After the Train

by Gloria Whelan

  Then I think of my birth mother giving me up to save my life. She guessed what was going to happen to her. I imagine her holding on to me when I was little. How she would be careful not to let me wander away even for a minute, and yet she had the courage to put me into the arms of a stranger, knowing she would never see me again.

  I can’t find a way to keep all thoughts from jumbling up in my head. Over and over again I think of that night at the railway station. I see my birth mother dragged out of her home. Who was she? Did she lose herself in books the way I do? Did she make strudel like my mother? And who was my father? What did he do and what might I have done if I had followed in his footsteps? There is another whole life out there for me, like a shadow walking side by side with me. When I reach out for it, it disappears.

  I have to talk with someone. I consider going to Kurt’s house or Hans’s, but what will they think of me when they find out I’m Jewish? Will it make a difference? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone, but I don’t see how I can’t talk about it; it’s all I can think of. Without considering where I am going, I walk in the direction of St. Mary’s. When I am a little way off, I look up at the two steeples that once again soar over the houses and watch over the town. I am proud of my part in the rebuilding of the church. Will that change? Maybe now that I know I am Jewish, I shouldn’t have anything to do with St. Mary’s, but I don’t want to turn my back on the church. Herr Schafer is Jewish and he is proud of his work rebuilding St. Mary’s.

  As soon as I think of Herr Schafer, I know I must see him. He can explain to me all about being Jewish. He has told me where he lives, and I head there through a part of town that is new to me, so unfamiliar that it seems I am in another city altogether. He is renting two rooms in an old house in a street of ancient crumbling houses. Without considering what he might think of my suddenly appearing on his doorstep, I push the bell.

  An elderly woman who looks like the witch in “Hansel and Gretel” lets me in. “Herr Schafer?” she asks. “The third floor. He’s at home. I saw him only an hour ago mounting the stairs with a bag that I am sure held his dinner. I couldn’t swear to it, but I believe I smelled pot roast. If you hurry up the stairway, you might find a bite or two left over for you.” When she smiles, she no longer looks like a witch but only like a nice old woman you wouldn’t mind having for a grandmother, one who is sure to bake you cookies.

  I take the stairs two at a time, but when I reach Herr Schafer’s door and raise my hand to knock, my hand won’t move. I am just about to turn around and escape down the stairs when he opens the door.

  “I thought I heard someone on the stairway,” he says. “Come in, Peter. You’re very welcome, but what brings you here? Is there a problem at St. Mary’s?”

  Herr Schafer leads me inside and motions me to sit down in a big chair. A blanket has been thrown over the chair. Where the blanket is pushed aside, I see holes in the upholstery with stuffing leaking out. The walls of the room are bare, but there are books crammed into a bookcase made from planks of wood and bricks and a small table and two chairs, one of which Herr Schafer now pulls out to sit on. I notice that he is wearing a sort of round circle of cloth on his head. On the table are the leftovers from his dinner. The landlady was right. It’s pot roast.

  Herr Schafer sees me staring at his plate. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  I shake my head. The place in my stomach where my food usually goes is all closed up. I couldn’t swallow a crumb. I can’t wait another second to tell what has happened. I have so many thoughts in my head, I have to shake some of them out or I’ll explode. What has happened this evening comes tumbling out. “So, I’m Jewish just like you, Herr Schafer. You have to tell me how to act.”

  His eyebrows go up. “How to act?”

  “I wasn’t brought up that way, so I don’t know how to be Jewish.” I look down at his plate. “Don’t Jewish people have special food?”

  “Peter, slow down. You’ve had a shock tonight. Let’s take one thing at a time. Being Jewish has nothing to do with how you have been brought up.”

  Then he says just what Father said: “Your mother was surely Jewish; therefore Jews would consider you Jewish. If you choose to continue in the Christian faith, that is up to you. At any rate there is no blame over what you eat. There are many Jews who don’t keep the dietary laws. I myself don’t. There are as many ways of being a Jew as there are ways of being a Christian, and as many in my faith as in yours who are eager to criticize the choices you make.

  “Judaism is a religion, a heritage, and a culture. For you, Peter, it is a heritage, certainly; it is not yet and may never be a religion; and as to a culture, an awareness, and a taking part in things Jewish, we will have to see. I must warn you things are not easy for a Jew even in today’s Germany. Anti-Semitism is still strong in Germany. Chancellor Adenauer, the head of our Federal Republic of Germany, has chosen for his right-hand man a former Nazi official, one who took part in what happened to us Jews. Last year Adenauer went to Russia to demand that Nazi war criminals be released. The people of Berlin cheered Adenauer when he brought the criminals home.

  “But Peter, if there are problems in being Jewish, there is also the honor of being one of those chosen by God for great things. Looking over your shoulder are the millions who came before you who have made something very fine from their Jewish heritage.”

  I can hardly take in his solemn words. None of that seems to have anything to do with me. What about me? All I care about is what I have learned about myself. “Herr Schafer, do you think my parents did all they could to find my real mother?”

