A WORLD FILLED WITH MANY LITTLE WORLDS

 

 

      A WORLD FILLED WITH MANY LITTLE WORLDS

 

 

They were Berliners, and proud of their enchanting city. The year was 1938. They were also Jewish, secular, very relaxed about religious laws but always aware of their traditions. The Gold family had been in the jewelry business for generations. Many of their clients were wealthy Gentiles until harsh new laws forbade that. They turned the other cheek, believing that the unreasonable persecution would be temporary. After all, it made no sense. They loved their country, its elegantly precise language, its natural beauty and deep, complex culture.

Still, life was good. The loss of one child had thus far been the only family tragedy. The third born, a daughter, died from meningitis when she was only five years old. Aaron and Hilda Gold had four remaining children, all blessed with robust health: Franz, seventeen, Hannah, sixteen, Samuel, nine, Rachel, five. 

But their good fortune was about to run out. Aaron was convinced, 100% convinced that the populace would turn against the maniac, Hitler. He endured the humiliations, believing them to be petty and impermanent. His miscalculation had devastating consequences, yet he was not a reckless man. He had spent sleepless nights thinking matters through. He avoided the financially ruinous Aryanisation of his lucrative shop and house by signing them over to his junior business partner, Luther Volger, the father of Henry and Lise. When Luther protested, Aaron coaxed him, “It’s so much safer for me this way, Luther. I trust you absolutely. It makes sound business sense.”

The family then moved preemptively into a rundown apartment in the vibrant Scheunenviertel. His plan was to deflect attention. But when Aaron’s friends implored him to emigrate while he still had the chance, he demurred. “This city is my home. It is the home of my children. It was my parents’ and grandparents’ home. I am a rational man and I will not yield to this insanity. Reason will prevail again. I will not be forced into exile. I will assume the strength of a reed, bending but not breaking.”

He and his wife argued bitterly. She came close to taking the children and leaving him on more than one occasion, but couldn’t bring herself to rend the family. She was in love with him. She stayed. The children needed their father; she needed her husband. They endured. The inconvenient cracks in their lives deepened and swallowed their false hopes on November 9, 1938. Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass, served as the perfect metaphor for the fate of Europe’s Jews.

The Judenbann soon restricted all areas of Jewish life: large parts of the city were out of bounds, Jewish students were expelled from public schools, Jews were required to turn in gold, diamonds, furs and other valuables to the state with no compensation, the passports of Jews had to be stamped with a prominent J.

Aaron Gold finally understood the error of his wishful thinking only when it was too late. His trusted friend, Luther, exhorted him to go into hiding. “I have a good place for your family, Aaron, a safe place. I have a room in my attic. We can easily make the door disappear with illusionist wallpaper on the other side. No one will suspect me. I have been disparaging you for months now, accusing you of overcharging me for your shitty little Jew shop. No one will suspect me of harbouring your family. You won’t be living comfortably, but you will be protected. I swear on the lives of my children that I will not betray you.”

Aaron wept. “I will speak to Hilda,” he answered.

Luther implored, “Don’t waste any more time, Aaron, I beg you. Time is a luxury you don’t have. Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but one thing is certain. It won’t be good.”

     Hilda’s first reaction was “Impossible. It can’t be done. Samuel and Rachel are too young.”

Aaron answered, “At least see the room. Assess it with your own eyes and then you can decide.”

“But what about his wife? Does Ilse agree to this?” Hilda asked, knowing the wife could be a weak link, a danger even if Luther himself were thoroughly trustworthy.

“We didn’t mention her in our conversation, but she must be in favour of the proposal or he wouldn’t have been so adamant. And you know, she’s taken nurses’ training even though it was quite long ago and she’s never actually practiced. But even so, if any of us were to fall sick….”

Hilda said nothing for a few long moments, after which she spoke, “Let’s get some sleep, Aaron. I’ll tuck this scheme of yours between my head and my pillow and tell you what I’ve decided in the morning.”

When Hilda awoke, she vividly recalled one sequence in a meandering dream. The entire family, including their dead daughter, was at a carnival. Hilda and Aaron and the three younger children were all watching Franz and Hannah going around and around on a carousel. Franz was riding a golden horse, Hannah a poppy-red pony. After many rotations, Aaron called out to his two older children, “Don’t stay on too long. You must be brave and jump off as soon as you can.”

