Papa looked at his watch. “It’s time to say goodnight.”
It was the moment I had dreaded all day, and I saw Ruth go calmly to kiss Papa, as if tonight were like any other. I wondered why Ruth didn’t feel as I did that terrible tightness inside. Or did she? Did she, too, hold back a cry? “Don’t leave me, Papa. Don’t go!”
I kissed Papa’s cheek, and he put his hand on my hair for a moment, holding me close. “Goodnight, Lisa,” he said, and then he whispered close to my ear, “God keep you.”
For a long time after Ruth’s breathing had grown deep and even, I lay awake listening to the sounds in the house. Finally I heard the front door close. Papa was gone.
Promises to Keep
THROUGH THE LONG DAYS of waiting to hear from Papa, Mother was calm. But when we received the telegram, “Arrived safely, all is well,” tears rolled down Mother’s cheeks.
Since Papa had left, relatives came to visit every night, hoping for news, giving advice.
“Now that Arthur’s gone, they might suspect something,” my grandmother said. “Maybe you should send the children ahead to England, Margo. At least they would be safe. Many people are doing it.”
“I won’t do anything without consulting Arthur,” Mother always said firmly. “The children and I will stay together.”
“I’ll be glad to keep Annie with me when you leave,” Grandmother Platt offered. “Don’t you think she’s too young for such a trip?”
“No,” Mother said. “I couldn’t leave her.”
Always their conversations turned, finally, to “the question.” Then their voices were hushed and they glanced about as if the very walls had ears. How much longer should they wait? How much longer would it be safe for them to walk the streets of Berlin? Wouldn’t someone, somehow, bring this madness to an end?
I tried not to listen. I wished I could be like Ruth, always in the midst of a good book or off on some project. Instead, I found myself hearing and knowing more than I wanted to. Every day brought new incidents.
“Isaac Cohn’s store windows were smashed today. He’s talking about leaving for China.”
“Helen Kraus told me they came for her husband early this morning. They took him for ‘questioning.’ You know what that means.”
“People won’t come to my store, since the Nazis painted that sign on the wall. ‘I can’t buy from Jews,’ one man told me. ‘Nothing personal, you understand.’”
Despite everything, Mother said we were to act natural. We told Annie nothing of our plans. She was too young to be trusted, and too much of a chatterbox. We didn’t even tell her that Papa would send for us. She believed that he was coming back.
Late in March Papa wrote that we must prepare to leave Germany as soon as possible. Hitler’s armies had marched into Austria. We sat huddled by our radio listening to that thundering voice. “My German comrades, Austria is ours! It is only the beginning. It will come to pass, my comrades, as I have promised. Germany will rule the world!”
Even in his letter, Papa was careful to reveal nothing, for nobody questioned the actions of the Gestapo anymore. They could and did barge into homes and restaurants, hauling people away without explanation. They could and did inspect the mail to learn the names and intentions of those who were “unfriendly” to their cause.
“I think it would be a good idea,” Papa wrote guardedly, “for you to take the girls to Switzerland for a short vacation. Make all the arrangements, Margo, and write me of your plans.”
“When are we leaving?” I asked Mother again and again, and she always shook her head. “I’m not sure. There is so much to do.”
“May I tell Rosemarie that we’re planning a vacation?”
Mother hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose we might as well tell our friends, but only that we’re going on a vacation. It would be the natural thing to do.”
I had not shown Rosemarie my ring, afraid that I might reveal something. We had never had any secrets before.
I told her at school one day, while we were sitting on the bench waiting for Frau Meyers, the ballet teacher. “I think we’ll be going on a vacation soon, Rosemarie.”
“That will be nice,” she said, smiling. “Where?”
“To Switzerland, I think.”
Just then Hanna Hendel came up, smiling in her mysterious way and shaking her head to make her curls bob. “Have you heard?” she said breathlessly. “Have you heard about Eleanor?”
