Despite the tax and the emigration hurdles, Jewish houses were flooding the market. My parents’ friends who still owned stores were trying to sell them before they became Aryanized. Those who were licensed professionals had either lost their license to practice or been severely restricted, and they were searching for jobs in other countries.
Perhaps the most hurtful and inimical result of the campaign was the pervasive acceptance of Nazi policies by German society. While the law didn’t require our non-Jewish friends to shun us, it became apparent that they would no longer stand up for us. Those who uttered hateful speech were sinful, but the greater sin was committed by those who did not speak at all. Some would sigh and turn the other way. It was painful when one of my friends stopped inviting me to her home or when she abruptly canceled a social engagement. Too often I would hear, “I’m sorry but so-and-so is coming, and you know how they feel.” Polite avoidance became a social norm.
As for me, I did not rejoin the Junior after the Olympics. Both Uncle Wilhelm and Papa urged me to return to practice in September, and in truth, I was considering it, when on September 25, the Berlin Junior Orchestra became Judenfrei. No more Jews. The four other Jewish girls who were still in the Junior came to practice one Thursday and were told to go home. Dr. Kritzer was sorry. Everyone was always “sorry.”
I still attended the Jewish high school, but I became conscious of dangers walking to and from the school. The Brownshirts, substantially reduced since the rise of the SS, still roved the streets, committing random abuse with abject autonomy. I stopped walking the dog in the Tiergarten, our favorite playground, for fear of running into Brownshirts. One afternoon while walking Mitzi on Behrenstrasse, I stopped at the Jewish grocery store. A few minutes later, five Brownshirts came into the store, laughing and talking very loudly. I knew party rules didn’t allow them to shop there, so it was bound to be an abusive encounter. They went behind the counter, stuffed their pockets with packages of cigarettes and started to leave. One of them stopped, stared at me and said, “What are you looking at? Do you have a problem with this vile shopkeeper voluntarily giving us cigarettes? Do you? Ask him if he’s bothered.”
I stood there frozen in fear. The Brownshirt stepped closer, inches away. “Go ahead,” he commanded, “ask him. I said ask him if he’s bothered.”
I swallowed. “Are you bothered?” I said with a lump in my throat. The shopkeeper shook his head.
Then the Brownshirt pointed at me. “But you’re bothered, aren’t you? You think he should be paid, don’t you?”
I don’t know where I got the courage, or the foolhardiness, but I shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. Then pay him,” he said. “Pay the shopkeeper for the cigarettes, you smart-ass little Jewess.”
I took money out of my purse and put it on the counter. The Brownshirt laughed heartily, scooped up my money and walked out of the store.
Daily life in Berlin had become incomprehensible. How does one respond to something one cannot understand? Every day another edict. Every day another piece of life was torn away. In our house, as in other Jewish households, the subject of relocating was always on the table.
“I went by the Deutsche Bank today and while I was there I spoke with Don Probst,” my father said. “He asked me how we were doing. He asked about you, Ada. And then he quietly said he wanted to give me a warning. He told me Deutsche Bank had just initiated severe lending guidelines for non-Aryan businesses, and they have started to call loans of non-Aryan borrowers if they felt they were in acute risk of default.”
My mother slammed her palm on the table as if to say, “Enough is enough!” Deutsche Bank held the mortgage on our house. “Is that supposed to mean us? We’ve never missed a single payment,” she said, “and we don’t even owe that much. The mortgage balance is low and the market value is high. There is substantial equity in our house. How can the bank be at risk?”
“He wasn’t talking about us, Friede. He didn’t say the bank perceives our loan to be insecure. He was talking about loans to Jews in general. They’re insecure because being a Jew is insecure. I’m a Jewish musician playing professionally in an orchestra that is supposed to be Aryan only. They see Furtwängler’s rebellious protection of his Jewish musicians as temporary at best. ‘As much as I’m against it,’ Probst told me, ‘the bank is going to request non-Aryan borrowers to pay off their loans. Sell their houses, if need be. Maybe that won’t apply to you, Jacob, but if your situation were to change at all, well, you understand, there wouldn’t be much I could do.’”
