As she had known it would be, her offer was irresistible: free labor from someone who knew the shop, someone it pleased them to denigrate. Six days a week she moved in the same circles as Goebbels and even the Führer; on Sunday she stepped down from her high-and-mighty pedestal and assumed her true identity--a Jew dancer turned shop girl after she had frittered away her fortune; the seducer of their beloved son and the reason he never visited, ashamed to face their disapproval for his poor matrimonial choice.
Miriam turned on the lights and readied herself for another ten hours at the shop. She glanced at herself in the counter glass as she removed the two crossed diamond hatpins she had placed in her hat as carefully as if she were going to a garden party. It was a navy-blue picture hat. The soft waves of her auburn hair were visible in front, but the rest had been pulled into a severe bun from which only tiny wisps escaped. The heron feathers that decorated the hat were the latest fashion, and the hue made her eyes look the color of iodine. Her dress was a low-cut navy woolen affair with a white lace collar and a fitted waist. Where her décolletage ended, she had clipped a lavender shell cameo; each of her high-heeled boots was decorated with a dozen tiny buttons. The boots, long out of fashion, reminded her of her grandmother.
She had told Erich she'd found the boots on the estate and the hat and dress on a pile of discarded clothes and furniture outside the home of the Weintraub family, who had been transported from the apartments across the street the previous Saturday. The truth was, the clothing was a gift directly from Frau Weintraub in gratitude for being hidden downstairs in the sewer one Sunday. She had waited there to be spirited out through Kaverne in the early hours of the following morning. Where she was now was anybody's guess.
"I'm hungry," she told Konrad, who stood at the door staring impassively out on the street.
He nodded at the code and went to the car. When he returned, he carried a large shopping bag which held their food for the day. Without further discussion, he went downstairs to add that to the supplies they had already secreted in the sewer.
"I really am hungry," she said, when he came back upstairs.
"Me too. Should I go back down and bring up something for us?"
She shook her head. "There's little enough in the way of supplies. Whoever's there next will need it more than we do. You know what I'd really like? A Berliner Bulette!" Unlike many other Germans, who derided Americans for calling the beefsteak hamburger, Miriam knew that the sandwich had originated in Hamburg, New York. She had lived in the United States, touring the country and learning American dances, for four years following the Great War.
Reaching into her own shopping bag, she pulled out a bar of chocolate and a package that contained one of the new so-called unbreakable gramophone records. She had bought the old kind first and clumsily dropped it on the sidewalk; the record had shattered like a Jewish windowpane.
"How long should I go on believing Erich wants to protect Sol, Konnie?" She split the chocolate bar and handed him half. "Sometimes I think his protestations are about as solid as that record I dropped yesterday. For all I know, Solomon's dead...."
It had been two years since Erich learned that Sol had not made it out of Germany, that he was in a camp. Two years since, to protect Sol, she had consented to a marriage ceremony and moved into the estate with Erich. At first, thinking Sol safely in Amsterdam and believing that Erich was working on getting her out of the country--she had lived as a virtual prisoner in his apartment.
That was better, she thought; being at the estate hurt too much. At least at the flat they had made one person happy: Erich's landlady. She had been delighted with the extra money he had given her to keep her mouth shut.
"Don't worry, mein Herr," the landlady had said. "For my part, Satan can hump the Virgin Mary in this house, as long as the authorities stay away. I have nothing against Jews--only against poor Jews."
What might she have said had she known Erich was housing Walther Rathenau's only living relative!
Two figures approaching the shop distracted Miriam from her thoughts. When they got close, she saw that one of them was Beadle Cohen. He carried a satchel and held a boy by the hand, a gamin of about nine who wore black pants and a gray shirt, and whose eyes looked glassy. Blank. The look, she fearfully realized, of shock.
"We need help, Miriam," the beadle whispered without preamble. "This is Misha Czisça." Leaning forward, he whispered, "His parents, Rabbi Czisça and his wife...transported."
The beadle stopped and released the boy's hand. He bent down. Looking into the child's eyes, he said, "Listen to me, Misha. We do not know where your parents are, or if they are. You must do whatever Miriam and I tell you. Now go and sit on the linoleum behind the counter, where you will not be seen, and practice your Hebrew lettering. Before you know it, you will be thirteen. You cannot neglect your bar mitzvah studies."
The boy did not answer, nor did he move. He stood in the middle of the shop, dry-eyed, a picture of stoicism. In one hand he held a notebook and a pencil.
"The main temple has been destroyed. Mine will probably be next," the beadle said, standing up. "The boy and I must get out of Germany. I have papers that, with luck, will get me to Copenhagen." He lowered his voice. "Somehow I'll get the boy through, too."
"And then?"
The beadle smiled. "L'shanah haba-a b'Yerushalayim."
"Next year in Jerusalem." Miriam repeated the ancient words that symbolized the Jews' hope for a safe harbor where they would always be welcome.
"Perhaps the following year." The old twinkle momentarily returned to the beadle's eyes. "Via New York, I hope. I intend to get to Holland first--I'll have the best chance of a berth from the Port of Amsterdam. While I wait, I'll find Sol's mother and sister."
"Don't tell them about Sol," Miriam said, "not even Recha. She might let it slip."
The beadle looked puzzled. "Surely you correspond with them--?"
"I did, while Sol was with me. When Erich told me that Sol was captured...his mother has been in such a precarious state, I thought the truth might--" She stopped.
What was the truth? At first she had rationalized that the news of Sol's internment would kill his mother, that Sol would be out soon, that they had not known Sol was en route to Amsterdam in the first place. And there was Erich. Her life with him was so public. She had crumpled page after page of attempts to explain why she was with Erich. No matter what she wrote, her words sounded like a hollow series of excuses for choosing a soft life. She had finally dashed off a note, saying simply that Sol was safe and that they should not expect to hear from him until, with God's help, they saw him. Her letter had crossed with one from Recha, his sister. She had seen Miriam on the Movietone News, flanked by Erich and Hitler, laying a wreath at the foot of the memorial to her uncle's assassins. Further correspondence from Miriam, Recha said, would be returned unopened.
She had written back twice. Recha remained good as her word. She had not written again. And telephoning? Out of the question. She couldn't. She simply couldn't.
"Come with us to Amsterdam," the beadle said. "I am sure it can be arranged."
Miriam shook her head and thought about another letter, the one Erich had agreed to have delivered to Sol at the camp. He had censored it, made her phrase it so it would seem that she had chosen to be with Erich because she loved him. By the time she had determined to find a way to send an uncensored letter to Sol, someone--according to Erich, it was probably Goebbels or Hempel--had arranged for Sol's transfer to another camp. Erich said he had been unable to ferret out which one, and she had tried, too, with equally fruitless results. Since Sol had no way to communicate with her, she might never know if she had succeeded in her attempt to convey the truth between the heartless lines Erich had forced her to write.
"I'm sorry, Beadle," she said. "If I stay, Sol has a chance."
The beadle took her arm. "I understand. We must each be true to ourselves." Unexpectedly, he kissed her cheek. "Now, to the business at hand. You sa
id that if I ever needed help, to come to you. You said you could hide me." He looked at the boy. "I must ask you to hide us."
Miriam was happy to replace words with action. "Of course," she said. "At once. But you must leave the safe-house before first light, through the empty cabaret next door. We jimmied the cabaret door, so you can slip in or out if need be. The sewer is not exactly the Hotel Kemp--"
She saw the boy stiffen and stopped in mid-word, mentally slapping herself on the wrist for her own thoughtlessness. The Kempinski was practically next door to the temple the ruffians had destroyed, and to the boy's home. Any mention of it would naturally cause him more pain.
"Ah yes, the Kempinski," the beadle said, as if by saying the word out loud he was removing her guilt at her tactlessness. Or if not removing it, make it a shared guilt, "The price and the service are better here."
"You are right on both counts," Miriam said. "I'm forced to breakfast there tomorrow, my once-a-week concession to Erich's insistence that we be seen out regularly together in public, like any other married couple." She was struck, as always, by life's inequities. Where was it written that this good man and this innocent child had to hide like rats underground, while she, by accident of a somewhat skewed birth, lived out her social exile in physical comfort? "You'll be safe here for one night," she said.
"One night it is." The beadle smiled sadly, and tapped a fingernail against a tattered manuscript he drew out from under his coat. "I will make it as worthwhile a night as possible. And you and I, Miss Rathenau...will meet again."
Miriam also smiled, picturing the beadle and his charge huddled beneath candlelight over Hebrew lettering; even now, the learning would go on.
She leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. "Yes, Beadle Cohen," she said, mostly for the boy. "We will meet again. Next year, in Jerusalem."
CHAPTER FIVE
Misha huddled under the train-station bench and occupied himself by squinting upward through the slats at the lights hanging from the high roof overhead. He cupped a grubby hand over one eye and then the other, noting the way the lights appeared to be moving when he did that, even though he knew they were not.
It was the only thing he could think of with which to occupy himself until the train left with the beadle on it. He had to consider what he was going to do next.
His course had seemed perfectly clear and simple to him sitting in the sewer, awake while the beadle slept: stay in Berlin and find Mama and Papa. Exactly how he was going to find them, or how he was going to stay warm and fed during his search had seemed irrelevant then. Now that his stomach was rumbling and he was shivering from the cold November draught blowing across him from the open railroad tracks, he was less sure of himself. It was not that he was any less determined to keep his promise to himself to find his parents, he told himself; it was just that, like Mama and Papa always told him, it was a big world out here and he was only a small boy.
Forgetting his game, he flattened himself on his belly and looked up and down the platform. Though the ticket inspector was on the steps, a whistle in his mouth, the beadle continued to rush up and down the platform, with complete disregard for his own safety, looking for the boy. In his hand he held the satchel that Misha knew contained what food had been left in the sewer, minus the few pieces of bread and chocolate he had secreted away in his pocket.
Misha took out the chocolate, smelled it, felt himself salivate, but resisted the temptation to nibble. He allowed himself a corner crust of bread, and replaced that, too, in his pocket. His hunger could wait to be appeased, It wasn't going anywhere. It would sit there like something alive, making noises inside his stomach, and eventually he would have to eat. But not now. Not yet.
"Misha," the beadle yelled. "Mishele. Nu, komm schon. Come already. Do not do this foolhardy thing."
It was cold and draughty so low down near the cement of the station platform. Misha wrapped himself up with his own arms and determined that, no matter what happened, he would not cry. Not now or ever again.
Dry-eyed and feeling like a traitor, he watched the beadle give up the search and, holding his hands palms-up in exasperation, board the train. "Goodbye, Beadle Cohen," he whispered. "I'm sorry to be a trouble to you."
The inspector gave three long blasts on his whistle. The train rattled its own warning, chugged forward a hiccup, and stopped. A swirl of steam rolled down the platform. Misha watched it hopefully. If it reached him, it would improve the look of his wrinkled black pants and gray shirt, and warm him up a little.
Three short blasts on the whistle, and the beadle was gone.
There's no time to panic, Misha told himself, pushing away the feeling of total isolation that threatened immobility. What he needed now was a plan. That much he had to have. He could not just wander around Berlin. For one thing, by tonight the robbers and destroyers could own the streets again; for another, it would be cold and probably raining. Maybe even snowing.
He stood up and dusted himself off. He would run, if he knew in what direction. As he reached the cherub clock, someone called his name.
"Papa?"
Heart beating wildly, Misha turned around. Herr Becker, the owner of the bakery around the corner from the temple, waved from across the platform. He was a gentle man who used to put old bread out at the back for people to take to the Zoo Gardens to feed the ducks and the swans. Misha's hunger tempted him to answer, but then he remembered that Herr Becker didn't feed the birds anymore. Now, even when the bread was old and hard, he sold it. Readymade toast, Mama used to joke.
Misha waved back and turned to run, as if he were late for an appointment.
"Why is a cute little boy like you running around this place on his own?" A fat man held Misha by the arm and spun him around. He had a nasty glint in his eye and stank roundly of herring and beer. "If you don't have any place to go, you can always come with me. I know someone who would love to take a bite out of you." He smiled, showing a row of rotting teeth.
Stories about Georg Haarmann, murderer and cannibal, rose to the surface of Misha's memory. A fat, no-neck, heavy-joweled man like this, Misha was sure, ugly as a bulldog. Bet this one kidnapped boys and girls, too, and cut them up, and cooked them and ate them. And it was all true. Twenty years ago, Papa said, but true. He thought his papa had said the man was dead, but--
He shook himself loose, stumbled, fell, got up and ran on, feet automatically running in the direction of home.
Several blocks from the station, he finally slowed down. He looked into the shattered glass of a Jewish shop window and caught his fractured image. He had to look pretty closely to see even a glimpse of Rabbi Czisça's neat young son. For the first time, he noticed the hole in his pants his falling onto the pavement had caused. Such a klutz, Papa used to say. Other people wish they had a third eye in their heads to improve their psychic abilities, or in their chests to add to their understanding. Not our son. He needs a third eye underfoot.
Less afraid now of being recognized, but feeling no less hungry or helpless, he continued in the direction of home. Or what used to be home. He was almost at the Kempinski corner before he admitted to himself that he was being followed. He glanced back over his shoulder.
The no-neck man grinned, making no secret of being in pursuit.
Less afraid now that he was out in the open, in the streets, Misha crossed the street at Kempinski corner, and hovered at a gap in the hedge that separated the building from the people who walked the sidewalk. Between the glass windows of Kempinski Café and the hedge lay an outdoor dining area. Stacks of square green iron tables and chairs stood unusably wet from the early morning rain that lay in puddles in the narrow corridor.
Suddenly he heard the echo of Miriam's voice: I'm forced to breakfast there tomorrow.
There was the Kempinski, and today was yesterday's tomorrow, Misha walked quickly through the break in the foliage. Perhaps God had sent him a piece of luck because he was doing what Papa always told him, and helping himself.
Sure enough, as he neared the cafe's plate-glass window he saw Fräulein Miriam and a uniformed man seated at the table nearest the light. She must have been cold, for her coat was thrown around her shoulders. With one hand she toyed with a bowl of fresh strawberries; her other had lay ungloved on her lap, beneath the table. The man's uniform was different from the ones the men who had taken his parents away had worn, but it still succeeded in reminding him of them. A covered wicker basket of bread lay untouched between them, and a pot of what he assumed must be coffee.
As if she felt his presence, Miriam looked up and turned her head. She seemed to be looking straight at him, yet she did not react. Perhaps the glare of sunlight on the glass was distorting her view, he thought, moving to a different position.
He waved at her, and pointed at the table, expecting to be beckoned inside. Miriam started slightly, looked straight at him briefly, and shook her head. She made a similar gesture with the hand that was out of sight, pointed down the street, indicating that he should leave, and clenched her fist.
Shocked, he walked on, past the entrance to the hotel. He glanced into the lobby, at the huge displays of flowers, the knots of tourists and business men in pin-striped suits, the uniformed black-booted officers with their Gestapo leathers.
He was at the corner when the same fat male hand spun him around.
He kicked out and felt his toes connect. No-neck yelped and momentarily released the boy.
Giving no thought to direction, Misha took off at high speed --and barreled straight into a tall man in black.
Child of the Journey Page 4