“No,” I said, tired of Hanna’s endless gossip.
“Nobody’s supposed to know,” Hanna said, “but Eleanor and her family have left for good. Don’t you want to know how I found out?” She looked at Rosemarie and me, wanting us to coax her to tell, but we kept our faces blank.
“I know you’re dying to tell us,” Rosemarie said.
“Well, our Lucy knows the woman who worked for Eleanor’s parents,” Hanna said, flushed with eagerness, “and she told Lucy that they are going to America.”
I looked down at the floor, so that Hanna would not guess how I felt at hearing the word “America.”
“I wouldn’t want to go to America,” Hanna went on. “They speak French there, you know, and who wants to have to learn French? I’d hate it.”
We didn’t even correct her. I was too disgusted by her gossip and her hating things. She hated school; she hated Frau Meyers and the ballet lessons, and I think she hated me. Maybe it was because Frau Meyers said I was the best dancer in the class, and Hanna couldn’t stand to take second place. She had a way of finding people’s weaknesses and picking on them. Even on my first day at school, she had noticed the scar on my leg and asked rudely,
“Where did you get that scar? Were you in an accident?”
“I had an infection there,” I told her. “It happened when we were in Brazil.” I really didn’t feel like talking about it.
“How awful!” she gasped. “You’ll always have to wear thick stockings. I hate thick stockings, don’t you?”
It was then that Rosemarie came up to me and, smiling, introduced herself, and warned me about how unpleasant Hanna could be. It was the day that Rosemarie and I became best friends.
Now I told Rosemarie, “We might be leaving even before school is out. Mother is going to see about our passports today. I just want to tell you …”
“Don’t tell me anything,” Rosemarie said quickly, taking my hand. “Just give me a picture of yourself that I can keep while you’re in Switzerland. Look, here’s Frau Meyers. Let’s get in line.”
There is something about dancing that makes me forget everything else. I feel free then, as if I am flying. How I love the feel of ballet slippers on my feet!
But it was to be the last dance lesson. Frau Meyers was leaving. One by one the teachers were leaving, without explanation. We had learned to ask no questions, knowing that answers were impossible to give.
“Don’t ask any questions,” Mother told me again that afternoon when we were on our way to the passport office. “Don’t talk, unless you are spoken to.”
Ruth had decided to stay home and practice her violin, and Annie was napping. I had begged Mother to let me come with her.
“I’m glad you’re with me,” Mother admitted as we stood before the large office building. “Are you afraid?” she asked.
“No. I am not.” But my heart was pounding when we walked through the door.
The man behind the desk had a square, strong face. He breathed heavily, through his mouth, and his thick fingers were busy among the papers on his desk. “Well?” he said, without looking up. “What do you want?”
“I have come to pick up my passports,” Mother said, and I marveled that her tone was so calm and even. “Here is the receipt showing that we have paid all our taxes.”
“Why do you want to leave Germany?” he demanded.
“My children and I have planned to take a short vacation in Switzerland. You will see that all my papers are in order.”
Mother handed him the tax receipt, and as I glan
ced at it I saw a word printed across the top in bold red letters, Jude, Jew.
The man glanced at the papers, then looked fully at Mother. “Your papers are definitely not in order,” he said, breathing deeply. His face was red from some great effort. “I cannot give you a passport.” He waved his hand and called loudly, “Next!”
“But I have everything ready,” Mother said patiently. She pressed my hand tightly, warning me to be still.
“You had a passport before,” he declared. “What happened to it?”
“It was taken from me two years ago,” Mother answered, “when I returned to Germany from Brazil.”
“So!” His breath was a hiss, and his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. “People have been known to sell their passports. We have strict rules …”
“Oh, Karl,” came a loud voice from the back of the room, and I jumped, not having noticed that anyone else was with us. Now a tall young man came forward. “Why are you making such a fuss about this?” he asked, grinning and shaking his head. “Can’t you see this woman just wants to take her children on a little holiday? I can’t blame her—it is a superb time to go.”
