Page 97 of Hell to Pay
Once again, we heard “tomorrow.” The camp was only fifteen miles south of Munich, but there was no transport until the morning, for the day had grown late during our trials. We were buoyed, however, by being offered beds and dinner in a shelter run by the U.S. Army—I was allowed in by special dispensation, but told I’d have to leave in the morning and couldn’t go to the camp with the others. I’d known that already, however, so I wasn’t disturbed. We washed—how wonderful to wash away the dust and sweat of the day!—and sat down to dinner with the other residents.
And what a dinner it was! Potatoes, yes, but mashed with cabbage and served with liberal daubs of margarine. Applesauce, too, and best of all—heaps of tinned salmon! I ate sparingly, remembering my stomach’s previous distress at being given more meat than it could handle, the children cleanedtheir plates, and Dr. Becker looked as if he might soonbeginto believe that this paradise of a camp actually existed. The other refugees—all extremely thin, and most of them Jews—talked quietly around us, trading news as the air practically hummed with suppressed excitement at their imminent departure for a better life. Under cover of the conversation, Dr. Becker said, keeping his voice low, “I asked around and found a woman who will show us where the black market is.”
“Good,” I said. “Excellent. When?”
“After dark. You’re absolutely sure you want to sell it, though?”
“I don’t see how I survive otherwise.”
He sighed. “Yes. Well …”
“Both my parents told me to sell it,” I said. “Besides, it’s really rather ugly. Much too large and garish, don’t you think? No, I can let it go quite happily, if only I get a good price for it.”
It was a long walk through the dark, rubble-strewn streets. The blackout was over, of course, along with the air-raids, but there were no streetlights—how could they have survived so much bombing?—and the formerly orderly streets were now a warren of paths that resembled nothing so much as a rabbit’s burrow, with the wreckage piled to either side. Bricks, stone, wood, plaster, broken glass and twisted metal … it was all the most tremendous mess. I was unsure of our direction after five minutes and completely lost after ten, reduced to following close on the woman’s heels. Her name was Frau Schneider, and she was a cheerful sort, the type who would be singing in the lifeboats after the ship went down. She seemed to know the way well, for she never faltered.
Around one last corner, and a man stepped out of the shadows so suddenly, I jumped. “Yeah?” he asked. Actually, he said,“Ja?”Which is not a German turn of phrase.
“She has something to sell,” the woman said, pointing to me.
The man turned on a tiny penlight. He shone it first in my face, which made me blink and shield my eyes, then on Dr. Becker’s, then back to mine. “What is it?” he asked, again in German—very bad German.
I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but something about his voice made my skin prickle. It was the atmosphere, probably—like a film. Shady deals in dark places. I reached into my pocket, loosened the drawstring on the velvet bag, and held out the brooch, which was nearly as large as my palm and encrusted with gems, including one very large emerald. “Napoleon gave it to Josephine,” I said, “on the occasion of their wedding. The stones are diamonds and emeralds.”
“Yeah, right,” the man said. He was a soldier; I could tell that much. He had only one stripe on his shoulder, though. What did that mean? Surely more stripes were better.
I said, “It’s quite genuine.”
He pulled something out of his pocket and put it to his eye. A jeweler’s loupe; I’d seen them before. He tried to take the brooch from me, but I closed my hand around it and said, “I’ll hold it.”
It was a faceoff, but eventually he shrugged and said, “Fine.” I loosened my hold—cautiously—and he aimed the penlight at the brooch and studied it for long minutes through the loupe.
I said nothing. Surely, the person who said least in this situation would maintain the upper hand. Finally, he straightened and said, “A hundred bucks.”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
“It’s worth many thousands,” I said. “Many, many thousands.”
“It’s not worth that to me,” he said, “and I’m your only buyer.”
I felt sick. Panicked. Then I seemed to hear my father’s voice.When you feel yourself panicking and hurrying, stop and take a breath, then proceed with deliberation. Haste kills.I did as he’d told me, and finally said, “Fine.”
The man reached for the brooch, and I held up my free hand in a “Stop” gesture. “Fine,” I said again, “I’ll take it elsewhere.” And tucked it back into the pouch.
“OK, OK,” he said. “A hundred twenty. Just because I’m a nice guy.”
“No.”
“Lady,” he said, “if you want to sell this, you have one choice. Me.” Still in his terrible German.
Another voice, now. Another man stepping out of the shadows. “What’s going on?” he asked in English. His voice was deep and a little harsh. He sounded worse than the first man.
“This little bitch,” the first man said, “is holding out for more. Thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba. I offered a hundred twenty, and she won’t bite!”
“Let’s see it,” the second man said.
I didn’t move. I certainly wasn’t going to let on that I spoke English. When the first man said, “Show it again,” in German, I went through the process once more, and so did the new man. Penlight, loupe, time ticking by.
