And then, finally, Heinrich gathers enough energy to leave the apartment. He attends a Makkabi meeting, returns exhausted but jubilant, enthused anew about Palestine, saying that he will study farming to be part of the Chalutz. The next day Klein finds the strength to get up, starts to walk around the apartment in his dressing gown, putting things in order; miraculously he finds his gold watch just where he left it, in the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, he fastens it to his wrist, it is looser than before but makes him feel civilised. He asks why Hedi and Rosa have not been going to school, and it is decided that Hedi should return to school but not Rosa, who should instead help with the laundry and the housekeeping and the search for emigration. The next day Klein goes back to work; Inga isn’t convinced of his health but he insists he must go, he will take Hedi to school on the way. He starts to look like his old self again, standing by the door in his greatcoat and spats, trilby concealing his patchy head, his moustache waxed and natty again, his battered briefcase by his side.
In the evening he returns, his eyes deeply bloodshot, saying, the whole Gemeinde is in a frenzy of emigration, half of my pupils have vanished, and more are leaving all the time, and many of the teachers too; in the staff room that’s all everybody is talking about, they were surprised to see me as it happens, they had assumed that we had emigrated already. Everyone is trying to get out, Inga, everyone, and how much closer to emigration are we? And Inga looks at him in a strained sort of way, not wanting to say that her every waking moment has been dedicated to emigration ever since he was interned, holding herself back from pointing out that she has been arguing in its favour for years; Liebling, she says, God willing.
The New Year comes and goes, and nobody seems to notice. Days and weeks tumble by in a rush, in a whirlwind of consulates, embassies, waiting rooms and queues; Heinrich joins his sister and mother in the effort, and Klein takes time off work; some days see the entire family queuing at different embassies, apart from Hedi of course, who sits in a dusty classroom amongst a diminishing group of children, watching her teacher with a bewildered apathy. Now everything is visas, in the morning the conversation is dominated by them, and all day is spent in their pursuit; in the evening, again, visas are on the lips of every member of the household, exit visas, entry visas, transit visas, documents, this piece of paperwork and that, passports and tickets, approvals and stamps, Mexico and Shanghai and the Dominican Republic, Cuba and the British Crown Colony of Northern Rhodesia and Guatemala, where, rumour has it, Jews may be admitted so long as they do not engage in business. All night they dream of visas, emigration wraps seamlessly around their lives; every moment, day and night, they are queuing and begging and pleading, exhausted, frustrated, despondent, despairing, yet what else can possibly be done? Truly there is no alternative; everywhere Jews are clamouring for the same thing, for a lifeline, for a visa.
At around this time it so happens that one afternoon Klein is late to collect Hedi from school. As Hedi waits in the Gymnasium with Frau Ostreicher, all alone in the big echoing hall, she is anxious for her papa to arrive, because she wants to tell him something. She waits and waits, it is almost unbearable, and Frau Ostreicher says, what’s biting you, you are never normally as jumpy as this, and Hedi replies, I just want to see my papa and go home, and Frau Ostreicher replies, I want to go home too, believe me. And they wait and wait until finally Klein arrives, out of breath and apologising repeatedly, and he loses hold of his briefcase and it crashes to the Gymnasium floor, and he has to gather all the papers up in any order and stuff them back in, flustered; Frau Ostreicher gives him a disapproving glance as he guides Hedi out of the Gymnasium and towards the streets, looking left and right for signs of danger and leading her into the shadows. As soon as they are out of earshot and she has her papa alone, Hedi tells him the secret immediately, in a loud whisper. Papa, Hana Grün is going to see the king of England tomorrow, with other children who are not from our school, they are going on trains. Klein, whose instincts have been heightened by his time in Sachsenhausen, turns to Hedi very seriously and says, who told you this secret? And Hedi replies, Hana Grün told me herself, when we were telling secrets. And Klein thinks for a while, and replies, thank you for telling me, meine kleine. Now, how is your mathematics coming along? Later that evening, Inga, exhausted by another day spent in embassy waiting rooms, says, Liebling, the child is just being fanciful, but Klein replies, let’s wait and see if Hana Grün is seen again at school. Then we’ll know.
So it is that three days later, still plagued by a crushing exhaustion, Klein finds himself in the east of the city, standing outside an ochre-coloured building with crumbling masonry, in which, on the third floor, is the modest apartment of Familie Grün. This is a sad building, thinks Klein as he scans the cluster of doorbells, it reminds him of a monastery. He raises his hand and presses the doorbell; he cannot hear a sound, so he presses again, and still nothing. He walks backwards into the street and looks up. The curtains twitch. Klein sighs in frustration and returns to the door, presses again the mute doorbell. Finally a dim light fills the hall, he hears the sound of footsteps, and a figure appears on the other side of the door, visible through the frosted glass.
—Who is it? comes a woman’s voice.
—My name is Doktor Otto Klein. My daughter goes to school with Hana.
—What do you want?
—Just a little of your time, if you please.
