Good-bye Marianne

by Irene N. Watts

  Five years ago, 1933. It seemed so long ago. The same year the Nazis came to power. Her parents talked of a time before the Brown Shirts, before the red flags with their black swastikas were hung from every building, before the anti-Jewish slogans were scrawled on every wall – JEWS NOT WANTED HERE.

  She even remembered when school was different. Now kids refused to sit next to her, and she was hardly ever allowed to play with the others at recess. She felt humiliated having to ask permission to join them.

  Every day there seemed to be another regulation that made life a bit harder for her. Instead of saying, “Good Morning” to the teachers, the class had to say “Heil Hitler,” and raise their right arms to salute the Führer. She never knew what to do about it. She hated to join in, but she’d be in trouble if she didn’t. Well, that was one problem she didn’t have to worry about anymore.

  Her grandmother always said, “Look on the bright side.”

  Marianne looked at the photograph of herself when she was six – hair cut in bangs straight across her forehead, a big bow stuck on top of her head. Why couldn’t she have naturally curly hair like her mother? No, she looked like her father – skinny, with straight brown hair. She wouldn’t mind having glasses like him – they’d make her look older!

  The radio blared out the shrill voice, familiar to every man, woman and child in Germany: “One people, one country, one Führer.”

  ’Thank goodness there’s only one of him.’ Marianne began goose-stepping around the room, her legs raised high in imitation of the military. She liked the way her navy blue skirt billowed out, and then fell back into tidy pleats.

  Marianne switched off the radio and ran into her bedroom, the one place that had always calmed her. She loved her little room, especially since she and her mother had redecorated it for her last birthday. It held all the things she loved most: her teddy bear, skinny from so much hugging; the scratched oak desk that used to belong to Grandfather; and the bookshelf her father had made specially for her, along which marched a parade of glass animals that only she was allowed to dust.

  The wallpaper was a very pale yellow, cream almost. It was covered with sprigs of tiny rosebuds, each one with a dark green leaf. Her mother had found a green silky material that exactly matched, and made a new cover for her eiderdown to replace the babyish pink one she’d had for years.

  Marianne looked out of the window; it was still snowing. The people who lived in the house on the other side of the lane had their kitchen lights on. When she went on errands, they never said hello anymore – lots of their neighbors looked away when they passed by now.

  Marianne drew her muslin curtains, and then opened her sock drawer. That’s where she kept her money box. Today was a perfect time to buy her mother’s birthday present. Mutti’s birthday was only three weeks away and Marianne longed to give her something really special.

  She kept her allowance (when she didn’t spend it) in an empty cigar box that she’d wheedled out of her grandfather. Opa and Vati loved their Sunday Coronas. She lifted the lid and breathed in the rich “party” smell of the tobacco that still lingered in the box. Her mother and grandmother always made a big fuss of opening windows to get rid of the blue haze of the cigar smoke.

  Marianne counted her money. She had seven marks. She’d been saving for a bike to ride to school, so she had much more than last year.

  Marianne buttoned her new winter coat, put on a scarf and beret, and remembered the spare front-door key hanging on the hook behind the kitchen door. She locked the door and ran downstairs.

  Marianne stood on the front steps and stuck out her warm tongue to capture the snowflakes. The sensation of melting snow was almost as good as eating ice cream. Marianne turned around slowly, her face up to the wintry skies. She stopped when she noticed the curtains of Number One twitch, and became aware of a face partly hidden by the muslin folds. Staring. Eyes. Berlin was full of eyes. Everyone was watching everyone else.

  The street was quiet at this time in the afternoon. She was debating whether to take a streetcar to save time, when she saw a group of young men in Hitler Youth uniform handing out pamphlets. One grabbed her arm.

  “Heil Hitler. Here, sweetheart, take this home to your parents.” He pushed the pamphlet into her gloved hand. She didn’t dare throw it away, but walked on. A voice shouted after her, “Say ‘Heil Hitler’ next time.” Marianne heard them laughing, and the same voice said, “No respect, these kids.”

