The train ride was horrible. Rebecca, Esther, and Abraham huddled around the children. They were all pressed against one of the walls. But Abraham was glad his face smushed against the cool metal and not against other people. He suffered from claustrophobia - but given his fortunate position in the train, he could at least tilt his head upwards to gasp for breath. Golda was trembling like a lost mouse. She'd been holding onto her mother Rebecca's leg for the last six hours, refusing to let go.
It wasn't just uncomfortable in a painful way, it was also degrading. If they were to be deported, and forced to move somewhere else, shouldn't they at least be treated humanely? Abraham felt like a piece of meat - or more likely, a tin can. Something that was expected to hold through whatever way it was shipped.
But he wasn't a tin can. And the air already felt deprived of oxygen. His chest struggled to heave and fall.
Someone further down the train started to cry. Abraham tried to peer around the crowd to find who was sobbing. He couldn't see her, but by the tone of the crying, he was sure it was a mother. A whisper rippled through the train. It was nobody's business. But the mother's baby had just died. Abraham gave a curt nod of pity to the man in front of him, but somewhere along the way, it got lost before it reached her. The mother continued to wail and whine. Golda released her mother's leg and covered her ears.
The train continued to rumble down the tracks, leading the sorry crowd toward the camp.
***
Franz Weiher knew what had happened to the Blumenfelds, when Marlene asked he smiled sadly and said: "We can't save everyone, Marlene."
"They could have stayed here for the night, right?" She'd carefully asked. He ignored her.
"I assume they went to Switzerland to try the border, maybe Belgium."
"Do you think they'll make it over the border?"
"No. But I hope they do."
"And if they don't?"
"They'll get deported." Franz's voice was flat. He shrugged his coat off his shoulders and hung it up. "There's no need to talk about this further, darling." With those words, he pushed past her and into the living room where he opened his liquor cabinet and unpopped the cork on one of his favorite whiskey bottles. He poured himself a glass and sat down on the couch.
Marlene stood in the doorway, watching him.
"Franz." She said quietly. He didn't look at her. "We could have helped them. The Gestapo didn't ring our bell that night."
"I know," Franz answered after he'd taken a sip of whiskey. "But if they had, which was equally possible, you would have been alone to face them."
"I know. Thank you." She said. He still stared at the cabinet, unable to look her way. She stepped into the room and silent as a ghost, settled down next to him on the couch, drawing her knees up to under her chin. "You're a very good husband, Franz." She murmured. "And a good father."
"But I'm not a good friend."
"You can still change that."
"How?" He growled.
"You can help other people."
"Who?"
"There are other people in this town, and they're going to suffer the same fate as the...as the Blumenfelds. But since they don't live near us and you never had relations with them, you won't be suspected." She started to play with his hair. He finally looked at her, and his eyes were glazed over with tears that he'd refused to let spill.
"I can deal with Abraham, but Golda..." He choked on his words and stopped speaking. Marlene shouldn't see him like this. Abraham Blumenfeld wanted nothing more than to save his childrens lives. And Franz had turned the lot of them down. Dooming them. He'd stripped the man of his ability to be a father.
She pulled him close and threaded her fingers through his blonde hair. "It's alright, Franz." She kissed him on the forehead.
He let her hold him for hours. The tears spilled over the brim of his eyes silently and trailed down his cheeks toward his chin. He didn't dare speak: he was afraid the words would get stuck in his throat, or that his tone might be shrill.
Marlene wished she could do something more for her lover. But she knew that the only thing in her power was to hold him tightly until the worst of his pain had subsided. He was going to blame himself for the rest of his life.
***
Franz was a rational man. Every time he felt his knees get weak at the thought of Abraham Blumenfeld and his poor family he steadied himself by pulling out a cigarette and repeating to himself that it had been his duty as a father and husband to turn them down. It would have been too dangerous to house them. After telling himself these same words hundreds of times they became anchored deep within him. He didn't have to remind himself of them so often, they automatically came up when someone mentioned the Blumenfelds, or when he passed by the home that used to be theirs.
But on the front, every time one of his comrades fell and he was faced with death, or every time someone went missing and was presumed dead, his mind tore him back into the moment when he'd had to turn them away, and the shame sank into his heart. It took more than a cigarette and rational thinking to calm himself down. Sometimes he'd wander off as the others were asleep, to clear his mind, but before he could get too far fear would consume him and he'd turn back. It wasn't worth possibly getting ambushed for. The past was in the past.