Page 102 of Hell to Pay
I know you and Mom may be disappointed. On the other hand, if I’m going to follow in your footsteps—well, you couldn’t possiblyfind a more high-stakes trial than this one, could you? Not in all the world.
I’ve written this letter over the past three days, in between supervising our POWs. I’m finishing it now in my bunk. Saying goodbye to the guys will be tough, but I’d have been doing that soon enough anyway.
Join the Army and see the world, they say. They never mention that you’ll be seeing the worst things in it.
Love to you and Mom,
Joe
44
SURPRISE
“I notice what hedidn’tsay,” Alix said. “That if he were stationed in Nuremberg, he’d be able to hang out with that beautiful blonde again. ‘Gee, what a coincidence, Dad! I almost forgot she lived there!’”
“Probably because his father wrote him back,” I said, “after the letter that ended with the bit about me.”
“Aha,” Alix said. “Let me guess. He wasn’t supposed to be attracted to a German?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “A German Jew? Absolutely. But anyshiksa—any Gentile woman—was out of the question, and as for a Germanshiksa—the very idea was anathema.”
“Ana-what?” Ben asked.
“Anathema,” I said. “The object of vehement dislike. More than out of the question—unthinkable.” What were schools teaching these days?
“I guess he was surprised later, then,” Ben said.
“You could say that,” I said.
“Good thing Grandpa had a mind of his own,” Alix said.
On a clear, cool morning in mid-September, I was handing over a loaf of Pumpernickel—oh, the blessing of Pumpernickel, with its three ingredients! Rye berries, salt, and water, Ididhave—and telling Dr. Müller, “I’m not sure I’m enjoyingThe Grapes of Wrathso much.”
“Oh?” he asked, putting the loaf into his string bag and pausing to cough into a handkerchief. “Why not?” He’d been a professor at the University of Erlangen until being forced out in 1933—for his liberal ideas, as he was neither a Jew nor a Communist—and was old now and very thin and stooped.
“A bit too close to home, perhaps,” I said, “as a refugee.”
“Ah,” he said, his mild blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “It’s interesting, is it not, our reactions to books? For me, you know, it’s somewhat the opposite. I enjoy reading about hard times, particularly hard times in history, for it reminds me that no matter how bleak they are, they do end. Better times come again, if one can hold out.”
“The‘if’,”I said, “is the difficult part. And is it enough to simply hold out, or does one have an obligation to try to better the situation, even if the effort will be doomed?”
He beamed. “An excellent question. You are a most perceptive student. A pity your parents didn’t send you to university. One of the Nazis’ worst ideas, in my opinion, depriving society of the intellectual contributions of women. And Jews, of course. Oh, yes, and Jews.”
“I agree,” I said. “Though not about my parents. They would have sent me, I’m sure, had they lived. As for my perception—easier to talk about speaking out than actually to do it! But I have to tell you—what a captivating book isGone With the Wind!That’s about war, but it feels very different somehow—farther away. I confess I setThe Grapes of Wrathaside to start it. She’s a most terrible and wonderful heroine, isn’t she?” How strange and heady it was to be able to speakfreely, as I’d never in my life been able to do! Well, perhaps at seven or eight years old, but I’d had no dangerous thoughts at seven or eight.
“Indeed,” Dr. Müller said. “You’ll pardon my eagerness, but I’ve brought youThe Maltese Falcontoday.” He pulled the book out of his string bag and set it on the counter, then paused to cough some more. “A very different writing style, and I’ll be interested to hear what you think of it. It’s such a pleasure to be able to discuss American novels again! I will first mention, though, in my role as professor, how we see the issue of race arise once more withGone With the Wind,as we discussed when you readHuckleberry Finn,although the authors’ approaches and perhaps their beliefs are quite different, and the books were written in different eras as well. We must have tea soon, you and I, and delve into this. Even the Americans, it seems, don’t truly believe in the equality they espouse. How imperfect is the world!”
Frau Lindemann, behind him in the queue, said, “How imperfect indeed, when Germans stand about discussing the enemy’s books, which one has of course read inEnglish.What’s wrong with German authors? Have you no national pride, either of you? You should really be ashamed.”
Frau Neumann, behind her—I could swear that she watched for Frau Lindemann just so she could torment her—said,“Ach, du lieber Himmel,here we go again. Isn’t it enough that Herr Dr. Müller spent six months in Dachau as the guest of the Gestapo for enjoying literature? Must he be tormented forevermore for the crime of scholarship? Yes, learning—how very suspect! And is one not even allowed to read another language now? We should have a bonfire and burn all the foreign books, no? And yet—hmm, it seems to me that we’ve tried that. Perhapsyoumight be ashamed, just a bit?”
“I?” Frau Lindemann sputtered. “I, with my husband still ina prison camp simply for defending his country? And what of Herr Adelberg, still penned up in England?”
“At least he’s eating,” Frau Neumann said with a laugh. “If it weremyhusband, I’d hope they wouldn’t send him home until we have meat again!”
I asked hurriedly, “What can I offer you today, Frau Lindemann?”
“I don’t know why I patronize this shop,” she said. “I have half a mind to go elsewhere.”
