“How awful,” Daphne said quietly, thinking of what her mother had said.
“Don't say that to anyone,” Beata snapped at her. “If you're sympathetic to the Jews, they'll hurt you,” she said as they walked into the privacy of their own home. It was warm and comfortable and safe. That was essential now. She couldn't get the vision of the destroyed facade of her old home out of her head, the broken windows, and the antiques strewn all over the street.
“But you feel sorry for the Jews, don't you, Mama?” Daphne looked at her with innocent eyes.
“Yes,” Beata said honestly, “but it's dangerous to say that out loud these days. Look what just happened. People are angry and confused. They don't know what they're doing. It's better to keep quiet. I want you to remember that, Daphne.” Her mother looked at her sternly, and she nodded sadly.
“I will. I promise.” But it seemed so mean. It all did. So cruel. And so wrong. She couldn't help thinking how frightening it would be to be Jewish. To lose your home. To have people take you away, or maybe even lose your parents. It made her shudder to think about it. She was glad that she and her mother were safe. Even if she didn't have a father near at hand. But no one was going to bother them.
They were both quiet that night, lost in their own thoughts. And Daphne was startled when she walked into her mother's room and found her on her knees praying. She looked at her for a minute and then walked out of the room. She wondered if her mother was praying for the family she had talked about that afternoon, and suspected that she was. She was right. But Daphne had no idea what she was doing. She was doing what she had never done, and heard her father do. What they had done for her. What Orthodox women never did. She was saying Kaddish, the prayers for the dead. And praying that they were still alive. But if not, someone had to do it. She said all that she could remember, and then knelt there, by the side of her bed, with tears running down her cheeks. They had closed their doors to her years before, and their hearts, and had declared her dead. But she loved them anyway. And now they were gone, all of them. Brigitte, Ulm, Horst, Papa. The people she had grown up with and never ceased to love. She sat shiva for them that night, just as long before, they had done for her.
13
BEATA CALLED THE MOTHER SUPERIOR IN THE FIRST WEEK of December and asked to visit her daughter. She said it was important, and the Mother Superior told her gently that she would have to wait. They were very busy these days. In fact, they had deep concerns, and a problem of their own. She gave Beata a visiting time on December 15, hoping things would have calmed down by then.
Beata was beside herself till then. She didn't know why, but she felt compelled to see Amadea and tell her what had happened. It didn't really affect them, but it could. She had to know. She had that right. She would have told Daphne, too, but she was too young, and she might say something in school. She was not yet fourteen, and too young to be burdened with deep secrets. Particularly secrets that could cost lives, even her own. But at least Amadea was safe where she was, and her mother valued her advice. She didn't want to make these decisions alone. She had been thinking of going to Switzerland. But Antoine's cousins were long dead. And there was nowhere else to go. She would have had to rent a house there and leave her own. She hated to make decisions out of panic and fear. There was no reason for her to be afraid, but she was. Deeply afraid.
Amadea could see it the moment she walked in. Something was wrong. Her mother had come alone. Daphne was at school. Beata hated to waste a visit without her, and deprive her of the opportunity to see her sister, but she felt she had no choice. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly. They were all Germans after all. She was Catholic. No one knew who she was. No one was bothering her. But still, you could never be sure anymore. Her father must have thought he was safe too. She wasn't sure where to begin.
“Peace of Christ,” Amadea said softly, smiling at her mother. It had been a sad week for them. Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce, Edith Stein, had left them three days before, to join a convent in Holland. A friend had driven her over the border and her sister Rosa had gone with her, and was going to be staying at the convent too. She had been afraid to jeopardize the other nuns. Born Jewish, she had asked the Mother Superior to send her away to keep the others safe. And it broke everyone's heart to see her go. It was not what they wanted, but what they knew had to happen, for her well-being as well as theirs. They had all cried when she left, and prayed for her daily. The convent didn't seem the same without her smiling face. “Mama, are you all right? Where's Daphne?”
“In school. I wanted to see you alone.” She was speaking quickly, because she knew they didn't have much time, and she had a lot to say. “Amadea, my family's been deported.”
“What family?” Amadea looked confused as she stared at her mother, and they held each other's fingers through the grille. They were speaking in whispers. “You mean Oma's family?” Beata nodded.
“All of them. My father, my sister, my two brothers, their children, and my brothers' wives.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and she wiped them away as they spilled onto her cheeks.
“I'm so sorry,” Amadea said softly, confused. “Why?”
Beata took a breath and plunged in. “They're Jewish. Or they were.” By now they were probably dead. “I'm Jewish. I was born Jewish. I converted to marry your father.”
“I never knew,” Amadea said, looking at her with compassion. But she didn't seem frightened, nor did she seem to understand what it meant, or could mean to her, to all of them.
