You Are My Sunshine: A Novel Of The Holocaust (All My Love Detrick Book 2)

by Roberta Kagan

  As a wedding gift, Manfred gave Christa a necklace of ivory-white pearls. He gave them to her early so she would be able to wear them on their wedding day. When she received his gift, she cried with joy and put her arms around his neck.

  “Manfred, you have made me the happiest woman in the world!”

  “And you have made me the happiest man.”

  One evening Manfred and Christa were invited to have dinner with Goebbels and his wife Magda. They met at a popular restaurant a few blocks from the New Reich’s Chancellery.

  “Heil Hitler.” The group exchanged greetings before the host ushered them to a table by the window.

  “This is my wife, Magda. Magda, this Manfred Blau. I’ve told you a little about him. And this is his future wife, Christa Henkener.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both,” Magda Goebbels smiled.

  “My pleasure,” Christa said.

  The dinner went well. The women talked of weddings and children, while Manfred and Joseph looked on.

  But even in the midst of all of his joy, and even with all that Joseph Goebbels had done for him, when Manfred looked at the doctor, he still looked like the death head symbol.

  It was mid April when Manfred found the letter waiting on his desk. It was stamped with Hitler’s own insignia.

  “The Führer will be honored to attend the wedding of Manfred Blau and Christa Henkener.”

  Manfred read the letter over twice. He could not believe it. Hitler himself would be at the wedding.

  Chapter 5

  Thomas Henkener sat beside his wife Heidi at their kitchen table. Christa was not yet awake.

  “Manfred brought Christa some butter. If you would like, you can have some of it on your toast. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  “I mind. I mind very much. I don’t want anything from that boy, or from his Nazi friends. He is nothing more than a hoodlum.”

  “Perhaps, Thomas. But Christa is fond of him, fond enough of him to agree to be his wife. We don’t want to lose our daughter over this, do we?”

  “I cannot understand how a child of mine could be seduced by the lies of the Nazi Party. And not only is this boy a Nazi, but he is a member of the SS, the worst kind of Nazi, the cruelest.”

  “Maybe not, he only works in an office.”

  “Yes, he works slandering and ruining good people. Why? Because he feels superior? Somehow, in his distorted brain he has decided that he is part of some imagined Aryan race, an insane notion. That is for sure. I hope you know that most of these SS men couldn’t compare in knowledge or character to a doctor like Dr. Shulman.”

  “I understand. I know you think of Dr. Shulman as a friend, a colleague who has earned your respect over the years. But, Thomas, please remember, Dr. Shulman is a Jew and we live in dangerous times.”

  “Do you think I am afraid? How can you forget how sick little Christa was with that terrible heart problem, and it was Dr. Shulman that helped her, saved her life, actually. Without him, we wouldn’t have a daughter. You must remember how we prayed. I can still see, Shulman walking into the room and taking your hand, then telling you that it would all be all right. How can you forget this, Heidi? He is a brilliant doctor. Besides, do you think these boys with their fancy uniforms and ridiculous notions scare me? ”

  “You should be afraid. You should take care of what you say. It not only affects you it also affects Christa and me, not to mention your sister and her family. Be more careful Thomas. Think before you speak, and before you act. I know you see these storm troopers as mindless thugs, but they have power, Thomas, real power. The power to make our lives a living hell, even to kill us.”

  “Can’t you see? How can I turn on the men I have worked beside at the hospital for the last 25 years, men like Shulman, Kahn, Schultz? They are all Jews, but each of them, in his own right, is a brilliant doctor. I’ve gone to them for help with consultations. They have stood beside me in surgeries. I know these men. I know their hearts and minds. What is going on here is a dirty shame, an embarrassment to good German people. When Germany persecutes its citizens for no valid reason, we, the German people, lose.”

  “I know all of this. I’ve heard it a dozen times. You have told me and told me. But you must not forget for a minute that the Nazis are in control. They have the power to send you to a work camp or worse. That would kill me. So, please, I am begging you, for my sake, if for nobody else, try to be quiet. Try Thomas, please. Try to ignore them.” Her eyes fixed on his and he could see the lines deepening in her brow.

  Thomas Henkener sat in silence staring at the bread and the large bowl of butter, his fingers running up and down the handle of the sterling silver knife. He could not eat the butter, it would turn his stomach, and so he stood, and got up from the table.

  Heidi, poor Heidi, she was afraid. He looked at her slumping shoulders; age had given her back a slight hump. Looking at it made him feel sad and tender towards her. He walked over and gently squeezed her shoulder.

  “I will try. For you, I will try,” he said. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening as if she might cry. Thomas managed a smile and reached down to stroke her cheek.

