I whisper back, “She isn’t bothered by all the work that’s going on?”
“No, no. She puts up with us. She knows it is her territory and we are only intruders. Now I must get back to work. I’ll leave the sky to the two of you. Auf Wiedersehen.”
The scaffolding continues up the part of the steeple already repaired. Each tile covers a section of the neighboring tile, so the steeple roof looks like the scales on a giant reptile’s tail. I don’t dare to look down. Each step feels as if I am putting my foot into air. At last we come to the place where the work has stopped. There the scaffolding has a platform where tile will be stacked, ready for the workmen. Father helps me to find my balance, and I settle down on the platform next to him.
Seeing Herr Schafer makes me think of the lecture we had in class. I ask Father, “Why would Jewish people want to live in Germany after what happened to them here?”
“You know the word Heimat,” Papa says, “‘homeland.’ And you know the word Heimweh, ‘homesickness.’ You had it when we moved here from Swabia. You were lonesome for what was familiar to you. It is the same for Jews who grew up in Germany. There was a time when the Jewish people were at home and happy in Germany. Many have good memories of their childhood; it is hard to give that up. The language as well, Peter; it’s a comfort when each word is familiar and will do just what you want it to. Jews hope things will be better now in Germany. The sad thing, Peter, is that when I hired Herr Schafer, I saw on his resume he had once taught philosophy at the university in Heidelberg.”
“Why would a professor be laying bricks?” I ask.
Father says, “You know yourself that thousands, like your friend Kurt, have escaped to Rolfen from East Germany looking for a better life away from the Communists. Unfortunately there are no jobs here for professors. Schafer was lucky to get a job at all.”
“But where did he learn to be such an expert bricklayer?”
“He’s a resourceful man,” Father says, in a voice he uses when he doesn’t want to speak of something. He changes the subject. “You said you wanted a job this summer, Peter. Herr Schafer could use a helper. You wouldn’t be laying the bricks—that’s work for an expert—but you have a strong back and you could help in moving the bricks. What do you say?”
“Sure.” I am excited at the idea of working on the church. I see myself getting up each morning and walking to work with my father. When the church is finished, I can say I had a part in it.
“I’ll talk with Herr Schafer,” Father said. “Now, what do you think of the view?”
Seen from atop the scaffolding, the town of Rolfen is like a picture in a book. There is the river and the canal that circles the town, turning the whole city into a moated castle. There is the gate, with its two round five-hundred-year-old towers. There is the main street, with its elegant merchant homes and the Shippers Society building topped by the golden sailboat, for Rolfen has been a trading port for a thousand years. There is the Rathaus, the town hall, which, like St. Mary’s, was built seven hundred years ago and is as fine as any town hall in the world. And there is the school where Mother teaches kindergarten. This is Mother’s fourth year of teaching, and when I walk down a street with her, it is never long before some little kid runs up to her and pulls at her sleeve and says, “Mrs. Liebig, Mrs. Liebig, remember me?” and she gives him a hug and he gives her a blissful look.
There are also the ruins where bombs fell and where repairs have yet to be made; but today, as I look from up so high, they are hidden away.
Sitting in the clouds next to Father, just the two of us, I feel I have his whole attention. Away from everything, I have to ask the question that has been troubling me. I can’t put Herr Schmidt’s lecture out of my head. I know Father was in the German army. I wonder if he was part of the SA, the brownshirted shock troops, the men who sent millions of Jews to their death in brutal and cruel ways. I’m afraid to ask, afraid to learn the truth. He looks like the same father I have always known, neither short nor tall, with thinning blond hair streaked with gray. As usual the wire frames of his glasses have bits of tape where the frames bite into his ears. Under his suit he is wearing the tan wool cardigan that Mother knitted for him from wool she unraveled from an old sweater she found in a used clothing shop. I can’t picture Father in a uniform. But I have to ask.
