Hans only knew the name of one hotel, the Hotel Empire, recommended by the Consul in Amsterdam. He stepped into the lobby of the Empire to find some lunch. The dining room with its immaculate white place settings was the first thing he had seen in two weeks that looked vaguely like home. A small room was available for $2.00 a night. It would be necessary to find work and a cheaper address. He would immediately deposit his money to use when he opened his photography studio, leaving aside $20.00 a week to live on until he was settled.
He walked back out into the streets. Above him, as far as he could see, enormous skyscrapers loomed, blocking out the sky. Not a tree or a weed would grow in this mass of concrete and steel. The windows indicated that there were workers somewhere, but to him they looked like the eyes of insects observing their prey from all directions. People in business dress strode hurriedly, eagerly entering revolving doors to be devoured and then regurgitated by the buildings. He stepped into an ornate lobby where an elevator cage captured him.
A large office with modern glass doors looked out into a fourth floor elevator lobby. Across the parquet was a flash of platinum blonde hair. She looked like a movie star. He grasped the elegant brass handle of the door and stepped confidently into the office. The blonde glanced up from her magazine and ignored him. She was also ignoring instructions from a tall lady in a tailored suit.
“Mabel, would you please type up these invoices? They need to go out today.”
The blonde responded, “Aw, I have a hurt finger. See, it’s all red and puffy. I can’t type, but I’ll put them in the mailbox.”
Mabel turned and directed her attention to the handsome young man. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I am here to inquire about the job.”
“I’m sorry, do we have an opening?”
“I surely hope so. I have come from Amsterdam to meet with Mr. Springhorn.”
“Mr. Springhorn is out of town.” The two ladies laughed and the tall one turned on her heel. She left the box of papers on the front desk.
“Say buddy, can you type?”
Hans smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact I can.” He looked at her, puzzled. “Do I have a job?”
“Nah, but I can recommend you to Springhorn this Saturday. We have a… meeting.”
His hand was on the business card case in his pocket. Mabel glanced up from her magazine at the foreigner. He tugged at the leather casing and handed her his card, Hans Bernsteen, Director, Holland-America Import/Export. She looked intently at the card, and then at him.
“By the way, we don’t hire kikes.” Hans took a deep breath. He hadn’t heard anything about American restrictions on hiring Jews. His blue eyes shifted from her face toward a picture on the wall.
By afternoon his best suit began to rumple, and his shirt was damp. A bright smile turned into a hopeful smile, and then into a mask. His slow foreign enunciation indicated that he was not qualified to do office work in New York. “Buddy, we can’t use you. You could cut that accent with a knife.” Apparently he wasn’t going to be a bookkeeper. That was probably a good thing, but it just didn’t feel very good. Tomorrow he would visit the fashion district with his cameras, and see if anyone could use a photographer.
Returning to the Empire, Hans collapsed on the narrow hotel bed, drained of sweat, his head in a whirl of doubts. For the first time in weeks, he was glad that Esther had not come to New York.
Thick clouds and drizzle heralded the new day. Hans shouldered his camera bag. Should he represent himself as a Dutch businessman or a photographer? The bustling Seventh Avenue fashion district looked much more like the New York he had envisioned. Tall brick buildings hummed with the work inside. Stock boys rolled racks of garments down the street. The Jewish names were recognizable, and dry goods shops were scattered between manufacturers and some showrooms. “Help Wanted” signs were all looking for experienced cutters or draftsmen. He didn’t have the skills of a garment laborer and, after all the remarks about his accent he was not looking forward to conversations.
New York was supposed to be his golden land, a place where he would be free from his parents, free to be an artist, and free of Amsterdam’s rules. The uptown hiring restrictions on hiring Jews puzzled him. Hans had never given much thought to people’s beliefs. He was responsible for himself, for his thoughts and for his actions. Actions were what mattered. The stories said that Jewish people lived together in a desert thousands of years ago, that they had established a set of laws. The Gentiles said they followed the same ten laws. So what was the problem? Each fall one atoned for shortcomings and closed the book on that year.
Ah well, August was the height of summer. There was still time to make mistakes before the book closed. He had a chance to change his identity completely and irrevocably. Was it possible to be the same person if you shed the common understandings of your people? It was exhilarating and dangerous, both at once.
At the Empire he asked the front desk concierge for a listing of churches. The concierge remarked, “Excuse me, sir, but most people here go to church on Sundays.”
“If you could just give me a list, I shall decide when and where I wish to go to church.” The listing may as well have been in Greek. None of the names of the churches or their denominations made any sense. There seemed to be a Presbyterian church just a few blocks away, and he knew that Presbyterian was something like the Dutch Protestants, people who had simple ways.
