“This is a mistake,” says Jastrow. “I’ll go to Eppstein.”
Natalie’s face is as gray as the card. “You think so?”
“No doubt of it. You’re a Prominent, a mica worker, and the headmistress of the children’s pavilion. The Transport Commission is a madhouse. Somebody pulled the wrong card. I shall be back within the hour. Be cheerful.”
Outside the Magdeburg barracks, there is a riotous crush. Cursing ghetto guards are trying to shove the people into a queue, using fists, shoulders, and here and there rubber clubs. Jastrow passes through a privileged entrance. From the far end of the main hallway comes the angry anxious tumult of petitioners jamming the transport office. Outside Eppstein’s suite there is also a line. Jastrow recognizes high officials of the Economic and Technical Departments. This transport is biting deep! Jastrow does not get in line. The rank of Elder is a wretched burden, but at least it gives one access to the big shots, and even — if one has real business with them — to the SS. Eppstein’s pretty Berlin secretary, looking cross and worn, manages a smile at Jastrow, and passes him in.
Eppstein sits with hands clasped on his handsome new mahogany desk. The office would suit a Prague banker now, for furnishings and decoration; a long briefing for the Red Cross is scheduled here. He looks surprised to see Jastrow, and is cordial and sympathetic about Natalie. Yes, a mistake is not at all unlikely. Those poor devils in transport have been running around without heads. He will look into it. Has Jastrow’s niece been up to any mischief, by chance? Jastrow says, “Nothing of the kind, certainly not,” and he tries to give Eppstein the gray cards.
The High Elder shrinks from them. “No, no, no, let her keep them, don’t confuse things. When the error is corrected she’ll be notified to turn the cards in.”
For three days no further word comes from Eppstein. Jastrow tries over and over to see him, but the Berlin secretary turns cold, formal, and mean. Pestering her is useless, she says. The High Elder will send word when he has news. Meantime Natalie learns, and reports to Jastrow, that every member of her Zionist circle has received a transport card. Sullenly she acknowledges that Jastrow was prescient; an informer must have betrayed them, and they are being gotten rid of. They include the hospital’s head of surgery, the deputy manager of the food administration, and the former president of the Jewish War Veterans of Germany. No protection avails this group, obviously.
The first two trains leave. Natalie’s little cabal, except for herself, are all shipped off. A third long string of cattle cars squeals into the Bahnhofstrasse. All over Theresienstadt, transportees trudge toward the Hamburg barracks in bright afternoon sunshine, carrying luggage, food, and small children.
Jastrow returns to the apartment from a last try to see Eppstein. He has failed, but there is a ray of hope. One of his students, who works in the Central Secretariat, has whispered news to him. Gross errors were made by the Transport Commission. Over eight thousand summonses went out, but the SS has contracted with the Reichsbahn, the German railroad company, for exactly seven thousand five hundred transportees. The Reichsbahn calls the transports Sonderzüge, “special trains,” charging the SS reduced third-class group fares. There are cars for only seventy-five hundred in all. So at least five hundred summonses may be cancelled; five hundred transportees reprieved!
Natalie sits on the couch sewing, with Louis beside her, as Jastrow pours out this news. She does not react with joy. She hardly reacts at all. Natalie has withdrawn into the old shell of narrow-focused numbness that protects her in bad times.
Right now she is wondering, she tells Jastrow, what to wear. She has dressed Louis up like Little Lord Fauntleroy, buying or borrowing clothes from families who are not going. With calm, dreamy, almost schizoid logic, she explains that her appearance will be important, since she will no longer be shielded by a famous uncle. She will be on her own. She must look her best. If only she can find instant favor in the eyes of the SS men where she is going, identify herself as an American and a Prominent, then her sex appeal and Louis’s charm, and sympathy for a young mother, can all work for her. Shall she wear her rather seductive purple dress for the journey? She is sewing a yellow star on the dress as they talk. In this warm weather, she says, it might just do for the trip. What does Aaron think?
