The Seven Year Dress: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  But back to when I was growing up. The first national politician to protest and take actions against the treaty’s conditions was Adolf Hitler, a move gaining him national support. As the Party grew, my father was employed by the German government to write and negotiate contracts. He worked day and night, remaining a part of a cadre of government lawyers until years later. As Hitler’s popularity increased, his oratory propaganda continued to denounce global capitalism and communism as being a component of a Jewish conspiracy. As the rhetoric intensified and hatred grew, my father was removed from his government employment.

  In 1921, when I turned two-years-old, Hitler became the leader of the Nazi Party. As I was learning to combine words into simple sentences and took pride in my new accomplishment, the evil voice of the man rising to power was gaining followers. To German citizens flocking to hear him in hopes of employment, Hitler was the illusion and promise of a better life. Little did we know he would be our death sentence.

  “Helen, put that down!” My mother scolded me for grabbing a thin glass vase that I was about to insert in my mouth. She ran to remove it from my tiny wet hand. “I cannot turn my back for a minute,” she laughed. Picking me up, she gave me a hug and handed me to my sister Shana. “Watch your baby sister.” Mamma smiled before turning around and heading to the kitchen. She spent most of her day preparing three meals and cleaning up after our active family. She loved to cook and, thankfully for the rest of us, made delicious meals. She was among the Jews in Berlin that did not keep kosher, which kept her domestic life simpler while tending to us children.

  “Mamma that smells so good,” my older brother, Lawrence, said. “Is it a chocolate cake?” Shana carried me into the kitchen to watch.

  “Yes, Larry.” Mamma stirred flour into the wet mix, dripping white fluffs onto the counter.

  “For Helen’s birthday?” He waited for her to finish and turn her back, before sticking a finger into the batter and then into my mouth. “Big girl’s two years old,” he said playfully as he painted my forehead.

  When she turned to face us, her stern look faded into laughter. They all giggled at the sight of chocolate on my face. “Okay now, out of the kitchen and let me finish my work. Larry, go outside and play with your brother Ben.”

  While Mamma prepared the festivities, my beloved sister played hide-the-object to entertain me. In front of me, she took a book and hid it, and then she asked me, “Helen, where is it?” I took great satisfaction in slamming my little fist down on the pillow it was under and waited for recognition that I accomplished the task. “Good girl,” she patted my back.

  I toddled over to another spot on the couch where the pillows were and patted it. “More,” I squealed. “Do it again.”

  The game and playtime went on until my father came home and it was time to celebrate. “Are Ludwig and Ela bringing Max over?” my father asked referring to our neighbors, the Müllers, and their son, who had recently turned two. Both Ela and my mother were pregnant at the same time. Max and I were perfect playmates, poking and prodding one another. Even then, I was his best friend.

  As the years passed, Max and I became inseparable. He came to our home for meals, and I went to his. He was an only child, so he especially loved coming over to a warm home filled with noisy fun kids running around, all older than the two of us. Max was particularly fond of my brother Ben, so I was surprised when, in 1929, at the age of ten, he came crying to me that Ben was not nice to him. “What happened?” I asked Max.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he pouted.

  “You just told me he was mean to you. Tell me the rest.” Sitting on a wooden bench in our backyard, I waited several minutes and watched him cry. “Max,” I put my hand on his back and felt the heat pouring from his body. “What is it? You can tell me.”

  His breathing calmed. “He pushed me away.”

  “What do you mean? What did he do?”

  “He changed toward me. He wasn’t warm. It was like my friend disappeared.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What happened?”

  Max’s face turned red, and his breathing quickened. He shook his bowed head. “I feel ashamed.”

  “Oh Max, it can’t be that bad. Talk to me. You’ve always been able to talk to me.”

  “I know, but this is different.”

  “Max, you’re my best friend. It’s me, Helen.”

  Finally, with an agonized wince he said, “He called me a goy!”

  It wasn’t so much the word that shook me, but the way his tone changed when he said it. He was angry. I had never seen Max so upset. My chest tightened painfully, and a heaviness moved between us that had not been there before. My brother Ben was loving and kind. I didn’t understand any of this. My parents had shielded me from adult talk about the dark shadows of fear and hatred moving into our city and our country.

  Taking in a deep, slow breath, I calmed my nerves. Intuitively, I felt that something awful was entering my life, but I was at a loss for words. How could I get Max to open up about his feelings? Like occasions in the past, I rested in the assurance that, if we talked honestly, all would be well. I wondered if what was happening to Max now was similar to the time he wanted to play with my dolls. I knew that dolls were for girls, but I listened and didn’t make fun of him. What he wanted didn’t make sense to a little girl, but now I was just a couple of years away from becoming a woman. I was beginning to understand his preference for girl toys, his affection for my brother Ben, and why Ben’s comment hurt his feelings.

