The train pulled out of the station, and Kurt sat back in his seat, apparently at ease reading the news, but vitally aware of the people around him. The compartment was almost full and there was a steady flow of people up and down the corridor. Kurt watched them from behind his paper, but as the train gathered speed and steamed its way through the suburbs of the city, the flow decreased as people found seats and settled down for the journey. Kurt did not relax, could not relax, he felt as taut as a bowstring, but he closed his eyes, as if in sleep, to discourage any conversation with his fellow-passengers.
The train stopped in Bremen, and it was after this that the ticket collector made his rounds. Kurt passed over his ticket and it was clipped and returned without comment.
The hours passed and at last the moment that Kurt feared most arrived as the train reached the border. It pulled up with the squeal of brakes and a shriek of steam. Border guards in uniform swarmed onto the train, demanding passports, papers and permits. Everyone in the compartment pulled documents from their pockets and wallets, ready for inspection. Kurt did the same, rehearsing yet again his explanation for travelling, business in Amsterdam and London. Tucked in with the official papers was a letter on Hans Dietrich’s headed paper stating “To whom it may concern”, that Günter Schiller was “travelling on the firm’s behalf to diamond merchants in Amsterdam and London”.
Kurt could hear the border guards moving closer, and it was all he could do to maintain a calm expression, when his heart was pounding so alarmingly that he thought the whole carriage must hear it.
The compartment door slid open with a screech and a uniformed man blocked the way out.
“Passports!” he demanded. “Have your passports ready for inspection.” Each person’s papers were carefully scrutinised before being handed back.
“Which is your luggage?” he demanded of a woman sitting in the opposite corner to Kurt.
“It’s up on the rack.” The woman’s voice was hoarse with fear.
“Get it down!”
The woman stood up and reached for her case. The man snatched it from her, and opening it on the seat upended it, searching through the clothes it contained. Then with a shrug and without a word of apology, he left the woman to repack her belongings and turned to Kurt.
Trying to keep his hand from shaking, Kurt passed across his papers. The official checked both the passport and the official permit to travel, squinting at first the picture and then at Kurt, before grunting and passing them back. He withdrew from the compartment and the door screeched protestingly shut behind him. His departure was greeted with palpable relief within the compartment, but no one dared relax until, with the sound of banging doors and much shouting, the German border guards left the train and it began to edge forward. Another hundred metres up the track it stopped again, and more uniformed men came on board, this time Dutch customs officials. Once again they all had to present their papers.
“And your reason for entering the Netherlands, Herr Schiller?” asked the official who inspected Kurt’s documents.
“Business,” Kurt replied. “I am going to see Herr Torben Stuyvesant in Amsterdam.” He produced Hans’s letter on the headed paper. The guard gave it a cursory glance before handing all the papers back and turning to the woman in the corner.
Ten minutes later the train moved forward once more, and picked up speed as if, Kurt thought, it was as anxious as he to leave Germany behind. He felt weak with relief and sank back into his corner seat, watching the flat Dutch countryside pass the window. The others in the compartment sat back too, and although no one spoke, the atmosphere was lighter as they sped onwards towards Amsterdam.
At last Kurt was safe, at last he no longer had to look over his shoulder, at last he was out of Germany. Now all I have to do, he thought, is to reach London and arrange, somehow, to get them all out. All I have to do! He knew a moment’s despair at the enormity of the task, before giving himself a mental shake. “It’s all I have to do.”
16
Life was very difficult for Ruth and her family over the summer months. The first disaster was that Ruth lost her job at the haberdashery. She met Frau Merkle, the proprietor, at the door of the shop one morning sticking a notice to the window. No Jews.
Looking a little flustered, Frau Merkle said, “Ah, Frau Friedman. Please come inside for a moment.”
For a moment? Ruth had come to work her normal nine-hour day. She followed Frau Merkle into the shop, and almost as if the act could stave off what the woman was going to say, began to remove her coat and hat. Frau Merkle went to the till behind the counter and took out some money. Turning, she thrust it towards Ruth.
