by Kathy Kacer
Nine
AND HERE SHE was, all alone and in a foreign country. Sara descended from the train at Wolfratshausen station after having taken the Isar Valley Railway from Munich, a forty-kilometer ride aboard the electric train. She was exhausted after the long trip from Canada. How long had it been since she had slept? Or eaten? Her head was spinning. Thank goodness the train ride had been smooth, not like the roller-coaster plane trip, which still had her gut twisted up in knots.
She fingered the Star of David around her neck. She had tucked it back inside her blouse after an uncomfortable encounter with the German customs officer at the airport. He had stared openly at it when he asked the purpose of her visit to Germany.
“I’ve come to visit my family,” Sara replied. It wasn’t a complete lie. After all, she was coming to find out about her mother, father and anyone else who had been part of her life. There wasn’t much else she could say without arousing too much curiosity. I’m an orphan. I’ve lost my home and suddenly discovered that my mother, whom I never knew, is Jewish and was in a concentration camp. That would have led to all kinds of other impossible questions. A short answer was best, Sara thought, even if it was a bit vague. Joe would have said, A little white lie is what I call a harmless untruth.
“And how long will you be here…visiting your family?” the customs official asked.
“Just a week.” Sara tried to keep her voice light. That was when she half-expected him to ask, Are you Jewish? And what is a Jewish girl doing here in Germany? She didn’t know why she anticipated a sharp interrogation. It was just that the look on his face was far from inviting. Fortunately, he didn’t say another word, just waved her through. After that, she had concealed the star back inside her blouse. Maybe that was just the way it was going to be for a while, until she figured things out. Her life, like the necklace, would sometimes be hidden away and sometimes out there for all to see.
Finding the train had been another adventure. Sara had managed to make her way to the Munich train station, even managed to buy a ticket to Wolfratshausen. Thank goodness the woman at the ticket office had spoken English. Waiting on the train track, holding the ticket in her hand, Sara had approached an elderly man.
“Excuse me, is this the platform for the train to Wolfratshausen?” It was becoming easier and easier to pronounce the name of the town.
The man smiled, revealing black spaces where teeth used to be. Then he bowed slightly and tipped his fedora. He was about to move on without responding when Sara stopped him once more.
“I’m looking for platform three.” Why was she raising her voice, as if that would somehow enable him to understand what she was saying? She held up three fingers. “Platform three,” she repeated.
“Ja, ja,” the man replied, nodding and pointing toward the tracks right in front of her. “Drei.”
Drei. It must mean three. “I think the train is late…” Sara began again in a more even tone, but by then the man had moved off, but not before bowing deeply and tipping his hat once more.
Eventually, the train had arrived and she’d boarded, hugging her suitcase to her knees. As the train moved off, Sara felt herself relax for the first time since leaving the airplane. Outside the window the countryside zoomed by: small farmhouses surrounded by wooden fences and densely packed forests. In the distance white-capped mountains loomed over the landscape. It was hot inside the train, and packed. Every seat was taken, and the less fortunate overflow crowd stood in the center of the aisle, jammed against one another, holding on to seat backs and overhead bars and swaying back and forth as one mass. Sara was lucky to have claimed a seat in one corner. A little blond girl sitting in front of her turned around to stare. She was all decked out in a plaid overcoat and matching hat, an outfit that Sara or Dot could have easily made if they had the material and a machine. Sara smiled and extended her hand. But just as the little girl was about to grasp it, the woman sitting next to her muttered something in German, and the girl twisted around in her seat and plopped back down. Sara’s head began to bob forward onto her chest. Sleep! She longed for it. Perhaps for just a few minutes…A whistle blew, and Sara jerked back up in her seat. What was she thinking? She couldn’t nap! What if she missed her stop? There would be no way to ask for directions if she got lost. No matter what, she had to force herself to stay awake. Fortunately, the trip was relatively short, and before she knew it, the porter announced their arrival at Wolfratshausen station.
And here she was.
It was hot, warmer than she had expected it to be on this June morning. The sun beat down on Sara as she stood alone on the platform. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the bright light, letting the rays wash over her. Just then an old woman rode by on a rusty bicycle. The creaking wheels announced her arrival even before the bicycle itself appeared. Sara brought her face away from the sun and gazed in the direction of the rider. The woman was ancient—as least as far as Sara was concerned. She wore a black scarf tied tightly under her chin, a black sweater buttoned to her neck and a black skirt that rode up as she pedaled by to reveal black stockings and sturdy black shoes. The woman was shrouded in black.
Sara giggled in spite of herself. “Where have I landed?” she said aloud to no one. “And what am I doing here?” Suddenly, the absurdity of it all came crashing down on her, along with Mrs. Hazelton’s instructions on the necessity of looking back. Why was that so important? Sara asked herself for the millionth time. She had lived her eighteen years with hardly a glance at her past. And she had done fine, thank you very much! Well, perhaps not fine, but okay. And okay was better than nothing and better than many people did. All of a sudden, she was learning that she came from a different religion and had a connection to a dark time in history. Why was that worth knowing about? And how was that going to help her move forward in her life with her dream of dress design, or finding a husband who would treat her well and who could be a true partner?