Hilda nudged her husband into wakefulness. “Aaron,” she said, “I know what we must do. We must send Franz and Hannah into hiding, but not the younger ones. We stay here with Samuel and Rachel, but Franz and Hannah — they must leave. At once. They’re old enough to be separated from us and they can be of comfort to one another.”

Although not fully awake, Aaron nodded his head. “You are right, Hilda. They’ll leave today. I’ll call Luther from a phone booth and make the necessary arrangements.”

Breakfast in the shabby kitchen was meagre. The coffee was an acorn brew but comfortingly hot. When told of the plans, both older children protested.

“We can’t split up the family,” Franz implored. “We have to stay together; that alone will give us strength. Please, Father. Please change your mind.”

Hannah sat in shocked silence, wondering how it had come to this. How could her father have been so wrong? Wasn’t it his duty to protect his family? Why hadn’t they all emigrated when it had still been feasible?

Aaron insisted, “I have called Luther. They are waiting for you. Take no luggage. None. Wear as much clothing as you can, starting with layers of underwear. God willing, everything will normalise soon and we can all be together again.”

“But why can’t you join us? Why can’t we all go into hiding?” Franz asked for the third time.

Hilda spoke up, “Your father has already explained that to you. The space is too small and Samuel and Rachel are too young. It’s much safer for everyone this way.”

Franz rose and asked his father, “Will you at least walk with us?”

Aaron answered, “It’s best to part ways here. I’m a conspicuous Jew, a target. Both of you are young and fair. It’s highly likely that you’ll be left alone. Don’t look afraid. Don’t look at the pavement, and whatever you do don’t step off it. Pretend to yourselves that you’re Aryan; you have every civil right, but make no eye contact. Set your faces like stone. Walk briskly but not obviously so. Look purposeful and confident. Save your tears for later when it’s safe to cry.”

Hilda embraced her two firstborns, “Be safe, my darlings. Be brave.” Then she let them go. They held hands and walked as their father had instructed them to. They didn’t look back. It was a cold day in early March, but they felt hot and heavy in their many layers of clothing. The walk seemed endless. In fact, seventeen kilometres separated the Golds’ shabby apartment in the Scheunenviertel and the Vogels well-appointed house in Spandau. It took them two-and-a-half hours and all their will-power not to run wildly. They passed several Grüne Polizei, but their light eyes and hair shielded them from harassment.

Luther was waiting outside his door. When he caught sight of them from a distance, his face lit up and he had to stop himself from running toward them.

Ilse and the children were seated in the kitchen, the table set with festive sandwiches and little cakes. Henry, five, and Lise, four, were scared out of their wits. They sat with hands folded on their laps, eyes downcast. They had been warned by both parents that their new older cousins would be living with them but that their presence had to remain a secret. They must never, under any circumstances, tell anyone about Franz and Hannah or their parents would be taken away from them forever and they would be forced to live in an orphanage until they reached adulthood. Luther cautioned them, “We are doing something very dangerous but very important. We are saving their lives. But if we are caught, Mama and Papa will be arrested and shot. Do you understand?”

They did and they didn’t, but they were so gripped with fear that they couldn’t open their mouths. Not even to say hello to the older cousins, not even to eat the tasty cakes set out so prettily on the floral oilcloth.

The Volger children kept their vow of silence about the cousins for six years. There was only one time, a few months after the Gold siblings’ arrival, that Henry almost slipped up.

It was a beautiful spring day. Ilse took the children to a nearby park for a picnic. Since Franz and Hannah had arrived, the Volger children spent most of their days in the house. Their parents agreed it was much safer that way. But this day was so mild, so fragrant that Ilse thought it only fair that the children fill their lungs with sweet fresh air.

Another mother arrived moments later with three children in tow. She was a stiff woman with a nervous smile, very well-dressed, impeccably groomed. The children were blond, blue-eyed, model youngsters, not at all shy and reserved. They gravitated toward Henry and Lise, and all five of them began playing hide and go seek. It did Ilse’s heart good to watch her children frolicking on the lilac-scented grounds. The other mother hung back, stroking her long neck with agitated fingers. An NS-Frauenschaft    badge hardened the effect of her fluffy beige sweater.

After a half-hour of gamboling, Henry returned to where Ilse was standing and said, “Mother, I am having such fun, but at the same time, I miss my cousins. Can we go home now?” Ilse paled as though seized by cramps. Henry immediately realised the nature of his error, and started to laugh. He looped his fingers in the crazy gesture near his right ear and confessed, “I know, mother. I know you think my cousins are imaginary, but I miss them anyway.”

