borders, war, rape again, her whole family dead, they must be, she’s alone,
I have my own car and driver, papers, passes, I can just add her name, do it, it’s
now or never, after what she’s been through.
Sarah watched him thinking, his eyes creased yet far away. She stroked his hand and
whispered, “Please. Please. It’s my only chance. Please help me.”
If she doesn’t leave now, Brodsky thought, it will only get harder. The lines will
be drawn, the zones closed, Berlin could be cut off from the west. It’s now or never.
Do it. Help her. God knows she’s suffered enough. Isn’t it time for a good deed? In
victory?
It had been a long time for him, too, since he had had a woman, had stroked one, had
held one, been held. Since he had even kissed a girl. Made love? Hah! He sighed. He
pulled his hand free and cupped her chin, wanting to feel his lips on hers. He thought,
She’s so sad. And sweet. His hands were so big and Sarah’s face so small, the tips
of his fingers played with her hair, her dry, dirty, matted hair. He took the tip
of her ear between his thumb and forefinger, rolled it, played with it, bent to kiss
it.
And stopped himself. What was he thinking? This is a mitzvah, a blessing to help her,
not a chance to abuse her. Am I, too, a beast?
Another great sigh, almost a shudder, and Brodsky smiled, with as much sadness as
Sarah had ever seen. His hands felt good, loving and tender and strong. With his hands
cradling her face, she felt protected. Would he kiss her? What to do? She pulled back.
Yet mostly she felt a deep pain, for herself, and, yes, for him. He didn’t win this
war, she thought. We all lost.
As if in a dream, she heard him say, “If I could, if I could, how soon could you be
ready?”
“How soon?” Sarah said with a slow smile, the first he had seen from her, and it melted
his heart. “Let me see. Select my clothes, arrange my affairs, pay my bills … I’m
ready now, of course. Can you? Oh, can you take me?”
SIX
Frankfurt,
May 5, 1945
Jacob woke by a mound of bricks that were scraped, cleaned, and ready for reuse. There
were piles like this every fifty meters, and by each were little shelters of brick
and wooden planks where ragged people huddled to keep warm. He stretched his arms
and legs, rubbed the ache from his joints, and pushed himself to his feet.
His shoulders were slumped, his eyes were dark, and he had the hangdog expression
of exhaustion. He yawned, took a piece of paper from his pocket, unwrapped it, and
sighed at the little dark slab. He put the last small piece of chocolate into his
mouth and sucked, playing with it with his tongue, trying to print the taste in his
memory. It was the last of his food.
Hanover and Kassel had shocked him but Frankfurt was like a demented Grimm’s fairy
tale. It had been devoured and spat out, shapeless in complete defeat. Maybe three
houses were left standing in each street. There were mountains of rubble as far as
the eye could see, covering every centimeter of ground. People picked their way across
the debris like tightrope walkers.
But he found the house he had been told about, near the center, one of the few houses
fully intact. There wasn’t a scratch on the stone angels in the elegant façade. The
Americans had kicked out the owners and given it to the Jews of Frankfurt as their
community headquarters.
“It’ll do for now, till there are more of us,” a bald man with thin round spectacles
told Jacob, gesturing to a chair and handing him a cheese sandwich from the box donated
daily by the American army chaplain, a rabbi. “We had thirty thousand Jews here before
the war. Today, there’s about fifty. We hope more will come back like you.”
“I’m not from here,” Jacob said. “I want to go to Heidelberg. I was told you could
arrange a ride for me. That’s why I came.”
The man snorted. “Who told you? Manny the comedian?
I have my own car and driver, papers, passes, I can just add her name, do it, it’s
now or never, after what she’s been through.
Sarah watched him thinking, his eyes creased yet far away. She stroked his hand and
whispered, “Please. Please. It’s my only chance. Please help me.”
If she doesn’t leave now, Brodsky thought, it will only get harder. The lines will
be drawn, the zones closed, Berlin could be cut off from the west. It’s now or never.
Do it. Help her. God knows she’s suffered enough. Isn’t it time for a good deed? In
victory?
It had been a long time for him, too, since he had had a woman, had stroked one, had
held one, been held. Since he had even kissed a girl. Made love? Hah! He sighed. He
pulled his hand free and cupped her chin, wanting to feel his lips on hers. He thought,
She’s so sad. And sweet. His hands were so big and Sarah’s face so small, the tips
of his fingers played with her hair, her dry, dirty, matted hair. He took the tip
of her ear between his thumb and forefinger, rolled it, played with it, bent to kiss
it.
And stopped himself. What was he thinking? This is a mitzvah, a blessing to help her,
not a chance to abuse her. Am I, too, a beast?
Another great sigh, almost a shudder, and Brodsky smiled, with as much sadness as
Sarah had ever seen. His hands felt good, loving and tender and strong. With his hands
cradling her face, she felt protected. Would he kiss her? What to do? She pulled back.
Yet mostly she felt a deep pain, for herself, and, yes, for him. He didn’t win this
war, she thought. We all lost.
As if in a dream, she heard him say, “If I could, if I could, how soon could you be
ready?”
“How soon?” Sarah said with a slow smile, the first he had seen from her, and it melted
his heart. “Let me see. Select my clothes, arrange my affairs, pay my bills … I’m
ready now, of course. Can you? Oh, can you take me?”
SIX
Frankfurt,
May 5, 1945
Jacob woke by a mound of bricks that were scraped, cleaned, and ready for reuse. There
were piles like this every fifty meters, and by each were little shelters of brick
and wooden planks where ragged people huddled to keep warm. He stretched his arms
and legs, rubbed the ache from his joints, and pushed himself to his feet.
His shoulders were slumped, his eyes were dark, and he had the hangdog expression
of exhaustion. He yawned, took a piece of paper from his pocket, unwrapped it, and
sighed at the little dark slab. He put the last small piece of chocolate into his
mouth and sucked, playing with it with his tongue, trying to print the taste in his
memory. It was the last of his food.
Hanover and Kassel had shocked him but Frankfurt was like a demented Grimm’s fairy
tale. It had been devoured and spat out, shapeless in complete defeat. Maybe three
houses were left standing in each street. There were mountains of rubble as far as
the eye could see, covering every centimeter of ground. People picked their way across
the debris like tightrope walkers.
But he found the house he had been told about, near the center, one of the few houses
fully intact. There wasn’t a scratch on the stone angels in the elegant façade. The
Americans had kicked out the owners and given it to the Jews of Frankfurt as their
community headquarters.
“It’ll do for now, till there are more of us,” a bald man with thin round spectacles
told Jacob, gesturing to a chair and handing him a cheese sandwich from the box donated
daily by the American army chaplain, a rabbi. “We had thirty thousand Jews here before
the war. Today, there’s about fifty. We hope more will come back like you.”
“I’m not from here,” Jacob said. “I want to go to Heidelberg. I was told you could
arrange a ride for me. That’s why I came.”
The man snorted. “Who told you? Manny the comedian?
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