He gently falls in with her frame of mind. No, the purple dress might provoke liberties from the Germans, or even from low Jews. The tailored gray suit is elegant, Germanic, and it sets off her figure. She and Louis will stand out when they arrive. Solemnly nodding as he talks, she agrees, and folds away the starred dress in her suitcase, saying it may come in handy yet. She continues fussing at her packing, talking half to herself about the choices she must make. Aaron unlocks a desk drawer, takes out a knife, and severs a couple of stitches in the stout walking shoe on his right foot. Numb as she is, this strikes her as strange. “What are you doing?” The shoe is too tight, he says, going off into his own room. When he comes out, he is wearing his best suit and his old fedora. He looks rather like a transportee. His face is very grave, or upset, or scared, she cannot tell which.
“Natalie, I’ll follow up on this matter of the cancelled summonses.”
“But I must go to the Hamburg barracks soon.”
“I shan’t be long, and anyway, I can visit you there tonight.”
She peers at him. “Honestly, do you think there is any hope?” Her tone is skeptical and detached.
“We’ll see.” Aaron drops on a knee beside Louis, who is playing with Natalie’s Punch puppet on the floor. “Well, Louis,” he says in Yiddish, “good-bye, and God watch over you.” He kisses the boy. The tickling beard makes Louis laugh.
Natalie finishes her packing, closes the suitcases, and ties the bundles. Now she has nothing to do. This is what she finds hard to bear. Keeping busy is her best surcease from dread. She knows well that she and Louis are on a brink. She has not forgotten Berel’s account, reported by Aaron, of what happens “in the east.” She has not forgotten it, but she has suppressed it. She and Aaron have not referred to Oswiecim again. The transport summons says nothing about Oswiecim. She has shut her mind and heart to the thought that she is probably going there. She does not even yet repent of her involvement with the underground Zionists. It has kept her spirits high, given her a handle on her fate, made some sense of it.
The great German oppression is due to the homelessness and defenselessness of the Jews. Bad luck has caught her up in the catastrophe. But Western liberalism was always a mirage. Assimilation is impossible. She herself has lived an empty Jewish life until now, but she has found herself. If she survives, her life will go to restoring the Jewish nation to its ancient soil in Palestine.
She believes this. It is her new creed. At least, she believes she believes it. A small resistant mocking American voice has never quite died in her, whispering that what she really wants is to survive, go back to Byron, and live in San Francisco or Colorado; and that her sudden conversion to Zionism is mental morphine for the agony of entrapment. But morphine or creed, she has risked her life for it, is about to pay the price, and still does not regret it. She regrets only that she did not jump at Berel’s offer to deliver Louis. If only she might still do it!
She can wait no longer for Aaron. With Louis toddling beside her, she sets out for the Hamburg barracks, a bundle of food and toilet things on her back, a suitcase in either hand. She falls into a stooped shabby procession of Jews with their packs, all headed that way. It is a beautiful balmy afternoon. Flowers bloom everywhere, bordering fresh green lawns that have been laid down in the last couple of weeks. Theresienstadt’s streets are clean. The town smells like springtime. The buildings gleam with new yellow paint. Though the Beautification has a long way to go, the Red Cross visitors could almost be fooled right now, Natalie dully thinks, as she squints into the sinking sun dead ahead in the street; fooled, that is, if they would not enter the barracks, or if they would not inquire about the railroad spur into the town, or about the mortality rates.
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She gets into the long line outside the Hamburg barracks, holding tight to Louis, pushing her suitcases forward with a foot. Across the street under the terminal shed stands the black locomotive. At the courtyard entrance, under the eyes of SS men, Transport Commission Jews at raw lumber tables are officiously checking in the transportees — asking questions, calling out names and numbers, slamming papers with rubber stamps, all with the worn-down irritability of emigration inspectors at any border.
Natalie’s turn comes. The official who takes her papers is a small man wearing a red cloth cap. He shouts at her in German, stamps the papers, and scrawls notes. He collects her cards, and bawls the numbers over his shoulder. A man with a three-day stubble brings him two cardboard signs looped with string. The numbers of Natalie’s gray cards are painted on the signs in huge black digits. Natalie hangs a number around her neck, and the other on Louis.
