“Yes. Remember that book we read? What did it say? ‘Her hair was like sparks’?”
I quoted, having memorized the passage. “‘In the sunlight her hair shone with dazzling red lights, like sparks from a firecracker.’” We had read the book together in Rosemarie’s room, until her sister caught us and took it away.
“Remember the afternoon we went ice skating, and your beads broke and spilled all over the ice?”
“Remember the day we took Annie to the park, and we couldn’t get her down out of that tree?”
We spent the afternoon together, remembering, and I am sure that Rosemarie knew I wasn’t coming back.
“Write to me, Lisa,” she begged, and I promised I would. Then she unfastened her silver bracelet with the cloverleaf charm on which her name was engraved. “I want you to take this,” she said, “to remember me by.”
“But it has your name on it,” I objected, “and you’ve always loved it.”
“That’s why I want you to wear it,” Rosemarie insisted.
“Is it all right with your mother?”
“Of course,” Rosemarie said firmly. “Please take it. Look, you can give it back if you want to—when I see you again.”
“But Rosemarie …” I stammered. I had never kept any secrets from her before. “Are you planning,” I hesitated, “to take a—a vacation, too?”
Rosemarie shook her head. “I don’t think so. My father doesn’t want to leave his patients. You know how it is.”
I knew how many people needed Rosemarie’s father, Dr. Michels. He was our family doctor, too. Now, more than ever, his office would be filled with patients; for Jewish people could go only to Jewish doctors. And Dr. Michels was staying here, facing whatever dangers would come, for his first duty was always to the sick. My thoughts were jumbled, and I felt a heaviness in my chest. I couldn’t help thinking of what Clara had said about Papa, that it took courage for him to leave Germany. For Dr. Michels, the courageous thing was to remain. How strange it was, how difficult to understand, that Rosemarie’s father and mine must do exactly the opposite, and that in each case it was right.
“All this will blow over,” Rosemarie said with a smile and a wave of her hand. “You’ll be back sooner than you think.”
She gave me a quick kiss. “Have a good trip, Lisa.”
The next afternoon we said good-bye to the family. They came, one after the other, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, all saying, “What a commotion! We ought to leave you alone so you can pack.” They spoke only of pleasant things, as if we were truly going on a pleasure trip.
Tante Helga, my beautiful young aunt, held me tight, then said with a faint smile, “Just don’t forget your native language, darling. Someday I will come to America to see you, and oh, what grand times we will have. You’ll teach me to speak English then, won’t you? And you’ll show me the sights. But remember your German, too. It will always help you to know another language.”
I loved Tante Helga more than any of the other aunts. Perhaps it was because she had no children of her own that we were so close. For some reason, of all her nieces and nephews, Tante Helga had always chosen me when it came to going places like the Children’s Ballet or to puppet shows. At Christmas time she always took me to the big department stores to see the decorations, and she and I selected gifts for the whole family together.
“I’ll miss you, Tante Helga,” I said softly, kissing her cheek.
“Oh no,” she said. “Not you. You’ll be so busy storing up new information. You always collect new ideas,” she said, laughing, “like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.”
We said good-bye to one after the other of our relatives. They left hastily, so that there would be no time for tears. But even so my grandmother cried terribly. She clung to Mother’s hands, and the lines in her face were deep and pitiful. “Margo, my child,” she wept, “when in this life will we ever meet again?”
“I’ll send for you, Mama,” my mother told her again and again. “I’ll send for you, I promise.”
At last our suitcases were packed and stood by the front door, ready for the morning. There was only one for each of us.
“Can’t we take just one more suitcase?” I begged Mother.
“No,” she answered. “We’re taking only what we would need on a short vacation.”
There were so many things I couldn’t bear to leave—ballet costumes, books, school albums.
“You’ll each wear a sweater and carry a coat,” Mother said. “We have to save room in the suitcases.”
