by Daniel Kalla
Franz swallowed. “I see.”
Eichmann studied him with his frigid eyes. “If you cannot find an acceptable destination within two weeks, I will be forced to relocate you to the concentration camp at Dachau.” He shook his head, and his voice dropped even lower. “And once there, Dr. Adler, I can no longer guarantee your well-being.”
CHAPTER 6
Franz’s head throbbed. He doubted he had slept a moment all night. Upon returning home, he had postponed plans to enrol Hannah in Kindertransport, but he knew that, barring some amazing stroke of luck, he would still have to send his daughter away.
Franz had spent much of the night huddled close to Hannah, whispering stories to her to try to distract her from the raucous mob rampaging on the streets in a second night of anti-Semitic violence. Even after the rioters stomped away and Hannah finally drifted off, sleep eluded Franz. He tossed and turned, haunted by memories of Karl’s dangling corpse, Frieda Yacobsen’s plaintive screams and, most of all, Eichmann’s soft-spoken malevolence.
In the morning, Franz awoke to find Hannah still asleep, curled up on her side and cradling—almost as though shielding—Schweizer Fräulein, her doll. Franz brushed his lips over her forehead and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He was relieved that Esther had not yet risen either. The evening before, he had downplayed the significance of the SS interrogation. But after coming face to face with Eichmann, Franz’s time frame for getting Hannah out of Austria had accelerated from weeks to hours.
Money would be pivotal. Esther’s hidden jewellery would help if they managed to escape, but now they needed cash. The time had come to access his emergency funds. Karl had persuaded him to hide the money only days before the government froze all Jewish bank accounts.
Franz dressed for the cold and then headed to the bathroom with a paring knife. He crouched behind the toilet and ran his fingers over the floorboards until he found the gap. He dug the blade between the boards and gently pried one loose, then reached inside the hidden compartment and pulled out the stack of banknotes.
“Thank you, Karl,” he whispered as he wedged the floorboard back into place.
The six thousand Reichsmarks—four thousand more than the legal limit for a Jew in Austria to possess—represented a lifeline. He slid the wad of bills inside his coat pocket and patted the front. After convincing himself that there were no bulges, he headed for the door.
Outside, cloud cover and a light morning drizzle had warmed the city. Shards of glass still glittered on the pavement and anti-Semitic graffiti covered the vandalized storefronts, but some of the smashed windows were already boarded up. The streets were quieter than they had been the day before. Franz spied only a few uniformed Nazis, and he saw no forced Jewish work gangs.
Despite the relative calm, he was more on edge than ever. He wore his hat low and kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk as he hurried along Liechtenstein Strasse toward the Rolf Travel Agency. The aged owner, Julius Rolf, had always been courteous and helpful in booking vacations for him. Franz prayed that the Viennese gentleman had not transformed into an ardent Nazi overnight, like Horst Schmidt and so many others had.
Franz arrived well before nine o’clock and was not surprised to see the Closed sign still hanging in the travel agency’s window. He regretted never having photographed the charming old brick building before. He was certain now that he would not get another opportunity.
Franz decided to wait in the café across the street. Inside the boisterous, smoky coffee shop, he spotted a table being vacated by a young couple. He wove his way over and dropped into a still-warm chair. Anxious to blend in, he picked up the copy of the official Nazi newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, which the couple had left behind.
A heavy-set waitress sidled up to the table. “Ja?”
Franz looked up and caught sight of the shiny swastika pin stuck in her lapel. Dropping his gaze back to the newspaper, he mumbled his order for an espresso and krapfen.
The coffee was not as good as Willi Altman’s, but its bitter bite was still vaguely comforting. Biding his time, Franz turned back to the newspaper. More numb than outraged, he read article after article espousing the glory of Kristallnacht. An editorial characterized the torching of synagogues and vandalizing of Jewish businesses as bold acts of German nationalism. And Hermannn Göring was quoted as saying that the government intended to levy a one-billion-Reichsmark fine against the Jews for “instigating events.”
