Zygmund exhaled. “It’s not easy to contact him. He gave me a mailing address in Munich. I will send a letter. Now what about the beef I’m cutting? It’ll spoil.”
“You’re right. Finish butchering the meat and deliver it to the camp kitchen. No black market, no sales to any individual.”
“Bernard, please,” Zygmund said. “Have some compassion. We pooled our money and paid for that cow. Can’t we get reimbursed? It’s not fair.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Bernard said. “The committee will thank you publicly for your generous contribution. Good night.”
The rain had stopped, and the skies had cleared. In an hour it would be dawn. Bernard and Eli walked back to the jeep.
“Do you really think all the meat will make it to the commissary?” Eli said.
Bernard smiled. “Not a chance. I suppose most of it will, but certainly not all. They’ll sell some outside the camp to recoup their losses, but I think we’ve succeeded in putting a halt to Zygmund’s black-market activities. So this is the same Maximilian that you knew from Lublin, is that right, Eli?”
Eli pursed his lips and gave a couple of quick nods. “I would never have believed it, but the description is accurate—skinny, pointy nose, black hair, fancy clothes. The fact that he could now be running loose in Europe is a testament to his resilience. He should be in the ground with a cross above his head or sitting on trial at Nuremberg.”
“He’s a Nazi?”
“A collaborator. He grew up on the streets of Lublin. When the Nazis came to town, he worked for them, he was paid by them, he spied for them and he did their dirty work. So as far as I’m concerned, he’s as much a war criminal as the Nazis they are prosecuting. He preyed upon the Jews of Lublin, made a fortune scamming them and then betrayed them when it suited him. Sometimes he was the difference between life or death.”
“He had that kind of influence?”
“He had connections, and he dangled those connections in the face of those who were desperate. He took their money or whatever they could give him, and he sold them hope. He delivered on those promises when it was convenient for him, and he apologized with a shrug when it was not. He would betray without hesitation to remain in good standing with the Nazis. I was certain he didn’t survive the war, that he played fast and loose once too often. The last time I saw him, he was being led away.”
“Where was this?”
“Lodz, Poland. If it is him, and if he comes around Föhrenwald, do not try to stop me, Bernard. I have unfinished business with him. He’s mine before anyone else gets to him.”
“I understand and I won’t stand in your way, but I would ask that you be mindful of the value of interrogating Max, or Maximilian, or whatever his name is. We need to put a stop to black-market visas. Someone in the U.S., most likely a government official, is his source. We need to expose the American supplier, or he will only find another Max.”
* * *
Back at the house, as was his habit, Eli walked into the bedroom where Izaak was fast asleep. He bent to give him a kiss on the forehead. Izaak opened his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry I woke you,” Eli said, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.
“I’m not sleeping so good tonight,” Izaak said, and propped himself up on an elbow. “Tomorrow is Mama’s birthday, and I just keep thinking about her.” Tears filled his eyes.
Eli wrapped him up tight, holding him close to his chest and rubbing his hair. “I miss her too, Izzie.”
“Do you suppose that she’s all right? Somewhere? That maybe someday she’ll find us here in Föhrenwald?”
Eli’s lips quivered. “Sure. I mean, you and I survived, didn’t we? There were thousands and thousands of German detention camps, and they were all liberated within the past year. Mama could be anywhere in Europe. We have to keep our hopes up.”
“How would she know we’re here in Föhrenwald?”
“The U.S. maintains lists of people in the American DP camps.”
“Did you look at the lists? Is Mama on the list?”
“Izzie, I have asked. I am told she’s not on the lists, but our names are.”
“So then if she checks the lists, she’ll know where we are?”
“Exactly.”
“Where did the Germans take her?”
When Izaak steered the conversation in this direction, as he so often did, Eli was beset with a painful dilemma: how to juggle hope with reality. “With the other mothers, sweetheart. She went with the other mothers. I don’t know exactly where they took them.”
