“It’s not fair, Papa,” I said. “I don’t want to leave Berlin. I don’t care about being a citizen. I don’t care if I can’t vote. Even if I could, Hitler would win anyway. I don’t want to work in a civil service job. I’m still with my orchestra and so are you. We’re both doing what we love. All my friends are here. Germany is my home. It’s not always perfect, but it has been very good for us.”
My father looked at me with sadness in his eyes. “There are things that you should see. Tomorrow we will take a ride, Ada.”
We packed a lunch and left early in the day. I did not know where we were going and my father did not say. We drove south out of Berlin and into the countryside. Miles and miles of farms, pastures, forests and lakes.
“This is also Germany, Ada. Over half a million Jews live in Germany, though I concede, it’s probably fewer now. Many have left. But it is our land and it should belong to us just as much as it belongs to any other German. We helped build this land, we taught its children and we fought in its wars. But Germany doesn’t want us anymore.”
“That’s just the Nazis, Papa.”
“This is 1935 and the Nazis are Germany. The Nuremburg Laws make that clear. Sadly, that’s a reality most Jews don’t want to face. Hitler and his followers want a country that is bereft of Jews. Like crumbs, we are to be swept away and out the door. It’s right before your eyes. How much more evidence do you need? You have seen Jewish stores close. You have seen laws passed stripping Jews of their professional licenses. You have seen signs on restaurants telling us we are not welcome. We are less than nonentities—we have no rights.”
“Papa, you are the concertmaster of the world’s best orchestra.”
“Only so long as Furtwängler is conductor. And what will happen when the frenetic führer tires of him, or Furtwängler decides to move on? Even though Wilhelm protects us, most of our Jewish members are resigning and emigrating.”
After driving for a couple of hours, a small road branched off toward a village and Papa stopped the car. Above us, a banner had been stretched across the road. It read, JUDEN SIND HIER UNERWÜNSCHT—Jews not welcome here.
“You see, Ada, we are not even welcome to drive into this town. And if I took you from small town to small town you would see similar signs. We are not Germans anymore. We are Jews. And the signs tell us we are not welcome.”
Of course, I had seen similar signs in Berlin. Some in café windows, some in salons. JUDEN WERDEN HIER NICHT BEDIENT—Jews not served here. JUDEN SIND IN UNSEREM ORT NICHT ERWÜNSCHT—Jews are not desired in our place. JUDEN UND HUNDE VERBOTEN—Jews and dogs prohibited. To me and my friends, these were foolish, ignorant businessmen who were excluding a significant portion of the economy. Who would want to eat there, anyway? We could choose to eat elsewhere. Still, the lesson was not lost on me, the walls were closing in on us, and there was no ignoring what had happened to my grandfather.
He turned the car around and headed back toward Berlin. Halfway back, he stopped the car again. “Look, Ada. There, in the middle of that wheat field. What do you see?”
“It looks like they’re building an airplane hangar. Those paths could become paved runways.”
“Tell me, Ada, why would Hitler want to build a hangar out here in the middle of nowhere?”
I shrugged. We passed other farms where we saw more new construction—large manufacturing buildings and long buildings that resembled barracks. We saw armaments, tanks and other military equipment sitting in the fields or beside buildings. There seemed to be no effort to conceal what was going on.
“I thought the Treaty of Versailles prohibited Germany from rearming,” I said. “How is Hitler getting away with this military buildup in plain sight?”
My father shook his head. “Who is stopping him? Last March, Hitler reinstituted the draft. He has now conscripted almost half a million men into the Wehrmacht. He did it in flagrant violation of the treaty. He even told the world he was going to do it, and he watched as the rest of the world did nothing. Make no mistake, Ada. He has military ambitions, he has designs, he has plans. Did you hear him ranting on the radio last week about the Sudetendeutsche?”
I shook my head. I knew my father listened to the broadcasts, but at seventeen, I had better things to do than listen to Hitler scream. “I don’t know,” I said. “Who are the Sudetendeutsche?”
