A Ritchie Boy Read online

  “Ooh. Who are the ladies?”

  “I don’t remember. Just some gals we met up with during furlough. That one was taken while we were still in training in the States.”

  He slowly closed the tattered album, moving it aside so they could look through his wedding book. Here the black-and-white images were crisp, each on a full page inside a transparent plastic slip. Each recorded by a professional. All those photos so long ago. 1948. Sixty-eight years felt to him like yesterday. When he and Tasa were pronounced man and wife. On the dance floor. Cutting the cake.

  Lucy turned the pages slowly and in silence, holding her gaze on a final posed photo of her parents, outdoors in casual clothes. She then returned to the beginning, shuffling the pages as though looking for one particular shot. She stopped at the image of her father the instant he stomped on a linen-wrapped glass, his face filled with intent and joy.

  “Look how handsome you are, Daddy.”

  MOST OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS in the wartime album were without dates or locations. But Eli knew where each was taken and when. The collection was a memento he revisited thanks to an invitation to a reunion he, at first, had no intention of attending. The organized and well-maintained wedding album he later viewed with Lucy before they went downstairs for dinner seemed like yet another lifetime, removed from his childhood and Army days. Odd, he thought, given the tight chronology: Leaving Vienna in ’38, joining the Army in ’43, marrying in ’48.

  That night, he dreamed backward. To Vienna before the Anschluss when Gramma Jenny still lived with them in their spare apartment in the sixteenth district. He smiled at his mother as she brought a platter of Wiener Schnitzel to the table. How young she looked! Toby was over for dinner, and there was talk about a ski trip. Suddenly, Eli was pleading with his mother about bringing his skis to America. Images and people flashed in and out of his unconscious mind like the films he’d seen with Hershel. At times, he found himself inside a ship at sea, then looking out the window of a fast-moving train. He was in the dream, and he was watching the dream. There were soldiers—Nazis—at a distance. He blinked and saw himself wearing an Army uniform. Surrounded by his Camp Ritchie buddies: Max, Henry, Bobby Saltman. Time didn’t make sense. Where was he? Mountains were covered in glistening snow, and he was laughing until another scene took its place, one in which he sat in a stark room conducting an interrogation. These impressions blurred and morphed from one person and place to another. He was playing bridge with Hershel one moment, listening to jazz with Toby the next. There was Zelda Muni, John Brandeis, Arthur. His parents were still alive. Tasa was still alive, pressed in next to him.

  Much of the detail faded when Eli woke, although the vague residue of his dream left him foggy, unsettled. One memory remained fixed: that of frozen farmland slipping past parted curtains of a train window. He considered how the frosty field flickered rapidly past him, much like the nearly eight decades had since his boyhood ski trip in the Austrian Alps. He tried to get past this reverie and move into his day, one that passed, on the surface, much like the one before—breakfast with friends, a quick trip to the grocery, calls from his daughters, a game of bridge, an evening with music and a book. Hour by hour, though, he kept imagining going to Michigan and joining up with his MI buddies, not even sure which were still alive and if they’d be physically capable of making the trip next summer. Or if he would be around by then.

  By dusk, Eli gazed out his office window, lulled by the hypnotic ticking of the clock on his desk. All that remained of the light was an orange glaze on the western horizon.

  Part One

  SKIING IN TYROL

  March 1938

  SNOW HAD BEGUN TO fall as the train pulled out from the Wien Sudbahnhof station. It continued steadily through the morning, thickening over the countryside until there was no edge to the land where it met the chalky sky. A series of fast-moving frozen images floated past Toby’s window. He caught a glimpse of a farmhouse and an old oak tree. Then open terrain.

  Despite the rhythmic vibration, Toby couldn’t help fidgeting in his seat. He felt hot in his heavy wool sweater. And his stomach growled. The ham sandwich his mother had packed him was in his rucksack in the overhead bin. To get to it, he’d have to climb over Eli.

  He looked over at his childhood friend who was fast asleep. Eli Stoff lived in his apartment building. They’d attended Volksschule together since they were six, were both accepted into the Gymnasium in their Vienna neighborhood. They were like brothers: Eli taking the role of protector, keeping Toby out of trouble, and pushing him to engage more in school activities.