He stood at the corner of 57th Street, staring at the massive brown stones of Fifth Avenue Presbyterian. There were at least a dozen doors to the inside, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to enter any of them. Hans looked up at the sky. The clouds were dispersing rapidly, and sunny blue shone through. Tall buildings converged on the four corners leaving a luminous cross in the middle of the sky, a panorama of movement and light. A set of broad steps led to the wide doors. They were unlocked. Inside, radiant colors streamed into the sanctuary, brighter than images from any camera. It was wonderful. He had been raised in a 17th century synagogue with plain glass windows and straightforward woodwork. The synagogue didn’t even have electricity, because it was against Jewish law to run power on the Sabbath. Several large rooms lined a hallway behind the sanctuary, and eventually a kindly middle-aged lady appeared.
“How can we help you, sir?”
He struggled for the words in English. “I am looking for a church.” She knew that wasn’t what he was trying to say, so she stepped down a hallway and returned with a man in corduroys and a tweed jacket.
“Good afternoon, I’m Reverend Kirkland. What can we do for you, young man?” The minister shook his hand firmly.
Hans was not quite as confident about where he had landed. “I’m not sure, but I think I need to become a Presbyterian. How do I do that?”
“Where are you from?”
“Amsterdam, Holland.”
“So you are Dutch Reformed?”
“No, we are not reformed, my parents were…conservative?” An embarrassed grimace crossed his face. “How do I learn about this church?”
Reverend Kirkland wrinkled his forehead, listening to the heavy accent of his visitor. “Young man, when did you arrive in New York?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you feel you need to go to church? Where do you live?” The reverend led him down a dimly lit hallway to an office. The stone floor was well worn, but there was a grace and warmth to the oak paneled hallway, as if many others had come here for help and received it.
“I’m at the Hotel Empire right now, but I need to find a job. And they might not give me a job because I don’t go to a church.”
The reverend paused. “We have freedom of religion in the United States. You can go to any church you wish.” He handed a shiny pamphlet to Hans. “Though, I will say this is an excellent church and it undoubtedly is Presbyterian. Have a seat.”
Hans took the chair furthest from the
minister’s desk. Maybe he was making a mistake. This didn’t feel like a church. The minister’s office had no lighted windows and no elaborate decorations. It was a simple workplace, even a little shabby.
He certainly didn’t know what questions to ask, so he let Reverend Kirkland lead the conversation. “Why do you believe you must become a Presbyterian? If your family is conservative, are you Jewish?”
“No, no. I don’t know anything about those people.” The lie was uncomfortable. It was true he had rarely attended synagogue after his Bar Mitzvah, but he had never been in a church either.
Reverend Kirkland swiveled his chair and tipped forward, looking directly into Hans’s face. Hans did not avoid the examination. He sat impassively, holding his face still, including his eyes. “Then let me get to know you. It seems you are confused and searching. Are you ready to go where God is leading you?”
“Pardon? I don’t believe in fortunetellers.” This was getting very awkward.
“No one knows the future, but there is a larger plan at work. I do believe you were meant to be here at this time. Does it help to know that God has provided everything you will need?”
“Pardon?”
“God helped our Savior create miracles. Jesus could turn water into wine. He fed thousands of people from five loaves of bread and two fish. He…. provided.”
Hans looked at him. The man seemed sane. He was in charge of a large institution. Millions of people believed…this?
“Let’s talk about Moses. Perhaps that is more familiar to you. God was patient with him, and made sure he had what he needed to bring the people to safety. God will do the same for you. Come now, you are in the right place.” Reverend Kirkland opened the large bottom drawer in his desk and began to dig around in the file folders. “Here, let me get you some information about our church. How about we talk on Sunday at noon, after church services. Where can I reach you?”
“I am staying at the Empire, but I must move to a… a…”
“A more modest place?”
“Yes, the hotel was recommended by a friend in Amsterdam, but I need some place to live.”
The door opened, and the nice lady inserted herself, resolute in her sturdy shoes and dark skirt. “Reverend Kirkland, Reverend Lawson is waiting outside.” She looked at Hans, expecting him to pick up his hat and leave. He made no effort to collect himself. Once he left this building, he would be on his own again.
“Good heavens, is it four o’clock already? I have an appointment. Wait a minute – young man, I would like to introduce you to Reverend James Lawson. Helen, please show the Reverend in.”
“Is he Presbyterian?”
“Oh no, no. Reverend Lawson is an Episcopalian.” A bald man entered the room. He seemed younger than Kirkland, and was suitably attired in a clerical collar and dark jacket. Lawson looked at Hans, trying to see how he fit into the picture. The young man did not look like a major donor; but he was too conservatively dressed to be a young person in trouble.
“Hello Jim, I’d like to introduce you to Hans Bernsteen, a recent arrival from Holland.”
Hans stood and shook hands, nodding his head slightly. He couldn’t remember if it was polite to bow in New York. “I am from Amsterdam.” Hans didn’t intend to contradict Kirkland, but he wanted to be correct.
“Amsterdam? Seems to be quite a bit of trouble brewing in Europe now. What brings you to New York?”
“I am looking for work.”
Kirkland continued. “Hans and I were just discussing his future and I forgot that we are expected at the soup kitchen.”
Hans looked at the two. Did ministers have to cook? He didn’t want to show his ignorance, but decided that some curiosity would be permissible. “What is a soup kitchen?”