He smiled at me, and I struggled to return his smile. “But you know the rules, Fritz,” the other man objected.
“Her passport was taken by our own officers,” the young man said impatiently. “Don’t you see the notation here?” He pointed to one of the papers. “Come on now, and don’t take all day about it. We’ll miss our afternoon coffee.”
“Then you must take the responsibility,” said the other stiffly. “I refuse to be responsible.” But as he spoke he took a slim green book from his desk drawer, stamped it several times and handed it to Mother. “The children,” he said gruffly, “can go on your passport.”
“Thank you,” Mother said briskly, and I kept my face rigid, as if I didn’t really care.
“You are allowed to take out ten marks for each person,” the man said.
“Ten marks!” Mother’s eyes were plainly troubled. “I thought it was more.”
“Ten marks,” he snapped. “The rules change, you know.”
“Have a pleasant holiday!” the young man called after us. And as we left I heard him say, “Oh, Karl, you are getting so suspicious,” to which the other replied, “But Fritz, they are Jews.”
Ruth and Annie were sitting on the front step waiting for us when we got home. “There’s a man in the living room!” Annie cried happily.
“Did you get it?” Ruth asked. Her tone was low and urgent.
“Yes, dear. But who is here?”
“Herr Mendel,” Ruth replied. “We didn’t know whether to let him in.”
“He insisted on seeing you,” said Clara softly, “and Ruth told me you know him, so I thought it was all right.”
“Yes, I know him,” Mother said. “My husband did business with him. But what could he want?”
I followed Mother into the living room. I had left a book on the window seat, and now I went there, as if to read. The drape was half closed, and I sat very quietly with the open book on my lap.
Herr Mendel did not even seem to notice me, although he had been very nice the day Papa took me to his shop. Herr Mendel made the patterns for the coats that Papa designed. I remembered seeing the stacks of bright cloth that were cut into peculiar shapes, bits of wool and silk that were left over. Herr Mendel gave me a sack full of the scraps to take home to use for making doll clothes.
He had smiled at me then, and I had thought how much his little mouth resembled a prune, for he barely moved his lips, and I had very nearly laughed aloud.
Now he spoke in a different voice as he faced Mother. “I have come for the money your husband owes me.”
Mother walked toward him slowly, then she stood beside the easy chair, as if to steady herself. “My husband,” she said firmly, “owes you nothing.”
For a moment they only looked at each other, Herr Mendel with his eyes narrowed, as if he were judging Mother’s strength.
“I know that my husband paid all his accounts before he left,” Mother continued, holding her ground.
“He never paid me for the last delivery,” Mendel insisted. He took a yellow piece of paper from his vest pocket. “You see? Here is the order form. Check it for yourself.”
“The order is right,” Mother said, “but apparently you forgot to mark that it was paid. My husband always pays his bills on the first of the month. In all the years he has worked with you,” she said heatedly, “you have never had to come and ask for your money. Isn’t it true?”
“My dear Frau Platt,” said Mendel smoothly, “I have no doubt that it was an honest mistake. Probably in the excitement over his trip, your husband simply forgot to pay me. His plans were rather sudden, weren’t they? It’s not as if I am desperate for the money. I have, in fact, a large contract from the government to make uniforms. So you see, I am on good terms with the Nazis.”
“I see,” Mother whispered, blinking rapidly.
“Everyone knows your husband has left,” he continued. “It might be difficult for you, unpleasant indeed, if I had to go to the police about this. It’s only a small matter—two hundred marks. I’m sure your husband would want you to pay it—under the circumstances.”
“Wait here,” Mother said. All the color had gone from her face, and I could see her anger in the way she walked.
When Mother was out of the room, Herr Mendel moved toward me. He smiled with his thin lips pursed and held out his hand, but I could not make myself go toward him. “How are you, my dear? I suppose you miss your Papa. He and I have always been good friends. Are you going to see him soon?”