Lise glanced at the other mother and answered, “Yes, we should go home. It’s really too damp for a picnic. You and your sister will catch a chill if you sit on the grass. We’ll eat at home.” She nodded tersely at the other woman and the three Volgers walked back home in silence.

Once they were indoors, Henry grasped Ilse’s hands in his. “Forgive me, Mother. I promise never to be careless with words again.” She patted his head. “I know, Henry. Don’t fret. That woman seemed to be in a troubled world of her own. I doubt that she even heard you.”

During the early days of hiding, Hannah wept a lot into her soft pillow. She was achingly “family sick.” Franz did his best to comfort her, but his own heart was filled with fear and pain. They came to love and trust Luther and Ilse and became fond of the Volger children, who worshipped them in return.

They spent most of their days and all of their nights in the secret room in the attic. It had a high, tiny window and one overhead lightbulb that could be clicked on and off with the tug of a chain. It contained a narrow bed, a desk with one chair and a small curtained partition which hid a metal slops pail. Ilse explained to them that the pail could be emptied once or a twice a day in the water closet on the floor below but the timing of that had to be carefully monitored. They could also bathe once a week and join the family downstairs on occasion.

Aaron procured books for them. Some he bought; others he borrowed from a local library, and there were games as well: cards, chess, checkers and Gameplay. Whilst perusing items which might interest the Gold youngsters at a local toy shop, Luther spotted a board game he hadn’t previously noticed: Juden Raus! — Jews Out!

 

 

The tokens were wooden figurines wearing conical hats. Painted on these hats were caricatures of supposedly Jewish faces. The object of the game was to be the first player to round up at least six “Jews” and banish them to Palestine through the gates of a walled city. On the side of the box was the advert promise: “Entertaining, instructive and solidly constructed.” Sickened, Luther left the shop and vowed to do no commerce with stores that carried this game.

Later on, after the war began, the Gold children would join the Volgers in their potato and wine cellar during the terrifying air raids. “We can’t bring them to the shelter. That would raise dangerous questions, nor can we leave them here alone. So we all stay together.” Henry and Lise were told to say that their mother suffered from hysterical claustrophobia; hence, the family could not enter a public shelter.

Along with food rationing, came hunger. Six people were being fed with coupons for four, but Ilse was resourceful. She did wonders with potatoes, prepared them in a variety of appetizing ways: home fries, crisp sandwiches, pancakes, croquettes, knodel, pickert, pommes Anna and reibekuchen. Franz and Hannah bore their hunger well. For the younger children, it was more difficult partially because they were so active, but they never complained.

What made the food shortages entirely bearable were the occasional reprieves and surprises. Many of Ilse’s customers were wives of high-ranking Nazi party members. When they visited her home atelier for a fitting or an alteration, they would often catch sight of the two well-mannered, if overly subdued, children. The serious, beautiful youngsters were endearing to these privileged women, who often left them gifts of nuts, dried fruits, and chocolate. Both Henry and Lise invariably shared their windfalls with Franz and Hannah.

Luther received gifts from his customers as well. Before the war, a fad for Nazi jewelry appeared among certain members of the NSDAP. Luther didn’t get any official orders, but quite a few men requested personalized pieces for their wives and children. When particularly pleased with an item, a Gauleiter or Kreisleiter would give Luther a token of his appreciation in the form of a cash bonus or food vouchers. But he was also teased fairly often about his former Jew-pig partner. The banter was light-hearted, but it never failed to anguish Luther.

“So, whatever became of that Jew who used to call the shots here?” a jovial customer would ask.

“I don’t know. I heard rumours that he emigrated to Palestine with his family. Good riddance,” Luther would answer while inwardly hoping “please, dear God, let me seem convincing.”

Speculation about Luther being a Jew-lover still lingered, but he did his best to dispel it. Ilse asked him, “Don’t you feel ashamed saying all those horrible things about the Jews to those despicable people?”

“Of course, I do. I feel sick to my stomach, but it’s the best way, the only way,” he answered.

The business flourished and he rented out the handsome Gold house in Charlottenburg to a Gauleiter for a tidy sum. He set away as much money as possible for the time when life would return to normal and he could say to Aaron, “You’re safe now, my friend and so are your children. I return to you your properties and here is a sum of money to get you started in your new life.” But where and when would that new life be?

