Delayed Pilgrims

By Rudi Binder

Delayed Pilgrims is the story of two Austrian physician immigrants, Walt and Linda Wagner. In the United States they first worked in medical centers and soon found themselves caught in a web of infighting among superiors. Tired of the whims of departmental intrigues, the Wagners left and after overcoming numerous obstacles, practiced medicine in the countryside. In an occasionally bumpy yet enduring marriage they raised two boys who asked many questions about the meaning of human existence. With subtle humor the story shows their struggle to find a niche in the New World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465327666

Rudi Binder

Rudi Binder was born in Vienna, Austria, where he earned his M.D. degree and specialized in ophthalmology. During his training as eye surgeon he published original research that led to a fellowship at Columbia University in New York City. Later he worked as teacher and researcher at Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. In 1969 he obtained a law degree and an attorney’s licence. He was practicing ophthalmology with his wife, Hertha, also an eye surgeon, in a rural area of Ohio and has recently retired. Delayed Pilgrims is his third book.

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Copyright © 2004 by Rudi Binder.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

NEW YORK

SANFORD

PETE

THE FARM

DUNCAN’S FALL

DAD

JEFF

THE EYEBALL FARM

THREE YEARS LATER

PETE,

THE PHILOSOPHER

For

H.F.B.

NEW YORK

You married? Helga reached into the picnic basket for a pickle and, with a snap, bit off a piece.

No, Helga, I’m not.

Have a sweetheart in Europe?

I had to chuckle—she was going right to the point, didn’t she?

You want to plead the Fifth?

I reached for my Coke. I confess to have a sweetheart in Vienna.

Want to tell me about her?

Linda is a physician, and we are engaged.

Will she come over?

As soon as I find a job for her. I sighed. Then we’ll get married.

You don’t like the idea?

Well, my dad’s sister demands that we tie the knot in a church, or I’ll lose my inheritance.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, she clicked and shook her head. Then you don’t care for churches either?

Not that much.

I could take you to my congregation in Englewood. I’m a Lutheran.

Good. That’s Linda’s faith.

Rich auburn hair, pleasant features, cute freckles, a boyish smile, that was Helga Larsen, Duncan’s lab technician, in her early twenties, and a bit taller than I. Earlier in the day, she had introduced me, the newcomer, to the sights of Manhattan. Then we decided to drive in her car to New Jersey for a picnic. I had bought a basket of food at a delicatessen, and we found a table in a riverside park overlooking the Hudson. The sun was approaching the horizon and illuminated the underside of the clouds with a red glow. The cool breeze carried the scent of blooming locusts and brought relief after beating the pavement for hours in the heat of the city.

I like your hair, Helga. These braids are beautiful.

Thank you. From my Viking ancestors. Her voice was soothing, and at times, she only whispered. Don’t you feel guilty about spending the day with me?

Why should I? So far, it’s just an outing. Depends on how it unfolds. I might have to feel guilty later.

Her cheeks flushed. You men are one-track minded.

It’s part of being a male. We are always under pressure from our hormones. As Lord Byron said, ‘Some things are not very subject to control.’

How come?

It’s our past.

Meaning?

Oh, I don’t want to bother you with science—

Well, tens of thousands of years ago, in the Stone Age and earlier, primitive tribes suffered severe losses from infant mortality, injuries, famine, wars, you name it. They survived only when the males were preoccupied with reproduction that led to high birth rates.

Helga tossed the food wrappers into a waste bin. That was long ago, but people don’t die that much anymore.

True, but we inherited a strong sex drive. To avoid overpopulation, we had to change it to a pleasure bond to keep up the mutual interest of the partners. If properly handled, sex stabilizes a family, gives children a secure environment and rewards us for life’s many struggles and miseries.

Tilting her head from side to side, she weighed my words. Walt, you’re a philosopher.

Somebody has to be.

The daylight was fading, and we returned to her car. She bent over as if in pain while holding one hand on her back.

Got trouble?

Off and on. Rheumatoid arthritis.

I’m sorry to—

Never mind, I’m used to it.

Once in the car, I held her hand to my cheek. Thank you for a pleasant Sunday, Helga.

Her pupils widened; the freckles darkened. May I trust you?

I noticed a certain smile on her. Let’s find out.

Did I kiss her? Or even—?

Yes, she loved to nibble on the fringes of life’s raptures. I loved the fragrance of lavender on her, mild and sweet, and tried to keep a cool head—her Viking wrath stood ready to strike should I advance any further.

