by Evans, Mike
“Because he is a Jew.” Papa looked up at me. “They hate us, Sarah. They will never let us be more than their slaves and servants.”
“Then why didn’t you bring Mama and David and come to Spain?”
“I wanted to, but your mother was against it. She was born here. She didn’t want to live anywhere else. And she didn’t like the idea of running from trouble. Neither did I, but I was ready to run just the same.”
All day long I waited by the window in the front room, hoping Papa would file the declaration and get back in time for the ceremony. But when it grew late and he still wasn’t there, Mama insisted we go on without him. She and David walked with me to the synagogue.
In spite of our worry, the event went off without trouble. A few hecklers gathered on the sidewalk across the street, but they only shouted at us for a short while and when they got no response they just watched us coming and going. No one attacked us. After the ceremony we all went downstairs to the basement for punch and pastries.
When the event was over, I walked home with David and Mama. Stephan and his mother joined us. David was worried the five of us would attract too much attention, but we walked together anyway. When we arrived back at the house, Papa was sitting at the dining room table. Mama was worried. “Did you file the papers?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I filed them.” “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said blankly. “Nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“They must have said something. What did they say?” “It was nothing. There was nothing to it.”
I was suspicious and sat down beside him. “For nothing, it sure took a long time.”
“I had to wait in line. There was a long line.”
Stephan and his mother were at the house and in spite of the punch and pastries we ate at the ceremony, everyone was hungry. So Mama went into the kitchen to prepare something for us to eat. I joined her with Stephan’s mother.
“What does he mean, there was nothing to it?”
“I don’t know,” Mama shrugged. “But it’s his business.” “It can’t be nothing.”
“Leave it alone, Sarah.”
“Mama,” I pleaded. “It has to be something. Something happened. What was it?”
She turned from the counter to face me. “I said, leave it alone, and I meant it. This is your father’s business. When he’s ready to talk about it, he’ll talk about it.”
I was about to say more but Stephan entered the kitchen and took my hand. “Come on,” he smiled. “Let’s sit outside.” I wanted to stay in the house and pressure Papa to tell me what happened, but Stephan insisted we sit outside. So I walked with him to the front porch.
We sat on the steps and I stared up at the night sky. “I don’t understand why Papa won’t tell me what happened.”
“It’s humiliating for him.”
“It’s the government. Everyone has to comply with their orders.” “Think of it,” Stephan countered. “He’s a Jewish man, and here he has to make such a declaration, and he can’t figure out how to fill out the form. Goyim don’t have to do it. And it’s yet one more reminder of how fragile life is and how vulnerable we are.”
Neither of us said much for a while, then I looked over at him. “Do you think we will be sent to the camps?”
“I think the Germans want to rule all of Europe and we are next on their way to doing that.”
“You mean there will be war?”
“Not here,” he scoffed. “Everyone in Austria except the Jews wants the Nazis to come.”
“I don’t.”
“Neither do I, but I think it is inevitable.” “That is a big word.”
“Yes,” he laughed. “It is a big word. And I feel the need for it now that we are graduates.”
* * *
A week or two after graduation, three long black cars drove down our street. David and I watched from the window as they went by, then we walked outside to see where they went. The cars came to a stop at the curb in the next block, in front of Hyman Rothstein’s house. We walked in that direction for a closer look.
While we watched, the car doors opened and six men stepped out. Dressed in black suits and wearing black broad-brimmed hats, they looked ominous and threatening even from a distance. Moving in a deliberate manner, they made their way to the Rothsteins’ front door. One of the men banged on it with his fist. In a moment, the door opened and I could see Rothstein standing just inside. Moments later, the men filed through the doorway and closed the door behind them.
Within the hour, news of their arrival spread up and down the street. Before long, everyone knew the men visiting Hyman Rothstein were officials from the Finance Ministry’s Office of Economic Rehabilitation, along with agents from the Ministry of Public Security. David and I slowly moved closer and finally stood on the sidewalk one house away from where the cars were parked. Gradually, people from all over the neighborhood gathered with us, and a crowd formed. Mama came outside where we were standing. “This is what your father feared.”
“What?” I asked. “Papa was afraid?”
“This is why he was upset the night he came back from filing the papers.”
“This?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “They have come to verify that the information on Rothstein’s form is correct. Your father was worried they would use the forms against us. If we lie and don’t put down everything, they will come and find it and punish us for withholding. If we put the truth, they will use it as a shopping list and take whatever they want.”
In a little while, Rothstein’s door opened and once again the men appeared on the porch. This time, Rothstein followed after them, shouting, “There is no discrepancy! I declared everything!”
One of the men held up a box he was carrying. “Then why is this silver service not on the list?”
“It is on the list!” Rothstein protested. “I put it on the list!”
The man who appeared to be in charge held up a paper. “Not this one,” he dangled the paper in a teasing manner.
“I filled it out. I put it on the form.” Rothstein’s eyes opened wide in a look of realization. “That’s not my form,” he pointed to the document. “That’s not my signature.”
