Doctors (30 page)

It was Christmastime for the soldiers, and for the Jewish former inmates, the festival of Hanukkah, which commemorated their forefathers’ liberation from the tyrannical Syrians in the second century
B.C.

Despite the cold and the uncomfortable quarters, it was a time for celebration. The Army chaplains headed a group of volunteers who constructed an enormous candelabrum, each night adding another flame until eight lights, broadcasting the renewed freedom of those celebrants, shone far across the land of their former oppressors. There were songs and dances and rejoicing:

“What’s the matter?” Hannah chided her husband. “Why aren’t you singing?”

“How can I sing out that ‘God saved us’ when He turned His back on us? The American Army saved us.”

“And who do you think sent
them
?” she demanded.

As the winter of 1946 wore on, Herschel’s brother wrote regularly, sometimes enclosing photos of his American wife, Rochelle, and their “two lovely boys.” His letters overflowed with optimism: America was the land of boundless opportunity. He himself had established a dry goods shop in downtown Akron and had flourished to the point where he now had a branch in Cleveland, where he made his home.

Since he and Herschel were once again in regular contact, “Steve” felt obliged to offer his brother homilies, like, “In America you can be as big as you dream. Here, if you work, the sky’s the limit.”

His European brother could not help but remember the signs over the concentration camps: “
Arbeit macht frei
”—work will make you free. Of course, in that case it meant it would free your body from your soul.

When he would complain to Hannah she would try to reason with him. “How can you dislike a man you haven’t seen in twenty years? And how can you say his wife is a
yenta
and his children are spoiled when you haven’t met any of them?”

“Hannah,” Herschel said, tapping a finger on his own forehead, “I can see them very clearly in here. And I don’t care what he says, I’m not going into business with my little brother Stefan.”

“You mean Steve.”

“To me he’ll always be Stefan and a know-it-all who knows nothing.”

“He was smart enough to get out of Germany before the war,” Hannah countered, instantly regretting having brought their badinage to such a painful point. “I’m sorry, Hersh, I went too far.”

“No, you’re right. If we had gone with Stefan, our Charlotte would be still alive. And
we
would be still alive.”

“But we—”

“No,” he said solemnly, “we are breathing. But in a world where so many of our brothers have been slaughtered, we can no longer count ourselves among the living.”

It was nearly a year after their liberation that they finally touched American soil. The Lands had driven all the way down from Cleveland to meet their ship. And with all the other confused, joyous, guilty-to-be-alive survivors, there was no shortage of tears on the dockside.

Steve and Rochelle had found the Landsmanns a small but comfortable apartment on the fringe of Shaker Heights, the suburb where they had their own “lovely house and lovely garden.”

And despite his undisguised misgivings, Herschel went to work for his brother. After all, he had little choice. But he dreamed of becoming independent, of being able to treat his own beloved wife in the luxurious manner Steve treated Rochelle.

Meanwhile, there was a burning priority. Through the U.S. Veterans Administration he succeeded in locating the home address of the late Colonel Abraham Lincoln Bennett. It was in Millersburg, a small village in Georgia about a half hour’s drive
from Fort Gordon, where the Colonel had been stationed as a career officer.

He tried to reach the family by telephone but learned there was none. He had no alternative but to drive there in person. So, packing a small suitcase, he and Hannah embarked on their first American odyssey during the long July Fourth weekend.

The journey took two days. Late the first afternoon, Herschel searched for a place for them to sleep. The white wooden Dixie Belle Inn just south of Knoxville, Tennessee, seemed comfortable enough and he pulled into the gravel drive, adjusted his tie, and walked in to request a room.

The clerk was unctuously polite—but not accommodating. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid this establishment doesn’t accept your kind.”

Herschel was taken aback. “Kind? What kind? I’m a human being. I have money—cash. Here—look.” He withdrew his wallet.

The clerk merely smiled and shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid you don’t understand this hotel’s policy. It’s strictly no Nigras or Jews allowed.”

“I don’t understand,” Herschel said, scarcely believing his ears.