Aaron and Luther had arranged to conduct weekly updates in telephone booths. Luther was invariably the one to make the call and he changed the location of his booth as often as possible. The designated time was always the same: Sundays at 13:00. Their coordination efforts were remarkably successful until Sunday, October 19, 1941. Luther dialed the number, which he had long ago memorised, but there was no answer. He refused to panic. He walked to a different booth, and tried the number ten minutes later. Still no answer. He visited a coffee shop where he ate a spritzkuchen and then strolled around trying to appear unconcerned until he arrived at another phone booth. No answer yet again. At this point, his heart began pounding. He paced the streets until 18:00, dialing the number every fifteen or twenty minutes, each time repeating to himself, “Please answer, please answer. Aaron, for the love of God, please answer.” A few times the line was busy, but Luther never again heard Aaron’s voice. He tried the following Sunday, and the Sunday after that and the Sunday after that.

It was only many months later that he learned that thousands of Berlin Jews had been deported to the Lodz ghetto in Poland beginning October 18. He decided not to alarm Franz and Hannah with this information, and so he pretended that he had spoken to their father each and every Sunday at 13:00 for the duration of the war. He invented stories about their family: Samuel and Rachel were attending a special Jewish school and were performing in community theatricals. Aaron was working in a metal factory. His skills as a jeweller were invaluable; hence, no harm could come to the family. Hilda was earning extra marks selling her home-baked goods. All four were well; everything was fine.

Although Franz was not placated, he attempted to change Luther’s mind only one time. “Mr. Volger, we are most grateful for your hospitality, but my sister and I have discussed the matter many times over, and we feel strongly that rejoining our family is the right thing, indeed the only thing, for us to do.”

Luther hardened his face and voice, “Impossible. It is your father’s will that you stay here until this accursed war is over. I’m sorry, Franz, but I daren’t defy your father. He knows what’s best for you and Hannah. End of discussion, my boy.”

A kind of miracle, perhaps, bloomed for those six years in that cramped attic hideout; Franz and Hannah fell in love. It was a full-blown love, a lotus-eating kind of love that is born in desperate times and is beyond the laws of social order, an illicit, lifelong love. This young man, a boy really, cut off from everyone and everything — his mother, his father, his education, his passions, interests, quirks, foibles, severed from everything except for one sister.

And this sister, slender, golden-skinned, soft-spoken, heart-broken. At night, brother and sister held tight to each other and fell asleep this way. Night after night, until one night, she stretched a long, pale thigh over his legs and a slice of moonlight entered their chamber and she began weeping softly. “Hush, shhhhhhhh, my sister, my love. We have each other; you are not alone, Hannah, my darling,” Franz tried to soothe her. And she kissed his throat, one of his earlobes, his eyelids. And his mouth fit perfectly over hers, the same shape only larger and not as soft. He thought, “Her lips are velvet. Her tears are so hot and salty that they sting me. There is no one, no one in this Godforsaken world, no one, no one, no one, only her.”

He had to silence her lips with his, so piercing were her cries, and after that somnambulistic first time, being together in that way was all the two of them thought about. It became their fuel. They knew it was taboo, but what did it matter? The laws were ugly and cruel, so the secret embraces they offered each another were their only consolation. But more than that: it became their reason for living.

Ilse was suspicious, “Those children, they are turning  demented in captivity. Do you see their eyes, Luther? They look like feral children raised by a she-wolf.”

Luther’s answer tasted bitter, “Ah, yes, my dearest. The she-wolf is this Third Reich, this 1000 Jahre Reich that has devoured their lives. ”

“But Luther…”

“No more!” he bellowed. “I simply cannot bear it. Leave them be, Ilse. Let them do what they must do to somehow find life worth living.”

“But what about after the war, Luther?” Ilse’s voice grew shrill. “How will they carry on with their lives under the burden of this monstrous secret, this devastating sin?”

“Say no more about it, woman.” Luther’s eyes shut her out. It has nothing to do with us, nothing whatsoever. I forbid you to raise the subject again.”

Neither Franz nor Hannah was stricken with guilt. Their love-making was executed in a trancelike state. It felt like an underwater dream-dance, something that happened but did not happen. “I am an insect,” Hannah said to Franz one day not long before the war was over. “I am all instinct, and my life feels endless but it is soon to be complete. I am a Jew; I am an insect.”

