Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  Rachel

  New York, 1976

  Three months after her return from Chicago, without the fanfare of a romantic dinner at an expensive restaurant, actually while sharing a hot dog at a street stand and wiping mustard from the corners of Richard’s mouth, Rachel searched out his eyes and simply said, “I’m ready.” Immediately he knew what she meant, interpreted the coyly innocent bow of her head as his invitation to raise her chin for the sweetest kiss of his life.

  Unable to contain his burst of delight, he turned back to the street merchant. “Hey, I’m getting married. This is my finest moment. I’ve been waiting for this forever. What is in those hot dogs anyway?”

  The vendor, a barely shaven, burly man, who looked like he had eaten more than his share of inventory, actually humanized with a smile. “Well, congratulations. What a nice story to tell my wife.”

  Rachel and Richard exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Clutching each other as they thanked him and walked away, they gestured in unison, “Who’d have thought?” Neither was expecting such a sweet reprise from the man.

  And then it was the usual pre-wedding whirlwind— calls to parents choked with emotion (he had asked her dad over a year ago for her hand)—the much anticipated visit to Uncle Chal at the Jewelry Mart— engagement dinners, showers, fittings for a sophisticated dress, and, of course, a darling little tux for the proud and beaming Jason. In her professional life, by the time of the ceremony some ten months later, Rachel had two major features, one a cover article, in Architecture Today, and was ready to transition from a freelancer to a staff member, resigning from Young Miss. Her new position would commence following the honeymoon.

  Although Richard offered her a vacation in Mexico, Europe, or even the moon—as it seemed to be the premier destination in the news—Rachel, not surprisingly, knew what she wanted.

  “I know it sounds boring to someone like you, a native New Yorker, but in all honesty, and we’ve never discussed this before, my dream is to stay at the Plaza Hotel. As a little girl, I had a passion for the book Eloise at the Plaza. You probably don’t even know it. It’s about a little girl who lived on the top floor and had full run of the hotel while her wealthy parents traveled.”

  “You know we could go there anytime,” he responded, confused.

  “I know. But you see, if I’m going, I don’t want just any room. I want to live for a long weekend like Eloise, in a magnificent suite. Honestly, it’s not about hesitating to leave Jason for a trip—I want to do that. I’ve started traveling a little for my assignments—and I would love to see Paris and Rome. I promise you I won’t be a homebody. But I just have this silly dream.”

  “Then the Plaza Hotel it shall be! But you must show me the book, so I can make sure we don’t miss any of her adventures.”

  “Well, she did wind up sliding down the laundry chute quite often, so I will only ask you to use discretion with the choices—but we must experience drinks in the Oak Room and tea in the Palm Court.”

  Sarah

  Hamburg, 1939

  Finally, by spring, 1939, as they continued working at the inn with the robust wife and the lean husband, Inga received word that passage had been arranged on the ship, the MS St. Louis, which would leave out of Hamburg, Germany, in mid-May, with Cuba as the destination. In truth, Sarah had started thinking that this day would never come. The ship was part of the Hamburg-American Line (Hapag). Multitudes of Jewish people from Germany were desperately seeking safe harbor, especially in the United States. The American Jewish Committee was working feverishly from their end, but governments everywhere, even the government of the United States offered only roadblocks. With the complicated regulations regarding visas and the reduced quotas for immigrants abroad, it was not easy, or inexpensive, to place the wandering refugees. It was felt that reaching Cuba would be a close step to reaching the U.S., and people jumped at the chance.

  It was such a ridiculous thing that Sarah worried about as they approached the ship on Saturday, May 13, she admitted to herself later. She was cognizant that her beautiful, elegant mother, who had always carried herself like royalty in Berlin, now looked drawn and disheveled. No longer did she shine above the throng. She blended inconspicuously into the crowds of people from all classes of life, men and women, all in suits and hats, all waiting to embark. A carpenter or painter or butcher, who worked only with his hands, could not be separated from an upper-class professional when he presented in his Saturday Shabbas suit and proper hat. But differences the long voyage ahead would unveil would be that one class came dressed each evening with the same one or two outfits, which would be threadbare on the closest examination, while another class, especially those lucky enough to have left directly from their own homes, would have a wealth of fashionable attire and some exquisite pieces of jewelry. Later, Sarah would berate herself for her shallowness, for pitying also the sparseness of her own wardrobe and jewelry collection, as time and circumstances had allowed her to transport so little.

  As the passengers congregated in the dock area for the signal to board the luxury ship, they sat on trunks and valises, at first exchanging only the simplest of nods and the briefest of salutations. And they watched as each new passenger approached the liner, just as they had—initially with a look of relief that there might be hope and a future ahead, only to see that facial expression change to one of alarm and trepidation as they recognized the hated Nazi flag flying from the mast.

  Each would have his or her own tale of a stressful flight from a treasured home. At this point, none would imagine that Captain Gustav Schroeder of the St. Louis would possess an extreme empathy for his charges and be the staunchest advocate for them to reach their goal of safety. Prior to the sailing, he had warned his German staff to treat these Jewish people with dignity and respect, and later he would be working feverishly to deliver them as promised.

