A Ritchie Boy Page 3

  “I saw a herd of chamois once before. Read about them afterward.” Eli continued to watch the animal, ignoring the mockery. “The horn of the male is thicker. That’s how you tell them apart.”

  Rudy narrowed his eyes and observed Eli, like he was sizing him up. Toby wondered if Eli’s calm and detachment provoked Rudy further. Or if it would shut him down. The goat’s hooves made a crunching sound as it took a few steps in the snow. Toby noticed black markings below the animal’s eyes and imagined it a fearless opponent.

  “Let’s get closer. Surround it,” Rudy suggested. The rest of them stood still, watching Rudy lurch toward the mountain goat, then stumble. At that instant, the chamois sped away, jumping high moguls with ease.

  Toby had the urge to taunt Rudy but restrained himself. He felt a whirl of wind and watched a mass of snow lift in front of them. He pulled his earflaps low, tightened his scarf, and, with the help of his poles, pivoted in the direction of Kitzbühel.

  TOBY FELT SLUGGISH AND famished after the day’s exertion. Except for Bruno, the other ski group dispersed to their rooms or down the street with Herr Bohm. He couldn’t understand why any of them would want to leave the warmth of the fireplace or the tub of hot apple cider the hostel’s owner was ladling into mugs. Before long, the boys who’d stayed back were all sitting around the central fireplace, tossing potatoes wrapped in foil into the embers and tasting a variety of hard and soft cheeses brought up from the cellar.

  “I faced down a wild mountain creature,” Rudy told the group. He took a gulp of cider and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Scared him off.”

  Toby rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure how wild that goat was. Seemed pretty tame if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, you were the wild one, Rudy.” Franz turned to Bruno. “Anything interesting go down in your group?”

  Bruno carefully peeled the foil off his potato and took a bite. He grimaced and spat the chunk on the floor. “Ach, mein Gott! This is too hot to eat!” He set the potato down and turned to Franz. “Stefan and Dietrich were showing off. Plowed right in front of Herr Bohm. First time I saw the man so rankled.”

  “Anyone get hurt?” Toby’s legs ached. He stood up to stretch.

  “Stefan skipped over a crusty patch and turned his ankle.” Bruno popped a huge chunk of cheese in his mouth, his cheeks puffing out, but he kept talking. “Bohm ended up taking him back here to ice it. That’s when we started having some fun.”

  Toby walked closer to the hearth. The heat felt good. He held his hands up to the fire, rubbing them together. The day hadn’t been that bad after all. He’d learned how to ski, seen the most awesome mountain in Austria, even gotten close to a mountain goat. There was the insolence of Rudy, but it had been safely contained. He was now ready to put his feet up and enjoy himself.

  Voices and a burst of laughter returned his attention to his classmates. Just outside the banter, Eli sat quietly, holding his mug of hot cider with both hands, blowing across its surface before taking a sip.

  As Toby turned back toward the fireplace, his eyes locked on a wooden gramophone with a brass horn tucked into the corner beyond the hearth. “Hey, look over here!” He dashed over and opened the cabinet, his eyes widening at the records stacked neatly in vertical slits. He knelt down and looked closer. Benny Goodman. Count Basie. Duke Ellington. “Wow, incredible.”

  “Let’s play this one.” Franz grabbed Ellington’s “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” “My cousin lives in Hamburg and goes to clubs, where there’s wild dancing to all this up-tempo music.”

  “Yeah, I heard about those swing clubs. Makes the girls go crazy.” Bruno shuffled through several albums while Toby slid the Duke Ellington out of its jacket, delicately placing the needle onto the groove. A fiddle, then piano backed by a full orchestra, blasted into the lounge. It don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that swing. It don’t mean a thing, all you gotta do is swing.

  Toby couldn’t make out all the words, but it didn’t matter because of the steady pulse. Franz moved his head up and down to the beat, his hair falling into his face. It makes no difference if it’s sweet or hot. Just give that rhythm everything you’ve got.

  “This stuff’s good, actually.” Rudy started tapping his feet. All the boys surrounded the phonograph. “My dad calls it Negro noise. Boy, would he whack me up and down for listening to this.”

