Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  THE COMFORTER

  Leaning back even further into the shadows, Hans’ heartbeat pulsed up into his ears. Thank God the doorway was slightly indented from the street, otherwise they would have surely spotted him. Trying to remain calm, he was suddenly overpowered by the rhythmic pounding of heavy boots on cobblestone, a mere twenty yards from his labored, irregular breathing.

  “Not safe to pick up the passports today; too many SS in the city for the big rally,” he speculated. Instantly, he pictured his dutiful wife Marthe, carefully folding the goose down comforter over the edge of the assigned bed while she waited patiently for him to come to her. The room would be immaculate, in fact so neat and clean you could eat knockwurst off of the floor, and the family pictures would hang straight, not crooked on the walls, as was so often the case in the other boarding houses—die besteigend hausen—around the city. Indeed, everyone often commented on how much pride Marthe always took in her work.

  A sudden lull on the streets prompted Hans to slowly venture out from his hiding place, but five paces out, he could see a crowd composed of men, women, and children gathering up ahead. Booing and hissing, they all seemed riveted on something and he was about to quietly slip by them, when he glanced over and stopped, appalled.

  A frail, dark-haired woman stood silently in the middle of the sidewalk with a large, wooden Jewish Star draped around her neck. Laughing and taking turns, people couldn’t resist poking at the cumbersome object, and with each harsh jab, she cringed, her neck twitching back and forth. Still, she remained rooted, her glassy eyes staring straight ahead, emotionless.

  An elderly man attempted to walk by as inconspicuously as possible, but it was no use. As soon as an SS guard caught sight of the yarmulke he was wearing on his head, he was hauled over and handed an ordinary toothbrush.

  Hans watched in horror as the Nazis kicked the old man twice, knocking him down to his knees. Dazed, pleading softly in Yiddish, the man gazed up at his tormenters, a small stream of spittle seeping out of one side of his cracked lips. But they were on a quest.

  “Clean, you good-for-nothing Jude!” they jeered. “Clean the streets! That’s all you’re good for. Now, do your job!”

  Forcing him to scrub the streets with the toothbrush, the guards kept shoving him down with their thick, black boots every time he tried to sit up or even pause. At one point, the old man stopped long enough to peer over at their other victim and for a split second, their mutual bond of despair was palpable. But in a flash it was gone, their tasks resumed.

  Hans didn’t dare remain any longer. For the last several months he had witnessed so much of this treatment, he had learned protesting would be pointless, so he headed home instead, his eyebrows etched in a single, determined line.

  As the late afternoon light filtered through his small apartment, he sensed that by now, Marthe would be across town, so anxious she would mostly probably be nauseous. But today, there was nothing he could do about it, he reasoned, as he began his meticulous work.

  From out of his top right hand drawer, he pulled out several typed papers comprised of two hundred Jewish names, all placed in his trust. Next to the papers were at least five regular German passports, and five passports with the infamous “J” written on them. He positioned each one in front of him before he carefully started transferring the Jewish names and their photos from the Jewish passports onto regular German passports. It was a painstaking process. Each passport had to be fastidiously executed, and if he made an error, he had to start all over again.

  “Irene ‘Sarah’ Greenfeld will now be Lisle Guttman,” he muttered as he omitted the obligatory ‘Sarah’ attached to the woman’s identification and added a Christian first and last name. He glanced over at the woman’s husband’s old passport, and made a mental note to change his from Leo ‘Israel’ Greenfeld, to Ernest Guttman.

  As the pendulum on the Black Forest grandfather clock slowly clicked, Hans continued, unconscious of time. By contrast, Marthe, on the other side of the city, agonized over every minute. These days, if Hans didn’t show, she automatically assumed danger was imminent and already, she could feel her stomach churning. Still, she dusted and cleaned, grateful for her housekeeping job at the Sailerstrasse Boarding House with its good pay and the opportunity it afforded for their underground activities.

