The Seven Year Dress: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  On the eve of November 9th, Max attempted to warn me of the danger all Jews faced. He telephoned with a message that he had a large sewing job he needed me to complete before morning. “Come to my place now.” He spoke rapidly in a voice so hushed that I could barely make out what he said next. “My place now! It’s an urgent matter.”

  The commanding tone in his voice, similar to Nazi orders I’d overheard in the street, startled me. “Max, what—”

  “Now! It’s important!” He hung up.

  Just as I was getting ready to leave, the telephone rang again. Max’s voice was less forceful but just as low. “Wear a warm coat and cover your head with a scarf and hat. Walk slowly. Be careful. I don’t want your illness to relapse.”

  “What’s th—”

  He cut me off with another hang-up. My illness? What was he talking about? Although late, I found my parents reading in the living room and told them I was going to collect work from Max. Daylight had long diffused into night, and the darkness crept through a crack in the curtains covering the window.

  My father looked at the clock on the wall. “At this hour? It is too late for you to be out.”

  “He said it was urgent.” I pleaded my case. “I don’t want to lose my work with him. I will be very careful.”

  My mother looked at my father. “She will be fine. She knows not to attract attention.”

  “Papa, please!”

  The moment he smiled and nodded agreement, I gave him a hug. Since his heart attack, he had been more agreeable. Perhaps the medication had affected his mood. Maybe he simply didn’t have the energy to argue. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t as excitable, and that had to be good for his heart. When I left, Shana was in the kitchen with Lawrence, and I assumed that Ben was upstairs.

  Max’s cryptic communiqué puzzled me until I was out on the street and understood that his phone might not have been safe. Not too far from our front door, I heard something strange that sounded like glass breaking. Then came popping sounds. At first, I thought it might be a celebration, but the closer I came to the main thoroughfare, and the louder it got, I knew differently. When I turned the corner to see what was happening, I nearly fell over. I witnessed men in ordinary dark suits with cans of black paint marking stores with the Star of David. Following them were others—including the ruffian brown-shirt SA—with clubs, smashing windows and vandalizing buildings. This open hostility with the destruction of Jewish property was new. New and terrifying.

  Panic gripped me. My heart sped up so fast I feared I might pass out. I lowered my head and trod slowly, desperately trying not to draw attention to myself.

  “Hey you!” A man with a forceful, loud voice shouted in my direction. Just as I was about to stop and turn, I heard gunshots. Then a sickened thud. I was sure it was a body that hit the ground. Drenched in sweat, I maneuvered my way through the commotion.

  I kept moving, head down, walking slowly past people who stood to watch the carnage in stunned disbelief. Muttered words came from victims trying to hide, to find shelter, or to get away. I heard “Oh my God,” and “This can’t be happening,” over and over as I moved through what felt like a march to my execution. When a mother carrying her infant child tripped, I wanted to stop to help her. I didn’t. I kept walking with my head down, fearing for my life. Moving through this madness and getting to Max were my sole objectives.

  Someone slapped the baby; it stopped crying. The mother wept. More gunshots. She, too, went quiet. Now I muttered, “Oh my God.”

  A man with a bone protruding from his broken arm tried to crawl away from his assailant as he was kicked to death.

  The longest walk of my life took me through devastation beyond comprehension. Buildings defaced or in flames. Men forced into trucks or brutalized on the street for resisting capture. Women and children trampled over or silenced with beatings.

  As I approached the corner that led to Max’s residential street, I came to Mr. Fineburg’s grocery store. A man was spray-painting the Star of David on the window, marking it for destruction. Mr. Fineburg asked, “Why?” His innocent and sensible question cost him his life. Two men dragged him out to the street in front of his store. They shoved him to his knees, and he was shot execution-style in the back of his head. His screaming wife and hysterical children witnessed the whole thing along with me.

  The contents of my stomach rose into my mouth. I had to inhale slowly to prevent myself from vomiting my meal on the sidewalk. Walk slowly. By the time I left the annihilation behind me and turned onto Max’s street, I was in a state of shock.