There is the sound of bolts scraping back and the door opens a crack. A man’s voice can be heard calling from upstairs, who is at the door, and the woman calls back, just a parent from Hana’s school. Then she turns to Klein and peers at him suspiciously. She is middle-aged perhaps, and wears a black headscarf tight round her hair. Her face looks pale, fresh, as sad as the building.
—What do you want? she says again.
—It’s about Hana, says Klein.
—Oh?
—I have heard that she travelled secretly to England.
Frau Grün looks startled and tries to close the door, but Klein presses his elbow into the opening.
—Please, he whispers, I just need a little information. Did you arrange it yourself or through an organisation? Are you going to follow her to England? How can I—
—It is preposterous, says Frau Grün, my daughter is visiting relatives in Hamburg.
Klein pauses but does not remove his elbow from the door.
—She has gone by herself all the way to Hamburg, he says, at the age of seven?
—Please, Herr Klein, says Frau Grün, let me close the door and leave us in peace.
Klein removes his hat and thrusts his face, his raw-skinned head, into the doorway.
—Look at me, he whispers, look. They did this to me at Sachsenhausen, do you hear? Sachsenhausen. If you have information you must share it with me. Freedom is for everybody, not just your daughter.
Frau Grün’s face crumples in a strange way. There is a long pause. Finally the door opens wider, spilling a rectangle of light onto the pavement. Klein straightens his jacket and puts on his hat.
—Come in, says Frau Grün, quietly.
Klein follows her up a narrow staircase that smells faintly of herrings, into a cramped apartment. The Grün family is religious; dominating the room is a sideboard upon which stands a silver candelabra and a portrait of a bearded sage. Several chairs face the sideboard like a shrine, and the room is given a yellowish glow by a low-hanging lamp.
A man in a skullcap and shirtsleeves enters the room, a surprised expression on his face; Klein shakes him by the hand.
—This is Herr Doktor Klein, says the woman, coming back into the room, he won’t be staying long.
—A pleasure, says the man confusedly, my name is Haim Grün.
Before Klein can sit down, the woman hands him a piece of foolscap.
—This is the address of the Jewish Refuge Committee, she says. It is in the west of the city. You should speak to somebody called Norbert Wollheim. She whispers the name as if afraid of th
e evil eye.
—So it is official, says Klein, folding the paper into his pocket. Can a whole family apply?
—No, replies Frau Grün tersely, England will only accept children, and you need a sponsor as well.
—Yes, but how many children can you send? asks Klein, his voice sounding loud in his ears.
—We didn’t ask, says Frau Grün, we had only one.
There is a silence so deep that Klein can hear his watch ticking on his wrist. It is almost a religious silence.
—There will be more transports? he asks.
—Please, Herr Klein, my wife has given you the information, says Herr Grün, now leave us in peace.
—Of course, says Klein, thank you.
He backs awkwardly to the door and makes his way down the herring-smelling stairs. Above he can hear Herr and Frau Grün talking, the woman’s voice staccato and distressed, her husband’s voice soothing. He takes the piece of foolscap from his pocket and checks that it is legible. Then, feeling somehow as if the world has changed around him, Klein leaves the sad ochre building and steps out into the street, breathing the cold air deep. The world looks strange somehow, it feels different with this piece of foolscap in his pocket with its scribbled address. He is filled with the sense that his life, and the lives of his family, are about to change irreversibly. Part of him wishes to tear the paper up, let the pieces flutter away into the dark Berlin air, forget it had ever existed. Yet at the same time he wishes to protect this most fragile of notes, for those few lines may truly contain the elusive promise of freedom, the glimmer of light for which he and his family have been searching so desperately. No time like the present, he thinks; glancing anxiously over his shoulder, and clutching his hand to his breast pocket, he fights off his tiredness and makes his way westwards across the city.
By the time he arrives at the address the streets are shrouded in darkness. There is nothing to indicate that this is the headquarters of the Jewish Refugee Committee; it does not even appear to be an official building. The curtains have been drawn for the night but a glow can be seen in several of the windows. He finds the correct doorbell and rings; immediately the lights in the windows go out. Just as he is about to press the bell again, a key turns in the lock and the door is eased open. Nothing can be seen of the person behind the door.
—What is your business?
—I wish to speak to Herr Norbert Wollheim.
—What is your business?
—It is private and personal.
—You can tell me. I am in his confidence.
Klein hesitates and the door begins to close.
—Wait, he says, I wish to register my children for the transports to England.
—I’m sorry, we cannot help you.
—Why not?
—Please, sir. We cannot help you.
The door starts to close again and Klein darts his knee into it, followed by his elbow; but this person, whoever he is, is not as gentle as Frau Grün and attempts to force him out. He scuffles to keep the door open, baring his teeth like a dog and shaking his hat from his head; it bounces onto the road.
—Look at me, he says urgently, they did this to me at Sachsenhausen. Just look.
—I can see, comes the voice, but you are not the only one to have been to Sachsenhausen. Many people have been to Sachsenhausen. We cannot help everyone. We cannot help you.
—Then who can you help? If not me, then who?
—We cannot help you. There are procedures.
—Procedures? What procedures? Tell me what they are, I will follow the procedures.
—We cannot help you.