Through the window, Franz spotted Julius Rolf entering the travel agency with a younger man. One of them flipped the sign in the window to Open. Franz dropped a few marks beside his unfinished krapfen and leapt to his feet. He hurried across the street and into the office. The walls were lined with posters of ocean liners and alpine châteaux. A middle-aged man with greased hair, spectacles and the nondescript face of a low-level bureaucrat rose from his desk and welcomed Franz with a stiff smile. Franz recognized him as Julius’s son, Stephan.
“Good morning, sir,” Stephan said. “May I be of service?”
“Thank you, but I am accustomed to dealing with Mr. Julius Rolf. Is he in today?”
The man looked over his shoulder and called out, “Father!”
After a moment, Julius Rolf hobbled out from the backroom. More hunched than Franz remembered, Julius moved with a shuffling unsteady gait. “Ah, Herr Doktor Adler! How very pleasant to see you again,” he said with a slight slur. “My son, Stephan, runs the business now.” He smiled, but only the right side of his face co-operated. “I am merely his assistant.”
“Of course, Mr. Rolf, but as you and I have a long history, I was hoping you still might be able to assist me with my travel,” Franz said, wondering if the old man knew he was Jewish.
“Yes, yes. One should never turn his back on history. Soon, history is all one has. Please.” Julius pointed a shaky hand to the desk at the far side of the office.
“My apologies, Herr Doktor,” Julius said as they sat down across the desk from one another. “I am still recovering from a stroke. Your colleagues at the hospital assure me that it can take quite some time to get one’s strength back.”
Franz nodded sympathetically, doubtful the man would ever get much stronger.
“Never mind all that,” Julius said. “Where would you and your darling daughter like to voyage to now?” “Shanghai.”
“Ah. A very popular destination all of a sudden.” A knowing look darted across Julius’s face. He glanced over to where his son sat and then lowered his voice. “When do you intend to depart?”
“As soon as possible, Mr. Rolf,” Franz stressed.
“I see.” Julius didn’t appear the least surprised by the answer.
“Aside from Hannah and me, I need to book passage for two other adults. My father, Jakob, and my sister-in-law, Esther.”
“I know from experience that liners heading to China are heavily booked these days, Dr. Adler.” Julius exhaled noisily. “However, I will telephone the booking offices in Trieste and see what is possible.” He laboured to his feet. “Please excuse me a moment.”
The old man shuffled toward the backroom. Franz glanced over and caught Stephan glaring at him. Breaking off eye contact, the younger Rolf jumped up and marched into the backroom after his father.
Franz tried to eavesdrop on the Rolfs’ conversation, but they were talking in low voices, and he caught only snippets. At one point, Stephan raised his voice loud enough for Franz to hear him say, “Bump the Schillings? You must be joking! It will be the absolute ruin of us if word ever gets out that we are aiding Jews. Especially at the expense of real clients!”
Moments later, Stephan stomped sullenly back to his desk.
Franz could hear Julius talking on the telephone, but he was speaking Italian, and Franz only understood a smattering. From the inflection, he could tell the old man was struggling to persuade the person on the other end of the line. Twice he heard Julius repeat the phrase “di vita o di morte,’” which Franz understood as “life or death.”
Ten minutes later, Julius reappeared and lowered himself slowly into his seat. His cheeks were flushed but his timbre was even. “I am sorry for the delay. My agent in Trieste tells me that space is at a premium on all ships heading to Shanghai.”
“No space at all, Mr. Rolf?” Franz gulped.
“Precious little. However, I was able to secure passage for all four of you on a magnificent Japanese liner, the Bingo Maru. It is just that the cost is … well …” Julius shook his head. “Three thousand Reichsmarks per person. Even your daughter is required to pay full passage.”
Though it was twice as much as Franz possessed, he felt a glimmer of hope. “The ship is departing soon?” he asked.
“Very,” Julius said, raising Franz’s hopes even higher.
“When?”
“The fifteenth of December, to be precise.”
“Not for a month?” Franz’s heart sank as he thought of Eichmann’s two-week ultimatum.