“Do we have to sell our house?” I asked. “Where would we go?”
“There’s no reason to panic, Ada. Mr. Probst said that for the moment we were okay. You’re going to stay here and finish your senior year in high school. Then, as we’ve discussed, we’re going to look for a college or a music academy.”
“But Papa, they’re all closed to Jews.”
“Then we’ll look outside of Germany. It’s time to start sending out applications anyway. The Paris Conservatory has a wonderful program. There are also very good academies in Belgium and London.”
My post–high school plans were once again brought to the surface three months later. My father brought Uncle Wilhelm over for dinner and both of them wore that I’ve-got-a-secret smile.
“Ada, you know how we’ve been talking about what you’ll do next year?” my father said.
I knew. In January, I had sent applications to the Paris Conservatory, the Royal Academy of Music in London and the Royal Conservatory of Brussels. I had not heard back from any of them. The scary truth was that they were extremely selective, and I was a German and a Jew. Since I hadn’t received an invitation to audition, I was not hopeful.
“Well, Uncle Wilhelm has some very good news.”
Uncle Wilhelm smiled at me. “I’ve been watching you since you were a little baby. I have seen you blossom into one of the finest musicians in Europe. Now it’s time we all think about what to do with Ada, the prodigy. Where does she go to continue her brilliant career? Unfortunately, we all know that you have no future here in Berlin. Even General Heydrich told you that.”
I nodded. I was well aware. So far this did not sound like very good news.
The maestro continued. “I recently spoke to Stefano Vittorio, the director of the Bologna State Opera. He called me last week to ask if I could recommend an accomplished violinist. One of his violinists is about to go on sabbatical and won’t be returning until after the season. He hasn’t been able to fill the vacancy and he’s looking for someone available in the fall, someone who will agree to a one-year appointment. He’s very picky.”
I’m listening to Uncle Wilhelm and my heart starts beating like a drum. Oh my God, he means me.
“I told him I had just the person. Ada Baumgarten. You can imagine the buildup I gave you. When I told him about your talents and your performances to standing ovations, well, he said he’d be honored to give you an audition. If he likes what he hears, you can come for rehearsals beginning in July and stay for the entire 1937–1938 season. And the pay is good. Ada, he’s not opposed to having a woman sit in his orchestra. You wouldn’t be a permanent member, just a guest for a year, but he told me he has no prejudices against women. Ada, I have no doubt you’ll be sitting in the violin section of the Bologna State Opera when their season begins next September.”
I was flustered. “When am I supposed to audition? What should I prepare?”
Uncle Wilhelm smiled. “The auditions are in May. And do I need to tell you what to play? Doesn’t my little Ada have her signature piece?”
“The ‘Meditation’?” I said softly.
He nodded. “And that’s not all. Maestro Vittorio is also on the faculty of the University of Bologna, the oldest university in the Western world. They have a doctoral program in music.”
I was overjoyed. “What do I need to do?”
Uncle Wilhelm smiled. “If it were me, I’d start l
earning Italian.”
My father and I were delighted, but my mother did not smile. “Italy is a fascist state,” she said. “Mussolini is a dictator. How will Jews be treated in Italy? The same or worse than here? I don’t want Ada to travel to Italy only to be persecuted.”
“The fascist government does not persecute Jews,” Uncle Wilhelm said. “There are no exclusionary signs, there are no limits on professional licenses, there is no prohibition on social contact and they do not interfere with Jewish musicians. Jews enjoy legal equality in Italy.”
“But Mussolini is a friend of Hitler. Didn’t they sign a treaty last November?”
“Friede, that was the Anti-Comintern Pact. It was signed by a dozen countries to oppose communism. It had nothing to do with Jews. This is a wonderful opportunity for Ada. Be happy for her.”
