, and when they finished, he put down his pen and leaned across his desk. “You seem like a decent fellow. I’d like to see you walk out of here and never have to come back. But I can’t do that. What you’ve committed is a serious infraction of our laws, and it’s beyond my power to resolve this. I’m going to have to set up a hearing for you with the Immigration Court. It won’t be for another few months. We’ll contact you with a date. In the meantime, hold off on filing your declaration-of-intent papers for your citizenship, and go about your business. But please, no more practicing medicine on animals, Good Samaritan or not. Understood?”

  Egon understood. He wanted to say more. Who he was in Germany; his parents; how deportation would mean certain death. But there was something final about the way Mr. Broadman closed his file and slapped his hand on top of it.

  Egon stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Broadman, I appreciate your…” He paused, as he didn’t appreciate anything about Mr. Broadman. “I appreciate your consideration.”

  Roland stood up and extended his hand. “Good luck, Eh-gon.”

  Egon took the stairs two at a time, eager to get as far away from Roland Broadman and the INS as fast as he could. At the first phone booth he found, he stepped inside and slipped a nickel into the machine. Thank God Meyer answered.

  Egon told him word for word what had happened. “He asked for everyone’s name and address. There is going to be a hearing. This can only be bad.”

  Meyer pictured Egon, eyes swollen, standing in front of Johnny’s grave. “I’m sorry for you, this is a hard time. Tonight, I’ll gather everyone in my office. We’ll get started with our letters. I’ll write in the Aufbau.”

  “I am scared, Meyer. It is all so fast and official.”

  “I know,” said Meyer. “Remember when we were first roommates and I had that awful asthma attack? You promised me it would be better. You tried the coffee and the cold air and you stayed up with me the whole night. Finally, it was better. Now I stay with you, and we try everything, as long as it takes. It will be okay.”

  Meyer hung up and called all their friends. It was urgent, he told them. They had to come to his office at six o’clock that night.

  To Meyer’s surprise, they all showed up: Egon; Carola; Max; the Schnabels; Catrina, of course; even Liesl. When they gathered around his desk, he explained about Egon and the INS. “I don’t think this will amount to anything, but they made him give our names and addresses—except for Catrina. There will be an investigation and a hearing in front of the Immigration Court. The consequences of such an investigation?” he asked, as if interviewing himself. “Who knows, but deportation looms as something we can’t ignore. It’s that serious. I know we’ve had our differences—” He glanced at Georg, then surreptitiously at Liesl. “I am not blameless, God knows, me and my big mouth.” Kaethe and Georg exchanged small smiles. “But we put all that aside now. Our friend may be in trouble, and we must do what we can. I am suggesting we each write a letter to President Roosevelt and say what an honest man and fine American Egon is. I know it sounds grandiose, but I feel certain it will make a difference.”

  The room fell quiet. After a while, Max raised his hand. “And if there is an investigation, might we all be investigated, now that they have our names and addresses?”

  “For this answer, I turn to Georg,” said Meyer, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “He knows these things better than I.”

  Georg answered in full voice. “It is not likely that in America, an investigation would extend to friends of the person being investigated or to people who write letters of support, but then again, this is a particular situation.”

  “But he did break the law,” said Liesl. “We all know you can’t pretend to be a doctor if you don’t have a license.”

  Meyer raised an eyebrow. “And who among us has not done something that the authorities might consider illegal? I suggest we put aside these judgments for the kind of infractions that can hurt other people. As far as I know, Egon has only helped the animals he’s treated and the people who own them. This is not an infraction that deserves deportation.”

  Kaethe asked if the president would really read their letters.

  “Probably not,” said Meyer. “But if the name Egon Schneider shows up often enough, he might take notice. I plan to write about Egon as much as I can in the Aufbau. We’re fortunate to live in a country that takes its citizens seriously. Who knows, maybe I can even sell a story about him to Life magazine.”

  At the mention of Life magazine, the group nodded and some muttered, “Ohh,” as if the article had already been published.

  “We have no time to waste,” urged Meyer. “The hearing could happen sooner than we think. The letters must be written as quickly as possible.”

  Catrina waited until everyone else had left before she spoke to Meyer. “This probably doesn’t mean anything,” she said, “but when I worked at that fancy restaurant, the Blue Moon, I knew a lot of well-connected people. I was wondering…”

  “Yes,” said Meyer. “Write them. Any of them. All of them. I’ll find their addresses. We turn all the stones… however that saying goes.”

  26.

  Egon Schneider was a respected ophthalmologist in Frankfurt. In America, his German medical license is useless, so he’s taken his skills and translated them into caring for animals. In America, he works five days a week at a grocery store, slicing bologna, taking out garbage, weighing slabs of meat, and of course handing out free slices of cheese. In his off time—parts of weekends and late evenings—he and his companion, Catrina Harty, treat the animals whose owners can’t afford to pay the steep prices charged by veterinarians. Sometimes they treat them for free, other times, for whatever the customer can afford. Egon Schneider has embraced the American work ethic, and, despite his own modest means, has been charitable and generous to those who have even less. Now he is in danger of being persecuted by the United States government for committing one crime, and one crime only: the crime of kindness.

  —Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, March 31, 1941

  In a full-page article about Egon, Meyer described his friend’s background, his parents’ work, and his difficult time in America. “The tedium… the humiliations… the small victories that started to pile up… a job… an apartment of his own… a dog… a companion… new friends. A house of cards maybe, but one that began to resemble a life.” Photographs of two of Elisabeth Schneider’s drawings, a bittern and a crossbill, ran with the article, along with quotes from Rudolph Schneider’s text. At the bottom of the page, Meyer created a form, which ran the Aufbau’s address above the message: We are not powerless in this witch hunt against Egon Schneider. If you cannot come by the Aufbau office in person to sign a petition asking for the government to drop the case against him, please fill in your name and address, indicating that you give me permission to sign on your behalf. Mail it to me at the address at the top of this form.
>
  Heady with all the talk of President Roosevelt and Life magazine, the friends had promised Meyer that they would write their letters as soon as they got home the evening of the meeting. All except for Max and Carola. Carola asked Egon to stop by their apartment after work the following day.

  Their baby was due in a little more than three months, she explained as she sat next to him on her living room couch. “Max is concerned that if we write a letter, the government might view us as potential troublemakers, or keep track of us because we are associated with someone they believe has broken the law. He worries our child would be getting off on the wrong foot.” Carola squeezed Egon’s hand. “Of course, we don’t think you’re going to get deported, or anything like that. Max is being extra careful. You know how he is.”

  Egon crossed his arms. “Max is a practical man, and you are a loyal wife. But tell me, Carola—or do I call you Carole now?—do you think your child would be getting off on the wrong foot?”

  She waved her hand in front of her face. “Silly, to you I am always Carola. Max calls me Carole because he thinks it’s more American. Do I think our child would be getting off on the wrong foot if we are investigated? Let me just say that if there’s even a chance of that happening, then I would choose to err on the side of caution.”

  “You know, they really could deport me for practicing without a license.”

  “Max says they’re only warning you, that’s all.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  Egon stared out the window and noticed the statue of the Virgin Mary in front of Our Lady Queen of Martyrs. She was exactly as he remembered from when he’d slept in this apartment during his first weeks in America: the shawl draped over her head and body, the row of pigeons squatting on her outstretched arms. In those days, he had been comforted by how Mary shouldered all those birds; today, the memory of his lonely younger self saddened him.