  What would they have done if they’d known she was a Jew? Marianne shuddered, remembering Inge Bauer. She still had a bruise under her chin. She pulled her scarf up around her face.

  Marianne turned down a side street. “I won’t run, I won’t.”

  Her mother always said, “If I had a magic wand, I’d use it to make you invisible. Meanwhile, whatever happens, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  Marianne forced herself to continue her walk. She passed Fraülein Marks’s ladies’ and children’s wear. The door was boarded up and a big sign on the glass said, KEEP OUR STREETS JEW FREE.

  Marianne, hurrying past, slipped on the icy cobblestones. Trying to break her fall, she landed on her right knee. There was a hole in her woolen stocking, and she’d skinned her knee. It hurt.

  The pamphlet she’d been holding lay face up in the snow. The headline glared at her:

  THE JEWS LIE. BEWARE THE ENEMY.

  Underneath was a cartoon of an old man wearing a yarmulke – the skullcap that orthodox Jewish men wore. The cartoon showed a face with a huge hooked nose and sidelocks.

  Marianne was used to propaganda, to the ugly slogans she’d seen ever since she had learned to read, but she felt sick for a moment. It was a feeling she was getting used to. Was this what Hitler wanted, to make kids feel they were hated and not wanted by anyone?

  Marianne walked on. When she reached Taubenstrasse she heard footsteps behind her. Was she imagining that she was being followed, or were the Hitler Youth out to teach her a lesson? She knew they needed no excuse to twist an arm, or worse if you weren’t one of them, and they were everywhere.

  Marianne walked on for a few paces, listening. Then she stopped abruptly and looked into the window of a small leather-goods store. The footsteps stopped. Marianne walked more quickly. Her knee was bleeding; she could feel the drops trickling down her leg. There was a marketplace at the end of the street. There’d be lots of people there.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and a voice said, “Don’t be scared, it’s only me.” The sound of the motor-horn echoed in the quiet afternoon. Marianne whirled round. Ernest grinned at her. “I followed your tracks in the snow – watched you out of the window too. You’re a fast walker. Did you hurt yourself just now?”

  “I grazed my knee. It’s bleeding a bit. You are cheeky following me. Why didn’t you say something?” Marianne wasn’t going to let this country boy do as he liked in her city.

  “Don’t be mad. I’ve got to practise tracking suspects if I’m going to be a detective. Now, hold out your leg. Go on – I’ve got my first-aid badge.”

  Ernest took a handkerchief out of his pocket and folded it into a narrow bandage. Marianne held onto the wall for support, and raised her knee. Ernest knelt in the snow and bound up her leg most professionally. He finished by tying the bandage with a reef knot.

  “Thanks, that feels better. I knew I was being followed. I never guessed it was you, though. I have to buy a birthday present for my mother – you can come if you like,” said Marianne.

  “Shopping!” Ernest groaned. “That’s all you women ever do. But I can smell something cooking, and I’m starved. Let’s go.”

  Taubenstrasse led into a small square. Market stalls were set up, and a mixture of the most delicious smells filled the snowy air: hot chestnuts, gingerbread, fresh-baked rolls, oranges and vats of sauerkraut.

  Ernest went straight to a sausage stall. A woman wearing a shawl over a man’s overcoat topped by a huge white apron turned fat sausages on an open grill. They s
izzled over the fire. The woman stamped her feet in her heavy work boots.

  “Who’s next?”

  “We are. Two weisswurst, please,” said Ernest. “Is that what you’d like, with mustard?” Ernest looked at Marianne. She hesitated for just a minute. She’d never eaten one before. She felt as if she were the tourist in Berlin, not Ernest.

  “Please,” she nodded.

  The woman speared two sausages, spread them thickly with mustard, and put one in each of two crisp, white rolls. She gave Marianne the first one. “Good appetite,” she said.

  Ernest had grandly refused to let Marianne pay. She took a bite. Juice dribbled down her chin; mustard dripped from Ernest’s. They ignored the mess, looked at each other and laughed. No one took any notice.

  Afternoon shoppers hurried to finish making their purchases before dark.

  “What we need now…” said Marianne.