  The long train ride gave Toby plenty of time to consider how he found himself heading to the western province of Tyrol with—other than Eli—eight boys he disliked. He would have rather spent these two days doing almost anything but skiing in the frigid cold. He could still be in bed, reading Kafka’s The Trial that his father had lent him or, better yet, listening to jazz on his parents’ phonograph.

  He’d told Eli as much when their teacher, Herr Bohm, first announced the class outing. He reminded Eli he didn’t even own a pair of skis. His lack of interest in the national pastime set Toby apart as a contrarian, but he didn’t care. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport,” Eli had chided him. “I have an old set you can borrow. Other stuff too.”

  His friend’s prodding hadn’t really persuaded him. It was what had been brewing at school, an undercurrent of tension that gnawed at Toby all year. It came to a head last December when two students approached him and Eli in the cafeteria.

  “Hey there, Stoff. You took my seat. Think you own this space?” The bigger of the two boys, Bruno Maurer, had seemed eager to stir things up. His black eyes narrowed when he spoke; his voice bellowed. Franz Haider, stout with a mop of blond hair, plunked down on the wooden bench and slid his tray across the table hard enough to spill the water glass onto Eli.

  Eli took his napkin and sopped up the liquid, his voice controlled, unperturbed. “This table is all yours, fellas. We were just leaving.” Eli motioned for Toby to get up, his expression hovering between resignation and puzzlement. As he stepped away, he said, “Enjoy your lunch,” without even a faint trace of sarcasm.

  Toby remembered his own rage as if it were yesterday. Eli was sturdy and broad-shouldered and could have posed a threat to the roughnecks. When they were out of earshot, he had asked Eli why he didn’t stand up to them. It wouldn’t work, was all Eli replied. “They’ll just keep at it. Up the ante.”

  While he was thankful not to be the butt of jokes or ploys, as were Eli and the other Jewish kids, he burned with humiliation on his friend’s behalf. Eli never let on how he felt. Toby watched Eli calmly deflect every confrontation so it wouldn’t escalate. He gave Eli a lot of credit for his self-control. Meanwhile, he bore enough worry and angst for the both of them.

  “Approaching Kitzbühel Hahnenkamm.” He felt the train slowing as Herr Bohm’s booming voice rang through the confined space. “Collect your belongings, boys.”

  Eli stretched his long legs in the cramped space and stifled a yawn. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Two hours. You were really great company.” Toby climbed over Eli into the aisle, retrieving his soggy ham sandwich. “At least you didn’t snore.”

  Toby shoved the last bite in his mouth as the whistle announced their arrival. He closed the flap on his bag and grabbed the borrowed ski gear. The rail guard unlatched the door and moved aside while passengers scrambled past him onto the platform. Toby followed Eli down the aisle. When he reached the opening, a thick smoke sprayed up from the train’s chimney like a cloud of steam. A hissing noise cut across the crisp ether. Just as Eli was about to step down, Toby felt himself being shoved from behind and he pitched forward against him. Eli lost his footing and fell to his knees, but he sprang back up and brushed the snow off his pants.

  “Hey!” Toby spun around and found himself face-to-face with Rudy Kraus. “Take it easy.”

  “Relax, Wermer.” Rudy smirked. “I
didn’t mean anything.”

  Toby knew better. “So, you’re just naturally clumsy?”

  The remaining boys piled out, some jumping two-footed onto the icy ground. A few jabbed playfully at their nearest classmates. Excited voices glazed the cold air with a frosty mist. Herr Bohm instructed them to line up along the platform to take the roll. “Christoph Eisler, Stefan Frece, Rolland Gerg …”

  Slapped by a gust of wind, Toby pulled down the earflaps on his cap and waited for his name to be called, last as always. Everything about this trip bothered him. Labeled “optional” since students were responsible for the train fare and overnight fee at the youth hostel, it discouraged participation from working-class families. : And the trip was scheduled on a March weekend when Jewish classmates observed their Sabbath, instead of during the week of winter break.

