by Kathy Kacer
He pulled something from his jacket pocket and dropped it into my hand. When I looked down, I gasped. There, in my palm, was a small brooch shaped like a cornflower, the flower of Germany. It had been Mama’s favorite flower, and Papa had given her this pin on one of her birthdays. It had a ring of deep blue-violet flower heads clustered around a darker center. It sat on a solid gold base.
“Like the blue of her eyes,” Papa said.
“I love it.” I looked up at him, tears pooling in my eyes.
“I knew you would,” Papa replied.
Then, I turned to Hetti. “And thank you for this cake. It makes me happy, and it’s more than I ever imagined.”
She sniveled and dabbed at her eyes. “Come. That’s enough crying for one night. Today is a celebration. Let’s eat.”
Chapter 9
“Cornflowers,” said Marianne, sighing deeply when I told her and the other workers about the brooch Papa had given me. “They’re my favorite as well.”
“You’re lucky to have something so precious,” Erna added when I had described the pin in detail for her and the others who couldn’t see the blue stones of the flower on the gold backing.
I even showed it to Herr Weidt. He reached out to touch it, running his fingers over it so he could feel what it looked like.
“It must mean so much to you,” he said.
I swallowed, not able to say a word.
I wore the pin to the factory that day, and the next one, and the one after that. I vowed that I wouldn’t ever take it off; it was that special to me. And more than anything else, it was a reminder of Mama. It was as if I was carrying her with me on the collar of my blouse or my sweater. All I had to do was reach up, touch the pin, and Mama’s face would flash before my eyes. Somehow, everything felt better knowing that a part of her was with me.
As the weeks went by, Papa and I fell into our new routine. We rose at dawn, ate the rolls, and drank the coffee that Hetti had prepared. Then, we walked the few blocks to the factory. I always kept my head down and clutched Papa’s arm for both our sakes. He needed my sight and I needed his encouragement.
Winter had descended on the city and snow blanketed the ground. The air was bitterly cold when Papa and I left for work in the morning, and even chillier when we returned in the evening. Hetti had miraculously found a pair of boots for me that fit perfectly. She had even managed to find me a new winter coat, one with sleeves that were just the right length. When I asked her where she had found it, she shrugged the question away.
“It belonged to a friend of a friend who was going to throw it away. She was happy to give it to me and didn’t ask any questions. And I’m happy to give it to you. I knew it would fit you like a glove.”
I hugged her tightly when she said that.
Every day, I packed boxes in the factory until it was time for a lunch break. Then, I sat with Papa and the other workers eating the sandwiches that Hetti had prepared for us. After lunch, I worked at packing again. Then, Papa and I went back to Hetti’s in the evening.
The days blended, one into the other. The routine became so familiar that I almost couldn’t remember a time when my life had been any different. It was amazing what passing time did. It made old memories fade and replaced them with something new. Every now and then, I thought about Ruth and worried about where she was and whether or not she was safe. But then, as Papa had instructed, I tried to look ahead and focus on getting through each day.
In the evenings, we sat with Hetti listening to music on the radio that she kept in her sitting room. Hetti loved listening to opera, and she would turn up the volume when her favorite arias came on. Opera was not something that I had spent a lot of time listening to.
“So beautiful!” Hetti said one night as we sat listening. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the sound that was blasting through the sitting room.
I stifled a giggle. This wasn’t beautiful as far as I was concerned. The high soprano notes of the woman singer reminded me of the squeal of train wheels as a train pulled into the station.
“You must try to feel the beautiful music and understand its sad tale,” Hetti said, patiently explaining the plot to me.
It didn’t help much. Every story sounded the same. There was a young woman in love with a man, but unable to find him, or meet him, or stay with him because something or someone always got in the way. Sometimes, the opera ended happily for the couple. But just as often, it ended in tragedy, one or both dying just before they found each other again. I tried to sit still and listen politely to the voices so that Hetti wouldn’t be hurt. It wasn’t easy.
Every now and then, a news report broke into the music. That was when the three of us would sit up, lean closer to the radio, and pay attention. The news was more tragic than the operas. One night, the broadcaster said that all Jewish people from the town of Coesfeld in northern Germany were being ordered to move to Riga, Latvia, into a walled part of that city. It was called a ghetto, Papa explained grimly.
“Just another kind of prison,” he said.
Similar ghettos had already been built in other cities across Europe into which Jews were ordered to move. When those news items were broadcast, I longed for the opera to return to the air. I would rather listen to squealing train wheels than those scary reports.
One day, I was working in the factory, packing my boxes as usual, when Herr Weidt suddenly appeared carrying large piles of blankets and shoes and sweaters and other pieces of clothing.
“I have a new job for you, Lillian,” he said, struggling under the weight of all of these items.
I rushed over to help him. “What are these for?” I asked.
He paused before answering. “You’ve heard about the Nazis’ concentration camps, haven’t you?”
