At first it had been a curious sight to see men in uniform with their arm bands and high black boots. Little children would stand at a distance, staring and whispering. But soon even Annie knew that those men must be avoided.
Every day on the way to school Ruth and I saw the soldiers, their arms linked as they strode through the streets, laughing and singing loudly. It was the students, though, with their brown shirts and black ties bearing the swastika emblem who were the worst. They pushed their way through the busy streets, walking five and six abreast, as if they owned the city. They sang new songs, and one in particular was so horrible that I could not believe my ears.
When the blood of Jews spurts from our knives, Then things will be twice as good as before!
On the street corners there were soldiers shaking their collection boxes, shouting in chorus, “Give, give, give to the Nazi party!” Every time I saw them I wanted to run, and the sound of those jangling coins pounded in my ears, but Ruth and I would walk past, keeping our faces blank.
Then one afternoon we had been forced to stop. We had been out shopping with Mother, and suddenly we could walk no further. The street was roped off, and swarms of people had gathered.
“There’s going to be a parade,” Mother had said, her face ashen. “Oh, children, if I had known! We’ll have to stand here until it’s over.” She grasped Annie’s hand tightly and said in her sternest voice, “Don’t move, Annie, and don’t you dare cry!”
All I could see through the crowd were the tops of helmets and black marching feet. Drums thundered; horns and trumpets made a deafening blast. Flags waved everywhere, not the German flag we loved, but the bright red Nazi flag with the black hooked cross.
Suddenly a tremendous roar came from the crowd. “Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” The whole street seemed to vibrate with it, “Heil Hitler!” and I trembled and wondered whether my legs would hold me upright. It seemed that we were the only people who did not join the shouting. We had stood motionless, surrounded by the roaring crowd, until finally it was over. We went home, but things were never quite the same again. Now the taxi slammed to an abrupt halt, and Annie nearly fell off the seat.
“What’s the matter, driver?” Mother asked, frowning.
“Can’t get through here,” the driver muttered. “They’re preparing for a rally and a parade.”
“A parade at this time of the morning?” Mother exclaimed.
“See that poster? It’s not starting until ten, but they’re blocking off the street and setting up a platform for speakers.”
From the window I could see soldiers inspecting the grounds. Some were hanging a huge Nazi flag behind the platform.
“Oh,” Annie piped up with a little giggle, “how beautiful.”
I wanted to pinch her.
“Herr Hitler himself will speak today,” said the taxi driver proudly. “Too bad you have to miss it.”
“Yes,” Mother said faintly, and now I gave Annie a fierce look and nodded toward the bride doll.
A guard with a black pistol in his belt came over to the car. “You can’t get through here,” he said gruffly. “No cars allowed until after the parade.”
The taxi driver yawned and scratched his head. “Guess I’ll turn around and take the next street.”
“You can’t. It’s barricaded too. You’ll have to turn there,” the guard pointed. “Where are you headed?”
“The railroad station.”
“Then you’ll have to go up about six blocks, then left …”
I saw Mother looking at her watch, shaking her head. Then she reached into her purse and suddenly got out of the taxi and walked up to the guard.
“How silly of me to forget about the parade today,” I heard her say in a gay voice. “It’s a shame. I know the children would love to see it.” She smiled brightly.
“If you can wait,” said the guard, “I could arrange to save some chairs for you and your children. Think what it would mean to them to see the Führer so close!” His eyes gleamed.
“You are very kind,” Mother said. “Unfortunately we have relatives meeting us in Switzerland at the station. It’s the only train today. I suppose the children will get over their disappointment. I told my girls that of course you couldn’t move the barricade just for us.”
The guard glanced over his shoulder. “I suppose they can see another parade soon,” he said, “and they are probably excited about this trip.”
He glanced inside the taxi. Annie’s face was pressed against the window, and she waved and smiled happily.
Mother held out her hand. Between her fingers was a folded and crumpled bill.
“I suppose I could let you through,” he mused.
“You are very kind to take the trouble,” Mother said.
“Not at all,” he replied, taking the bill and putting it into his pocket. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your train. I know how children look forward to these things—I have two of my own.”
“Nice fellow,” said the driver when the barricade had been moved and we continued along the street toward the station.
We had barely boarded the train before the engines began to hiss and puff and we were moving. Mother asked the porter to turn one of the seats around, so that we could all face each other. Then she leaned back, her eyes closed. Her face looked very white, and I wondered whether she had slept at all the night before.
Suddenly she sat up, coughing, and pointed to the water fountain at the end of the car.
Ruth ran to bring water in a paper cup. “You never did see Dr. Michels,” she said.
“I know,” Mother sighed. “There was so much to do. I’ll be all right. Just let me rest awhile. You can tell Annie some stories.”
“Come sit between us,” Ruth said to Annie, and she began to tell Annie her favorite story, Cinderella.
Mother leaned toward us suddenly and whispered, “Listen, I forgot to tell you. At the border they might ask us whether we have any valuables. If they say you cannot take your rings, you’ll have to give them up. Do you understand?”