Franz joined his sister on the thin mattress. “My beautiful insect, my exquisite praying mantis.” His erection was always so spare, so hard. It reminded his sister of an ivory tusk. After each time they coupled, they both felt as though they were adrift on a flimsy raft in toxic waters. It was always, this fusion, this coming; it was always a beginning and an end.

Lise began following her mother around the house like a forlorn little tail. When customers tried asking her a few questions, she would hide behind Ilse, clinging to her smock. When she had been a truly young child, merely two and three years old, her vocabulary was remarkably full and varied. But after Franz and Hannah went into hiding, Lise became fearful of words. She understood how much damage they were capable of wreaking, and she spoke as little as possible.

She became fascinated with her mother’s sewing machine, fabrics, and embellishments. She loved to study and stroke the bolts of silk, taffeta, satin, tulle, chiffon and her favourite, velvet. Ilse never actually taught her daughter how to sew by hand or operate the machine, but her daughter watched her raptly, day after day until her eyes and hands understood how to work in tandem and produce first handkerchiefs and pillow-cases, then tablecloths, aprons, skirts, blouses, dresses, jackets, coats.

Ilse had become terrified of Franz and Hannah, referring to them as “the Ghosts in the attic.”

“We are their jailers, their tormentors,” she would confess to her husband in the dead of night.

He did his best to console her, “Not true, darling. They love us. They trust us. We are protecting them.”

“But the things you say, Luther, when you are speaking with those Nazi pigs, how the Jews are vermin, parasites, leeches. Those words make my blood run cold. When the subject of the Jews is raised, why can you simply say nothing?”

“Because, Ilse, as I’ve explained to you repeatedly, I must be convincing. We have to avoid suspicion. Many people know that I used to be Aaron’s junior partner. People talk. They spread rumours. Rumours often hold a shadow of truth. Ilse, please can we sleep now? It’s the middle of the night. Fears are at their deepest and strongest during these hours. Daylight will soften and sweeten your thoughts.”  

Ilse developed chronic insomnia. She would pace the house and visit the wallpapered room in the attic. There she would sit by the dividing wall and listen to Franz and Hannah sleeping or enacting their desperate love. Her feelings for them were murky, complicated. She loved them, yes, but she sensed that their lives were ruined and she held herself responsible.

Aaron finally insisted that she seek help. A chemist with whom they were acquainted, prescribed Veronal, which calmed her for a time. But one morning in May, 1944, Luther was unable to rouse Ilse from her deep sleep. She had slipped into a coma during the night. An ambulance rushed her to The Charité–Universitätsmedizin Berlin, where she died three days later. Was it a suicide or a mistaken overdose? Luther realised he would never know the answer to that.

The lives of the Volgers and the Gold siblings became increasingly complicated. Luther walked Henry and Lise to school every morning and he would have gladly closed the jewellery shop for an hour to accompany them home in the afternoons, but people would ask questions. He would be expected to hire a housekeeper, but that would be dangerous. What if the Gold children made noise? What if she snooped in the attic and discovered their hiding place? What if? What if? No, a housekeeper was out of the question; it was far too dangerous.

Instead, He would hire a shop assistant. Leaving an unknown person alone with the precious metals, the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies and the cash was imprudent, but what choice did he have? He would be able to justify this decision, moreover, by saying that he needed to spend more time with his bereaved children.

Franz and Hannah were nearly as devastated as Henry and Lise by Ilse’s death. “Thank God I haven’t told them the truth about their own parents. All of this would be simply too much for them to withstand,” Luther thought.

“Please don’t despair,” he counseled them. “I know you are very sad, but I’m still here for you and nothing so much will change, except, of course, the pain in your hearts. That will deepen, but know that Ilse loved you like her own and she was tormented by how difficult your lives had become.”

And because the Volger children had lost their mother and had no relatives to care for them, Luther was able to secure an exemption from serving in the Wehrmacht and later on in the Volksstrum. Ah, the Vollksstrum, a raggle-taggle contingent of callow boys and elderly men who were supposed to do what exactly? Win the war for Germany? Defend its honour?  He had to pull strings and pay exorbitant bribes to achieve this exemption, but he was successful.

By 1944, it was evident that Hitler would lose the war, and Luther fervently hoped that Germany would surrender sooner rather than later. He allowed Franz and Hannah to spend more time out of their little cell. They avoided windows, and ran back to the attic if the doorbell should ring, but they ate some of their meals in the kitchen, and used the water closet whenever nature called. It was little Lise, by then nine years old, who remarked to the Gold siblings “Your skin is as thin and white as paper.”