Tears were on her cheeks. I can’t have a family. My father is as stiff as a board from this arthritis. It’s unfair to give it to one’s children.

No sense to go on. At least I had found a friend after a lonely four weeks in New York, a different world.

Back in my room, the air smelled hot and stale. I opened the window and turned on the fan. It was middle of May, still 90 and 99 percent humidity. After a cool shower, I reclined on the bed and followed my thoughts.

It had been a month since I stood in the bow of the ocean liner as it entered the immensity of the New York Harbor. The sunrise had gradually lifted the fog from the Statue of Liberty, and Manhattan had started to glow in the light of a new day. Magnificent—I’ll never forget my first impression of the New World.

Tug boats had nudged the ship up the Hudson to one of the piers, and the crew lowered the gangplanks. A mob of longshoremen charged aboard to haul the luggage ashore, ragtag athletes toting several bags at a time. Four days on the Atlantic had left me with a queasy stomach and a wobble in the legs. I descended with caution amidst the throng of passengers.

Professor Duncan had wanted me to call on arrival. I hesitated—the phones at the pier were unfamiliar.

Seeing my problem, a policeman had asked, Got a dime?

Dime?

Never mind. Used to ignorant bohunks, he had taken a coin from his pocket and dialed the number that I had shown him.

Thank you, sir.

Dr. Duncan’s office, Rachel Kane speaking. An alto voice, soft and mature.

I’m Dr. Wagner—

Welcome to America! Stay with your luggage, and my brother will meet you. His name is Dave.

Lined up alphabetically, my two suitcases had been standing on the pier among scores of others. A sign was flashing in the street:

April 15, 1954

9:40 a.m.

52 4324.png F.

I took a deep breath—finally on American soil, and I was not dreaming.

Within the hour, a man, young and in casual clothes, moved toward me while reading name tags. Dr. Wagner? I’m Dave.

We shook hands.

Welcome to New York!

I liked his open face.

Let’s get a cab, he said in German and grabbed one of my suitcases. I followed with the other.

The taxi joined the flood of cars on Riverside Drive and took us several miles north. To the right were the skyscrapers, to the left the Hudson nearly a mile wide with an ocean-going vessel passing under a suspension bridge.

Fantastic.

Dave nodded. George Washington Bridge is high enough for the biggest ships. Then he pointed to a building complex, tan, over twenty stories high. And there is Presbyterian Medical Center, your destination.

I introduced myself to Professor Robert Malcolm Duncan. He stood barely five feet high, in his fifties, the hair short-cropped and dark, the face narrow. Intense eyes bored into mine as he squeezed my hand. Welcome to the Eye Institute. Had a good trip?

Yes, thank you, Professor Duncan.

Dr. Duncan will do. True, I’m full professor and second in command, but we don’t care for titles over here.

Yes, sir.

Duncan’s English sounded different from the one I had studied in school, and the voice, deeper than any I had ever heard, rolled like thunder even when he smiled. We sat in his office—a carpet thick enough to hush every sound, a desk lending luxury and style, bookshelves along the walls. The air carried the heavy smell of tobacco smoke.

Duncan offered a cigarette.

Thank you, sir, I don’t smoke.

He lit one for himself and tossed the match into a full ashtray. I read your publications on the nerves in human eyes. Great work, Walt.

Thank you, Dr. Duncan.

"Now then, here is what we are doing. As you know, I’m interested in the functions of the pupils and their abnormalities. We film the eyes during various levels of illumination, then plot the changes in pupil size. We have a large collection of records, thousands of them, mostly from patients with brain diseases. I want you to review our findings and to summarize the results."

Sounds exciting. From the correspondence of the last months, I was aware of his plans and had accepted the offer in the hope to immigrate.

Duncan talked more about his research, then pressed a buzzer on his desk. Rachel will get you started. He patted my arm. I’m looking forward to work with you.

A woman opened the door. I’m glad Dave found you, Dr. Wagner. Let’s sit in here, please.

It was the alto voice from the phone on the pier. Another large desk, a carpet, photos of her and Duncan everywhere. Again the heavy smell of cigarettes, and I am allergic to it.

What do you think of New York?

Pardon me?

She repeated in German.

So many new impressions.

While filling in forms, she asked questions and explained the terms of my employment. Then she handed me two envelopes. You have already mail. Arrived yesterday.

From Linda Wagner, my fiancée. (By coincidence we had the same last name.) Thank you, Ms. Kane.

It’s Rachel. She got up. Let’s grab a bite in the cafeteria.