Just before leaving Hope to travel to Germany, Sara had finally read The Diary of Anne Frank, the book she had borrowed from the town library. Well, the truth was, she had actually devoured it, absorbing the entire book in one sitting. It was mesmerizing—the words of a young girl who had been forced to give up her freedom and hide away. At the last minute Sara had decided not to return the book to the library. Instead, she had tucked it into her suitcase. No one was going to miss it, she reasoned. Besides, she had felt a strange connection to Anne, was moved by the innocence of her young life. Anne loved a boy her own age, dreamed of being a journalist, longed for friends and thought about growing up…all the things that normal young people did. All the things that I do. The big difference was that the backdrop for Anne’s life was a war that had killed millions of people. If Anne had survived, would she have wanted to look back? Sara wondered. Not that she was comparing her life with Anne’s. That was undeserved! Nothing could compare with that tragedy. But she was still wondering if looking back was really the answer.
Sara sighed loudly. There was no one to hear her in the deserted train station. The old woman dressed in black had long disappeared, riding over a small ridge leading into what looked like the town. There was a small white building behind Sara, but when she entered to get directions, the man behind the counter spoke no English.
“Excuse me,” she began. “I need to get into town and find this address.” She fumbled with her document before trying to pass it over to the attendant.
He was not interested in helping her. He muttered something in German and tossed the document aside like it was a dirty handkerchief. Then he flipped the shutter down in front of his wicket, leaving her standing there, helpless. Sara sighed again and put the letter back in her bag. She realized that she didn’t even know where she was going to be staying that night. Why hadn’t she thought about that? Why hadn’t she planned something? Why hadn’t Mrs. Clifford thought to help her reserve a room somewhere for her first night? She knew it wasn’t fair to blame her former boss, but how would she have known t
o think of these things? She had never traveled anywhere on her own. She picked up her suitcase and walked out of the building. Strangely, she didn’t feel anxious like she would have in the past in the midst of something so foreign and off-putting. Maybe she was already making progress. And maybe, deep down, behind the debilitating fatigue of this journey, she was already just a bit curious and even excited to have left the comforts of all that was familiar. The other six girls probably wouldn’t even recognize me here, she thought.
Sara stared down at the document with the name and address of the doctor who had signed her medical certificate. “Well, I’m here now,” she muttered. “So I’d better get on with finding out what I came to discover.” There would be time to put it all together later. For now, she had to find this address and see where it led her.
Ten
THE DOOR CLICKED shut behind Sara as she entered the dimly lit house at 8 Mitterweg. It had taken her almost no time to get there from the train station. It was amazing how gestures were a universal language. She had shown a stranger the address, and with some pointing and something akin to sign language, she had been steered to this wooden house on a small dead-end street, close to the river that ran through town. Trees dotted the sidewalk. A stone path led up to the front door.
The sign out front had lifted her spirits considerably. It read Gunther Pearlman, Doktor der Medizin. That was the name on her certificate. She had found the place, and it appeared that the man she was searching for was still here. Things were looking up.
Inside, the front room smelled faintly of disinfectant—just like the hospital back in Hope. Sara had gotten stitches there when she cut her leg while riding on the back of Luke’s motorcycle. He had loved burning rubber whenever he took her for a ride. But that day, he had taken a corner too sharply, and she had scraped her leg against some sharp bushes that jutted out into the street. It wasn’t entirely Luke’s fault; anyone could have misjudged the turn. But Mrs. Hazelton never forgave Luke for that one.
The front room reminded Sara of Mrs. Hazelton’s cottage. A large wooden desk stood on one side, with several floral upholstered couches lined up against the wall opposite it. Sara assumed they were for patients who were waiting to see the doctor. No one was there yet. There was a fireplace on one side of the room, though it was not lit. For just a moment, Sara yearned to be back in Hope and sitting with the matron in front of her fireplace, sipping tea and talking about a dress or skirt she was thinking of sewing. Mrs. Hazelton would have nodded approvingly at Sara’s design ideas—she was always so encouraging. Sara would have left her cottage eager to get to the sewing machine. But Mrs. Hazelton wasn’t here, and this wasn’t Hope. Sara shook those thoughts from her mind and approached the desk. She stood shifting from one foot to the other, uncertain of what to do next.
Just then a door opened at the back of the room, and a boy entered. He was tall, with short dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses that he pushed up on his nose. Kind of cute, Sara thought. He looked to be about her age. He stopped when he saw her.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?”
Sara stared at him blankly.
“Haben Sie einen Termin?” he continued.
“Excuse me,” she replied. “I don’t speak German.” She shrugged her shoulders and held her hands out helplessly. “English?”
The boy eyed her curiously, and Sara felt her face grow warm. “Are you American?” he finally asked.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m Canadian,” she replied. “Thank goodness you speak English.”
He looked amused. “I spent a couple of summers on Long Island in New York with my family. My parents insisted that I learn English—the universal language and all.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “The clinic isn’t open yet. And I don’t suppose you have an appointment with the doctor. That’s what I was asking you.”
