The Far Side of the Sky

by Daniel Kalla

  Six or seven SS troopers brandishing machine guns jumped out of the truck and rushed the crowd. More trucks thundered down the road. They skidded noisily to a stop in a long row behind the first one. More men in black poured out of them. One of the SS men raised a megaphone to his mouth and shrieked, “All male Jews over the age of fourteen step forward! Now! Mach shnell!”

  Franz stopped dead. A trooper unleashed a round of deafening gunfire into the air. Several people dropped to the ground in terror. Others leaned back against the building’s windows and walls as though trying to melt into them. More screams, shouts and gunfire. And then Jewish men, their faces clouded with fear and despair, began to step forward. With punches and kicks, the SS men herded them—often by the scruff of their necks—toward the backs of the trucks without a single word of explanation.

  Franz dropped his gaze and carried on. Despite the urge to flee, he was careful not to move so fast as to draw attention. Without even looking up, he passed the consulate’s entrance, turned the corner and walked away from the building.

  Legs wooden with dread, Franz trotted three or four blocks before he slowed to glance at his watch. It read 10:55. The eleven o’clock appointment with the British vice-consul might have represented his family’s final chance for a visa, but he also knew that the SS would stop him outside the consulate. His only identification—the passport he carried in his pocket—was stamped with an incriminating large red J. He could not risk being arrested, not before he had gotten Hannah and Esther out of the country.

  Franz spent the next hour wandering the streets, never straying far from the consulate. Strolling the City of Music, his beloved Zeiss-Ikon plate camera in tow, had once been his favourite pastime.

  Franz had originally taken up photography to appease his wife, who had given him a camera as a birthday present. Hilde soon became his primary subject; he snapped countless photos of her. After her sudden death, Franz found it too painful to view the photos. Even lifting the camera stirred too many memories, so he abandoned the hobby. A few years later, he came across the camera, dusted it off and, on a whim, took it outside to snap photos of buildings that had caught his eye. The initially random pursuit grew into a passion. He began photographing buildings all over Vienna, ignoring the famous landmarks to focus on quaint, often rundown structures whose shapes or settings had struck him as quintessentially Viennese. To Franz, it was never about art so much as precision. He found the challenge of capturing the exact light, focal point and angle akin to surgery.

  But light and angles were the least of his concerns now. Every moment he spent out on the street, exposed, compounded his worry. His surroundings, once such a source of pride and comfort, struck him as more than just hostile. His birth city—the only place he had ever lived—felt foreign to him.

  After covering at least two more miles, and witnessing more broken glass and vandalized property than he imagined possible, Franz finally looped back toward Jauresgasse. As he reached the British consulate, he was desperately relieved not to see any sign of SS men or their trucks. The lineup had thinned considerably but still ran at least two blocks long and consisted almost exclusively of frightened women and bewildered children.

  Franz headed straight for the front of the queue, where two British soldiers in combat fatigues and berets guarded the door with rifles held across their chests. He shouldered his way past a group of women at the front too traumatized to object to the intrusion. He approached the taller soldier, a chunky redhead. With an embarrassed shake of his head, the guard pointed to a sign posted above him that read in large-print German, “The consulate regrets to announce that His Majesty’s Government will not process new immigration visas until further notice.”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Edgewood,” Franz said in English. In 1933, Franz and Hannah—a toddler at the time—had spent six months in London at St. Mary’s Hospital, where he completed a surgical fellowship while honing his English skills.

  “Your name, sir?” the soldier asked.

  “Dr. Franz Adler,” he said. “I apologize for my lateness.”

  The second soldier scanned his clipboard and then nodded to his colleague. The redhead showed Franz a slight smile. “No matter, Dr. Adler. With all that broken glass, they’re not making it particularly easy to navigate the city today.”

  The soldier led Franz inside the building, along a corridor and up two wide flights of stairs. A polite, middle-aged man, who appeared to be a secretary, took his coat and then led him into a brightly lit office. Two large bookcases stood against the wall, their shelves piled high with books bearing only German titles. A painting of King George VI and his queen consort, Elizabeth, hung prominently on the wall behind an oak desk.

