“Don’t remind me.” But Rudy Steiner couldn’t resist smiling. In years to come, he would be a giver of bread, not a stealer—proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.
Five days after their bittersweet little victory, Arthur Berg emerged again and invited them on his next stealing project. They ran into him on Munich Street, on the way home from school on a Wednesday. He was already in his Hitler Youth uniform. “We’re going again tomorrow afternoon. You interested?”
They couldn’t help themselves. “Where?”
“The potato place.”
Twenty-four hours later, Liesel and Rudy braved the wire fence again and filled their sack.
The problem showed up as they made their getaway.
“Christ!” shouted Arthur. “The farmer!” It was his next word, however, that frightened. He called it out as if he’d already been attacked with it. His mouth ripped open. The word flew out, and the word was ax.
Sure enough, when they turned around, the farmer was running at them, the weapon held aloft.
The whole group ran for the fence line and made their way over. Rudy, who was farthest away, caught up quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid being last. As he pulled his leg up, he became entangled.
“Hey!”
The sound of the stranded.
The group stopped.
Instinctively, Liesel ran back.
“Hurry up!” Arthur called out. His voice was far away, as if he’d swallowed it before it exited his mouth.
White sky.
The others ran.
Liesel arrived and started pulling at the fabric of his pants. Rudy’s eyes were opened wide with fear. “Quick,” he said, “he’s coming.”
Far off, they could still hear the sound of deserting feet when an extra hand grabbed the wire and reefed it away from Rudy Steiner’s pants. A piece was left on the metallic knot, but the boy was able to escape.
“Now move it,” Arthur advised them, not long before the farmer arrived, swearing and struggling for breath. The ax held on now, with force, to his leg. He called out the futile words of the robbed:
“I’ll have you arrested! I’ll find you! I’ll find out who you are!”
That was when Arthur Berg replied.
“The name is Owens!” He loped away, catching up to Liesel and Rudy. “Jesse Owens!”
When they made it to safe ground, fighting to suck the air into their lungs, they sat down and Arthur Berg came over. Rudy wouldn’t look at him. “It’s happened to all of us,” Arthur said, sensing the disappointment. Was he lying? They couldn’t be sure and they would never find out.
A few weeks later, Arthur Berg moved to Cologne.
They saw him once more, on one of Liesel’s washing delivery rounds. In an alleyway off Munich Street, he handed Liesel a brown paper bag containing a dozen chestnuts. He smirked. “A contact in the roasting industry.” After informing them of his departure, he managed to proffer a last pimply smile and to cuff each of them on the forehead. “Don’t go eating all those things at once, either,” and they never saw Arthur Berg again.
As for me, I can tell you that I most definitely saw him.
A SMALL TRIBUTE TO ARTHUR BERG,
A STILL-LIVING MAN
The Cologne sky was yellow and rotting, flaking at the edges.
He sat propped against a wall with a child in his arms. His sister.