  “I know your father is a man to trust. If he told you he tried to find your mother, then he tried. Even though you may never know her, the love that it took for your birth mother to give you up into the arms of a stranger should mean a great deal to you. When you are older and have a child of your own, it will mean even more. And Peter, consider the risk your mother took in taking you. She risked her life. Your parents were harboring a Jew when that was an offense that could have gotten them both a death sentence. Our Talmud says, ‘When someone saves a life, it is as if that person had saved the whole world.’”

  Of course that explains Father saying that he was proud of the chance he had once taken. I am that chance. “But what should I do now?” I ask.

  “I think you need to talk with your parents about that and look into your heart, but surely you should learn something of your background.” He notices me staring at his skullcap. He reaches into a drawer and brings out another black skullcap, which he hands to me. “It’s an extra I have. It’s a kippah, Peter, which you can keep. The kippah is worn to cover the head. Kippah means ‘dome’ in Hebrew. Sometimes it’s called a yarmulke. Jews are aware that the Divine Presence is over us and we are in awe of that closeness. The Talmud says, ‘Cover your head in order that the fear of heaven may be upon you.’ It is worn especially when we are in a holy place like the synagogue, or we are praying or studying the Torah. I was wearing the kippah because I was eating and we consider our dining table as an altar before God. I do it in honor of my grandfather, whom I loved and who was an observant Jew and followed all the Orthodox rules. I myself am not an Orthodox Jew. So you see, Peter, there are many different ways to be Jewish, and sometimes it takes a lifetime to discover the one that is best for you.”

  In all the strangeness I try to find something familiar. “You and I believe in the same God, don’t we, Herr Schafer?”

  “Yes, yes, we worship the same God and we both have Abraham as the father of our faiths. The first five books of the Bible—Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy—are our Torah. We share the other books of the Old Testament as well, but many Jews believe the Torah has something extra. They believe that God had a long talk with Moses. He told Moses how to interpret his laws, everything from rules for marriage to rules for the care of animals. So they didn’t have to guess how to behave in a certain situation—everything was covered. What a long talk th
ey must have had, Peter, and what a memory Moses had to recall all that God revealed! When years later that conversation between God and Moses was finally set down in writing, it was called the Torah.

  “Perhaps most important to you, Peter, Christians have their Jesus, while we are still waiting for our Messiah. But let us concentrate on what we have in common. I am a great lover of our German poets, but for me there is no poetry more beautiful than the Psalms. Christian and Jew alike share every one of those beautiful words. So you see there are many ways in which you and I are the same. And Peter, I know how much you love St. Mary’s. You can love St. Mary’s without being a Christian—I do.

  “Now, Peter, that is enough for this evening. Your parents will wonder where you are. You must do nothing to make them unhappy. Remember, there is no need for a hasty decision. You are not an adult yet. Take your time, but let me help you to know something of your heritage.”

  I stuff my kippah into my pocket and go out into the street. Everything looks different to me. I know the trees are not Christian trees or Jewish trees and the buildings themselves are not Christian houses or Jewish houses, but things appear to take sides. The people who have planted the trees, the people in the houses are either Christian or Jewish, but Herr Schafer says to think of what we have in common.

  A mutt runs along the sidewalk. He has the muzzle and coloring of a German shepherd, but he is small and his coat is long and shaggy like a collie’s. Can your religion be a mix? Like the dog is? Probably not. There are no skullcaps at St. Mary’s, and I guess they have no crosses in Herr Schafer’s synagogue.

  I walk alongside some rosebushes, and the smell of the blossoms is sweet. I think God had a great idea when he made roses; surely he didn’t make them just for Christians or for Jews.

  A dark-haired woman hurries out of one of the houses and quickly gets into a car that has pulled up. I only have a glimpse of her face. She is about the same age as my birth mother was in the picture, but of course my mother would be older now. Will I stare at every woman I see, wondering if she is my mother? Would I be disloyal to her to stay a Christian? If I become Jewish, what about Jesus? Can I abandon him? But wasn’t he Jewish? My head is spinning.

  Mother and Father are at the window watching for me. For a minute I think about making up some story about seeing Hans, but I am a poor liar. Besides, I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk with Herr Schafer. There are things he can tell me that they can’t, things I have to know.

  Father says, “Peter, let us handle this difficult situation in a mature manner. Nothing good can come from storming off. It is a time for calm and reason, not dramatics.”

  “Come and sit down, Peter,” Mother says. “I’ve saved dinner for you.”

  I’m tired of my worries, and besides, I’m hungry. I sit down at the table, and tugging it out of my pocket, I put the skullcap on my head. “The table is an altar before God,” I announce.

  Mother looks as if I have struck her. Father is silent for a long enough time to make me really worried. Finally he says, “You’ve been to see Herr Schafer. I’m not surprised, but you need to listen a bit before you act. You must give yourself time. These matters have been discussed and argued for a thousand years and more. You want to make a decision at a snap of the fingers. You are too young to make such a decision.”

  “Herr Schafer said the same thing,” I tell them, “but he says I should know something of my heritage.”

  Mother says, “Your heritage, Peter, is our heritage. You are our son. What could be more simple?”