  “…is gingerbread,” finished Ernest, eyeing a stall piled high with honey cakes, chocolate pretzels, gingerbread mice with sugar whiskers, and gingerbread houses, dolls and animals.

  “My treat, but don’t take all afternoon,” said Marianne. “I still have to get my mother’s present.”

  Ernest chose a gingerbread soldier with a chocolate sword, and Marianne said, “I’ll have a tree, please.” She handed over twenty pfennigs for their purchases, and began to nibble her way round the outline of the triangles edged with white icing.

  One year she had passed Mrs. Schwartz’s door, and had been allowed to peek at her Christmas tree. She’d never forgotten the fresh smell of the pine, and the bright ornaments hanging from every bough. The warmth of the candle flames, flickering in their holders on the branches, was the most magical thing she’d ever seen. Somehow, eating gingerbread in this peaceful square had reminded her of that.

  Ernest, his mouth full, said, “This is absolutely the best gingerbread in the world, and I’m an expert, because my grandmother works in a bakery in Freibourg.”

  They walked round till they came to a stall selling carved walking sticks, wooden whistles, ornaments and toys. Marianne looked for something that would appeal to her mother.

  “My sister, Anna, wants a doll from Berlin. Your advice will be gratefully accepted,” said Ernest, trying out a walking stick whose handle was carved in the shape of an eagle. Marianne realised that Ernest was embarrassed to be seen looking at toys. She thought it was really nice of him to think of his sister.

  “How old is Anna?”

  “Nearly six. She’s the baby in the family, so of course she’s spoiled. She might like this.” He pulled the strings of a ferocious-looking jumping jack.

  Marianne picked up a small jointed doll with real braided hair, the golden ends tied in red bows to match the doll’s skirt and the braiding on the black bodice. Her blue eyes and spiky eyelashes were carefully painted; her wooden face had a sprinkling of freckles, rosy cheeks and a mouth that looked surprised.

  “Your little sister would like this. Look at the embroidery on the sleeves – it’s perfect,” said Marianne.

  “You’re right,” said Ernest.

  The doll cost three marks. While it was being wrapped, Marianne noticed a careful arrangement of music boxes. She particularly admired one which had a delicate carving of flowers on each corner of the polished wooden lid. The stall owner turned the key, and Marianne hummed along with the familiar tune. It was a lullaby her mother used to sing to Marianne when she was little, to comfort her when she awoke in the dark:

  Sleep my baby sleep,

  Your Daddy guards the sheep.

  Mother shakes the gentle tree

  The petals fall with dreams for thee

  Sleep my baby sleep.

  The man asked Marianne, “Do you like Brahm’s ‘Cradle Song,’ Miss?”

  “Yes. My mother taught it to me. She would love this music box,” said Marianne. “Is it very expensive?”

  “It costs four marks, young lady. It is my own carving.”

  Marianne gave him a five-mark note and said, “Thank you very much. It’s a beautiful box – all your things are beautiful.” The man wrapped the box, handed Marianne the change and said, “I’m glad my work will find a good home. Come back again.”

  The street lamps came on. A man trundled a wooden cart over the cobblestones. On it was a gramophone. The man turned the handle. A Wagner march filled the air. Ernest went over to him, and put a coin in a tin cup standing on the trolley.

  “He says he’s a war veteran – he’s only got one leg,” he said to Marianne.

  The snow started to gently fall again.

  “Let’s go home,” said Marianne, and they turned to leave. As they reached the edge of the square where the row of apartment houses stood, a scream of tires disturbed the winter afternoon.

  A truck roared into the square. It skidded to a halt in front of a gray house, one of a row overlooking the market. Storm troopers carrying rifles jumped out, their glossy boots shining in the lamplight. One kicked over a basket piled high with apples, which was standing by the fruit stall. Apples rolled in all directions. The troopers hurried up the steps. A voice shouted, “Open up Juden raus.”

  Marianne was unable to move. She wanted to run, but she seemed to be trapped in one of those dreams where she could not make her feet obey her. Ernest gripped her arm, “There’s going to be an arrest; this is my lucky day.”

