The SS officer, with a disagreeable, puzzled grin, said to Slote, “This one is certainly Jewish. I think a little physical examination would -”
Slote broke in, “I would report that as personal violence. In America circumcision at birth is routine.”
“I’m circumcised,” said Byron.
“So am I,” said the old clergyman.
In the rest of the waiting room the process of sorting out the Jews was over. People were glancing at the Americans, pointing and whispering. The SS men were gathered at the entrance, all except a stout bald one with gold leaf in his black lapels, who now approached the American party, pulled aside the officer, and murmured with him, glancing at Hartley. The officer, without a word, pushed through to Hartley, took his suitcase and undid the straps.
Slote said sharply, “Hold on, sir, this is not a customs point, and there’s no reason to search personal belongings -” But the officer, down on one knee, already had the bag open and was rummaging in it, spilling its contents on the floor. He came on the New Testament, turned it over in his hands with an expression half- astounded, half-sneering, and brought it to his superior officer. The bald man examined it, handed it back, and threw his hands in the air. “So,” he said in German, “in a hundred Americans, maybe not one. Why not? Any Jew would have been an idiot to come to Warsaw this summer. Come. The train is being delayed.” He walked off.
The SS man tossed the black book with the gold cross in the open bag, and rudely gestured at Hartley to pick up his belongings, stepping over the pile as though it were garbage. Scanning the other faces in the group, he stepped up to Natalie Jastrow and gave her a long amused scrutiny.”
“Well, what are you looking at?” she said, and Byron’s heart sank.
“You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“Rather dark. Your ancestry?”
“I’m Italian.”
“What is your name?”
“Mona Lisa.”
“I see. You step forward.”
Natalie did not move.
The officer grunted and begun turning the pages of the roster.
Slote quickly said, “She’s my fiancee. We’ll be married next month.”
The bald officer shouted from the entrance and waved at the SS man, who roughly handed the roster to Slote. “Very well. You love your Jews. Why do you refuse to take in ours? We have swarms.” He turned to Byron. “You’re the son of a naval officer, and yet you lie about a Jew! That fellow is a Jew.”
“He’s not, honestly,” Byron said. “I think Mark sort of looks like Dr. Goebbels. You know short, dark, with a big nose.”
“Dr. Goebbels? So.” The SS man glared at Hartley and Natalie, broke into a nasty laugh, and walked off.
A loudspeaker called out in German, “
The refugees went crowding out to the dark tracks. The Jews, a forlorn little group, straggled back to the dining room, with men in black surrounding them.
Soldiers halted the crowd at the train to allow diplomats aboard first.
Slote muttered to Byron, “I’ll take a compartment. You’ll see me at the window. Bring Natalie and Mark, and by all means Reverend Glenville and his wife.”
Soon, through billowing steam, Byron could see the charge waving from inside the dimly lit train. Byron came aboard with the four others, in a suffocating crush, and found the compartment.
“Thanks,” Hartley whispered when they were all seated and Slote had slid shut the door. “A million thanks. Thanks to all of you. God bless you.”
“Leslie Slote is the man,” said the minister. “You did nobly, Leslie.”
“Nobly,” said Natalie.
Slote looked at her with a hangdog smile, as though not sure she was serious. “Well, I was on pretty good ground. They tried to get that information from me at Kantorovicz, you know, and couldn’t. They got it from all the others. That’s why the separation went so fast here. But why the devil did you make that Mona Lisa joke?”
“It was very risky,” the minister said.
“Idiotic,” Hartley said. They were talking in whispers, though the corridor was buzzing with loud talk the stationary train was hissing and clanging, and a public address system outside was bellowing in German.
“How about Byron and Dr. Goebbels?” Natalie said with a grin. “That was pretty neat, I thought.”
“Neither of you seems to understand,” Hartley said, “that these are murderers. Murderers. You’re like kids, both of you.”
Reverend Glenville said, “I’m not willing to believe that, Mr. Hartley. I know the German people. They have had a cruel, unjust system imposed on them, and one day they’ll throw it off. At bottom they are good.”
“Well, Stockholm ahoy,” Natalie said. “I admit one thing. I’ve lost all curiosity about Berlin.”
“You’ve got to get your passport back first,” Hartley said. His jolly face was carved in a hundred lines and creases of tragic bitterness. He looked extraordinarily old, inhumanly old: the Wandering Jew, in an American sports jacket.
The train started with a wrenching clang. Byron now pulled out the yellow envelope. The message, on a Wehrmacht official form, had these few English words: GLAD YOU’RE OKAY. COME STRAIGHT TO BERLIN. DAD.
Chapter 15
The long string of cars squealed into the Friedrichstrasse terminal in clouds of white vapor, clanking, slowing. Rhoda clutched Victor Henry’s arm and jumped up and down, to the amusement of the uniformed foreign ministry man who had escorted them to meet the train from Konigsberg. Pug observed his smile. “We haven’t seen our boy in over a year,” he shouted above the train noise.
“Ah? Well, then this is a great moment.”
The train stopped, and people came swarming out.
“My GOD!” exclaimed Rhoda. “Is THAT him coming down those steps? It CAN’T be him. He’s a SKELETON.”
“Where? Where?” Pug said.
“He disappeared. Somewhere over there. No, there he is!”
Byron’s chestnut hair was very long and curly, almost matted; the bones stood out in his pale face and his eyes looked bright and enormous. He was laughing and waving, but at first blink his father almost failed to recognize this long-jawed sharp-chinned young man with the shabby clothes and raffish air.
“It’s me. This is
Pug plunged toward Byron, holding Rhoda’s hand. Byron, smelling of wine, embraced him in a tight, fierce, long hug, scratching his father’s face with a two-day growth of bristles. Then he hugged and kissed his mother.
“Gad, I’m reeling,” he said, in a swooping note like Rhoda’s but in a rough baritone voice. “They’ve been feeding us on this train like hogs going to market. I just finished a lunch with three different wines. Mom, you look beautiful. About twenty-five.”
“Well, you look ghastly. Why the devil were you running around in Poland?”
The foreign ministry man pulled at Byron’s elbow. “You do feel you have been treated well, Mr. Henry? Dr. Neustadter, foreign ministry,” he said, with a click of heels and a crinkly smile.
“Oh, hi. Oh, irreproachably, sir, irreproachably,” Byron said, laughing wildly. “That is, once we got out of Warsaw. In there it was kind of rough.”
“Ah, well, that’s war. We’d be pleased to have a little note from you about your treatment, at your convenience. My card.”