  “We must attend the wedding or there will be problems…suspicions.” Heidi took his hand in hers and held it for a moment.

  “Yes, I suppose we must,” he said, nodding. This was the day he’d thought about since Christa was young, the day he would give her away. And now, look at her choice of men. It turned his stomach. Poor Heidi, she would do anything, say anything for the safety of her loved ones. She’d always been a good, devoted wife and mother. He patted her shoulder again. But he believed that a man’s character was more important than his safety or even his life. Thomas walked to his bedroom at the back of the house. Locking the door behind him, he picked up the phone.

  “This is Dr. Thomas Henkener,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  “Yes. I’ve been waiting for your call since you came to see me,” a gravely male voice answered.

  “I have given the matter that we discussed last week a great deal of thought. And I have decided that I would like to volunteer to help the underground. I want to do what I can to help as many Jews as possible to leave Germany. I will give money for those who do not have enough to leave.”

  “I must ask you, because I must be sure. Are you are aware of the danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still choose to do this?”

  “I do. I must,” Dr. Henkener said.

  Chapter 6

  Warsaw, Poland, November 1937

  Seventeen-year-old Zofia Weiss braided her thick black hair. She was getting ready to leave for school. Her deep burgundy dress was made of coarse wool and she wore heavy black stockings. Soon her best friend Lena would arrive and they would walk the two miles together. After she looked in the mirror, satisfied with her appearance, Zofia put on her heavy coat, wool scarf and hat. November in Warsaw was bitterly cold.

  A single knock at the door, so as not to awaken Zofia’s mother who had been ill, and Zofia stepped outside to greet Lena.

  “I baked these last night. I brought you one,” Zofia handed Lena a roll wrapped in brown paper.

  “Thanks, how did you know I was hungry?” Lena said. She was a heavyset girl with a warm smile. The two had been best friends since they were toddlers.

  “I guessed.” They both laughed.

  “It’s freezing,” Lena said as she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck.

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  “Zofia, is that lipstick you’re wearing?”

  “No,” Zofia answered turning her face away.

  “Yes it is. Where did you get that?”

  “I’m not wearing lipstick.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know you better than anyone.”

  They both laughed. “All right, so maybe I am.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re still crushing on Mr. Taylor?”

  “I never said I was crushing on him.”

/>   “You didn’t have to. Every time we are in music class and he plays that crazy American jazz your face turns as red as a ripe apple.”

  “I just like the jazz.”

  “And they way he looks when his long hair is falling over his forehead as he sits at the piano, I look over and your eyes light up like the candles on my mama’s menorah.”

  “Well, you do have to admit he’s wildly attractive.”

  “And American.”

  “Yes,” Zofia said. “And American.”

  “But he is too old for you. And besides, he is our teacher. Nothing can come of this. I hate to see you get hurt.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Zofia stretched her fingers. They were uncomfortably cold as she held her books. “But he is still fun to look at.”

  “Yes, he certainly is,” Lena said as she finished the last crumb of her roll.

  Chapter 7

  Donald Taylor sat at the piano in front of his class. He played a wild rendition of a popular American song. As his voice crooned the seductive blues melody, he gazed out at the students. There was no doubt that the girls were swooning over him. Their glazed-over eyes and sensuous smiles brought him to heights of ecstasy. And, that was why he’d come here to Poland. In America, he’d been little more than a mediocre music teacher. But here, in Europe, in his small classroom, he felt like a superstar, like a musical version of Clarke Gable. The girls were young, that was true, and he knew better than to take them to his bed, but he’d done it, against his better judgment. Not regularly, but often enough. How could a man resist? These young girls, tender, just on the brink of womanhood, offering themselves to him. They were like delectable chocolate morsels, irresistible, but if you ate too many you might find your health in jeopardy, or, in his case, his job.

  Lately he’d been watching Zofia, one of his students, Zofia, with her slender, but voluptuous figure, dark, alluring eyes, and long wavy hair. She stared at him licking her lips that sparkled in the overhead light, deep dark red like ripe berries as he sat at the piano. There was no doubt he wanted her. Who wouldn’t? No man could resist a woman like that twitching around his classroom, even if he was her teacher.

  He was on his way to the lunchroom when he saw Zofia. She was sitting by herself on the bench beneath the tree reading a book. Her lunch was spread on a white cloth napkin beside her.

  “Hello,” he said as he approached.

  “Hello, Mr. Taylor,” she said, looking up.

  “May I sit here?” he asked, indicating the empty space on the other side of her picnic.

  “Of course.” She began to gather her food together to put it away.

  “No, please eat. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You aren’t disturbing me at all.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t finish your lunch.”