  The sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood rang out over the square. A few people watched, like Ernest, wanting to know what was going to happen next. Mothers took their small children by the hand and hurried away. The fruit seller picked up his apples, and polished them one by one on his striped apron.

  Marianne whispered to herself as much as to Ernest, “I have to go now. I’m going.” She crossed the square. Away from the truck, away from the storm troopers, away from the sounds in the house, which the gramophone could not muffle.

  “Wait, I just want to see what’s going on,” said Ernest.

  Marianne wasn’t listening, except to a voice in her head which was saying, ‘Go home.’ She turned her head, forced to do so by the sounds of glass breaking, a cry, the thud of a body landing on cobblestones.

  The soldiers clattered down the steps and picked up the body of a man lying facedown in the snow. They dragged him to the truck and hauled him over the side. The truck pulled away, its tires spinning.

  The square was quiet again. Drops of blood glistened, scarlet as winterberries, under the street lamp where the man had fallen. His black cap lay forgotten in the snow. People moved on.

  Marianne began to run. Ernest sounded the motor-horn behind her. “Wait for me.” He caught up with her. “I don’t think he was dead,” said Ernest, to comfort her.

  A cold wind blew little flurries of snow against their faces. Ernest turned up the collar of his jacket, and Marianne pulled her scarf over her mouth. It gave her an excuse not to speak. There was nothing to say.

  When they got home, Ernest said, “You look like a bandit with your face all muffled up. Good disguise. It was fun today. Thanks. See you.” He disappeared into Number One.

  As soon as Marianne was back inside her own apartment, she took off Ernest’s bandage. Her knee had bled. She ran cold water and washed the handkerchief in the kitchen sink. The stain came out easily.

  Marianne went into her bedroom and dropped her clothes on the floor. She put on her nightdress and lay down on her bed. Then she unwrapped the music box and turned the key. She sang the words of the melody:

  Sleep my baby sleep

  Your Daddy guards the sheep.

  Mother shakes the gentle tree

  The petals fall with dreams for thee

  Sleep my baby sleep.

  When the tune was finished, she put the box under her pillow, curled up under the covers, and slept immediately. She did not stir when her mother came in, folded her clothes, and quietly closed her bedroom door.

  It snowed all week.

  Marianne opened her eyes. She stretched,
sat up, and smiled at her mother, who stood beside her bed holding a tray.

  “Breakfast is served, Your Highness.”

  “I’m not ill, am I?” asked Marianne.

  “Just a treat,” said her mother. “I am sorry I got home so late again last night. I’ll make up for it with the best potato pancakes ever, for supper. Now, please eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  “I’m starved,” said Marianne, tapping the top of her boiled egg. “Sit on my bed and tell me about the latest meeting. Will there be school classes for me to go to?”

  Mrs. Kohn sat at the end of Marianne’s bed. “First I have a surprise.”

  “Vati’s coming home?”

  “Not quite yet. But…” Mrs. Kohn put a thin blue envelope beside Marianne’s cup of hot chocolate. “This is nice, too, don’t you think?”

  Marianne opened the letter, slitting the envelope with her knife in exactly the same way her father always opened his mail. “It’s from Ruth! Listen…”

  “107, Leidsegracht, Apartment 5

  Amsterdam, Holland

  November 14, 1938

  “Dear Marianne,

  “I’m writing my first letter to you in our ‘new’ apartment on the fifth floor of this skinny old building, which is at least two hundred years old. The house overlooks the canal. It’s almost as good as living on a boat. I can watch everything that’s going on – kids playing, people meeting, quarreling, flirting. Here is a sketch of our building; it looks foreign, doesn’t it? There are furniture hooks on the outside of the house because the stairs are too narrow to bring up big furniture. It has to be pulled up by rope. Luckily my piano doesn’t have to go through that treatment. I had to leave it behind, as you know. I hate to think whose sausage fingers will touch the keys.

  “I do miss my music and lots of things about Berlin, but not…well, you know what. Papa is still worried that we are not far enough away. He listens to the BBC (the British radio station) all the time, and thinks there may be a war soon. Then what will happen to the Jewish people?