Stones From the River (48 page)

When Herr Blau climbed back into bed, his feet felt frozen, and he took care not to press himself against his sleeping wife, though he longed to be wrapped into the warmth of her body. Lying near the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes and tried to return to sleep, but he kept seeing the man. He reminded himself that he’d never done anything against the Jews, even when others had humiliated them. He had not approved when Jews had lost their jobs and houses, and he’d always felt concerned about those who’d disappeared, hoping they’d found a better place to live. If he were Jewish, he had told his wife many times, he would have had the good sense to leave Germany long ago.

It wasn’t good for his nerves to hear about arrests or transports to those camps where Jews were taken to work. That’s what the camps were for, work, even if some people whispered about horrors that he couldn’t allow himself to think about.… People like him had to suffer too: there wasn’t enough food, not enough coal to heat even part of his house. People were afraid of freezing to death while they slept. They’d all heard rumors of old people who hadn’t woken up.

It was always harder for the old. Always.

Toward dawn he finally slept, and when he awoke, he thought of the hunger in the man’s eyes and saw himself reaching into the bread box to take out a wedge of rye bread for him.
“Take this”
he could have said. He could have given him a blanket, an egg, his coat.

His wife no longer lay next to him, and he went downstairs in his bathrobe and squinted through the back window, but the frozen slope behind the house was empty, and no one stood by the brook.

“What are you looking for?” his wife asked and set a cup of
Zichorienkaffee
—chicory coffee—and a small bowl of hot oatmeal on the table for him.

“Nothing.”

“Eat then.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re not feeling ill?” She laid one palm against his forehead.

He moved his head aside and walked out of the house. By the brook, he scanned the ground for footprints. There were quite a few, but all of them were old, frozen crusts of earth, impossible to discern whom they belonged to. Perhaps the man had already been captured. He was hardly a man yet, rather a boy. Seventeen perhaps? Maybe even younger. But taller than Stefan, who’d been small for his age, thirteen, when he’d left home one night, nearly half a century ago.
How many people had helped Stefan along the way before he’d reached America? And he hadn’t even been hunted.

It would have been easy enough to hide the boy upstairs in Stefan’s old room. And even if he had been discovered—whatever might have happened to all of them couldn’t feel any worse than what Herr Blau was experiencing as the week wore on. He felt the loss of his son in a sharp and acute way—more so than ever before—as if somehow, by turning the young man from his door, he had jeopardized his son’s safety. It didn’t make sense because Stefan was a grown man who’d recently turned sixty, an old man, some would say. Again and again, he saw himself finding the note that Stefan had left behind, and felt that familiar despair at having failed his son.

Not that the note accused him of that—no, it had merely said that Stefan was on his way to America and not to worry about him. For an entire year before that, the boy had pleaded with his parents to let him go to America and make his fortune.

“Fortunes don’t happen that way. Besides, you’re too young,” Herr Blau had kept telling him, hoping to stall him until he’d forgotten that dream and fastened on something else. Children were that way—all enthused about something one day and forgetting it the next. But Stefan had not forgotten, and the people of Burgdorf had tried to comfort his stunned parents by telling them there was nothing they could have done to hold their son.

Herr Blau took the brittle note from the box of family papers and unfolded it in his hands, remembering how inadequate he’d felt when his son had finally come home for a visit—twice a widower, but wealthy, as he’d dreamed. Stefan had only stayed one week and had taken Leo Montag’s sister, Helene, with him as his third wife.

To deny help to someone in need, Herr Blau discovered, was far more devastating than to fear for his own safety. He wished there were someone he could talk to about what had happened, someone who wouldn’t turn him in but could put those thoughts to rest. Maybe Leo Montag would understand. Herr Blau wasn’t sure what he would say to Leo, but when he walked over to the pay-library one morning after he’d seen Trudi leave with her shopping net, he found the words.

“If you ever know of someone who needs help—” He leaned across the counter with a whisper. “Someone who maybe has to hide … I want to help too.”

Leo studied him silently, then nodded. “That’s good of you.”

