We waited for the train at Stettiner Bahnhof. ‘Why are so many people sitting in the station’s café?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never noticed this before. No one has any luggage.’
‘Train station cafés,’ he said, and paused and looked around, ‘have become, for the moment, the only safe public places left for Jews to visit friends. We can’t go to our own cafés because they’ve been closed, nor are we allowed to sit in an Aryan one. And even this meeting place won’t be allowed much longer, I can assure you.’
I sat closer to him, lit a cigarette, and waited without saying another word. The train arrived. It was only four cars long. “This little train,” I said, “makes me feel that we’re going where no one else wants to go. I like this.”
Leon smiled. “Or no one can afford to buy train tickets to a seaside town.”
We were alone in the compartment. There was a melancholy mood around us. Our guard, whom we had nicknamed the Shadow, was across the aisle in another compartment. He had a long thin face with vertical folds that made him look as if he had once been much heavier. Dressed in a cheap brown suit, he also wore a black overcoat and a tan fedora that was too big and came down over his ears. I smiled at him, but he glared back at me.
The train slowly left the station.
“Here,” Leon said, taking a flask of whiskey out of his pocket. “Have a sip, Rosie—it’ll help.” Just then the door slid open, startling us.
“Tickets and travel documents,” the ticket collector, wearing a tan armband with a stitched black swastika, demanded. We handed him our papers. He looked at Leon. He looked at me.
“Jews?” he said, and turned to leave without opening the documents.
“Wait!” I said. “You can’t take our papers.”
“He’ll bring them right back,” Leon whispered. “It’s protocol.”
Now, rather than being angry, I was scared.
“I think we’ll be fine,” he said. “They’re trying to frighten us. It’s their classic harassment. Our papers are in order—I made sure. Try to relax. It’s no use making a scene. Actually, it’s dangerous.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been routinely stopped to show my papers. But this is the first time I’ve been identified as a Jew. It feels odd.” And Leon took my hand tightly in his.
Within a few minutes the ticket collector returned, handed back our papers without comment, and walked out. It took the next hundred and sixty miles for me to get hold of myself. The incident reminded me of when I was a girl, but at least then I could fight back with words. Now I was gagged.
KEINE JUDEN ERLAUBT! No Jews allowed, was posted in the hotel’s window.
“Wait here,” Leon said. So the Shadow and I leaned against the same fence. In a few minutes he returned with a smile on his face. “Come on, you two, it’s all right. The proprietors remember my family, and they’ve offered our friend here one of their nicest rooms.”
“But we can’t go into a place that’s illegal,” I said. “Or can we?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Because we have a guard, it means that the Reich has authorized our visit. They’re nice people and embarrassed to put me in this position. By the way,” he said, lowering his voice, “I told them we’re married.”
Our room was on the second floor and the guard had been placed at the other end of the hall. We were close to the sea. I found the sound of the waves crashing against the seawall thunderous and upsetting. “You’ll get used to it,” Leon said. “Anyway, it’ll give us some privacy from the Shadow.” We quickly washed up and went to dinner.
The dining room was three floors above ours. It was run-down and smelled seaside-musty, but it was clean. The view of the water was spectacular—and although it was a stormy sea, it was considerably quieter than in our room. The light reflected off the whitecaps of the towering, gusting waves. Every few minutes it felt as if the raging water would surge over the seawall and flood the downstairs.
The only other people in the room were the proprietor, who was pleasantly friendly, his wife, who was cheerfully cooking and singing, and our guard, who sat on the opposite side of the room, glumly tucked into a corner.
“Quite a night, isn’t it,” said the proprietor.
“Have you ever been flooded?” I asked.
“Rarely, Madame, but this we risk for the love of our hotel.”
And he showed us a bottle of red wine.
“Madame,” he whispered with a bow, “this is a wedding gift for you and your husband—and for the memory of better times.”
“It’s French wine!” I whispered back. “What a wonderful treat. Thank you.”
“It will help to warm you,” the proprietor said. “There’s no coal, so no heat. We put extra eiderdowns on your bed. I hope you enjoy your dinner,” he said, and he served our wine as if we were at the Ritz.
Next, he poured a large glass of whiskey for our Shadow—which was quickly accepted, and just as quickly downed.
There were no choices for our meal. We were served a fish stew with turnips and potatoes, along with freshly baked bread. The stew was plain and I kept adding salt and pepper; the bread was filling, and we finished the delicious bottle of wine.
After dinner, we excused ourselves. The Shadow was drunk. “Don’t worry,” the proprietor said, “I’ll take care of him.”
When we opened the door to our room, we had to laugh. Piled high, like a bed in a fairy tale, were numerous colorful eiderdowns. We hurriedly undressed and slithered in.
“Ah,” Leon said, “a little elf has been here and brought us heated bricks and two hot-water bottles.”
It was a different world under the weight of the blankets. We moved toward each other, as people will do when they’re feeling safe—when they’re no longer weighted down with troubles. Slowly. Caressing in slow motion—not pulling apart, for fear of a cold draft or reality striking the skin—we made love to the sound of the sea.
