Esther nodded. Tears formed in her eyes. She didn’t need to hear the rest. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “Klara just gave up. So many of us feel the same way; we don’t want to keep on going in this devil’s furnace. We want to give up, too, but we don’t have the courage. Klara just couldn’t do it anymore. I shook her. I begged her.” The woman hung her head. “I’m so sorry.”
* * *
Eli saw Esther walking alone and he knew. He rushed to her and wrapped her in his arms. “She’s gone, Eli. My poor sister couldn’t take it anymore, and now her suffering is done. Maybe it’s for the best.”
Eli looked for words, he stumbled through an “I’m sorry,” but Esther stopped him. “There’s nothing to say,” she said. “I want her buried in the Jewish cemetery. Tell Maximilian to recover her body and bring it to the mortuary. I’ll speak to the rabbi.”
Eli anticipated that nothing would come of Maximilian’s efforts to recover Klara’s body, and he was right. The Nazis had no concern for Klara or her remains, and Maximilian reported that they disposed of her as they saw fit. He had obtained a two-hour excused absence from Commandant Riedel for Esther to attend a memorial service. That was the best that he could do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FÖHRENWALD
FÖHRENWALD DISPLACED PERSONS (DP) CAMP
AMERICAN ZONE
JULY 1946
Since the camp committee meeting the previous month, there had been no further mention of the black marketeer who called himself Max. Camp residents had been urged to report any information to Bernard Schwartz, director elect, but no one had come forward, and Bernard was forced to consider that the rumor of visas for sale was nothing more than a fairy tale.
Bernard knocked on Eli’s door in the late afternoon. “I have two favors to ask of you, Eli. First, I need someone to ride with Daniel and me through the camp tonight. The butchers are at it again. We’ve learned that there will be a secret shipment of meat tonight. They’ll be cutting it up and selling it tomorrow.”
“Who are they?”
“Well, we’re not sure this time. That’s why we ride at four a.m. If the lights come on in a basement room, we’ll know it’s them and we’ll bring in the camp police.”
Eli nodded. “I’ll go, but I have to tell you, selling meat to hungry residents does not seem like a capital offense to me. What is so wrong with butchering meat for people who can afford it? I assume the cows are lawfully purchased from area farmers. They’re not poaching, are they?”
Schwartz shook his head. “No. They buy the cows from Bavarian ranchers. Then they butcher them here in the camp in secret. All strictly kosher. Under a rabbi’s supervision.”
“Which rabbi?”
“We don’t know yet. But, Eli, it is wrong and it’s unfair. Most of our residents arrived at Camp Föhrenwald with nothing. Some were barely alive. You, of all people, would know that. When you and Izaak arrived a year ago, you were but a shadow of the man you are today. Föhrenwald relies on UNRRA to supply food and provisions. In fact, just today we received word that twenty-nine UNRRA ships left New York bound for European DP camps loaded with American food. When our share arrives, it will be distributed fairly. It’s important that no one receives more than anyone else: three ounces of meat or fish per person per day, that’s it. So you can understand when meat is sold in the dark of night for money or other property, it not only violates camp rules, it undermines our sense of community.”
Eli nodded. “Okay, I understand. May I ask you something about last month’s meeting?”
Bernard raised his eyebrows. “Pretty stormy, wasn’t it?”
“Without a doubt,” Eli said, “but…”
“The meetings get like that sometimes. There’s a constant stress level in Camp Föhrenwald. People are frustrated. They want to know when they will be liberated from yet another camp, free to start their new lives. You can’t blame them.”
“No, I don’t blame them, but at the meeting there was discussion about a man selling visas on the black market. Have we heard anything more specific about the operation, or the man who calls himself Max?”
“No. Daniel told me that you might know the man.”
“Well, I might, and that’s why I asked. I knew a man in Lublin who matched the description, but I was certain that he died in 1943.”
“How were you certain?”
Eli shrugged. “I saw him being led away. He was a fixer, but he double-crossed the wrong people.”
“A fixer?”
Eli nodded. “The lowest of his kind. Soon after the occupation, he made his contacts with Nazi officials. He was a rat. He scurried around our community snooping for the SS, denouncing Jews, ferreting out resisters, stocking the Nazi labor camps. Then he turned around and sold favors to the people. For a price, he could get you food when your rations were gone, keep you in your house when your neighbors were losing theirs or get you an ID exempting you from deportation.”
“How did you know him?”
Eli scoffed. “My father gave him a job when he didn’t have a coin in his pocket. We taught him to sell, and he was able to live a comfortable life. He became a dandy—the finest clothes, polished shoes, officious airs. He was totally unprincipled, a despicable person. During the occupation, we knew what he was, but when your back is up against the wall, and he is your only hope … well, you do what you have to do. Ultimately, he betrayed us all. If the person selling black market visas is indeed Maximilian, I will have my reckoning and I will get my answers. And that’s a promise.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open, Eli. Whether it’s your Max or not, we’re going to put a stop to illegal sales. If you see him in the camp, let us know. And please don’t take direct action. If this man is truly selling authentic U.S. visas, someone in America is supplying them. We need to know his source. We can’t allow our emigration process to be corrupted. We owe it to our residents.”
“What was the other favor you needed from me, Bernard?”
“Back in Lublin, you were in the construction trade, no?”
Eli nodded. “My family owned the brickyard. Rosen and Sons Building and Construction Materials. We were also concrete masons and carpenters. My father’s company built a large portion of Lublin.”
“Good,” Bernard said. “I have need of your services and supervision. We are going to convert a storage building into an infirmary suitable for a sanitarium. There are now twenty-two people diagnosed with tuberculosis and under quarantine. We’re facing an epidemic.”
“Lord have mercy. Once they’re under quarantine, how do we treat these people?”
“As Dr. Weisman said, we have no medicinal cure for tuberculosis. We treat the disease with rest, fluids and traditional remedies. In civilian areas, there are large sanitariums and some recover. Sadly, many do not. But we want to make our patients comfortable and separate them from the rest of the community. That’s why we need you.”
“I’ll do whatever I can.”
Bernard smiled, patted Eli on the back and walked away. Eli lingered in the doorway, gazing down the block at the building that would become a sanitarium. A tuberculosis epidemic in a DP camp. Will our misfortunes never cease?