“I would be taking my violin on a vacation trip,” Ruth said.
Mother paused for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Ruth, you may carry your violin.”
“Frau Platt, what about the silver?” Clara asked, carrying a tray of silverware. “Couldn’t you put some of this in among your clothes?”
“Of course not,” Mother replied. “They will be inspecting our luggage at the border.” She chuckled. “Do people bring their own silverware on a vacation?”
“But all these things!” Clara exclaimed. “Your books, the paintings, the linens …”
“Take whatever you can carry, Clara,” Mother said. “Take it home with you after we are gone, and use it.”
“I couldn’t!”
“I want you to have it,” Mother told her. “The Nazis will take what is left. You know that.”
“I won’t use it,” Clara said, wringing her hands. “I’ll take home what I can and keep it for you.”
“Let’s talk downstairs, Clara,” Mother said. “Lisa, Ruth, it’s time for bed. We’re leaving very early in the morning.”
“Try to leave Germany,” I heard Mother tell Clara.
“I can’t, Frau Platt. My mother …” Clara replied.
“Take your mother and leave as soon as you can. Go to England or France. There’s going to be a war.”
The door closed and I could hear no more. I began to walk through the rooms, looking at everything we would leave behind the next morning, but still I could not actually believe that war was coming. War was something distant and strange that happened to other people in other times. I had read of wars, of wounded men, of fleeing women and children and of death. I had heard of women ripping up sheets into bandages, of people searching for coal and for food, and even of people eating their pets in times of great hunger.
Mauschen! My mouth went dry with terror. My beautiful cat! What would become of him? Who would remember to feed him and call him in at night? Who would protect him if there were great hunger?
I ran into the kitchen. “Clara! Clara!” I burst out. “Will you take Mauschen home with you? He’ll cry so when we leave. Please, don’t let a stranger get him. They might—sometimes in a war …” I couldn’t say it or even think of it, my little Mauschen, a little brown fuzzy kitten when I first got him.
“Lischen! Be calm. Of course I will take him,” Clara said, coming to put her arms around me. “I won’t let him go to any stranger.”
I rushed to the back porch where Mauschen slept in his little basket. I had named him that because he looked so like a little mouse at first, but now he was sleek and beautiful. I picked him up and held him close, and he gave a soft, sleepy meow.
Clara took him from my arms. “He’s a beautiful cat,” she murmured, “a sweet cat. I’ll take care of him always, I promise.”
“And take his basket too,” I said. “He’s used to it.”
“I will,” Clara said, kissing me. “Now go to bed, and don’t worry. Sleep well, Lischen.”
“Goodnight, Clara.” I turned back, for I had seen a long salami, still in its wrapper, lying on the counter. “Can I have that?” I asked.
“The salami?” Clara asked, bewildered. “You don’t even like salami.”
Still, I wanted it.
“Well, all right, take it,” Clara said, shaking her head in confusion. Then her expression changed to one of deep tenderness. “Of course. I understand. Take it with you, my child
.”
In my room I put the salami in the bottom of my suitcase, concealing it from Ruth, who would have laughed at me and called me a silly goose. “One salami won’t keep you from starving,” she would have taunted, but somehow it made me feel better to have it.
I lay down on my bed, feeling too tired to move a muscle. All day I had packed, choosing the few things I could take with me. Then I had cleaned and dusted everything, books, ice skates, games, my doll collection, taking each thing into my hands. Ruth couldn’t understand why I was cleaning everything when it had to be left behind anyway, and I couldn’t explain it. I just needed to have everything in order.
Ruth was still rummaging through her things. “Aren’t you finished yet?” I yawned deeply. “Let’s go to bed.”
“I’m almost ready,” she mumbled, bending over her violin case.
I sat up suddenly, realizing that Ruth was slipping something under the lining of her violin case.
“What are you doing?” I cried.
“Never mind,” Ruth said.