“This is what you are owed, up to last night. I’m not able to employ you anymore. Trade is falling off, and it is clearly because there is a Jew behind the counter.” The woman lifted her chin defiantly. “Understandably, no one wants to be served by a Jew.”
Ruth stared at the proffered money for a moment, before reaching out to take it. The old Ruth longed to tear it in two and fling it back into her employer’s face, but the new, wiser Ruth knew that those few notes were all that stood between her children and hunger. As she took the money, her fingers touched Frau Merkle’s and the other woman, withdrawing her hand, wiped it on her skirt, as if to remove the touch of Jewish flesh.
Without a word Ruth turned on her heel and went to the door, with Frau Merkle’s parting salvo ringing in her ears. “Ungrateful Jewish bitch! I didn’t have to pay you!”
“What are we going to do now, Mother?” Ruth asked when she had told Helga what had happened. “We’ve enough money for a week’s rent and a little food! The miserable cow didn’t even pay me a full week’s wages, let alone a week’s notice!”
“We’ll manage somehow,” replied her mother, imbuing her voice with far more optimism than she actually felt. “We’ll think of something.”
They discussed the situation long into the night and decided that Ruth must approach all the Jewish businesses still operating in the area and try to find work with one of them.
“But there aren’t many,” Ruth said, “and they’re all family businesses, so any jobs go to the family. They’re all fighting for survival.”
“I know,” agreed her mother, “there was an SS soldier outside Liebermann’s yesterday. He was stopping any non-Jews from going in to shop. There were a few of their old customers who tried, but the SS man turned them away and called them ‘Christian pigs!’ When I went in poor Frau Liebermann was in tears.”
Ruth set out next morning and visited every Jewish shop in the area, but they all turned her away, and Ruth couldn’t blame them.
It was Helga who had the idea. “Why don’t you go to the girls’ school,” she suggested. “I know it’s school holidays now, but there might be something.”
Ruth went to the school the very next day, to ask Herr Hoffman, the Jewish head, if there was any work available.
Herr Hoffman recognised her as a parent of two of his pupils, and saw the desperation in her eyes even as she said calmly, “I’d be happy to do anything round the school. I’m not afraid of hard work, Herr Hoffman.”
He smiled at her. “I’m sure you’re not, Frau Friedman,” he replied. He thought for a moment and then said, “We could do with a temporary cleaner. The whole school has to be scrubbed from top to bottom and the classrooms repainted before the children come back in the autumn. But it wouldn’t be permanent, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll do it,” said Ruth. “The cleaning and the painting, too.”
Herr Hoffman looked doubtful. “The painting is quite a big job,” he said.
“I painted our shop last spring,” Ruth told him. “I can do it. Please, Herr Hoffman, I’m a good worker, and I need the work.”
Herr Hoffman saw the determination in her eyes and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job,” he said.
They agreed a wage, much less than she’d been earning at the haberdashery.
“But at least we’ve
got some money coming in,” she said to Helga, “and it’s several weeks’ work.”
It was hard work, but Ruth found it very satisfying, seeing the dreary classrooms bright with new paint. At the end of each day she could see the progress of her work, but each day brought her nearer to its completion.
Once again she found herself tramping the streets, further afield this time, looking for Jewish-owned businesses, but so many had been “Aryanised”, their Jewish proprietors simply pushed aside or made to sell out for a pittance, that there was no work to be had there.
She even went back to Frau Liebermann at the little grocery shop, pointing out that she used to run a grocery herself and was familiar with what was needed, but yet again she was disappointed.
“You’re wasting your time,” Frau Liebermann told her. “We shall have to close down soon. Twice our shelves have been raided by gangs of youths and though we called the police, they stood by and did nothing.”
