Chapter 10: Greenberg

"Wienar schnitzel?!"

LeBeau's voice is loaded with outrage, but I can't tell if it's because Colonel Hogan has asked him to cook for the Germans . . . or if it's because of what he's been asked to cook.

"That's right." Colonel Hogan's voice is half patient, half coaxing. This is somewhat surprising, given that LeBeau just stepped right up in his face to object to the Colonel's assignment. "With Spätzle," the Colonel adds calmly.

He must really want this. I mean, he could just order LeBeau to do it, but that doesn't always produce the best kitchen results. Last time LeBeau broke one of Klink's antique serving dishes. He told Klink he dropped it by accident. "Accident," my foot. I saw him smash it. It wasn't the only time he's done it, either. The Colonel had a lot to do to soothe Klink after that incident, so this time he's trying persuasion first with LeBeau, wanting to protect Klink's crockery I expect. I wonder what the mission is this time.

LeBeau takes a step back and folds his arms, looking up at the Colonel. This is not a sign of submission or agreement. "And where am I supposed to get veal? I guarantee you that the Bosche mess hall won't have any."

The Colonel shrugs. "Send Schultz to town to the grocer there. Or the black market if need be."

"And I am supposed to trust Schultz to pick out meat—assuming there is any?"

"Fine. I'll tell Klink you need to go do it yourself, with Schultz as your guard." There's a slight edge to the Colonel's voice, and he's just pushed his cap back. I can tell he's getting annoyed. I wonder if LeBeau will pick up on that too. "Look, Klink's got a guest from Stuttgart, who's got some papers on train schedules that we need. Herr Bauer wants wiener schnitzel, Klink wants to impress him, I want Bauer's papers; we need that dinner to make it all happen."

LeBeau takes a deep breath, then releases it as a sigh. "D'accord. I will do it."

"Without breaking any of Klink's dishes," the Colonel adds in emphasis.

LeBeau grins kind of sheepishly. "I promise. I will keep the dishes whole, as long as I do not have to wash them up." He looks meaningfully around at the rest of us who've been watching the exchange between us.

So, which of us will get drafted to do that, I wonder. The Colonel may sweet talk LeBeau to a point, coddling the artistic side of LeBeau's skill as needed, but he'll just order one or two of us to do clean up, like he told me to do it that time LeBeau broke Klink's dish. The joys of being in the Army…

Well, at least it's better than doing dishes in the mess hall.

ooOoo

"No veal, no Wienerschnitzel," LeBeau announces, sweeping his hands down and outward dramatically.

Schultz has just walked into the barracks, returning from Hammelburg with a mournful expression on his face that LeBeau has read correctly. LeBeau didn't get to go into town with him after all: the Colonel is fuming over losing his touch with Klink, who insisted Schultz could handle the necessary shopping. It didn't matter all that much; I think it's the principle of not having won his game that bothers the Colonel. But now Schultz has struck out.

"I know," Schultz answers sadly. "But there is not a cutlet of veal to be had in all Hammelburg, Cockroach. I thought," he hesitates for a moment, "perhaps a Schweineschnitzel would do—"

LeBeau's eyes go steely.

"But there was no pork either," Schultz finishes with a sigh.

"Hey LeBeau, what exactly is a wiener schnitzel?" Carter is sitting at the table playing Go Fish with Barnes and Davis, having talked both of them into playing his favorite card game (which Newkirk refuses to admit even exists). Apparently Carter's losing interest in his current hand of cards, not surprising given that he doesn't have even two of anything, which I can see from my present spot on my bunk.

Schultz answers instead of LeBeau, though. "Ach, it is soo good!" His eyes roll and his hands clasp together over his broad stomach, apparently in ecstasy over the idea of the schnitzel. "You take a piece of veal and pound it thin, so it is very tender," he narrows his thumb and forefinger to maybe a half inch, "then roll it in eggs and bread it in the finest bread crumbs," he draws his finger in circles, "then fry it until it is perfectly crisp and wun-der-bar!" He closes his eyes, apparently overcome by the mere thought of such a dish. I can't help snickering, but I can hear I'm not the only one doing it.

"Sounds just like how my papa makes his Cotoletta Milanese," Garlotti remarks incautiously.

LeBeau's face brightens. "You know how to fix it?"

"No! Never really paid attention," Garlotti backpedals as fast as he can, while I snort into my fist. It's becoming a standing joke in our barracks how LeBeau keeps trying to recruit Garlotti as his sous-chef, and how Garlotti keeps trying to avoid helping LeBeau with the cooking.

Barnes takes pity on Garlotti, apparently, stepping in by saying, "Actually, it sounds a lot like my Ma's chicken-fried steak. Best there is in Oklahoma!"