“Ruth!” It was money that she was hiding so carefully. “You can’t do that!” I exclaimed.
“Nobody will look here,” Ruth said, still working. “You heard Mother say that we can only take ten marks apiece. Anybody can see that won’t be enough to last until we get to America.”
“That’s smuggling,” I gasped. “Don’t you know what happened to the Mullers?”
“Shut up,” Ruth said fiercely. “Stop yelling. You don’t have to know anything about this. It’s my money, my birthday money.”
I watched as she laid the bills flat against the side of the case, took a tube of glue and applied it to the loose material of the lining, then pressed it down firmly against the case.
“Look now,” she said. “Nothing shows.”
I went over to see. “Don’t do it,” I begged. “It isn’t right.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” she retorted. “We have to help ourselves any way we can. I’ve been planning this all along.”
“I’ll tell Mother,” I threatened.
“If you dare!” Ruth stepped toward me, clenching her fist. “If you dare!” Then her tone changed. “Look,” she coaxed, “Mother will be so happy when I give her this money in Switzerland. She’ll need it for food. Can you imagine what it’s like to be hungry? I mean really hungry, with nothing at all to eat. Think of Annie, crying for food. Mother’s got enough to worry about. Papa even said we have to take responsibility.”
“Look at this,” I said, pointing to a damp spot on the lining.
“It will be dry by morning,” Ruth said confidently. “You’ll be glad I did this. You’ll see. Look, it’s good as new. Nothing shows.”
I yawned again. It was impossible to win an argument with Ruth, and I was very tired. “It’s all right,” I sighed. “Just come to bed.”
I must have fallen asleep in a moment. Suddenly I sat up with a start. Under the door I saw a faint light, and then I heard a thump and a soft cry. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the hall to Annie’s room.
She was standing over a large carton holding several dolls in her arms. I heard a sniff and then I saw that she was crying, and she mumbled to herself, “I won’t leave you. I’ll take you all with me.”
“Annie! What in the world are you doing?” I whispered. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I’m packing,” Annie answered without looking at me.
“But Mother’s already packed your things. You can’t take all those dolls.”
“I’m not leaving them,” Annie said with a stubborn nod.
“Now, Annie, listen to me. Please stop a minute and listen.” I knelt down beside her, and Annie clung to me. Her face was hot and damp, and the short dark curls stood out all over her head. I kissed her cheeks and held her. “Don’t cry, Baby, don’t cry. Sit down here.” I pulled her up on the bed beside me. “Let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Annie mumbled. “I’m not going to leave my Susans here alone.”
All of Annie’s dolls were named Susan. We teased her about it, but she was determined to give all of them her favorite name.
“They won’t be alone,” I whispered. “They’ll have each other, and when we come back …”
“You know we’re not coming back!” she said in a voice filled with reproach.
“Annie!”
“I’ve heard you all talking. We’re never coming back. We’re going to America.”
“Hush!” I said. “You mustn’t say that, not to anybody. You’re not supposed to know. Do you understand?” I had grasped Annie’s arm too tightly, and she began to cry.
“Shh,” I tried to silence her. “Mother will hear you. Now look at me and listen, because this is very important.” Her large, dark eyes were frightened. “If anybody asks you where we are going, you must say that we’re going to Switzerland for a vacation. Now say that.”
“Switzerland,” Annie mumbled.
“For a vacation,” I added, still holding her beneath the chin, firmly.
“For a vacation,” Annie repeated, struggling slightly, “and I’m taking all my dolls with me.”
“You are not. We don’t have room.”
Annie’s lip began to quiver again.
“Don’t cry!” I warned her. “Now, Mother said you can take two dolls, and that’s all.” I took a deep breath, struggling for patience. “Let’s decide which ones.”
We took the dolls out of the carton and laid them on the bed.
“Which one first?” I asked Annie, knowing what she would say.
“The baby doll,” Annie replied, clutching the torn stuffed doll to her chest. “She needs a Mommy the most, because she’s always coming apart.”
