Jacob's Oath (15 page)

Frau Braunschweig, a thin lady who he never saw without an apron, gave him a towel
and sheet. She brought him a cup of tea.

“Will any more of you be back?” she asked. “You know. Your people?”

The best thing about the room was that it had its own separate entrance directly from
the street. It was a palace. For ten days he had been sharing a tiny room with other
refugees, rotating, with six hours each to sleep in the bed. Here it was like a private
studio, with a basin and a tiny bath and a small separate toilet in an alcove. It
had a double bed, a low table, and a painted wooden cupboard with flower carvings
around the edges and a mirror on the inside of one door. When he opened it, and saw
all the shelves for clothes and the hangers for suits and shirts, he chuckled. He
had one change of clothes.

On the sink he laid out his razor and cream, which with a toothbrush and paste had
cost him five cigarette butts in the market.

Returning from the castle, he had unlocked his door and folded the thirty dollars
he had been paid for his family heirloom, and the ten for guiding, into a square three
centimeters by three centimeters. He pushed the almost empty cupboard back until its
front legs came off the floor, laid the folded money on the ground and eased the cupboard
down again until one leg covered the little wad of notes. After ten days in Heidelberg
he had ninety-six dollars in singles, a fortune, hidden under the cupboard legs, distributed
evenly so that the cupboard did not look lopsided.

Jacob stretched and hid the two packs of cigarettes on top of the cupboard. Lowering
his arm, he caught himself in the mirror, and paused. Sad face.

He turned away. It made him uneasy to see himself.

As long as he didn’t have time to think, he was all right. For weeks now he had been
merely following his own body, step by step, walking through Germany, and the same
here in Heidelberg, doing whatever needed to be done, bit by bit, to earn some money,
find a place to sleep, buy some food until he got a ration card, and the days followed
each other, and the nights, disturbed and fitful as they were, assumed a pattern.

It was only when he caught himself in the mirror, or his reflection in a shop window,
or saw himself somehow in the eyes of others, that this odd, fleeting sense came over
him, that he wasn’t really here. That this shape, this vessel, this wearer of other
people’s clothes wasn’t really him.

He didn’t see what was, he saw what was not.

What made him most uncomfortable was that he knew exactly what was missing. It was
himself. His true soul. Only a part of him was here, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing
pieces.

Where is the rest of you? You remnant. And why are you here? There’s nothing for you
in this town.

He hurried away, down Hauptstrasse, and only twenty minutes later, when he took his
seat in the little café down the street from the Hotel Schwartzer Bock, did he think:
Oh no! Did I lock the door? He couldn’t remember. What if someone comes in, finds
my money? But how would they?

Jacob decided not to worry. It was too late, and anyway, he probably did lock the
door. Now he had other things on his plate.

From the small round table on the corner of Kirchstrasse and Bergheimerstrasse Jacob
could see the pretentious carved oak door of the Schwartzer Bock hotel entrance, twenty
meters away, as well as all the chairs and tables in front, and the wooden bench made
of old tree branches beneath the window. So uncomfortable. Two days earlier when he
had sat on it he had lasted less than a minute before moving to a real chair. The
tables were covered in food-stained red-and-white checked tablecloths and even had
a Schwartzer Bock menu propped between empty salt and pepper shakers. Jacob had had
to laugh when he read the puny offerings. You got more to eat in an American field
ration. And it was expensive too, ninety-nine Reichsmarks or nine dollars for a bowl
of hot water with some boiled vegetable and half a potato they had the cheek to call
Bauernsuppe, farm soup; followed by a mystery meatball that took all his power to
chew through and seemed to be held together by low-grade sawdust; ending with a lump
of pudding the size of a golf ball, a cup of ersatz coffee, and a thimbleful of colored
alcohol already known as Schwindelcognac. Still, when he finished, the plate couldn’t
have been cleaner if he had licked it.

But nine dollars. The thieves. The only good thing about the Seelers’ hotel was that
one day, for sure, their son Hans would walk through the door.

And when Hans Seeler came home, Jacob would know.