“Clothes, and food … and I’d keep quiet.”

“It may not always be safe.”

“That’s what’s wrong with everyone.” The old man’s voice burst from its cautious whisper. “Safe, safe. Is that all people can think of?”

“I’ll remember that.” Leo Montag laid one hand on the old man’s wrist.

Herr Blau didn’t cry until then, when he felt the warmth of the hand, and he started to tell Leo about the young man he’d sent away from his door.

“Not here.” Leo walked around the counter to lock the door and led Herr Blau into the living room.

“I think about him.” Herr Blau sat in the wicker chair, sobbing. “I think about him all the time.” He rubbed his blackened thumbnail.

“You were afraid.”

“A coward.”

“Not anymore.”

“Remember how small Stefan was when he ran off to America?”

“He seemed big to me then. I was only eight or nine.”

The old tailor blew his nose and hiccuped.

“Fear,” Leo said, “is a strange thing. It strips off masks.… In some people it brings out the lowest instincts, while others become more compassionate. Both have to do with survival. But the choice is ours.”

“I made the wrong choice.”

“But you didn’t stay with it.”

Herr Blau nodded, grateful for Leo’s answer, but his tears came harder as he mumbled something that was impossible to understand.

The following week Frau Simon received an official notification from the SS that she was to be relocated. She was instructed to bring food for three days, one suitcase weighing no more than fifty kilos, one backpack or travel bag, and one roll of blankets. Twenty-eight other Jews received the same document and were removed from the community along with her. Ever since
Kristallnacht
, the SS had assumed control of Jewish policy, priding itself on rationality, efficiency, and order. To avoid public disturbances whenever possible, Jews were to be duped into thinking they were simply being moved to a new life in the East.

Frau Abramowitz, who had refused to leave her house ever since
the yellow stars had to be worn, received the first letter from Frau Simon. They were being held in Poland. Their trip had taken three days and three nights. Five of the older people and one infant boy had died on the train. Several children were ill with coughs and fever. Their quarters were cold and cramped and shabby. They had never received their luggage.

They needed medicine.

They needed food.

They needed clothing.

It was that need which drove Frau Abramowitz from her house for the first time in a year. Her husband’s attempts to get her to at least walk to the end of the street with him had resulted in tears of panic, and he’d finally stopped pressuring her to go out. But now she left her house as if she’d never retreated inside its walls and visited her friends to collect whatever they could spare. Trudi and Frau Weiler helped her to pack cartons with blankets and warm clothing, with food that would not spoil, with medicines from Frau Doktor Rosen, whose steps had slowed to a shuffle and whose hands trembled when she examined the few patients who still came to her.

As soon as the packages had been mailed, Frau Abramowitz made lists of other items that were needed, involving her daughter, Ruth, the women in her neighborhood, and women from her synagogue. Ruth had begun to spend occasional nights at her parents’ house, and though Frau Abramowitz was always grateful to see her, it troubled her that her daughter avoided talking about her husband. In the beginning she’d asked why Fritz no longer visited them, and Ruth had said his throat practice had gotten so large that he hardly had time for himself. She didn’t tell her mother that quite a few of her husband’s patients were Nazi officials, who came to Fritz with the same concerns as his patients who were stage performers—to use their vocal cords to their fullest capacity without damaging them.

Herr Blau, who would always wonder if the young man he’d turned away from his house had been on the transport to Poland with Frau Simon, kept contributing coats and warm jackets, which he sewed from bolts of leftover fabric. When he learned from Frau Simon’s next letter that fewer than half of the packages had arrived—only those with worn clothing—Herr Blau found ways to make new clothes look used: he removed occasional buttons and packed them inside balls of darned socks; he cut out labels and unraveled the edges of blankets;
he crumpled fabrics instead of folding them between layers of paper. That shipment arrived almost in its entirety.

By then, most of the Theresienheim had been appropriated for interrogations and detentions. While the sisters were confined to the cluster of cells adjacent to the chapel, most of the U-shaped building housed Jews and other “undesirables” while they waited to be transported or released. Many of them were old or ill. Usually four or five people were assigned to each small locked room.