“That might seem like a long time to you, Dr. Adler,” Julius soothed. “However, typically, we have been booking people six to twelve months in advance.”
“Of course, Mr. Rolf. Thank you. Do you happen to know if there is a waiting list for cancellations on earlier sailings?”
Julius nodded, though skepticism was etched into his wrinkled face. “We can always try.”
Perhaps proof of a departure date will placate Eichmann? Though Franz doubted anything would. Having run out of other options, he decided he could not afford to pass up this one. “Mr. Rolf, I have only six thousand marks on me.”
Julius viewed Franz with another kindly, lopsided smile. “Providing that the tickets are paid in full at least two weeks prior to departure—” “Father!” Stephan protested.
Julius swivelled his head and shot Stephan a look that silenced him. He turned back to Franz. “As I was saying, Dr. Adler … as long as you pay the balance at least two weeks prior to departure, I can hold all four places on the ship with your down payment.” His face sagged with defeat. “However, if we were forced to rebook for a later date, I doubt I would have anywhere near as much luck as I had today.”
Franz reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the stack of bills and passed them to Julius. The old man did not bother to count the money. Instead, he left the pile on the table and turned to his son. “Stephan, will you be kind enough to draw up a receipt of sale for Dr. Adler?”
Franz shook Julius’s hand gratefully. “Herr Rolf, you have no idea how much I appreciate your decency.”
“And we appreciate your loyal business.” Julius held the grip for an extra moment as he glanced at his son again. “Not all Austrians have changed as much as you might be led to believe, Dr. Adler.”
His thoughts weighing heavily, Franz hurried home. He stepped inside the apartment to find Ernst Muhler and Esther seated on the sofa. The artist must have dropped off fresh supplies for Esther, because she now wore the traditional black dress of shiva, Judaism’s prescribed seven-day period of mourning.
As usual, Ernst was puffing away on a cigarette. Franz was surprised to also see one in Esther’s hand; he could not remember the last time he had seen her smoking. The bruises around Ernst’s eyes had begun to yellow but they were no less prominent, especially with the dried tears crusted to them. Franz saw that Esther had been crying too.
Ernst rose to his feet. He walked over and shook Franz’s hand. “No chance the Nazis up and decamped while Essie and I were busy chatting?” he joked in a thick voice. Franz patted his friend’s back. “How are you managing, Ernst?”
“It’s not exactly the golden age for queer vanguard artists in Hitler’s new Germany, but I have no new complaints.” He sighed. “Listen, Franz, I heard from my friend at the Dutch consulate. They are so overwhelmed with applicants …”
Franz had expected nothing more, but he still could not suppress his disappointment. “Thank you for trying.”
“He didn’t say no, either,” Ernst stressed. “It will just take more time.”
“Of course.” Franz turned to his sister-in-law. “How does the arm feel, Essie?”
“Fine. Good.” She waved away the inquiry. “Where have you been, Franz?”
“The Rolf Travel Agency.” Franz withdrew the receipt from his coat pocket. “I have secured four berths on a Japanese liner.”
“Got tzu danken!” Esther cried with relief as she hopped to her feet.
“The ship isn’t sailing for almost five weeks,” Franz said quietly.
“We’ve lasted six months.” Esther’s voice cracked, and Franz suspected she was thinking of Karl. “We can make it five more weeks.”
Ernst pulled the cigarette from his lips. “Sailing where?”
“Shanghai.”
“Shanghai!” Ernst whistled. “You really do intend to put some distance between you and the Nazis. You know, I hear Shanghai is marvellous. Full of life and culture. And it’s reputed to be a city of debauchery and excess.” He raised an eyebrow. “Come to think of it, it sounds like just the place for me.”
Esther touched his face. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“Perhaps if circumstances were different …” Ernst shook his head. “My heart won’t let me leave Vienna.”
Esther stroked his cheek. “Of course,” she said softly.
“Esther, you and I have to wait, but Hannah does not,” Franz said solemnly.
“It’s only five weeks,” Esther said.
