The Locket

by Evans, Mike

  On my fourteenth day in Zurich, Victor arrived at my room to collect me for dinner carrying a small leather suitcase. It was tanned a beautifully deep mahogany color and was smooth as silk to the touch, but the sight of it brought to my mind images of the hides stacked inside the railcar. The odor flared in my nostrils and my heart rate quickened. For a moment I was there again, sitting on the bales with the cold air rushing around me. In that same instant, I pushed the images aside and forced myself to focus on the moment at hand. Thankfully, Victor seemed not to notice my distress.

  “A report arrived yesterday from the Interior office in Cordova,” he began. By the look on his face I could tell he was not happy with the news. “They confirmed the details of your story.”

  “That upsets you?”

  “I have enjoyed spending time with you,” he sighed. “I don’t want to see you go.”

  I took his hand and gave him a friendly smile. “But you know I can’t stay here. Right?”

  “I know.” He let go of my hand and hugged me close. “I know you have to go. I just don’t like seeing you leave.”

  Under any other circumstance I would have kissed him, but that would only offer him something I could not give, so I leaned away and pointed to the suitcase. “What is in there?”

  He set the case beside the bed. “I brought it for you. We have a plane leaving in the morning for Madrid. I reserved a seat for you. You’ll need a suitcase to pack your things.”

  I wanted to shout and laugh, but the sadness on his face was too much. Instead, I gestured with my hand toward the closet. “Everything I have belongs to your sister. I have nothing to take.”

  “She gave them to you. They belong to you now.” He reached inside his jacket and took out an envelope. “This is for you, too.” I opened the envelope and found it contained currency—Swiss francs and Spanish pesetas. “You’ll need it for expenses along the way,” Victor explained, “and to purchase a train ticket to Cordova, once you arrive in Madrid.”

  Tears came to my eyes. All my life I had been helped by others. Just when it seemed the worst would happen to me, friends stepped in to rescue me. Here was another. I only met Victor because he worked at the embassy. He wasn’t a family member or an acquaintance from back home. Yet he was sending me on my way with a blessing. Not the blessing the priest gave me, and not the blessing a rabbi might give me at the synagogue, but a blessing just the same. I wrapped my arms around him, rested my head on his chest, and pressed my face against his neck.

  The following morning Victor returned to the hotel and drove me to the airport. The airplane was waiting, just as he said. We said goodbye and I boarded with a group of diplomats. I glanced back at him as I entered the plane. He was standing on the tarmac a few meters beyond the wing of the plane. At my seat I glanced out the window and he was still there, hands in the pocket of his coat, his hair blowing in the wind from the plane’s propellers. I have never seen a sadder face than his.

  The plane landed once in Lyon, France, to refuel. Soldiers guarded the airport and I was worried something might happen, but we left without incident and continued toward Spain. No one said a word to me the entire flight.

  It was late in the afternoon when we landed in Madrid. The weather was balmy and humid. I rested my coat on my arm and walked from the plane, carrying the suitcase in my hand. As I crossed the tarmac with others from the plane, an official from the Interior Ministry met me. He escorted me inside the terminal building and smoothed the way through customs. Then he drove me to the train station and waited while I purchased a ticket. The train didn’t leave for a couple of hours so we ate dinner in a café across from the station. I don’t remember his name and I’m not sure he ever gave it. He was much older than I and interested only in getting me aboard the train and getting on with his evening. After we ate, he walked with me to the platform and sat on a bench until the train arrived.

  Six hours later I arrived in Cordova. It was four in the morning by the clock in the station, much too early to find Oscar. To pass the time, I sat on a bench in the lobby and dozed. An hour later, a café across the street opened and I went there for breakfast, using some of the money Victor gave me. Afterward, I hailed a taxi and gave him directions to Aunt Haya’s house. The last time I was there, government workers were removing her belongings. Oscar told me that he sold the house to them, but I never really believed him. I was sure they seized it for reasons I would never know. That morning as I rode in the taxi toward the river, I was certain he never stopped searching for a way to get the house back.

  Across the river we turned right, passed several shops. In the distance I saw the house, three stories tall sitting at the crest of a low hill. When we were abreast of it, the driver turned into a short driveway and brought the car to a stop at the base of the front steps. I paid the fare, climbed from the back seat, and started toward the porch of the house.