  But as they waited to board, they knew only that they were entering one more threshold bearing the despised emblem, the swastika. And though they were leery of being pulled by the magnetic draw of the luxury liner, they were tired and they viewed this passage as their best hope.

  Throughout the morning, passengers would speak softly in their own family groups and listen intently to nearby conversations. Here or there would be a familiar name, and a representative would run to an adjacent conversation circle and say, “Did I hear you mention Hyman Polk or Lawrence Teitel?—Do you know where they are?—Are they all right?” And more often than not, it was not the same name; it was Hershel Folk or Lawrence Sytell that they had referred to. But sometimes it was the person and there would be cries of anguish or embraces of relief as these stories unfolded.

  It was in just such a manner that Inga Berger overheard a gaunt and solitary Maxwell Selig explain how he had been rounded up on the horrific night of November 9, and eventually sent to Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp. One day, to his surprise, the warden came to him and a few others of those who had been large business owners and said they would be released if they promised to leave Germany, without their holdings, within two weeks. Maxwell had literally run back to his home, put his things in order (composing well-documented inventories, in case he should be able to return one day to claim his possessions) and secured passage on the St. Louis.

  “Excuse me,” Inga said. “I have overheard your story and I must ask you something,” she addressed Maxwell, her voice quivering. “Is it possible that in Sachsenhausen you came across another group of Jewish men from Berlin—does the name Emanuel Berger have any familiarity to you?”

  Maxwell Selig looked at this beautiful, desperate woman and it gave him the greatest pleasure to be able to give her a ray of hope. “Was Emanuel Berger your husband?”

  “Yes, yes he was. You are making me think that you spoke to him.”

  “Yes, my dear, I did. And I can understand now his strong will to live through the blows the Nazis dealt him, as you are as beautiful as he described.” He was not flirting with her—he had no strength
of desire of that sort left in him at this point. But he knew he was giving her some encouraging news and that was stirring in him the simple human emotion of pleasure that had abandoned him the past months.

  “Emanuel was at Sachsenhausen when I left. I am sorry that I cannot assure you that he received the same ‘generous’ offer that the Nazis handed me, but I can assure you that he was alive in Sachsenhausen just a month ago.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, thank you,” and with the third repetition of gratitude she broke down in such a torrent of tears that Maxwell searched his pockets for a handkerchief, and Sarah, still yards away and almost out of hearing, ran to her overcome mother. As Sarah tried to console her, Maxwell introduced himself and repeated their brief conversation. And then Sarah could not hold back her own sobs and sought the comfort of the man’s emaciated frame, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head on the stranger’s shoulder.

  When Inga regained her composure, she did so with a startling resilience and stoic form. “Sarah,” she said, “I have made a decision and you must obey me and you must be strong.”

  “Yes, Mother, what is it?” Sarah questioned. Over the past months of fear and insecurity, her one source of sanity had been the new reverence she had for her mother’s strength and ingenuity. And now she knew her mother was trying to empower her in that same manner.

  “My daughter—I must ask you to take the next step out of your childhood and adolescence and overnight become a woman. Forgive my obvious metaphor, but we know it is easier to survive adrift in tumultuous seas when you are holding on to a life raft. I can no longer be your raft, but with your own inner strength, and you are my daughter with that strength, you will always have your own life vest on.”

  Now Inga moved them to a more private area and sat Sarah on a vacated wooden bench. Inga stood in front of her to continue, so that her daughter had to raise her head to follow her words and expressions, and they both knew that this manipulation of stance had been purposeful. “You know already that you have become Liesel Schultz as we traveled, although on this ship’s voyage, reserved for Jewish émigrés, you will be resuming your true identity. I cannot accompany you now. Our news now is that Papa may be alive, may have been allowed to depart the country. At this point I can travel alone as a Christian woman with more flexibility and I must find my husband, now that I envision I have led you to safety.”

  Sarah was listening and nodding through her muffled sobs.

  “Now, you know love. And you know what you would do to be together—think of the letters from Taylor that we received before going into hiding. Think of his desire to work to arrange for your reunion. That is me and I must find Papa now that I have renewed hope from this man who was with him at Sachsenhausen— that he is still alive.”

  “You mean I will go on this ship alone, don’t you?”

  At this point, Inga took Sarah’s hands and raised her to match her own height. “Yes, I do—I will introduce you to a family that is traveling with young children and see if they might not allow you to mingle with their table, under their protection, in exchange for your skills as an English tutor to their children.”

  With these words Sarah was suddenly beginning to wonder if this had truly been a plan long in formation and not a spur-of-the-moment decision. She was realizing that her mother had never planned to board the ship with her—that she had no intention of leaving Germany without knowledge of her beloved husband.

  And so now Sarah furtively looked into the boarding packet that she possessed and saw that it had always held only one ticket—just for her. And though there were two passports in the packet, each described the same nineteen-year-old girl—but one said the name Sarah Berger—one said Liesel Schultz.

