The Savior by Eugene Drucker

always be time for people to think things over in the years ahead. Anyway, I have thought it over since the last time I saw him, and what disturbs me most of all in this little story is what it has shown me about myself. How passive I must be if I can’t respond decisively to bigotry in a student, in a situation where I’m the authority and should be in control! I’m just like all the rest of the good, decent people who won’t speak up or act while there’s still time.”
    â€œYou’re being too hard on yourself, Ernst.”
    â€œThe first lesson when that clown wore the armband, I didn’t know whether or not to tell him I was Jewish. Even when I kicked him out, I couldn’t say it directly. I was clinging to my Germanness and hiding the truth about myself. In front of an untalented pupil! My God, how would I act when it’s the authorities I’m facing? Especially when they’re trying to take away my right to be German?”
    He had managed to keep his voice from rising, but with the last words he swatted the Nazi paper onto the floor and clenched his fist as if he was going to pound the table. Gottfried looked at the people drinking and chatting at a few tables alongside the opposite wall. They hadn’t noticed anything yet.
    Ernst seemed to be aware of his discomfort. He spread out his fingers and said quietly, “Don’t worry. I won’t make a scene. It might come back to haunt you or me later on.”
    â€œPlease, Ernst. I’m your friend—I hope one of your best friends. Don’t become bitter toward all Germans.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I won’t. How can I, anyway, when I’m as much a German as any of you?”
    Gottfried was about to protest, thinking Ernst had mistaken his meaning when he said the words all Germans —of course, he hadn’t meant to exclude him—but Ernst held up his hand. “I know you meant no harm. You are a good friend. Please don’t take it personally if I’m upset.”
    But the expression on his face didn’t match the conciliatory words. His mouth was set in a narrow, rigid mold, and his eyes seemed to focus on some imaginary point a few feet behind his friend. Gottfried began to feel like he wasn’t really there for Ernst, like he was just being used as a sounding board.
    â€œListen, there’s one more thing I have to tell you. You know my brother Gerhard, don’t you? Half a year ago he started working for an engineering firm. Since last week there’s a new company policy: the official greeting when answering the telephone is supposed to be ‘Heil Hitler!’ My brother won’t say this, and I don’t think he’ll last long there. He and I are getting out, anyway. Professor Kerner has given me letters of recommendation to all his contacts in England. I don’t want to give myself any more chances to react passively. I’m not waiting for what might happen here.”
    He downed what remained in his beer mug with a defiant gulp. To Gottfried’s dismay he found himself disliking Ernst for the first time. There was a coldness in Ernst’s anger that made him feel excluded because he happened to be an Aryan.
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    Over the next few days, Gottfried wondered if Ernst had been cold to him because he couldn’t tune himself up to the proper pitch of indignation about the review in the Völkischer Beobachter. He thought he’d been contemptuous enough of the critic and the whole newspaper. Had he been too optimistic about the state of affairs in Germany? He didn’t know exactly what Ernst had expected of him, or what he should have done differently, but it was clear that much had changed between them that afternoon.
    The following week he was one of a small circle of friends who saw Ernst off at the Hauptbahnhof. Afterward he received two postcards and eventually some letters, in which Ernst dwelt on details of his new life, with no