The next morning we took a walk along the edge of the water. Our poor Shadow. He was wearing dress shoes that looked worn out.
“I can’t really enjoy this,” I said. “That poor man must be freezing. Let’s go back.” And we reluctantly turned around.
In the afternoon, we boarded the train in Sonnenshein to return to Berlin. The ticket taker insisted that our guard share the compartment with us. I have to admit that I had become immune to his presence—and although we never spoke, there was a certain comfort in his being with us. Somewhere in my head I had presumed that he was our pass to safety. The ticket collector entered our compartment. This time I wasn’t upset. I was so in love, so awed by the turn that my life had taken.
“Pay attention, Rosie,” Leon said sternly.
“Off the train! Off!” the ticket collector yelled at us. “You’re Jews. You’re contaminating my train!”
At first, I was stunned.
“What in the hell do you mean?” I demanded, after finding my voice. “We’re legal. We have the correct papers. I want to speak to your superior. Now!”
Events moved quickly. Four men dressed in black, leather-belted coats, high black boots, and black fedoras (without insignias) appeared out of nowhere and gripped us under our arms. We were literally lifted off the train. The more I fought, the more passive Leon became.
I felt both embarrassment and rage. When I looked up for help from Leon, I could see from the look on his face that he was somewhere else and I was no longer in his thoughts.
Passengers were yelling at the officials to get moving. This made me more furious—almost hysterical.
Then I glimpsed, out of the corner of my eye, the Shadow speaking to an official.
Within minutes we were released and allowed to reboard the train. Our guard sat back down across from us. “Thank you,” I said. He gave a slight nod and looked out the window.
I felt so alone, even though I was sitting beside Leon
. The scenery sped by, and I didn’t comment on it. I tried not to cry. Leon was impassive.
We arrived at Berlin in silence. The weekend had been spoiled. How could I have been so stupid?
The guard, without a word, left the train and blended into the crowd.
We followed.
Leon almost commanded, “Let’s sit here on the bench.” I watched him as he sat. He reminded me of a frightened snail.
‘Let’s go to a café,’ I said. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘You just don’t understand, do you, Rosie? We can’t go to any café. Dammit, pay attention to me! Don’t you understand that if I’d been arrested, my family would be jeopardized? That everything I do reflects back upon my parents? You move through the world with impunity. I can’t afford the luxury. You keep forgetting that I’m not a newspaper story. Look at me, Rosie,’ he said, grabbing my arm. ‘I’m real flesh and bones, easily bruised. And like this,’ he said, and he snapped his fingers, ‘I’m gone.’
“But—” I tried to protect myself from his anger.
“No ‘buts,’” he said. “I’ve lived in a state of anxiety most of my life. My parents have always had their heads in the clouds. I saw this coming long ago, but I never expected it to be so bad. I’m rooted here. That’s why the enemy succeeds—they understand this. You don’t really understand the situation. You can simply get on a train and cross the border whenever you want. I can’t move. I’m trapped. Every non-Aryan is trapped. You can scream and yell and carry on. I can’t.”
By now Leon’s teeth were clenched and he was fiercely whispering. “I must be meek and mindful—and obedient. And this makes me roil with rage—and believe it or not, you bring it out in me. So, Rosie, what are we going to do about this?”
What I did was to cover myself in a skin that was hard on one side and soft on the other. The outside showed a tough and worldly reporter. The other side, I saved especially for Leon. It was challenging to keep my opinions and anger to myself, but I tried—and he understood that I was trying.
Today, as I’m sitting in my glorious garden, with the scent of lavender gliding by, I can say that it was Leon who taught me about love. I’ve never forgotten what I learned. And I believe that’s why I’ve never been able to banish him from my heart. Going through these notes brings out old feelings of longing for him. Am I still in love with Leon, or with the Leon that I created and who now lives in my imagination? There’s no language for what I’m feeling at the moment. I’m stymied. I should pull some weeds.
After we returned to Berlin, things began to change for me. My political reporting was being lauded. Agence France-Presse and other newspapers were running my columns on a news service contract, and I was placing human-interest stories with the BBC. I finally felt that I had the credibility to write more-detailed and serious feature stories, even as they were becoming more risky to publish.
But I didn’t show the stories to Leon. I didn’t want to compromise him more than my mere presence already did.
My stories went deeper. They were despondent—profoundly sad. Rarely was there humor. Everyone felt displaced, either physically or emotionally.
‘The world as we have known it is gone,’ Pete warned me over a drink at the press club. ‘You’ve got to be careful with these stories. No names. No identifiable buildings. Everyone must be anonymous. Barging into a café, a Jewish-owned store, a synagogue, is plain stupid. You’ve got to be more clever; otherwise, not only will you be punished, but those good people who are giving you interviews will too. Speak more quietly and carefully, R.B. Everyone’s being watched.’
I learned to whisper.
But I felt an obligation to write meticulously the stories of the oppressed—feeling as if I were a truth-teller, a crusader for those deprived of their freedom. Soon, there were quiet warnings from the German government to the Paris Courier, Agence France-Presse, and the American Embassy about my reports. Ramsey and the higher-ups in the New York office were getting nervous.
