I CAN’T TAKE IT all in. It’s like being served a huge pie. You know you can’t eat it all, so you want someone else to share it with. The next day is Saturday and I head for the marketplace in front of the Rathaus, the town hall. I’m looking for Hans and Kurt. After our little problem in Travemünde we decided to stay away from there, and instead we settle for hanging around the marketplace. Farmers have come from the countryside bringing baskets of eggs, raspberries, gooseberries, lettuces, cucumbers, tomatoes, and carrots. Cages hold squawking chickens and geese. All the food is expensive, but because of the food shortages it disappears almost at once. There are stalls where people sell their handiwork: cleverly carved wooden wolves and bears, marzipan candy, and handmade sweaters and rugs. There are East German refugees presiding over tables spread with the few belongings they were able to bring when they escaped, a sad display of bits of jewelry and quilts or a shabby overcoat they need to sell to buy food. I worry about what will keep them warm when winter comes.
I find Hans and Kurt, and the three of us hurry to the stall where they sell used books. We pool our money and buy a copy of a Western by Karl May, Winnetou, the Apache Knight. Karl May has written all these great books about the American West, and the amazing thing is he’s never been there! You have to wonder how he can make it all seem real. Next we head for a stall where we get freshly baked sweet rolls. Frau Lantz greets us. “Well, gentlemen, what will it be this morning for your refined taste, Nusskuchen or perhaps a Buchtel?” Greedily we each select a Buchtel, with its pocket filled with jam, and go off to the steps of the Rathaus with our treats.
In as serious a voice as I can manage I say, “I’ve got something to tell you.” They pay me no attention. Hans is busy stuffing his mouth with his Buchtel, the jam oozing out in a disgusting way. Kurt is counting his money to be sure he has been given the right change.
“I’m Jewish,” I say.
They barely look at me. “Sure, and I’m Napoleon,” Hans says.
“No, really. I mean it. I just found out.”
“You can’t be,” Kurt says. “Your parents aren’t. I see them in church every Sunday.”
“But they aren’t my parents.”
Kurt gives me a disgusted look. “Sure, your parents are the king and queen of England.”
Furious at not being taken seriously I blurt out the whole story, starting with the letters and ending with my discussion with Herr Schafer. At last I have their attention. Hans and Kurt are staring at me.
“You shouldn’t go around blabbing about it,” Kurt says.
“What do you mean blabbing? Apart from Herr Schafer, I only told you and Hans. Anyhow, why shouldn’t I talk about it? It’s the truth.”
“Maybe it’s the truth,” Kurt said, “but you don’t want people to know.”
“Why not?”
“It could get you in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Kurt looks embarrassed. “Well, I never mention that we come from East Germany, because there are a lot of people here who resent us, but they would never kill us. Think what they did to the Jews.”
I feel a little scared. “That was under the Nazis.”
Hans says, “Remember what Herr Schmidt says: There are still Nazis around.”
I remember the couple at Travemünde and turn on Hans and Kurt. Angrily I say, “If you two would rather not be seen with me, just say so.”
“Have you gone crazy?” Kurt exclaims. “That’s not what we’re saying. We’re just saying that there are people around who still believe that awful stuff about Jews, so you ought to think twice about talking about it.”
“Personally,” Hans said, “I think it’s kind of neat. Jews are sort of exotic. I mean, there’s this Jewish man who lives near us and he has a long beard. He looks like something right out of the Bible, like God or something.”
“Well, Herr Schafer looks perfectly normal. You’d never know he was Jewish.” As soon as I say that, I wonder what’s wrong with looking Jewish and if I look Jewish. So I ask.
Hans and Kurt study me for a long time, making me feel really embarrassed. Finally Hans announces, “You look pretty much like you looked before.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, normal.”
“Well, then, if that’s how I look, that’s how Jews look. So it shouldn’t make a difference.”
Kurt says, “It’ll still make a difference.”
Hans suggests, “Why don’t you try it out?”
“Try what out?”
“Your being Jewish.”
“How am I supposed to try it out?”
Kurt says, “I’ll pick a place. You and your father belong to the rowing club, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, they don’t let just anyone join. They wouldn’t let my father join because he’s from East Germany and not from Rolfen. See if they let you be a member when they know you’re Jewish.”
“What am I supposed to do, march up to the boathouse and tell them I’m Jewish? Come on with me and I’ll show you you’re wrong.” I want to believe what I say, but deep down I’m unsure. I remember a discussion our coach had with one of the sponsors of our rowing club about admitting a boy. “I don’t know anything about his parents,” the coach said. “You had better check on them.” Now I wonder what he meant.
As usual the clubhouse is a mess of used towels, piled-up street shoes, and clothes. Our coach gives me an impatient look. “What do you want, Peter? Your team isn’t scheduled until this afternoon, and you had better be in good form. You were lazy out there last week. Or did you come to meet your father? His team won’t be back for another hour.”