  “… Franz Haider, Rudolf Kraus, Karl Langer, Bruno Maurer …”

  Toby glared at the pair of ruffians who’d taunted Eli months back—Bruno the instigator, Franz his lackey. Along with Rudy, they injected threat and intolerance into a school culture where Jews were in the minority. In the class of twenty, there were only two—Eli, and Freidel Shamansky. Freidel had passed on the trip. Eli’s family was more secular, and Eli insisted on going, perhaps the rebel in him striking back against the bad guys. Eli’s mother at first cautioned both boys about taking the trip because of the steep slopes and possible icy conditions. But at last night’s dinner, she urged them to stay watchful given the “mood” of the times.

  “… Dietrich Rauch, Eli Stoff, Tobias Wermer.”

  “Look where we are!” Eli whispered the words to Toby, his face shining.

  He pointed beyond the train station, which bisected the village of Kitzbühel. Toby took in the mountain flanks surrounding them. They stood deep in the valley of this medieval town with its buttressed walls, as if on the floor of a giant amphitheater chiseled out of the earth.

  Following Herr Bohm’s even pace, the boys marched down the narrow, cobbled main road, the snow squeaking under their feet. They passed hostelries, cafés, and taverns with hand-drawn signs, until they reached their lodgings. Toby stared up at the frescoes of double-headed eagles on the lobby ceiling as his teacher assigned roommates, predictably placing Toby and Eli together. Bohm told them to unpack their things, change clothes, and meet back downstairs in half an hour.

  The room was large and comfortable with big windows, through which the sun’s reflection off the snow streamed into the chamber. Squinting, Toby plopped on the bed, its surface overlaid with a feather coverlet. “Can you believe this? We’re almost on our own!”

  “You sound like you’re finally happy to be on this trip.” Eli’s broad smile softened the deep cleft in his chin. “Ready to hit the Alps?”

  Toby held his tongue rather than express his true preference—to stay in the hostel and warm himself by the fireplace in the lounge. Eli was already pulling out their ski trousers, boots, mittens, and caps. Toby tightened his suspenders to keep the trousers taut as Eli had instructed. Even though Eli’s hand-medowns were from years earlier, they looked baggy on Toby’s short, thin frame. He tucked the pant legs into the tops of his boots—ankle-high and uncomfortable.

  THE SNOWFALL HAD FINALLY LET UP. Under the cobalt sky, the boys faced an endless series of mountain peaks still warm from the sun, the snow deep and powdery in spots. They headed for the slopes, carrying their wooden skis in one hand, the bamboo poles in the other. Herr Bohm had divided the students into two groups. The teacher took six and assigned Eli, the best skier in the class, the responsibility for the remaining three: Toby, Franz Haider, and Karl Langer. Toby was pleased. Separating Franz from Bruno and including Karl—the most agreeable of their classmates—might help the four to get along.

  After they clamped on their skis, the boys began the slow work of traversing up the mountain trails. Toby stabbed his pole in the ground, sliding his opposite leg forward as he propelled himself upward. His heart pounding, he sucked in deep breaths until his throat became raw and dry. Eli slowed his pace, letting the small group catch up to him. Grateful for the brief respite, Toby regarded his three classmates. Only their cheeks were exposed, reddened from the frigid air and revealing traces of downy new facial hair.

  “Let’s hike toward the Streif to get a better view.” The frozen moisture on Eli’s lips cracked. His teeth chattered as he spoke. “Then we’ll head for slopes we can ski.”

  Toby didn’t care much about this legendary ski run, although he wasn’t clueless about all the Olympic champions who had competed here. He tried to follow Karl’s measured strides while eyeing the rolling moguls obstructing his view. Once he got his bearings, he had to admit the trek was invigorating. Beads of perspiration trickled down his back. He pulled off his hat and, realizing his typically unkempt hair was matted up with sweat, shoved it back on his head. He may not have been in the best condition to battle the climb, but at least he wasn’t overweight like Franz, who was struggling to keep up.

  “Wait up!” A voice rang out behind them. It was Rudy.

  Toby locked eyes with Eli and mouthed, Trouble. Eli shrugged and shortened his steps to allow Rudy to catch up.

  “Heading to the Streif?” Rudy was breathless, each word pushing frost into the space between the boys.

