As the 1932 election day approached, the Brownshirts became more visible. The Nazis were promising to increase jobs, to dismantle the aristocratic estates, and to make Germany great again. The Brownshirts, now numbering almost half a million, were ubiquitous and frequently seen marching in formation through the streets of German cities. Though they were frightening in number, my father, like most of his friends, showed little concern. Hitler was a blowhard. Hindenburg would crush him in the election. This whole SA thing would go away.
I took Mitzi for her walk in the Tiergarten in February and while we were on the footpath, a group of Brownshirts came marching by. They were chanting their theme song, “Raise high the flag! Stand rank on rank together. Storm Troopers march with steady, quiet tread.” Mitzi barked at them as they passed and one of them suddenly turned and feigned a lunge at her. Mitzi squealed, the man laughed and marched on. I told my father about it and he told me to stay away from the Brownshirts. “They’re a nasty bunch. I hear that after Hitler and his party loses, they will be outlawed,” he said.
That night Papa took Mama and me to the Philharmonie. Oskar Fried was the guest conductor and Sergei Prokofiev was the soloist, playing his Piano Concerto no. 3. The Philharmonic never sounded better but attendance was down. Still, Prokofiev was brilliant and the orchestra handled the difficult third movement with grace. Papa brought me backstage to introduce me after the concert.
“So, this is the next Milstein?” Prokofiev said with a smile. “I’ve heard about you, young lady, and your prodigious exploits with the Berlin youth. When will you come play with me in Russia?”
Papa winked at me. I blushed. What could I say?
SEVEN
Berlin, January 1933
Although Hitler had come in second in the April 1932 elections, throughout the summer and fall Hindenburg had been unable to form a majority government in the Reichstag. The eighty-four-year-old president bowed to pressure from his wealthy industrialist backers and appointed Hitler as chancellor. For the first time in my memory, my father was upset by politics.
Uncle Wilhelm also detested Hitler. Last year he called Hitler a “hissing street peddler.” Uncle Wilhelm felt that Hitler and all his cronies were nothing more than street-gang racists. “They will not stay in power long,” he said one evening at dinner. “And I’ll tell you this: if Hitler ever interferes in any way with the Philharmonic or its members, I will resign immediately and leave Germany. I’ve made that known to Hitler’s spokesman, Dr. Goebbels.”
Despite the talk of the disturbing political climate, life went on and I was once again treated to a concert, this time with the most famous violinist in the world, Jascha Heifetz. Papa had been raving about this concert for weeks. “The last time Heifetz played with the Philharmonic, it was 1912 and he was only eleven years old!” Papa said. “He played the Tchaikovsky concerto so brilliantly there was a spontaneous standing ovation from the entire orchestra led by Maestro Nikisch himself. After hearing him play, Fritz Kreisler said, ‘We might as well take our fiddles and smash them across our knees.’ Wait until you hear him, Ada.”
I sat in awe that January evening as Heifetz played the Brahms Violin Concerto. My father, and indeed the entire string section, was mesmerized. His technique, his passion and his command of the stage were inspiring. Once again, he received a standing ovation. Though I was only fourteen, I was allowed to attend the champagne reception after the concert.
Maestro Heifetz shook my hand. His hands were smooth and soft. His smile was warm. He asked me about my studies. How often did I practice? Which composers were my favorites? How often did I practice my scales?
“I play them every day,” I said, but my answer did not please him.
“Nothing is more important than your mastery of scales, Ada. Do not take them as a necessary appetizer before you can eat your dinner. Play them in all different keys, in arpeggios, in double stops, in octaves. Play the difficult scales, like G-flat major. Never be satisfied. Push yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, though in truth I had never placed such emphasis on my scales.
“You and I have so much in common,” he said, winking at Papa. “I was taught by my father as well.”
After a while, he took Papa aside. “You have a delightful daughter. You are doing well, but one would have to be blind not to see things are very unsettled here in Germany. This Hitler, he is dangerous, and he is no friend to the Jews. He made that very clear as far back as 1920 at the Munich beer hall when he proposed that Jews should be denied citizenship.”