At the SS headquarters, Aaron Jastrow stands hat in hand outside the commander’s office, the adjutant having ordered him to wait in the hall. Uniformed Germans pass him without a glance. A Jew Elder summoned to Sturmbannführer Rahm’s office is no uncommon sight, especially during the Beautification push. Fear weakens the old man’s knees, yet he does not dare lean against the wall. A Jew in a lounging attitude in the presence of Germans invites a fist or a club, Beautification or no. The wariness is soaked into his bones. With great effort, he holds himself stiffly straight.
The fear was worst when he made the decision back at the apartment. His hand trembled so, when he cut into the shoe, that at first try the knife slipped and gashed his left thumb, which still oozes blood through the rag he has tied over it. That, happily, Natalie did not notice in her stunned state, though she did see him sever the stitches. But the decision once taken, he has mastered the fear enough to go ahead. The rest is in God’s hands. The time for the ultimate gamble is upon him. The Allies will land; if not in May, then in June or July. On all fronts the Germans are losing. The war may end quite suddenly. Natalie and Louis must not go in this transport.
“Doron, t’fila, milkhamar!”
Over and over Aaron Jastrow keeps muttering these three Hebrew words. They give him courage. “Doron, t’fila, milkhamar!” He remembers them from a childhood Bible lesson about Jacob and Esau. After a twenty-year separation, the brothers are about to meet, and Jacob hears that Esau is coming with four hundred armed men. Jacob sends ahead huge gifts, whole herds of cattle, donkeys, and camels; he arrays his caravan for combat; and he implores God for help. Rashi comments, “The three ways to prepare for the foe: tribute, prayer, and battle — doron, t’fila, milkhama.”
Jastrow has prayed. He has brought costly tribute with him. And if he must, he is ready to fight.
The adjutant, a big pink-faced Austrian who cannot be twenty-five, yet whose Sam Browne belt strains his green-clad paunch into two rolls, opens the office door. “All right, you. Get in here.”
Jastrow walks through the anteroom, and through the open door to Rahm’s office, where the scowling commander sits writing at his desk. Behind Jastrow, the adjutant shuts the door. Rahm does not look up. His pen scratches and scratches. Jastrow has a bad urge to urinate. He has never been in this office before. The big pictures of Hitler and Himmler, the swastika flag, the double lightning-flash insignia of the SS, blown up on the wall in a large silver and black wall medallion, all unnerve him. In almost any other circumstances he would beg the use of a bathroom, but he dare not open his mouth.
“What the devil do you want?” Rahm all at once shouts, glaring up at him and going red in the face.
“Herr Kommandant, may I respectfully —”
“Respectfully what? You think I don’t know why you’re here? Say one word on behalf of that Jew-whore niece of yours, and you’ll be thrown out of here covered with blood! You understand? You think because you’re a shitty Elder you can barge into these headquarters, to beg for a Jewish sow who plotted treason against the German government?”
This is Rahm’s way. He has a fulminating temper and at such moments he can be very dangerous. Jastrow is near collapse. Pounding the desk, rising to his feet, Rahm screams at him, “WELL, JEW? You asked to see the commander, ja? I give you two minutes, and if you mention that cunt of a niece even once, I’ll knock your teeth down your swinish throat! TALK.”
In low tones, Jastrow gasps out, “I have committed a serious crime, which I want to confess to you.”
“What? What? A crime?” The choleric face distorts in a look of puzzlement.
Jastrow pulls from his pocket a small velvety yellow pouch. With a violently shaking hand, he lays it on the desk before the commander. Glaring from him to the pouch, Rahm picks it up, and empties out on the desk six sparkling stones.
“I bought them in Rome, Herr Kommandant, in 1940, for twenty-five thousand dollars. I lived in Italy then. In Siena.” Jastrow’s voice slightly firms as he talks. “When Mussolini entered the war, I took the precaution of putting money into diamonds. As a Prominent, I was not searched on arrival in Theresienstadt. Regulations required the turning in of my jewelry. I know that. I regret this very serious offense, and I have come to make a clean breast of it.”
Rahm sits down in his chair, contemplating the diamonds with a sour grin.
“I thought I had better turn them in directly to the Herr Kommandant,” Jastrow adds, “because of their value.”
After a long, cynical stare at Jastrow, Rahm abruptly laughs. “Value! Probably you bought them from a Jew swindler, and they’re glass.”