  The watershed moment that would forever change the lives of millions of Jewish people arrived that night. Hitler’s vengeance had escalated, and I could not imagine anything worse. Little did I know that nothing close to the worst had happened yet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Max opened the door. I stood frozen in shock, unable to speak. He grabbed the collar of my coat, pulling me into the foyer of his apartment. My knees gave out, and I fell to the floor. I can’t imagine what he felt when he left me there to get a cold, wet washcloth. Kneeling down on the tile next to me, he dabbed the beads of sweat from my forehead.

  The first word out of my mouth was. “Why.” Still dazed, I moaned why over and over.

  “You’re as white as a ghost.” He moved the cool cloth over my nose and cheeks.

  I focused on him and then scanned his living room to bring myself back from the dark place into which I had descended. “Why, Max?” I cried. “Why?” I heard myself screaming.

  “Helen, hush. If anyone hears you…” He had taken an enormous risk bringing me, a Jew, to his apartment that night. Anything out of the ordinary, any irregularity, was instantly under suspicion. The Polizeistaat (police state) was created to ensure that everyone did as they were instructed or suffer the consequences. And the police, controlled by Himmler’s Gestapo, acted as they pleased to implement their orders. Starting with early indoctrination in the Hitler Youth movement, police and soldiers were programmed to follow orders without hesitation or question. Thankfully, Max had not been indoctrinated like the other sheep following the herd. He helped me to understand that the police could make an arrest based merely on a suspicion that a person was about to do something against the regime. Max’s voice came back into focus. “Shush. Please, Helen, calm yourself.”

  Oblivious to what he just said, I screamed again, “No!”

  Max slapped me in the face. Hard. “Snap out of it!” he hissed just above a whisper. “Your life depends on it. And so does your family’s.”

  Hearing him mention my family sent a rush of fear flooding through my body. Still sitting on the floor, I pressed my back into the wall for support. Locked in fright and not fully comprehending the danger that my family was in, I stared at the door. Max sat beside me, both of us quiet until I told him I felt strong enough to walk. He helped me up, and we went into his living room. There he told me about what he had seen at work earlier that night—the orders passed down from one of Hitler’s right-hand men, Goebbels.

  I had witnessed the execution of those orders. “Why?” I wiped my face and blew my nose on a tissue until it shredded. Dangling it from my hand made Max laugh. It helped to ease the mood.

  “I’ve more than one,” he smiled. He took the soiled one from my hand, threw it out, and handed me the box of tissues. “You really want to know why?”

  I looked at him through tear-stained eyes. Blinking to clear my vision, I saw his pained look. My best friend was drowning in an ocean of tired sorrow. His essence wept for me, for what he knew was happening and for what would continue to happen. I knew. I had seen those wounded eyes too many times. “Yes. Tell me.” I cried from a place so deep that I scared myself. Max held me tightly until I finally stopped, too exhausted to weep. Too tired to feel.

  “Helen, I will say this, and then we have to go. Time is on our side for a very short while, and then….” He looked around the living room as if making sure no one could see or hear us.


  A stab of panic returned when the word then conjured the image of poor Mr. Fineburg. “My parents! My family!” I pulled myself away from him. “Max, are they in danger?”

  Probably fearing I would start screaming again, he jumped up and whisked me into the hallway by his bedroom. He held my shaking body and breathed his answer into my ear. “Yes.” His hand covered my mouth. “Don’t scream.” A cold chill ran through my body. All my urgent whys no longer mattered. We sprang into action as he explained his plan. “Sit there,” he pointed to the living room couch, “while I grab a few things for you.” I could hear him opening the bathroom drawers and cabinets. He came back with an overnight bag and set it next to me. He then packed kitchen items and food.