My father shrugged. “Germany won’t follow him. Jascha, these are troubled times everywhere in the world. It will get better.”
“Consider America,” he said. “I have been a citizen for almost eight years now. I was only sixteen when I debuted at Carnegie Hall, but I knew right then and there, I was going to live in America. I can tell you there are opportunities not only for you but for Ada. We just elected Franklin Roosevelt and things will improve. You should think about Ada, Jacob.”
“Well, maybe someday for Ada, but I am a Berliner. I’m loyal to Wilhelm and to my orchestra. Jews are still doing just fine here. Things will change in Germany too.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. But I understand your loyalty, my friend. I will see you next time.”
Two months later, I arrived at Junior for our daily practice. I went directly to the lunchroom where Kurt and I usually met before practice, but Kurt wasn’t there. When we all assembled, Kurt was still missing. Then I noticed that a new girl had been added to the second section and everyone had moved up a chair. Another boy was seated in Kurt’s chair. I asked Dr. Kritzer what had happened, and he told me that Kurt had resigned. It had happened quite suddenly and Dr. Kritzer didn’t know the reason. He was disappointed, as he was sure I would be too.
Disappointed didn’t begin to describe my reaction. I was devastated. I had lost my best friend. My stomach felt uneasy and I asked to take a break. When I returned, I resumed playing, but my heart wasn’t in it and my attention was unfocused. I made several mistakes, including failing to turn a page. Dr. Kritzer shook his head, but he understood.
When my father picked me up, I was crying. “There must be some mistake,” I said. “Kurt would never quit Junior. He loved the orchestra. And he wouldn’t leave me without talking to me. I’m sure his mean father put him up to this. You met him, he’s a horrible man. You have to go talk to him. Tell him to let Kurt stay in Junior.”
Papa shook his head. “It’s not my place. If that was his father’s decision, I cannot interfere. Maybe the family is moving. There could be any number of reasons.”
I couldn’t stop weeping and I kept begging my father. Finally, he said, “All right, Ada. We’ll drive out to Kurt’s. We’ll ask, politely, if there’s anything we can do. But I don’t want you to argue with his father.”
There was a big sigh of relief and a big hug from me for the world’s best father. If anyone could right the ship, it was my papa.
We knocked on the door and Kurt’s father answered. He was wearing his SA uniform and black boots. “Kurt is no longer in the children’s orchestra,” he said brusquely. “I am sorry I did not tell you, but I do not have a telephone. So, Kurt will not need any more rides. Thank you for what you have done.”
I was still in a state of shock. “Why?” I said. “He is such a good player. What about his future? Why would you do this to him?”
My father looked at me angrily. “Ada, I told you not to argue.”
Mr. Koenig’s face became stern. “His future will be just fine. That is not your worry. Good-bye.” He turned and shut the door.
Two weeks later, I learned the reasons for Kurt’s resignation. I found a letter in our mailbox. It was posted at Stuttgart.
Dear Ada,
Please forgive me. I am sorry I didn’t tell you myself and that you found out the way you did. As you may have noticed, my father has become very involved in the SA. He was appointed a Sturm commander and
he is hoping to be transferred to headquarters in Stuttgart. (That is where I am today.) He used to be a sergeant in the Reichswehr, but after the war, the army was limited to 100,000 soldiers, and they kicked my father out, leaving him without a job. Now he tells me that the SA is the “People’s Army” and it will be over a million strong by the end of the year.
He says he wants me to follow in the footsteps of my forefathers and be a military man. My family have always been soldiers. Two weeks ago, he enrolled me in the Hitlerjugend, the Hitler Youth. I have to wear a brown shirt, a black neckerchief tucked under my collar and black shorts. (I look very silly. You would laugh.) My father raves about what I’ll learn in the HJ. He tells me how much fun I’ll have camping, hiking and weapons training. (Bluch!) There are activities planned every day in the HJ and that is why I had to drop Junior. Believe me, I’d much rather be at Junior with you.
