FÖHRENWALD DP CAMP
AMERICAN ZONE
JULY 1946
In a scarred and field-battered U.S. Army jeep, Bernard, Daniel and Eli motored slowly through the streets of Föhrenwald at 4:00 a.m. A light rain fell and played a staccato rhythm on the jeep’s canvas top. The air was sweet and humid, rich with the scent of mountain pines. With the headlights off, Bernard drove carefully.
“What will you do if you see a basement light?” Eli asked.
Bernard held up a black walkie-talkie. “I’ll contact the camp police. We’ll arrest the butchers and bring them up before the Honor Court.”
“Even the rabbi?”
“Especially the rabbi.”
“And the meat?”
“We’ll put it in the commissary and distribute it fairly. If this is Zygmund Stern’s operation, it will be the third time we’ve caught him. Each time, he has vowed not to repeat his crimes, but he’s not trustworthy. If he is the offender, I intend to bring him up for expulsion.”
“I know Zygmund,” Eli said. “His son is on Izaak’s football team. He’s really not a bad fellow.”
“One does not cancel out the other,” Daniel said in his deep gravelly voice. “He runs a black-market butcher shop to line his pockets. He does not butcher meat for benefit of our camp. He does not give to those in need. I hear the meat will be sold first to camp residents who can afford his price, and the leftovers sold to Germans who live in Wolfratshausen. The rations we receive from UNRRA are small. There are many who would benefit from larger portions of fish or meat. Myself for one.”
After a few minutes, three figures came skulking around the side of a house and entered a warehouse building. “That’s it,” Bernard uttered, and radioed the police. “I wish we didn’t have to do this. If it was cigarettes or an occasional bottle of vodka, I wouldn’t give a damn. I’d look the other way. But hundreds of kilos of beef when people are hungry? That’s criminal. Blatant profiteering. War always brings out the profiteers.”
Eli heard shouting, the warehouse door opened and four men were led out by six camp policemen. “Rabbi Bernstein,” Bernard said, with a look of disgust. “I wonder what they paid him to certify the beef. Let’s go find out.”
Eli, Daniel and Bernard walked up to the group. Zygmund, a large, barrel-chested man in a stained white apron, scowled and bitterly said, “Why don’t you leave me alone? I am a butcher. I have a right to engage in my profession. What right do you have to stop me from cutting beef to feed my family?”
“I have the rights granted to me by our camp’s constitution, by the UNRRA and the U.S. Army,” Bernard said. “And who are we kidding? Are you going to feed your family two hundred kilos of beef, Zygmund? We have been through this with you on two other occasions. Now it ends. You and your associates will be brought before the Court of Honor. In your case, I will recommend expulsion. There will be no black-market meat at Camp Föhrenwald. Period.”
Then Bernard turned his attention to the rabbi, who hung his head. “And you, Rabbi Bernstein. I would have expected much better. You’re aiding a criminal.”
“The meat is being butchered for Jewish families. It should be certified kosher,” he said.
“And no doubt you donated your rabbinic services for the good of the camp?”
“I have nothing more to say.”
Zygmund spat on the road. “Bah! I’m cutting meat. Does that make me a criminal? Is eating meat a crime?” He looked around. “Then we are all criminals. What about the bastard who’s selling visas? That’s far more serious. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“I would in a split second. Can you identify him?”
Zygmund’s eyes opened wide, and he rubbed the gray stubble on his jowl. A wide smile showed a mouth full of broad teeth. He glanced at his captors. “Perhaps I can. Does the director now wish to strike a bargain with the butcher?”
Bernard narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. What does the butcher have to offer?”
“Information. Cooperation. An exercise of good citizenship for which the butcher expects reciprocation.”
“You are a scoundrel, Zygmund, not by any means a good citizen, but if you have useful information about the man who calls himself Max and you’re willing to cooperate, we can talk.”
Zygmund raised a pointed finger. “I have only met him once, but I can easily pick him out of a crowd. He came through the camp a couple of months ago, said his name was Max. He wanted twelve thousand Swiss francs or the equivalent in gold or jewelry for two visas, one for me and one for my wife. Six thousand per visa. Of course, I did not have the money, but I told him I could raise it. He patted me on the back and said that I would soon be on a ship to America. He said he would come back.”