“You’re in the hot seat,” Ramsey cabled me. “Don’t know how much more of this you can get away with.”
The hell with Ramsey. I was no longer concerned with what he thought about me.
I noticed a sinister difference in Berlin. Most Germans now assumed that it was their duty to inform the authorities of any suspicious behavior—within their families, by their neighbors. They listened for people on the street to say the wrong words. Anybody questioning the regime was taking a chance: embassy people, even foreign correspondents. And the Abwehr, undercover agents, infiltrated every part of the city. Everyone was spying on everyone else. It had become fashionable to disdain foreigners. Unless you were blond and blue-eyed, it was best to keep a low profile. This was impossible for me to do. My colleague Pete, echoing Leon, was forever warning me to be careful. Denunciation had become respectable.
It’s too quiet outside. I’ve moved to my office and turned on the radio to the classical music station. I’m sitting at my desk in one of those newfangled office chairs that are supposed to be good for your back. The only problem is that I’ve lost so many inches in height that I’ve had to add a thick pillow under me so I can reach the desk and write comfortably. But my feet won’t reach the floor—hence, a sawed-off piece of tree trunk is my footstool.
I need to stop sorting these papers for a while. I want a break from my past. I’ll work on my column. I’ll write something funny. I wish the pages that I write on could laugh with me—it would make me feel that I wasn’t alone. I still write my rough drafts by hand. My handwriting has become squiggly. It’s funny to look at, and even funnier to try to decipher. But now there’s no one to laugh at my remarks. When I was younger, and still worked in the newsroom in the city, I would often look up and say, “Hey, listen to this.” Inevitably, someone would reply, “Yeah, R.B., tell us!” And I would. No more. No one wants an old person sitting beside him or her in an active office that is most likely staffed by young men and women. We remind them of having to watch their manners, their use of bad language. I really don’t care about bad manners, or bad language, but I can sense the young people’s discomfort with me. The reason they don’t want to be around old people is that we remind them of death.
But all those years ago, I couldn’t leave the human-interest stories alone. I continued to look at the perilous situation of the disenfranchised. This group grew daily—Romani, Jews, homosexuals, the disabled, Catholics, clergymen, nonconformists, communists. Even mixed-race children were considered enemies of the state. These children were the offspring of the black African colonial soldiers of the French army from the Great War who had married German women. There were also a number of black American musicians who, fed up with Jim Crow, had immigrated to Germany in the twenties. Many had married German citizens. Hitler called their children “Rhineland bastards.”
For the past few years, I had been friends with a man named Richard Moses, a black American jazz saxophonist. Richard had been born and raised in Harlem, but had moved in 1926 to Berlin where avant-garde music was popular. “I liked the mixture of cultures,” he told me. “Mulatto chorus girls from Cuba; Senegalese waiters, with their singsong French and mystifying Wolof; White Russians standing outside bars encouraging people with their funny German accents to come in and enjoy the earthly delights. It was a cool time.”
Berlin in the twenties offered him a freedom that he had never experienced in America. People took his music seriously. He ignored the Nazi threat. Then in the 1930 elections, Nazis were chosen by the people to represent them.
By then Richard had married a German woman, Daria Möhring, and lived in Charlottenburg at Savignyplatz. They had two children: Coleman Hawkins Moses, named after the great saxophone player, and Annelie Edith Moses, looking like a little bird when she was born–like Edith Piaf. There was always music in their house: practicing the sax, playing the piano, singing.
‘At first,’ Richard once to
ld me, ‘there were no racial epithets shouted toward the stage. Or perhaps it was because it took me such a long time to learn German that I didn’t understand what was being said from the audience. Hey Rosie,’ he said, ‘being naïve gave me my freedom–for a while. Then, as time went on, my German became more proficient and Hitler’s ideas became more pervasive. The shouts from the audience became menacing, and I began to dread going to work.’
When Leon and I returned from our night by the sea, there was a message from Richard asking me to visit. “It’s important,” he wrote. Saturday afternoon, I took the noisy, elevated S-Bahn to Richard’s neighborhood. I walked for a few minutes before arriving at an enormous block of apartments that had been built in the nineteenth century for the middle class. On either side of the massive wooden carriage doors were two large chestnut trees, now barren of leaves, but still impressive. Inside was the courtyard, and I could swear that I still smelled horses. Going to my left, I entered the ground floor and saw the warning VORSICHT! FRISCH GEBOHNERT. ATTENTION! FRESHLY POLISHED. A lesson in fascist duplicity, I thought. This warning was in every apartment house in Berlin, even if the floors were filthy. I rode the creaking iron cage up to the fifth floor.
Richard opened the door. Since I had last visited the apartment, it had been reduced from four rooms to one. According to an official decree, the occupants had to make rooms available to Jews, who had been forced from their homes to make more comfortable housing for the Nazis’ higher echelon. The Moseses’ room was immaculate, but showed few signs of warmth. It had been stripped bare of its most comforting items; the blue-and-white ceramic coal stove was still there, but it was obviously not working. There was a gas two-burner stove, two chrome lamps casting a faint, ugly blue light around the room, and four unmatched wooden chairs. The piano was gone.
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