“They are German-speaking people who live in the Sudeten mountains in northern Czechoslovakia. At the end of the Great War, those people became residents of the new country of Czechoslovakia. The borders for Czechoslovakia and Poland were dictated by the Treaty of Versailles and imposed upon Germany as the price of losing the war. Hitler says they have split the German people and he’s probably right. There are Germans in the Sudetenland; there are also Germans in Polish Danzig. He vows to protect and reunite all the German people in defiance of the rest of the world. It doesn’t take much imagination to connect Hitler’s rantings with his military buildup. This is yet another reason for us to consider leaving Germany before all hell breaks loose.”
“Where would we go?”
“I don’t know.”
“When would we go?”
“I don’t know that either.”
FIFTEEN
Berlin, December 15, 1935
Ten days before Christmas, and there was a buzz of excitement running through the Junior Orchestra. Not only was it the night of our winter concert at the Philharmonie, but we had just learned that in six weeks we would be performing at the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Garmisch-Partenkirchen in the Bavarian mountains. And of course, Kurt told me he would be there as well!
There were two soloists the night of the winter concert. Cecilia, a harpist, who played selections from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice, and me. I was scheduled to perform the Carmen Fantasy. Dr. Kritzer mentioned that there was a good possibility we would repeat the performance in concert before international dignitaries at the Olympic Stadium.
This had been a rough season for the Junior. We had major personnel turnovers. Some of our Jewish players had moved. Some of our seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys had been conscripted. Except for the brass and percussion sections, the Junior had become predominantly female. How strikingly different from the Philharmonic, which didn’t have a single woman member.
I noticed that the evening’s audience had a different appearance as well. Several of the men were now in uniform, not tuxedos. Tickets, as usual, had been at a premium, but distribution to Jews had been strictly controlled. The normal channels for ticket purchases were monitored by the Culture Chamber. Thus, Jewish attendance was limited, even though Jewish participation in the arts had always been disproportionately high.
I did not see Heydrich and I was glad. I did not want him coming backstage to kiss my hand and flatter me with his compliments. He was one of the leaders of Hitler’s tyrannical regime. He was building concentration camps to imprison Jews. He was a monster. It gave me the creeps that he had played upon my vanity.
My parents, as usual, sat fifth row center with proud smiles on their faces. Right next to them sat Uncle Wilhelm. The great Furtwängler had come to hear me play. As before, my solo would be the second-to-last number.
I don’t know why Dr. Kritzer chose the Carmen Fantasy, but from the very beginning, I was drawn to Carmen’s character. I wanted to feel like her—sassy and bold. I wanted to tantalize soldiers like Don José, reel them in and throw them away. In playing the piece, I imagined myself as that irascible, devil-may-care woman. Now, on stage in front of uniformed Nazis, at that very moment, Carmen suited me just fine.
The Carmen Fantasy begins with a strong orchestral introduction, a bold flamenco, unmistakably Carmen, which quiets after a few bars and gives way to my solo. The first movement recalls the scene outside the bullfighting arena. The second movement is an expressive jaunt through several variations of the famous habanera. The third recalls Carmen’s teasing of Zuniga and to demonstrate it, there are teasing little grace note
s. As I played the fourth movement, I could hear sultry Carmen in my mind, flirtatiously singing the words “Lillas Pastia” and “Manzanilla” as she twirled her skirt and brazenly danced the seguidilla with its flamenco rhythms. The final movement ended in a rapid, energized flourish. I bowed to appreciative applause, and to my conductor and my orchestra. Once again, I felt triumphant. The orchestra played “Joy to the World,” and just like that, the winter concert was over. It was to be my last.
Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, February 4, 1936
The Winter Olympics was just two days away and the Junior was scheduled to play at the opening ceremonies. We boarded the train with our instruments in Berlin and arrived the next morning at the Kainzenbad Station in Garmisch. The Junior had a railroad car all to itself, but it wasn’t as much fun as you’d imagine: there were six parents assigned to chaperone us. My parents were not among them, nor were any Jewish parents. Dr. Kritzer explained to my father that credentials for chaperones had to be issued by Dr. Karl Ritter von Halt, the head of the Olympic Organizing Committee. Dr. von Halt had given Dr. Kritzer strict instructions on chaperones. He said that Garmisch was not a Jew-friendly region, and while he was no friend of the Jews himself, it was his job to protect the Jewish players and make sure there were no incidents at the Olympics.
My father could read between the lines and took me aside to explain what was going on. “The U.S. Olympic Committee has been considering whether to boycott the winter and summer games. They can see what’s going on here in Germany; they read the newspapers and they get the reports. There is strong pressure from the American press to boycott the games. If the United States were to withdraw, other countries would surely follow suit. It would be a devastating humiliation for Hitler and Germany. German officials have been meeting with the U.S. committee and have made several promises. Finally, just last December, the United States agreed to participate.
“Hitler cannot afford to let the world see his racist policies during these winter games. If there are incidents, and if they reach the newspapers, the U.S. and its friends will pull out of the summer games. That is why the anti-Jewish signs have all been taken down. That is why there have been no new race laws. And that’s why Dr. von Halt cannot risk an incident with a Jewish chaperone. Do you remember when we took our ride through the country and saw the signs and the banners—Jews not welcome here?”
I nodded.
“In southern Germany, there aren’t many Jews and there is strong anti-Jewish sentiment. There had been a sign at the entrance to the Garmisch ski area that said NO JEWS ALLOWED. You can be sure it’s no longer there. I’m also sure that if you walk through the town, you won’t see a single anti-Jewish sign in any restaurant or shop. You could even go to the movies if you wanted to. But be careful.”
My father was right. There were no anti-Jewish signs in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Hitler, Goebbels and von Halt had done their work. They had painted the country with brotherhood. Look at us, they said, Germany is a warm, welcoming and inclusive country. Even the newspapers stopped running their incessant stories insulting Jews and Jewish businesses.
The Olympics brought energy to Garmisch-Partenkirchen and the sidewalks were packed. There were people everywhere. Half a million visitors had come to Bavaria to watch the games. There were a thousand athletes walking around in their colorful team jackets and hats. There were reporters and photographers. Bright-red swastika banners and flags were draped on the sides of buildings, attached to the streetlamps and hanging at the train station. The ski stadium and the ice-skating stadium were ablaze in red. And of course, there were uniformed Nazis everywhere.
Garmisch-Partenkirchen was the archetypal Alpine village. A picture postcard. Our hotel was on the main street. Before us lay the magnificent Alpine range and Germany’s highest mountain, Zugspitze. When we arrived, we learned it had not snowed in the past week and the weather was unseasonably warm. Though there were glaciers on the mountaintops, the ski runs were slushy and everyone was talking about the danger of running the ski events. How could this possibly be Hitler’s perfect Winter Olympics with no skiing?
Other than at set rehearsal times, we were allowed to wander through the village. Mindful of my father’s warnings, I was careful, but I was also keeping my eyes open for Kurt. I stood on the sidewalk, sometimes through two or three cups of tea, watching the uniformed soldiers walk by, hoping I would see him. We were only staying for three days. We were set to play in the opening ceremony and again in a concert that same evening. Since we were in the hometown of Richard Strauss, and he was a Hitler favorite, we were going to play Also Sprach Zarathustra to commence the parade of the athletes, and selections from An Alpine Symphony would be added to our evening performance.
February 6, 1936, The IV Winter Olympics Begin
Hitler arrived by special government train, just as a fresh layer of snow fell—a good eight inches. I guess the Nazis even intimidate the weather gods. The streets were lined with people from all over the world, and they shouted “Heil!” and “Seig Heil!” as he drove by. They gleefully thrusted their arms in the Hitler salute, even athletes from other countries, which I didn’t understand at all. Didn’t they have a clue what he stood for?