I remember how Herr Schafer always leaves work a little early on Fridays. Once he told me the Jewish sabbath is from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. I say, “I was going to ask if I could change the day I race.”
“What do you mean? You’ve been racing with that team all summer.”
I feel Hans prod me. “Well, it’s our sabbath until sundown, and I just think it would be better for me to do it another day, maybe after work some night.”
“What do you mean, sabbath? What’s gotten into you? Sunday is the day for church.”
Suddenly I lose my nerve. “Yeah,” I say, and walk away.
Hans and Kurt hurry after me. “Why didn’t you tell him?” Hans asks.
“I’m not sure what my father would think,” I say. “I should talk with him first.”
“You were scared,” Hans says.
“I wasn’t and it’s none of your business anyhow.”
Kurt snaps, “So why did you tell us?”
“If you are going to make so much of it, I wish I hadn’t.”
After that we make our way in silence to Kurt’s apartment. His father is working all day at the market, and Kurt’s mother is out doing her weekly shopping, so we have the apartment to ourselves. We take turns reading aloud from Winnetou. The book is all about Jack Hildreth, a young American from out east who has gone west to survey a railroad. He learns to shoot and use the lasso and track buffalo and grizzly bears and is given the name Old Shatterhand. We stuff ourselves with Schmierwurst, a delicious sausage that Kurt’s father brings home from the market. Afterward, our heads full of the book, we head for an overgrown part of the park that stands in for the Wild West. I am Old Shatterhand; Hans is Winnetou, an Apache chief’s son; and Kurt is Kleki-Petrah, a German who has gone to the United States to become an Apache. We sneak behind trees and around bushes looking for Rattler and his gang, the enemy.
We toss around a lot of threats from the book. “My knife shall drink his blood!” I yell. Hans says, “This coyote pig dares insult me; my blade shall eat his bowels!” We hide in the bushes and capture one another. Finally we tie Hans/Winnetou to a tree, and then, crawling on our hands and knees, Kurt and I rescue him. People stare at us, but we don’t care. We just give one of our bloodcurdling cries.
At the end of the book Shatterhand is adopted into the Apache tribe. He and Winnetou mingle a drop of blood each in a cup of Rio Pecos water and drink it. The chief says, “The souls of these two young men shall mingle until there is but one soul in them.” I think how great it would be if being Jewish were as easy as being adopted into the Apache tribe.
All weekend my lack of courage at the rowing club gnaws at me, and on Monday while Herr Schafer and I are having lunch, I confess to him what happened.
“Peter, there’s no need to go around informing people you’re Jewish. Did you go around announcing you were a Christian? Why confront people? As long as you know what you are, that’s what’s important.”
“But I don’t know.”
“Being Jewish is not a game like checkers with a set of rules. Any Jew, or any Christian for that matter, will tell you we find out a little more about ourselves every day. What we were yesterday we are not today and will not be tomorrow. Don’t be in such a hurry, Peter. Let each day teach you something, even if it comes from a mistake. Sometimes mistakes are the biggest lessons of all. How would you like to lay a course of bricks yourself? We have left the entrance to the courtyard for last so that the large trucks could go through without damaging the bricks. Now we’ll finish the job.”
For weeks I have been waiting for this chance. I long to be able to be a part of rebuilding St. Mary’s. I want to walk casually by the church and say to someone, “Oh, by the way, you see that row of bricks? Well, that’s my handiwork.” I will show it to my children and they will show it to their children. I can barely hold the trowel. I am sure I will make a mess of it.
“Take your time, Peter. Remember, the bricks you lay will support all the rows that come after. While you are doing my work for me, I’ll just mix a new batch of mortar.”
I know Herr Schafer is leaving me on my own so I won’t be nervous about having him look over my shoulder, but what if I make a mistake and he isn’t there to get me out of trouble? He has told me a thousand times that a building is only as strong as its foundation. I throw a mortar line along the last course of bricks, putting on enough to hold the bricks but not so much that the mortar will get all over the other bricks when I smooth it off. I think of my mother frosting cakes. Mother once said to me, “You have to have enough icing, Peter, so that when you spread it the cake crumbs don’t show through.” When we go to church on Sunday, I’ll show Mother what I have done. I think how pleased she will be. I lay the bricks, tapping them in lightly and then scraping away the excess mortar.
Soon Herr Schafer is back examining my work. I hold my breath. “Excellent, Peter,” he says. “We’ll make a mason out of you yet. Now, since it’s Friday, I’m off a little early as usual.”
“What do you do on your sabbath?”
“On Sabbath, or what we call Shabbat, I have a special Shabbat dinner with friends of mine.”
“How do you mean, special?”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll speak to my friends and get them to invite you to have dinner with us next week. First I want to ask your father’s permission.”