TWENTY-TWO
Berlin, April 1937
Many of my high school classmates did not come to school today. It was Hitler’s forty-eighth birthday and he was scheduled to review troops here in Berlin. There were thousands of German soldiers everywhere. They were on the Unter den Linden, they were in the Tiergarten, they were on the streets, in the cafés, in the parks and in our neighborhood. Many Jewish families chose to keep their children at home. On my way to school, I passed three separate formations of Wehrmacht soldiers. Naturally, I looked to see if Kurt was among them. I was not especially frightened by the Wehrmacht. They were soldiers, not Brownshirts, and I hadn’t had any run-ins with them, although that was a distinction that was foolish. After all, Kleiner was a Wehrmacht corporal.
The papers announced the opening of the Adolf Hitler Schulen—the first of fifty planned schools that would train and educate the Hitler Youth. The papers also ran a story on how the Jews made their fortunes by lending money at usurious rates and fencing stolen goods. But most of the stories were about the various ways that Berliners were celebrating and wishing their führer a happy birthday.
There was a note in the mailbox for me when I came home from school: “Queen Louise at 6:30.” My heart leapt. I recognized the handwriting. It was a note from Kurt telling me to meet him at the statue of Queen Louise in the Tiergarten. My mother cautioned me not to go. It was too dangerous; there were Brownshirts and soldiers marching through the Tiergarten. I told her I’d be careful.
I stood at the base of the statue, holding Mitzi on a leash. From time to time, groups of soldiers would pass. No one paid any attention to me. It was starting to get dark. Finally, I saw Kurt approaching in full uniform. He scanned the area and the footpaths, took me behind the statue and kissed me. With my arms around him, I could feel that the army was toughening him up. There were taut muscles in his neck and back that hadn’t been there before. I hadn’t seen him in a year and he had grown even more handsome.
“I can only stay a minute,” he said. “I came to warn you.”
“What? Warn me?”
“Kleiner. He has been swearing to get even with you and your family.”
“Still? That concert was years ago.”
“It’s a deep wound, Ada. At the time, he was an adjutant to Reinhard Heydrich. He thought he had cemented a career with the general. According to his father, Kleiner’s future was set. After all, Heydrich is now director of the Gestapo. To his father’s way of thinking he should have been the deputy director, not merely a corporal in the army. Kleiner won’t let that go.”
“Then he should have kept his mouth shut. I didn’t do anything other than play my violin. But why now?”
“Every so often, Kleiner puts in for a transfer. He’d like to be back with the SS. In his most recent application he cited his service, which included a stint as an adjutant to Heydrich. After contacting Heydrich, they denied his request for a transfer. Despite all of his father’s influence, he still hasn’t been transferred back. I don’t know the stated reasons for the denials, but he says it’s all your fault. Now he’s in Berlin, he knows your name, I’m sure he knows your address and he’s swearing to get even. Tell your father to take you and your mother out of the city for a few days. Our unit will be here until Friday.”
A group of soldiers approached from the east and Kurt said, “I have to leave. Those men are from my squad.”
“Don’t leave yet.”
“Gotta go.”
“Just one kiss?” I said.
He gave me a kiss that lifted me off my feet, smiled and disappeared into the woods.
My father rejected the suggestion that we get out of town. “We’ll lock the doors. I have my father’s hunting rifle. If someone is brash enough to break in, German law justifies me in protecting myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure the criminal court judge would agree with you,” my mother said. “It’s always justifiable for a Jew to shoot a Wehrmacht corporal. Jacob, where is your head?”
“Where do you think we should go, Friede? If you took a ride with me like Ada did, you’d see the signs: ‘Jews not welcome in this town.’ There’s nowhere for us to go.”
“We could stay with friends. I’m sure Marcia Stein would put us up.”
“Do you want to place the Steins in danger?”
“Then we should stay in the house and not leave until Friday. It’s only two nights. I’m going to keep Ada in the house,” my mother said. “I’ll stay in as well.”