Right away I’m sorry. Father looks like I have struck him. “No, Peter. Never. I was a soldier in the German army like millions of other German men. As an architect I was ordered to construct barracks. I had nothing to do with what happened to the Jews. Did I guess what was going on? Yes. Did I try to stop it? No. It might have meant death for me, and I was a coward. Others took that chance, but I didn’t. In that I am guilty.” He is silent for a moment. I can see he longs to tell me something that will make me feel better about him, and at last he says, “There was one time when I had to make a hard choice and I made it. It’s a thing that gives me great comfort.”
I have to say, “Herr Schmidt told us we are all guilty because of what Germany did to the Jews. But I was only a little child. How can I be guilty?”
“Herr Schmidt should confine himself to scolding those who had a hand in the evil. He would find more than enough people to blame. There is no need for him to accuse children.” He gave me a long look. “Most of all you, Peter.”
“But Father, why did no one try to stop Hitler?”
“When a man is as powerful as Hitler was, it takes great courage to oppose him, but there were such men. In Swabia we lived not far from the home of Claus von Stauffenberg. Stauffenberg and some of his friends risked their lives to try to put an end to Hitler. But Peter, this is no place or time to think of such things. Let us keep silent on the subject.”
So there was a time when Father had to make a choice, perhaps a choice of life or death for someone. He made the right choice, but a choice he doesn’t want to talk about. Parents are mysteries you keep unraveling like the old sweater Mother took apart. Bit by bit, day by day, you discover more and more about them. I have taken my parents for granted, but Herr Schmidt’s class is making me look at them in a new way, and now Father’s insistence on silence makes me more curious than ever. I wonder what his secret is.
“Peter, only look around you,” Father is saying. “We are on top of the world. How do you like it up here? It is easy to play God, nicht?”
It’s true. Thinking of how little everything below us looks, I ask, “Father, do you think perhaps God so high up doesn’t know about all of our small problems?”
“He is like the falcon with its sharp eye that misses nothing. Have you a problem for God, Peter?”
I shake my head no.
Father looks relieved. We sit there together, kings of all we see. “Father, if you were ruling the world, what would you change?”
“I’d make everyone’s heart a little bigger, with a little more room for all. And you, Peter, what would you change?”
“I’d do away with all algebra tests.”
Father laughs, and with one last look at the toy city beneath us, we climb down the scaffolding under the sharp eye of the falcon.
THREE
AFTER DINNER I get my fishing pole and hurry out of the house before my father can ask where I’m going and warn me against the Wakenitz. Hans and Kurt are waiting for me at the road that leads to the river. We do a lot of looking over our shoulders and sneaking down back roads. Every step toward the East German border is scary.
The last thing I want to talk about is school, but school is never far from Kurt’s mind. He says, “I’m writing the essay for Herr Schmidt about Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”
I should have known that Kurt would already have started his assignment.
Kurt, always happy to tell you how much he knows, says, “Pastor Bonhoeffer was the head of a seminary not far from where we lived in East Germany. When a lot of the pastors in the German churches sided with Hitler, Bonhoeffer challenged the pastors to stand with the Jews against him. My father told me tha
t Bonhoeffer said, ‘The church is the church when it exists for everyone.’ Hitler had Bonhoeffer put in jail and he was strangled to death.”
Hans says, “Who wants to read that stuff when you’re on vacation? Anyhow, what’s the hurry? We’ve got the whole summer.” I know Hans will still be working on his assignment the day school starts. I decide to get mine over with so it doesn’t ruin my summer. I remember Father telling me of how in Swabia we lived not far from the home of Claus von Stauffenberg, who gave his life in an attempt to put an end to Hitler. I decide that’s who I’ll write about.
Because it’s early in June and we’re so far north, at seven in the evening it’s as light as day out. We’ve turned off the road and are walking single file along a sandy trail that leads to the river. For a minute we stand solemnly in front of a sign with big red letters: ACHTUNG! BORDER THIRTY METERS. Kurt looks nervous. I guess he’s thinking of his own family’s crossing. He was little then, but he must still remember it. Even though crossing over was legal then, they made it as difficult as they could for you.
A high fence topped with rolls of barbed wire stretches all along the border. In the distance the East German guard tower rises high up in the air like a church steeple. It’s too far to make out the guard, but we’re sure he’s there, maybe even watching us through his binoculars.
“Do you think he can see us?” Kurt asks.