His English was perfect. There was just a hint of a German accent there, along with something else that Sara struggled to grasp. Something familiar, but what was it? And then she remembered. He sounded like the instructor who had come to the Benevolent Home to teach the girls ballroom dancing. What was his name? Mr. Howsham. Yes, that was it, Sara recalled. He had also come from New York, and the Seven used to laugh at the way he would ask for coffee in the dining room—it sounded more like “coo-awe-fee.” This boy’s English, especially when he said the words doctor and Long Island had a touch of that same accent. She found the combination interesting and appealing.
“No, I don’t have an appointment, but the door was unlocked. That’s why I came in,” Sara continued, trying her best to remain composed. Somehow, it was important to her that she appear to really know what she was doing. Was she trying to impress him? “But I do have this.”
She dug out the document with Dr. Pearlman’s name written on it. She began to explain where she had gotten it, then stopped. She wasn’t sure how much to tell him, this strange boy who was staring at her so intently. “Is the doctor here?” she finally asked. “I know it’s early, but I’ve just arrived from Canada. I came straight here…I’d like to meet with him, the doctor…um…talk to him if he’s available.” Oh, if only she didn’t hesitate so much, she would have sounded much more in control.
The boy nodded, still staring. “I’ll get him. Can I ask your name? So I can tell the doctor who you are.”
“Sara,” she replied.
“A nice name.”
Sara was taken aback and felt herself blush once more. This boy was forward, and it was making her feel uncomfortable. She began to say something else, but he interrupted her.
“Have a seat. I’ll go get the doctor.”
With that, he disappeared through the back door as Sara tried to steady her nerves. This boy with his intense stare and questions was more than she could take at this moment. It didn’t help that she was exhausted from the journey. But now her heart was practically thumping out of her chest, making her feel light-headed. She was about to meet the doctor who had signed the certificate approving her to go to Canada. Presumably he had known her mother. And, on top of everything else, Sara was suddenly taken aback to realize that she hadn’t rehearsed for this moment at all—hadn’t fully believed that it was going to happen, especially this fast. She should have prepared some questions. She should have been more organized. What was she going to say to him? And more important, what would he say to her? Would he even remember who she was? Or have anything useful to offer her about her past?
She sank down onto one of the small couches, rubbed her hands together and tried to breathe deeply. A moment later she rose when the same door opened and the boy returned, this time followed by an elderly gentleman wearing a white medical coat. He had a quick, light step despite his advanced age. He also wore glasses, the horn-rimmed kind that Mrs. Clifford wore. His hair, what was left of it, was white and encircled the back of his head like a half-moon, with only a feathery tuft on top. That part stood straight up, as if he had just been caught in a draft.
“Peter said you wanted to meet me.”
Peter. It was good to know the boy’s name. That way, he didn’t have the upper hand. The doctor had a soft German accent, but his English was also perfect, thank goodness. Sara shook her momentary distraction with Peter and faced the doctor.
“Hello. I’m Sara—Sara Barry—from Canada. I’ve come over here to find you…” And then she stumbled over her words, not sure how or what to ask the doctor. Instead, she pulled out the certificate and passed it over to him.
He took the paper from her and studied it for a moment, his eyes growing wide and curious. He glanced up at Sara and then back down at the document. Finally, he extended his arm to hand it back to her. The sleeve of his lab coat pulled back to reveal a line of blue letters—no, not letters, thought Sara, trying hard not to stare. They were numbers that appeared to be tattooed on his forearm, above his wrist. Sara was perplexed. She had a vague recollection of reading something about tattooed numbers and Jewish people during the Holocaust. What w
as it? The doctor was speaking again.
“Yes, it’s my signature on this paper,” he said. “Where did you get this?”
With a deep breath, Sara launched into an explanation of her background—how she was an orphan, raised in the Benevolent Home in Hope, and how the Home had closed prematurely because of the fire and she and some of her fellow orphans had been given the opportunity to find out where they had come from. While she spoke, Peter moved over to sit behind the desk. He appeared to be studying some files that lay open on top, but out of the corner of her eye, Sara could see that he was riveted to the conversation she was having with Dr. Pearlman.
“One of the things that I was given was this note with your name and signature. I’ve traveled all the way from Canada to find you and talk to you about this.” There! She had gotten through that part without too much trouble. If only she could stop trembling.
The doctor glanced down at the paper once more. “And you think I can somehow help you find out information about your past?”
Sara faltered. “Well, yes, I…um…thought, because you had signed this letter, that you would remember me—the baby, I mean.”
“I see many babies,” the doctor interrupted. He was still holding the document out to her, but Sara didn’t reach for it.
“I had hoped you could give me some information about the woman who had me—my mother.” Saying the word was still so strange for Sara. She was flustered, and the doctor wasn’t making this easy for her. Peter appeared to have abandoned his files. He was now staring openly at her and the doctor. “I believe that she was in a concentration camp.”
Dr. Pearlman sighed. “Yes, yes. Everyone came from the concentration camps back then. And I signed many certificates. I can’t possibly remember every baby that I examined or every paper that I signed.”