I still practice every day, though most times it is late at night after my father goes to bed. I really miss Junior, but most of all, I miss you. Do you think we could see each other socially? Would your father permit it? Could you ask him?
Friends forever,
Kurt
“Exactly what does young Kurt mean by socially?” my father asked.
“Papa, I’m almost fifteen. Kurt is sixteen. Most of my girlfriends have boyfriends. They socialize in groups, sometimes at a dance, sometimes at the movies. And you know Kurt, he’s a nice boy.”
“Yes, he is. But he is now a member of the Hitler Youth and they are indoctrinated with Nazi ideology. You are a Jewish girl. I am surprised that his father would permit Kurt to socialize with you. I always had the feeling that Mr. Koenig didn’t like Kurt riding with us, and maybe it was because we are Jewish.”
“I’m not going to date his father.”
“Who said anything about date? You’re fourteen.”
“Okay, socialize, not date.”
My father thought for minute and then said, “In groups, Ada. Only in groups.”
It never really mattered to me that I was Jewish and Kurt was something else—Lutheran, I think. I suppose I had been insulated from racial prejudice to the extent it existed in the Weimar Republic. I had attended Jewish schools since kindergarten. We walked a few blocks to attend one of Berlin’s seventeen synagogues. I attended the Stern Music Academy with several young Jewish musicians (until my father decided that I had progressed beyond their curriculum).
We knew that some stores were owned by Jews, but I never heard my mother tell me that she was shopping at a Jewish store or a non-Jewish store. She shopped at a store that carried what she wanted to buy. As far as I knew, so did all the Berliners. All that changed in 1933. Ever since January, when Hitler came to power, the Nazis were claiming that German Jews and foreign Jews were spreading false stories in the foreign press in an effort to damage the German reputation. As a reprisal, the Nazis declared a one-day national boycott of Jewish-owned stores on April 1, 1933. Signs were posted all over Germany that read, GERMANS DEFEND YOURSELVES. DO NOT BUY FROM JEWS.
Of all the people I knew, and all the outrage I heard expressed in our community, my grandfather was the most upset. “They’re going to boycott my jewelry store where they’ve been buying their wedding rings and necklaces for fifty years? Where are they going to go? Are the Nazis going to sell jewelry now? All these years, I have been scrupulously honest with my customers. Many times, I extended credit to young people who could not afford their wedding rings. I let them pay in installments whenever they could. I trusted them, and they trusted me. And now I am to be boycotted? Screw the bastards!”
On April 1, my friends and I decided to boycott the boycott. We were told to stay away, but we were teenagers and when did teenagers ever listen? Rachel wanted to buy a purse and we all went shopping with her. We walked straight to the Tietz Department Store, the biggest one in Berlin, on a busy commercial street. We knew Tietz was owned by a Jewish family. Brownshirts were standing boldly in front of the store, holding a boycott sign that read: GERMANS, DEFEND YOURSELVES AGAINST THE JEWISH ATROCITY PROPAGANDA, BUY ONLY AT GERMAN SHOPS!
Rachel made a face at the Brownshirt and said, “In case you didn’t know, Tietz is a German shop!” We all laughed.
It made us proud that many people were ignoring the SA and going in and out of the store anyway. The Brownshirts didn’t physically prevent us from entering, but they insulted us as we passed. We laughed, we giggled and we walked right past them. As far as we could tell, the boycott was a flop.
I was proud of our little rebellion and I told my father what happened, but he was furious. Stories were circulating about the SA and physical abuses. “You confronted the SA? They push people down, they beat people right on the street and the police do nothing. Do not ever confront one of those Brownshirts again!” my father warned.
“Papa,” I replied, “they weren’t doing anything; they were just standing in front of Tietz saying stupid things and no one cared. Everyone went into the store anyway. It was just a silly one-day boycott.”
But my father knew better. “If only it were just a single day,” he said sadly.