  Eli nodded. “Just close enough to see it. Then we’ll find tows for some easy runs. Bohm okay with you leaving his group?”

  Rudy gave a thumbs-up, and the five continued their steady march in near silence but for Franz’s grunting when the incline grew steeper. They built a meditative rhythm that kept them equidistant from one another, picking up speed as the terrain flattened. Their path narrowed between two rows of trees, the snow a fresh powder barely packed down by the skis of others. Puffs of cloud drifted in the indigo sky as they trudged toward Hahnenkamm, the mountain enormous before them.

  Toby felt almost lightheaded and wasn’t sure if it was the altitude, the physical strain of the climb, or the awesome sight in front of him. Wide-open slopes blanketed in white were flecked with evergreens that blurred into a maze of ridges. Rays of sun fell through the tall trees like cathedral light.

  Arriving at a midpoint where the summit came into clear view, the four classmates encircled Eli and stopped, fixing their poles into the snow, stretching their necks to take in the mammoth pinnacle in all its splendor. As they continued to stare at the panorama, their silence felt peaceful to Toby as if, for that moment, the boys were of like minds.

  He wasn’t sure how long they stood there spellbound before Eli summoned them to move on. A biting wind sent a shiver through Toby’s body.

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON BY the time they reached gentler slopes. Toby clutched the old-fashioned rope tow but could barely hang on to it at first. The line was stiff and icy. It took all five skiers to steady and balance it. On his second try, he was jerked off his feet when he grasped the cord too quickly. When he fell, he nearly dragged all of them down into the snow.

  “Look, guys, I’m a clod. You’d do better if I headed back to the hostel.”

  “We’re in this together, Wermer, even if you do ski like my little sister.” Karl used his mitten to wipe his runny nose.

  “I’d say Ida skis better than Toby,” Franz added as he nudged Rudy, and the boys began laughing.

  Toby felt the camaraderie despite being the butt of their fun.

  “I’ve got an idea. Follow me,” Eli announced. He led the way and before long they found newer lifts—contraptions with continuously circulating overhead wire ropes that could carry the skier.

  “I gotta say, you know these slopes, Stoff.” Karl grabbed a horizontal bar coming around the drum wheel, and it immediately pulled him forward as it lifted him upward. “Wow, this is easy.”

  Toby seized the next bar in line, not wanting to look like a sissy. In no time, they were pulled to the summit. Eli was the first to shove off, followed by Rudy, wild-eyed as he sped down the slope. Franz and Karl took off side by side. The four retu
rned to the top of the run while Toby was still trying to find his nerve to take the plunge.

  “Go into a deep tuck,” Eli said, standing close to Toby. He softened his voice. “Don’t worry, the worst that can happen is you’ll fall. And you’ll stop at the bottom.” He shot Toby a wink as the others chuckled.

  Toby pushed off with his poles and tried to remember all of Eli’s instructions—keep his knees flexed, separate his skis for greater stability, edge the skis in an icy traverse, weight-shift to stay balanced, stem-turn to slow his descent. The initial stretch was the steepest, so he instinctively edged both knees into a snowplow position and didn’t look down. His heartbeat felt like a drum pattern in triple time when he slid through an ice skid and fought to stay upright. Getting through the near mishap boosted his confidence, and he picked up speed from there until he skidded, unsteadily, to a stop.

  The boys attempted a couple of runs on a new slope though the daylight was fading. Dark clouds had formed overhead, the late afternoon sky taking on the color of a bruise. As they headed back, Eli stopped in his tracks. “Look! An alpine chamois!”

  The goat-antelope was several ski lengths ahead of them. It looked fully grown, probably fifty kilograms and about seventy centimeters tall. The animal’s horns were short and straight, hooked backward near the tip. Toby had never seen a chamois this close.

  “It’s a male,” Eli added.

  “How would you know, Stoff?” Rudy glowered at Eli. “Or maybe you’re an expert since your people sacrificed goats, right?”

  Toby stabbed his poles into the frozen earth, considering a riposte to Rudy’s affront. Before he could think of a comeback, Karl elbowed Franz.

  “Maybe he checked out the size of his balls, lamebrain.” The two boys snorted in laughter.