During the hot days of the summer, things in Vienna had calmed down a little, and Helga, along with so many other Jews, began to think that perhaps the worst was over. Ruth was nothing like as optimistic. So many things were closed to Jews now, cinemas, swimming pools, theatre and opera house, the parks and gardens, even the benches along the tree-lined boulevards were for Aryan use only.
As the weeks passed, more anti-Jewish directives were announced, all of them designed to oppress the Jews in every aspect of their lives. Oppression and exploitation were the weapons of choice for the everyday anti-Semitic Austrian; the true Nazis had something far more sinister in mind.
Many wealthy Jews, those with enough money to buy their way out as had David and Edith, were fleeing the country, leaving the poorer Jews to their fate. Ruth didn’t blame them. Goodness knows, she thought, if I had the chance to get my family out there would be no stopping me.
She went to the Jewish Community Office, queuing for hours before she was able to see anyone, and although the man she finally met was sympathetic, he pointed out that there were hundreds of others in the same situation or even worse.
“At least you have a roof over your head,” he said. “Lots of families have been turned onto the street with nowhere to go.”
However, he agreed to take her name and the names and ages of her family, wrote down their address and promised to contact her if there was anything else he could do for her.
“There is a fund,” he said, “which we’re building up to help families like yours to emigrate, but it isn’t just a question of money, you know; there are all sorts of documents and certificates required if you are to leave. All this takes time, and we have to work with Herr Eichmann’s Central Office of Jewish Emigration.”
“I thought they wanted us to leave,” Ruth said bitterly. “That’s what Goering said back in March. Vienna, a Jew-free city!”
The young man shrugged. “They do,” he said, “but only if we pay a fortune for going and leave everything else behind.” He gave her a few Reichmarks, and told her that her family’s wish to emigrate had been noted.
It was the very next day that the letter arrived, addressed in Kurt’s handwriting… and it had English stamps. Ruth could hardly believe it. With shaking hands she slit open the envelope and drew out the letter, in which was wrapped a large, white, English five-pound note. Ruth stared at both the letter and the banknote through eyes flooded with tears. Kurt was safe… in England. She dashed the tears aside and began to read.
My darling Ruth,
I am here in London, staying a few days with my friend James Daniel. I had a smooth crossing and am now setting about my business. You can write to me at the above address and even if I have moved somewhere else, the letter will find me.
I think about you and the children every day and hope that things are not too awful. I loved the letters from the girls and the pictures the twins drew for me, and I carry them with me always.
I am hoping to start a new job here in the near future, but there are things that need to be sorted out before I can take up my post. James is being very helpful about it all, he has found me a job as a manservant with a family living in a place called Hampstead. It is in London, but there is a wide, open heath here, with trees and grass and lovely views, so there are times when it will feel like living in the country. Once I am settled I can work on your arrangements. Each of you will need a sponsor, so it may take some time to organise, but I will spend every waking hour trying to find people willing to act as such.
My darling, it is almost a year since I saw you all, but I carry the photo you sent me next to my heart. Give my respects to your mother, kiss the children for me and know that I love you, forever and always.
Kurt
Ruth read the letter over and over. He was safe. He was going to have a job. He was going to get them out.
The money from the Jewish Community Office and the five-pound note would help tide them over for a little while, but Ruth knew she desperately needed to find work. Day after day she trudged the streets, but there were too many others, thrown out of their jobs; doctors and lawyers no longer allowed to practise, teachers banned from schools, professors from the university, all searching for work, no matter how menial.
Ruth was coming home despondently yet again, when a young man came hurrying round a corner and cannoned straight into her, almost knocking her over.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, putting out a hand to steady her. Ruth looked up to respond to his apology and found herself looking into the cheerful face of Peter, the student she had met in the Heldenplatz on that fateful day in March. She recognised him at once, the cheerful young man who had helped her up onto the statue, the young man who had clapped and cheered and waved his hat at the sight of the Führer, who had said that the Anschluss was a great day for Austria… who was going to be a lawyer and approved of Hitler’s laws.