  Father puts his hand on Mother’s arm. “We must be fair to the woman who gave Peter to us. We must think what she would have wanted.”

  “Surely she would have wanted Peter’s happiness,” Mother says. “Hasn’t he been happy all these years? It’s the bringing up of all these things that has made him unhappy.”

  We are all worn out. It’s like rowing in the river against the current until you think you can’t lift the oars one more time. We are all tired of the arguing and only want to go back to where we were before all this happened, but we don’t know how. I don’t know what else to do, so I pick up my fork and begin to eat. When I ask for a second helping, Mother smiles as she fills my plate and tells me to save room for the Apfelstrudel she has made for dessert.

  I remember all the times I watched, fascinated, as Mother rolled out the pastry again and again until it covered the whole kitchen table and was so thin you could read through it. The sweet, crispy pastry melts in my mouth. Somehow the taste of the familiar dessert cheers and calms me.

  After dinner Father leads me into the corner of the living room he uses as a study. When I was little, I liked to sit on the floor near the desk and spread out his big rolls of blueprint. I would study the plans and try to figure out what part of the church they pictured. I knew St. Mary’s inside and out. It seemed a kind a miracle to me that you could go from the small drawings on the blueprints to the great church itself.

  Father says, “It’s strange, isn’t it, that you should be getting lessons in your Jewish heritage from a friend you made at a Christian church.”

  “Herr Schafer is proud of what he does,” I say. “I don’t think he minds that it is a church.”

  “Did you know that on Sundays he works to repair a building he and some of his friends are using as a synagogue?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Herr Schafer asked my advice on the plans.” Father takes out a small roll of blueprint and spreads it out facing me on his desk. It shows a brick house only one story high. “Though there are only a dozen Jews in Rolfen, they are anxious to have a permanent home for their synagogue. At the moment they meet in one another’s houses. So you see, Peter, while Herr Schafer is dedicated to his own place of worship, he is perfectly happy to help us with ours. The two faiths can live side by side, each helping the other without giving up its own beliefs. By all means learn what you wish from Herr Schafer, but you already have your faith.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about my birth mother a long time ago?”

  “I wanted to tell you the whole story, Peter, but your mother was against it. She felt it would only upset and confuse you.”

  Maybe she was right, for I am upset and I am confused. “Wouldn’t it have been better for me to know right from the beginning so I could get used to it from the time I was little?” I have another thought. “You moved away from Ulm,” I point out. “Isn’t that where my birth mother would have come to look for me?”

  “The Jews in Bavaria were among the first victims of the Nazis. Even after the war there were still anti-Semitic groups near where we were living. It turned my stomach. I could not look at you, Peter, and put up with such poison. I couldn’t bring you up in such an atmosphere.”

  Father takes out a pile of letters and files from his desk and hands them to me. “We tried everywhere to find your mother. The government has a bureau that helps in such things, and there are Jewish organizations also. All we know is that train was on the way to the Dachau concentration camp.”

  The answers to Father’s inquiries used different words, but they all amounted to the same thing: We regret we have no record that such a person existed.

  I want to shout at them that there is a proof that such a person existed, and it’s me.

  ELEVEN

  I CAN’T TAKE IT all in. It’s like being served a huge pie. You know you can’t eat it all, so you want someone else to share it with. The next day is Saturday and I head for the marketplace in front of the Rathaus, the town hall. I’m looking for Hans and Kurt. After our little problem in Travemünde we decided to stay away from there, and instead we settle for hanging around the marketplace. Farmers have come from the countryside bringing baskets of eggs, raspberries, gooseberries, lettuces, cucumbers, tomatoes, and carrots. Cages hold squawking chickens and geese. All the food is expensive, but because of the food shortages it disappears almost at once. There are stalls where people sell their handiwork: clever
ly carved wooden wolves and bears, marzipan candy, and handmade sweaters and rugs. There are East German refugees presiding over tables spread with the few belongings they were able to bring when they escaped, a sad display of bits of jewelry and quilts or a shabby overcoat they need to sell to buy food. I worry about what will keep them warm when winter comes.

  I find Hans and Kurt, and the three of us hurry to the stall where they sell used books. We pool our money and buy a copy of a Western by Karl May, Winnetou, the Apache Knight. Karl May has written all these great books about the American West, and the amazing thing is he’s never been there! You have to wonder how he can make it all seem real. Next we head for a stall where we get freshly baked sweet rolls. Frau Lantz greets us. “Well, gentlemen, what will it be this morning for your refined taste, Nusskuchen or perhaps a Buchtel?” Greedily we each select a Buchtel, with its pocket filled with jam, and go off to the steps of the Rathaus with our treats.

  In as serious a voice as I can manage I say, “I’ve got something to tell you.” They pay me no attention. Hans is busy stuffing his mouth with his Buchtel, the jam oozing out in a disgusting way. Kurt is counting his money to be sure he has been given the right change.

  “I’m Jewish,” I say.

  They barely look at me. “Sure, and I’m Napoleon,” Hans says.

  “No, really. I mean it. I just found out.”