  Every morning she would vigorously sweep, dust, and clean each room, always making sure she finished her day with the lodging that contained the designated comforter. The comforter itself was ordinary looking: a dark brown Muhldorfer, once lush in its color and texture, now faded and worn. But stitched inside its soft folds, German and Jewish passports were strategically placed, ready for the simple exchanges that Marthe and Hans made with their co-conspirator, Herr Kaiser.

  So far, the system had been impeccable. Herr Kaiser was a longtime boarder, so naturally, the comforter was housed in his room. Friends for years, he and Hans had known each other as far back as 1920, when they were both new, young professors at the University. But as Hitler’s power grew, they had stood by and watched the firing of their Jewish colleagues, one by one. Finally, after two Kaier’s beers each in Han’s apartment one night, they knew neither of them could sit idly by while their countrymen were in so much trouble. Something had to be done.

  Herr Kaiser came up with the idea first about the passports, but because Hans was an art professor, it fell on his shoulders to perform the actual forgery. Soon, he had become so proficient at these fabrications, Marthe kidded him that when Hitler was gone and their world returned to normal, perhaps he could continue this as an occupation, enabling them both to retire up in the mountains, in Mittenwald perhaps, where the snow sometimes packed twenty feet, and the quaint cottages were a reminder of better times. But Hans would listen to her fantasy for only a few seconds, chuckle, then shoo her away so he could concentrate on his passports.

  Standing in the doorjamb of the final room, Marthe could hear Herr Kaiser and another man ambling up the creaky hallway stairs. As each swollen step groaned, she braced herself before telling him the bad news: no new passports today.

  “Good evening, Frau Hauptman. How are you this fine day?” His jovial tone indicated Herr Kaiser assumed all was well.

  “Good evening, Herr Kaiser,” she answered, darting her eyes towards the comforter with just a slight shake of her head.

  Startled, Herr Kaiser looked concerned, but ever the consummate actor, never missed a beat. “Ah, you have done a fine job of cleaning as usual, Frau Hauptman, fine job, fine job. Thank you very much.”

  His mouth opened, poised to say something else, but just then, Herr Guttermann, the concierge, walked past them on his way to his room at the end of the hall. Herr Kaiser shut his mouth with a snap, and nodding politely to Herr Gutterman and Marthe, went into his own room, closing his door and leaving Marthe to hurry home to find out just exactly what had gone wrong.

  Marthe’s and Herr Kaiser’s cautious instincts about Herr Gutterman were well-founded. Raised by a single mother, the concierge’s life had bounced back and forth from poverty and illiteracy to shame and non-stop humiliation. Winters were the most austere, when he and his brother and sisters clung together in the kitchen, a cluster of small hands, arms, and legs, squatting on a single bench, trying to keep warm enough to sit down and eat whatever meager food their mother could piece together. As they gnawed on their bread, he would watch their mother burning worthless WWI German currency in their stove to use as fuel, her face dead, her eyes hollow.

  She neither read to them at night nor told them fairytales. It seemed the only time she did have the energy to talk to her children at all was at the supper table, when she regaled them with stories about the depravity of the Jews. Then she would come alive, her face animated and her eyes shiny, convinced these people were the single cause of Germany’s downfall.

  “Jews kill Gentile children, then use their blood to make Matzohs,” she would insist, puffing up, proud that at least her children would grow up to be good, u
ntainted Germans.

  Yet her son, Peter Gutterman was different. Unlike the classic Aryan looks of his brothers and sisters, he was small and dark, a fact that had always haunted him, and by the time he was full grown, a childhood of taunts, threats, and street pummeling had filled him with enough venom to last a lifetime.

  As Hitler rose to prominence, Herr Gutterman grew hopeful. Here at last, was someone who could raise Germany up from its ashes and simultaneously, punish those responsible for its ruination. And when the Nuremberg Laws were passed, he was particularly pleased; denying Jews citizenship was only the beginning as far as he was concerned. He took particular delight in seeing a neighborhood interfaith couple forced to wear individual placards over their bodies. Mimi, who had always given him and his family sugar cookies, had to wear a sign that read: “At this place I am the greatest swine: I take Jews and make them mine!” Her husband Sidney’s read: “As a Jewish boy I always take German girls up to my room!” And although his early memories of her freshly baked cookies covered in a small basket had remained imprinted somewhere in his limbic brain, he still managed to turn his head the other way when passing them on the street.