“All right, then you’ll take her. Now one more.”
Annie walked back and forth, biting her lip in concentration. She touched each doll, fingered their dresses and finally sighed. “I can’t decide. I’ll have to take them all.”
I shook my head, knowing there was only one thing to do. It had been in my mind from the beginning. “You like my bride doll, don’t you?” I asked her.
Annie’s eyes were wide and she gasped, “Your bride doll! She’s the most beautiful doll in the world!”
Aunt Helga had given me the bride doll for my last birthday. “A twelve-year-old girl is really too old to play with dolls,” she had said, “but every girl should have a last doll, a very special doll to keep her company while she is growing up.” The doll was beautiful, eight inches tall, with a white dress and veil of handmade lace. She wore a tiny pearl necklace and white high-heeled shoes.
I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the little bride doll. I had packed it carefully this afternoon.
“If you promise,” I told Annie slowly, “not to say a single word about America, not to anybody, I’ll let you have my bride doll.”
Annie gasped. “For keeps?”
“Yes.”
“I promise! I promise!” Annie cried, hopping up and down.
“If you break your promise,” I told her in my sternest voice, “I’ll take the doll away from you, and you’ll never even be able to touch her again.”
“I won’t say a word,” Annie whispered, her eyes shining.
“Now go to bed. Tomorrow morning” no, I’ll get her now.”
When I brought the doll, Annie immediately tucked it into bed beside her, crushing the lace dress under her covers. She put her thumb in her mouth and smiled at me, a crooked, blissful smile.
Very early the next morning, when we were almost ready to leave, Annie sat quietly on the sofa, dressed for the journey, holding her baby doll in one arm and the bride doll in the other.
“Lisa,” Mother called. “Did you know Annie has your bride doll? Weren’t you going to pack it?”
“I gave it to Annie,” I said, avoiding Mother’s eyes. “I’m getting too old to play with dolls.”
The Last Barrier
IT WAS BARELY DAYBREAK. The ne
ighbors still slept. Their houses were dark and silent. I turned for a moment to look back at the house where I had lived almost all my life, at the small courtyard where I used to play with my dolls, at the low wrought iron gate, at the upstairs window of my bedroom and the white lacy curtains Clara had made. I glanced at the lilies that grew by the walk. I had planted them myself only a year before.
The taxi was waiting, and Clara, with her apron on, came with us to the waiting car. “Good-bye,” she said loudly, just in case someone should be awake to hear, “have a good vacation. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” She reached into her pocket. “Here’s something for you to have on the train.” She gave each of us a small round tin of candies.
I put my arms around Clara. “Thank you, Clara.” There was so much I wanted to say to her, but my voice broke at the word, “Good-bye.”
“Don’t cry, Lischen,” she said, but her eyes, too, were full.
“Come, Lisa,” Mother called me. “Help Annie into the taxi. We have to hurry. The train leaves in an hour.”
The taxi sped down the street with the driver whistling softly to himself. I had never seen the city at dawn before. The streets were hushed and shadowy, with only a few merchants moving about, preparing for the day.
We drove past the big park, where we had spent many afternoons playing with friends and wandering along the paths of the zoo. The bandstand was deserted, the swings hung limp and silent. Later children would come to play while their mothers had coffee and cake on the terrace overlooking the playground, and nursemaids in white dresses would wheel fine baby carriages along the tree-lined paths.
I felt a tightness in my throat. Surely, I thought, surely it would always be this way. On every Sunday afternoon, long after we were gone, the band would play Viennese waltzes and boys would play ball on the lawn, and children would beg to ride the carousel. Families like ours would meet their friends and sit around the tables, laughing and talking.
How could it ever be different?
But already things were different. It had been a slow, gradual change, like a shadow crossing the sun, bringing a strange cold feeling that one could not quite explain.
Journey to America Page 3