Franz wondered if he would ever get used to life as it was on the outside. He felt agitated, uneasy, whenever he left the secret room. In contrast, his sister was looking forward. She longed to step outdoors, into that other world which had become hostile, but remained infinitely appealing to her. But in one crucial sense, they both responded to the promised taste of liberation in the same manner. They lost their appetites for each other, and abandoned their nightly ritual. Their love changed colours as it were: from scarlet to rose to nude to ivory-white. Franz knew that he would never love a woman the way he had loved, still loved, his sister, who had become all things to him. Hannah never thought that far. She yearned to test her legs, strengthen them, strengthen her heart which felt to her like an injured moth trapped under her ribcage.

But the one who suffered the most was Luther. He had to tell Franz and Hannah that their family was no longer in Berlin. What did deportation to the Lodz Ghetto truly mean? There were vivid rumours that the Jews had been expelled from Europe via death camps, gas chambers, crematoria. There was talk of a killing ground named Auschwitz, whose air was so fouled with the odour of burning corpses that birds refused to fly over it. Luther understood that the war first had to end before he could get word of the Gold family. Perhaps, just perhaps they had somehow managed to survive and would return from Poland.

By early 1945, the elegant house in Charlottenburg was vacant, the Gauleiter and his brood having disappeared without a trace. Luther visited it often to check up on it and make necessary repairs. It consoled him to know that if Aaron and Hilda had managed to survive and would return to Berlin, they would find their home decently maintained and habitable.

It was just after the new year of 1945 that young Lise’s hands sprang into action. “I shall make us all new clothes, magnificent new clothes to celebrate the New Year.” Her mother had seen to it that Franz and Hannah were decently dressed after they outgrew their many layers of garments with which they had arrived. But now it was Lise’s duty to assume the task. She removed bolts of fabric almost as big as she was from the shelves in her mother’s atelier and began to measure, and pin, and baste and bind and stitch various textiles into an assortment of sturdy and stylish garments.

“She has her mother’s gift,” Luther thought proudly, but it was greater than that. She never required a pattern, and she boldly mixed fabrics to create unique and detailed pieces. She strayed from the sewing machine and the work table only long enough to sleep and eat. In a matter of weeks, Hannah had two new frocks, a gabardine suit and three silk blouses.

“Now if only I had shoes, I would be the best-dressed lady in all of Berlin!” But shoes were dangerous to procure. Luther and Franz wore almost the same shoe size, so the young man remained decently shod throughout the war, but Hannah’s feet were much larger than Lise’s and much smaller than Ilse’s. Ilse had once tried to pay for a beautifully constructed pair of Oxfords and a low-heeled pair of pumps at Werheim’s (aryanised and renamed AWAG in 1939). The Oxfords were a distinctive colour known as oxblood, and the pumps were black patent. The saleswoman was aghast, “But those are not for you, Madame! They are much too small.”

Ilse kept her cool, “No, they’re not for me; they’re for my daughter. You see, she hates to go shopping. She’s a genuine tomboy. I’ve measured her feet very precisely, you see. These will do nicely.”

But the diligent woman wouldn’t yield. “No, Madame. We do not accept returns with footwear. Surely you can convince your daughter to accompany you.”

Ilse pretended to consider the woman’s advice. She was afraid of drawing too much attention to herself, of being remembered as a peculiar customer. It was safer to acquiesce. Hence, Hannah hadn’t had a pair of shoes since 1939, when she outgrew the sturdy pair she had taken her last walk in.

There was another thing she hadn’t had since that time: a period. She supposed it was the absence of fresh air and the constant stress. So when it resumed as though there hadn’t been a six-year interruption, she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed. At first, the cramping alarmed her, but then she realised she was menstruating. She confided in Lise, who cut a bolt of muslin into dozens of squares and handed them over to Hannah.

The daily diet had been reduced to boiled potatoes or turnips and the five members of the household were hungry all the time. They went to bed hungry and they started each day hungry. Luther had stopped going to his shop altogether. He spent much of his time drinking his home-made schnapps and trying to catch the voice of Britain on the illegal short-wave radio.

One day in the beginning of May, Lise timidly invited Hannah to take possession of her late mother’s perfumes and cosmetics. “Take what pleases you, Hannah. I know Mother would want you to. She has lovely fragrances from France, and some almost new compacts and lipsticks.”

