Читать книгу Twenty Unusual Short Stories - Dr. Donald D. Hook - Страница 6

Alfred and Elsa née Blaustein Reitmeyr were married in Temple Bat Yam in Middle Village, New York, on November 11, 1941, in the recent wake of the Tripartite Pact of 1940 forming the Axis alliance of Japan, Germany, and Italy, and just a few weeks before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7th that signaled the beginning of the U. S. involvement in World War II. The harbingers of this great world disturbance had displaced them and their parents and siblings, all natives of Germany, only five years before, and both families were understandably shaken by these events.

On the surface at least, Alfred and Elsa shared a long, prosperous, and largely uneventful lifetime together. Both spent their teenaged years in New York City, where they met in school at age 16. They were both born in 1920. He was an only child, the offspring of a Jewish father and a gentile mother. She was from a non-religious Jewish family with a younger brother and a half-witted sister, who died very young. Both families had left their native Saar region in 1935 in advance of Hitler’s takeover, but only met once they took up residence in New York City.

After their death many questions were raised, but few were conclusively answered. On one thing everybody agreed: These people were different from most people. Some further background information may help in understanding this couple’s unconventional later attitudes and actions.

When I think of the Saar Territory during the 1920s and 1930s, a region I have visited several times and know rather well, I think of a region permeated with people of great differences. Separated from the Reich by various impassable boundaries and linked to France monetarily, the Saar region nevertheless shared that common ground of Germanness that made of her a miniature “Deutschland.” What National Socialism became the world saw there fully enacted. In 1933 a considerable number of anti-Nazi Germans fled to the Saar, the only part of Germany not under Hitler’s control. Historians have described the Saar as a sewer through which innumerable rejected elements of Hitlerite Germany began to flow, and then stopped, like a clogged-up toilet: an assortment of troublemakers, revolutionists, exiles, Communists, Jews--you name it.

One day it was clear that the region had become much more than a local problem, for Nazi Germany’s amazingly effective propaganda machine was aimed squarely at the Saar Basin, which was now a seething, boiling cauldron whose effects were felt worldwide. It was widely expected in late 1934 that the Saar would opt for the status quo, namely, that the area would remain a haven for exiles and outcasts, but on January 14, 1935 a plebiscite was held and the people voted overwhelmingly for return to Germany.

This was the scary part: All these disparate types, dissimilarities—especially Catholics and communists—when, protected by neutral foreign forces and a secret ballot and thereby given the opportunity to maintain the status quo, chose instead to give their full devotion to the “Vaterland” under the leadership of Adolf Hitler. This was thus the scene begun in the 1920s that culminated in the late 1930s and led directly to the exile of many ethnic Jews. Alfred’s and Elsa’s families were among those with the good sense to get out while they could. However, the scars of fear, distrust, dire financial loss, and removal from everything familiar at home persisted throughout the lifetimes of those exiled.

The Reitmeyrs and Blausteins ended up in the same neighborhood in Queens, New York, and thus the two children went to the same high school. Elsa’s younger brother Erich also attended that school five years after his sister’s graduation, but he died from injuries sustained in an automobile wreck just before his 18^th birthday. Their mentally defective baby sister had passed away just before the family departed from Luxemburg on their way from the Saar region to America. No one remembers clearly who the children’s friends were, or whether they had any, only that Alfred and Elsa were marked as withdrawn, even sullen at times, uncommunicative, and downright strange. It was little wonder that they found each other, despite the well-founded assertion that opposites attract.

After their wedding Alfred and Elsa moved into what was called in those days a “cold-water walk-up” in nearby St. Albans. The families hoped for good things for them, but in less than six months Alfred had quit his job at a foundry and disappeared. Elsa claimed not to be worried and explained to the few people who asked where her husband was that she “knew but couldn’t say.” Alfred’s parents were distraught and tended to blame their daughter-in-law. Elsa’s family claimed they had suspected Alfred was “not quite right in the head” and threatened to disown him and their daughter. Elsa stuck to her story that she knew where her husband was and that she was not concerned he wouldn’t return.

And return he did, after about two years. By then his and her parents had died. Neither Alfred nor Elsa revealed where Alfred had been all that time, but when he got back home he seemed to be better off financially by far. Some people speculated that Alfred had run to Canada to avoid the possibility of being drafted and found profitable work there. Others suggested the CID employed him because of his knowledge of the German language and a particular region in enemy territory. Was he a lucky gambler? Had he won a lottery? No one ever found out where he spent those two years or how he managed to become rich.

Upon Alfred’s return, he and his wife moved into a slightly better apartment down the street, and he resumed his work as a welder. Elsa stayed home. In the normal course of things this is when people have babies, but such was not to be the case with the Reitmeyrs. In fact, they didn’t even like children. They seemed to be perfectly content with each other and their simple, routinized life.