Klein, realising that he may be struggling for his children’s very survival, refuses to remove his elbow. The door begins to bite into his flesh.
—I will not leave. You may break my arm but I will not leave. You will have to kill me. Tell me about the transports.
—We know nothing about any transports.
—You know nothing?
—There is no such thing.
—Then I am sure you will have no objection to my telling the whole community about it? And passing around your address?
The person in the darkness stops struggling but does not release the pressure on the door. Klein stands there panting, his arm and leg trapped in the doorway, trying to catch his breath. Finally, the door opens wider, just enough for a single man to slip inside. Klein picks up his hat from the road, straightens his jacket and steps into the darkness, massaging his bruised arm with his surgeon’s fingers.
6
The room is in complete darkness: not even outlines can be seen. Outside, the stars are obscured by a thick layer of cloud. The windows of the apartment are still broken, still boarded up; the room is in complete darkness, not even outlines can be seen.
Klein rolls over in bed with a groaning sound, trapping the blankets under him. Inga fights to pull them back, her legs have been suddenly exposed to the impenetrable cold.
—This is unbearable, whispers Klein.
—You were so confident earlier. What happened? Inga replies.
—This is unbearable, he repeats.
—Don’t you think we have made the right decision?
—I wasn’t aware we had arrived at a decision.
—Only one child should be sent at a time you said, says Inga.
—Indeed.
—Then it must be Heinrich first, or Rosa. From England they will be able to get us a visa.
—Heinrich is nineteen, he is too old, says Klein, you know that.
—Well, then. It must be Rosa. Not Hedi.
—This is unbearable. I cannot bear it.
—Don’t say that, you’re making it worse.
The night is a wall of silence.
—Ach, I cannot sleep, says Klein.
—I cannot either, says Inga.
—Rosa should stay here, she can help with getting visas, help with the laundry. Hedi is so little, her whole life lies ahead. She will adapt better to a new country and new parents. Perhaps we should send her after all.
—But she is so young to be away from her mama and papa.
—I know. Ach, what a decision, nobody should make such a decision.
—I think, says Inga, if Rosa were to go we can send Hedi later. Rosa will be there to look after her until we arrive.
—Perhaps.
—And once Rosa’s there, she might find someone there to employ us. She might get us a visa.
—You make it sound so rational, but nothing is certain, whispers Klein. We might not get a visa, there could be a war, the transports could stop, we could be trapped. The children could be imprisoned at the border.
—Liebling, please. Talking like that doesn’t help.
—This is unbearable.
There is the sound of blankets being pushed aside and an upheaval on the bed as Klein gets to his feet.
—Where are you going? says Inga.
—Water, to get water.
There is the sound of the door opening and closing as he leaves the room, followed by fumbling and clinking in the kitchen; then the scrape of a match as he lights a candle. Inga turns over and presses her face into the pillow.
—Papa?
—Rosa, what are you doing awake?
—I cannot sleep.
Rosa enters the kitchen, a blanket round her shoulders, and sits opposite her father. He passes her a glass of water across the table.
—What time is it? asks Rosa.
—It is … twenty-four minutes past the hour.
—Which hour?
—Three.
—I have not slept a wink.
—Nor have I.
From the darkness the soft flap of bare feet on floorboards can be heard, then Inga appears in the doorway.
—Mama?
—I’m afraid so. May I join you?
—I might have a glass of something, says Klein, rising from his chair. I think there is a little brandy left. Will anybody join me?
The qu
estion was not intended for an answer, and none is forthcoming.
—I have been thinking, says Rosa, perhaps we can make some kind of cutlery out of wood. Heinrich and I could do it. We still have some pieces left from the bookshelves.
—That is a possibility, says Inga, we can look into it tomorrow.
—What the Reich wants with our cutlery is a mystery to me, says Rosa.
—The madness of these decrees will never end, says Klein from beside the drinks cabinet, we have not a scrap of silver left and nor does any Jew. We shall have to eat with our fingers, or directly from the plate, like pigs.
He sits down again at the table and sips, wincing, from the glowing glass of ginger-coloured liquid. Inga takes a deep breath.
—Liebling, she says, perhaps we should speak to Rosa now?
—Very well, says her husband resignedly.
Inga turns to her daughter, and as their eyes meet Rosa feels unsettled.
—My darling, says Inga, there is something I think we should discuss. Your father and I were undecided about when to mention it to you. But you are fifteen, and old enough. Perhaps we were meant to discuss it tonight.
Rosa rubs her eyes and draws her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
—What is it? she says.
—We have managed to get a special visa for England, says Inga.
Rosa’s eyes widen in disbelief but she does not reply; from the expression on her mother’s face it is clear that there is more to be said.
—However, Inga continues, we only have one, and it is only for a child, not an adult. One child, under the age of eighteen. We will apply for another of these visas as soon as we can, but for the moment there is only one.
Rosa looks from her mother to her father and back again. They both start to speak at once, and then fall silent.
—Heinrich cannot go, says Rosa.
—No, her father replies, and nor can we. Only you or Hedi. We have decided it would be best if you went first and settled in, and Hedi goes to join you in a few months.
The English German Girl Page 14