“I never told you. We didn't think it was important. And now it is. Very important. Maybe I was afraid … or ashamed. I don't know. No one has bothered us or said anything, and all my papers say I'm Catholic. I really don't have any papers, except the identity cards I've had since your father died. There's no evidence of it anywhere, and your birth certificate says that Papa and I were both Catholic when you were born, and we were. Our marriage certificate even says I'm Catholic. But it's there, somewhere. My father told everyone I had died. He wrote my name in the book of the dead. The person I was then no longer exists. I was reborn when I married your father, as a Christian, a Catholic. But the truth is, you're half Jewish, and so is Daphne. And I'm fully Jewish, as far as the Nazis are concerned. If they ever find out, you will be in danger. You have to know. I want you to be aware of it so you can protect yourself.” And the others, Amadea instantly thought to herself, remembering what Edith Stein had just done, to protect them all. But she was fully Jewish, and known to be. Amadea wasn't, and she was a nobody. Nobody knew or cared who she was. And her mother said there was no evidence of their heritage, or their Jewish relatives. Still, it was good to know.
“Thank you for telling me. I'm not worried,” she said quietly, looking at her mother, and kissing her fingers. And then she thought of what Edith Stein, Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce, had said before she left about the potential risk to others by association. “What about Daphne, Mama?”
“She's safe with me. She's just a child.” But so were the other children who were being deported and sent to camps. The difference was that they were fully Jewish. Daphne wasn't. But there was admittedly some small degree of risk. As long as no one bothered them, and didn't unearth anything from the distant past, all would be well. And how likely was it that they would? Even going to Switzerland seemed a little hysterical to her now. They had no reason to run away. It was just unsettling knowing what was happening to the others.
“Mama, Sister Teresa Benedicta told us about something before she left. It's a beautiful thing. It's a train run by the British to rescue Jewish children before they get sent away to work camps and deported. The first one left on December first, but there will be others. They are sending German children to England until this insanity stops. Only children, up to the age of seventeen. And the Germans are allowing it. It's legal. They don't want Jewish children here anyway. What about sending Daphne to be sure that she's safe? You can always bring her back later.” But Beata inst
antly shook her head. She wasn't sending her daughter away. There was no need to. And going to stay with strangers in England could be dangerous too.
“She's not Jewish, Amadea. Only half. And no one even knows that. I'm not sending her unprotected to a foreign country with God knows who, like an animal on a freight train, to stay God knows where. It's too dangerous for her. She's just a child.”
“So are the others. Good people will take them into their homes and take care of them,” Amadea said gently. It seemed a wise opportunity to her, but not to Beata.
“You don't know that. She could be raped by a stranger. Anything could happen. What if these children fall into the wrong hands?”
“They're in the wrong hands here. You said it yourself.” And then Amadea sighed. Maybe her mother was right. There was no real danger to them for the moment, and they could see how things went. There was always time to send her away later if something came up. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was better to just keep their heads down, keep quiet, and let the storm pass. Sooner or later it would.
“I don't know,” Beata said, looking worried. It was hard to know what to do, what was right. There was blood in the air, but it wasn't theirs for now. All she had wanted was to warn Amadea, so she could be aware. She was safe in the convent. Edith Stein was a different story. She was fully Jewish, known to be, and had been something of a radical and an activist, not so long ago. She was exactly the sort of person the Nazis were looking for. Troublemakers. Amadea certainly wasn't that. And as the two women sat looking at each other, thinking, a nun knocked at the door, and signaled to Amadea that their time was up.
“Mama, I have to go.” It would be months before they saw each other again.
“Don't write to Daphne that I was here. It will break her heart not to have seen you, but I wanted to see you alone.”
“I understand,” she said, kissing her mother's fingers. She was twenty-one, but she looked considerably older. She had grown up in her three and a half years in the convent, and her mother could see it now. “I love you, Mama. Be careful. Don't do anything foolish,” she warned her, and her mother smiled. “I love you so much.”
“So do I, my darling.” And then she confessed with a sad smile, “I still wish you were at home with us.”
“I'm happy here,” Amadea reassured her, feeling a tug at her heart. She missed them both at times, but she was still certain of her vocation. In four and a half years, she would take her final vows. There was no question of that. She had never doubted it once since she'd been there. And then as her mother got up to leave, “Merry Christmas, Mama.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” her mother said softly and then left the little cell where they visited, divided by the wall with the narrow grille.
Amadea hurried back to work after that, and at the time set aside for examination of conscience, she thought of all her mother had said to her. She had a great deal to think about, but there was no doubt in her mind what she had to do next. She went to find the Mother Superior in her office directly after lunch, during the time normally set aside for recreation. She was relieved to find Mother Teresa Maria Mater Domini at work at her desk. She looked up as Amadea hesitated. She had been writing a letter to the Mother Superior of the Convent in Holland where Sister Teresa Benedicta had gone, thanking her for responding to their need.
“Yes, sister. What is it?”
“Peace of Christ, Mother. May I speak to you?”