  Toby had heard the Kraus family was pretty reactionary, that Herr Kraus could be cruel in disciplining his son. Maybe that explained Rudy’s brash and malicious behavior. “Let me see some of these.”

  Toby took the records from Bruno, excited by the gems at his fingertips. A Django Reinhardt. Count Basie’s “One O’Clock Jump.” Some slower Ellington tunes—“Mood Indigo,” “In a Sentimental Mood”—along with “Sophisticated Lady” and “Caravan.”

  “Let’s put on Benny Goodman,” Eli said as he looked over Toby’s shoulder. “You have this one at home, Toby.” He pointed to “Sing, Sing, Sing.”

  “I love the clarinet in that piece.” Toby rested the needle on the record. “Listen to the drums, the trumpets. There’s nothing like this sound.”

  The boys settled back in their chairs, bouncing along with the drum solos. Toby pretended he had sticks in his hand, flicking his wrists with the beat. He looked over at Eli, whose eyes were closed, his shoulders swaying from side to side. Rudy, Bruno, Franz—all of them were caught up in the pulsating tempo. Toby held back an amused grin. They were listening to a Jewish bandleader, something only Eli would know. He certainly wasn’t about to clue in the others.

  “I’LL ADMIT WE ALL had some good moments together. But Rudy—I just can’t trust that guy.” Toby’s words filled the darkness of their room that night.

  A long silence followed, and Toby thought Eli had fallen asleep until he answered. “He’s just a bully. That’s all he is. But Franz, Karl, and the others keep him in check.”

  Toby sat up in disbelief. “Only a bully? You heard what he said about the music. ‘Negro noise.’ And how he insulted you as a Jew earlier. It’s how he’s been brought up, don’t you see? It’s what he believes.” His eyes began adjusting to the dark. “People like that scare me, and they should scare you.”

  “Come on. Lighten up. You’re blowing all this out of proportion.” Eli pulled the covers tightly under his chin and rolled away from Toby. “Stop being a worrywart.”

  With that, Eli dozed off and didn’t so much as stir again. Despite his exhaustion, Toby felt like he tossed and turned all night. He woke up still fatigued, enough that he begged off joining the others for an early morning trek. After packing, he waited in the hostel lobby until the last of his classmates trounced down the steps lugging their bags and skis.

  Standing on the station platform, he could feel the day’s heat penetrate his face despite the frigid temperature. The sun stood high in the cerulean sky, like a large ball of crystal with shimmering spikes. As he took a final rapt look at his surroundings, a whistle in the distance startled him, the sound stirring a foreboding he couldn’t explain. The train’s outline came into view. Picking up his bag, he followed Franz, Bruno, and Karl toward the nearest car, where the conductor waved them inside.

  “All the way in the back!” The rail man pointed toward the exit door.

  “I’m right behind you.” Eli patted Toby’s shoulder.

  Toby stepped on board and grabbed two empty seats while Eli hoisted their bags onto the overhead rack. As the door slammed shut, Toby settled in, staring out the window’s thick glass. The train began rolling down the track, slowly at first, then gathering speed.

  “This is how fast I flew down those mountains this morning,” Bruno barked out from behind, where he sat with Franz.

  “Or maybe like that mountain goat as he bolted from Rudy’s clutches.” Franz hit the back of Toby’s seat, laughing.

  “Well, at least I tried to do something, Haider.” Sitting on the aisle seat across from Bruno, Rudy leaned over toward Franz. “But you just stood there w
hile Stoff analyzed the goat’s sex. Oh, excuse me, Stoff. The ‘chamois.’”

  “Cut it out, Kraus. Let’s just have a peaceful ride, okay?” Toby said. He’d wanted to sound more commanding, but his words came out pleading.

  “I don’t need a little creep like you telling me what to do, Wermer.”

  Toby let the comment go. His muscles ached. He tried to take in the scenery, but his eyelids drooped as the fast-moving images blurred. The repetitive sounds of the train lulled him into a stupor.

  He awoke abruptly to the screeching of metal and the steam whistle’s shrill cry. He looked out the window and realized they were approaching a station. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, then elbowed Eli. “Where are we?”

  “Salzburg, I think.”