But not only the Jews were in danger. Rumors were coming through that the weak and deformed and retarded were at risk. “Eaters,” Anton Immers referred to them with contempt as though that had become their only function. He thought it only fitting that some were taken out of institutions and relocated to undisclosed places, while others were removed from their communities, like the man-who-touches-his-heart, who was arrested at the cemetery on All Saints’ Day while placing a wreath on the grave of his nephew, who’d been shot down over England the year before.

In March of 1942 the parents of the Buttgereit boy received an urn, accompanied by a message that their nineteen-year-old son had died from an unnamed infection in the school outside Bonn where he’d lived for the past years. To avoid spreading the infection, the letter informed them, their son had been cremated immediately. The morning his ashes were placed into the chilly soil, his black-shrouded sisters encircled his open grave like obelisks. Two supported their father by his elbows. Their mother stood separate from them, her face rigid from stifling the silent scream:
But not like this. Not like this.
Ever since her son had fallen from the hay wagon as a small boy, damaging his spine, and Frau Doktor Rosen had predicted that he would not live beyond twenty, Frau Buttgereit had prepared herself for her son’s death, anticipating a gradual weakening of his crippled body, an even stronger curving of his poor spine that would eventually reinstate him to the curled shape that had awaited birth within her—
when all was still well, oh God, when all was still possible
—but what she had not foreseen was an infection that would rip him from her—body and mind—in one swift, cruel gesture, without the long-rehearsed words of their final parting. No. That she could not accept.

Just one row away in the cemetery, Frau Weskopp waited for the priest to bless the coffin of her husband, whose body had been shipped back from Russia. He would lie next to her younger son, an
SS officer, who’d become a war casualty only the month before, not long enough for the worms to finish their task of scouring the skeleton. The family grave still revealed the seam of that burial: its earth had not had time to heal in the weeks between the two deaths. It was a wide grave, wide enough to cradle the remains of her parents and youngest son, while leaving space for this new coffin, as well as for herself and her oldest son, who was still serving the
Vaterland.

When Trudi Montag and other parishioners followed the priest from the Buttgereits’ gravesite to where the widow Weskopp knelt in her black coat and black hat, they passed the grave of Herr Höffenauer, who’d been buried next to his mother after lightning had struck him at her grave. One squat candle burned inside a glass lantern that was set in front of the granite marker.

Klaus Malter’s mother was released a week after the two funerals. Trudi found out from the widow Blomberg when she came into the pay-library to borrow a mystery novel.

“I’m glad she’s free,” Trudi said. “Who told you?”

“The young Frau Malter.”

“Jutta—she would know.”

“They won’t let the Frau Professor teach at the university anymore. I wonder what she’s going to do for money.”

“She comes from wealth,” Trudi said. “I’m sure her family will help.”

“You’d be surprised how many families drop away when you’re in trouble.”

“Not your family, though.”

“Not my sister, anyway. I’m glad she got away to Holland in time. But my brother—I don’t even know where he lives now.” She shivered, and Trudi made her sit down on one of the boxes of banned books that were stored along the wall next to the counter. “If he lives, that is.”

Trudi watched her silently—the grayish face marked by sorrow and hunger, the painfully thin hands. It hurt her eyes to look at the yellow star that was sewn with meticulous stitches to the front of Frau Blomberg’s coat. No matter how many of those stars she saw, they hurt her eyes. She felt the loss of all the people who had left Burgdorf, those who had fled or been taken, those who were still fighting this dreadful war.

“I was thinking more of my husband’s family. I’m only half Jewish, and they used to pretend that didn’t count. But ever since my husband died, I’m no longer welcome there. Too dangerous, they said the last time I wanted to visit.”

“You hear from Fienchen?”

“This is the second year I haven’t been able to celebrate her birthday with her. She just turned fourteen.” Frau Blomberg pulled out a folded handkerchief and blew her nose.