For ten days, this Bavarian town would look like the world’s most friendly snow globe. It was a make-believe world of young athletes, friendship and festive partying. It was hard to believe we were in Nazi Germany. That seemed so far removed.
The Junior was scheduled to play on opening day and leave on the eight o’clock train the next morning. For two days, I stood outside in the cold and snow, but sadly, I had not seen Kurt.
The opening ceremony began at noon. Hitler stood on the terrace of the Olympiahaus wearing a heavy winter coat and peaked cap. His first deputy, Rudolf Hess, stood beside him. The Junior assembled at ground level in the corner of the stadium. We shivered while we waited for the ceremonies to begin. Finally, the march of the athletes commenced. It was cold and foggy, and it was hard to play our frozen instruments, but we were the Berlin Junior Orchestra and we could shine without the sun. When the athletes all reached the stadium center, Dr. von Halt welcomed them and declared the Winter Games open.
Thankfully, our evening performance was indoors. Hitler, Eva Braun, Hess, von Halt and several dignitaries were present. I played my Meditation to an appreciative audience. When the performance was finished, they stood, politely clapped, turned and hurried out. The chancellor’s party did not come to compliment us after the performance. I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was peeved. We deserved compliments! On the other hand, I was relieved. I would not have to smile and pretend to be flattered by such evil people.
After the evening concert, we returned to our hotel for a gala dinner. Everyone was bursting with joy. I shared in the exuberance, but I was disappointed that I hadn’t met up with Kurt. I told myself that was foolish. He was on duty and I had been performing. Still, I wished I had seen him and had the chance to talk to him. Our chaperones had planned a celebration party. There was to be general socializing, music and some dancing, all under the watchful eyes of the chaperones, of course.
In the midst of the party, I spotted him. He poked his head in the doorway and I was shocked. Unable to control my excitement, I rushed over to meet him. He was in full uniform with a long winter coat.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He smiled and put his finger over his lips to mimic a Hitler moustache. “Ve haf shpies everyvere!”
We talked for a minute, and I saw Mrs. Linder, one of the chaperones, walk over. I knew she was a sourpuss and would tell Kurt to leave. After all, this was a private party.
He whispered, “Can you get away?”
I smiled. “I think so. Where can I meet you?”
He said, “Outside in front of the hotel at midnight.” And he left.
I shared a hotel room with four other girls. I asked them if they’d cover for me. They nodded and giggled. My co-conspirators—they loved the i
ntrigue. I stuffed pillows under my covers to make it look like I was sleeping, and at the stroke of midnight I was out the door.
Kurt was waiting under a streetlamp, just like in a movie. He grabbed my hand and we raced down the street.
“Where are we going?”
“There is a café-bar three blocks away. It’s quiet and open late.”
The Alpine Bierhaus was not as quiet as Kurt expected. With so many visitors in town, the bar was noisy and a little rowdy. Kurt bought us a couple of steins and we stood against the back wall. He was sorry he didn’t get a chance to see the Junior. He told me again how he missed playing with us. He was interested in who had left and who remained. I told him about the winter concert and that I hadn’t seen Heydrich.
Quietly, he said, “You don’t want to see Heydrich. He’s a ruthless man. He’s one of Hitler’s inner circle. As head of the SS, he’s developed a network of spies and informants. Himmler was so impressed that he made him second in command of the Gestapo. Two years ago, Heydrich, Himmler, Goebbels and Hitler carried out a purge known as the Night of the Long Knives. That night, Ernst Röhm and the SA leaders were executed, and the Brownshirts were absorbed into Heydrich’s SS. Just the other day, I heard Kleiner talking. He’s trying to get himself transferred from the Wehrmacht back to the SS.” Kurt smiled. “But Kleiner is persona non grata with Heydrich.”
“And he blames me for his misfortune?”
“Oh, without a doubt. You’re the bitch that ruined his career.”
I laughed. “Good riddance.”
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 8