She signaled to her to come in and sit down. “Did you have a nice visit with your mother, Sister?” The wise old eyes were taking her in. She could see that the young nun was worried about something, and looked disturbed.
“Yes, thank you, Mother, I did.” Amadea had closed the door behind her when she entered the room. “I have something I have to tell you, which I didn't know when I came in.” The Mother Superior waited. She could see that it was something serious. The young nun looked upset. “I never knew that my mother wasn't born Catholic. She told me today that she converted to Catholicism before she married my father. She was born Jewish. Her family was deported the day after Kristallnacht. I never knew them because they disowned my mother when she married my father, and never saw her again. My grandmother finally met us two years before I came in. But my grandfather never allowed my mother to see the rest of them again. They wrote her down as dead.” She looked up at the Mother Superior, and took a breath. “She says that no one seems to have any record of her history. She never registered, she has no passport. My parents lived in Switzerland for three years before we moved back here. I was born there. She has her marriage certificate to my father, which says she's Catholic. My birth certificate says they both are. But I'm half Jewish, Mother. I never knew that before. And I'm afraid now that if I stay, I will put everyone at risk.” It was exactly why Sister Teresa Benedicta had just left.
“We are not at risk, my child, and neither are you. From what you're telling me, no one knows your mother's circumstances. Is she planning to register as a Jew with the police?”
Amadea shook her head. “No, she's not. She leads a quiet life, and there is no reason for anyone to find out.” It was not honest, admittedly, but it was practical, and there were lives at stake. Both Daphne's and hers, and Amadea's. Even those of the other nuns perhaps. The Mother Superior did not appear to disapprove. “Sister Teresa Benedicta's circumstances were entirely different from yours. She was born fully Jewish, and she was well known as a lecturer and an activist, before she came here. She's a convert. You're not. She brought a great deal of attention to herself before she became a nun. You are a young girl who grew up as a Catholic. And with any luck at all, no one will ever realize that your mother didn't grow up Catholic, too. If she stays quiet, hopefully no one will ever know. If something happens to change that, I'm sure she'll let us know. In that case, we can spirit you away somewhere. This is precisely what I didn't like about Sister Benedicta's circumstances—it panics everyone. There is no need for alarm in your case. You came here as an innocent young girl, not as a grown woman who was known, had converted, and drawn attention to herself. In her case, it was wisdom to leave. In yours, it is imperative to stay. That is, if you want to stay.” She looked at her questioningly, and Amadea looked relieved.
“Yes, I do. But I was afraid you would want me to go. I will, if that is ever what you wish.” If so, it would have been the ultimate sacrifice to Amadea, for the good of the others. And her “small way” of denying herself for them. Saint Teresa's “small way” was self-denial in God's name.
“It's not. And Sister,”—she looked at her sternly then, as a mother would to admonish a child—“it is very important that you not discuss this with anyone. No one. We will keep this information between us.” And then she looked up with concern. “Do you know what happened to your mother's family? Has she heard anything?”
“She believes they were sent to Dachau.” The Mother Superior said nothing and pursed her lips. She hated what was happening to the Jews, as they all did.
“Please tell her that I'm sorry when you write to her. But do it discreetly,” she said, and Amadea nodded, looking grateful for her kindness.
“Mother, I don't want to leave. I want to take my solemn vows.”
“If that is God's will, then you shall.” But they both knew it was still four and a half years away. It seemed an eternity to the young nun. She was determined to get there and let nothing stand in her way. They had just overcome a great obstacle in the last half-hour. “Do not confuse your circumstances with those of Sister Teresa Benedicta. That is a very different case.” And it had been a severe one, with high risk for all concerned. This was not, in her opinion.
“Thank you, Mother.” Amadea thanked her again and left a moment later, as the Mother Superior sat at her desk, looking pensive for a long moment. She wondered how many more of these circumstances existed behind the convent walls. It was possible there were others she wasn't aware of, and perhaps the nuns themselves had no idea, as Amadea hadn't. But it
was better not to know.
Amadea felt immensely relieved for the rest of the day, although she was still concerned about her mother and sister. But perhaps her mother was right, and the truth of her origins would never come out. There was no reason for them to. She prayed that night for the relatives who had been deported and possibly even killed, whom she had never known. She remembered then the time her mother had taken her to the synagogue, and Amadea couldn't understand why at the time. She had forgotten about it afterward, but now, thinking back, she realized that she must have somehow been touching some piece of her past. She had never taken Amadea there again.
14
THE PERSECUTION OF THE JEWS CONTINUED, PREDICTABLY, into the following year. In January 1939, Hitler gave a speech, threatening them, and making clear his enmity toward them. They were no longer welcome citizens in their own country, as Hitler vowed to make things tough for them, and already had. The following month they were told to hand over all gold and silver items. In April they lost their rights as tenants and had to relocate into entirely Jewish houses, and could no longer live side by side with Aryans.
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