  Kiosks, slathered with posters announcing the boycott of Jewish-owned stores would trigger first a tip of his hat, then a chuckle to himself. He would even, on occasion, mouth the words, “Defend yourselves! Do not buy from Jews!” He was in Heaven.

  Marthe’s key clicking in their front door lock made Hans jump. Then, breathing a sigh of relief, he walked over to his wife, and without a word, hugged her for a good ten seconds.

  “What happened today?” she finally asked.

  “Because of the upcoming rally tonight, I felt there were far too many SS around to be totally safe. Don’t worry. I worked on more of the passports and next week, when the city clears a little, we can continue.” He stroked his wife’s slight shoulders and back gently between her shoulder blades like he used to do when they were first married.

  She could feel her body start to relax muscle by muscle, then froze. “Hans! What if we are caught? Is it really worth…”

  He cut her off. “Don’t even talk that way! Think about all the people we’ve known whose lives have been destroyed: Frau Greenberg, David Honig, all the professors at the University, Moishe Federman? Why, he was best man at our wedding for Gott’s sake! Think about it, Marthe!”

  Marthe nodded, trying not to cry. He was right, of course. She would just have to learn to conquer her fears.

  They fell asleep that night huddled together and listening to the booming loud speakers that had been set up in the main square. Hitler’s voice infiltrated everywhere, thundering on about his plan to take over the world. Over and over again he bellowed, until his guttural tones became less strident, less intrusive, and just seconds before they drifted off to sleep, simply a background hum, wafting in and out.

  In the ensuing weeks, although fifty more passports were exchanged easily, Marthe noticed a shift in Herr Gutterman’s behavior. Before, he had always tipped his hat to Herr Kaiser as a gentlemanly gesture, but now, he would only stare at the boarder and without a smile, say hello. One day, exiting Herr Kaiser’s room, she caught the concierge standing on the landing watching her closely, yet when she caught his eye, he simply nodded, deep in thought. As he padded down the hallway, she could feel the tiny hairs on her arms rising alongside their goose-fleshed brothers.

  She immediately brought up her concerns to Herr Kaiser, who, in his typical way, let out a deep, resonating laugh as he warned her not to worry so much. “Please go about your business,” he reassured her. “Leave Herr Gutterman to me. I’ll take care of things. You know, his bark is a lot harsher than his bite.”

  Remaining calm was not in her nature, but as she sewed each muslin ‘envelope’ containing a passport into the thick down batting, she repeated a little prayer, consoling herself that by the time Herr Kaiser would extract the packages from out of the comforter, she would most probably be halfway across town.

  Every few days, the city was changing. Increasingly, Jewish stores were being emptied, their inhabitants either gone, or too frightened to come to work, and from out of nowhere, one of the first Jewish ghettos was instituted, a blatant reminder of the new Germany. Now, Marthe had to get to work each morning by walking past large signs posted outside several ominous, black iron gates, “Wohngebiet der Juden. Betreten Verboten—” “Living area for Jews. Entrance is prohibited.” She would peer in quickly then scurry on. Sometimes, dark-circled, glassy-eyed children stood just inside the gates, and if the SS guard’s head was turned away for a few moments, extend their hands, palms up, silently begging for food. But she dared not stop. Above all, she mustn’t arouse any suspicion, particularly now that they were so close to their goal.

  By late October, Herr Gutterman was openly hostile. Instead of any hellos to Herr Kaiser, he just glowered, and with his consistent bragging to some of the other boarders about his close connections with the SS, Marthe feared the worst. He was an important man, he would sputter, proudly displaying the bold Swastika armband he had stolen off of a truck just two days before, along with an SS dagger, an iron cross, and a frayed copy of Mein Kampf.

  “Hans, I really worry about Herr Kaiser,” Marthe insisted each night.

  “Herr Kaiser is amazing. He has a couple of good connections. You’ll see, he’ll know how to take care of himself. But I do worry about you. Perhaps this shall be the last ‘run’ for you, Marthe.”

