FÖHRENWALD DP CAMP
AMERICAN ZONE
OCTOBER 1946
The opportunity to apprehend Max was at hand. Bernard requested that Daniel and Eli meet him at the assembly hall at 5:00 p.m. He had also summoned Olga Helstein, Chaim Warshawski, David Fromen and Zygmund Stern, the individuals who had contact with Max and his black-market visa scheme. Bernard addressed the group as a whole. “Olga has received word that Max will be coming to Föhrenwald. We’re going to work together, and we’re going to catch him and stop his schemes once and for all. Olga, tell them what you know.”
“I contacted Max through his address in Munich. I told him that Chaim and David were waiting for their visas and that Zygmund had raised the money. I also told him that two other residents were interested in talking to him and they had money as well.”
“Exactly,” Bernard said. “Those were my instructions. What was his response?”
“Well, he praised me for being such a good agent, and he promised that he would pay me my share. Hmph. Then he told me he would be coming next week and he’d send me the details. I don’t know if he plans on coming to the camp or if he wants to meet somewhere else.”
“What about the visas?”
“He said he had David’s and Chaim’s visas in his possession. He was going to bring them.”
“That’s great. When we learn the location, I’ll need all of you to be there. When the money and visas change hands, the military police will grab him, and we’ll have more than enough evidence to convict him. If we put enough pressure on him, if he sees that he’s going to prison, he’ll give up his contact in America.”
Chaim stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Bernard, I want to say something. Olga said that Max has the visas in his possession. And let’s be frank, an American visa represents liberation. Freedom. A new start. Before we destroy a person’s chance of getting out of the camp and going to America, are we absolutely certain that the visas are illegal? I mean, what if it’s not a crime to get visas for a person and charge him a processing fee, you know, for services rendered? Back in Warsaw, if you wanted to get a license, you always had to pay someone. There was always money passed around, often under the table. That was an accepted way of doing business, part of the transaction.”
“Chaim,” Bernard said sternly, “these are not liquor licenses. They’re not bakery licenses. These are United States visas that can only be issued by the Immigration and Naturalization Department of the United States through an authorized consulate. They are not sold by individual salesmen. The consulates keep careful records and they have quotas. Right now, there are three hundred thousand people in American Zone DP camps, and do you know what the immigration quota is? It’s set at a mere six thousand a year. There’s a waiting list a mile long, Chaim. If there are only six thousand visas and you buy one of them, you have deprived the person who was next in line. Don’t you see that? Visas are not for sale, and Max is a criminal.”
Chaim’s eyes were red. His voice quavered. “But he already has the visa in his possession, and it has my name, Chaim Warshawski, on it. It’s already been issued. To me! I don’t know what’s so wrong if I take it and go to my family in Philadelphia. Bernard, I’m begging you. I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay in a damn camp anymore. I’ve been in a camp since 1941. I’m losing my mind.” His voice caught in his throat. “Please, please, I’m begging you. Let me take the visa and go. You can arrest Max for trying to sell the other visas. You’ll still have plenty of evidence, and you will have stopped him from future violations. Bernard, I can’t go on living in a camp.”
“I’m sorry, Chaim. We can’t permit it.” Then to the group he said, “When we find out the day, time and place, we’ll contact all of you. The military police will be there, and it will be over quickly.”
Two hours later, Eli called out, “Izzie, get your coat. It’s time to go.”
“Papa, I don’t want to go to a stupid poetry reading. Let me stay home. I’ll do my homework.”
“I thought you already did your homework.”
“I’ll check it over for mistakes. You can never be too careful.”
Eli smiled. “Izzie, you’re going to like this program. It’s not just poetry; there is a singer, a lovely woman named Adinah who sings like a bird. Beautiful music. And she knows ‘Oyfn Pripetchik.’”
Izaak’s face lit up. “I like that song! I learned it in Lublin. I used to sing it with Mama.”
“I know, and wait until you hear Adinah. She’s a wonderful singer. And she knows lots of other Yiddish songs. You’ll have a good time.”
Eli and Izaak found seats next to Bernard in the first row, right in front of the stage. News of the program had spread throughout the camp, and the assembly hall filled up quickly. There was a palpable buzz, an air of anticipation, and it wasn’t to hear poetry. Word had spread that a professional singer, maybe even Isa Kremer herself, was appearing in Camp Föhrenwald!
The poetry reading was first on the program, and unfortunately for Mr. Klyber, the audience was a bit restless. They were waiting for an evening of Yiddish music, as advertised. Finally, it was time. Myron Levy took a seat at the piano, and Adinah quietly walked onto the stage. All eyes were on this shy and modest woman. What a surprise when her perfect voice filled the hall with the familiar melodies.
She began with “Her Nor Du Sheyn Meydele.” “Just Listen, You Pretty Girl.” Almost all of the residents knew the words, and they sang along quietly. It was a touch of home in a place that would never be a home. It harkened back to a stolen youth, a lost love, a quiet village. It beckoned the heart to revisit a way of life before the cataclysm in a way that only music could.
Izaak was mesmerized, totally immersed in the melodies he hadn’t heard in years. During her performance, Adinah locked eyes with Izaak and smiled. Now he was enamored by more than the music. Throughout the performance, Izaak felt that Adinah was singing directly to him. He leaned over and said, “Papa, don’t you think she looks a lot like Mama?”
Eli nodded. “Yes, I do. I thought the same thing when I first met her.”
She closed with “Bay Mir Bistu Sheyn”—“To Me, You Are Beautiful”—an internationally successful Yiddish song written in New York and immensely popular in Germany before Joseph Goebbels realized it was written by a Jew and banned the song. The applause was long and loud, and Bernard made Adinah promise to perform again in a few weeks.
As the crowd was filing out, Adinah stepped down off the stage and sat down next to Izaak. “I saw you singing with me on some of the songs,” she said. “Did you know all the words?”
Izaak bit his bottom lip. “I knew some of them.”
“You knew the words to ‘Oyfn Pripetchik.’”
“That one I know pretty well. I used to sing it with my mother.”
“Me too. My mother taught it to me. What is your name?”
Izaak looked to his dad, then back to Adinah. “Izaak Rosen.”
“How old are you, Izaak?”
“Twelve.”
“If your father permits, would you join me on the stage next time for ‘Oyfn Pripetchik’? We’ll sing a duet. I think it would be fun.”
Izaak blushed and looked to Eli for approval. “Could I, Papa?”
“I don’t see how you could turn that down, Izzie.”
It was later than usual when Eli put Izaak to bed. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said, tucking the covers under him. “You’ve got school tomorrow and a big football practice.”
“There’s no practice tomorrow. Not enough players.”
“No? How come? Did more players get sick?”
“No. Their moms won’t let them play. They’re afraid they’re going to get sick.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I hope this strain of illness goes away soon.”
Eli turned off the lights and started to leave the room when Izaak said, “Papa, did you like Adinah?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“She’s nice. She smiles like Mama. Could we ask her to come over for dinner someday?”
“I don’t know much about her, Izzie. She may have her own children to attend to.”
“Then they could come, too. Please.”
“We’ll see. Good night, Izzie.”