A cold look came over the man with the form. “You are accusing the
Ministry of lying?”
“That’s not my form,” Rothstein continued to insist.
Now the man with the form was angry. His face was red and his jaw clinched. “You would dare to—” Suddenly one of the men with him drew a pistol from beneath his jacket. He placed the muzzle against Rothstein’s head. Time seemed to slow and I saw Rothstein’s eyes were wide with fright. His legs shook violently and he urinated on himself. Without a word, the man holding the pistol squeezed the trigger. The gun fired and a bullet exploded through Rothstein’s head. A window in the front door turned red with fine mist of blood that sprayed from the wound. Rothstein’s body crumpled to the floor.
At the sound of the gunshot, the door jerked open and Rothstein’s wife appeared in the doorway. For a moment she stared at Rothstein’s body, her mouth open in a look of terror and disbelief. Then she wailed,
“No! Why did you do that? Why did you kill my husband?”
“Because he attempted to hide assets from the Ministry and then tried to cover his error by accusing the Ministry of fraud.”
She leaned over the body. “Hyman would never do such a thing.” “Are you accusing me of lying?”
The man with the pistol pointed it toward her and a second shot rang out. She fell backward against the door and slid to a sitting position. He stepped closer, pointed the pistol at her once more, and shot her again. A red dot appeared in the center of her forehead and blood trickled down her face.
The man in charge turned in our direction and faced the crowd that had gathered outside the house. In a loud voice he said to us, “We will not argue with you. If you falsify your declaration, you will suffer the consequences.” Everyone stood and li
stened, as if in a trance, their eyes fixed and unmoving. When he finished speaking, he stepped from the porch and started toward the car. The men who were with him followed closely behind. They made their way to the cars, got inside, and drove away. When they were gone, the murmuring began.
“Those weren’t Austrians,” someone said. “They were Nazis.”
“Nazi isn’t a race of people,” another countered. “It’s a political party.” “No,” a woman added. “It’s a cult.”
“They are forbidden in this country. Chancellor Dollfuss issued the decree.”
“Dollfuss was one of them.”
“Well, whatever they were,” the first one insisted, “the men who came here today were Nazis. I saw the SS on the collars of their shirts.”
Tension continued to rise in Austria as more and more anti-Semitic laws and regulations were enacted. With each new measure, people on the street became more emboldened to take things into their own hands. The chancellor of the Republic, Engelbert Dollfuss, had been murdered shortly before I returned to Linz. His successor, Kurt von Schuschnigg, proved a weak defender of Austrian independence. Faced with mounting pressure from Adolf Hitler, he deferred all but outright rule of Austria to the Nazi authorities. That worked for a while and we hoped that conciliation would bring peace and maintain our independence. Then the Nazis increased their demands. With each new concession, German troops moved closer and closer to our borders. Talk of war filled neighborhood conversations.
In spite of those developments, I still wanted to apply to the University. Living with Aunt Haya, helping her harbor those trying to escape to Palestine and listening to the things she talked about, awakened in me an interest in history, politics, and the extent of governmental authority. I wanted to know why things were the way they were, and whether government of any kind could do anything to move history off the cycle of war. In an effort to find answers to those questions, I decided to enroll at the University of Linz.
Mama didn’t think I could get admitted. While we were discussing it, Mira Sokalow, a neighbor, stopped by to visit Mama. As I explained what I wanted to do, Mira just shook her head. “Austrian schools are no longer admitting Jews,” she lamented. “They have expelled all Jewish professors, too.”
“That is not possible.”
“Yes.” Mira nodded her head. “I read it today in the newspaper. No more Jewish teachers of any kind.”
“It is true,” Papa agreed. “They have issued an order expelling all Jewish intellectuals.”
“What about musicians?”
“They already fired me,” Mama chuckled. “What more can they do?” “Next they will turn on the shopkeepers.”
“They haven’t threatened us yet,” Papa laughed nervously.
After Mira left, I showed Papa the papers I received in Spain when Aunt Haya and I went to the Interior Ministry office. He studied them a moment and then said, “What are you proposing?”
“That I register as a citizen of Spain.”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It might work.”
“But you have to apply in person,” Mama warned.
“I will go with you,” Papa offered. “We will go there together.” I reached over and hugged him. “Thank you, Papa.”
“It is my pleasure,” he smiled.
“You both are crazy,” Mama groused.
“Crazy?” Papa responded. “My daughter wants to go to university. I am walking there with her to enroll. What’s so crazy about that?” “Applying in person,” Mama groaned. “That’s what’s so crazy about it.” I looked at Papa. “Is it too risky?”
“Perhaps,” he answered slowly, “the greater risk is in doing nothing except what they tell us to do. We cannot stop living merely because of the threat of violence.” Then he pointed his finger at me. “But when we are there, you must keep quiet. And don’t act like a Jew.”
“Aunt Haya told me the same thing. I still don’t know what that means, but that’s what she told me.”
