No doubt the Bernsteens were captive in their own home, in their own city. Esther had accused him of not facing challenges. Now the challenge was theirs. It was time for them to flee Holland. Anti-Semitism had a Dutch voice and new legitimacy. A vision of disaster burned through him, of events that portended an unknown fate. He had left his family, but they still mattered to him.
February 24, 1941
Dear Moeder,
I really apologize for not writing sooner. I thought of you in September, the weekend that Holland would be having the Flower Parade – how you love the colors and the costumes.
You can’t believe the size of New York and how busy everything is. They never rest. Max would love to visit all the skyscrapers. Some are so tall that you can’t actually see where they end. Esther, I think of you often when I see little birds perched under the eaves of the tallest buildings. Even in the snow they find seeds and crumbs that people leave for them.
Some American food is delicious, and I have gained 6 kilos. Other tastes are just odd. The cheese is awful and their chocolate tastes like wax. Even the birds don’t eat it.
All of you would like the movies. I have met some very nice friends and we go to the movies a lot. I have been learning to speak English like the actors.
We hear some news from Amsterdam, and I wonder how you are doing. Hopefully the German occupation isn’t too difficult for you and Max. The papers here are reporting an influenza epidemic, and I know Max really suffers in the damp. How are your cousins in Portugal? Uncle Alex in Switzerland? Thank God they at least are far from the problems.
I do think of you often, and I promise to write again when I am able to. With best wishes for your health,
Yours,
Hans
There could be no answers to the letter. Esther was the one most likely to understand his message about the need to flee Holland. Her rejection of the visa had stung him deeply, but she was the one who needed to take responsibility for Max. Esther would have to step in and explain to mother that the comments about moving for Max’s health were directed at all of them for safety. They didn’t have family in Portugal or Switzerland, and Esther hated birds.
It was imperative that Hank’s words were like the flight of an owl at night, seen but not heard.
Chapter Fourteen
Amsterdam, Holland
March 1941
“The simple greeting “hallo” became an acronym for “Hang alle landverraders op” (hang all traitors).” ~ Dutch Resistance
A heavy sky gave the promise of still more sleet to come. Esther hated sleet; it didn’t have the quiet beauty of a snowfall or the nourishing quality of rain. Dampness left a chill in her bones. She lived for colors, and this morning there were none, just black outlines of buildings against a gray sky. Her ugly beige sweater was pulled comfortably around her as she opened her book, read a few pages, closed it and then repeated the act over and over. Muddy prose didn’t interest her. She needed something livelier, perhaps a romance, or a warm Italian setting.
Italy wasn’t an option either. By now they had joined the Nazis. Jews had no reason to travel to Germany, France, or Italy. She couldn’t visit a sunnier place even if she wanted to. Hell was supposed to be warm. Maybe that was the answer. The question nagged her. What had Holland become?
It was too late to care about politics now. Shouting from still another Liberation Demonstration disturbed her thought, a bunch of men and boys marching through the streets with their banners. Dutchmen were wearing Nazi uniforms and saluting Hitler. The steps of the marchers were purposeful, but they stomped through the concentric Amsterdam streets going nowhere. She didn’t even bother to look out the window. It was probably a good thing that Hans had been gone for nearly two years. He would never go marching. Anyway, Jews were not invited to march.
No one had ever heard from Hans again. She would write him if she had an address. It was time to forgive him for leaving. Ah well, he knew her address, so maybe he didn’t feel guilty enough to write.
Esther didn’t like to be idle, even if she felt paralyzed. There were chores to do if she or Sasha wanted to go out. She opened their small closet, a jumble of clothing, art supplies and baskets of interminable laundry and mending. The mending load increased week by week. Her stylish wardrobe was outdated. Long silky scarves were fraying around the edges and dresses for going out had stains and odors. Hemlines were going up, and she could take care of that, but not the dowdy silhouettes. She was down to only a couple of Belgian lace collars to fix onto her blouses or sweaters, and there was no way to emulate the fashions from America. The fine gloves and hats from French designers were a thing of the past, and she was only twenty years old. Merde!
The boredom was stifling. Sasha didn’t care about fashion and coffee clubs any more. Sasha’s new friends had deepened their commitment to Jewish identity, and were now attending lectures on religion and culture. Their only relief from boredom was an occasional sense of doom. There had been raids recently. Dutch police had marched into Amsterdam neighborhoods, taking men from their beds in the middle of the night. Little market streets were sealed off, and signs were posted on raised bridges. The traps were everywhere.
Still, Esther did not regret her decision to stay in Amsterdam. Who knew where Hans was, or if he had even had a safe landing in America? There were reports of ships that arrived at New York shores, and sat in the Atlantic until it was determined who was aboard. Jews were not welcome in America. President Roosevelt didn’t want them. What a coward, a ruler who is afraid of what his people might say. And the Dutch Queen was worse. She and her ministers had left for England months ago. Holland had no ruler.
Neither did Esther. She did not have to follow directions from a lover, her mother, or anyone else. She liked it that way. There were nights when she and Sasha ate potato soup, but they were managing. She retrieved the sewing basket. A slip had a broken strap that needed repair. Every stocking in the house needed mending once again. It would look better to go without, but the days were still too cool for bare legs. Could she use ink to dye this old white scarf a cheerful red? Maybe there was a way to paint it without making the colors run?