Cafeteria?

Before leaving, I looked around. Duncan had a huge ophthalmology office with numerous exam rooms and state of the art equipment, a small surgical suite for minor operations, a business office. Young women, with loveliness painted on their faces, elegant hairdos, and revealing dresses under white coats, were busy signing in patients, giving appointments, and answering phones.

I had to suppress a smile. What a delightful place.

On the way to lunch, the hallways seemed to roll like the deck of the boat. I staggered a couple of times, holding on to the wall.

Rachel shot me a look.

Still a bit seasick. I didn’t want her to think otherwise.

We slid our trays along the food counter. Amazing, Henry Ford’s assembly line in the restaurant. I was not hungry but, to be polite, picked a cup of soup and crackers.

Rachel paid and led me to a table.

Thank you, uh—Rachel. To call a stranger by her first name would be rude in Vienna.

I booked a room for you in Bard Hall. Or you could stay with German-speaking people.

German? Over here?

She nodded. We call it the Fourth Reich. When the Jews had to flee Hitler’s Third Reich, many of us settled in this neighborhood. Dave and I came over with our parents in 1934. From Frankfurt. For a while we lived near the hospital.

What a lovely woman, probably thirty, with a perfect figure, not too much of it, not too little. The curls of the chestnut hair, the low-cut blouse, and the wily makeup intimidated me. And this perfume, lilacs and violets. Compared to her, secretaries in Vienna were frumps.

The room in Bard Hall, a student dorm, featured a bed and a dresser, a desk and a chair, a coatrack and a shower. I had set the luggage on the floor—unpacking could wait. First Linda’s letters.

Dear Pauncho,

You are only gone twenty-four hours, and already I miss you. How was the voyage? Were you seasick? Wish I could see New York with you.

She continued with the events at the Vienna Eye Clinic where we both had trained, and where she is working as an assistant professor.

I sure hope the other docs will soon stop kidding me that you’ll run off with an American dame. And you better find a job for me. I can’t stand life without you.

Love,

Purrs.

(Pauncho stood for Walt because I was allegedly eating too much. And Purrs, well, how does one put that—she purred like a kitten when I held her tight.)

We had been engaged for six years. Then I took this job in New York, four thousand miles away, planning to bring her over as soon as possible. Until then, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy her exuberance and laughter. Lonesome nights were ahead.

Arrgh, this was no time for getting mushy. I put the letters aside. Better prepare for the challenges in the New World.

Drained from days of stomach trouble, I dropped on the bed with a groan. What a trip, what a city—the harbor and the Statue of Liberty, the skyscrapers and the deluge of automobiles, the basso of the new boss and the research project, the delightful office staff, a foreign language—exciting, overwhelming, promising. My mind was spinning.

Hours later, I opened my eyes—must have slept deeply, and my stomach was growling. Time to scout for a meal. On nearby Broadway, the smell of food drew me to a narrow shop with people eating at a counter. I took a seat beside the refrigerator shelves, saw meat and pointed at it.

Roast-a beef sandwich? The man behind the counter was sporting a handlebar mustache and balancing a chef’s hat at a jaunty angle.

Yes, please.

Ah, you-sa new here. He placed the meat in the slicer. When-a you come-a to New York-a?

It took time to decode. Today.

White-a or rye?

I felt helpless.

My neighbor at the counter chuckled at the humor of the situation and said in German, That Dago asked what bread you’d like, white or rye.

White, please. Dago?

Italian. He looked me over. You German?

Austrian. Remarkable. After only two words, the counterman knew that I was a foreigner, and my neighbor guessed even from which part of the world.

What else would you like to order?`

Soup, please. And two pastries to take along.

Soup for our friend and a couple o’ Danish to go!

Coming up-a, right-a away, sang the counterman, wiped his hands on the apron and reached for a bowl.

I thanked my neighbor. Lucky for me you were here, sir, or I’d have gone hungry.

This had happened four weeks earlier, and I was getting used to American ways. Every morning before eight, I started to work in the research lab. Esther Lehman, the manager, short and grandmotherly, taught me the technique known as pupillography. Neurologists and neurosurgeons referred patients with brain disorders (inflammations, tumors, or other diseases) and asked us to pinpoint their location with this method. With the assistance of Esther and Helga (my friend and tour guide), I took movies of the pupils as they widened and narrowed under changing illuminations. As technician, Helga assisted with the retrieval and sorting of the thousands of records collected during years of research. After she had developed the films and plotted the results, I interpreted them.