My throat was so dry I couldn’t have spoken had I wanted to. I wondered whether he could see in my face how I hated him, and I wished desperately that I had never taken his gift, that bag of brightly colored scraps.
“Here you are, Herr Mendel,” Mother said stiffly, and she watched him as he counted the money. “You may give me that order form as a receipt.”
“Gladly,” Mendel replied, smiling. “I want everything to be done properly. Everybody knows how I do business.”
“I’m sure,” Mother said, taking him to the door and closing it swiftly behind him.
Mother sank into a chair, breathing heavily. “Call Clara,” she told me, and when Clara stood before her she said, “From now on, Clara, don’t let anyone into the house when I am gone.”
“What is it, Frau Platt?” Clara asked, wringing her hands.
“He said my husband owed him money, and I had to give it to him. He would have gone to the police.”
Clara shook her head. “He told me he was your friend! How sorry I am, how sorry!”
“You couldn’t have known,” Mother sighed. “It’s times like these that prove what people really are. Well, let’s have supper. I feel exhausted.” She coughed, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. “It’s this cold,” she murmured, “that’s making me tired. I should see Dr. Michels. Ah, there is so much to do. At least we have our passports. That’s the main thing.”
“Oh, there’s a letter,” Clara said, “from Herr Platt. It came while you were gone.”
Instantly Mother’s face brightened, and Annie cried, “Read it! What does he tell me? Read it!”
Annie climbed up into Mother’s lap, and Ruth and I stood close beside her to see Papa’s handwriting while she read.
My dear Wife and Daughters,
My thoughts are with you constantly, and I hope you have made plans for your holiday in Switzerland. Annie, be a good girl and stay very close to your mother on the trip.
I have found a place in a rooming house where the landlady speaks German. The woman is a good soul, and reminds me somewhat of our Clara, although, of course, her cooking cannot compare.
We all looked at Clara, and she smiled self-consciously.
At night I go to school to learn English. My girls, you would laugh to see me sitting behind a desk like a young schoolboy!
My very dear fr
iend has a job selling neckties. He also works in the mornings, sweeping and dusting in one of the large office buildings. In the afternoons he goes to the garment district to sell his neckties and to talk with men in the clothing business. He is hoping to go into the coat business here some day.
All my love,
Papa
“What does he mean?” I whispered. “His very dear friend?”
Mother shook her head slightly, then glanced at Clara.
“Come on, Annie,” Clara said. “Help me take those cookies off the pans.”
When the kitchen door had closed behind them, Mother said, “Do be careful what you say around Annie, Lisa. Papa means, of course, that he has a job selling neckties—and sweeping. He’s just being cautious. If people should find out he is working in America, they would know he doesn’t intend to come back, and it could be—well—awkward for us. Now, we don’t have to tell Grandmother Platt what sort of work Papa is doing. You know how she is.”
“He’s a janitor,” Ruth said, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” Mother replied sternly, “and probably the best janitor they ever had.”
I kept silent, but somehow I, too, had imagined that in America Papa would be making and selling coats, as he had always done. I had heard that in America everybody was rich. I could not picture my father, whose shirts were always spotlessly white and whose shoes were polished until they gleamed, being a janitor, perhaps in overalls. It was too absurd, my Papa! He’s doing it for us, I thought, overcome with love and longing to see him.
The Sacrifice
ON THE LAST DAY we would be in school, I gave Rosemarie a snapshot of myself. The day after next we were leaving.
“It’s a good picture of you, Lisa,” Rosemarie said.
“It shows all my freckles,” I objected.
“I think freckles are interesting,” Rosemarie said seriously. “Really, I think they add character to a face. Your hair is really nice here, too. You know,” she said, looking at me closely, “I think it is getting a little more red in it.”
I laughed. “Remember the time I put lemon juice on it? Then vinegar? I smelled like a tossed salad.”
Journey to America Page 2