Each day Jacob sat at this table just up the street. He wore a hat low over his brow
and read a book. He looked at every person who entered and everyone who left. Sometimes
he went into the hotel for a drink. He didn’t expect to see Hans Seeler, though it
was possible. He went to sense any change in the attitude of his parents, the owners,
Trudi and Wolfgang, or their dim-witted waiter, Adolf. He was looking for any sign
that the camp guard had returned to the bosom of his family. Like the sudden arrival
of men of Hans’s age, about thirty years old. Maybe they would be deep in conversation
on the sofas, maybe they would celebrate in the hotel bar, maybe a steady flow of
people would go upstairs without asking for a key. Maybe older people, the age of
his parents, would suddenly arrive, congratulate the owners, and go upstairs in a
group. For sure, when Hans Seeler came home, his family would gather to greet him,
and where else but in the comfort, the Gemütlichkeit, of the family apartment on the
top floor of their hotel.

Maybe, with all his arrogance, and God knows there was plenty of that, the Rat would
just walk around freely. Why not? He’s at home here. Would he hide in plain sight
like that, when it was well known the Americans were hunting down Nazi leaders?

Of course he would. First, he wasn’t a leader, just a sadistic camp guard, there must
be thousands like him. Then, he had hidden among the survivors in the camp, hadn’t
he? He’d seen him in the Laundry. It would be just like him to hide among the hunters,
the Americans. Anyway, he’ll deny being an SS concentration camp guard. Who would
admit it? He’ll say he’s just returned from the Russian front. That he was an ambulance
driver in France. A prisoner of war in Italy. One thing he won’t say is the truth.
The hardest person to find in Germany today is a former member of the Nazi party,
let alone the SS.

He’ll be back, Jacob thought, his eyes scanning the street and the hotel entrance;
and I’ll keep my word.

He didn’t know how, but—step by step.

THIRTEEN

Heidelberg,
May 17, 1945

After several hours nursing a cup of coffee and reading old magazines, as evening
fell, Jacob saw Adolf emerge from the hotel at the end of his shift. It seemed natural
to follow him, which wasn’t hard; he shuffled as much as he walked and seemed to greet
far more people than he could possibly know. He soon entered an apartment building
with a tidy little garden where two boys were playing. He saluted them with his hat
and walked up the stairs. A minute later Jacob approached the boys.

“That man, does he live here, the man who just went in?” he asked.

The smaller boy, about eight years old, said, “Adolf Schwimmer? Yes.”

“Thank you.”

That day Jacob had recognized seven people, been approached by a former client of
his father’s, and spoken to two old schoolmates who had walked by separately. All
three people he had spoken to said words to the effect of: “My God. I thought you
were dead.” To each one he had responded: “I may as well be.” But the more he said
it, the less he felt it. He did have something to live for.

As he walked along Hauptstrasse, a dream had come back to him, bits of it.

He was underwater, swaying with the current, like plankton. Tiny, helpless. With no
control of his body, hanging in a void. That’s all he remembered, but now the dream
took formal shape. He could sink, or he could rise to the surface. He could leave
this town, to which he had always longed to return, but found there was nothing to
return to. Or he could take control of his life again. But how? And what did it all
mean? Give up? Take control? Just words. What does anything mean?

Why didn’t he die in the camp like everyone else? Always, the fight to live another
day. But why? For this?

Yes. For this. This dream, this beautiful dream.

I’ll kill the rodent.

*   *   *

He was strolling now, registering the changes, trying to see how he fit in. Half the
shops on the main street seemed to be bookshops, yet with a difference he spotted
as soon as he scanned the windows. Again, he saw not what was there, but what was
not.
Mein Kampf
. Where were all the stacks of Hitler’s tome in the windows, the rag that had dominated
everyone’s life for a decade? Burned with him, he hoped.

The lines of people outside food stores reminded him: He must get a ration book. First
the officials said they didn’t have enough. Then that he didn’t have the right; then
that he had to go somewhere else, to a “KZ Betreungsstelle,” an aid center for former
concentration camp inmates. The nearest one was in Frankfurt.