  Franz had to wait only a few minutes before a squat balding man, who wore a navy blazer and argyle tie, bustled into the room. “Ein vergnügen, sie zu treffen, Herr Doktor Adler,” Howard Edgewood said in accent-free German as he hurried toward Franz with an extended hand.

  Franz squeezed the man’s chubby hand, noting its dampness. He deliberately responded in English. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Edgewood.”

  “Of course, of course,” Edgewood said as he rushed around the desk and sank into the chair across from Franz. “I admire your father. An excellent lawyer and a true gentleman.” His flushed face creased into a frown. “If I may say so, Herr Adler did not sound at all well on the telephone.”

  His son was just murdered. How did you expect him to sound?

  “These are difficult times for him,” Franz said.

  “Yes, of course. Trying times. Trying times, indeed,” Edgewood chirped as he raised a thin file from the top of a stack. “Mr. Adler explained some of the circumstances of your, um, predicament.”

  Franz looked down at the desktop. “My wife is dead, Mr. Edgewood. I have an eight-year-old daughter. Hannah is a very brave girl, but Vienna is no longer a city that is kind to children of even partly Jewish origin. I need to find her safe asylum. Britain, of course, would be our very first choice.”

  “Of course, of course.” Edgewood nodded sympathetically as he opened the file. “And I would so dearly love to help.” Franz’s heart sank, but he said nothing.

  “Our quota for refugee visas has been completely filled for the next year. And, Dr. Adler, we are absolutely prohibited from making exceptions.” Edgewood shrugged helplessly. “You must understand, there are nearly two hundred thousand Jewish people living in Austria alone. If we were to set such a precedent … well, it would be a slippery slope with no end.”

  “I suppose,” Franz said, trying not to show a trace of his disappointment.

  Edgewood raised a finger. “However, Dr. Adler, I have made several inquiries this morning. And I am hopeful in your case that there might be a way.”

  Franz sat up a little straighter. “How so, Mr. Edgewood?”

  “In light of your distinguished university standing, I believe we might be able to offer you an educational visa. It would be open-ended, of course.” Edgewood flashed a shy grin. “And we would concern ourselves with the specifics of your university appointment and location at a later date.”

  Franz’s sense of relief bordered on ecstasy. He laughed joyously. “Mr. Edgewood, there is no place in your great country, from the Isle of Wight to the tip of Scotland, to which we wouldn’t be willing to relocate.”

  Edgewood guffawed as he reached for the papers on his desk. “Yes, well, I do not imagine we will have to banish you to the Shetland Islands just yet.” He flipped through a few pages. “And as your daughter is still a minor, we can include her on the same visa.”

  “And Esther, of course,” Franz said.

  “Oh, have you remarried, Dr. Adler?” Edgewood asked.

  “Esther is my sister-in-law. My brother, her husband …” Franz’s voice cracked. “He recently died.”

  Edgewood’s smile seeped away. “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “It will not be a problem, will it, Mr. Edgewood?�
�

  Edgewood shut the file in his hand. “I am afraid it will, Dr. Adler. We cannot possibly include your sister-in-law on an educational visa granted to you. It is simply not legal.”

  Franz’s stomach plummeted. He would have willingly married Esther to get her name on that visa but he also knew that, as Jews, they no longer had any legal standing. They would never be able to secure an official marriage licence. “And my father?” he asked mechanically.

  Edgewood frowned. “Mr. Adler made it clear to me that he had no intention of leaving Vienna.” Franz didn’t reply. “Dr. Adler, if you and your daughter were to travel ahead, perhaps once you had settled in you would be able to find alternate arrangements for the others. And by then undoubtedly the political climate here would have stabilized somewhat—”

  “I will not leave them here.” Franz shook his head adamantly. “I cannot.”