I turned to the lab manager. You know, Mrs. Lehman, I understand you better than anyone else around here.

She frowned. How often do I have to tell you to call me Esther? This is America, you know.

Sorry, Esther.

It’s all right. She smiled again. And you don’t mind if I call you Valter?

I’m getting used to it.

You see, from the German I translate, in single vords I talk. This is vhy you understand me. But the locals, entire phrases they roll in the back of their throats and into a tune they blend them.

Phrases and tunes. How long until one gets used to it?

Depends. She peered into the film editor. Many years it took me. I’m still too stubborn to copy it, too proud to give up my miserable accent! When I open my mouth, everybody knows I’m a German Jew.

And she had lived here for twenty years.

She sighed. To give up the old language vith the family and the friends in the temple! Think of it, give up the past. Of course, then I vouldn’t sound as if I’d just stepped off the boat.

Just stepped off the boat, this would be my fate for a while.

Us Jews von’t let go of the old country. We loved it over there before the Nazis made us run for our lives. Holding her face close to mine, she squinted over the spectacles on her nose and tapped my shoulder with a finger. You von’t be that foolish. Your ambitions you have, and soon you’ll speak nice. She returned to her work. You left because you vant to better yourself. That’s different. And you vant to be an American, and that’s different too.

I usually had dinner at the Italian chef’s. Then I returned to the lab to collect more data from the records of pupillary movements. When working alone in the evening, my thoughts wandered to the many nights Linda and I had worked on research at the Vienna Eye Clinic.

To her many letters, I replied in two parts. One was confidential and in shorthand, full of devotion and frustration: The summer heat makes me sleep without a cover, yet it feels cold without you. Went job hunting for you at Long Island Hospital, Bellevue Hospital, and Presbyterian Hospital. No luck. Personal contact with administrators might not help because of my poor English. So far I wrote to more than twenty additional places.

The other part of my answers was written for the parents and could be shown to friends and relatives. I reported that my paycheck was for $3,000 a year from a research grant of the government (this was 1954). After deductions, the remainder was to be stretched for rent ($25 a week), food, and necessities. A loaf of bread sold for ten cents, a dollar bought twelve doughnuts, and gasoline was seventeen cents a gallon. People grumbled because a wedge of apple pie had gone from a nickel to a dime.

Around ten at night, I left for home, for the Rehfelds who were leasing a room to me. Sara, the landlady, round and short as a dumpling, guarded the entrance to her third-floor apartment with her fists on the hips. She lived here with Moshe, her husband, and Judith, a marriageable daughter.

Why always so late, Herr Doktor? Sara’s excess weight caused her troubles speaking.

When I am not tired, I prefer research to anything else.

You’re a workaholic! You ought to go home after eight hours like normal people. She sounded as if I were doing something shameful.

Well, once I’m interested in a project, it’s hard to quit.

Sara was in her forties, spoke German and good English and freelanced as a caterer for Jewish social occasions. Papa Moshe made a living as salesman in a pawnshop of the neighborhood and served as cantor of his temple. As heavy as Sara (Mama cooks so good) and about her age, he had difficulties climbing the two flights of stairs to the apartment, usually arriving out of breath.

The Rehfelds got by without a car. It’s useless in Manhattan, they said. The subway gets you there faster and cheaper.

When they had fled Hitler, Judith was one year old. That was about twenty years ago. She was tall, a careless dresser, and her black hair was usually in disarray. She worked downtown as a salesclerk. Although she understood the German her parents spoke, she preferred to use a savage New York slang. My pronunciation of English made her laugh. You sound British!

One night, I happened to overhear the Rehfeld’s family council.

My son-in-law he’s supposed to be? He isn’t even a Jew.

A doctor he is, I heard Sara. That’s good enough.

One weekend, the old Rehfelds planned to go out of town. Sara assured me, If you need anything, Judith will be around.

When leaving for my morning jog, I saw what she had in mind: Judith was sleeping in her birthday suit in the room across the hallway with the door wide open.

Ah, Sara’s bait. I was able to resist.

Sara kept trying. My daughter could give you a tour of Manhattan. Please, no entanglement with Judith. I had already found another volunteer.

Once a week Duncan called me to his office to discuss research. After two months working for him, I submitted the first report.

Duncan went over the details, offered suggestions, then placed his name as principal on the publication with mine as coauthor. Good job, Walt. Let Rachel fix your English.