Surprisingly, my mother stuck up for me. “Good for you, Ada. We won’t let those Nazis bully us. Your grandpa wasn’t afraid. He stood up to them. He hung a sign on his jewelry store window that read, ICH BIN JUDE. ARIER BETRETEN MEIN GESCHÄFT AUF EIGENE GEFAHR. I AM A JEW. ARYANS ENTER THE STORE AT YOUR OWN RISK.”
My father was shocked. “Is Mordecai crazy? Does he want those Storm Troopers to destroy his store? Does he have a death wish? Ada, no matter what Grandpa does, you are to stay away from the SA,” he said firmly. “Do you understand?” For the first time ever, I saw real fear in his eyes. It was no joke to him. The most mild-mannered man I knew was firmly issuing an order. His muscles quivered from the tension and his face was red. “Do you understand?” he repeated loudly. I nodded.
Two days later, we realized that my father was right. Grandpa’s store was vandalized. The front window was broken, the glass display cases were smashed and the interior was set on fire. The store was boarded up, but Grandpa vowed to reopen as soon as he could get it repaired. No Nazis were going to shut him down. I was proud but frightened for him.
Berlin was changing quickly. Less than one week later, a law was passed excluding all Jews and political opponents of the Nazi Party from all civil service positions. Thousands were immediately thrown out of work. At the end of April, the Reichstag passed the Law Against Overcrowding in Schools and Universities. Of course, there was no overcrowding. It was a pretense. The law only applied to Jews and restricted the number of Jews who could attend public schools.
My friend Eva was forced to leave her public high school. She was transferring to the Jewish high school on Hamburgerstrasse that my friends and I attended. So, naturally, she decided to throw a party. What better way to meet her new classmates? I asked my father if it would be all right to invite Kurt. He wavered. After assuring him that Eva’s parents would be chaperoning and would be home all night, he consented. I wrote to Kurt, gave him the address and told him to meet me there.
The party began at seven and for two hours I watched and waited for Kurt. Finally, I gave up. It was not meant to be. Then, at nine thirty, Kurt showed up. Thankfully, he was not wearing his Hitler Youth uniform. He looked so good. I was so happy to see him. We had a lot to talk about. There was food, soft drinks, popular music on the Victrola and dancing. After some cajoling, I got Kurt off the couch and onto the dance floor. He was a little clumsy and unsure of himself, but I think we were making pretty good progress—that is, until his father showed up.
Mr. Koenig stood in the doorway with two other Brownshirts. He had a scowl on his face and he scolded Kurt in front of all of us. “Is this the camping meeting you told me about?” he yelled. “Where are your other friends from the HJ? You lied to me, Kurt.” Then he glared straight at me. “That’s Ada Baumgarten! Didn’t I tell you that you couldn’t go out with her? What did I tell you about socializi
ng with Jews? That’s an infraction of the HJ rules. Do you want to get expelled from the HJ?” He roughly grabbed Kurt by the arm, slapped him on the back of his head so hard it knocked his glasses off and proceeded to pull him toward the door. As he was being yanked out of the room, Kurt turned to me and mouthed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Although the party was to last until eleven, my father arrived early and told me we had to leave. I started to protest, but I could tell something was terribly wrong. When I got into the car, he said, “We have to go to the hospital, Ada. Mother and Grandma are already there.” I felt chills. “Grandpa was attacked at his store. He was badly beaten and is fighting for his life.”
“Who attacked him?”
My father shook his head. “There were no witnesses, at least none that will speak. And what difference would it make if they did? Who will discipline the SA?”
Mama and Grandma were seated by Grandpa’s bed. Grandma held his hand and wailed. My poor grandfather, a delicate man in his seventies, had been beaten and kicked by several Storm Troopers. His bones were broken. He lay unconscious while a nurse took his vitals and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “He is so badly injured.”
No one gave him a chance at recovery, but they didn’t know my grandpa like I did. Every day I would come to visit. I always wore my locket. After a few days, he opened his eyes and smiled at me. He saw my locket and winked. “The magic locket,” he said. “You see, it works!” They kept him at the hospital for three weeks and gave him strong drugs. When he was finally discharged, he needed a wheelchair. He would never walk again.
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 4