Hauptstrasse, once wrapped in furs and echoing to the clip of high heels stepping
from big black cars, was now drab and closed to civilian vehicles. It was reserved
for the U.S. military. Some civilians were dressed well, in homburgs and suits: the
townspeople. Most wore rags and looked lost: the refugees. Most of these had no jobs
and nothing to do but wander around and gaze at the shops and marvel at the luck of
this pristine city when their own had been destroyed.

Jacob passed the Steiners’ old home at number 159, where his best friend, Ulrich,
had lived; they were among the first to be sent to the east. He peered at the names
on the bells: strangers all. The sensation returned: adrift in a void.

In the camp, even as his senses were blunted, a sixth sense, of heightened awareness,
honed to any threat, protected him. He didn’t feel the cold, he didn’t smell the stink,
he didn’t taste the blood, but he did develop an acute sense of anything unusual,
looming danger, how to stay out of the way of an angry Nazi guard. As he turned the
corner his nerves went on edge, and as he approached the door of his own room his
blood surged. He knew the door was open before he even saw it. Just a little bit,
but ajar. Someone’s been inside. Or is still inside.

Jacob’s steps slowed as he scanned the street. Nobody around. If they had left, they
would have closed the door. It’s open. They must be inside. His heart pounded, it
beat against his ribs. He breathed deeply to control his panting, his mind raced.
It isn’t the police. They would have someone waiting outside. It must be the landlady.
But she had promised never to disturb him. The money. A thief? But who would think
of stealing from a refugee? Who knew he had money? Maybe someone who followed him
home from the castle or the market? That could be it. Someone who saw him selling
all his cigarettes. No, there would be much better targets for a thief. Anyway, why
would a thief leave the door open?

Or am I crazy? Did I just forget to close the door?

His heart pounding, he prodded the door so that it swung open while he stood in the
street. There wasn’t a sound. He peered around the door. “Hello?” he said. “Someone
there?”

Five seconds went by until a little voice answered. “Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice, quavering and tentative. Jacob hesitated, and stepped into
his room.

Sitting on the bed, her hair disheveled as if she had been sleeping, was a young woman
with dark hair, wide staring eyes, and a frightened face. A shaft of light from the
open door fell across her body, cutting her in two. She stood up, holding her arms
at her sides, making her look even slighter than she was. As Jacob watched her, his
heartbeat dropped. No danger here. Then it sped up again as he stared at her a little
longer than was correct. Her dark hair falling from her face as she leaned forward
to shake hands, the swell of her breasts, her full lips. A sweet smile. Walking along
the Philosophenweg he had thought of the fairy tale and wondered about his home, Who
has been sleeping in my bed? He had been thinking of a wolf. Not a beautiful girl.

How long had it been?

“Hello,” he said again.

“Hello.” She tried to smile.

“I’m Jacob Klein,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “The mayor’s office told me where you live.”

Jacob nodded as if it all made complete sense. He closed the door.

“I fell asleep,” she said.

“Yes, you must be tired. You probably have had a long journey.” Why did he say that?
Because she also must have been on the road? But she was well-dressed, in a frock
and blouse, and a coat lay on the bed as if she’d been using it as a blanket. And
she had a little bag that was open, showing more clothes. She was beginning to look
a little familiar, but she would have changed a lot. She looks about twenty-two or
-three, he thought, and he’d been away for five years. Girls change a lot in five
years at that age. Her eyes? There’s something about her … I’ve seen her before.

“I’m Sarah Kaufman,” she said. Jacob nodded. There had been several families called
Kaufman.

“Excuse me. Do I know you?” he asked.

“Your sister went to school with my sister,” she said. Jacob made a flourish with
his hand, as if to say, that explains everything. He gestured to the bed, and she
sat down again. Jacob perched next to her.

Outside, the church bells chimed seven o’clock. Jacob said, “Where is your sister?”

“I don’t know. And yours?”

“Same.” He pressed his lips together, sighed. “Why did you leave the door open?”

“It was open when I arrived. It isn’t my room. I don’t know … it didn’t seem right.”

“I forgot to lock it,” he said. “Now I’m glad.” She nodded with a slight smile.