had different
friends—but when Maxie was bullied at school, he came to Jacob. Not that Jacob could
protect him from the braying packs of Hitlerjugend, but at least he could explain
to Maxie what Jewish was and why this label, which at home was most commonly used
to describe their favorite soup, had suddenly turned them into some kind of Untermensch
to be taunted and beaten. Together they could curse the other kids and laugh at their
pathetic little swastika armbands, but they couldn’t fight back. He’d always promised
Maxie one day he’d beat up the Nazi bastards, but instead the bullying got worse,
much worse. As Jacob trudged south, counting the steps, he heard Maxie’s voice trailing
off into a warning whistle: “I told you sssssooo…”
That bastard Hans Seeler. Where is he now?
After seeing him leave the Human Laundry, Jacob had searched the camp for days, but
among thirty thousand people, with the number growing daily as more refugees came
seeking food and shelter, he had lost him.
The sign showed seven kilometers to Mannheim. Seventy-five centimeters a step. That
is … nine thousand, three hundred and thirty-three steps to go. Head down, one at
a time, one after the other. From Mannheim, a left turn into the Neckar Valley and
follow the Neckar along the natural terraces of the Odenwald Hills. To Heidelberg
Castle and the old town and home. What was left of it.
After two days’ walking, and a damp night in a rotting tool shed, he approached Mannheim
just as church bells rang out their once-comforting message of welcome; it was six
o’clock in the evening. He looked around but could see no steeple. It was a distant,
clanging sound, like rocks hitting a tin can. The church must be far away, but with
no buildings standing to block the sound, it carried far and wide. The chimes mocked
the ruins and the suffering.
Just as Jacob found a burned door-frame and lowered himself to sit down, an old bent
man pulled the timber from under him and loaded it onto his cart. At Jacob’s protest,
the man offered him a lift into town. His cart was pulled by the oldest, boniest,
and weakest horse Jacob had ever seen. “Your nag,” he told the old peasant carrying
timber to barter as firewood in the market square, “looks like how I feel.”
It was only at daybreak, after an exhausted sleep inside a bombed-out building, that
Jacob took in the extent of the damage. If anything, Mannheim’s city center was worse
than in Frankfurt. Here, too, glassy-eyed Germans picked their way across the debris,
searched for wood to burn and water to drink. Here, too, was the piercing stink of
bodies and excrement, vegetal and dank.
Jacob filled his canteen at an American water truck outside the destroyed city hall.
He went straight to the front of the line, and when a German with a mustache and muttonchop
sideburns told him to get to the back he told him to lick his ass. That made him feel
good.
Jacob took off his left shoe. It looked fine when I got it at Harrods, he thought.
Especially for dancing. He’d wanted the pair, but couldn’t find the other one in the
pile. He massaged his heel and pulled up his foot and blew on the blister under his
big toe. But for walking three hundred kilometers plus a train ride? He sniffed. What
a fool. Lucky he didn’t find the second one, at least his right foot is okay with
the hiking boot.
Nineteen kilometers left to Heidelberg. As he walked, he counted and calculated. Twenty-five
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three steps. One second per step. Three thousand,
six hundred steps per hour. Seven hours and three minutes.
The G.I.s wouldn’t let him walk on the Autobahn, so he had to use the narrow side
roads. Even they were clogged with military traffic, horse-driven carts, and people
like him, trudging this way and that.
As he reached the Neckar and caught a boat ride to the northern bank to avoid a total
friends—but when Maxie was bullied at school, he came to Jacob. Not that Jacob could
protect him from the braying packs of Hitlerjugend, but at least he could explain
to Maxie what Jewish was and why this label, which at home was most commonly used
to describe their favorite soup, had suddenly turned them into some kind of Untermensch
to be taunted and beaten. Together they could curse the other kids and laugh at their
pathetic little swastika armbands, but they couldn’t fight back. He’d always promised
Maxie one day he’d beat up the Nazi bastards, but instead the bullying got worse,
much worse. As Jacob trudged south, counting the steps, he heard Maxie’s voice trailing
off into a warning whistle: “I told you sssssooo…”
That bastard Hans Seeler. Where is he now?
After seeing him leave the Human Laundry, Jacob had searched the camp for days, but
among thirty thousand people, with the number growing daily as more refugees came
seeking food and shelter, he had lost him.
The sign showed seven kilometers to Mannheim. Seventy-five centimeters a step. That
is … nine thousand, three hundred and thirty-three steps to go. Head down, one at
a time, one after the other. From Mannheim, a left turn into the Neckar Valley and
follow the Neckar along the natural terraces of the Odenwald Hills. To Heidelberg
Castle and the old town and home. What was left of it.
After two days’ walking, and a damp night in a rotting tool shed, he approached Mannheim
just as church bells rang out their once-comforting message of welcome; it was six
o’clock in the evening. He looked around but could see no steeple. It was a distant,
clanging sound, like rocks hitting a tin can. The church must be far away, but with
no buildings standing to block the sound, it carried far and wide. The chimes mocked
the ruins and the suffering.
Just as Jacob found a burned door-frame and lowered himself to sit down, an old bent
man pulled the timber from under him and loaded it onto his cart. At Jacob’s protest,
the man offered him a lift into town. His cart was pulled by the oldest, boniest,
and weakest horse Jacob had ever seen. “Your nag,” he told the old peasant carrying
timber to barter as firewood in the market square, “looks like how I feel.”
It was only at daybreak, after an exhausted sleep inside a bombed-out building, that
Jacob took in the extent of the damage. If anything, Mannheim’s city center was worse
than in Frankfurt. Here, too, glassy-eyed Germans picked their way across the debris,
searched for wood to burn and water to drink. Here, too, was the piercing stink of
bodies and excrement, vegetal and dank.
Jacob filled his canteen at an American water truck outside the destroyed city hall.
He went straight to the front of the line, and when a German with a mustache and muttonchop
sideburns told him to get to the back he told him to lick his ass. That made him feel
good.
Jacob took off his left shoe. It looked fine when I got it at Harrods, he thought.
Especially for dancing. He’d wanted the pair, but couldn’t find the other one in the
pile. He massaged his heel and pulled up his foot and blew on the blister under his
big toe. But for walking three hundred kilometers plus a train ride? He sniffed. What
a fool. Lucky he didn’t find the second one, at least his right foot is okay with
the hiking boot.
Nineteen kilometers left to Heidelberg. As he walked, he counted and calculated. Twenty-five
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three steps. One second per step. Three thousand,
six hundred steps per hour. Seven hours and three minutes.
The G.I.s wouldn’t let him walk on the Autobahn, so he had to use the narrow side
roads. Even they were clogged with military traffic, horse-driven carts, and people
like him, trudging this way and that.
As he reached the Neckar and caught a boat ride to the northern bank to avoid a total
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