Energy flowed from this man as his hands and upturned thumbs stressed each word with swift and powerful gestures. The foghorn-voice from such a short person still awed me, and at times I noticed alcohol on his breath. He always wore a crisp shirt with a button-down collar and an expensive-looking necktie. The trousers were creased to perfection and dropped without a wrinkle upon high-heeled cowboy boots. From the pocket of his lab coat stuck the folded Wall Street Journal with the title for all the world to see.

Rachel, the office manager, worked at her desk in front of Duncan’s door, modeling a blouse, beige with a closed collar and a keyhole opening beneath it to allow a view of the scenery.

You look gorgeous, Rachel. She knew that beauty was the power of her gender, and I admired her efforts to be attractive, even if overdone.

Thank you.

I placed the report on her desk. Dr. Duncan wants you to correct my English.

Will do. She smiled. How are you doing? You like the place where you’re staying?

It’s a bedroom. I live mostly in the lab.

An immigrant herself, she knew that my life wasn’t all fun and wanted to give me a boost in the New World. It felt good to have a friend in the chief’s office.

She moved files from a large box on the floor to a desk drawer. Did you already take a guided tour of New York?

Yes, Helga took me sightseeing. I lifted the heavy box onto her desk.

Thank you. With a toss of her head, she flung the rich hair from her face and shot me a coquettish glance.

How sexy, or was it just my imagination?

Have you been to Radio City Music Hall?

I plan on it.

You ought to see a Broadway musical.

I’d love to. And where would the money come from?

The office overflowed with patients, and according to Rachel, Duncan saw up to one hundred a day. At times I found him and his female staff at lunch in a dining area telling jokes, obscene and outrageous, and the ladies were dutifully amused. It may have been spelled out in their job description.

Membership certificates in civic and professional organizations covered the office walls: Sons of the American Revolution, American Society of Ophthalmology, Rotary Club, Society for Research in Ophthalmology, Lion’s Clubs of America, American Academy of Ophthalmology, and many more. There were photos of Duncan shaking hands with a New York governor and with a senator. One showed him accepting an award from the Mayor of New York City for services in medical research.

Two months of sitting in the lab and library don’t give me enough exercise, I wrote to Linda. I leave at five for a jog after waving a good morning to Moshe. At this hour, he usually mumbles over Holy Scriptures at the kitchen table.

Nearby are beautiful parks, Fort Tryon and Cloisters. A lookout terrace gives a view of the Hudson with the New Jersey Palisades and the George Washington Bridge. It’s peaceful this early with no one around, a time to think and to sigh that you are not here.

In my dream last night, you were in New York, and together we enjoyed the sights; yet in the morning, you were still far.

Dave, Rachel’s brother, was a medical student. He struggled with one of his semester assignments, The Importance of the Pupils in the Diagnosis of Brain Diseases. Duncan had asked me to show him how to go about it. The radio in Esther’s lab provided the background noise of American life, constant and merciless. Dave hummed along with the tunes, but it distracted me and I switched it off.

Dave turned it on again.

Do you really listen to that?

Yeah, when something important is on. It keeps me in touch with the world, and I don’t feel all by myself.

I always did my best work in silence, but to avoid an argument I changed the subject. Say, Dave, what are these hearings of Senator McCarthy about? What did these people do? It’s been on for weeks.

Dave shrugged. Oh, just a hearing. They didn’t do anything unlawful, except McCarthy suspects they are communists.

Isn’t this a free society where you can choose what you’d like to be?

Well, he thinks the Russians want to infiltrate America and take over. With McCarthy around, they don’t have a chance.

During a break from our work, I said, You know, this chaos in American politics confuses me. There isn’t enough responsibility to go with it. You hardly ever accomplish anything with your two-party system and those checks and balances in government.

Dave seemed unconcerned. Unless a majority agrees to it, we’d rather have nothing done. That’s the strength of democracies and has made America first in the world.

It’s anarchy.

Dave raised his voice. All political systems are flawed. Otherwise you’d have a dictatorship, another Hitler or Stalin. After a while he asked, Why are you in research? You’re a trained eye surgeon, aren’t you?

Yes, I am.

Don’t you want to practice in your own office?

Oh, I’d love to. But in Austria one had to join a political party to get a health insurance contract. Linda, my fiancée, is also an ophthalmologist. But when two doctors marry in Vienna, the insurance companies give only one of them a contract.

And the other?

Can’t make a living in practice.

Who came up with that idea?

The socialists.

How do you love a country with that kind of attitude?

"You tell me. That’s why I am