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 Grรผne 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 Charitรฉ–Universitรคtsmedizin
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 Fรผhrer, 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 Fรผhrer
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
