September/October 2001

On that day in 1939, Ben was only ten years old. Yet, as he sat sipping cream soda in his father’s store, his legs dangling off the high wooden stool, Ben felt almost as old and wise as Heinrich Goldberg, the ancient bookstore owner who had fought in the great World War. Yes, Heinrich knew everything, all right. He told terrific stories about how he had crouched in deep trenches, bullets whistling overhead, how he hadn’t even noticed the wound in his arm that had caused him to be sent away until his sleeve began to turn red . . . Ben wanted to be exactly like Heinrich when he grew up. “Is everyone here?” came Father’s anxious whisper. Ben’s thoughts crashed to bits like the windows of their store had a month ago, when the Gestapo, or German Secret Police, had smashed them to pieces. “Yeah, I think so,” Ben whispered back, glancing around the room excitedly. He was the only one there under eighteen, maybe even twenty. Father listened intently for a few seconds, his eyes piercing the darkness to every corner of the room. The shades were pulled completely down, and the only light was that which filtered in under the door. Even so, now that the windows were gone, they had to be extremely careful of unwanted listeners at Father’s secret meetings. Suddenly, Father began to speak. “As you all know,” he began, “and as we all suspected, Hitler’s aggression against us Jews has become more than unfair laws and yellow stars on our jackets.” Ben could hear murmurs of agreement and could faintly see people nodding as he squinted through the gloom. They had to be extremely careful of unwanted listeners at Father’s secret meetings “I could relate to you numerous incidents of terror and injustice, of damage done to property—and people.” Here, Father had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the indignant muttering which undulated through the room. “We must take action!” declared Father, in a voice that was so full of passion that it would have been a yell had there not been a need for quiet. “We are gathered here to decide whether to flee to safety in Switzerland, or to stay and form a resistance group.” “No decision there!” screeched the crackling voice of Heinrich Goldberg, oblivious to the alarmed chorus of “sshhh” all around him. “Would we run away like a bunch of stinking, lily-livered cowards?” “Heinrich,” Father answered, trying not to smile, “even if we do decide to form a resistance, you will be sent to safety.” “What about this, eh, eh?” said Heinrich angrily, pointing to his sleeve, which was carefully torn in the exact spot where his scar was. Some people said Heinrich was a pompous old fool, but Ben admired him more than anyone else, except for Father. If he had as good a scar as that, he would make sure everyone could see it, too. Meanwhile, restless murmurs rippled through the room. It seemed to Ben that Heinrich could have waited for a better time to voice his opinion. Perhaps it was true that Heinrich didn’t always think before he . . . No! How could Ben have thought such a thing? He was sure that Heinrich had a very good reason for speaking up when he did, and yet . . . Confusion spun in a dizzying wave through Ben’s head. His cream soda suddenly seemed bland and unappetizing. Then, like an ice cube on your forehead on a summer afternoon, Father’s voice broke in, sending a calm coolness through the hot, restless mutterings. “Let’s not waste our valuable time on discussing the details of actions not yet decided upon, and on arguing a case upon which all present have already formed an opinion. And yet. . .” Father paused. “And yet, if we do decide to stay, I have a very special job in mind for you, Heinrich.” Alight in the glow of Heinrich’s enormous beam, Father began the vote. “All in favor of a complete run for safety, say nay.” There was a heavy silence. “And all in favor of forming a resistance group, say aye—quietly.” This last was added as “ayes” began swelling through every corner of the room. They were quiet, as Father had suggested, yet determined. They sound so brave, thought Ben excitedly. I bet any one of them could take on ten Nazis! Yet fear gripped his heart as the reality of what they were doing sank in. He remembered a film clip of Adolf Hitler he had once seen—the huge black moustache, the evil, glinting eyes, the harsh, cruel voice . . . Ben shivered violently. Father must have felt it for, next to Ben, he whispered, “All right, son?” The terrible image blew away like a speck of dust. “All right there?” Father repeated. “Yes,” answered Ben. I’m fine.” *          *          * Switzerland. It was only just across the border, yet it seemed continents away. How could Father send him there? Why couldn’t he help with the fighting? It wasn’t fair! Yet, in his heart, Ben knew that it was going to be very dangerous, staying and fighting the powerful Nazis. He knew that Father just wanted to keep him safe. Ben started to sigh, then caught himself just in time. Father and Heinrich might hear him. He knew it was wrong, but couldn’t resist. He was listening at the door of a room. Inside, Father and Heinrich were arguing heatedly. “I should have seen through your sneaky plan at once, Joseph!” Heinrich was screeching. “I have a very special job in mind for you,” he mocked bitterly. “You want to send me away, that’s all. You want to get rid of me.” That same wave of dizzying confusion came over Ben again, this time stronger. How could Heinrich say those things about Father? There was something, something about Heinrich he hadn’t seen before and didn’t like. Yet he couldn’t think what