“Sure,” Hans says, making a rude gesture in the direction of the tower.
“Stop it, Hans.” I can’t count all the times Hans has gotten us in trouble—not that we didn’t help him out.
Kurt is still worried. “Do you suppose he’s got a gun?”
“Of course,” I say, “but he’s not going to pay any attention to a few kids fishing on our side of the border.”
We take off our shoes and socks and roll up our pant legs. As I ease into the freezing water, still cold from the melting snows of winter, I feel the sand squish up between my toes and the little pebbles dig at the soles of my feet. Even if the water is cold, this is the feel of summer. I tie a rubber worm to my leader and make a cast, careful not to snag my line in the overhanging trees and alder bushes. Hans plods downstream.
“Hey,” Kurt yells at him. “You’re stirring up the sand and making the river cloudy. The fish won’t bite.” This is an old argument between them, and I pay no attention. I wander upstream from them, happy to be in the river with no classes to worry about for three long months. My job at St. Mary’s doesn’t start until next week.
I feel a tug on my line and pull in my first fish. It’s a nice flounder. Since Kurt and I are forbidden to fish here, we can’t take our catches home; but Hans’s father, who manages the hotel, doesn’t care, so we give the fish to the hotel and he pays us for them. I take a chance that the guard isn’t watching where we cast and I try to whip my line across the wide river to the East German half, hoping to catch some Communist fish. I have to space my legs a little apart to keep from being pulled by the strong current that flows out to the sea.
Suddenly on the other side of the river I see a figure run across the bare strip of land where the guards have cut down the tall grasses so anyone trying to make it across the border will be seen. Amazingly, he is carrying a wooden ladder. I stand there frozen, watching him. He heaves the ladder against the fence, which must be five meters high, and throws his jacket over the barbed wire on the top. Then he hoists himself up, leaps over the fence, and falls to the ground. For a moment he just lies there and I’m sure he’s dead, but no. He gets up and starts to run for the river. He’s going to try to swim over to our side. I know I should do something, but I don’t know what.
A siren goes off. It’s so loud, it hurts my ears and nearly makes me lose my footing and fall into the water. Hans and Kurt have seen him. Hans yells, “Schnell! Quick!” Kurt starts for the safety of the shore but turns around to watch the swimmer.
It’s a young man, and now he’s in the water and fighting the current. The siren is still sounding the alarm. Two soldiers are running in our direction. They stop at the river’s edge and aim their rifles. I want to run away, but I can’t move. He’s halfway across into safe territory. Hans calls out, “Don’t shoot! He’s on our side!” And he is. Hans and I and a reluctant Kurt surround him. They can’t shoot him without shooting us.
Reluctantly the guards put down their rifles. They shout curses at us, then walk slowly away, looking back a couple of times, as if the man might jump back into the river and give them another chance.
It’s only now, while the man is shaking the water off him like a dog, that I feel a weakness in my knees and see that my hand holding the fishing pole is trembling. What was Hans thinking, calling out like that, and why didn’t we have the sense to run away? Yet there the man is, although he’s more our age than a grown man. He’s escaped. They’re not supposed to shoot someone on our side. If we hadn’t been there, who knows what they would have done? I look more closely at the man. He’s shaking with cold and fright. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Kurt takes off his sweater and gives it to him. “Who are you?” Hans asks.
“My name is Gustav, Gustav Uhlich. My father was killed on the Russian front and my mother died when the Russians took over our part of Germany.” His voice cracks and he gets a fierce look on his face. “I’d rather be dead than stay in East Germany under the Communists.”
The three of us gather around Gustav as if he’s a huge fish we have landed and don’t know what to do with. He looks at us and gives us a big grin. “I was lucky,” he says. “I owe my life to the three of you. If it weren’t for you, right now my body would be floating away to the sea.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask. I feel like we have some responsibility for our catch.
“I have to get dry clothes and then find a job. I was a baker’s apprentice and I can bake as well as that baker. He was lazy and half the time he let me do his job. I can make Spitzbuben, Vanillekipferl, Krapfen, Nussrolle, Obstkuchen, Apfeltorte mit Meringe.…”
“Okay, okay, we get the idea,” Hans says. “I’ll talk to my father. Maybe we could use you in the hotel kitchen.”