“Sometimes I think I hear her. Sometimes when the wind blows, I can hear her voice calling me.”
Eli’s throat tightened, and he strained to get the words out. “I can, too, Izzie. Almost every day. And when we hear her voice, we know she’s near.” He kissed him on the top of his head. “It’s time to get back to sleep. There’s a football game this afternoon.”
“I know, and we don’t have our best goalkeeper.”
“Heschel? Is he hurt?”
“No, he moved. His family went to America.”
Eli looked surprised. “They’ve only been here a couple of months, isn’t that right?”
Izaak nodded. “They got lucky. They got visas to go to America.”
Eli stood. “Pretty lucky—that’s for sure. Now let’s get some sleep.”
“When will we get our visas, Papa?”
“Someday soon, I hope. We’ve made application and our names are on the list.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mama? If we went to America without her, how would she ever find us?”
Eli stood, blinked a few tears and kissed his son again. “So many questions, my boy. We will pray, we will keep our hopes high and we will trust that we’ll all be together again.” He started to walk when Izaak grabbed his arm. “Papa, explain something to me.”
“What is it, Izzie?”
“America’s a big country, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Bigger than Poland?”
“Much bigger.”
“And I’ve seen the movies, Papa. They have mountains and deserts and large open spaces where cowboys ride their horses.”
Eli chuckled. “Oh, that’s true. Where is this going?”
“I would think that America has plenty of room for people like us that want to move there.”
“Well, you make a good point, my son, but it’s not about the room.”
“Then what is it? Why can’t we move there? Why do we have to stay in a camp? Why won’t they give everyone in Camp Föhrenwald a visa? I know America likes us, because we’re living in an American camp. They made it for us. They bring in food and clothes. They’re taking care of us. So why make it so hard to move to America, where we could take care of ourselves?”
Eli looked at his son. The decade’s great enigma, so formidable yet so simple that a child’s logic cuts right through it. What can I say to him? How can I explain immigration quotas to my twelve-year-old boy? How do I even broach the subjects of nationalism, distrust and prejudice? He patted him on the head. “I wish I had the answer, Izaak, but it’s late. Good night.”
Eli sat with a cup of tea and stared out the window. The soft orange glow of dawn was rising over the Bavarian hills. “What am I supposed to say to him, Esther? He has questions that I’m not able to answer. I know you would tell me that we must move on with our lives. You were always that direct, always that practical. But Izaak and I are treading water here at Föhrenwald. How do we move on? He’s a terrific kid who deserves more, and I’m not sure I can deliver.
“He asks about you, Esther, and I let him believe. I want to believe as well, but all this time and we haven’t heard a word. People say that the toughest postwar dilemma is reuniting families. We are a broken people, and the pieces are scattered all over Europe. I don’t want to lose hope, but I have to be realistic. Every day that passes brings more doubt. After what Izzie’s been through these past four years, and as far as he’s c
ome, the progress he’s made, how do I dare introduce a doubt and shatter his hope? He laughs, he plays with the other children, he believes in the future. And in Izaak’s future, we are all reunited. What would it do to his psyche if he lost hope? Sooner or later, everyone has to face the truth. More people died than we can count.
“Talk to me, Esther. Am I a good father or am I a failure? I always looked to you. You were the wise one, the complete parent. I would stand to the side and watch you so effortlessly and lovingly guide our son in the right direction. How would you answer Izzie? I’m lost without you, sweetheart. Tell me.”
Eli watched the sun rise, silhouetting the pines. “Visas!” he said aloud. “How did the Blitsteins get visas so quickly and we did not? We’ve been at Föhrenwald for almost a year. The Blitsteins just arrived in the spring. Did they enlist the services of Maximilian? Did he sell them a way out?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FÖHRENWALD DP CAMP
AMERICAN ZONE
AUGUST 1946
In the warmth of a mid-August morning, several workers stood waiting at the curb outside the storage building on Föhrenwald’s Kentucky Street. Over the previous several days they had gutted the building and stripped it of its interior walls. It now stood as a two-story shell. A light-duty truck pulled up to the curb and the workers began to unload sheets of gypsum drywall and two-by-fours and carry them into the building. Eli, in his role as construction superintendent, had organized the men to transform the facility into a building suitable for a TB sanitarium.