She needed to get outside, maybe some morning shopping on the Beethovenstraat, but she had no money. Besides, there was nothing she desired in the sparse displays of Jewish shops. Some days the bakery only offered black roasted grains to fill coffee cups, and on other days breads. There was no cream and there were no sweets. She really wished for a coffee and a real croissant, buttery and flaky, with good marmalade. Not in her neighborhood. Was everyone living like this? Most likely not. Police and soldiers in the streets appeared rosy and well fed. What if she went to a café in a different neighborhood, where she was not known? Perhaps a trolley downtown? With her green eyes and a pretty hat, she might get served. She removed her coat from the hook and brushed off her green felt cloche with its silky bow. A floral scarf around her neck and, voila, she still looked like a young city woman. Then she looked into the mirror. There were shadows around her eyes and her high cheekbones were exaggerated as a result of thin pale cheeks. Where was her lipstick? Did she have rouge or powder? Even going out for a walk was going to be too much of an effort. Luckily, she did not need to make a decision. It began to drizzle and she couldn’t find her umbrella.
The downstairs door banged open, accompanied by a blast of wind and, of course, Sasha, who came bounding up the stairs. “Guess who I saw!”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Your mother! She was out shopping. She was buying cheese and … oh here, I need to give you these!” Sasha pulled packets out of her bag, and unwrapped the papers from fresh herring, cheese, bread, and butter. “And this! Real tea! Not some concoction of herbs from a flowerpot.”
Esther wondered where Sasha got her energy. She felt like a rabbit in a hutch, only without a fur coat. Her friend got excited over the smallest favors.<
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“So, you saw mother, and—did she have anything to say?”
“Your mother got letters from Hans!“ Sasha handed over two thin papers covered with Hans’s neat handwriting.
Esther grabbed the papers, started to read her letter, and then lost patience. “Oh, my God, where is he?”
“We couldn’t figure it out. There was no return address on the envelope. The postmark was blurred, and the stamps were from…. Canada? But he went to New York, yes?”
Esther screwed up her face into a puzzled frown. Her brows knitted themselves around each other as she thought about this. “Aren’t New York and Canada next to each other? I wonder if he went to work for the British.” She shook her head. “With no return address, how can I write him back? Perhaps he is waiting to see our pictures in the newspapers. ‘Sunny Day In Amsterdam: Hell Freezes Over.’” She moved to the chaise and began to read again. “He’s not even talking about me. He’s talking about Max.”
Sasha interjected, “He was very concerned about Max. Hans wanted your mother to take him to Switzerland. Of course she’s not going to do it.”
“How lovely. We really need a nice family vacation, all of us.” She frowned, and stared at the pages. “I wonder why he wrote this?”
“Doesn’t he think that Max should go to Switzerland to live? It’s neutral and you can still get a visa.” Sasha was trying to put the messages together.
“No, you can’t. The Swiss are taking political refugees but they have banned racial refugees – which is what they are calling us this month.” One doubt did cross her mind. “Although mother is putting some of our money in Switzerland, in case of another crash. Sam had her put it with a banker he knows.” She set the packet of tea aside and opened up the package of cheese and bread. “Sure, we might as well all get visas and go to New York for a nice visit. Maybe we can all stand in the street and call until Hans finds us. Sasha, even the U.S. isn’t taking any more of us.”
Sasha bowed her head. “I know.”
“Esther, there are rumors. I heard at a meeting, that they have set up special camps for Jews who are mentally disabled or sick. The Germans have posters saying that the cost of one sick person for a month would feed a healthy family of four. People have not come back from those camps.”
Esther turned to the mending basket, and picked out a silk stocking. She pulled a needle out of the packet and began threading it. The thread knotted and stuck just a few centimeters after she had finally gotten the end of it through the eye of the needle.
“Damn it! How can you live like this? Going to meetings with a bunch of Jews living their parents’ last pogrom. My God, you could go insane listening to those people. I can’t imagine what is in it for you.” A balled-up stocking flew across the room. “We need to find new stockings, any way we can. I’ll get a new boyfriend with a shop pass if necessary. Take a train to France, I don’t know. How in God’s name will we wear shorter skirts with no stockings?” She paid no attention to Sasha and the ominous message in Hans’s letter.
“Anyway, your mother is not going to move to Switzerland. But Hans is well, and she asked after you. Aren’t you going to fry that herring?”
“Fry him! You are so proud of your ‘catch’ that I think we should crown him.” Esther picked up the fish, secured his dorsal fin between her fingers and held him to her face.
“The herring he is the king of the sea! The herring he is the fish for me.” A brief kiss, and then the nonsense song continued.
“What’ll we do with the herring’s head? We’ll make it into loaves of bread!
What’ll we do with the herring’s fins? We’ll make them into needles and pins!”
The stockings went back into the basket and a skillet came out from the cupboard.