I nodded and shuddered. Concentration camps were far worse than ghettos. Those were the places far away where Jewish people and others were being imprisoned, tortured, and killed.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how I can help those poor people, some of whom I know, who have been sent away to the camps,” Herr Weidt continued. “And then it came to me. I’m going to send supplies to them.” He placed his hand on top of the items. “They probably need clothing and blankets. I’ve heard that they weren’t able to take much with them when they were rounded up and sent to the camps. And I’ve heard the conditions there are terrible; little food, no medicine, no warm winter clothing. I’m hoping these packages will get through to them.”
I gazed at Herr Weidt. His kindness was beyond anything I had ever encountered. I was struggling to find a way to say this, but he had already begun to separate the items into piles.
“Clothing here, blankets there,” he muttered. “And try to sort out the clothing items into separate stacks for men and women.”
I nodded and reached for some of the sweaters and trousers, placing them inside a box that Herr Weidt had prepared. The address on the box read Theresienstadt. It was one of the concentration camps that Papa had talked about. Seeing the name spelled out on the box made my mouth go dry.
“Where did you find all of this?” I asked as I finished loading up one box and moved to another. The clothing was secondhand but in good condition.
He paused and turned his head away. “I’m not the only one who wants to help Jews,” he said. “My friends were very generous when I put out the word that I was looking for these things.”
I picked up a jacket, so small it could have fit my doll, Schatzi. Children! Babies! It was the first time I realized that there were young boys and girls among those who were being sent away. What had these Jewish children done to deserve being sent to those terrible prisons?
“Those poor souls who have been taken to the camps probably won’t last long,” Herr Weidt said, as we closed the last of the boxes and taped and tied it shut. “But I hope these things will make their last days more bearable.”<
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Chapter 10
That evening, Papa and I walked home from the factory in silence. The image of the little jacket was still there in my mind, refusing to leave as if it were stuck inside.
“What is it, my darling?” Papa asked.
I smiled sadly. “You always know when something is bothering me, don’t you?”
“That’s what fathers are for. It’s my job to know.”
The streets were busy with people rushing past. A little boy ran right by us, pushing past Papa and making him stumble.
“I’m fine,” Papa protested as I reached out to stop his fall. Papa was so proud; he hated having anyone look after him. He always insisted that he could do everything on his own.
“I’m fine,” he repeated and continued walking. “Now, tell me why you’re so troubled.”
I took a deep breath and began to tell Papa about the little jacket and all the clothes that I had helped Herr Weidt pack up.
“Children are in those concentration camps, too,” I whispered. “Even babies.”
“Yes,” Papa replied. His voice sounded as sad as I felt.
“But why do the Nazis hate the children? They haven’t done anything wrong. No one has. But little children! It doesn’t…”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Papa finished my sentence.
And then, we walked in silence once more. Nothing could explain what was happening in the world or why Jewish people were so hated.
A conversation with Ruth played through my mind, a memory of another time.
“Did you hear what Leon said to me in the playground?” Ruth asked one day, as we lined up to go inside the school building.
“No.” I glanced around. Leon was a boy a grade ahead of us. We never mingled with the older kids, and they never paid much attention to us.
“He pushed me—hard! I waited for him to say he was sorry. But, instead, he said, ‘Watch where you’re going,’ as though it were my fault. And then, he screamed, ‘Jew!’ really loud, like it was a dirty word.”
“Are you sure he meant it? Maybe it was just an accident.”
“It was no accident. He sounded like he hated me, hated all of us!”
The light was fading. Streetlamps were beginning to light up, casting dusky shadows across the pavement. My breath, when I exhaled, hung in the air like an icy cloud. Snow began to fall in fat flakes that clumped together and settled on top of each other. I wanted to get home quickly. I hoped Hetti would have hot tea or, better yet, hot soup waiting for us. It was probably selfish of me to wish for food when the Jews who were in concentration camps had nothing.
We were close to Alexanderplatz. One more block, and we’d arrive at Hetti’s apartment. But, as we turned the last corner, a truck suddenly pulled up, revving its motor and then squealing to a stop right in front of us. I froze and yanked on Papa’s arm as two police officers got out of the truck.
“What—”
“Shhh, Papa!” I whispered. “Police!”
Papa sucked in his breath, and his face went white as ash. He pulled me against him and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
My mind raced. Were the Gestapo police coming to arrest us? How did they know we were Jews? How could we get away? I reached up and touched my cornflower pin. Mama! But she wasn’t here. Only Papa and me. And now, it was over for us.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight as if something was squeezing the air from my lungs. My head felt light. My arms shook. Papa held me tighter.
The Gestapo marched toward us, faces grim, eyes narrow and angry. They were only steps away. Cold prickles traveled up and down my spine as I braced myself for what was to come. But instead of stopping in front of us, instead of arresting us, instead of ordering us into the truck, the police officers marched right past and stopped in front of a building just behind us. They pounded on the door and seconds later, an elderly man answered. He had a long beard, and an embroidered skullcap was perched on his head. I knew instantly that he was an observant Jewish man.