  Relief washed over Toby. He must have slept for several hours. They were almost home. Maybe he had been overreacting, as Eli had suggested.

  Just then, Rudy jumped out of his seat. “Look at all the soldiers!” His outburst rose above the clanging bells as the train eased to a stop.

  Eli stretched across Toby, and the two stared out the window. The sound of cheering erupted. Eli’s voice was barely audible but somber. “Now it begins.”

  Hundreds of soldiers with Nazi banners and swastikas surrounded the depot and loading platform. Toby turned back and saw Rudy’s eyes widening, saw all of his classmates transfixed on the scene.

  “Students! Stay put. We still have another stop at Linz before we arrive in Vienna.” Herr Bohm held onto a metal bar to steady himself, his voice strident over the clamor outside the train.

  Rudy stood up, edging into the aisle. “The Germans will save Austria!”

  “Are you crazy?” Toby’s words rushed out before he could stop himself.

  Rudy stepped toward Toby’s and Eli’s seats. “Some people …” He glared down at Eli. “Some people have sucked our country dry. Hitler will change that.”

  Toby’s entire body tensed up. Until this moment, all of Rudy’s taunts of Eli had been like small jabs—those of a thug, but without the power of a political movement behind him. Now Rudy was making a slur on Eli’s family, a misguided one at that. The Stoffs were far from wealthy. Eli’s mother was an English language tutor; his father owned a small company that made uniforms.

  Toby looked over at Eli, whose head was down, his hands folded on his lap. A flood of compassion washed over him, then a wave of anger. He took in a breath to measure his words. He felt protected by their teacher, but speaking out in defense of Jews exposed him to classmates who probably saw the world as Rudy did, or were starting to. Their silence seemed to confirm this. “Austria’s problems—like Germany’s—have to do with the Great War, not Jewish—”

  “What world are you living in? My parents say our Austrian dictatorship has given a pass to Jews like your buddy here.”

  An undercurrent of whispers swept through the train car.

  Toby stood, stretching across Eli as he glared into Rudy’s eyes. “Then why don’t you run out there and sign up before it’s too late?”

  Rudy raised a hand as if to hit Toby. Eli jumped out of his seat, pushed past Toby, and grabbed Rudy’s arm in midair.

  “Get your hands off me, Jew boy!” Rudy tried to swing at Eli with his other arm, but Eli grabbed that one, too, and held fast.

  “You don’t scare me, Kraus. Are you so weak that you have to attack someone smaller?” Eli scowled at Rudy, not moving and not easing up on his grip. Suddenly Rudy rammed Eli with his body, and for a moment, Eli’s hold on him loosened. But before Rudy could strike, Eli threw a punch at his jaw, knocking Rudy backward so he fell onto Bruno’s lap. Eli’s face was expressionless as he watched Rudy awkwardly pull himself up. Toby stood gaping, horrified.

  “Eli, Rudolf! Break it up.” Herr Bohm’s face reddened as he bounded down the aisle and inserted his body between the two. The imposing teacher took hold of Rudy’s shoulders and pressed him into his seat, whispering something in his ear. Then he pivoted toward Eli, addressing him in a low voice that Toby could also hear. “Your friend is making things difficult. His outspoken tongue will get you into deep trouble.”

  Bohm turned toward Toby, a black look on his face. “There are battles that can’t be won. Look what your provocation just created for your Jewish friend here.”

  Toby stood there clenching his fists. Eli locked eyes with him, motioning his head toward their seats. Toby eased himself down and turned sullenly toward the window just as the train started coasting out of the station. He felt the beat of the train’s wheels, solemn like drums. As he watched the Alps recede in the distance, a flicker of yesterday’s thrill sparkled back in him. He thought of how the grandeur of the mountains had brought a bunch of fifteen-year-olds together. And how they were about to be split apart.

  ZELDA’S GAMBLE

  April 1938

  ZELDA PAUSED AT THE third landing of her fifth-floor walk-up, switching the sack of groceries to her other hip. At the top of the final flight, she found her apartment door ajar and caught Giorgio’s head peeking into the hallway. He reached for her bag and gave her a quick kiss. “Your day okay?”