  Edgewood dropped his chin and spoke to the file. “I do not see what else I can offer.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Franz muttered.

  A bleak moment passed in silence before Edgewood’s round head suddenly snapped up. “Hold on, Dr. Adler. There might be one other option.”

  “Yes?”

  “My government is about to unveil a new program entitled Kindertransport.”

  “The ‘children transport’?” Franz echoed.

  “Yes. We intend to offer several thousand emergency visas to Jewish children in Germany and Czechoslovakia.” Franz frowned. “Only the children?”

  “For the time being, yes.” Edgewood cleared his throat. “We intend to place the children in emergency foster care until such time as they can be safely repatriated with their parents.”

  “And you could find Hannah a spot in this Kindertransport program?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Franz wavered. His heart ached as he tried to imagine his handicapped daughter adjusting to life in England without family or friends around her. As awful as the idea seemed, he realized it might also be the only practical solution. “Mr. Edgewood, may I take a little time to consider this?”

  “Of course, of course. Take a day or two.” He smiled kindly. “And please do reconsider the offer of the educational visa as well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Edgewood. I appreciate your kindness.”

  As Edgewood walked Franz to the door, the diplomat heaved a sigh. “Dr. Adler, I am a huge admirer of this country.” He nodded to his bookcase. “Particularly Vienna. Perhaps my favourite city in the world. Or, at least, it used to be. Recent events, especially these last few days, have absolutely appalled me. How a civilized nation could brutalize her own citizens in such a manner is simply beyond me.” His face went blotchy with indignation. “It is a ghastly business as far as I am concerned.”

  Franz recognized Edgewood’s sincerity. He was aware the diplomat had done everything within his power to help. But something suddenly snapped inside him, and he could not hold his tongue. “Mr. Edgewood, your sympathy and outrage is of no use whatsoever to me.” He pointed to the window. “Or any of those other blameless people outside.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “I have given up trying to make sense of the Nazis or even my own countrymen.” Franz eyed Edgewood steadily, desperate for an outlet—even one as undeserving as the well-intentioned diplomat—for his outrage. “What I fail to understand is how a civilized world that claims to be so appalled by such brutality can simply turn its back on the victims.”

  CHAPTER 4

  With his clinic looted and left in shambles, Franz had no hydrogen peroxide to soak off the bandages covering Esther’s forearm. Instead, he had to make do with tap water. The dried scabs stuck tenaciously to the cloth, and Franz had to tease, pull and even rip the dressing away.

  Lost in thought, Esther seemed indifferent to the painful procedure. “How would Hannah possibly cope in England without you?” she asked.

  Franz could only shake his head.

  “As well as she compensates for her handicap, it will not be the same for her as the other children.” Esther spoke in a hushed voice, partly because Hannah was reading in her bedroom with the door open, but mainly because she had taken to speaking in whispers in the tense aftermath of Kristallnacht.

  “She already speaks some English. That will help,” Franz said with little conviction.

  “It’s not right, Franz,” Esther murmured. “The girl needs to be with her family.”

  “But how, Essie? I visited so many consulates this afternoon.” “There are other places still,” she said.

  “Where? I went everywhere! America, Canada, France, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Portugal, Australia, Argentina … Huge queues in front of every consulate, despite the mass arrests.” He rubbed his temples, trying to block out the nightmarish memory of those panicky women and children. “All of them posted signs stating that their refugee quota had been met or exceeded, and they would offer no more visas. I haven’t heard from Ernst regarding his Dutch contact, but I’m beginning to think it’s hopeless, Essie.”

  “We will find a way, Franz. I know we will.”

  She said it so confidently that, for a moment, Franz wondered if she knew about the British offer of an educational visa for Hannah and him. He had not told Esther because he knew she would have insisted they leave without her. That was not an option. He had given his word to Karl the last time he had seen his brother alive, two days earlier at Café Altman. Besides, Esther was far more like a sister than an in-law; the idea of leaving her behind was unthinkable.