***
Just before sundown the two women walked down the street carrying their bundles of laundry. An old washerwoman greeted customers at the counter. Sasha spoke. “Hallo! Would you please mend this coat? The moths have gotten to it.” Their bundles were placed behind the counter, and they were ushered into a large parlor at the back. It was time to light the Sabbath candles.
Sasha’s friends had a dream to found a Jewish fatherland for themselves. Great, just what they needed, another “Fatherland.” A letter from Mark had affirmed her trust in her new friends. He had now flown several successful missions into Germany and returned to England safely night after night, inflicting what damage he could on the Krauts. However, according to the newspapers, the Germans had placed England under siege. Who could be believed? Esther didn’t believe any of the news, and refused to read the papers with their accounts of political mastery accompanied by pictures of people fleeing their homes.
The walk from the laundry to the apartment was not far, but the discussions had taken a long time. Sasha moved very quickly, with her dark coat and scarf and her face held either toward shop windows or toward the ground. She did not look at anyone. “Esther, you must walk more quickly, we have to be home at 8:00 sharp. The patrol will check our cards after that.”
Esther met her eyes with a bold stare. “You can’t be serious. Friends can’t meet? Young women can’t join with friends for a little fun? The Dutch police would not turn in a couple of girls!”
Sasha’s sigh and sideways glare indicated otherwise. Esther sometimes was a spoiled child. “Germans make the laws now. We’re not liberated by Germany, we’re prisoners of Germany.”
Esther stopped. “Oh nonsense! My mother was born in Germany. She is a royal pain in the neck, but she’s not going to take anyone prisoner.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got royal nothing going on around here. Step it up.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rochester, N.Y.
October 1941
“Uncle Sam Wants You! We must guard against complacency. We must not underrate the enemy.” ~ Army Recruitment poster
Hank stood behind the steel railing, listening to the roar from Niagara Falls, a force of nature so immense that it impels some visitors toward a rushing river and a violent end. The Canadian side of the falls offers a spectacular view of the horseshoe, shaped by millennia of raging waters hurtling between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario.
Shouldering his heavy camera bag, he turned toward the bridge over the Niagara River and walked across. Glimpsing his watch, he saw that it was nearly 3:00. The park was still full, but Hank was looking for something in particular. The distinctive outline of a burly man with a camera came into view.
Mike Hicks looked up with a grin. “How’s things at the Blue Ribbon Photo Club?”
This time Hank knew how to answer, “I think we’ve won a prize, yes?”
Things at the open border had changed. For years all travelers needed to do was to state that they were American or Canadian. Now serious young guards examined vehicles and pored over the documents of foreign nationals. Drivers stated a purpose for transit and guards requested the details of their stay in the United States. Mike Hicks didn’t want to share a lot of information with anonymous officers. He suggested that Hank just walk across as a day tourist, no luggage, a camera around his neck. They pulled the unmarked Packard sedan away from the parking lot and were on their way into Rochester.
Hicks delivered instructions at rapid fire. “We rented a room for you down by the University. Thought you should be with a bunch of other young people. You’ll need to make some new friends.” Hank wondered if some type of employment would be offered. “Also, we will be providing a per diem allowance for three months, until you find yourself a job.” Hank nodded his head to each of Hicks’ comments. “When we get into town, I’m going to be giving you a statement to sign. There will be some conditions to all this – the usual non-disclosure stuff. You can’t brag, you can’t tell about why you went to Canada, you can’t talk about the FBI at all.” Hicks squared his shoulders and kept his eyes on the road. “We’ve p
icked up eight Nazi agents this year, and six are on death row. They’re gonna swing.” Hank flinched.
For two months Hank walked into one office after another, only to hear, “We don’t hire foreigners.” Tension was mounting throughout this city near the Canadian border. People were on guard. Mothers held children tightly to their sides. Friendly welcomes toward strangers’ questions dissolved into terse exchanges. In the shadows of the morning, Rochester’s buildings and people revealed closed doors and closed minds. He felt more foreign than he had a year ago.
Sunlight struck the glass window of a broad storefront.
“Uncle Sam Needs You!” The recruiting office image pointed directly at him.
The open door invited the public, and he was public, no matter what his accent signaled. There was nothing to lose by walking in, though it was doubtful that the U.S. Army would want a foreigner either. The counter area was covered with framed posters, racks of brochures, and photos of important looking men with gold braid hanging from their shoulders and colorful ribbons on their chests. A young man at the counter looked him in the eye and held out his hand for a proper greeting.
The American radiated pride.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Sergeant McIntyre, U.S. Army. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Burns, Hank Burns.” Then he stopped. He could not disclose his experience in Canada or his commendation from the FBI. “I am looking for work.”
“You’ve come to the right place. Where are you from?”
“Amsterdam, Holland, but I live here now. I did serve in the Queen’s guard in Holland.”
“So, how would you like to go back? We’re recruiting foreign nationals. Can’t go barging into a country with thousands of guys unless someone speaks the language. You a U.S. citizen yet?”
Hank blanched.
“I didn’t think we were at war.”
“Wait until after the election. Roosevelt just doesn’t want it on his watch.” The recruiting sergeant paused. “You know, if you do six months active duty, we can expedite your citizenship.”
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