  He handed me a pair of his pants and a man’s coat. “Put these on over your clothes.” Giving me one of his hats to wear, he said, “Tie your hair back before you put this on.” Looking at me up and down, he asked, “Your shoes. What size do you wear?”

  “Seven.”

  He went back to his room and returned with a pair of black shoes. “Try these on over yours.”

  Max did his best to make me look like a male friend. If he was seen with me, a Jewish woman, it could be the end for both of us. Informants were everywhere. German citizens did not hesitate to report suspicious activity, nor did Jews who were enlisted to snitch on other Jews. Fear and the will to survive motivated an epidemic of misguided obedience to detestable anti-Semitic rules. So Max made me look like a man.

  We made it safely around back to his garage and closed the door shut. He had me get into the trunk of his car. Keeping my nose and mouth clear, he handed me a bottle of water, covered me with a blanket and whispered, “There’s plenty of air in here. Stay calm.”

  On pins and needles in that stifling compartment, I sweated it out in the uncomfortable, hot trunk until the car stopped. I heard a door open, and then another. When both closed, I thought I heard someone get on the floor of the back seat. We continued at a slow speed for what felt like twenty minutes. When we stopped and the trunk opened, we were at an isolated quiet country road on the outskirts of Berlin. And to my great relief, standing next to Max was my brother Ben.

  It was then Max told me that he had made arrangements with Ben via a “highly confidential communication.” Ben was instructed to sneak out of the house and meet Max near a café they knew about in a quiet non-Jewish neighborhood. Ben and Max had remained close through the years even though my brother hated that Max had joined the SS. Ben knew Max was a good person, and that I trusted him. Max made the urgency of the situation very clear to my brother.

  Max also told us that, earlier that night, he had seen the top-secret memo that said Jewish men were going to be transported to concentration camps. Non-compliance would not be tolerated. Max knew what that meant. He also knew that my father would not go quietly. I sat up and hugged Max for helping us. And hugged Ben for trusting our friend.

  “We need to hurry now,” said Max. “Ben, you need to get into the trunk with Helen. It’ll be a tight fit, but you’ll be fine until we get where we’re going.” Max looked at me. “Helen, you can tell him what I told you before we left. We need to get going!”

  Tucked under the blanket, we had barely enough room to move. I explained to my brother that Max was taking us to his isolated farm on the outskirts of Brandenburg. Since there was only room for two in the trunk of his car, Max would switch the car for a truck that his family left at the farm. He would then return to Berlin with the farm truck for the rest of our family.

  * * *

  The temperature was a cool 32 degrees at the farm when we arrived. Ben and I were still warm from huddling together for what must have been an hour trip. My entire body ached, and I felt emotionally drained, but it felt good to get out of the car and stretch my legs. There were no signs of civilization in viewing distance, other than farm buildings. I felt safe that we were isolated—surrounded only by nature.

  Max rushed us into the farmhouse. Once he locked the door, Max said, “Don’t turn on the lights. And stay quiet if you hear any noise other than me. I’ll always identify myself, so you know it’s safe.”

  He had us stand by the door while he found a flashlight. The farmhouse had electricity and inside running water. It was also equipped for power outages with a hand-pump well and an outhouse. “Don’t use the outhouse. Don’t leave the house. Until I can get your family here and we can figure out what we’re going to do, stay in the cellar and handle your needs down there. It has a sink and a water faucet.”

  As I descended the stairs, I lost my footing and cascaded down the last three steps. Ben rushed to me, “You okay, Helen?” He helped me up.

  “Yes,” I laughed. “It’s these darn shoes.” We were in such a hurry to get out of the car and into the house that I hadn’t taken the time to remove any of Max’s clothes.

  Max shined the flashlight on me, and we all laughed. “That padding saved you.” He helped me take off the coat and hat.

  Laughing felt good; we needed it.

  Max was able to light one of the lanterns without worrying about revealing our secret location because the basement had no windows and the door was closed. It was at that point he revealed in greater detail what he had seen and heard that set our rescue in motion. “The dispatch said that Jewish shops and synagogues were to be destroyed.”