Alfred was an expert welder whose services were appreciated at the foundry and at a car and truck body shop where he sometimes worked part-time. He came home late afternoon each day, regular as clockwork, and had his supper by 5 o’clock before he and his wife undertook one of their several evening activities. First, they would draw the curtains and, in an effort to save on electricity, sit under a single light at a table in their living room and count their money or sort their bills or file other papers in manila folders. It rarely happened, but if someone rang the doorbell, they would gather everything up and sequester it so that when they admitted the guest into the living room, there were no papers or money in view, only furniture that had been cleared off.

On other occasions they might have been occupied in another of their evening routines, that of hymn singing and Bible reading. For some unexplained reason Elsa had become interested in both at about age 40 and had drawn Alfred into the practice. There was a certain bizarre aspect to the matter, though, for neither could sing or play the piano very well, and both gave clear signs under every other circumstance of disliking, or at least disregarding, all expressions of religion. They certainly did not attend a synagogue or church. Still, they could be heard several times a week by the next-door neighbors playing, singing, and reciting Bible verses. In fact, visitors almost always reported that they found the Reitmeyrs doing just that shortly after they arrived and were admitted into the house, for these two usurers—let’s call a spade a spade—wanted to be sure they were always a step or two ahead of the law. Presenting a picture of total innocence was part of that game.

The illegality of the Reitmeyrs’ business was probably marginal; after all, they weren’t a real bank or licensed loan institution, and they didn’t advertise. However, they couldn’t help knowing their operation was unsavory because the interest rates they charged were unconscionably high and the people who desperately needed their services were the least able to pay such exorbitant rates. Most of their business arose out of word-of-mouth dealings with fleeting acquaintanceships and other casual, personal contacts. They had no relatives, as far as anyone knew.

Where they stashed all their money, no one could guess, but the chances were they made no local bank deposits or legitimate investments. Let’s face it, these two were loan sharks, shysters, bleeders, as they used to say, intent on keeping a very low profile.

All of a sudden things changed drastically and completely unexpectedly. A young man of about 25 showed up one afternoon just as the Reitmeyrs were sitting down to a simple supper at 5 o’clock. Alfred answered the door and admitted the man to the living room. The man wanted to borrow $5000.

Alfred shrieked, “Five thousand dollars! Are you crazy? I don’t make loans of that size. I am not a rich man, just a little guy trying to make an honest living by lending small amounts to needy people. I have had to work very hard for the little that we have.”

“Wait a minute, please, and hear me out,” said the young fellow. “You see, I have a wife and sick child and recently lost my job. We have a lot of bills to pay . . . .” He was practically begging now.

Alfred hesitated for fully a minute.

“I could let you have, say, $500, or a little more if you can show me some collateral. I told you we are not wealthy people ourselves.” Alfred was now motioning to his wife to stay where she was, that this guy was no likely customer. He even closed the door to block them off from the kitchen.

“How about $1000?” continued the young man.

Alfred hesitated again and said, “Well, maybe $1000, but it’ll take almost all I have.”

“How much interest would you charge?” intoned the guest.

“I get 40%,” answered Alfred.

“Forty percent!” exploded the young man. “That is dreadful; I can’t possibly handle that!”

“That is the best I can do. It’s an annual rate. Of course, if you want the money for only half a year, then the interest would be only $200.”

“That is still way too much interest—and for such a short time. I’ll have to think about it.” With that the young man walked to the front door and Alfred let him out.

Alfred thought to himself, and later said to Elsa: “My God, what a cheapskate that kid was!”

The very next night—it was dark this time—the young man shows up again. Alfred answers the ring and sees who it is but doesn’t let him in. Instead, he steps out onto the porch and asks, “Do you want to borrow the money?”

The young man stares straight at Alfred and says simply, “Yes, but I can pay only 5% interest. That’s a fair amount.”

Alfred turns on his heel, opens the screen door, and is about to push open the heavy front door with his foot when the young man grabs him by the arm and, speaking very firmly, proclaims: “You are my father, and I want you to do me this favor. You owe it to me! . . . If you don’t, I’ll . . . .”

Startled, Alfred was sure he was about to hear a threat of blackmail, or worse, wheeled about and, with a look of puzzlement on his face, confronted the petitioner with the harsh command: “Get the hell out of here!”

The response from the young man was unexpected; he began to cry and sobbed out, “My mother’s name was Lorraine, Lorraine Sabbatini, don’t you remember her?”

Alfred’s head is hurting, spinning . . . . Lorraine, he thought, oh my Lord, Lorraine, but he answers, “No, I don’t remember anybody by that name. Now beat it; I mean it. And don’t come back!” He is inside the house now and slams the door shut. Anybody within ten feet could hear the deadbolt ram home.