“But you’re her daughter, Lise. These are your inheritance,” Hannah demurred.

“I’m too young for such things. Please, Hannah, I know what Mother would have wished.”

So Hannah inherited a few bottles of intoxicating perfume as well as a Persian Pink and rose-red lipstick and a Helene Winterstein pressed powder foundation in Porcelain Bisque.

Suddenly, it was over. The war. Luther praised the God he no longer truly believed in. It was a sun-drenched day. They stepped outdoors, all five of them, Franz and Hannah were barefoot. He wore a pair of navy gabardine trousers and sky blue silk shirt. She wore a yellow silk sundress. It had a flared and flounced skirt. Her hair was the colour of butterscotch. Her lips were Persian pink.

May 7, 1945. Franz and Hannah shielded their eyes with their moth-white hands. The air was fragrant and warm. Luther and his two children stood with them. Luther’s thoughts went like this: “Now we must trace Aaron and Hilda. Now I must return to Franz and Hannah what is theirs. Now I must teach them everything their father taught me. Now I must somehow find the courage to be a father to four children. Damn the Reich. Damn it to Hell and back. Damn the Führer, who led us to the abyss, and damn those who followed out of stupidity, cowardice and greed. How could an entire nation be so — wrong?”

A few days after Berlin capitulated, Luther gathered the two children and two young adults into the kitchen and confessed:

“Franz, Hannah, pardon me, for I have lied to you. In truth, I stopped speaking with your papa long, long ago.”

Hannah sobbed, “Are they still alive?”

Luther answered, “I don’t know. This is what we must discover. Your family was deported to Poland in 1941. They were sent to the ghetto in Lodz. But please do not despair. At least they know where to find you. That should give you courage.”

Russian soldiers were everywhere in Berlin. Luther reopened his shop, feigning bravery. He would bring Franz here, show him how things were done, how they were made. He would put up the old sign, the original sign, the one that read Golds Fein Juweliere, ‘Gold’s Fine Jewellers.’ He felt utterly estranged from the Berliners he encountered. Their faces resembled haggard masks. They also were going about their daily business, trying to cobble their broken lives back together, but he didn’t know what they were feeling in their hearts. Who had loved the Führer and who had loathed him? Rubble lay where homes and businesses used to be. The Zoo was gone, as was the Lessing Theatre, Jerusalem Church, Kroll Opera House, City Palace, and Hotel Excelsior, among many other magnificent structures.

“I am a most fortunate man” he attempted to convince himself. My children are well. I am not homeless. The store still stands; I can transfer the deed to Franz and Hannah. I can sell their family home and give them the proceeds. I lost my wife, yes, and my health, surely but my mission succeeded. I was able to save Franz and Hannah. Now I must find a way for them to leave this country that did everything in its power to murder them and obliterate all traces of their People. They are old enough to emigrate and if I were only younger, stronger, I would choose to accompany them.”

He had to do some basic mental arithmetic to calculate the ages of the children — his own as well. The results shocked him. Franz was now twenty-three! Hannah, twenty-two! How was that possible? Little Henry was twelve, Lise, eleven, and he, Luther, a prematurely old forty-eight. His hair had gone completely grey, he had deep pouches under his eyes and his shoulders appeared to have caved in.

It took him several weeks to convince Franz to accompany him to the shop.

“It’s yours, Franz. You must learn how things are done. Before you leave Berlin, you will sell the store. You and your sister will require money to establish yourselves wherever you go: America, Palestine, England. But first you must learn the trade.”

“I don’t want the store, Luther. You keep it. Hannah and I will go to Palestine. But we must try to find our family first. Perhaps they have survived. If Hannah and I have, why couldn’t they have as well?”

Eventually Luther persuaded Franz to set foot outside the house. He wore a pair of Luther’s shoes, which were too tight and too long, and caused him to walk in both a pinched and shambling manner. But his charcoal gabardine suit that Lise had designed and sewn for him draped his spare frame elegantly. He tucked his Jewish documents into an inner pocket, ready to produce it should a Russian soldier demand identification.

His almost preternaturally pale face gave him away as someone who had been in hiding, and that was a good thing for Luther, who was now under Franz’ protection. A Russian officer walked into the store Franz’ first day there demanding to see their documents. The officer, a Moscow Jew named Bronsky, was astounded to discover that the thin young man was also Jewish. This red-haired officer spoke Yiddish and was thus able to carry on a conversation of sorts with Franz.