“Understand what, sir?” the clerk inquired. “The connection between Nigras and Jews? In these parts we tend to believe that one’s black on the outside and the other’s black on the inside. Have a nice evening.”

Sick at heart, Herschel returned to the car and related the incident. “How did they even know I was Jewish?” he had wondered aloud.

“Herschel, my beloved, be honest—your accent is not exactly like George Washington’s. Now, I suggest we find someplace that will maybe give ‘our kind’ something to eat and then try to get some sleep in the car.”

They arrived in Millersburg the next morning. It was a ramshackle, sleepy hamlet the color of clay baked by the summer sun. Herschel had spent a restless night (parked behind a closed diner), wondering whether on the morrow it would be best to seek directions to the Bennett home from the police or from the post office. With his vestigial horror of uniforms—especially with guns attached—he opted for the post office. It did not stand, as did its Cleveland counterpart, in a great stone
edifice. Quite the contrary, it was a sagging appendage to the town pharmacy.

“ ’Course I remember the Colonel,” the druggist acknowledged with warm southern hospitality. “But—if I may be so bold—whatever would you want with what’s left of his family?”

“Uh,” Herschel asked hesitantly, “what exactly do you mean by ‘what’s left’?”

“Why, as y’all must know, the Colonel himself is dead—I assume you saw we put his name up on the Town Hall memorial board right there with all the white men who fell. And it’s been years since Lorraine scooted out of this tank town with some fancy Dan from Atlanta. All that’s still here’s old Miz Bennett and young Linc.”

“Can you tell me where they live, please?”

“With due respect, where else would a Nigra live but in Niggertown?”

“Could you direct me, please?”

The druggist chuckled. “My friend, just go to the end of Main Street—and follow your nose.”

It was little more than a parallel row of shacks, distinguished only by the fading color of their desiccated wood—formerly brown, formerly green, formerly red. Here and there was a tin mailbox with a name scrawled on it.
BENNETT
was, relatively speaking, the neatest of the lot.

Under the inquisitive gaze of half a dozen people seated on nearby porches, Herschel and Hannah knocked. A large black woman, white hair pulled back against her temples, answered the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked, curiously scrutinizing her visitors.

“We are looking for the home of Colonel Lincoln Bennett, madam,” Herschel said softly.

“Don’t you folks know my son is dead?” she asked, anger and sadness both still perceptible in her voice.

“Yes, madam. I knew him in Europe during his … last days. My name is Herschel Landsmann and this is my wife, Hannah. Your son rescued me and then fought with the doctors to save my wife. We wanted to meet his family and express our thanks.”

Elva Bennett hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to act. Finally she said, “Would you care to come in?”

The Landsmanns nodded. She opened the screen door and led them inside. “Can I offer you some iced tea?”

“That would be very nice,” replied Hannah as she walked into the living room. The mantelpiece was dominated by a large photograph of Linc in full dress uniform. His silver eagles and many medals were also on display.

Mrs. Bennett returned with three mugs and they all sat down, the hostess on a tired armchair and the Landsmanns on an equally well-worn sofa.

“So,” said the elder woman, now with a friendly smile, “you knew my Lincoln.”

“The finest man I ever met,” Herschel said with deep conviction.

Mrs. Bennett concurred. “If he’d been white he’d have made four-star general—and that’s the truth.”

The Landsmanns nodded. “I have no doubt at all,” Herschel stated.

Then came an uneasy silence. How could he explain the purpose of his visit? He tried to broach it tactfully.

“Mrs. Bennett, my wife and I have just lived through a calamity I could not begin to describe—”

“Some of Linc’s last few letters gave me some idea,” Mrs. Bennett answered sympathetically.

“Your son,” Herschel continued, “your son was like a holy angel to us. After all the years of degradation we had suffered, he was so kind. He treated us like human beings. And yet we survived and he did not. I cannot tell you how pained we are.”

Herschel was still having trouble getting to the point. Hannah came to his rescue. “We were wondering if there was any way we could help—”

“I don’t follow, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bennett.

