by Evans, Mike
Adolf stood and looked down at me. “What he means is, your father is a nice man, but he produces nothing of value and only makes money for himself. That is all we are saying.”
“Don’t people need clothes to wear?”
“My mother has been to his shop many times. She says he sells his goods at very high prices.”
Karl was standing near the door, watching and listening to the exchange between us. He was still angry but not so much as before and snarled, “Adolf, send your little Jew friend home. We need you inside.”
The tone of his voice was more of disgust than disdain and the sound of it hurt my feelings almost as much as the words he said. A lump formed in my throat and tears filled my eyes, but I swallowed hard and forced myself not to cry. At the time, I thought of his remarks only as the words of a disgruntled middle-aged man. Later, as events unfolded, I realized this was the moment my life changed. This was the beginning of the atrocities that would mark the next twenty-five years of my life.
Adolf did as he was told and went inside. I wandered back up the street to our house. This time, however, as I came through the front room, the house seemed different and I looked at things in a different way. Papa and Mama were both well-educated with a cosmopolitan view of life. Papa’s business relationships stretched all across Europe. Mama had studied music in Berlin and Paris and when they settled in Linz she earned a chair in the orchestra where she played violin. Musicians often visited our house for dinner, which naturally led to a lively discussion of the arts followed by impromptu concerts and demonstrations of the latest musical pieces. Many times David joined them on the piano. Our life was full and rich, all of which was reflected in the house where we lived and the furnishings that filled it. Original paintings hung on the walls in every room, many of them created by artists who were friends of my parents or grandparents. When we ate, we sat at a long dining table made of walnut with a burled top. The plates we used were of the finest china, complemented by sterling silver dinnerware. Furniture throughout our house was well made. Our house looked and felt like it was home to an educated, capable family. When I reached the kitchen, Mama was standing at the sink. I asked her, “Are the paintings on our walls worth anything?”
She glanced back at me over her shoulder. “Why do you ask such a thing?”
“Adolf and his father don’t like artists and musicians.” “Adolf Eichmann comes from a difficult situation.” “What happened?”
“His mother died when he was just a boy. His father remarried to a nice woman, but he is never around much. Always down at the Electric Works. And always with those bombastic comments.”
“They think Papa charges too much in his store.”
“Papa charges what he must to make a living. I don’t like you going down there.”
“Adolf is my friend.”
“Just the same, I don’t like it. A twelve-year-old girl ought not to be hanging around with a sixteen-year-old boy. He’s almost a man.”
“He’s nice to me.”
“He’s nice to everyone, but it doesn’t mean he won’t do you harm.” “He would never hurt me.”
“I don’t like it, Sarah. I think you should stay away and mind your own business.”
Not long after I returned home, Uncle Alois arrived with his wife. Their sons, much older than I, lived in Italy. They could not make it in time for the funeral, but Alois was there and I was happy to sit and listen to him talk. A little while later, other relatives and friends began to arrive and soon the house was alive with the sound of voices, many I hadn’t heard in a long time, others I’d never heard before. I helped in the kitchen and did my best to listen in on every conversation.
In spite of what Mama had said about waiting for the Christian Sabbath to pass, Rabbi Gavriel decided we should hold the funeral the following day, Sunday. All afternoon and all night, Grandma’s body lay on her bed beneath the sheet we placed over her. Each of us took turns sitting with her. I wanted to hide in my room or play outside, but Mama would not allow it. Instead I had to sit downstairs with the others and take my turn. Late that afternoon, as twilight turned to dusk, I spent an hour seated on the chair in the corner, waiting with Grandma. I didn’t mind so much that she was dead and only a few feet away, but as I sat there I kept thinking about what would happen to her after she was buried and the worms came to eat her flesh. Even now I still have those images in my mind.
That night, with the traditional Sabbath over, even more friends and family members gathered. So many of them came, I only had to sit with Grandma just that once. The rest of the evening I spent in my room and when it was late I went to sleep to the sound of visitors and the murmuring of their voices downstairs.
The next day, I awoke early and dressed on my own for the funeral. While everyone else was busy getting ready, I went downstairs and tiptoed through the kitchen to the doorway of Grandma’s bedroom. Her body was gone. Women from the Chevra Kadisha—the burial society—had come before sunrise and took it away, still I felt like a criminal as I crept toward the dresser. When I reached it I found the jewelry box in its place below the mirror. I lifted the lid and there was the necklace neatly coiled in a circle with the locket resting in the middle. Carefully, I grasped the clasp with my fingertips and lifted it up, letting the necklace stretch out its full length, the locket dangling beneath. Then I unhooked it and put it around my neck. Just as the clasp closed, Mama appeared behind me. “What are you doing?” she scolded.
The sound of her voice made me jump. “It’s mine,” I snapped, recovering quickly. “It’s mine and I want to wear it.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her eyes flashed with anger as she reached over me and pointed toward the jewelry box. “Put it back.” She jabbed the air with her finger for emphasis. “Put it back right now.”
“But it’s mine,” I protested. “She gave it to me.”