  “What about the men being rounded up in trucks?” I asked.

  “Those Jewish men are being transported to concentration camps.”

  “Why!” I cried. “The men attacking those innocent people didn’t look like the SS. They were in suits.”

  Max shook his head. “The men in suits causing all the destruction were the SS, Helen.” He swallowed hard and pressed his hands to his stomach. I was worried he might be ill. He went on to explain Hitler’s directions to Goebbels. “To avoid a backlash against his police state, Hitler wanted all attacks to look like German citizens were rising up against Jews.”

  Ben stood silent. Tears running down his pale face.

  Years later, I learned that over a hundred Jews were killed during the night of hell, Kristallnacht (the Night of Broken Glass). Thousands of Jewish shops and hundreds of synagogues were vandalized and destroyed. In total, 30,000 men were rounded up, leaving their wives and children to fend for themselves.

  Would knowing the truth have helped me while I was still on the street in the midst of the violence? I doubt it. Nothing could have changed the horror and repulsion I felt over witnessing the unconscionable. It would not change what had happened to any of the poor victims I’d seen.

  Max, bless his sweet heart, in an attempt to redirect our attention off the overwhelming tragedy, had us look around the cellar. The room that served as our hiding place was large—almost as big as his apartment. I assumed that the rest of the farmhouse was spacious as well. There was no furniture, but there were plenty of blankets, pillows, wooden crates, gardening tools, and a few metal trunks. At the far end, away from the stairs, was a large, deep enamel sink. Shelves surrounding the room were filled with a supply of canned goods. In a corner next to the sink was a large stack of cut wood for the upstairs fireplace. Max looked at the provisions and put down the bag he brought. “I didn’t know we had so much food here. That’s good. But you’ll need to ration, especially with your whole family here.”

  When he mentioned my family, anxiety gripped my stomach. “Please be careful with my father. His health is not good.”

  Max smiled as he handed me the flashlight. “I’ll do my best.” He hugged Ben and me, and said, “Whatever happens, stay down here! Do not go outside! And do not make any noise! Keep your supplies hidden so the room looks deserted. And if you suspect danger, hide behind that stack of wood.”

  Ben, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since we arrived, said, “We will. Thank you, Max. Please be careful.”

  Max nodded and said to me, “Hold the light on the steps for me.”

  We watched him leave and h
eard him lock the front door. As the sound of his truck moved out of earshot, I prayed that my parents would be safe. And I prayed that Max would find them in time.

  Chapter Twelve

  Like crippled, wounded soldiers trudging through snow with heavy hearts, we slogged our way through the various items in the cellar, trying to make our new (hopefully temporary) “home” as comfortable as possible. The wood floor was damp, so we used canvas tarpaulins we found to cover the floor. We put blankets and pillows on top of the tarpaulins to make our beds. Assessing our pitiful sleeping accommodations, Ben said, “We can sleep in our coats.”

  “Yes, it’s so cold,” I replied. The temperature must have dipped down to what felt like the mid-20s.

  Ben, being the considerate brother—always looking out for me—asked, “Are you okay? Do you need to talk?”

  My heart was heavy. My mind was a tornado of images, both remembered and fabricated. None of them were comforting. My body twitched and trembled from fear. My shoulders were so tense, I felt pulled back a foot. I looked at my brother with tears welling in my eyes. I was exhausted and didn’t want to deplete myself further by breaking down crying. I distracted myself by looking around the room at crates and the shelves. I was also too drained to want to relive what I had seen, and I didn’t want to talk about the abhorrent feelings that wouldn’t leave me alone. Right now it was best I try to keep busy. “Not now, Ben,” I sighed.” I think we should see what we have. You know, get ready for Papa, Mamma, Lawrence, and Shana.”

  “I understand,” said Ben as he surveyed the cans of food. “Borden’s milk, Nescafe, ginger ale.” He listed off some of the items he saw.