At a recent committee meeting, it was reported that another eighteen residents had exhibited symptoms of tuberculosis and were now in quarantine. The meeting was tense. Many had come seeking answers. What could they do to prevent their families, and especially their children, from contracting the disease in such a tightly packed community? They felt trapped.
Dr. Weisman tried his best to calm their fears while remaining truthful. Reminding them that TB is spread by close contact with infected persons, he said, “We face a problem in that some people don’t know they’re infected. Inhaling TB bacteria into the lungs provides an environment for the bacteria to multiply, and the disease develops rapidly. Sometimes, our body’s defenses, our immune systems, will fight off the infection, and the person will not contract the illness, but let’s face it, many of our people come here with weakened immune systems.”
“How do we avoid breathing the air?” an angry mother asked. “There are six thousand people jammed into eight square blocks. My family’s healthy. Why can’t the healthy ones move to a different camp?”
Dr. Weisman sadly shook his head. “I’m sure you can understand that other camps don’t want an infectious disease transmitted into their area. Some of us may think that we’re healthy, but we may be carriers. We may have what they call latent TB.”
“What about medicines?” a man asked. “Are we getting the best treatments here?”
Dr. Weisman took a folded letter out of his pocket. “I sent this message to USFET, the U.S. Forces European Theater, asking for medical supplies, and I marked it urgent. I said, ‘Our confinement is a principal factor of physical disease and mental fatigue. We have nowhere to go and are at the mercy of UNRRA and U.S. Command in the American Zone. We need help.’ I sent that two days ago, and I am waiting for a reply.”
As many of the residents knew, Weisman’s plea was practically a restatement of the report sent to President Truman the previous summer by Earl G. Harrison, U.S. Commissioner of Immigration and Naturalization. Truman had dispatched Harrison to the American Zone to evaluate and report how the needs of displaced persons were being met. Among his findings, Harrison reported, “There is a marked and serious lack of medical supplies.”
Harrison urged the president to immediately issue immigration certificates to resettle the Jewish displaced persons. He wrote, “The civilized world owes it to this handful of survivors to provide them with a home where they can again settle down and begin to live as human beings.” In an oft-quoted conclusion, Harrison stated, “We appear to be treating the Jews as the Nazis treated them, except we do not exterminate them.”
Newspapers reported that Truman was shocked with Harrison’s report, and in response he issued the “Truman Directive,” instructing Immigration and Naturalization to give preference to displaced persons. However, as of 1946 the quotas remained in place, and in the year following the directive, fewer than ten thousand U.S. visas were issued, despite the requests of 250,000 displaced Jews. Britain still held tight to its prewar Palestine quota. Thus, with the number of tuberculosis cases approaching an epidemic, there was little the Föhrenwald community could do other than try to avoid exposure or hope for effective medical assistance.
Eli found himself conflicted, torn between his obligations as a leader to remain in the Föhrenwald community and his responsibilities as a parent to find a way out before Izaak became ill.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FÖHRENWALD DP CAMP
AMERICAN ZONE
AUGUST 1946
Bernard asked Eli to join him at the camp administration office. He had received new information about Max and the black-market visas. Two residents were already seated when Eli arrived. Bernard made the introduction. “I believe you know Chaim and David.” Eli nodded. “I’ll let Chaim begin.”
Chaim was a gaunt man, and when he spoke, he had a habit of rubbing his clean-shaven chin as though he had a beard. “Recently there was a bulletin circulated in the camp. It described a man named Max and warned us not to transact business with him, but by the time I read the bulletin, it was too late.”
“You paid money to Max to get you a visa?” Eli asked.