Papa shook his head. “I have a concert tomorrow night. You two will have to come with me. I can’t leave you home alone.”
The short ride to the Philharmonie was uneventful. As always, the streets surrounding the Tiergarten and the Philharmonie were busy. Tonight’s program included Brahms and the house was full. It was always a treat to watch Uncle Wilhelm conduct. His energy was infectious. I wished I was sitting in the orchestra and watching him from the front. At the start of the second half of the concert, the orchestra played “Happy Birthday Dear Führer.” I looked around, but I didn’t see him in the house.
After the concert, we gathered backstage. Uncle Wilhelm could sense that something was wrong. “We’ve received a threat,” my father said. “It’s that spiteful soldier I told you about, the one who blames Ada for his misfortunes. He says he intends to get even. We received word that he’s in town for the birthday celebration. Given the current climate in Berlin, it’s conceivable he could arrest and detain her or take her some place for interrogation.”
“Good lord, Jacob. Have you reported this threat to the police?”
“Would that make a difference, Wilhelm?”
“Let me send someone to follow you home.”
Papa shook his head. “We’ll go straight home and lock our doors. He’ll be gone by tomorrow. Maybe the threat was exaggerated.”
“I think you should have someone protecting you. I wouldn’t take the threat lightly.”
My father shrugged, thanked him for his concern, and we left.
By the time we left the Philharmonie, the hall was empty and the streets were quiet. The ten-minute taxi ride was unremarkable. All of us kept a careful eye as we exited the cab and my father paid the driver. We started walking to the front door when Kleiner and two other men appeared out of nowhere.
“This is the time we settle our debts,” he said.
My father grabbed me and put me behind him. “The police have been alerted,” Papa said. “You’d better leave.”
Kleiner had that sinister sneer on his face. “Let’s see now, how does it go?” he said, then raising his voice. “Do you presume to tell me who to praise? Is it now your prerogative? Isn’t that how it went?”
The three soldiers moved closer. I could see handcuffs in Kleiner’s right hand. He stood inches from my father and said, “Do you remember the words? I remember every single word. They haunt me.” Then in a mimicking tone: “Well, I am telling you that the girl is brilliant, you ignorant idiot. Simpleminded asshole. You have the manners of an undignified boor. I am ashamed to be in your company. I can assure you that it will not happen again.” He pointed at me and said, “Do you know what those phrases ha
ve done to my career?”
“She didn’t do anything,” Papa said. “You brought it on yourself by trying to correct General Heydrich. You should have kept quiet.”
Kleiner reached over, grabbed my father by the lapels of his coat and threw him to the ground. “The great concertmaster tells me to keep quiet. Is that now your prerogative, Herr Concertmaster, to tell a Wehrmacht officer to keep quiet? Isn’t that how it goes, you simpleminded asshole? Those were the words that killed my career. How is your career, Herr Concertmaster? Is it intact? I wonder how well your career would fare if it was sabotaged by some smart-ass girl. Because that’s what happened to me. How well would you play if someone broke your arms?” He turned to his companions. “Maybe we should find out. Which arm should we break? The right one pulls the bow. But the left one plays the notes. I can’t decide. Should we flip a coin? Nah, let’s break them both.”
“Stop!” my mother yelled. “You’re a monster. Someone help us!”
He laughed, and then he grabbed my wrist. “We are all going to Sachsenhausen for a little chat.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “For intensive interrogation.” Turning to his companions, he said, “Bring them all along. And let’s make sure that the concertmaster suffers an unfortunate accident along the way.”
One of the soldiers picked my father up off the ground. He held his arm straight out while the other soldier prepared to strike him with a nightstick.
I tried to pull away from Kleiner’s grip. I was hysterical. “Don’t you touch him!” I yelled. “He didn’t do anything.” With all my strength, I kicked Kleiner in his shin. My heel caught him square on the bone; he yelled and loosened his grip long enough for me to break free. I flew at the man with the nightstick, knocking him sideways.
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