The Children's Train: Escape on the Kindertransport
Page 5
“I am a librarian! Literature should not be a part of politics!”
The policeman gripped her arm more roughly and yanked her away. “Stop for your own safety, or I’ll have to—”
“You’ll have to answer to God for the things you destroy!” the librarian shouted, spit flying from her mouth.
Radley pulled the librarian away. “Arrest her!” he shouted. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at her head, until she was dragged away by the policeman, as she still clutched a smoking book.
Radley turned to the children. “Go home, or you will be next.”
He turned back, as if a distasteful chore was completed.
Eva lurched forward, and Hans and Stephen grabbed her, preventing her from running to the woman. Peter shook his head and held on to Becca, as she jumped up and down.
“I hate the Hitler men,” Becca said, quietly. “They’re not nice.”
Without a word or as much as a hiss, Radley spun around to Becca and slapped her face, knocking her to the ground. He stomped off.
Becca looked up at Peter with tears in her eyes and a red handprint across her face from the impact of Radley’s hand. “Why did he do that?” she whispered, gasping.
Radley turned, glaring back at her. “I wanted you to remember me,” he answered, with a tip of his head. “Little Jews should keep their mouths shut.” He smiled, looking quite pleased with himself.
CHAPTER 6
A NAZI IS A NAZI
(November 1938)
Marla Kincaid, twenty, with shoulder-length brown hair twisted up on the sides, and blue eyes that could not hide her fiery passion for life, walked with Sebastian Rounde, a brawny Englishman wearing an overcoat with a fur collar and a hat.
“I’m sorry about your brother, Marla,” Sebastian said, as he patted his friend’s shoulder. “Such a shame.”
“I know. I couldn’t save him,” Marla said.
“No one could.”
“It’s hard, because he’s all I think about.”
The Berlin skies were cloudy and gray. The cold winds of fall had finally arrived.
A young Jewish teacher was now teaching all the Jewish children in the neighborhood in the back room of the Vogner Fastener Factory. Hans’s grandfather, Oma Greta’s husband, had started the factory after he and Oma arrived from Poland when they were young.
“What is today’s date?” the teacher asked the children, who sat at a makeshift table in the corner. Machines and scraps of metal surrounded them.
“November 9, 1938,” Hans said. “Just another dark day in Hitler’s hateful world.”
“No political notation is needed. Write today’s date and your name at the top of your paper and hand it in, please,” the teacher said.
“I’ve never had a teacher say please to me,” Peter whispered to Hans.
“Don’t get used to it. Next week Hitler will ban us from thinking,” Hans whispered back. “Things are bound to get worse.”
“Why do you say that?” Eva asked.
“Because my father took all his money out of the bank and hid it in our house,” Hans said.
That night, Hans and his family sat in the kitchen at their house. They gathered around their big wooden Volksempfanger tabletop radio. Oma Greta, Hans’s grandmother, an elderly woman with bad knees and a bent back, was knitting, her angry hands flying with every stitch. Anna Vogner paced behind her.
Eddie shot marbles in the middle of the room on the braided rug. Vincent, Hans’ father, a scholarly man with glasses, read the paper. One headline read: “JEW MURDERS GERMAN EMBASSY OFFICIAL IN PARIS.”
Oma Greta turned up the radio volume. The voice of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, blasted forth, his hatred surging out of the radio’s speaker.
“The Fuhrer has decided that demonstrations should not be prepared or organized by the Party, but—” Goebbels shouted.
Eddie stopped playing marbles. “That man has a bad temper!” “Hush, Eddie,” Anna said, gently.
“—insofar as they erupt spontaneously, they are not to be stopped,” Goebbels’s voice continued.
In Peter’s apartment, his mother and father sat in front of the radio. Peter stood at his father’s shoulder.
“What does that mean?” Peter asked.
“We shall see,” Henry said, rubbing his injured leg.
Sylvia grabbed Henry’s hand. “Can no one see what they’re doing?” “What are they doing?” Peter asked.
“They’re ruining Germany,” Henry said sadly. He pulled Peter to him and hugged him. “How about a song, Peter? I could use a little music to lift my spirits.”
At Hans’s house, Oma Greta turned the radio off. “I’ve heard enough of that lunatic. Hitler and his henchmen are evil in the flesh!”
“Shhh, Oma Greta, they’ll arrest you for such words,” Anna said.
“So, what does it matter? You can’t turn around without getting arrested these days. They’ve already sent all the Polish Jews back to Poland, but somehow they missed me. But it won’t be long before they find me, too.”
“We will have to wait him out.” Vincent sighed. “There are good people in this world who will stop him.”
“Why can’t we leave?” Hans asked. “Hitler wants us to leave, doesn’t he?”