  “I’m all done. I was just reading for bit.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Nothing, a novel.”

  “A romance novel.”

  She blushed. “I suppose you could call it that.” She giggled.

  He let out a laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed I like them too.”

  She smiled and looked away.

  “I really enjoy your class. I love the American music, especially the big band stuff.”

  “Yes, so do I. I suppose you can tell.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “I wish I had a turntable so that I could play some of the records at home.” Zofia said. Before her father died, there had been very little money, but she might have gotten one. Now, however, with her mother ill, it was impossible.

  “You could borrow mine.”

  “Really, you would allow me to do that?”

  “But of course. I mean my personal one, not the one that belongs to the school. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes, I really would. But I don’t have any records.”

  “Of course you don’t. Why would you have records if you don’t have anything to play them on, silly? I would lend you some of my personal collection.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Why don’t you come by my apartment on Saturday and I can give them to you?”

  “Oh, I can’t come on Saturday. I’m Jewish, it is the Sabbath.”

  “Ahhh, I see. Well, Sunday, then?”

  “Yes. Sunday would be fine.”

  “Here, let me jot down the address for you.”

  Chapter 8

  Zofia decided to save carfare and walk the mile to Mr. Taylor’s apartment. Even though she was working, her mother was not and every penny she earned counted. The turntable would be heavy and she would rather spend the money to take the streetcar back home when she was carrying it. Although the icy wind was blowing, Zofia did not feel the cold. She was far too excited. All night the night before she’d thought about Mr. Taylor, how he looked when he sang with enough passion to reach out and touch something deep inside of her. He caused stirrings that she’d never felt for anyone before. Puckering her lips together, she giggled. The red lipstick she wore made her look older, more mature.

  Because she’d grown up in Warsaw, she knew the area fairly well and had no trouble finding the building where he lived. Before she rang the bell, she looked in the mirror in the compact in her handbag. Zofia applied a fresh layer of lipstick and a spritz of the toilet water that had been her mother’s. Then she pressed the button and waited, her heart skipping a beat.

  “Who is it?” Mr. Taylor said.

  “It’s Zofia,” she answered.

  “I’m on the third floor,” he said.

  “I’ll be right up.”

  A loud buzzer went off and she grabbed the door handle. It seemed a long walk up. But when she got to the third floor, Mr. Taylor was waiting in the doorway to his apartment.

  “I’m so glad you made it. Come on in. It’s not much, but its home.”

  She entered his apartment. It was sparsely furnished, just a small table and chairs in the kitchen, which was attached to a living area. In the living room there was a sofa upholstered in dark blue fabric and a matching chair. But on the walls hung pictures of American musicians, Benny Goodman and his band, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and Cab Calloway.

  “Here, let me take your coat.”

  She removed her coat, hat and scarf, and handed them to him. He hung them on a wooden coat rack by the door.

  “Please sit.” Mr. Taylor indicated the sofa.

  Zofia sat down.

  “Would you like me to play a record?”

  “Yes, Mr. Taylor. I’d enjoy that very much.”

  He smiled and began shuffling through a pile of vinyl records. “Call me Don.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, yes, of course I am, but only when we are not in school.”

  “Don, then.”

  “Would you like to hear a song? A special song. I think you will enjoy this. It’s real American music, not jazz, something different. In fact, it was released in America.”

  “I would love to hear to it.”

  He placed a record on the turntable. A group began singing.

  “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray…”

  “I love this. It sound just the way I think that America would look. Not in the cities, but in the country.”

  “You’re right, this is American folk music. Would you like to learn the words?”

  “I would.”

  “Then we can sing along together, with the record.”

  He taught her the words in English and explained what they meant in Polish. Once she’d mastered the song, they sang it together.

  After the record was done, he smiled at her his eyes liquid, like hot oil.

  “How did I do?” She asked.

  “You did wonderfully. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

  “No thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

  Don sat down on the couch beside Zofia. She’d never had a man sit so
close to her. It was exciting and uncomfortable at the same time. Of course, he could not really be interested in her, other than as a student. But her mind raced, and the fantasies she had of him kept surfacing, so much that she could not meet his eyes. Zofia felt like a small animal huddled in the corner of the sofa, trembling.

  “So, tell me all about you, Zofia. I like to know about my students.”

  “There really isn’t much to tell. I’m not terribly interesting.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He smiled and she noticed that he had a slight cleft in his chin. Just looking directly at him made her stomach weak.

  “Well, I live a couple of miles south of the school with my mother. Last year my father passed away from a terrible bout of the influenza. Since then my mother has been very lethargic. She doesn’t get out of bed much. After school, I work for the diamond seller. ”