“I don’t know either,” Papa replied with a smile. “But don’t act like a Jew.”
The next day, Papa walked with me to the University. We arrived there without trouble and made our way to the registrar’s office. A counter sat along the wall opposite the door and behind it was a clerk seated on a stool. She wore a dark blue dress and her blonde hair was bobbed off just below her ears. Reading glasses rested on her nose. She glanced up as we came through the doorway and shouted for us to leave. When we didn’t, she threatened to have us arrested. Then I showed her my Spanish papers. “Oh,” she suddenly lowered her voice. “You are from Spain?”
“I arrived here last year.”
She peered at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You don’t look
Spanish.”
“It’s a very lovely country,” I said, avoiding her question. “You have been there?”
“No.” She had a puzzled look, but she took a form from a bin on the wall behind her and handed it to me. “Fill this out. We’ll get the process started.” Filing the correct forms took longer than I expected, but when we left the school that day, I was enrolled for my first year. The term began in September.
On the way home, Papa warned me again to keep quiet. “You ask too many questions, Sarah. That was cute when you were a little girl, but now it is not good.”
“I can’t help it. Questions come to me without even trying and before I know what I am doing, I ask them.”
“Then you must work harder to let some of them go unanswered.”
“I’ll try.” I looked over at him with a grin. “But I don’t think I will be successful.”
“You must,” he insisted, unwilling to engage me in lighthearted banter. “You cannot afford to cause trouble.”
“Grandma used to say a little trouble was a good thing.”
“Your grandmother was old. She had the liberty of saying things for which she would never bear the consequences.”
* * *
That fall, I entered the university and began work toward a degree in history. I continued to live at home and when I wasn’t in class I helped Papa and David at the shop. Most evenings, Stephan came for a visit. He sat beside me at the dining table while I studied. Then one morning he arrived to walk me to class. The weather was crisp that day and he wore a gray sweater. On it was a yellow patch of cloth cut in the shape of a star and stitched just above his heart. In the center of the star was the word Jude written by hand in ink.
“What is that?”
He looked embarrassed. “They are making us wear it.” “They? What do you mean?”
Stephan gestured with a nod toward the street. Dressed in brown from head to toe, officers from the Ministry of Public Security went from house to house, knocking on doors, passing out leaflets. While we stood there talking, they arrived at our house and asked for Papa. He came to the porch and one of the men looked up at him from the steps. “Moshe Batsheva?”
“Yes.”
The official handed Papa one of the leaflets. “You are required by law and the regulation of the Ministry of Security to wear the star on your outer clothing.” He pointed to the one on Stephan’s sweater. “It must look like that and you must wear it at all times.”
“Or what?”
“Or you will be sent away.”
Papa looked at the man thoughtfully. “And where do we get this star?”
“You must make it yourself,” he snarled. He turned to leave and we stepped aside to let him pass. When he was gone, Stephan looked up at Papa. “They were at our house last night when I returned home.”
Papa glanced at the paper the official left. “I do not understand this.” He gave Mama a pained look. “They see me on the street each day. They spit on me and call me names. At night they paint graffiti on the windows of my store and tell me I’m a Jewish pig. But they want me to wear a yellow star on my jacket so they know for certain I am a Jew? It makes no sense.”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s for,” St
ephan explained. “Then why would they do this?”
“To make you identify yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” Papa sighed. “I just said I am already identified as a Jew.”
“Wearing the star isn’t the same as saying I’m a Jew.”
“Look at the one you’re wearing.” Papa pointed at him. “It says ‘Jude’ right there on it.”
“Yes,” Stephan nodded. “And if you asked me who I am I would say I am a Jew. But if you asked me what that meant, I would say I am a follower of the Most High God, who is pleased to have me as His own. But that isn’t what this is.” He tapped the star on his chest with his finger. “This star is a statement I am forced to wear on my chest that says, ‘I am a stupid Jewish pig.’” He looked Papa in the eye. “That is what they want me to say about myself. To accept that I am less than they are. And that is why they want us to wear it.”
Papa looked at me. “I told you, you should have never come back.”
“Some are trying to leave now,” Stephan added.
“But they are required to pay a tax to leave,” Papa groaned. “A tax that equals one hundred percent of their net worth.” He looked at Stephan. “It would cost us everything to leave.”
“Better to get out alive with nothing,” Stephan shrugged, “than to stay too long and die where we stand.”
“I don’t know.” Papa heaved a heavy sigh. “I think it will be okay.” But it wasn’t okay.
* * *
In the ensuing months, German troops continued their slow advance toward the Austrian border. They stopped short of crossing but more and more units joined them, amassing men, tanks, artillery, and heavy equipment. At the same time, non-Jewish citizens in Linz took advantage of the obvious move toward unification. Roving mobs patrolled the streets day and night, harassing anyone who looked like they might be Jewish. Then one day in the spring, a woman burst into the shop, her eyes alive with excitement. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“The Nazis are coming!” She wasn’t Jewish and was obviously glad they were finally on their way.
“What do you mean?”