  “I’m sure Ben didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Yes, he did!” His shoulders slumped. He looked down at his hands, his chin trembling. Max’s moist eyes avoided mine when he continued. “Ben asked me if I had heard the rumors about a man named Hitler.” Max then relayed some ugly things that Ben had said to him. He wiped a tear from his cheek. “When I told Ben I thought it was nonsense, he sarcastically said he knew I wouldn’t believe it because I’m a…a goy!”

  Nausea rose in my belly. I was young, sheltered from the harsh political currents roiling around me, but I was still aware of how important religious beliefs were in defining what and who was acceptable. To me, the fuss seemed silly. Max was Max—my best friend. I didn’t care that he was different from me: a boy (who liked girl things), blonde, Christian, an only child. What difference did those differences make? I was confused and frightened for him, but I wanted to help him. Trying to calm him, and myself, I said, “All this political stuff can’t be all that serious, Max.” But deep inside I knew it was deadly serious.

  At my insistence, Max talked with Ben and all was forgiven. For me, that was a wonderful example of how easy it was to solve problems when people have love, not hate, in their hearts. In my family, we grew up to embrace things we liked and not dwell on what we disliked, for one can always find fault in another. I’ve often felt that we humans are more alike than not, and, if we want to keep the peace, it’s not difficult to find something on which to agree.

  Later, after that incident with my brother and Max, I learned that this man named Hitler hated Jews. After his attempted coup to seize power in Munich in 1923, Hitler was imprisoned and wrote Mein Kampf, which had several passages involving genocide. “The nationalization of our masses will succeed only when, aside from all the positive struggle for the soul of our people, their international poisoners are exterminated," Hitler wrote. He elaborated, “if at the beginning of the War and during the War twelve or fifteen thousand of these Hebrew corrupters of the people had been held under poison gas, as happened to hundreds of thousands of our very best German workers in the field, the sacrifice of millions at the front would not have been in vain.” I will never forget the day in the library when I read those words.

  Although my parents tried, protecting the family from Hitler’s hatred was impossible. His message became a stench in the air that everyone was forced to breathe. Out on the streets groups were forming, for Hitler and against Jews and other undesirables. The fi
rst time I heard the word undesirable defined, homosexuality was listed. I thought of Max and his attraction to Ben. His affinity to play with dolls. I couldn’t help wondering if Max had also heard those words and was goy the only label he feared?

  Chapter Two

  The day Max finally confided in me that he liked boys changed our relationship and our lives. Years later when Hitler’s vengeance against Jews, homosexuals, and others was in full fury, it would be the trust of our shared secret and the closeness that allowed it, that saved my life. The day Max opened up to me was cold and rainy. It mimicked his recently increasing disheartened mood. We were thirteen and I had an awful crush on Isaac Blau, a boy in our school. As Max and I were walking home after the last class, I couldn’t contain myself.

  “I didn’t sleep last night,” I giggled.

  Max knew me well. Responding to the silliness in my tone, he said, “The Blau boy?”

  “Yes,” I laughed. “He gave me another look today. He’s so cute!”

  “He is cute,” Max nudged me in the ribs with his elbow and gave me an exaggerated wink.

  I was taken aback by the response, assuming he was mocking me. Pulling a long face, I said, “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Huh?” His voice rose several pitches. He waved his arms in the air. “What? No! Never! I wouldn’t…I couldn’t do that! Not to you!”

  Startled for a moment by the volume and force of his response, I looked around to be sure no one was in earshot. “Then why did you react that way?”

  Lowering his voice, he said. “I happen to think he is cute.”

  “What?” My body jerked back.

  Max grabbed my shoulders to steady me. “I wasn’t joking. And I certainly wasn’t making fun of you.” He took in a deep slow breath. His eyes softened into loving warmth that eased the tension out of my rigid torso.

  Had Max confirmed what I had earlier suspected? I took my time before I spoke. “Max…” I had to know for sure, but I didn’t know how to ask him something so personal and so potentially dangerous given the current political situation. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He instantly stood erect and his body tightened. When an embarrassed flush blossomed over his fair skin, I regretted opening my mouth.

  He looked down and went silent. The tenderness he expressed seconds earlier dissolved into the atmosphere. Was he too uncomfortable, too afraid, to speak out loud what I believed to be his secret? When his jaw muscles tensed and sweat beaded on his forehead, I lifted his chin to make eye contact. “Max, you’re my closest friend. You know everything about me. If you need to confide in me about anything…”

  “It’s not that easy.” Tears dripped from his red face. “I can’t.”

