Page 93 of Hell to Pay

The man took it and scrutinized it hard. There was no mistaking the big red “J” stamped over the entire card, but all the same, he looked at the photo, then at Dr. Becker, then back at the photo, and said, “This isn’t the same person. You’re too old. According to this, you’d be—” He paused to calculate.

“Forty-one,” Dr. Becker said.

The soldier appeared unconvinced. “You look sixty.”

“Well,” Dr. Becker said with a shred of humor I was surprised he could still dredge up, “it hasn’t been an easy twelve years. I imagine you’re older than when you left home as well. You have a problem with your foot, yes? Or perhaps your hip?”

The soldier looked startled. “How do you know?”

“I am a doctor, after all,” Dr. Becker said.

“OK,” the soldier said, handing theKennkarteback. “You can go in. Second floor.” He pulled the stanchion back, and Dr. Becker and I passed the barrier, looked at each other in something close to jubilation, laughed, and headed up the steps.

At last, there would be help. At last, there would be hope.

It wasn’t quite as easy as that.

41

MOVING ON

The office on the second floor turned out to be a large waiting room. People were called through the big doors at the end and came out of them, not in any order I could see—a woman who’d come in after us was seen, while some who’d been there when we arrived were still waiting an hour later.

At first, I was just glad to get out of the heat and into the cool—and to have been able to use the toilet and get a drink of water, too! I was very hungry, though, and the clock on the wall showed the minutes ticking by. An hour, then two, and still we sat. It was after three now, and what would happen if we didn’t get in today? Would we have to come back and repeat the whole performance again tomorrow? We couldn’t arrive any earlier; I had the bread to bake, and then there were those five miles and the dwindling coins in my purse.

Finally, I’d had enough. I stood up and told Dr. Becker, “Come.” He looked startled, but he followed me.

We went straight through the doors, and found ourselves in a room filled with desks. Directly in front of us was a young woman wearing red lipstick—who had lipstick now?—smoking a cigarette—ah, the Americans must have access tolipstickandcigarettes; lucky girl, to get such a job—and talking vivaciously to a colleague. He was an American in uniform, with some sort of gold emblem on his shoulders. What the emblem denoted, I didn’t know, but he was an older man.

I stepped up, bold as brass, and said clearly, “Excuse me.”

The young woman broke off and said, “Yes?” Her brows were plucked thin and arched comically, so her face looked eternally surprised.

I skipped all the preliminaries. “This is Dr. Kurt Becker,” I said in English. “From Dresden. A most eminent doctor with a chair at the University until 1935, former head of the burn ward at Dresden Hospital and the author of an important textbook on the treatment of burns. He is a Jew and has been in hiding with his children.”

The officer—I thought he was an officer—had been walking away. Now, he turned back in surprise. “You speak English,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I had an English governess and nanny.” I sounded like quite the snob saying it, but surely Americans were as impressed by wealth as anyone else, whatever their democratic leanings. I wasn’t going to share my title, so I’d have to fall back on the wealth. I sketched out the story as rapidly as I could manage, before he lost interest.

The officer put out his hand. Not to me; to Dr. Becker. “Colonel Hargreave,” he said. “I run this outfit. What do you need from us, sir?”

Sir.How long since Dr. Becker had been addressed like that? I translated, and Dr. Becker said, “A place to stay for myself and my children, and a way to eat. And, please, a chance to work. I’ve spoken to the hospital here, but they won’t have me. You must realize that their chief physician is a Nazi through and through.”

The colonel said, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Dr. Becker said firmly, “it is so.”

“But you want to work there anyway?” the colonel asked.

“Not under him,” Dr. Becker said, “for preference. If I must—well, I’ve done harder things.”

“You’d rather stay here in Nuremberg, then,” the colonel said, “and not be with your own people?”

“My own people?” Dr. Becker asked, puzzled.

“Well, yes,” the colonel said. “The Jewish people.”

“Is that an option?” Dr. Becker asked. “Under what circumstances?”