by Evans, Mike
“This is your room,” Maria gestured with a broad sweep of her arm. “You can put your things in the drawers and wardrobe. Use the basin if you like. The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”
While Maria showed me the room, I saw Alona in the bedroom across the hall. Alberto came with the trunk and set it in the corner. It looked worn and dirty next to the stark white walls.
When Alberto and Maria were gone, I raised the lid on the trunk and caught the smell of home as it wafted up to my nose. I removed the top tray and set it aside on the floor. Beneath it, in the bottom of the trunk, were all my clothes. A dress lay on top, neatly folded and packed in place. I picked it up and held it to my face, breathing deeply the scent of home. All at once, I felt like crying.
“You had a pleasant trip?” a voice behind me interrupted the moment.
I turned to find Alona standing in the doorway. “Yes. It was as pleasant as it could be.”
“Good.” She entered the room and took a seat on the bed. “I have been here only a few days myself.”
“Where did you come from?”
“The East.” Her eyes darted away as she spoke, and I had the feeling she didn’t want to tell me exactly where she’d come from. “But I did not travel by train,” she continued. “At least not for most of the journey.”
“How did you get here?”
“I left my home in the back of a truck, then I rode down the river on a boat. Later, they placed me in an automobile. I did not take the train until I reached the Spanish border.” She rose from her place on the bed and leaned over the trunk. “You have some very pretty things.”
“Thank you,” I smiled. “Mama made most of them.” “She is a talented lady.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Haya is your aunt?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Mama’s sister.” “Haya is older?”
“Yes.”
“They are wonderful,” she sighed, “Haya and all her family.”
We continued to talk while I unloaded clothes from the trunk and placed them in the dresser drawers. Alona was easy to talk to and we rambled from topic to topic. Before I knew it, the trunk was empty and Maria was calling us to supper.
Over dinner I learned that Alona was from Poland and on her way to Palestine. “Hopefully,” she added a glance in Haya’s direction. “You will get there,” Haya reassured her.
“Papa went to Poland once,” I offered. “A friend suggested glassware would make a nice addition to the merchandise in his shop. Papa traveled to Warsaw to meet with a manufacturer. It was a wonderful trip and he liked the things he saw, but Uncle Alois told him not to do business with the company. Papa wanted to do it anyway but Mama persuaded him to follow Uncle Alois’ advice. It was a good thing, too. A few months later, the man who owned the company was arrested and the business was closed.”
At the far end of the table, Haya cleared her throat and changed the subject, asking about David and Mama. Talking about them made them feel closer and while I was speaking I felt as though they were right there in the room. But as the conversation moved on to other things I realized again how far away they were and I missed them even more than before.
Alona disappeared after dinner and, while Maria cleared away the dishes, Haya led me to the front parlor. She took a seat in an upholstered chair near the fireplace. I took a seat on the sofa to her right.
“You are safe here in Cordova,” she began, “but you must be careful. Openly practicing our religion is forbidden, but no one will harass you on the street so long as you avoid making your Jewishness an issue.”
“That is a problem?” “What?”
“That I am a Jew. It is a problem?”
“Yes.” She had a troubled look and waited a moment before continuing. “You must keep your hair trimmed.” She pointed to my curls. “Shorter than you have it now.”
My fingers twirled around the curls that dangled just behind my ear. “I like my hair the way it is.”
“It looks nice, but the curls have to go.” She spoke in a matter-offact tone and continued without waiting for me to respond. “Dress with color. And above all, smile.”
“I will do my best.”
“I know you miss your family and it will take some time for you to get settled here, but it is in your best interest to adjust as quickly as possible.”
Aunt Haya sat quietly for a moment and I was unsure if I should speak. Finally I asked, “How long have you known Alona?”
“Not too long.”
“Why is she here with you?”
“As you heard, she is from Poland. Jews are in a very bad way there and I am simply trying to help her.”
“That’s hard to understand.”
“What?” She turned in the chair to face me with an indignant look. “That I should help her?”
“No. That someone would be in a bad way because they are Jewish.” “Did your parents talk to you about why you were sent here?”
“Only that things were no longer good for me in Linz.”
“Things are no longer good for anyone in all of Austria who is Jewish.”
“What do you mean?”
“The trouble you had with your neighbor—” “Karl Eichmann?”
“Yes. That was but a hint of the things to come. He and the National Socialist Workers Party want to remove us all from Europe.”
“Why would anyone want to treat us that way?”
“They hate us. And they’ve been deceived. They believe lies told by people who only want to manipulate the public into supporting the political ambitions of tyrants. This will get much worse before it gets better.”
“Well, whatever happened in Poland, Alona doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
“You may talk to her but do not discuss her with others.” “Is she in trouble?”
“She’s not a fugitive. But we don’t want any trouble, either. So, whatever you know about her, keep it to yourself when you go beyond the walls of this house.”
“I will.”
Conversation lagged again, then Aunt Haya picked up where she’d left off with details of my stay. “We will go to the Interior Ministry tomorrow. We must get you the proper identity papers.”