  It was inconceivable to Sarah that within a brief period of time her heart could be torn apart by separation from a loved one, not once, not twice, but now a third time, as her mother “abandoned” her at the pier. How long ago was it that she had fallen in love with Taylor, her handsome American, who surprisingly appeared to her one day, and truly captured her heart with one look? Maybe he never truly knew that—maybe he thought he had to win her over with his complimentary words and tender kisses—but they were never necessary. She knew immediately. He was her beshert. It was a Jewish term—her soul mate—the one meant for her. Naturally, it was supposed to apply to a Jewish match— but Taylor immediately had said he would never reject her religion—he had that intuitiveness about him—that he knew it would be important to her.

  And how about his generosity? “Keep the painting until you return with it to be with me in Chicago.” That had been the note he had attached to the carefully wrapped artwork that he had left with her in the summer of 1937. The night before, it had stood against the suitcases for his early morning departure, but when she awoke, it was the surprise that remained.

  It was another of their connections—this love of art. In the first weeks after he left, she became obsessed with the beautiful Henri Lebasque oil, Jeune Fille à la Plage. She examined every intricate dab of paint from a close view and then again from the far perspective that made the Impressionists’ works so noted.

  She could barely believe that her suitor, Taylor Woodmere, had possessed the taste and foresight to purchase from this artist, known as an illuminator of art and light, well known among art aficionados, but to the general public not as familiar as Renoir or Monet. Imagine that this artist died within months of the purchase of that original piece.

  Sarah thought of Taylor’s acquisition as amazingly wonderful and brilliant, but not because she understood the business of art, that paintings escalated in value upon an artist’s death. What she was so pleased about was that she possessed one of his works when no more would be created. She was not thinking in monetary terms; it was the vibrant colors of the painting, not the currency, that mesmerized her.

  She also could not believe the coincidence that she had come upon another painting by the same artist the following summer at a distinguished Berlin private gallery. This one was entitled, Fille de l’été, “Girl in the Summer,” and Sarah wondered if the model was not the same little girl of Jeune Fille à la Plage. In the true Impressionist style, you could barely visualize the young child facing you, her back to the rolling waves, bending down to collect a seashell to add to the treasures in her small bucket. Only on a close view you saw that her tiny fingers sought to choose the perfect one for her collection, and her lips were slightly separated by her tongue, as an expression of deep contemplation. She was meant to be a surprise to the viewer, as she was off to the side, placed between the last two of a row of seven vacant beach chairs. On the low-slung wooden seating closest to her, a beach towel was draped as if it had just been used for a quick drying, and a wide-brimmed adult-sized hat rested atop it, as if reassuring anyone that the child was not abandoned, but her mother was presumed to be just out of vision. And so the observer can enjoy the beauty of this little brunette with her hair shooting off reddish rays of light from strands shimmering in the sun. She was wearing a swimsuit, appropriate to the turn of the century, a little sailor suit in two colors of blue horizontal stripes, which pantalooned at her legs.

  The bottom third of the painting held the beach in perspective against the azure sea and then the light blue horizon. The artist mixed the beige and gray particles that make up the sand of the Mediterranean beach by applying tiny brush strokes reminiscent of the dots of Pointillism. Here and there a green bush took form out of the sand and a triangle of color emerging from the bottom left corner erupted with tall green and brown shoots of wildflowers ranging in colors from deep blue to purple to yellow. Balance in the work was achieved by the yellow gold of the wildflowers in the lower left and the rising sun in the upper right.

  But despite the artist’s resplendent rendering of nature, it is the innocent face of la jeune fille that the viewer is drawn to once it is evident that she is more complicated than a dab of color.

  The gallery owner explained that
Lebasque had actually been friends with many of the most famous painters of the era who often lounged together interpreting the ponds and lakes and beaches and landscapes of Southern France. Influences of shading techniques similar to those of his friend Georges Seurat were present in this work, as if the artist himself was sitting with an easel next to Lebasque and allowed him to borrow the colors from his own palette. But, however beautiful a painting Fille de l’été was, it did not possess the entrancing storytelling quality of Jeune Fille à la Plage.

  In the weeks following Taylor’s departure, Sarah would unwrap and rewrap her painting, challenging herself to discover a new secret of its surface. Finally, her mother had encouraged her to hang it in the hallway above the vestibule table.

  “Well, let’s just all enjoy it while we arrange our departure. It will calm us, as we wait. Father is still slow in his plans—I know he feels he has a special status because of having a Christian wife. He fears leaving the factory and abandoning what he has built. There are so many concerns, my dear Sarah. We must trust in your father—that he will do what is right for us.

  “Let’s put it here,” her mother continued. And as quickly as she said it, she popped an old family portrait of five scary and subdued-faced ancestors out of its frame and pushed in the Lebasque until all the corners fit snugly into place. Again, beshert. This new uplifting painting and that old frame—a perfect fit—meant for each other. And so the painting held a prominent spot in the front entrance of the Berger home in Berlin. And now Sarah not only studied the intricacies of the painting, but also the craftsmanship and artwork of the handcrafted mahogany and gold leaf frame that previously she had ignored, but now she embraced so lovingly.