“I bought them at Bulgari, Herr Kommandant. No doubt you have heard of the finest jeweler in Italy. The trademark is on the pouch.”
Rahm does not look at the pouch. He brushes the stones aside with the back of his hand, and they scatter on his blotter.
“Where did you keep them hidden?”
“In my shoe.”
“Ha! An old Jew trick. How much more have you got hidden away?” Rahm’s tone is conversationally sarcastic. This is his way, too. Once his rage blows over, one can talk to him. Eppstein says, “Rahm barks more than he bites.” However, he does bite. There lies the bribe on the desk. Rahm is not taking it. Jastrow’s fate is in the balance now.
“I have nothing more.”
“If your balls got twisted in the Little Fortress, you might remember something you overlooked.”
“There is nothing else, Herr Kommandant.” Jastrow is convulsed with shivers; but his reply is persuasive in its steady tone.
One by one Rahm picks up the diamonds and holds them to the light. “Twenty-five thousand dollars? You were swindled blind, wherever you got them. I know cut stones. These are shit.”
“I had them appraised in Milan, a year later, for forty thousand, Herr Kommandant.” Jastrow is here putting in a beautification touch of his own. Rahm’s eyebrows lift.
“And your whore of a niece knows all about the stones, naturally.”
“I never told her. It was wiser so. Nobody in the world knows of them, Herr Kommandant, but you and me.”
Sturmbannführer Rahm’s bloodshot eyes bore at Jastrow for long seconds. He drops the stones into the pouch, the pouch into a pocket. “Well, the whore and her bastard go in the transport.”
“Herr Kommandant, there was an excess of summonses, I understand, and many will be cancelled.”
Obstinately Rahm shakes his head. “She goes. She’s lucky not to get sent to the Little Fortress and shot. Now clear out of here.” He takes a pen and resumes writing.
Yet the doron has had some slight effect. The dismissal is curt but not fierce. Aaron Jastrow now has to make a quick judgment at highest hazard. Of course Rahm cannot acknowledge that the bribe has worked. But will he in fact see to it that Natalie does not go?
“I said, get your shitty ass out of here,” snaps Rahm.
Jastrow decides to wield his pitiful weapon.
“Herr Kommandant, if my niece is transported, I must tell you I will resign as Elder. I will resign from the library. I will
take no part in the Beautification. I will not talk to the Red Cross visitors in my apartment. Nothing will force me to change my mind.” In nervous rapid-fire, he blurts out these rehearsed sentences.
The audacity catches Rahm by surprise. The pen drops. A horrible ferocity rumbles in his voice. “You are interested in committing suicide, Jew? Right away?”
More rehearsed sentences tumble out. “Herr Kommandant, Obersturmbannfiihrer Eichmann went to great trouble to bring me from Paris to Theresienstadt. I make good window dressing! My picture has been taken by German journalists. My books are published in Denmark. The Red Cross visitors will be very interested to meet me, and —”
“Shut your dribbling asshole,” Rahm says in an oddly unemotional way, “and get out of here this instant, if you want to live.”
“Herr Kommandant, I don’t value my life much. I’m old and not well. Kill me, and you’ll have to explain to Herr Eichmann what became of his window dressing. Torture me, and if I survive, what impression can I make on the Red Cross? If you cancel my niece’s summons, I guarantee our cooperation when the Red Cross comes. I guarantee she will do no more foolish things.”
Rahm presses a buzzer and picks up his pen. The adjutant opens the door. At Rahm’s murderous glare and dismissive gesture with his pen, Jastrow rushes out.
The square in front of the HQ is a mass of blossoming trees. As Jastrow emerges on the street, the sweet smell fills his nostrils. The band is playing the evening concert; at the moment, a waltz from Die Fledermaus. The moon hangs red and low over the trees. Jastrow staggers to the outdoor café, where Jews may sit and drink black water. As an Elder he can walk past the queue of waiting customers. He falls in a chair, and buries his face in his hands in exhausted relief. He is alive and unhurt. What he has accomplished he does not know, but he has done his all.
Searchlights blaze down on the lawn from the roof of the Hamburg barracks. Blinded, frightened, Natalie snatches up her sleeping son. He whimpers.