Franz shook his head. “I will not expose Hannah to this nightmare for another month,” he said, without adding that he expected to be imprisoned in Dachau by the time the Bingo Maru cast off. “I am enrolling her in Kindertransport. That is final.”
Hannah’s bedroom door opened and she limped out, holding a book in her good hand. “Papa, what is Kindertransport?” she asked.
Franz swept her up in his arms. “It’s a program run by the English. You’re going to go to London, liebchen. One of the greatest cities in the world.”
Hannah’s eyes clouded with concern. “Without you, Papa?”
Franz kissed her cheek. “Only for a short while. I will come and find you soon.” He mustered a grin. “Think of it, Hannah. Once I arrive, you can be my tour guide. Show me Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and all the other wonderful sights! Do you even remember them from our last visit? You were only three.”
Hannah stared at him for a long moment. “Why won’t you come with me?”
“It’s complicated, liebchen. I have to stay here for a few more weeks to sort out our papers. I will be there before you know it.”
“I can wait,” she said, her tone verging on pleading.
“This is for the best,” Franz said. “You will be with lots of other children.”
“Jewish children,” Esther added.
“I don’t even know how to be Jewish,” Hannah said.
“Not to worry, darling,” Franz reassured. “The others will be travelling without their parents too. You will make lots of new friends. They will be just like you, you’ll see.”
Hannah raised her stiff left arm. “I am not like other children.”
A lump formed in Franz’s throat.
“I don’t mind, Papa,” Hannah continued. “Let me stay with you.”
Franz felt his resolve slipping. Hannah and he had not been separated for more than three days in her entire life. And the prospect suddenly seemed torturously final.
“Hannah,” Esther said in a loving but firm tone. “You must listen to your father.”
“Please, Papa,” Hannah whimpered.
Eichmann’s words—It is imperative we rid the fatherland of this dangerous parasite—flashed into his mind. Franz shook off the doubt. “It is decided, Hannah. You will go.”
Hannah buried her face in his shoulder and began to weep quietly. Franz cradled her in his arms and kissed her on the top of the head. No one spoke a word.
The telephone rang harshly. Esther hurried over to answer it. “Adler residence.” She listened a moment a
nd then called over her shoulder.
“Franz. It’s Herr Rolf.”
“Dr. Adler, I have news,” Julius Rolf said once Franz had picked up the phone.
Franz held his breath, anticipating the worst, but Julius went on excitedly. “I have made further enquiries with other booking agents. I was having no luck at all with the other shipping lines. However, one of the agents telephoned me back only moments ago. They have an opening at short notice. A couple who had booked a family cabin on the Italian liner Conte Biancamano …” He lowered his voice. “They … er … cancelled at the very last moment.” Franz picked up on Rolf’s inference, aware that the suicide rate among distraught Austrian Jews had skyrocketed in recent days. “It would be snug, but the cabin could house all four travellers in your family.”
“How soon does it depart, Mr. Rolf?” Franz demanded.
“It is terribly last minute. I would understand completely if you were unable to—”
“When does it leave, Mr. Rolf? How soon?”
“Sunday.”
CHAPTER 7
The walls of Karl and Esther’s home were plastered with framed photos of the family from happier times. The nostalgia almost overwhelmed Franz. Fighting back tears, he located Karl’s hiding place behind the bedroom radiator and found the envelope containing eight thousand Reichsmarks.
He took the money directly to the Rolf Travel Agency. While his son glared at Franz, Julius issued the new tickets. From there, Franz headed straight to Palais Rothschild.
Reaching for the handle, Franz could hear, through the thick wooden front doors, Horst Schmidt yelling. Steeling his nerves, he paused to feel for the boarding passes in his pocket.
Inside the cavernous atrium, Schmidt’s shouting was intensified. Franz dutifully took his spot at the end of the line. He counted nineteen people in front of him. The silent line inched forward as Schmidt took his time berating and degrading each person who reached his desk. He struck several. One woman fainted. Everyone approached Schmidt tentatively, their eyes to the floor and heads hung low. Franz sensed trouble when the elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman, four people ahead of him, stepped forward with head straight and shoulders high.