“This is a funeral,” Mama said in a huff. “Not a celebration of your newfound favor. You shall have that necklace when your father says so and not a minute earlier.”
While she was talking, Papa appeared in the doorway. I could see him behind me in the mirror. He said, “It looks nice on you,” but I knew from the way his eyes scrunched up at the corners that I would not wear the necklace that day.
“Thank you,” I said, doing my best to delay the inevitable. “Where did she get it?”
“It had belonged to her grandmother.”
My eyes opened wide. “Her grandmother gave it to her, and now she gave it to me?”
“Yes.”
Mama stood nearby with her hands on her hips, but she said nothing. I glanced at her, then back at Papa, hoping that if I kept talking he might change his mind. “Did you know her, my great-great grandmother?”
“No.” He shook his head. “She was dead long before I was born.” “What happened to her?”
“She died in Russia when they—”
“Moshe,” Mama spoke sharply, interrupting him. “You should get ready.”
“I am ready.”
“This is too much to talk about now.” Mama shook her head. “We should discuss this some other time. We must get going.”
“But Grandma said it was mine,” I sighed, knowing better than to talk to Papa the way I talked to Mama.
“Yes,” he nodded calmly. “And someday you will get to keep it in your own jewelry box on your own dresser. And then you can decide when to wear it. But for now, we’ll keep it in here.” Then he unhooked the clasp and removed the necklace from my neck.
“I wanted to wear it to school tomorrow, too,” I pouted, on the verge of tears.
Without replying, he leaned over my shoulder, returned the necklace and locket to the jewelry box, and closed the lid. “Come.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and guided me toward the door. When we were in the kitchen, he let go of me and took Mama by the hand. “We must go.
The others are waiting.”
From the house we rode to the synagogue in Papa’s car, a 1
905 Daimler Mercedes. Made before the Great War, it smoked and sputtered on its best days and spent more time in the garage than on the street, but it was a car just the same. Papa took it in settlement of Mr. Dassanowsky’s account. Dassanowsky was a tailor for the royal family in the years when we were ruled by a monarchy. That position afforded him many privileges that were denied to ordinary people. Among them was the use of a royal retreat when it wasn’t otherwise inhabited by the family. Mama said he stayed there more often than the emperor. Papa said he was royalty from his head to his toes, all except for his pocketbook. When he could no longer afford to carry Mr. Dassanowsky on his books, Mr. Dassanowsky offered Papa the car as settlement. Papa was glad to get it.
After a chilly but brief drive, we arrived outside the synagogue. We parked at the curb and stepped from the car but did not go inside the building. As we straightened our coats, the doors to the building opened and the men appeared with Grandma’s casket. They walked with three men on each side; arms stretched across each other’s backs, the wooden casket positioned between them on their shoulders. We waited until they were in front, then followed them in a procession to the cemetery that was located behind the building.
As we made our way past the building, the sound of angry voices drifted toward us. To the right I saw a group of men, women, and even young children gathered on the sidewalk. It was Sunday and they used it as an excuse to shout obscenities at us, to ridicule our manner of dress, and to accuse us of desecrating the Christian Sabbath with our gathering. I took Mama’s hand, and David moved up beside us, positioning himself between us and those who were shouting. The commotion they created attracted others and by the time we reached the grave, the small group at the street had grown to a mob.
Mama seemed intent on ignoring them and held her chin at an imperious angle, her nose tilted up in a way that made it impossible for her to see the ground as she walked. She wasn’t looking in that direction anyway but I was worried that if she didn’t she might stumble into the grave. I tugged at her hand in an effort to move her to one side but she just shook her head and, without looking down at me, warned, “Stay beside me. Do not be afraid.”
We followed Papa to the far end of the grave and took our places. Then the congregation that joined us formed a circle around us. I could still hear the people shouting at us and once or twice I could see them as their crowd continued to grow.
The casket sat on the opposite side of the grave from us and rested on the ground with ropes stretched out beneath it. I wondered what the ropes were for but there was no time to ask. Before I could get Mama’s attention, Rabbi Gavriel took his place beside the casket and began with a prayer, which he chanted in Hebrew. As he spoke, I glanced to the right, past David, and saw that the angry crowd had moved even closer. Some of them were standing just a few meters from our group.
Then just as the prayer ended, a bottle flew past Uncle Alois’ head, struck the corner of the casket, and shattered into pieces. Suddenly the air was filled angry voices and vile words no one should ever hear. Bottles, bricks, and rocks rained down on us, striking those around me on the shoulders and head. Being younger and shorter, most of the objects flew past me without effect, though a brick bounced off someone and struck me on the shin, and several people stepped on my feet as they moved to get out of the way.
Mama put her arm across my shoulder and bent over me, turning her back to the onslaught, shielding me with her body as we ran, away from the mob. David followed us and I could hear Papa’s voice shouting first at the crowd then at our friends. Those standing near the back took the worst of it. Many were beaten bloody with fists and clubs. One had a broken arm. We made it to the alley on the far side of the building and were about to turn toward the street where our car was parked when a group of men appeared to block our way. Grinning at us they brandished clubs and rocks and shouted as they came toward us, “We got you now, Sheeny! You won’t get away from us!”