“When?”
“He said soon.”
“Can you describe this Max?”
Zygmund puffed his ruddy cheeks and nodded. “Tall. Skinny. He had black hair, well combed. Pointy nose like a weasel. Dressed to the nines, fancy clothes.”
Eli’s muscles tightened and he swore under his breath. “That’s him,” he said to Bernard. “Maximilian Poleski. It’s a perfect description. I want to be there when he returns.”
“Let me off the butchering charge, Bernard,” Zygmund said, “and I’ll notify you as soon as he walks into camp.”
Eli glared at him. “How do we know you won’t take the visas and run?”
Zygmund scoffed. “And how would I pay him? Where would I get twelve thousand francs? Why do you think I was butchering meat? I was going to raise the money.”
Bernard nodded. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. You’re going to contact Max and tell him you have the money and you want your visas. Tell him you want to meet him and exchange the money for the visas as soon as possible.”
Zygmund exhaled. “It’s not easy to contact him. He gave me a mailing address in Munich. I will send a letter. Now what about the beef I’m cutting? It’ll spoil.”
“You’re right. Finish butchering the meat and deliver it to the camp kitchen. No black market, no sales to any individual.”
“Bernard, please,” Zygmund said. “Have some compassion. We pooled our money and paid for that cow. Can’t we get reimbursed? It’s not fair.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Bernard said. “The committee will thank you publicly for your generous contribution. Good night.”
The rain had stopped, and the skies had cleared. In an hour it would be dawn. Bernard and Eli walked back to the jeep.
“Do you really think all the meat will make it to the commissary?” Eli said.
Bernard smiled. “Not a chance. I suppose most of it will, but certainly not all. They’ll sell some outside the camp to recoup their losses, but I think we’ve succeeded in putting a halt to Zygmund’s black-market activities. So this is the same Maximilian that you knew from Lublin, is that right, Eli?”
Eli pursed his lips and gave a couple of quick nods. “I would never have believed it, but the description is accurate—skinny, pointy nose, black hair, fancy clothes. The fact that he could now be running loose in Europe is a testament to his resilience. He should be in the ground with a cross above his head or sitting on trial at Nuremberg.”
“He’s a Nazi?”
“A collaborator. He grew up on the streets of Lublin. When the Nazis came to town, he worked for them, he was paid by them, he spied for them and he did their dirty work. So as far as I’m concerned, he’s as much a war criminal as the Nazis they are prosecuting. He preyed upon the Jews of Lublin, made a fortune scamming them and then betrayed them when it suited him. Sometimes he was the difference between life or death.”
“He had that kind of influence?”
“He had connections, and he dangled those connections in the face of those who were desperate. He took their money or whatever they could give him, and he sold them hope. He delivered on those promises when it was convenient for him, and he apologized with a shrug when it was not. He would betray without hesitation to remain in good standing with the Nazis. I was certain he didn’t survive the war, that he played fast and loose once too often. The last time I saw him, he was being led away.”
“Where was this?”
“Lodz, Poland. If it is him, and if he comes around Föhrenwald, do not try to stop me, Bernard. I have unfinished business with him. He’s mine before anyone else gets to him.”
“I understand and I won’t stand in your way, but I would ask that you be mindful of the value of interrogating Max, or Maximilian, or whatever his name is. We need to put a stop to black-market visas. Someone in the U.S., most likely a government official, is his source. We need to expose the American supplier, or he will only find another Max.”
Back at the house, as was his habit, Eli walked into the bedroom where Izaak was fast asleep. He bent to give him a kiss on the forehead. Izaak opened his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry I woke you,” Eli said, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.
“I’m not sleeping so good tonight,” Izaak said, and propped himself up on an elbow. “Tomorrow is Mama’s birthday, and I just keep thinking about her.” Tears filled his eyes.
Eli wrapped him up tight, holding him close to his chest and rubbing his hair. “I miss her too, Izzie.”
“Do you suppose that she’s all right? Somewhere? That maybe someday she’ll find us here in Föhrenwald?”
Eli’s lips quivered. “Sure. I mean, you and I survived, didn’t we? There were thousands and thousands of German detention camps, and they were all liberated within the past year. Mama could be anywhere in Europe. We have to keep our hopes up.”