“I have papers in my purse.”
“Those are Austrian papers. They won’t do you much good here. It’s better to fit in as much as possible.” Abruptly, she placed her hands on the armrest of the chair, pushed herself forward, and stood. “Maria should be done with the dishes by now. We need to get your hair trimmed.” She motioned for me to follow and continued talking while she walked. “After we get the papers, we’ll go to the school and register you for class.”
“School?” I slid from the chair and followed after her. “So soon?” “Yes.” She glanced back at me. “Is that a problem?”
“I hadn’t thought about going to school. I mean not so soon. Will they take me in the middle of the term?”
“I have made arrangements.” “I hope I can keep up.”
“You have no choice but to try. The sisters will admit you now. In the fall, they may not be able to take you in.”
“Sisters?”
“You’ll be attending a Catholic school.” “Is that all right?”
“Yes. It is perfectly fine. And it will help you fit in here. Most of the country is Catholic.”
When we reached the kitchen, Maria was waiting with a stool and towel. I took a seat and she draped the towel over my shoulders. She took a pair of scissors from a drawer beneath the counter and began cutting my hair. I watched as clumps of hair fell to the floor. Haya watched for a moment, then disappeared. I heard her coughing from down the hall.
Half an hour later, Maria was finished with my hair. She took a mirror from the drawer where the scissors had been and handed it to me. I held it up to see how I looked. The curls were gone and my hair no longer touched my shoulders. Mama would not like it but I thought it was cute. I smiled at Maria. “Good job.”
“You like it?”
“It looks great.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Go show Mrs. Murillo.”
I came from the kitchen and walked up the main hall to the front parlor. Aunt Haya was sitting in the chair near the fireplace. She looked up as I entered the room. A broad smile spread across her face. “Come here,” she said, gesturing with her hand. “Let me have a look.” I stood in front of her and slowly turned around. “That will do just fine,” she said admiringly. “With it short like that, you don’t look Jewish at all. You look…European, which is a good thing these days.”
When she’d looked me over, she stood and started toward the stairs. I followed after her and we climbed up to the second floor. When we reached the upstairs hallway, she turned to me. “We go to the Interior Ministry early tomorrow. Maria will wake you.” She placed her hands on my shoulders, drew me near, and kissed me on the cheek. “I am glad you are here. This will work out well for us both.” Then she patted me on the back and started down the hall. “I must rest now. Tomorrow will be here soon.”
I stood there a moment and watched as she tottered into her bedroom. When she closed the door, I turned and entered my own room. The door to Alona’s room was closed and the house was suddenly dark and quiet. With nothing else to do, I changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed. It felt good to stretch out. I found it hard to believe that just a few hours earlier I had been on the train with Julia and Ernst.
As planned, Maria awakened me early the next morning. I washed my face at the basin in the room and went downstairs for breakfast. Afterward, Alberto drove us downtown to a building located not far from the train station. We climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered the office of the Interior Ministry. Inside the office, a counter ran across one end of the room. Aunt Haya stopped there. A few minutes later, a clerk appeared. “May I help you?” she smiled.
“I should like to see Juan Diego Berlanga,” Aunt Haya instructed. “And is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” The clerk led us around the far end of the counter and escorted us through a doorway to an office. She rapped on the door and pushed it open to reveal a slender man with olive complexion and dark hair, seated at a desk. A table sat along the wall to the left and another to the right. Both were covered with stacks of files. The man at the desk looked up as we entered, then stood and gestured toward chairs that sat near the desk. “Mrs. Murillo,” his eyes flitted from her to me and back to the desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
While we took our seats, the clerk stepped outside and closed the door behind her, leaving us in the room alone with the man behind the desk, who I assumed was Berlanga. Aunt Haya didn’t introduce him.
“This is your niece?” He avoided looking at me and instead focused on a file that lay open on the desk. “The one you told me about?”
“Yes,” Aunt Haya nodded. “You are still able to help us?”
“Yes. Of course. It is my pleasure to assist you.” He opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a form. “This is the application we discussed. I have taken the liberty of filling in most of the information.” He glanced at it, then handed it across the desk. “You can look it over and make certain it is correct.”
Aunt Haya took the form from him and scanned the information. I
leaned to one side and read it while looking over her shoulder.
Berlanga continued to talk. “I used your address, and because you mentioned she would attend a Catholic School, I noted on the form that she is Catholic.”
I was appalled but kept quiet. Haya smiled. “Good,” she nodded. “Very good. I see you included Carlos’ name.”
He looked up at us. “Everyone likes families,” he smiled. “Right.”
“And with his name, perhaps no one will ask questions.”
“You have checked a box here that implies she is my daughter.”
“As I told you before, this is the easiest way to obtain the necessary documents. No one will question this application. If I change it to note a more tenuous relationship, it could be months before the documents are issued, if at all.”
Aunt Haya shook her head. “We don’t want that.” “I did not think so.”