As they were about to overwhelm us, the police arrived and began accusing members of our group of starting the trouble. Papa heard them arguing and turned back to join the dispute, but Mama grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket. “No, Moshe.” Her voice was firm but she was not angry. “The children,” she urged. “We must think of the children.”
He hesitated and glared at her. “But I can’t just—” Mama caught his eyes and shook her head.
Reluctantly, Papa led us down the alley toward the street. The crowd that had blocked our way stepped aside to let us pass. They jeered at us as we moved by, but we made it to the car without being attacked again and started for home.
“What will we do about Grandma?” I asked from my place in the back seat. “We can’t just leave her.”
“We aren’t just leaving her,” Mama replied confidently. “Alois will take care of her.”
“Rabbi Gavriel will take care of her,” Papa added. “We must take care of you and your brother.”
“And ourselves,” Mama chimed in.
As we drove away, I stared out the car window and watched the crowd. They were laughing as they dispersed and regaling each other with details of what they had done. Then at the corner I caught sight of Karl Eichmann, Adolf’s father, watching through the window from inside a café down the street from the synagogue. His eyes met mine and followed us as we slowed, turned the corner, and he disappeared from our sight.
The next morning was Monday. I awoke with a start and stared up at the ceiling, my eyes wide open, my body fully awake, and my mind focused only on Grandma’s necklace. All I could think about was wearing it to school and what the girls at school would say when they saw it. None of my friends had anything like it, not even the goyim in our class who came to school by private car. Maybe if they saw it they would leave me alone and stop calling me names.
I listened awhile, hoping to hear the clock downstairs as it chimed the hour, but when it seemed a long time had passed and the clock still hadn’t sounded, I glanced out the window to see the sky still was dark with the stars clearly visible, the moon bright and full. The sun wouldn’t rise for hours.
Moving as quietly as possible, I eased back the covers, slid from my bed, and walked out to the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, I made my way down the hall to the kitchen and across it to Grandma’s bedroom. Moonlight glowed through the window, casting a glare across the room that lit the way to the dresser. I reached it with just a few quick steps and lifted the lid on the jewelry box.
The top tray held several pieces of costume jewelry—earrings with glass for stones in a setting made of pewter, a ring with an oyster shell stone made to look like pearl, and two bracelets made of gold-colored metal. The necklace lay in the corner. I took it from the box and held it in the light.
Just then a hand touched me on the shoulder. I gasped and turned to see David standing beside me. “Don’t do that,” I whispered. “The sound will wake them.”
“You aren’t supposed to be in here,” he grinned. “I just want to wear it.”
“Father won’t like it.” “He’ll never find out.” “He always finds out.” “Not this time.”
I dropped the locket and its chain into the palm of my left hand and clenched my fist tightly around it. Then I closed the lid of the jewelry box and looked David in the eye. “Not a word of this to anyone. You understand?”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “It’s your life.” “What does that mean?”
“It means the life you’ve known so far will come to an end when they find out what you’ve done.”
“They will never know,” I answered as I started toward the door.
A few hours later I was awakened by Mama as she stood near the bed and shook my foot. I dressed as usual and brushed my hair into place, then tucked the necklace and locket into my pocket. Downstairs, I ate breakfast with David and Mama. Papa had already gone to the store. David made no mention of what had transpired the night before, not even offering his usual knowing looks that gave everything away.
Wh
en I reached school I took the necklace from my pocket and placed it around my neck with the locket positioned in front, resting on the lace at the collar of my dress. As I moved it into place my friend, Sarit Haza, appeared beside me.
“I heard about your—” She stopped short and her mouth fell open. “What is that?” She pointed toward my neck.
A smile spread across my face. “What?” I asked casually. I knew exactly what she was pointing at but wanted to enjoy the moment.
“That!” She touched the locket with her finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” I beamed with pride. “She gave it to you?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Right before she died. Her grandmother gave it to her, and she gave it to me.”
Sarit’s eyes filled with tears. “She gave it to you as she was dying?” “Yes,” I nodded. “It was—”
Before I could finish, Senta Hollerer, one of the many goyim in our class, elbowed her way in front of me. “Look,” she sneered, “the Yid has a new trinket.”
Hedy Berger was behind me. “Let me try it.” Her fingernails scraped against my neck as she clawed for the clasp of the necklace.
“No,” I protested and jerked my head to one side, trying to avoid her hands.
“Hold still,” she barked. “You’ll break it.”
Then she unhooked the clasp and held the necklace for everyone to see. She had a wide, fake grin at first, mocking me as she bounced the chain up and down on her finger. Then her eyes opened wide as she realized what it was. “Hey,” she exclaimed. “This feels like gold.”
A crowd had gathered around us and someone chided her. “How would you know what gold feels like?”
“Give me that,” Senta demanded and snatched it away. She held it in her hand a moment, studying it. “Can you imagine? A Jewish schoolgirl with a gold necklace, and I don’t even have one made of tin.” She draped the chain over her finger and twirled it around, the locket whirling round and round in the air.