His eyes widened when he saw the police on his doorstep. “Yes?” His voice was raspy.
“You’re to come with us,” one of the officers said.
“But why? I’ve done nothing.”
“You’re a Jew,” the second officer interrupted. “We’re cleaning the city of Jews, one by one.”
I thought I might be sick as Papa clutched me even harder. By now, a crowd had gathered. Men on their way home from work, women carrying baskets of groceries, children riding their bicycles, all stopped to stare at the scene in front of us.
“But…but can I get…can I just get my coat? My hat?” he begged.
“You won’t need them where you’re going.”
And then, the police officers stepped forward and grabbed the man, one on either side, and pulled him from the doorway, past the spot where Papa and I were standing. The man’s feet dragged along the pavement and his head dropped forward.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” he sobbed as the officers lifted him up into the back of the truck.
His skullcap flew from his head, floated for a moment in the icy air, and then dropped to the ground. That was when the man cried out as if someone had struck him. And then, the truck drove off.
At first, no one moved. Then slowly, the crowd began to disperse. And finally, it was just Papa and me, standing under a streetlamp, shadows deepening, light fading. My body still shook. Papa looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“We have to go,” he finally said, taking a shaky step forward.
I found my voice. “No, Papa. That’s the wrong way.”
We had turned around toward the terrible commotion. And now, my father, always so sure of his step, had become confused and disoriented. He stopped and twisted his head, first in one direction and then the other.
“I don’t know…I don’t know which way….” His voice trailed off weakly.
My head was pounding. But now it was my turn to take care of him. “It’s okay, Papa,” I said. “I know. Take my arm.”
And with that, my proud father reached for me and held on with all his might. I glanced back over my shoulder. The old man’s skullcap lay on the ground. Snow continued to fall in thick clumps, covering it until it could no longer be seen.
Chapter 11
After that evening, Papa and I walked to and from the factory even more quickly than before, heads down, saying nothing. Each car that belched smoke, every cat that meowed, each parent that shouted to their child—every sound made me jump. My eyes darted this way and that, always on the lookout for police who might be on the lookout for us. To make matters worse, Papa had become more anxious than I had ever seen him, as if the incident with the police and losing his sense of direction had unnerved him completely. The weight of having to look out for him increased with each passing day.
It was only after we arrived at the factory that Papa would take a deep breath and smile. “Herr Weidt is keeping us safe here in his workshop for the blind, just like I said he would,” Papa would say to me as he took his familiar position at his workstation and began to assemble his brushes.
I longed to depend on Papa again. I wanted to trust him and to believe we would remain safe. I thought fleetingly of the snow globe that Mama and Papa had given me for my eighth birthday. I had left it behind with all of my other belongings. Inside the glass sphere was a small porcelain statue of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. I had seen pictures of it in a book; steel pillars and cables that wove together to rise up into a pointed steeple. The Eiffel Tower in my snow globe was submerged in water and surrounded by small white particles. When I shook the sphere, the particles were churned up. And they rose to the top of the globe and then floated to the bottom like flakes of snow. Nothing could touch the tower or the snowflakes. They were protected by the glass and by the water. That’s what I hoped for Papa and me and the others. I wanted t
o pretend that all of us in Herr Weidt’s factory were in a kind of bubble where nothing bad could touch us.
One day, I realized that we had been at the factory for nearly six months. And aside from a couple of scary moments, nothing bad had happened to us, just as Papa had promised. Out there, the world was spiraling into a black hole. But here in Herr Weidt’s factory, we were protected from the outside world. We were in our very own snow globe.
I was packaging a large order one day when Anneliese walked by and nudged me.
“It looks as if you’re busy,” she said.
“This is one of the biggest orders ever,” I replied, struggling to move one of the boxes. “It’ll take at least four boxes to fit everything that the military has asked for this time. I don’t know what the Nazis do with all these brooms and brushes, but I’m glad they keep ordering them.”
Anneliese nodded. “That’s what keeps us working here. I have such mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, we’re making supplies for the Nazis. For the Nazis!” she repeated, emphasizing the word. “I mean, they’re the enemy! And yet, without their orders, we wouldn’t have a job here and we’d be as helpless as all the other Jews in Berlin.” She shook her head from side to side. “It’s a dilemma, for sure!”
“I know what you mean,” I agreed. “And I know that Herr Weidt hates the Nazis as much as we do. He tells us that all the time. But we still have to fill these orders.”
“Right. No brushes, no factory. And no factory, no…us!” She shook her head again. “But, that’s not what I came over here to talk to you about. I have a gift for you.”
A gift? My birthday had been months ago, and I really hadn’t told anyone at the factory about it, except to talk about Mama’s cornflower brooch, which I continued to wear every day.
“My sister and I are living with a woman who happens to have a sewing machine in her home. She lets me use it from time to time,” Anneliese said wistfully.