“Not money. I had some jewelry: a ring, a sapphire pin, my wife’s wedding ring. I managed to keep those items through the war by sewing them into the lining of my jacket. I offered the stones to Max.”
“And in exchange, he promised to get visas for you and your wife?” Eli asked.
Chaim lowered his head. “Just me. There’s only me. My Mildred didn’t make it. I have a cousin in Philadelphia. That’s all the family I have left.”
“I’m sorry,” Eli said.
A tear rolled down Chaim’s cheek. “Mildred was murdered in December 1941 outside Riga. I didn’t protect her; I wasn’t even there at the time. I had been sent to a labor camp, a quarry in Latvia. While I was gone, the people in the Riga ghetto, all of them, they were taken to the Rumbula forest … and they were…”
“We know, Chaim,” Bernard said softly. “We know what happened in Rumbula.”
“In a pit, Bernard. In an open pit, for God’s sake. Fifteen thousand Jews in one day! My sons and my daughter…” Chaim’s lips were pressed and he strained not to cry. He covered his eyes, and there was silence in the room. Then Chaim sniffed and raised his head. “I’m hanging on by a thread here, Bernard,” he said, struggling to catch his breath. His voice broke. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I thought if I could only get to Philadelphia, maybe…”
“It’s okay, Chaim,” Bernard said. “We understand. We all understand. Take your time. Tell us about Max.”
“I had a friend in the Feldafing DP Camp. His name is Mort. We correspond. He told me about this man who had contacts in America. Real high up. A man who could procure a visa for the right price. I knew it was illegal, Bernard, and I knew it was wrong, but I’m desperate. I have to get out of Europe, Bernard. I can’t live in a camp anymore.”
“And you believed this man could get you out of Europe?”
“Oh, it’s true. He can. Mort is now living in New York. He sent me a postcard. I told Mort that I was interested, that I could pay. He said he would arrange a meeting with Max.”
“Where and when did the meeting take place?”
“Last May, outside the camp, in Wolfratshausen. I waited in a coffee shop. He walked in, and I knew in a minute it was him. He was dressed very classy—a long coat with a satin collar. He said his name was Max, but I alre
ady knew that. He quoted six thousand Swiss francs. I told him I had stones worth twice that. I showed him the stones; he examined the diamond and the sapphire, made a sour face and shook his head. He said, ‘Chaim, they’re not worth six thousand francs, but as a favor to Mort, I’ll take them and get you your visa.’
“I cried, Bernard. I broke down right then and there and cried like a little boy. I asked him when I’d get it. He said it might take a few weeks. Now it’s been three months, and I haven’t seen or heard from him.”
“Can you describe him?” Eli said.
“Fairly tall. Thin. Glasses. Short black hair. He wasn’t an American, I can tell you that. He spoke German, but with a Polish accent. I know I was foolish to give him the stones, but Mort is living in New York. Somehow this guy has the right connections.”
“Don’t punish yourself, Chaim. Bastards like Max prey on vulnerable people in desperate times. All he needed to do was complete a single transaction, and people would line up to give him their money.”
“That’s true. I did.”
Bernard turned his attention to the other man. “And you, David, is the story the same?”
“Pretty much, except that I met Max here at Föhrenwald. It was Frau Helstein who told me about him. I was out for my morning walk with Shmuel and she joined up with us. Naturally, we were complaining about how long it takes to get immigration certificates, and she said, ‘I know a man who can cut through the red tape and get you a U.S. visa right away, if you’re interested.’ We laughed, but she was insistent. ‘I know what I’m talking about,’ she said. Shmuel said, ‘Then why don’t you have a visa? Why are you still here walking with us in a DP camp?’ The question didn’t faze her. ‘I’m in no hurry,’ she said, ‘but I can arrange a meeting for you if you want.’ Shmuel scoffed and walked away, but I told her I would talk to the man. She set up a meeting.”
Eli's Promise Page 9