  She offered a tilt of her head, raising an eyebrow. Hard to call any day cleaning toilets at the Waldorf a good one. She tossed her wool coat aside and nudged Giorgio into the kitchen. “One guest left me a dollar with a kind note, so we have him to thank for our dinner.”

  “I got the night off. Let me do the cooking.” Giorgio laid the pappardelle and Roma tomatoes on the counter, then pulled out a saucepan. He turned to her, catching her gaze. “You got a letter from Lila.” From the stack of mail on the kitchen table, he plucked the top envelope and handed it to her.

  From Lila? Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at the sloping script of her name addressed on the onionskin envelope, the elegance of the Z and the M: Zelda Muni. The same graceful penmanship Lila perfected in Gymnasium, where they met as girls, and which she marshaled for her letters to Zelda, now that an immense ocean separated the two.

  Zelda walked into the living room and eased herself into their rickety armchair. It had been months since she’d heard from her friend. The heavy mood of Lila’s last letter reminded Zelda of their adolescence in Vienna, when rationing and lessons from the Great War replaced the gaiety of the Vienna Fasching, when they learned to waltz in open-air squares. Back then the two were inseparable. Like sisters. They could complete each other’s sentences. The ink was barely dry on the Treaty of Versailles when they began their studies at the University of Vienna filled with big ideas and plans—Zelda’s dream to someday become an art curator, Lila’s to be an English professor. Lila ended up teaching English to children because it seemed like more important work. She was always looking out for everyone else. Zelda reminded herself that every major decision in her life, including marrying Giorgio and immigrating with him to America, was done with Lila’s input and blessing.

  Her fingers tore at the flap. As she scanned Lila’s words, her gut tightened. She’d read the newspapers. Or thought she’d read them. More likely she just stared at the newsprint, too consumed with her own miseries and failures since she and Giorgio arrived in New York to concentrate. The miscarriages. The job humiliations. Their worthless degrees. The daily indignities. Their powerlessness. Some days she felt like screaming. But now her rage was about Lila’s plight.

  On Friday, a pack of hooligans attacked Eli on his way home from school, forced him onto his hands and knees, made him scrub the pavement while they spat on him …

  Zelda folded the letter, pushed off from the chair, and hurried back to the kitchen. “They have to get out—Lila, Bart, and their son. They have to get out of Vienna.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Giorgio gave her that look, the one she called “The Wall.” She remembered when his face used to be open and sunny, when he was receptive and eager, his deep brown eyes gentle. Years of six-day stints waiting tables for three dollars a shift had taken its toll. Unspoken was the reality that h
is engineering skills had grown stale, along with his precious diploma.

  In truth, they’d both hardened. She didn’t want to admit or confront it. She kept telling herself things would get better, that some opportunity would open up. Maybe they’d soon be able to afford a better apartment. But they continued to bump against the low ceiling of possibilities for immigrants in their new country. Their lives had become stagnant. She saw that now as she felt a stirring, a call to action.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, talking to Giorgio’s back as he chopped vegetables. “We must help her family get affidavits. They need someone respectable to vouch for them.”

  “And who might you suggest?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic with me, Giorgio.”

  He turned to face her, this time his gaze intent. “I want to help Lila too, but we are barely making ends meet.” He shook his head, his voice breaking. “And look what would be awaiting them.”

  “Our lives aren’t so bad.” She stood up and pulled him toward her. “We have each other.” Holding him tightly, she added quietly, “At least we have jobs … and we have our freedom. We can’t ever forget that.”

  “You’re right … I’m sorry.” Neither spoke as they moved apart. His face softened. “What about Giuseppe?”

  “Just because he owns the restaurant …” Zelda’s words trailed off. The people they knew were immigrants, too—hardworking, struggling. And there were quotas, especially for Jews. Immigration officers wanted assurances that the potential émigré could find work and not become a public drain.

  “What about someone at the Waldorf?” Giorgio shut off the faucet and reached for a towel.

  She considered that possibility. But her immediate boss was a Mexican who reported to a second-generation Russian Jew. No one they knew measured up any better. Guido and his wife, Sophie, lived in the apartment below, and through them they’d met Sophie’s brother and his wife—a Macy’s stockroom worker and a hotel maid, like Zelda.