stuck his head out the window and emitted a loud whistle. Aron asked Clifford, “Are you Jewish?”
“No, I’m Protestant.”
“And Paula?”
“Who’s Paula?”
“Paula Seltzer.”
“I don’t know anyone called Paula Seltzer.”
After a brief inspection, they drove through a gate and halted next to a brightly painted fuel truck. The driver got out and left.
“Come, let’s stretch our legs,” Clifford said. “It always takes a while.”
They walked through the camp, stone barracks on sand. The flow of pedestrians was remarkable. Aron was surprised to see so many black soldiers. He started talking about the return trip; Clifford said he would pick Aron up from the children’s home two days later. “So you’ll have the whole day free for your son. We’ll come around ten, but don’t be impatient if we’re a little late.”
Aron found the garrison miserable; he even thought that most of the soldiers looked depressed. His shoes were full of sand, and with every gust of wind dust clouds whirled through the air. They sat on a bench and waited until Clifford looked at his watch and said that it was time.
When they arrived at the home at sunset, Clifford wished him good luck. He said, “Day after tomorrow, in the morning.”
A ron climbed out and watched the car until the rear lights disappeared in a bend in the road. A former concentration camp, now arranged to take care of the children, Paula had said. And somewhere in there, Mark. Aron worried that some sort of authorization might be required from him; he hoped Paula had announced his visit. He shuddered at the idea of having to explain to an official why a Mr. Blank wanted to visit young Mark Berger.
The iron gate had no inscription and was closed; there was no bell and no guard. Aron called out “hello” several times, but nothing happened. He stood there puzzled, hungry, and tired, he says, alone in Bavaria. After a while he decided to climb over the gate; he figured he could manage it. As he let himself down on the other side, he heard a dog barking. Aron picked up a stone. Still today he has a phobia of dogs; he closes the window every time a dog starts barking. Yet his precaution proved to be exaggerated; the dog who immediately came running up was, as he says, a ridiculously small dachshund. Still, he had to stop himself from kicking it. He refrained only in view of the reasons for his visit; he didn’t want any unnecessary trouble, and kicking a dog almost always led to a fight. He threw away the stone, at which point the dachshund appeared momentarily unsure whether to fetch it or not but then resolved to keep on barking. Suddenly a small, breathless man stood next to Aron in an undershirt and slippers. He reminded Aron immediately of his wooden-legged superintendent. The man grabbed Aron by the sleeve; his eyes revealed that this was a rare catch. He asked excitedly, “What are you doing here?”
“Let me go,” Aron said.
The man wanted to let go, but he was nervous, Aron saw, and was waiting for an explanation.
“There is no bell on the door,” Aron said. “I called for an hour. Take me to the director.”
“So, you called for an hour? And then you simply broke in?”
“Listen,” Aron said, “I came from Berlin and I’m tired. Where’s the director?”
“There’s no director here now. Only tomorrow morning.”
Aron had an ugly thought. “This is the children’s home?” he asked.
The man scrutinized the intruder and didn’t reply, at which point the hostility vanished from his face. With a sigh he invited Aron to come with him. “And you be quiet.”
They went into a barrack; the man knocked on a door, a woman in a nurse’s uniform sat in the room. The man said that Aron wanted to speak with her, without however mentioning the break-in. She introduced herself as the night nurse, and Aron explained his request. She listened attentively, occasionally nodded understandingly; he didn’t get the impression that his
Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon