No Time for Tears

by Cynthia Freeman

  “Yes … I want to sell them.”

  Taking up the loupe, he examined each one. When he finished he said, “The lot is worth about twelve hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I didn’t say I was buying,” he said suddenly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t need any more small stuff.”

  “Well, if you don’t need it, you don’t need it.”

  Chavala carefully put the contents back into the pouch.

  “Wait, Chavala, I’ll try to sell them for you.”

  “Mr. Leibowitz, you have been very kind to me, and I’m grateful, but I want to sell them as soon as possible.”

  “To be in a hurry can cost money.”

  “And to be lazy, or late, can also cost money. There’s a store on Mott Street I saw. An old pawnshop that’s empty. I want to buy it.”

  “So someone else is grabbing it?”

  “Who knows? Maybe not, but I’ll tell you, Mr. Leibowitz, life has taught me if you don’t do something when you feel it’s right, sometimes it gets too late, so I don’t like to wait.”

  He truly admired Chavala’s spirit, and was so touched by her courage he said, adjusting his yarmulke, “How much is the rent?”

  “Fifty dollars a month. The fixtures are already there. It even has a safe.”

  “All right. I’ll loan you five hundred dollars to start the business. You leave the stuff with me. I’ll get you more than if you sell to the gonuvim.”

  “I’ll never forget your kindness, Mr. Leibowitz.” And she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

  Pleased, he said, “In this world you have to help. It’s the real pleasure. Now buy a hundred dollars’ worth of musical instruments. I’ll tell my friend Goldstein to give you a good buy.”

  “Why do I need instruments?”

  “So you’ll have something to sell, and, Chavala, be very careful how much you lend. If you have any doubts, better to do nothing. I’ll teach you as much as I can. Mazel tov.”

  That night she could hardly wait to write to her sisters.

  As she wrote, she also thought about Dvora’s unhappy situation, but then she consoled herself with the thought that no matter how little she earned, a part of that would be sent to Dvora, who didn’t even have a decent pair of shoes.

  Putting down the pen, she looked again at the recent pictures she’d received from Palestine. Dvora and her husband, Ari, were standing with their son and daughter in the mud. In the background was the tent they lived in. It looked just like an army barracks. One large tent housed the kitchen and dining room, and she counted, as she had before, ten other tents surrounding it. Still, Dvora and Ari were smiling … but Chavala wasn’t fooled, she knew what they were going through. She remembered too well the Galilee … this was hardly better. In the winter they would live with the wind howling and the rain leaving a river of mud, and in summer they would almost die from the heat. She almost wished that they hadn’t sent the picture … Dvora had changed from that vibrant young girl who had gone off that summer to the training farm into a woman whose face was etched with the hardships and rigors of their struggles to survive. Her weather-beaten face was wrinkled before its time. Surely Dvora looked too old for her twenty-five years … And Ari. When he’d come home from the war he too was greatly changed, not only in his body but in his spirit too. When he’d first come from America, from New Jersey, he was a fired-up pioneer, full of excitement and dedication. His willingness to sacrifice the good life of America was no sacrifice for him. He had the chance to change a world in which all people were distinctly not created equal, did not have equal opportunity. He and his fellows … and then his wife … shared a bold dream of a society where everybody worked for the common good of the community. When he got back from the war they settled in Arazim, a kibbutz in the Jordan Valley, that provided the kind of challenge he’d come all this way in search of. But he soon discovered that there was no such thing as Utopia … even in Palestine. Here too, in spite of many good things, there was a subtle ruling class, a hierarchy competing for control of the inner workings of the kibbutz. Human nature, it seemed, was human nature. Also, maybe because of the war, he could no longer tolerate the strict discipline, owning nothing for himself and his family. The land still pulled him, but he felt he also had to own a part of himself. He wanted to see what he produced with his hands and live in a hut built by his own labor.

  The founders of Arazim disapproved.

  “Have we done our work here so that now we can sit back like land barons? You talk of private ownership. Being individuals … We have invested our lives to claim this land, and here we shall build roots for the future of our children …”

  Along with twenty others, Ari, Dvora and their five-year-old Zvi moved on. They settled in the Galilee, east of Jordan, a wilderness of marshes, rock-strewn and malaria-ridden swamps, but it fired the imagination and filled them with greater inspiration. The Moshav was divided into equal parcels and cultivated by individual members. They shared marketing and water. A person was recompensed according to his labor. While the land was being cultivated the settlers received a daily wage from the JNF, scarcely enough to live on, but their faith in the future kept them going.

  They told Chavala this in letters, but she knew, or felt, much of it was a brave front. Their hardships were so much greater than hers … they must be suffering…

  Raizel was expecting her fourth child, and Chavala hated to think of her and her children living out their lives in the desperate poverty of Mea Shearim. It was unthinkable, and it wouldn’t be so … not if Chavala had to beg, borrow, steal, or all three …

  Strange, she thought as she began her letter to Sheine, of all the four sisters she was the only one with security. Except, of course, that her husband wasn’t of their faith. Well, what was important was that Sheine said she was happy. Chavala didn’t hope for Sheine’s riches for herself or the rest of the family … but she did intend to see them all secure, never in need. Never mind the mansion in Berlin, Sheine’s husband’s ancestral home, where he’d brought her as his bride. What mattered was that Gunter’s parents were pleased with her, that his friends had welcomed her. It seemed some goyim, even Germans, could be decent. At least for Sheine she had no worries….

  Except what Sheine wrote and what was reality were two different things.

  Frau Hausman was distinctly not pleased with her son’s choice of a bride. She was very disappointed that Gunter had married outside his social level. It was young Erica Steinhart that she had always hoped for as a daughter-in-law, but since Gunter hadn’t proposed before going off, Erica, a girl of considerable ego, had quickly married so as not to appear jilted.

  The war was to blame, Frau Hausman told herself. When men became lonely they lost their sense of things … they lived for the moment, grabbing it as though it might be their last. She understood, but she couldn’t really accept it. Grudgingly she acknowledged that this Elsa Beck did have signs of decent breeding and some grace. Generally Frau Hausman’s opinion of nurses were that they were nothing more than bedpan handlers who wiped people’s bottoms and slept with every intern—little more than tramps, really. Well, at least Gunter hadn’t disgraced them by bringing one of that kind home.

  So she was aloof but not hostile to Sheine. Guarded in her manner, she nonetheless welcomed her daughter-in-law. After all, it was that or lose her son. When a man who was so obviously in love as Gunter was, whom would he choose? She would play a waiting game…

  Sheine, with her long-standing fears and indeed guilts, was grateful for a show of even reserved acceptance. And if at times she wished that Gunter was a little more aware of his mother’s lack of warmth, she quickly put it out of her mind. Gretchen Hausman had not been demonstrative to her husband or her son either. Her Germanic reserve was seen by both husband and son as a kind of dignity. They were accustomed to it

  But Sheine knew, felt the difference between the coolness she was shown and the lo
ng-established manner toward Gunter and his father. The subtleties weren’t always so subtle … she’d look up and find her mother-in-law scrutinizing her from across the table … “You have such lovely dark hair Elsa … quite lovely. Nicht wahr, Frederick?” And then her head would turn to observe Gunter’s blond handsomeness.

  The effect was not lost on Sheine, nor was it meant to be.

  In the months that followed, Sheine found herself being taken over by her mother-in-law. (If she couldn’t get rid of her, at least she could try to remake her into something more suitable …) Her clothes were carefully selected. Her hair style prescribed. Nothing was done without consulting mutter. If Frau Hausman could have been as adept at controlling Sheine’s thoughts, she might even have blessed her seemingly placid daughter-in-law. But Sheine suffered, secretly, and in silence….

  Although the deutschmark had plunged in value since the war, Dr. Frederick Hausman had no problems. His brother, Otto, was a Swiss banker who lived in Zurich and handled the family’s estate. The Swiss franc was worth two hundred marks. And Gretchen, thank God, was wonderfully frugal. The best bargains were to be had in the eastern part of Berlin, and repugnant as it might be to Gretchen to buy from these dreadful people, she nonetheless, Sheine in tow, made two trips a week across town to what she and her friends called the Jewish Switzerland.

  Inside the crumbling building along Dragonerstrasse was an assortment of merchants who had been in the country for twenty-five to fifty years. There was very little that could not be purchased on that long boulevard. There were secondhand dealers, one after another, secondhand furniture stores, markets, restaurants, rooming houses, butcher shops and houses of worship. Among those that mingled with the older Jewish community were the multitudes of newly displaced Jews who had poured in from Poland, Galicia and Russia, holding to their customs and ways of dressing. Young and old women alike wore their wigs of chastity and all in the same color—black. They also brought with them their strict religious codes. Despite that all the butcher shops displayed the Star of David in their windows and that the meat was stamped by the rabbi as kosher, the women would not buy from a butcher who was clean-shaven … the rabbi himself was suspect since he too wore no beard. So, poor as they were, they nonetheless chose to pay a little more and walk a little further to buy from Yisroel Schmolivitch in Landsburg Allee, who had a long black beard and carved up a side of beef he had just slaughtered. With their purchases packed inside the crocheted shopping bags they wandered back to Dragonerstrasse, where they could find the best bargains in produce. They looked most strange to the blond women dressed in the fashion of the day who hurried into the large mercantile stores.

  At Melnetski’s mercantile, merchandise—wedding gowns to shrouds—was stacked from floor to ceiling. At the stocking counters, arms reached out feverishly to grab the right size. The place was a bedlam, and the street noises were deafening. At the bakery shop there were queues waiting with bags of near-worthless money to buy bread, onion rolls, poppyseeded flat rolls with coarse salt and caraway. Hurrying along the streets were eastern Oriental Jews in brocaded caftans, heads covered in the traditional fur-trimmed hats. From the large synagogues, elderly Jews emerged carrying phylactery bags tucked under arm and going into the small shuls were long-bearded men wearing wide-brimmed Galician hats, while others wore derbies that sat on the back of their heads; some had short earlocks and untrimmed beards. From the open windows of the yeshiva, chanting was heard.

  Outside these holy places the sidewalks teemed with street urchins who begged. Restaurants were jammed with secondhand clothes dealers who had just returned from a morning in the west part of Berlin, where they had waited outside the mansions while the rich matrons bargained for a pfennig more. Back at Dragonerstrasse, they lunched with the other dealers and compared the prices they had paid the rich German bitches who tried to cheat them out of a pfennig and treated them like dreck. At nearby tables pious elderly men said their broches before eating. Others sat in the corner playing cards and drinking one glass of tea after another. On the curb outside, vendors hawked their wares, from pots and pans and underwear to secondhand mattresses.

  German Jews who had become, they thought, assimilated, tried very hard to ignore these less fortunate refugees. They wanted to run and hide each time the Russian Jews, dressed in their peasant boots and long shabby coats, crossed into their sanctified neighborhoods. They devoutly wished these bearded faces and black caps would somehow just go away …

  Sheine trembled inside as she realized that she identified more with these people now than she had in her youth. Yes, they reminded her who she was, and Elsa Beck became a shame and burden to her. She wanted to reach out and touch them, embrace them.

  Sitting in the back of the limousine, Gretchen said, “Die Juden are our curse.”

  Sheine tried to make herself deaf as she droned on and on … how the dreadful inflation was caused by this alien scourge in their midst … these Russian. Polish. Roumanian Jews who had brought filth and disease to the Fatherland. In fact, the terrible influenza was spread by them, and they had desecrated the lovely streets … On and on Gretchen ranted.

  Sundays were the worst of all. As they walked up the steps of Gedächtnis Kirche, the oldest, most impressive church in Berlin, she faltered slightly, then was led by the arm to sit in the pew with Gunter and his parents. To look up was to see Jesus on the cross, to see the Virgin Mary with her son from the manger to the grave. Sheine wanted to scream out, but fear left her impotent, in silence.

  From the pulpit the minister spoke about godless communism assaulting God-fearing, God-loving Germans. The Jews, of course, were responsible. They marched with their banners in the streets, these rabble rousers who were a plague upon the nation. They had spread their poisonous doctrines, even seduced the workers. The government must take a strong hand in condemning them, outlaw their Communist party. Only then could the greatness of Germany be free to rise again … Greatness exemplified by Goethe, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Wagner, Brahms and Beethoven. The Jewish poison of Marx and Engels, The Communist Manifesto, needed to be rooted out, banned and burned. Said the minister in solemn tones, had it not been for the international Jewish bankers the Kaiser would still be on the throne and the glory of the Fatherland would still prevail. “Yes,” said the minister as he looked into the faces of his parishioners, “Die Juden bringen nur Ungluck. They are a blight upon humanity.”

  Back home for Sunday luncheon after such spiritual lessons, Sheine would sit very quietly, seeing in her mind’s eye Jesus on the cross, the Jews of Dragonerstrasse, with the terrifying sound of the minister’s words reverberating … On Easter Sunday the story of the Resurrection was drowned out by echoes of “Kill the Jews” during the pogroms in Odessa… The Jewishness in Elsa Beck Hausman that could not be repressed resulted in blinding migraines, some so violent that she could not get out of bed for days….

  This particular evening as the family sat at dinner in the large dining room with the heavily carved furniture, Sheine felt mired in the worst despair she had ever felt.

  Frederick Hausman looked at his daughter-in-law, for whom he had great affection, and observed the paleness of her olive skin and the strain in her soft brown eyes. What in the world troubled her so … ?

  “Elsa, you haven’t touched your food. Eat, my dear, or you’ll waste away to nothing.”

  Sheine, her thoughts elsewhere, was startled by her father-in-law’s voice. He’d always seemed a man with a sense of humor, and kind. He’d not only welcomed Sheine but admired her achievements as a surgical nurse. Sheine never could comprehend how he’d ever come to marry Gretchen …

  Gretchen was looking closely at Elsa also, noted the dark hollows under her eyes and was distressed. But, unlike with Frederick, it had nothing to do with concern or affection for Elsa. Gretchen was unhappy because Elsa had given her no grandchildren. Obviously Gunter wasn’t to blame, it had to be Elsa. If only the war hadn’t ruined everything, Gunter would have a fine German
wife and blond handsome German sons, like Erica Steinhart had been able to give her husband. But this strange, dark-complexioned woman was tainted with the genes of a French mother … Gretchen’s dislike for the French almost matched her feeling about the Jews. Because of the French, Germany stood humiliated before the world. Well, Gunter’s child … if one came … would be German, and with her influence would be a Hausman. She’d see to it…

  That evening as Sheine, her eyes closed, lay on the bed, trying to cope with the awful pain in her head, Gunter sat alongside her, held her hand.

  “Elsa, my dearest, tell me what I can do to help you.”

  Silence.

  “When I sent you to be examined … Fritz told me he found nothing physically wrong … the headaches, he thinks, are a symptom of something else.”

  Sheine opened her eyes and looked at him. “He’s right. I’m frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “Don’t you really know?”

  “No …”

  “My Jewishness.”

  “Dear God … darling, you’ve no reason to feel this way—”

  “But I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe you can answer that. Gunter, why haven’t you ever told your family that I am a Jew?”

  Gunter shook his head. “It didn’t seem important—”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Elsa had never spoken to him like that before. “Why shouldn’t you believe me?”

  “Because you were ashamed to tell them.”

  “I wouldn’t have married you if I’d been ashamed—”

  “Then why didn’t you tell them?”

  “Perhaps because you found it so reprehensible to be a Jew you kept it a secret from me.” His voice was rising, and then just as quickly was filled with remorse. He took her in his arms. “Elsa, please, let’s not do this to each other. The truth is, I didn’t think you wanted me to say anything. I’ll be very happy to go to my parents, tell them, but I assure you it will make no difference—”