“This isn’t a trick question,” Professor Webster said. He had a keener eye and a more authoritative manner thanProfessor Jacobson; the privilege of belonging, I supposed. “We’re wondering who you are, that’s all. How such a bright—I may say brilliant—and, excuse me, clearly well-born person ended up here.”
“Germany,” I said, truly flustered now. “The war. Joe. That is how. I was working in a bakery near Nuremberg after becoming a refugee, and Joe was wounded, and I?—”
“Before that,” Professor Webster said. “I would have said that your father must be a professor, but with all this secrecy … exactly what was his rank in the Nazi Party? Was he a bureaucrat? An SS officer? Nothing will happen to you if you answer truthfully. We just need to know what we’re dealing with here.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I literally couldn’t speak for a moment. When I could, what came out was a most emphatic,“No!”Most emphatic, and most loud, too. I went on, controlling my voice with an effort and completely unable to control my face, “Would a Nazi have helped a Jewish family escape? For this is what my father did, and more. Joe has told Professor Jacobson that this was what he did, and Joe is a Jew himself! He interpreted at the liberation of Dachau and at the Nuremberg trials! He would never have accepted this.Never.”
“That’s true, sir.” Joe’s voice was absolutely steady, his face pale and set. “That’s quite an accusation. What grounds do you have to make it?”
“And maybe for that reason,” Professor Webster said, ignoring Joe to focus on me, “you told him a story hecouldaccept.”
“And was Dr. Becker telling a story too?” I flashed back. “Was hisKennkarte,the one with the big red ‘J’ stamped across it, a forgery? Was his terror of the Gestapo a sham? His extreme thinness, and his little son, Gerhardt, who nearly died from lack of food? You shame me, and you shame yourself with this … this dirty fiction. My father died the night before he was to report to the Gestapo for questioning. He, who refused to fly the Swastika over the palace! Who was burned half to death for his country in the Great War, who was of the most … the most upright character! Who helped othersknowingthe risk, knowing precisely how much he was hated by Hitler! He died, my mother died, our servants died, and all of them,allof them, I loved. You insult me. You insult my parents’ memory. This I cannot allow.”
Wait.Joe.He stood up suddenly, put his fists on the table, leaned forward a bit, and said, “You insult us both. As a Jew, I ask again—on what grounds?”
Professor Webster, not a bit ruffled, patted the air with his hand. “Oh, sit down, Mr. Stark. Nobody’s insulting anybody. We’re asking, that’s all.”
I said, fighting for control, “I apologize for my unmannerly outburst. Please don’t let Joe suffer for my rudeness. He too is a hero, with medals and … and great honor. I wasn’t raised to be … to be meek and hold my tongue, and I find it very difficult.”
“Because of that palace, maybe,” Professor Webster said. He looked at Professor Jacobson. “In Dresden.”
“TheResidenzschloss,”Professor Jacobson said, and at my start of surprise, “Oh, yes, I know it. I too was born and brought up in Dresden, you see, although I studied in Berlin. Mrs. Stark—was your father the King of Saxony? He had a beautiful blonde queen, and a little daughter, too, did he not? You greatly resemble your mother, you know.”
The sweat must be visible on my forehead now. I wanted to pull out my handkerchief, but how guilty would I look then? I’d said “the palace.” Why, why,whycould I not control my temper, and my tongue? “He was the Crown Prince,” I said reluctantly, “when the monarchy was abolished. He was never crowned King. But please,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “please, I shouldn’t have said this. My papers give anothername. At first, it wasn’t safe for others to know, and then—well, then, it would have been seen that I’d lied. And what of it anyway? I’m not Marguerite von Sachsen anymore. I’m Marguerite Stark, and truly,truly,I don’t wish to be anything else.” My hands were trembling, and my chin, too. How had I been so stupid?
“Mrs. Stark.” Professor Jacobson’s voice was gentler than ever. “We have no wish to unmask you, if your family were no Nazis. You have proof of this? Of your parentage?”
“I have photographs,” I said reluctantly. “Of my parents and my grandparents. MyKennkarte—meine echte Kennkarte.”
Joe said quietly, “Her true identity document.”
“Yes,” I said. “I had forgotten the word; thank you. And some … some possessions that were indisputably my mother’s. I can show them to you if it will convince you not to reveal my lies.”
“I too was a refugee, do you recall?” Professor Jacobson said. “But your family’s wealth? Your property?”
I shook my head, and now, Ididpull out my handkerchief and blot my face. I would almost certainly be late to work; how I hoped I wouldn’t be fired again! “In Soviet hands now, and I don’t think they’ll give them up. For that matter, I don’t think they’ll give up their portion of Germany as readily as the other Allies will. If I’m wrong—” I shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll be able to reclaim some of what’s mine. But I don’t think I’m wrong.”
“I don’t think so either,” Professor Webster said. “If there’s another war, that’s where it’s going to start.”
I nodded. “I’d like to say, ‘Please don’t say that; don’t talk of war,’ but Stalin is too much like Hitler. An ambitious man. And unlike Hitler, motivated not so much by a … a romantic fervor for a past that never existed outside of a Wagner opera, but solely for personal power. At least that is how he strikes me. Look how he sided first with Hitler, then with the Allies, and now is becoming an enemy again, all for power. No, I fear my family’s treasures are gone. But I truly am content, you know,” I hurried to add. “Life before Joe was rather hard and very lonely, and life for all in Germany even now is very bleak. They’re starving still, you know. Starving and cold. You may say, ‘This is what they deserve,’ and perhaps you’re right, but the children. The babies. One can’t hold them responsible, yet they suffer most of all.”
Joe had sat down, but he was still rigid. He said, “Excuse me, sir, but could you please tell us what’s going on here?”
“Right,” Professor Webster said. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up—going to college yourself isn’t an option? Your parents couldn’t help out, Mr. Stark? You’re on the GI Bill, I take it, but you had a year here before you went into the service, didn’t you? They must have paid for that.”
I laughed despite myself, a short, sharp “Ha!” As for Joe, he said, “No, sir. That won’t be happening.” Sounding calm, but I could see a vein in his temple that told me he wasn’t.
“It’s a pity you’re German, Mrs. Stark,” Professor Webster said. “If you were French, you’d be a shoo-in for a scholarship.”
“Particularly,” Professor Jacobson said drily, “as you’re not Jewish.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m aware that being French would be preferable. But one doesn’t choose one’s birthplace.”
“Right.” Professor Webster butted his papers into his file folder in an end-of-conversation manner. “Then it remains for us to ask whether you’d like our help to audit a few more courses. I’ve spoken to some of our faculty. For the Spring quarter, Professor Antonin in Biology is willing, if you want to pursue your studies after Darwin. He has a seat left. And myself, of course, in History. Modern American History; how does that sound?”
“You mean,” I said, “I could audit inboththese classes?”
“If somebody’s this thirsty for education,” Professor Webster said, “we like to give it to them. It beats shoving the knowledge down their ungrateful throats.” He shook his head. “Thank the Lord for the GIs. Maybe everybody should wait to go to college until they’ve suffered a little. It sure would make our job easier.”