Ruth and I nodded, but I really did not understand, and I looked down at my beautiful ring and watched the light from the window shining through the stone.
It was a strange, long morning. I had brought a book to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the click of the wheels and the sound of the engine.
I saw a little boy sitting on a fence, waving frantically as the train sped by, but I did not wave back.
Ruth came close beside me to look out of the window.
“We’ll never come back,” she whispered.
“Maybe—someday.” I said.
Never, never, my thoughts repeated in rhythm to the clicking wheels. The train followed the course of the Rhine River—Frankfurt, where we went for winter vacation, Heidelberg, with the large old stone castle on the hill—all the places we had loved.
At last the train lurched and came to a stop. There was a great deal of grumbling. “Why are we stopping here?” a woman exclaimed crossly. “This stop isn’t scheduled.”
“Last stop before the border,” the conductor shouted, passing through our car.
After a few minutes a man in uniform came onto the train. I recognized the black arm band and the high black boots.
“Jews out!” he shouted. “Jews out for inspection.”
I stared at Mother, unable to speak.
“What a bother,” someone complained. “We’ll all be delayed.”
“Jews out!” the Nazi shouted again. “Out!” He looked around the car.
“Come on, girls,” Mother said in a low voice.
My hands were moist, and my face felt hot. I wouldnever be able to walk through that train. I shook my head blindly, wanting to scream, but the words came out in a whisper, “I can’t.”
“We must!” Mother took my arm. “You must obey, Lisa! Come, don’t be afraid.”
“Bring all your belongings,” said the officer when he saw us standing.
“
Take your coat, Lisa,” Mother said, “and your violin, Ruth.”
Ruth took the violin from under her seat, and I felt Mother pulling me toward the aisle. “Lisa, please,” she whispered.
Numbly I began to walk. Everyone’s head was turned toward us. We were the only ones in the car who had to leave. With every step I took the aisle seemed to stretch out longer, but I put one foot in front of the other and kept my eyes straight ahead.
But they were staring at us, all those eyes, and I wanted to scream at all of them, “Why do you look at us? We’re no different than anyone else!” Dimly I saw Annie scampering ahead of me, then she turned and I saw her smiling, and I thought of the Müllers.
All the suitcases were piled at the end of the car. Mother began to search for ours. She told Ruth and me to carry our own, and then a man with gray hair came up to us.
“Allow me to help you,” he said softly, taking a suitcase in each hand.
“Thank you,” Mother murmured.
“It’s beyond belief,” he muttered under his breath.
Mother shook her head at him slightly, for the Nazi strode past us, calling, “Quick! Quick!”
We were led into a small wooden shack with a few splintery benches along the walls and a large counter where another Nazi waited.
“Open the suitcases,” he commanded.
With both hands he rummaged through my dresses, my underwear and pajamas, holding them up. He put his hand inside my shoes, then reached down to the bottom of the suitcase and took out the salami. His lips were pressed tightly together as he held up the salami. “Well? Don’t you know that food is forbidden?” he shouted.
“This child,” Mother said, coughing slightly, “simply loves salami.”
I heard the salami land in the waste can behind the counter. My clothes were pushed back inside the suitcase.
When all four bags were closed once more, the man turned to Mother. “Have you any jewels?” he asked.
“Only what I am wearing,” Mother said, showing her watch, necklace and rings.
“You can tell me,” he said with a forced smile. “You won’t be punished. Surely you own more jewelry than that!”
“I have taken only what is allowed,” Mother insisted.
“We’ll see,” he said sharply. “Frau Krantz will make the personal inspection. This way.”
She was a round-faced woman with braids wound around her head, wearing a dark blue uniform. “Remove your shoes and outer clothing,” she said to Mother, when we were in the small, cold room. Ruth and Annie and I sat down on the bench, watching while the woman quickly searched through Mother’s shoes, the pockets of her dress, the lining of her coat. Then she said, “Take everything out of your purse and put it on the table.”
My flesh felt cold at the thought that this woman would touch me, examine me down to my skin as if I were a criminal.
“Now the children,” she said. She hesitated. “The children need only take off their shoes and coats.”
She put her hands inside my shoes and felt the folds of my dress and coat, then she looked at my ring, but said nothing. She opened the door and called out, “These people have nothing.”
We stepped outside the shack into the sunlight, and again we saw the Nazi who had come onto the train. He held up his hand to stop us, then knelt down beside Annie.
“What a pretty doll you have,” he said. “May I see her?”
Annie stared at him woodenly and clutched the bride doll more tightly against her chest.
“Show the officer your doll, Annie,” Mother said.
Annie held the doll toward him, biting her lip as he searched through the dress and veil.
“Very well,” he said, turning with a brisk click of his heels. “You may—wait! I see we have missed something. What is that?” he asked, pointing at Ruth’s violin case.
“It’s my violin,” Ruth said in a whisper.
“It is forbidden to take musical instruments,” he declared.
“But I only—I have to practice.”
“Musical instruments are strictly forbidden!”
“Give it up, Ruth,” Mother said in a low, urgent voice. “Give it!”
