The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,40
dairies—and do you know I have to go in the back door, do business in the back room? Because out front, in the window, it says, ‘Jews Not Admitted.’”
“If it were me, I don’t think I’d do business there anymore.”
“In my business, I have to travel, and I have to do business with all kinds; hell, Lester, my partner is Irish!”
“You are open-minded.”
Feibusch sighed. “What is a man to do? Business in Germany remains good. What would the Christians of Europe do without Jews to sell them Christmas and Easter goodies? Ah, but the hotels in Germany, many of them won’t give lodgings to someone like me, anymore. I come to towns and the sign that used to say, ‘Welcome To,’ says, ‘Jews Strictly Forbidden,’ now—or worse, ‘Jews Enter at Your Own Risk.’”
“I’ve seen it myself. Do you know I saw a sign outside Cologne that said, ‘Drive Carefully! Sharp Curve! Jews 75 Miles an Hour.’”
“I believe it, I believe it. The radio, they don’t play Mendelssohn anymore!”
Charteris nodded. “The best film directors in Germany are going to Hollywood, you know—Max Reinhardt, Fritz Lang….”
“The owners of the Frankfurter Zeitung were forced to sell! The result? A dull paper, unreadable.”
Charteris shook his head. “Bad movies.”
“Wagner on the radio, all day, all night.”
“Not exactly music to fall asleep by, is it?”
Feibusch sighed. “So my friend Leuchtenburg chooses to stay drunk.”
“What do you do, Moritz? Besides fill out postcards?”
“I enjoy life, Lester. So this is a German ship? Does that mean Chef Maier’s food is any less tasty? Make the best of life, I say.”
“I guess that’s possible, when you can go back to San Francisco, at the end of the day.”
Feibusch paused in his postcard assembly. “You make a good point.” In a hushed voice, he said, “I still have many relatives in Germany. I help as I can.”
“How?”
“I’m bringing my two nephews over, to work in a canning plant. My mother, in October, when I come for the Easter selling, I will bring home with me. My wife and I have no children; Mama will be no burden.”
“Aren’t there restrictions… ?”
“The papers are difficult to come by, yes.” Feibusch looked side to side. Very quietly, he said, “A little money here, a little money there. German palms grease up like anybody’s. My biggest problem is Mama herself.”
“How so?”
“She doesn’t want to leave ‘her Germany’—even though it has not been her Germany for a long time. Did you know that there was a law passed recently, in the glorious fatherland? No Jewish old people allowed in German old folks’ homes; no Jewish orphans in the orphanages, either. Takes up too much valuable space.”
“Criminal.”
Feibusch shrugged elaborately, and returned to his postcards. “It will be Germany’s loss, America’s gain. The Nazis deprive Jews of their very citizenship—they cannot hold public office or enter the civil service, many fields are closed to them, teaching, farming, journalism, radio, even the stock exchange. Next it will be medicine, law….”
“It’s difficult to imagine where it will end.”
“Difficult and terrible, Lester. The real tragedy is, the German people themselves, they are not bad. It’s these leaders, these mad leaders.”
“But a people are only as good as their leaders.”
“I know, I know. Still, as individuals—I’ve met so many nice people on this trip. Like you, Mr. Charteris. What, if I may ask, is your heritage?”
“British subject—my mother was English, my father Chinese, a surgeon. I spend more time in America, these days. I plan to naturalize.”
“Good. Nothing against Britain, but America—that’s the place.”
A wry smile tickled Charteris’s lips. “No prejudice there?”
“Plenty. A Jew like me—a man of mixed blood like you, we will always meet stupidity, in a free land like America. Just, thank God, not this madness.”
Charteris nodded. “Well, as you say, on an individual basis, the Germans are a fine people. My cabin mate is German—poor blighter’s under the weather, though. Cooped up in our cabin with shakes and sniffles.”
“Too bad. Even with this rain, this voyage is a delight.”
“Well, Eric’s in no condition to enjoy. Eric Knoecher is his name, my cabin mate.”
“Oh, I’ve met him! The importer.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Feibusch paused again, at his postcards. “He looked me up, first night. He seemed healthy enough, then. Compared notes, tricks of the trade. We’re in the same business, right?”
“Right.”
“Fine fellow, friendly fellow. Do give him my best, my sympathy. You see, there’s an example for you. Like you said.”
“Pardon?”
“Your cabin mate! As individuals, the Germans can be wonderful people.”
“Yes.” Charteris rose. “Eric would seem to be a shining