“But you’re Jewish! A Jew in Berlin! How is this possible?”

“Surely there are others?” Franz couldn’t believe that he and Hannah were the only ones.

“Yes, I’ve heard there were a few here and there, but you’re the first one I’ve met. This man, he saved you?”

“He hid my sister and me in his home for six years. This is my first outing since 1938. Where can we go to record the names of my family and find out where they are?”

Bronsky answered, “Lock up and follow me. I’ve heard of a place not far from here.” The three men left the store. Luther and Franz felt protected by the presence of their flame-haired escort. Bronsky stopped a couple of times to get information from other Russian soldiers. He pointed at Franz while speaking. Franz understood only one word, which the officer repeated a number of times: Yevrey. Bronsky looked pleased as he reported, “I have an address. You’ll meet others who are also looking for missing loved ones.”

After thirty minutes of brisk walking, they arrived at a building with the door ajar. They climbed three steep staircases and entered a large room filled with battered desks, behind which sat exhausted-looking volunteers.  There was a long lineup of people of assorted ages waiting to be heard. Bronsky insisted on staying with Luther and Franz.

Franz understood that the people in line were all Jews. Some of them were engaged in loud and lively conversations. There were even a few debates in progress. But most of the Jews were silent. They waited with tension etched on their faces. The room was ripe with the odour of unwashed bodies. Everyone looked shabby and dusty. Franz thought, “They all look as though they’ve been pulled out of walls, somehow flattened, like cardboard.”

After about an hour of waiting and only barely inching forward, Bronsky lost his patience and pulled rank. He walked up to a central desk where a comely woman was talking on the telephone while smoking and taking notes. Bronsky commanded her full attention, and within less than a minute, he motioned Luther and Franz to join him.

The woman requested, “What are the names of the people you are looking for and what is their last known location?”

Luther answered, hoping against all odds that she would be able to offer them words of encouragement. But she shook her head and informed them, “The Lodz Ghetto was liquidated in August, 1944. At this time, we have records of very few survivors, truthfully only a handful. All you can do now is wait. We will register the young man’s name. I advise you to come back once a week in case we receive any pertinent information. If anyone has survived, it will be much easier for them to find you than for you to find them. I’m sorry. I wish I had more encouraging news for you.”

Franz asked, “But what exactly do you mean when you say that the ghetto was liquidated? Was everyone shot on the spot?”

“No,” she answered. “They were transported to Auschwitz, but it’s possible that your family went into hiding. Please don’t give up all hope, not yet, not until you hear something final.” And then she said something which Franz found surprising and mysterious: “Got hot zikh bashafen a velt mit klaineh veltelech.” God created a world full of many little worlds.

Disheartened, Luther and Franz exited the building with Bronsky leading the way. He took down their address and indicated that he would visit them shortly and wished them all the best. They never saw him again.

A few months later, Spandau became part of the British zone, and Luther was hopeful that Franz and Hannah would be able and willing to emigrate to England. In the meantime, he taught Franz as much as he could about the business. They went to the store every day, leaving Hannah at home with the children. Luther and Franz returned to the Jewish Family Reunification Centre every week, sometimes more often than that, but no news was forthcoming. Six months passed, a year. Arrangements were made for Franz and Hannah to relocate in England. Luther had convinced them that Palestine was too dangerous a destination. They begged him to join them, but he told them he was too old, too tired. He was heartbroken that Ilse hadn’t lived to see this day.

On a beautiful summery day in June 1947, Franz and Hannah began their journey. They boarded a train which took them through Dutch and Belgian borders and then by ship to England. Their throats were swollen with longing, but Luther had insisted that they go. He had prepared a food basket for them, a wicker hamper filled with sausage, cheeses and a pot of translucent rosehip jelly, and he had stuffed their pockets with British banknotes. Perhaps hardest of all was bidding farewell to Henry and Lise. By the time Franz and Hannah left the continent, they had endured the loss of two families.

Luther died of a massive stroke in 1949. He was fifty-two years old. His affairs were meticulously in order. Franz and Hannah, by then managing a small but flourishing business in England, sponsored Henry and Lise to immigrate. For many, many years, life was calm and blessedly uneventful. Henry chose wood-working as his trade, and Lise opened a dressmaker’s shop when she turned eighteen. All four recognised the coincidence that none had chosen to marry and that both pairs of siblings lived together in respectful if subdued harmony.

FFF