  Esther continued to speak, but Franz could not concentrate on her words. His mind kept wandering back to his last face-to-face conversation with Karl. Franz and Karl had met at the café at least once a week for the past decade. This time, sitting at the corner table at dusk, they were the last customers left inside the once-thriving coffee shop. Like all Jewish businesses, the shop’s trade had nose-dived after the Anschluss, but it was the breaking news out of Paris earlier in the morning that had emptied the café and chased most Viennese Jews into seclusion.

  “He has not done the rest of us any favours,” Franz said, referring to Herschel Grynszpan, the distraught seventeen-year-old youth who had walked into the German embassy in Paris and shot the first Nazi official he saw, a diplomat named Ernst vom Rath.

  “Can you blame the boy?” Karl asked. “His parents were rounded up and dumped at the Polish border without food or shelter. Left there to starve or freeze to death.”

  “They did the same to thousands of other Polish-born Jews.” Franz thumbed at the window. “Besides, Grynszpan is hardly the only Jew with a legitimate grievance against the Nazis.”

  Karl stared disbelievingly at his older brother. “But, Franz, he’s one of the very few to actually do something about it.”

  “By killing a low-level diplomat? That’s retribution?” Franz slammed his empty cup down on the table. “Now we will all have to pay for his impulsiveness.”

  “No doubt we will,” Karl agreed grimly. “Perhaps if more of us had stood up to them earlier … It’s too late now, of course, but I still can’t blame the boy.”

  Franz sighed. “That’s always been your weakness, Karl. You are too forgiving.”

  “So are you. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

  “Nonsense. You’re the idealist. I’ve always been the practical one.”

  “Practical or Machiavellian?” Karl said with a small chuckle.

  “I can’t help it,” Franz said. “I think like a surgeon.”

  Karl pantomimed a cutting motion.

  “Exactly. No beating around the bush. If I see a problem, I prefer to just excise it.”

  “If only someone could excise the Nazis from Austria.” Karl sighed. “Remember, Franz? We were going to take Vienna by storm. You, her greatest surgeon, and me, her leading solicitor. Look at us now.”

  Franz held up a hand. “Hitler had other plans.”

  Karl flashed a wistful grin as he toyed with the uneaten strudel on his p
late. “Franz, I have not even told Esther this.” He glanced over either shoulder. Only the withered proprietor stood, despondently, behind the counter, wiping his coffee press, but Karl still spoke in a whisper. “Last week, the Sicherheitspolizei arrested me.”

  Franz gripped the table. “Arrested? Where?”

  “They picked me up on my way to work.” Karl shrugged. “I spent the day at their headquarters at the old Hotel Metropole.” “What did they want?”

  “They accused me of every crime imaginable, from personally undermining the führer to having single-handedly brought Bolshevism to Europe.” Karl laughed bitterly. “I suspect they are short on proof, though. Otherwise I would not be sitting here now.”

  “Karl, they must be watching you!”

  “Apparently so. I’ve been helping people file their new securities’ registration forms. Not that it’s any real help. The Nazis are only using the forms to confiscate—in truth, to steal—their assets.” He exhaled heavily. “But Jews can be arrested, or worse, for not filing them. And they’re terribly complicated for some, especially older folks.”

  “This is no time to be risking your life!” Franz snapped. “We need to focus on getting the family to safety.”

  Karl smiled kindly. “I can’t simply turn my back on people in need, Franz. It’s part of what makes us different from the Nazis.”

  “Everything makes us different from those animals! And if they’ve already arrested you …”

  Karl leaned forward, eyeing Franz with a burning intensity that silenced his brother’s protests. “Listen, Franz. I need you to promise me something.”

  “What is it?”

  “If they take me away or … you know …” Karl cleared his throat. “You will—promise me, Franz—ensure that Essie is safe.”

  “You’re my little brother. I am always supposed to look out for you.”

  “And you always have.” Karl smiled. “Remember that bully, Chaim Greenberg, in grade school? You taught him the price of picking on your little brother.”