Aunt Haya scooted the chair forward, laid the form on the desk, and reached for a pen that lay on the open file. Berlanga picked it up and offered it to her. She took it from him and handed it to me, then pointed to a line on the form. “Sign your name right there.” I did as she instructed, then she signed below me and handed the form back to Berlanga.
While he blotted the ink from our signatures, Aunt Haya opened her purse and took out an envelope, which she laid on the desk. Berlanga set aside the blotter and picked up the envelope. “Very good,” he smiled. He placed the envelope in the desk drawer and stood. “This will take only a few minutes. You can wait here.” Then he came from behind the desk, crossed the room to the door, and was gone.
When we were alone, I turned to Aunt Haya to ask a question, but she held up her hand to stop me and shook her head. “Better to remain silent.”
Before long, Berlanga returned and handed me an identity card and passport. “This will prove your identity and allow you to travel as a citizen of Spain.” He offered me his hand, which I took. “Welcome to your new country.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond but after a moment managed to say, “Thank you.” He nodded to me politely, then glanced at Aunt Haya. “Please send my greetings to your son.”
From the time Mama first mentioned sending me to Spain, I had thought of many things—what it would be like to live far away from my immediate family, how different life in Spain might be from the life I had known, and I had wondered about the real reason they were sending me away. I had studied the picture of Haya on Mama’s dresser and asked questions about their experiences growing up together. But in all of that, I never once asked about Haya’s children. She had a daughter, Pilar, who lived with her husband in Malaga, on the Mediterranean, and a son, Oscar, who lived not far from Aunt Haya’s house. Pilar was in her late teens when I was born. We never met. Oscar, on the other hand, was a little closer to my age. He came to our house once, when I was a young girl and he was about to graduate from high school. I remember the visit because in almost every conversation he mentioned something about his pending graduation, and after they returned home his comments became something of a joke between our parents.
On the ride back to the house I asked, “How does Berlanga know
Oscar?”
“They met some years ago,” Aunt Haya explained, “when Oscar was still in college. Juan Diego taught one of his classes.”
“What does Oscar do now?”
“He works for the foreign office. You’ll see him later.” About that time we reached the house and she gestured out the window of the car. “I think he’s here now.”
Alberto turned the car into the driveway and I could see an automobile parked in front of the house, near the steps. We stopped behind it and I opened the door. Aunt Haya took my arm. “Wait, Alberto will get the door. That is his job. You mustn’t take it from him.”
I slid back in the seat and pulled the door closed. “I wasn’t trying to take his job.”
“I know.” She patted me gently on the knee, just like Mama did when she’d spoken more strongly than she should. “I know you meant no harm.”
Alberto opened the door for us and we started up the steps. Oscar came from the house and met us on the porch. “She’s getting the last of her things now,” he said, as if continuing a conversation already in progress.
“Good,” Aunt Haya nodded. “She is anxious to go.” “I hope she isn’t bringing too much.”
“She only has the one piece of luggage.” “I was thinking of the weight.”
Aunt Haya frowned at him. “They’ll give her a stateroom, won’t they?”
“Yes, but…I don’t know,” Oscar stammered. “This one makes me nervous.”
“Relax.” Aunt Haya patted him on the shoulder
. “Everything will work out.” She caught hold of his arm and gently turned him toward me. “Do you know who this is?”
“No,” he had a puzzled look. “I can’t say that I do.” He smiled at me. “Have we met?”
“I am Sarah.” “Sarah?”
“This is your cousin, Orna’s daughter.” The expression on his face stiffened.
“You’ll be seeing more of her now. Perhaps you’ll find the time to get better acquainted.” Aunt Haya moved past Oscar and entered the house. Oscar followed her and I trailed behind. Alberto came last and nudged me at the door. I glanced up at him and he handed me an envelope.
“You left this on the seat.” I recognized it immediately. It held the documents we’d just received from Juan Diego Berlanga at the Interior Ministry. “Better put them in a safe place,” he smiled. I thanked him and hurried upstairs to my room to put them away.
When I returned downstairs I heard Aunt Haya’s voice coming from the kitchen. She was louder than usual and so was Oscar. I tiptoed down the hall and stood near the door, listening.
“I can’t take one more with me,” Oscar said in an abrasive tone. “We are full for this trip.”
“I’m not asking you to take her,” Aunt Haya replied. “We couldn’t send a child off like that anyway. Not at her age.”
“Then what is the point of this?”
“She is staying here with me,” Aunt Haya explained. “No, Mother,” Oscar argued. “She can’t stay here.” “Why not?”
“It threatens everything. If the Nationalists find out, they’ll use it against us. It’ll become a scandal.”
“Since when were you so worried about what the Nationalists have to say?”
“I’m not, but our ties to the monarchy are the only reason we are able to do this. If someone finds out that you used those connections to harbor her, they will use it to show that the monarchy is a government of special favors.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Yes. But that is not our problem. Our problem is getting Alona and people like her safely to Palestine. Or any other country that will take them.”