Vincent put down the paper and looked at Hans. “Yes, Hitler wants us to leave, but it’s not that easy. Arnold Beckman has relatives in the United States, and even he can’t get out.”
“Why?” Hans asked.
“Papers, the documents. The other country has to want you, and they don’t. Many are afraid we will take the jobs they need. But you need to get a quota number, someone to sponsor you, and permission and the documents to leave all at the same time before one of them runs out. It’s almost impossible,” Vincent explained.
Eddie moved the marbles back and forth between his hands, making a loud clacking sound. “Why does everyone do what Hitler says?”
Vincent put the paper down and got up. He patted Eddie. “They’re afraid. We’re all afraid,” he said. “Times are changing.” He paced nervously and then turned quickly to Anna. “I need to check on the factory.”
“Please be careful,” Anna said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hurry back. I want some of Oma’s delicious cobbler.” Vincent smiled, but it was forced, and everyone could feel the air was thick with untethered fear.
“Hitler and his friends are bad, bad men,” Eddie said. All his colorful marbles fell through his hands to the floor.
CHAPTER 7
THE NIGHT OF BROKEN GLASS
(November 1938)
Peter and his family had gone to sleep in their cozy apartment over the butcher shop. Becca slept in her bed, holding onto her doll, Gina. The doll’s untied but well-brushed hair spread out like a fan on the pillow. Peter, in the bed on the other side of the small room, watched Becca sleep while he rested his hand on his violin.
His parents slept in their room. Baby Lilly was in her crib beside them, wrapped in her pink blanket with bunnies on it.
Suddenly, glass shattered in the butcher shop below. Footsteps stomped. More glass crashed.
Peter jumped from his bed and looked out the window to the street below. Becca sat up suddenly. “What’s happening?”
Peter grabbed her and pulled her out into the hall. “Someone’s breaking into the shop.”
There was a loud pounding as something rammed the door to the butcher shop.
Henry limped out of the other bedroom, cane in hand. Sylvia followed, clutching Baby Lilly. She handed the baby to Peter. “Take your sisters and hide in the big wardrobe. Don’t say a word, Peter. I’m counting on you.”
“Please don’t,” Peter said. He’d never liked being the older brother, particularly to Becca, who was so headstrong.
Becca stared at her mother, eyes huge and round. “But Mama, I’m scared. I want to stay with you.”
“No, you must go with Peter,” Sylvia said. “Hurry!”
“I don’t want to go with Peter,” Becca whined.
“Not now, Becca!” Sylvia pleaded.
Peter grabbed Becca’s arm and pushed her into the big wardrobe in the living room. Sometimes, she was just too much. He climbed in after her.
Inside the wardrobe, Peter patted Baby Lilly and rocked her slightly. Becca shook with fear. Peter reluctantly put his arm around Becca in the cramped wardrobe, but his hand shook as well.
Suddenly, Peter remembered his violin. He opened the wardrobe.
“Peter!” Sylvia scolded, when she saw him emerge from his hiding place.
“My violin!” Peter ran to his room, still carrying Baby Lilly, as the pounding continued below. With a splintering crash, the wood broke, and the shop door crashed in. Footsteps thundered through the rooms underneath them.
Henry watched Peter tear across the room and shook his head. “Hurry, son!”
As Peter grabbed his violin and yo-yo off his chest of drawers, something hit the apartment door with a loud thud.
Peter stepped back into the wardrobe and carefully shut the door, until it clicked. Becca looked at the yo-yo. “Why’d you bring that?”
“It’s a weapon,” Peter whispered. “I’ll twist it around Hitler’s neck. Now, be quiet.”
“Hitler’s not coming. He’ll send his tin soldiers,” Becca said.
A huge thud, and the apartment door crashed open.
Becca grabbed Peter, digging her little sharp nails into his arm. Peter trembled and grimaced in pain. What did his mother expect him to do? Protect two little girls? He was barely able to not wet his pants in fear. He put his eye to the keyhole in the wardrobe door.
Two Nazi policemen charged into the apartment. Henry with his cane, and Sylvia with her arm around her husband, stood frozen with silent fear as Hitler’s men invaded their home.
Inside the wardrobe, Baby Lilly’s face scrunched up. Startled by the sound, she was ready to cry. Peter put his finger in her mouth. She sucked, suddenly soothed and oblivious to the reign of terror that had entered their living room.
One of the Nazis searched the apartment, passing so close to the wardrobe that Peter could smell his sickening cologne. It was Karl Radley, the vindictive officer from his old school, who’d taken the opportunity of the night’s hysteria to exact his revenge.
Then the other Nazi turned. It was Frank Soleman, Bruno’s master and the loin roast lover. Peter relaxed and nodded at Becca. Peter was relieved. Maybe everything will be okay if Herr Frank is here, he thought.