“How would she know we’re here in Föhrenwald?”
“The U.S. maintains lists of people in the American DP camps.”
“Did you look at the lists? Is Mama on the list?”
“Izzie, I have asked. I am told she’s not on the lists, but our names are.”
“So then if she checks the lists, she’ll know where we are?”
“Exactly.”
“Where did the Germans take her?”
When Izaak steered the conversation in this direction, as he so often did, Eli was beset with a painful dilemma: how to juggle hope with reality. “With the other mothers, sweetheart. She went with the other mothers. I don’t know exactly where they took them.”
“Sometimes I think I hear her. Sometimes when the wind blows, I can hear her voice calling me.”
Eli’s throat tightened, and he strained to get the words out. “I can, too, Izzie. Almost every day. And when we hear her voice, we know she’s near.” He kissed him on the top of his head. “It’s time to get back to sleep. There’s a football game this afternoon.”
“I know, and we don’t have our best goalkeeper.”
“Heschel? Is he hurt?”
“No, he moved. His family went to America.”
Eli looked surprised. “They’ve only been here a couple of months, isn’t that right?”
Izaak nodded. “They got lucky. They got visas to go to America.”
Eli stood. “Pretty lucky—that’s for sure. Now let’s get some sleep.”
“When will we get our visas, Papa?”
“Someday soon, I hope. We’ve made application and our names are on the list.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mama? If we went to America without her, how would she ever find us?”
Eli stood, blinked a few tears and kissed his son again. “So many questions, my boy. We will pray, we will keep our hopes high and we will trust that we’ll all be together again.” He started to walk when Izaak grabbed his arm. “Papa, explain something to me.”
“What is it, Izzie?”
“America’s a big country, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Bigger than Poland?”
“Much bigger.”
“And I’ve seen the movies, Papa. They have mountains and deserts and large open spaces where cowboys ride their horses.”
Eli chuckled. “Oh, that’s true. Where is this going?”
“I would think that America has plenty of room for people like us that want to move there.”
“Well, you make a good point, my son, but it’s not about the room.”
“Then what is it? Why can’t we move there? Why do we have to stay in a camp? Why won’t they give everyone in Camp Föhrenwald a visa? I know America likes us, because we’re living in an American camp. They made it for us. They bring in food and clothes. They’re taking care of us. So why make it so hard to move to America, where we could take care of ourselves?”
Eli looked at his son. The decade’s great enigma, so formidable yet so simple that a child’s logic cuts right through it. What can I say to him? How can I explain immigration quotas to my twelve-year-old boy? How do I even broach the subjects of nationalism, distrust and prejudice? He patted him on the head. “I wish I had the answer, Izaak, but it’s late. Good night.”
Eli sat with a cup of tea and stared out the window. The soft orange glow of dawn was rising over the Bavarian hills. “What am I supposed to say to him, Esther? He has questions that I’m not able to answer. I know you would tell me that we must move on with our lives. You were always that direct, always that practical. But Izaak and I are treading water here at Föhrenwald. How do we move on? He’s a terrific kid who deserves more, and I’m not sure I can deliver.
“He asks about you, Esther, and I let him believe. I want to believe as well, but all this time and we haven’t heard a word. People say that the toughest postwar dilemma is reuniting families. We are a broken people, and the pieces are scattered all over Europe. I don’t want to lose hope, but I have to be realistic. Every day that passes brings more doubt. After what Izzie’s been through these past four years, and as far as he’s come, the progress he’s made, how do I dare introduce a doubt and shatter his hope? He laughs, he plays with the other children, he believes in the future. And in Izaak’s future, we are all reunited. What would it do to his psyche if he lost hope? Sooner or later, everyone has to face the truth. More people died than we can count.
“Talk to me, Esther. Am I a good father or am I a failure? I always looked to you. You were the wise one, the complete parent. I would stand to the side and watch you so effortlessly and lovingly guide our son in the right direction. How would you answer Izzie? I’m lost without you, sweetheart. Tell me.”
Eli watched the sun rise, silhouetting the pines. “Visas!” he said aloud. “How did the Blitsteins get visas so quickly and we did not? We’ve been at Föhrenwald for almost a year. The Blitsteins just arrived in the spring. Did they enlist the services of Maximilian? Did he sell them a way out?”