"Or my grandmother's chicken schnitzel," I add. I'm careful not to refer to her as my bubbe: Colonel Hogan and I agreed in my internment interview that I need to avoid using any Yiddish words when Germans are around, even Schultz. In fact, I'm careful to avoid it even just around my buddies here in the barracks so I don't get in bad habits. Colonel Hogan has made sure that my file, and those of the few other Jewish POWs in camp, don't contain references to our religious and ethnic background that could create problems if someone came looking for trouble—and to be fair, Kommandant Klink doesn't seem interested in that part of Nazi ideology. We've all made the "H" that identifies us as Jewish on our dog-tags illegible. So I'm not telling anyone why my bubbe knew how to make chicken schnitzel, but it does sound like LeBeau needs a hand if he's going to help Colonel Hogan make sure Klink pleases this Bauer guy.

"You think you could get chicken?" I add, as LeBeau and Schultz turn to me. Actually, at this point all the guys in the barracks are looking at me.

LeBeau whips back around to Schultz, who is nodding his big head slowly. "Ja," Schultz says, "fresh chickens were delivered to the mess just this morning from Huber's farm. The Kommandant was going to have one roasted for dinner on Sunday."

LeBeau grabs his hat and his scarf. "He'll have to share one with his guest tonight if he wants to impress him. Schultzie, we are going to inspect those chickens! I will choose the best one for tonight's meal." He looks over at me. "And you, Greenberg, will be helping me in the kitchen. You remember your grandmother's recipe?"

"Sure," I nod. "I watched her make it lots of times, even helped her because there weren't any girls in our family—not at that point. She always cut a little extra piece of the meat to fry up and give me a taste before dinner." I smile, remembering how she'd lean down and pat my cheek, a gentle light touch, just as she set my little schnitzel down on a little saucer for me to snack on while she finished up the dinner.

"Bien. You will help me make them, and I shall follow your grandmother's example and give you the first sample, to make sure it is coming out right." LeBeau follows Schultz to the doorway, then stops. "Have you made Spätzle before too?"

"Sure." I nod again and grin. I may still wind up washing dishes, but I'll bet I'll get some good food beforehand, even some that will taste like home.

"I shall make you my assistant!" LeBeau smiles and closes the door behind him.

Garlotti makes a show of wiping his brow. "Better you than me!" he laughs at me.

I chuckle too. "I spend all that time training to be a gunner, and it turns out my granny's recipes are my best contribution to the war effort now. Chicken schnitzel and Spätzle!"

"What the heck is Spätzle?" Carter asks me, looking up at me from the table.

"Egg noodles," I tell him. "It's schnitzel with noodles!"

ooOoo

Author's Note: Breaded and pan-fried veal, beef, pork, and chicken seem to be staples in many countries' cuisine, from Germany to Italy to Mexico. The dish is called a schnitzel by German-speaking peoples, which would include Yiddish spoken by Ashkenazi Jews. "Wienar schnitzel" has come to mean a veal schnitzel in Austria and Germany: the name means it is supposedly from the city of Wien in Austria (anglicized as Vienna), although there's no evidence for a specifically Viennese origin. "Schweineschnitzel" is made from pork, as the first syllable suggests even to English speakers (schwein / swine / pigs). It is also called "Wiener Schnitzel vom Schwein" (Viennese schnitzel from pork). Chicken-fried steak in the American South is indeed a gastronomic relative of both the German schnitzel and the Italian version of the dish that Garlotti mentions, Cotoletta Milanese (sometimes called cotoletta alla Milanese). Chicken schnitzel is highly popular in Israel where it is often made as part of a kosher meal. Spätzle is one of several customary accompaniments to schnitzel: gravy-covered egg noodles, which are traditionally especially popular in the Baden-Württemberg region of southwest Germany. Thus I have made Herr Bauer from Stuttgart, which is in that region and was also an important railroad hub: Klink wants to impress him by giving him a taste of home.

Greenberg appears as a minor POW character in "Will the Real Adolf Please Stand Up?": he's one of the three POWs dressing as German officers. I know I'm not the first HH writer to make Greenberg Jewish: Snooky uses him that way in her story "He Who Saves a Single Life" and there may be some others as well. Most American Jews captured by the Luftwaffe weren't treated differently than other POWs, although there were some horrible exceptions. As for Greenberg's comment about his dog-tags, this was one option for Jewish soldiers captured by the Nazis. Some opted to have no religious preference stamped on their dog-tags if fighting in Europe; some discarded their dog-tags prior to capture; some had a different religious preference stamped on their tag, an outsized "P" that the Allies knew meant the bearer was Jewish rather than Protestant. I've opted to make Hogan aware of Greenberg's background, so (since Hogan would obviously know about Nazi racial ideology and have at least general knowledge of the oppression of Jews in Germany and occupied countries) he takes what steps he can to try to protect the Jewish members of his command.

Although the timing of putting up this chapter is accidental, I would still like to wish any of my Jewish readers a happy Chanukah since the holiday began yesterday evening (Dec. 6).