maddening ones,” Ann said. “Like the ghastly thing I’m on for a girl named Trudi Bechler. She’s here, pregnant, and her husband is in Sachsenhausen, that’s one of the worst concentration camps, and she wakes up screaming every night, dreaming she’s right there while they torture him…”
“Oh, God.” Vee gripped her jaws together. “Why did they arrest him?”
“Nothing except being a Jew, and having a small lumber business they wanted. But the Vederles ought to be easy. They’re not Jews, and they’re not in business or anything the Nazis could steal, except, I suppose, whatever money they have in Austria. It should be easy all around.”
“Easy.” On the word, Vee’s voice dipped down for its lowest notes. Always when she was moved, her voice deepened so. “Easy. Oh, Ann. Sometimes I try to think how I’d feel if I suddenly had to go off, say, to Brazil or the Argentine, not just to visit, but for the rest of my life. Start all over among people who spoke another language, had different jokes and songs, and newspapers and menus—all those small things. I don’t think it’s easy to become a foreigner, ever.
Her voice edged off into silence; her eyes looked off into space. She was seeing what it could be like, the strange teeming wharf, the uncaring customs officials, the minutely different colors and gestures and facial expressions of the people in a new land. When one traveled for a short holiday, these new flavors and tones and sounds were caressing. But when one was a refugee, longing for home?
“I just meant it ought to be easy, officially, for you to get these affidavits,” Ann said after a moment. “It’s so frightfully hard when they’re in prison, or too poor to buy passage, or unknown and ill. The Vederles ought to be a cinch. Easy, that way.”
She handed over a mimeographed page of legal foolscap, covered on both sides with single-spaced typewriting. It was letterheaded DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, and bore an official seal, with the admonition to address official communications to The Secretary of State, Washington, D. C.
Vera glanced quickly down the long, formidably solid text, which was titled GENERAL INFORMATION REGARDING VISAS FOR IMMIGRANTS.
It seemed to be in eight parts, this general information, starting with the APPLICATION AT AMERICAN CONSULATE, going on to DOCUMENTS TO BE PRESENTED, which were “personal documents” and “evidences of support,” and “other documents,” then proceeding to PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION OF DOCUMENTS, NONQUOTA STATUS FOR CERTAIN RELATIVES OF AN AMERICAN CITIZEN, FIRST PREFERENCE QUOTA STATUS, SECOND PREFERENCE STATUS, INFORMATION REGARDING THE STATUS OF A VISA CASE , and ending with a terse paragraph, headed REFUSAL OF VISA.
Vera read rapidly. Confusion grew in her mind at all the technicalities of language, of locution; uncertainty grew in her heart at the calm, bald officialdom behind those eight paragraphs.
She made a motion, asking patience and time from Ann, who sat watching her, and began again with the first paragraph:
“APPLICATION AT AMERICAN CONSULATE.
“An alien desiring to immigrate into the United States should communicate with the nearest American consular office…”
“An alien desiring—” The words brought to mind a news picture she had seen somewhere a few months ago, a picture probably smuggled out of Germany. It was of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, the old embassy, before the remodeling was begun on the old Blücher Palais on the Brandenburger Tor, and the Hermann Göring Strasse, and the Pariser Platz—“How,” Vera’s mind cross-examined her, “do you know these details of the new embassy and the very names of the streets bounding it? You’ve been paying more attention than you consciously knew—maybe you have realized all along that it was inevitable that you would get caught up in this awful human push…”
The news picture, though, was one of the old embassy building. There was a queue
“Oh, God.” Vee gripped her jaws together. “Why did they arrest him?”
“Nothing except being a Jew, and having a small lumber business they wanted. But the Vederles ought to be easy. They’re not Jews, and they’re not in business or anything the Nazis could steal, except, I suppose, whatever money they have in Austria. It should be easy all around.”
“Easy.” On the word, Vee’s voice dipped down for its lowest notes. Always when she was moved, her voice deepened so. “Easy. Oh, Ann. Sometimes I try to think how I’d feel if I suddenly had to go off, say, to Brazil or the Argentine, not just to visit, but for the rest of my life. Start all over among people who spoke another language, had different jokes and songs, and newspapers and menus—all those small things. I don’t think it’s easy to become a foreigner, ever.
Her voice edged off into silence; her eyes looked off into space. She was seeing what it could be like, the strange teeming wharf, the uncaring customs officials, the minutely different colors and gestures and facial expressions of the people in a new land. When one traveled for a short holiday, these new flavors and tones and sounds were caressing. But when one was a refugee, longing for home?
“I just meant it ought to be easy, officially, for you to get these affidavits,” Ann said after a moment. “It’s so frightfully hard when they’re in prison, or too poor to buy passage, or unknown and ill. The Vederles ought to be a cinch. Easy, that way.”
She handed over a mimeographed page of legal foolscap, covered on both sides with single-spaced typewriting. It was letterheaded DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, and bore an official seal, with the admonition to address official communications to The Secretary of State, Washington, D. C.
Vera glanced quickly down the long, formidably solid text, which was titled GENERAL INFORMATION REGARDING VISAS FOR IMMIGRANTS.
It seemed to be in eight parts, this general information, starting with the APPLICATION AT AMERICAN CONSULATE, going on to DOCUMENTS TO BE PRESENTED, which were “personal documents” and “evidences of support,” and “other documents,” then proceeding to PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION OF DOCUMENTS, NONQUOTA STATUS FOR CERTAIN RELATIVES OF AN AMERICAN CITIZEN, FIRST PREFERENCE QUOTA STATUS, SECOND PREFERENCE STATUS, INFORMATION REGARDING THE STATUS OF A VISA CASE , and ending with a terse paragraph, headed REFUSAL OF VISA.
Vera read rapidly. Confusion grew in her mind at all the technicalities of language, of locution; uncertainty grew in her heart at the calm, bald officialdom behind those eight paragraphs.
She made a motion, asking patience and time from Ann, who sat watching her, and began again with the first paragraph:
“APPLICATION AT AMERICAN CONSULATE.
“An alien desiring to immigrate into the United States should communicate with the nearest American consular office…”
“An alien desiring—” The words brought to mind a news picture she had seen somewhere a few months ago, a picture probably smuggled out of Germany. It was of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, the old embassy, before the remodeling was begun on the old Blücher Palais on the Brandenburger Tor, and the Hermann Göring Strasse, and the Pariser Platz—“How,” Vera’s mind cross-examined her, “do you know these details of the new embassy and the very names of the streets bounding it? You’ve been paying more attention than you consciously knew—maybe you have realized all along that it was inevitable that you would get caught up in this awful human push…”
The news picture, though, was one of the old embassy building. There was a queue
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