  In that silence, I came to understand that Max and I each had something very real to fear as “undesirables” living in Germany at this moment in history. The difference was that, if he was very smart and lucky, he might be able to pretend that he was not an “undesirable.” I was smart, but would never be that lucky. But I could already see the price he paid for concealing his true self. He was guarded and moody, not the sweet Max I grew to love and call my best friend. His secret was eating away at him, but revealing his secret—even to me—could have dire consequences. Many minutes had passed before I took his hand. “Let’s go somewhere safe.”

  I led him to a nearby park, and there, among the birch trees and capercaillie, we sat on an isolated bench. He remained quiet as I watched one of the birds puff up its slate-gray and brown plumage and spread its wings to take flight. Its freedom made me aware of how confined Max must be feeling.

  In the privacy of the shaded, remote area, he cried openly. When he finished crying, he blew his nose and laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “It’s nerves. Anxiety, you know, coming out.”

  Wanting to make it safe for him to express himself, I said nothing and just smiled.

  “I do trust you,” he said. “But I don’t know that you understand the extent of what is happening in our country.” He bit his lower lip and squeezed my hand. Then said, “We’re both in danger.”

  “Oh, Max! You’re being overly dramatic.” I smiled, referring to his flare for the theatrics.

  With humbled, hunched shoulders, he responded, “Not this time, Helen. What’s happening in Germany is serious.” He went on to tell me that representatives of the Hitler Youth movement had already contacted him and wanted him to join when he turned fourteen. Boys his age would surround him day and night—boys who probably all liked girls except for him. He would have to pretend to share an interest in girls and a hatred of all “undesirables” while hiding any urges that may develop. If he couldn’t manage all of that to be a “good Nazi,” he feared the consequences. “And worse,” he started to cry again, “I will never be with a boy!”

  Max’s affirmation broke my heart. Before he cast his eyes to the ground, I saw a depth of sorrow in them that pierced my heart. I put one hand over my chest in a useless attempt to protect myself from all of this pain—mine, his, ours. Max slowly raised his head and continued. “You are the only person in the world I can talk to.”

  Not knowing what to say, and desperately wanting to comfort him, I asked, “What about your parents? Don’t you think they’d want to know?”

  “No! It would kill them.”

  “They love you, Max. You don’t know how they would react. Is it your religion?” I was referring to his Catholic upbringing.

  “No, they’re not overly religious. It’s the…” He stopped talking and clenched his fists. “You should understand, being Jewish. And all that’s going on.”

  “I’m not sure that I really do,” I replied honestly.

  The stories and the frightening things that were being rumored simply weren’t real to me. None of the propaganda was concrete in my mind because I wasn’t exposed to it. Not until later and things became much worse did the talk become reality, shattering my insulated world. It would occur five years downstream, on a very dark November night in 1938, that I would see the atrocities for myself. But for Max it was different. He was regularly exposed to the indoctrination of his parents and other German friends.

  “Well, trust me, bad things are happening.”

  “They don’t seem that bad to me, Max.”

  With his hand on my shoulder, he smiled. “Always the optimist.”

  A chill moved into the air. I shivered. “Time to head home.”

  We walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  * * *

  That night while unable to sleep I overheard my parents talking. I was not aware my father lost his job with the government and was stunned when I heard my mother say, “What will we do when we run out of money, Irving?”

  “There is enough for now.”

  “And after?” Momma asked.

  “I can do contracts for Jewish businesses and handle their affairs,” he said.

  “All your life, you worked for the government all your life. And this! This is how they pay you!”

  “Shush, Rose, speak softly. The children will hear us.”

  My mother’s raspy voice cracked. “Is it really that bad with this Hitler? Should we think of leaving?”

  “This is our home. We will make do.”

  Leaving! I couldn’t believe my ears. My parents loved Germany. My father was a successful attorney, of whom I was proud, and it seemed as if my mother was everyone’s friend. She greeted every charity that graced our doorstep. Fear gripped me, and I recalled what Max said; we’re both in danger. A rushing sensation coursed through my body, my heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy. Get a hold of yourself, I thought. I eventually talked myself into believing that this was all being blown way out of proportion. Everything is fine. We’ll be all right.

  As the days and weeks passed, Max’s disposition worsened. I couldn’t lift him from his morose mood. He had mentioned to me that his father thought we were spending too much time together and that Max needed a v
acation. I hadn’t understood that his father, although not a Nazi sympathizer, was deeply aware of the changes in the climate in Germany and was trying to protect Max by distancing him from Jews.

  “We have a farm outside of Berlin, near Brandenburg,” Max told me.

  “But that’s over an hour by train.” I pursed my displeased lips and kicked a mound of dirt.

  “I know. Ludwig,” using his father’s first name, “thinks the fresh air will do me some good. Oh great, I can watch the grass grow on the farmland.” He sarcastically rolled his eyes and continued. “And romp in the hectares of wetland, and play by myself. I’ll die of boredom.”