We walked back to the train, Ruth with her head down. I looked back for a moment and saw that he had taken the violin from its case and was stroking the smooth wood with his fingertips. Ruth did not notice, and all the way to Zurich she did not speak.
Zurich—City of Refuge
IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT when we reached Zurich. At the railroad station, while Mother went to get a newspaper, Annie fell asleep with her head on a suitcase, and we could scarcely waken her to board the bus that would take us to the rooming house.
“I had hoped to rent an apartment,” Mother sighed, “but everything is so expensive.”
I could see the shining water of Zurich Lake as the bus traveled on, and behind it the hills, dotted with houses whose lights sent their reflection down to the lake. It was beautiful, almost unreal, like a picture postcard.
At the rooming house we climbed the sagging stairway two flights, followed by Frau Feldin, the landlady. She was very thin, and she reminded me of a bird, talking incessantly in a high, chirping voice.
“I hope your little girl doesn’t wet,” she said rapidly to Mother. “I don’t have many sheets, you know, and you’ll have to launder your own.”
“Oh, Annie doesn’t wet anymore,” Mother replied. “She’s nearly four.”
“We have so many boarders now,” Frau Feldin said, her hands fluttering. “We used to have only one man living with us, but times change, so many refugees now. You have one of the biggest rooms,” she said, “with a stove and an icebox. The bathroom is down the hall. I’ll leave you now. If you need anything …” her voice trailed off, and from the stairway she called, “Grüss Gott,” the Swiss phrase for greeting and parting, “God greet you.”
The room had the musty odor of old, faded things, and I wondered, if this was one of the largest rooms, what the small ones were like.
“Where shall we put our things?” Ruth asked.
“Here.” Mother pointed to a dark, heavy cupboard. “But wait until tomorrow to unpack.”
I walked to the window and looked to the alley below, where garbage pails and old crates were the only view. The drapes on the window and across the tiny kitchen nook were heavy with soil and unevenly faded, the yellow and green patterns of ferns blending together.
“Let’s go to bed,” Mother said cheerfully, “and tomorrow we’ll get acquainted with the city. Maybe we’ll even find a larger room.”
I felt vaguely hungry, but was too tired even to mention it, and I knew the cupboards were empty. Annie was put to bed on the sofa, while Ruth and I slept in the double bed beside Mother’s cot. The sheets felt slightly damp, but after lying for a few moments in the darkness I fell asleep. Then, from far, far away it seemed, I saw a light and heard Mother’s voice, “Oh, Annie, my darling, you did wet the bed, and I told the landlady …” But I was too tired to stay awake.
In the morning we took our first walk around the city, and in the days that followed Ruth and I became familiar with the streets and shops, for there was not much else to do. The children, free from school for summer vacation, were swimming in Zurich Lake and going in sailboats and motorboats, but this was not for us. Entrance to the lakeside beach cost money, and we could not spend the little that was left in Mother’s purse.
There was no larger room to be had, nor any room that would not cost nearly twice as much as Frau Feldin’s. “We’ll manage,” Mother said, when Ruth complained of the cramped quarters. “It probably won’t be for long.” But with Papa’s next letters we began to realize that we might have to stay in Zurich for several months.
“There is a great deal involved,” Papa wrote. “I must save enough money for your tickets, then find a sponsor for you. It will probably be several months, but remember that I am doing all I can.”
I had not seen Papa for five months. Why should it take so l
ong simply to go to another country? Mother said that Papa had to find witnesses who would swear that he could support us. There were forms to fill out, and each form meant that we had to wait a little longer. And there were thousands like us, people from all over the world, trying to get to America. It would take time, and everyone was fighting against time, trying to settle somewhere in safety before war overtook them.
People from Austria, Poland, Lithuania and Czechoslovakia had gathered a few possessions as we had done, and become refugees. I hated that word.
“There is an agency to help refugees,” Frau Feldin told Mother. “I’ve heard that they sometimes find homes for refugee children. It is too crowded, the four of you in that room.”
“I’ll keep the children with me,” Mother said. “I want us to stay together,” and she added softly, “as long as possible.”
Night after night, when Ruth and I were in bed, I saw Mother sitting at the table counting the money that was left. She scarcely ate, taking only a cup of tea for breakfast, while she gave us slices of bread and butter. And then one day I saw that Mother’s diamond engagement ring was gone, and I asked her, knowing the answer beforehand, “What happened to your ring?”
“I sold it.”
There was nothing left of value now, except for Ruth’s ring and mine.
“Maybe we should sell them,” I said to Ruth one day when we were out walking. Day after day we walked and looked at the shop windows filled with beautiful, tempting displays of toys, watches, pretty clothes and music boxes. I had never cared that much for owning things, but now, without a penny in my pocket, all I could think of was going in to buy something, anything. The bakery shop, with its little cakes all arranged and the wonderful sweet smells made me think of home, where the cooky jar was always full and the aroma of Clara’s baking filled the house.
We hurried past the bakery, and in the next window we saw an odd assortment of gold watches, dishes, furniture and clothing.
“It’s a pawnshop,” Ruth told me.
“I know.”
“Maybe we should …”
Journey to America Page 4