Frank faced Peter’s father. “Are you Henry Weinberg?”
Henry looked at him with furrowed eyebrows and a frown. He looked questioningly at Sylvia, and then at Radley and Frank. “Frank, you know who I am.”
Radley glared at Frank. Frank swallowed hard, but he stared straight at Henry. “I said, are you Henry Weinberg, the butcher?” He took a breath. “The Jew.”
Peter’s forehead wrinkled as he squinted to look out the keyhole. He could make no sense of Herr Frank’s question.
Henry sighed. “Yes, of course, Frank. I am Henry Weinberg, the butcher. Perhaps, it is I who doesn’t know you.”
Radley quickly stepped in front of Frank and backhanded Henry hard across the face. The blow knocked Henry off balance, and he crashed to the floor, dropping his cane.
Radley kicked him. “Get up, you Jew swine. Your meat is as rotten and as foul as you are. It’s time to even up the score.” He turned to Frank. “Arrest him,” he ordered.
Frank didn’t move.
“Now!” Radley ordered.
Henry scrambled to get his cane and wobbled to a standing position. Frank grabbed his arm to help him up.
Radley shook his head at Frank. “Let go of him. Don’t help the crippled Jew.”
“He’s a veteran from the Great War,” Frank said weakly. “I served with him.”
“This is a new war, a war to take back Germany.” Radley glared at Frank. “And he is the enemy.”
“What has he done?” Sylvia asked, her eyes filled with fear.
“He is a Jew,” Radley said, as if that explained it all.
Sylvia pulled at Frank’s arms, pleading. “Frank, you know us. You live down the block. You come in every Saturday. You like a beef loin roast with the fat trimmed.”
“Let go of him. He is a policeman. Let go, I say, or you’ll be arrested, too,” Radley threatened.
Sylvia slowly let go of Frank, staring at him. “Frank?” Her voice sounded as if she was trying to identify someone in the dark.
Frank looked at Radley, unable to meet Sylvia’s eyes.
Radley waved his arms at Henry and Sylvia. “Evacuate this building. It belongs to the German people now!”
“Our butcher shop?” Sylvia asked.
“And your apartment. It is ours now,” Radley said. “Be gone by morning.”
Sylvia dropped her arms to her sides.
Radley and Frank dragged Henry toward the exit, his wobbly legs and cane trying to keep up. Henry looked back at Sylvia as they stepped out the door. He mouthed, “I love you.”
Then they were gone.
Sylvia waited till the Nazis’ footsteps could no longer be heard. Then, with trembling hands, she opened the wardrobe. The children unfolded themselves from their compact hiding spot and stepped out.
“Mama, what happened?” Becca asked.
“They took Papa away,” Sylvia said, as she took Baby Lilly from Peter.
Peter shook his tingling arms, released from the tension of holding his sister.
“Why?” Becca asked.
Sylvia hugged Becca against her side. “I don’t know. Nothing makes sense anymore.”
“What are we going to do without Papa?” Tears began streaming down Becca’s face.
Sylvia looked sadly at the smashed apartment door. �
��I don’t know. They took the butcher shop and our apartment, too.”
“How can they do that?” Peter snapped. “It’s ours.”
“A Nazi is a Nazi,” Sylvia said. She glanced at the window, and then did a double take. The sky outside was glowing red.
Sylvia ran over and looked out at the sky. “The synagogue’s on fire!” she cried.
They stared out the window and down the street. Nazi storm troopers were making a bonfire out of Torahs, holy scrolls, and prayer books next to the blazing old majestic synagogue. They could see Rabbi Mosel trying to stop them, pulling at them, but the officers struck him and pushed him to the ground.
“There’s no hope now. The world has gone mad,” Sylvia said, her voice trembling, “and I am nearly there.”
The children wrapped their arms around their mother. The burning synagogue reflected in Peter’s eyes, and he feared the music inside him had died.
CHAPTER 8
THEY’RE HUNTING JEWS TONIGHT
(November 1938)
That night as Vincent neared the Vogner Fastener Factory, he saw the building ablaze before he even got there. Vincent froze in his tracks, staring at the factory his father had built, watching his livelihood burning down. The flames taunted the dark sky, and smoke billowed from the broken windows.
A group of Nazi storm troopers watched the fire from across the street, a safe distance from the deliberate destruction. They laughed and cheered, as if they were at a bonfire.
“I could cook a bratwurst or two on that fire,” a storm trooper said. Then he turned and saw Vincent standing there, stricken with horror.
He pointed accusingly at Vincent, as if he was to blame, and then the others rushed toward him. Vincent turned to run, but the storm trooper quickly overpowered and restrained him, dragging him off. Nazi terrorism had taken his business and his freedom, all in the same night, the night of broken glass.