Lawson defaulted into his preacher demeanor. He spoke to Hans as if he were guiding a Sunday school class. “In these difficult times, we help out those brothers and sisters who have been left with nothing at all.” Hans tried to be appropriately attentive. At least they weren’t turning water into wine here. “So, many of us give our time and effort at establishments set up to provide a sustaining hot meal. Today we are serving at a soup kitchen on Welfare Island.”
Hans had already seen enough dirty people in the last two days.
“Hans, do you like to walk?” Kirkland’s friendly gaze indicated that an invitation was forthcoming.
“Yes, yes I do.” Truthfully, he didn’t wish to take another step today. He had already walked through the garment district and then sought out the church. Something in Kirkland’s voice indicated that this was not going to be a short stroll. He might as well follow the two reverends. It sounded like it would include a free supper.
“Would you care to join us? It is a delightful walk, just 10 blocks and a bridge. We can continue our conversation.”
Completely bewildered, Hans headed uptown with his two new friends. The afternoon was almost gone, and he still had not located a job. His suit was getting wrinkled and his starched collar was discolored from perspiration. At this rate, his expensive leather shoes would begin to show signs of wear, and no one hires a man whose shoes are worn.
Within two blocks they turned right, and a painted red tower rose in front of them with the biggest bridge he had ever seen. People lined up to get on an aerial tramway over to a small island in the East River, a kind of no man’s land with a mental hospital, a smallpox hospital, and some simple brick buildings with no labels at all. The tram landed on the little island, and he looked back at Manhattan.
Kirkland spoke. “Hans, this decision you are contemplating is important. The choice of religion guides a lot of your life.”
Hans nodded his head. His parents and rabbis had taught him rules and rituals. They were good rules. Now he needed new ones.
Lawson continued the statement, “But there is no hurry to become a Presbyterian.”
Kirkland turned his head, “… or an Episcopalian.” He turned quietly to Lawson. “Watch it, Jim. He came into our church for assistance.”
Lawson pulled out his keys and they entered the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, a little Episcopalian refuge on the island. He changed the subject quickly. “Would you like me to make a phone call and see if the Y has any space? Do you want to share a room or to bunk alone?”
“Bunk?”
“Do you need to sleep alone or can you share a room?” He paused, and looked at Hans. “After Sunday, I can make some additional calls and introductions. Some members of our congregation rent out rooms.”
Tomorrow was another day, but there seemed to be a place where he could afford to stay for a couple weeks. Standing in the soup kitchen, Hans wished that he had not been so eager to make new friends. He smelled greasy broth, edible but not appealing. The unmistakable aroma of cooked cabbages and turnips hung over the room. It mixed with the stale sweat of the vagrants and idlers, dirty and in no hurry to return to any type of afternoon work. Some were asking for food and money. Others had obviously already spent their grocery money on cheap liquor and cigarettes. On the other hand, since the men of God were providing soup, at least no one would die from starvation tonight.
So this is what would happen if he ran out of money? He was hopelessly out of place here.
“Come, we have work to do, and we need a strong young man to help us.” Hans was led into the back kitchen, and an apron was tied around his waist. “Here, bring that kettle to the long table – yes the big one.” The enormous kettle must have held twenty liters of liquid with bits of meat and vegetables floating inside. At least, some of them looked like they may have been carrots once. Hans had never handled a kettle or a ladle. He did not know how to prepare or serve any type of food. His meals had always been presented to him on china plates. If he liked a food he would eat it. If he disliked it, he would ask for something different. He had never seen anything like the swill in these kettles. He could b
arely lift the kettle, and knew that he must not trip. People were depending on him, and he did not like the feeling.
Chapter Three
Amsterdam, Holland
Rosh Hashanah, September 14, 1939
September 1, 1939 – HITLER INVADES POLAND
“Danzig was and is a German city. We are obligated to protect people of German blood.” ~ A. Hitler, Amsterdam Courant
Esther struck a match and lit the end of her cigarette. A new ivory holder made her look elegant, like the ladies in movie magazines, “Stay slender! Reach for a cigarette instead of a sweet.” The burning tip glowed in the twilight, and she took a deep drag, stifling a cough. The first ashes fell onto the open windowsill, and she pulled her sweater across her shoulders. She would rather be a little chilled than explain cigarette smoke in her mother’s house. A record wafted soft jazz into the room and her fingers pressed the keys of an imaginary piano.
The peaceful Herengracht canal rippled with reflections of its red and white tour boats, and an occasional barge moving goods along to the shops. A few of the deep green leaves were beginning to turn. She watched the late summer tourists. Isn’t it pretty? Isn’t it nice? Too bad, you’re just a tourist and I live here. But she hadn’t lived here for months. She had left this room and this sturdy brick house to be with Peter. Over her mother’s dead body… except that no one was dead yet. As far as she knew, she wasn’t even disinherited.
Her fifteen-year-old brother, Max, had begged her to come and join their parents for Rosh Hashanah dinner. They missed her, and Mother especially was distraught that two of her three children had left home.
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