  “Why now? I have been worried for weeks!” Marthe snapped, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “Well, from what you’ve just told me, I do believe Herr Gutterman is getting worse and besides, these passports will be the last fifty on the list.”

  “Fifty! How can I possibly sew all of them into the comforter in time?”

  “My dear, you’ll just have to sew faster than you’ve ever sewn before. It appears we have no other choice.”

  The next day, all the rooms were less spotless than usual in the Sailerstrasse Boarding House. Rapid dusting, makeshift floor mops, and scratches on the floors from furniture being shoved hastily out of the way had allowed Marthe an extra hour and a half by the end of her shift, giving her time to sew fifty envelopes into well-hidden areas in the quilt.

  Finally, hearing Herr Kaiser trudging up the old steps, achy, tingling fingers made it difficult for her to turn the knob, but she managed to fumble through and open the door to face her friend.

  Suddenly, she heard Herr Gutterman calling out from down below: “Herr Kaiser, come here, if you will. There’s something I must talk to you about.”

  Marthe hesitated. She stared at Herr Kaiser’s impassive face, watched him shrug his shoulders, do an about-face and go back down the stairs. Leaning over the railing, she strained to hear any discourses, any arguments. Silence. She locked his door as quietly as possible and tiptoed down the steps, stopping each time they creaked, but Herr Gutterman did not open the door to his downstairs office, and she couldn’t hear any sounds coming out of it. As she exited the front door, she thought she heard a chair turning over, but kept running.

  Herr Kaiser was not so fortunate. After he entered Herr Gutterman’s office, the concierge took a couple of minutes to water his one drooping plant, fix a couple of small statues on his shelves, and dust off his desk—calm, collected, no emotions on his face. All of a sudden, it was as if a blood vessel had burst, turning his cheeks red and puffy. Like a madman, he ran around his desk, knocked a chair over while he grabbed a cane, and raising it up, struck the boarder across the face.

  “You Jew-lover,” he hissed, “I know now you’re up to no good! You swine, you will have to pay for this! Don’t you realize how close I am with the SS? How dare you have anything to do with Jews!”

  Stunned, Herr Kaiser managed to sputter a few words. “Wha—What are you talking about? I don’t understand…”

  “Frau Burger said she saw you talking to a Jew on the street a few weeks ago, and Frau Schmidt even saw you go
ing into a Jewish store one evening. Both of them have given me their sworn testimony on this! Now what do you say to me, you swine!” His eyes almost popped out of their sockets as he staggered towards Herr Kaiser, his left hand holding several sheets up in the air. A second later, he drew a small whistle from out of his pocket and blew it, piercing the air and catapulting a terrified Herr Kaiser spread-eagled across the floor. Instantly, an SS guard appeared from out of nowhere.

  The co-conspirator was led away screaming, praying somewhere inside the other boarders or Marthe, if she was still there, would go for help. But Marthe was gone, and the boarders all knew the drill too well; no one there would ever risk everything for the sake of someone else, not these days.

  Later that night, nestled in Hans’ arms, Marthe started to shiver.

  “What is wrong, dear one?” he asked, his voice gentle.

  “I am not sure, but in my heart, I feel something is not right.” She turned and presented him with her back, soft, warm, in need of comfort.

  He draped his right arm over her stomach. “You are not due back at the boarding house for several days. By that time Herr Kaiser will have distributed the last passports, we will be finished with our work, and we can return to our old schedule, all right, my darling?”

  Closing her eyes, Marthe nodded, knowing tears would soon follow.

  In the small border town of Kietz, Gertl Grynszpan couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to. Wedged in next to dozens of other Polish-born German Jews, she had trouble breathing in the stifling, overcrowded railway freight car, and coupled with a full bladder, she was truly miserable. Still, she didn’t dare ask a border guard if she could go to the bathroom; it was enough just to hope for decent treatment without adding special privileges. Gagging, she could see the pools of urine spilling out in circular patterns on the floor and hear the young children whimpering, as they fidgeted next to their mothers every ten seconds.