“That would be great. All I want to do is get my hands on the proper ingredients. In East Germany there is no good white flour, no marzipan, no coconut, no dark chocolate. And margarine instead of butter. How can you be a baker?”
“Well, you won’t find much of that stuff here, either. But at least you can complain about not having it without being arrested. You can come home with me, Gustav,” Kurt says. “My folks and I came over from East Germany. We’ll get you some clothes.”
Suddenly Gustav sinks down and just sits there. His teeth are chattering. His smile is gone. It is as if he has suddenly realized what he has done. “Ach!” he says. “Those guys could have killed me! Did you see their rifles?”
The three of us march Gustav into town. We must look plenty funny, the three kids with our fishing poles and a wet Gustav. The Niehls listen with open mouths to our story and then run around getting Gustav clothes. They are so busy, they don’t even think to scold us. Mr. Niehl is practically jumping for joy. Over and over he cries, “You put one over on them! And I’m going to rub their noses in it!” While Gustav explores the Niehls’ kitchen, opening the icebox and the cupboards, Mr. Niehl is on the telephone to the town newspaper. In no time its editor, Herr Schultz himself, appears with his big black box camera to take pictures of a grinning Gustav with Hans on one side and me and Kurt on the other.
I know I have to tell Mother and Father what has happened before they learn from the newspaper that I was fishing in the Wakenitz. They listen to my confession. At first they think I am making up the story, but I’ve brought Hans along to back me up. That is a mistake. “They pointed their rifles at us, Frau Liebig! They were going to shoot us!”
Mother sinks down on a chair, and Father goes pale and forgets to close his mouth. “Shut up, Hans,” I say. “They were just after Gustav, honest.”
“Bu
t we saved his life,” Hans insists.
After Hans leaves, Mother and Father make me promise with my hand on the Bible that I will absolutely never go back to the river.
“Still,” Father says, “to help save a life is a fine thing. Such a chance is not given to many people.”
The amazing thing is there are tears in his eyes even though he has never set eyes on Gustav Uhlich. What is he thinking about? He reaches out for Mother’s hand. I am sure it has to do with his secret. Mother must know what it is, and I mean to find out too.
FOUR
ALL DAY I WORK hard moving bricks at St. Mary’s, but in the evenings I go out to play soccer or practice with my rowing club. The racing shell is light and slips through the water so easily, I feel as if it might take flight. I try to forget my troubles, thinking only of working the oars, pulling at the water and sending the boat forward, responding to the coxswain’s urgings. Our little boat skims along the big river past freighters and barges that have sailed all over the world. I imagine myself on one of those freighters picking up a cargo of silk in China or stowing away and sneaking off a freighter in America and heading for the West and cowboy country. On Saturdays Hans and Kurt and I hitchhike to Travemünde, a resort on the Baltic Sea that has been there forever. Mammoth hotels rise like castles along the shore. The beach is dotted with rental chairs shaped like baskets, which we can’t afford. Just off the beach is a park with a bandshell, and on the weekends there are concerts. The bandmaster is a jolly fellow with a fat belly and muttonchop whiskers who leads the band in rousing marches and corny waltzes while the old people keep time, humming along, and the little kids run around like unleashed puppies.
It is the sea that brings us here. The sea is always an escape, an escape from boring work and strict parents. I tell Hans and Kurt about the books I’ve read, Richard Henry Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast and Joshua Slocum’s Sailing Alone Around the World. We daydream about where we want to go. Kurt says he’d get a job on a freighter and sail to America, where he’d make a million dollars. Hans wants to go no farther than Sweden. “The most beautiful girls”—he sighs—“in the tiniest bathing suits.” I dream about being a spy. I’d get into a small boat at midnight and secretly land somewhere in Russia to join a group of rebels plotting to fight the Communists. Then someone would make a movie about our secret adventure and I would star in it. The three of us sit on the beach daydreaming and letting the sun warm us until we have enough courage to run into the cold sea and splash about.
After the Train Page 2