“Wait a minute, don’t I know you?” Peter demanded. “Yes, I do. Now don’t tell me… Helga Heber. Am I right or am I right? I never forget a face. Remember me? Peter Walder?”
Ruth almost denied remembering him, but knew it would be stupid as he so clearly remembered her, so she managed to conjure up a smile and say, “Yes, I remember. A law student.”
“Not a student anymore,” Peter said proudly. “I’ve graduated. I’m working for my uncle in his law firm. I’m a real lawyer now!”
“Congratulations,” Ruth said faintly, not knowing what else to say in the face of the young man’s enthusiasm.
“Your son is called Peter, too, isn’t he?” Peter Walder went on, clearly delighted with having remembered this piece of information too. “How is he liking our brave new Austria?”
For a moment Ruth was at a loss for an answer to this, but then she said, “He’s only just turned four, he doesn’t realise what has happened.”
Peter grinned. “Yes, well I suppose four is a bit young. But what does your husband think?”
“My husband is away… on business,” replied Ruth, but this time Peter Walder picked up on her hesitation, and, still holding her arm, scrutinised her more carefully.
“Is he now? Where is he? What does he do?”
Becoming entangled now in her web of lies, Ruth said, “He works for a jeweller… he’s gone abroad… to buy…”
Peter Walder’s expression changed. He seemed to take in, for the first time, the worn state of her clothes, the gauntness of her face, the thinness of her body. He looked her up and down and said, “He’s a Jew, isn’t he?”
When Ruth didn’t answer, he gave her a shake. “Isn’t he?”
Ruth still did not reply and he said, “And so are you! Aren’t I right, Helga Heber?” He peered into her face for confirmation and then said, “So, he’s gone. But why didn’t you go with him? You and little Peter? Austria’s no place for any of you anymore.”
“I have other children,” replied Ruth at last. “We couldn’t all go.”
“So he skipped and left you!” Heavy sarcasm. “What a brave man!”
> “It’s not like that,” Ruth asserted angrily. “He was able to go. We need sponsors from abroad. He went to find them.”
“And in the meantime…”
Ruth’s shoulders sagged suddenly. “In the meantime, I’m trying to find work to put food on the table, but as I’m sure you know, no one wants to employ a Jew anymore.”
“Well, Helga…”
“Ruth, my name is Ruth.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, Ruth, what work can you do?”
“I can do anything that will feed my family,” Ruth replied.
“What on earth were you doing in the Heldenplatz that day?” demanded Peter, suddenly changing the subject. “What the hell were you doing at a Hitler rally?”
“I was on my way to work and I was swept there by the crowd,” answered Ruth. “It was go with the crowd or get trampled underfoot.”
“Hmm, yes, it was a seething mass, wasn’t it?” He gave a shout of laughter. “How ironic! How funny! A Jew at the Anschluss rally!” His face clouded for a moment. “Well, not funny for you, I suppose.” He thought for a moment and then said, “And now you need a job. What can you do, I wonder?”
“I told you, I can do anything that will feed my family.” Ruth tried to pull away from the hand that was restraining her, but his grip tightened.
“Come on,” he said, and turning, he set off down the street, pulling Ruth along behind him.
“Where are we going?” she cried, trying to break free. “Let me go!”
“We’re going to find you a job,” he snapped, “so just be quiet. People are staring at you.”
A job? Ruth followed the young man more meekly now, though he still had a firm hold of her wrist and she doubted if she could have broken away if she’d wanted to. He led her through the streets, and stopped eventually in front of an elegant apartment block. Four stories tall, with an arched portico, it was similar, Ruth thought, as he pushed her in through the door, to the one where David Bernstein’s parents had lived. He opened a door on the first floor and led her into a spacious apartment. It was fully furnished with heavy furniture, long silk curtains, plush rugs on the polished floors, ornaments in glass-fronted cases, books on the bookshelves.
The Runaway Family Page 28