“Who was that?” asked Elsa as Alfred took a seat in the living room.

“Oh, nobody, just some peddler selling something we don’t need.”

But Alfred was worried because his past had caught up with him. During those two years he was away—now 25 years ago—he had briefly taken up with a woman—from Maine, he believed—whose name was indeed Lorraine Sabbatini. He rationalized his unfaithfulness at the time as necessary considering how long he had been without a woman and promised himself it wouldn’t happen again. Besides, he would be bringing home a large sum of money that would enable them to start a business or be solvent for a very long time. No, he did not feel guilty at all.

Three days went by, maybe a week, when there appeared a story in the paper, like so many others, of a young man’s body discovered in a patch of woods just off Northern Boulevard. It seems that the man, as yet unidentified, had shot himself in the head, although the police were tentatively treating the death as a homicide pending notification of next of kin and a thoroughgoing investigation. A full description of the victim was provided, and readers were requested to call the police with any information they might have as to the identity and activities of anyone of that description. When Alfred read the story, he must have turned ashen, for Elsa asked him if he felt all right. After a moment he assured her he was okay, got up out of his chair, with the paper in his hands, walked into the kitchen, wrapped up some food scraps in the newspaper, and deposited the wad in the garbage pail for tomorrow’s pickup. The year was 1968, and nothing more was ever heard about the young visitor. Whenever he thought about that evening—and that was very, very seldom—Alfred would mutter to himself: “Good riddance.”

Life went on for the Reitmeyrs with scarcely a bump for the next 23 years. One evening, as they were sitting around the table with the day’s receipts in front of them, Alfred began: “You know, Elsa, we have had a pretty good life together—hardly any sickness, no accidents—but we are both 71 and probably won’t live all that much longer. Since we are about to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary, I suggest we do it in style.”

Thereupon he laid out his plan to his wife, who, as always, agreed to everything. They would sell the house and its furnishings and take the proceeds in cash or certified check and put that money together with all they had accumulated over the years in one pile and count it and sort it and play with it for one week before bagging it all. He estimated the total might run to a little over $300,000. They would then either bury the money in some forsaken spot or burn it up. A case could be made for either action, so they would discuss the pros and cons and decide after the last evening’s display. Once the money question was settled and the money disposed of, they would come home, close all the doors and windows, draw the curtains, turn on the gas stove, and go to bed.

And so it came to pass that they gathered together all their assets from various bank lockboxes and nooks and crannies in their house and drooled over them, caressed them, passed them back and forth, told each other tales about how their parents had lost everything because of the Nazis and how the two families had barely had money for food for years on end, and how they—Alfred and Elsa—didn’t feel guilty about anything.

They then turned to the matter of the disposal of the money. Elsa argued for burying it in some obscure place, Alfred recommended burning because nothing would be left behind. In the end they chose Elsa’s way because they feared the smoke from so much paper burning would be seen and bring the fire department, and the jig would be up. Alfred insisted they burn at least the cashier’s check received for the sale of their property. That way no record of whose money was buried there would exist.

Just two doors away was a large, treed vacant lot that had been unsold for years on end and had grown up with weeds while waiting for a buyer. “Let’s put it there,” Elsa suggested, “because we can dig the hole at night, bury the money, cover it up well, and get back here in mere minutes. It’s spring, and the ground is soft.” Still uncertain about any disposition except total destruction, Alfred nevertheless relented, and they agreed to do the whole job the next night.

It was actually close to 2 o’clock in the morning when the two old people took the fruits of a lifetime of extortion and moneymongering to the vacant lot and planted it in a slotlike hole a good three or four feet down square in the middle of the lot. Alfred had brought along a posthole digger for the job. Later, back in their house, they put on their nightclothes, turned on the gas stove after extinguishing the pilot light, smiled faintly at each other, and climbed into bed. Their bodies were not discovered until two weeks later when neighbors reported to the police as not having seen the Reitmeyrs lately but having noticed an offensive smell wafting out of their house.

But the tale doesn’t end there. About five years later the vacant lot was sold to a widower named Ernst Rohmann who intended to build a house there for himself, his son, and his new wife, also widowed, by name Lorraine Sabbatini-Reitmeyr, and her young daughter. During construction, workmen uncovered a bag of somewhat moldy, but usable money that had been buried in the middle of the lot. The police were called. However, since, after much searching and advertising, the original owners of this cash bonanza could not be located, the new tenants fell heir to it.

Nothing is in vain.

(From Contradictions: Short Stories and Psychograms, by Donald D. Hook, Wildwechsel Books, 2008.)