“His son—” Herschel began. “Lincoln was always talking about the hopes and dreams he had for him. We want to be sure these dreams come true.”

“Is he all right?” Hannah asked. “I mean, are he and his mother—”

“I’m afraid Linc Junior has no mother,” she replied, a sudden flash of anger in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” said Hannah.

“Well,” Mrs. Bennett started with a sigh, “it’s a long and unhappy tale. Those two never did get along even before Linc was called overseas. In fact, just about the time he … fell in
action, the lawyers were finishing up the papers for their divorce. But as soon as she heard, she skedaddled right back.”

“Because of the child—” Herschel suggested. “She must have been concerned about him.”

Elva Bennett shook her head in vigorous dissent. “Because of ten thousand dollars, Mr. Landsmann. That’s GI insurance for the next-of-kin—ten thousand dollars. Every week after that she came all the way out to Millersburg from Atlanta jus’ to go by the post office an’ see if that check had come. Which, of course, in due time it did.”

Her indignation was mounting. “And do you know, Mr. Landsmann,” she said, her voice quavering, “do you know that in all those treasure-huntin’ trips she didn’t once come by to see her son? And the U.S. gov’ment took her for the next of kin! That woman—”

She dissolved into tears.

As Hannah offered the comfort of a gentle touch, Herschel thought out loud, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennett, I don’t understand. Why isn’t he living with her in the first place?”

Elva’s mood changed from sorrow to indignation.

“Why should she live with a child she never wanted? She never forgave Linc for not letting her get rid of that baby before it was born. Lorraine fancied herself as a great lady, she didn’t want to be ‘tied down.’ She hated life on the base and was always going off to Atlanta on her own for days at a time. I’ve raised that boy from the very day he was born.”

She dabbed her eyes with Hannah’s handkerchief and apologized, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking this way. The Good Book tells us it’s a sin to hate.”

Herschel tried delicately to explain their visit.

“Mrs. Bennett, please don’t be offended, but may I know if you and your grandson have any financial difficulties?”

She hesitated for a moment, then answered, “We make out all right.”

“Please, I ask because we want to do something—anything—to show our gratitude.” He hoped his fervor would earn her trust.

Reluctantly the old woman unburdened herself. “Well, naturally, when my son was alive we always got a part of his paycheck. Every month, regular as clockwork. When that stopped I was countin’ on the insurance to see us through till young Linc was big enough to work.”

“How old is he now?” Hannah inquired.

“He’ll be eleven next month. The twenty-seventh.”

“So that means he’s a long way from seeking employment,” Herschel concluded.

“ ’Round here, most boys start at fourteen—even earlier if they’re tall enough.”

“But that is such a pity. I know his father wanted him to have an education, even go to college.”

“That dream died with him,” she replied softly.

Herschel and Hannah glanced at each other and each knew what the other was thinking.

“Mrs. Bennett,” Hannah began, “we owe your son a debt that has no price. We would be honored if you would allow us to be of assistance.”

“We are not rich people,” Herschel continued, “but I have a job and I can save from it. So when the time comes young Lincoln will be able to attend college.”

Elva Bennett was both overwhelmed and confused. “Mr. Landsmann, don’t you know there’s not a colored school between here and Atlanta that’s good enough to prepare him for any college? And there’s no chance he could go to a payin’ school ’round here.”

The Landsmanns felt at a loss. These were barriers they never thought they would encounter. After an embarrassed silence in which none of them knew what to say, Hannah suggested, “But where we live, Mrs. Bennett—in the North—I know there are schools, excellent schools, where I’m sure the boy could go. And that surely would open the doors to a college.”

Elva was more confused than ever. Why were these people offering to pay for her grandson’s education? Why should any white couple want to do a thing like that? But she continued to explore the issue—and examine the Landsmanns.

“Do you think he could possibly get into one of them northern places? I mean, our Nigra schools barely teach a little reading and writing. There’s sixty-one children in Linc’s class and frankly I don’t think the teacher even knows his name.”