  Before I reached the top step, the front door opened and two small children appeared—a boy and a girl. Behind them was Oscar, looking older and more tired than before, but Oscar just the same. He placed his hands on the children’s shoulders to restrain them and stared at me a moment, then a smile spread across his face. “Sarah,” he said slowly. “You came back.”

  Behind him I saw a woman standing in the hallway near the staircase. She had auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and eyes that seemed to look right through me. In spite of the excitement created by my arrival, she remained by the stairs, watching and alert.

  “Oscar,” I nodded when I reached the porch. “It’s been a while.”

  He came from the house and we embraced, then he led me past the children and inside to the front parlor. The woman I’d seen by the staircase was Inés, Oscar’s wife. She stepped forward to greet me as I passed by. “I have heard a lot about you. Oscar tells us stories from your visit almost every day.” She had a distant smile, polite but not at all engaging.

  “I am sure he has a vivid memory.”

  Oscar gestured to the sofa and I took a seat. He sat in the chair by the fireplace, the one Aunt Haya enjoyed. Inés excused herself and retreated from the room. When she was gone, I looked over at Oscar. “Already your wife doesn’t like me?”

  “It’s not you,” he countered. “She doesn’t care for visitors, even if they’re family.”

  “Oh.” I leaned back on the sofa. “Well, it wasn’t my intention to intrude.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said with frown. “Tell me about everyone. After the Germans invaded Austria, we lost all our contacts. The network fell apart. We have been unable to get news about any of you in more than two years.”

  “It has not been an easy time.” I was unsure where to begin or how much to tell him.

  “So, how are Aunt Orna and Uncle Moshe?”

  “As best I can determine, they are no longer alive.”

  “Both of them?” The news did not seem to faze him one way or the other.

  “Mama was sent to a camp at Auschwitz.” He looked puzzled. “Auschwitz?”

  “In Poland. Papa and David were sent to a camp near Linz. From what I have learned, Mama was killed immediately. Papa and David were worked to death.”

  “We have heard of these things,” he nodded thoughtfully. “And Uncle Alois?”

  “Dead also, but I do not know any of the details.”

  He had a serious look but still did not appear upset. “How did such a thing happen?”

  Carefully and with measured words, I gave him the account of how we’d been moved from Linz to Vienna and all the things that happened to us in the process. I kept it as brief as possible, not wishing to aggrandize myself in telling about the awful things that happened to others, and because I did not want to frighten the children whom I was certain were listening. After half an hour, his attention began to wane and I could see that whatever his involvement had been in the rescue effort before, he was no longer interested in it now. I glanced around at the room. “You got the house back.”

&nb
sp; “Yes,” he nodded, suddenly attentive. “Isn’t it an odd twist?” “How so?”

  “We were hoping the monarchists would win, but they were the ones who seized the house. They lost the war and we got the house back from the Nationalists.” He chuckled at the irony and glanced at me, expecting that I would find it amusing, too.

  While he was still smiling, I looked him in the eye. “Oscar, I need your help.”

  His face turned sober. “You can stay here a few days, but that’s all I can do.”

  “I want to go to Palestine.”

  He looked away. “I’m not doing that anymore.” “But you still know people.”

  “I’m not sure they’re even around now.” “Will you make some calls?”

  “Look, I don’t—” He interrupted himself and stood, then nodded for me to follow as he started toward the door. I rose from the sofa and walked with him to the porch and down the front steps. When we were away from the house he turned to me. “Inés does not like for me to talk about my involvement with Mama and Uncle Alois. If she knew I was talking about contacting anyone from those days, she would be very upset.”

  “Doesn’t she realize you are Jewish?” “Half Jew.”

  So this is what it had come to with him. Better to deny your identity than confront it. “You can divide yourself?” My voice was louder than normal but I could barely control my anger.

  “She knows who I am and that is not the problem.”

  “Then what is?” I insisted.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “How complicated can it be?” I implored. “Is she a Nazi?”

  “No,” he scowled in disgust, “she’s not a Nazi. She’s a member of the royal family.”

  “And that is a problem?”

  “It is now. Or at least, it could be. After you left, the conflict between the monarchy and the Nationalists got really bad. Civil war broke out all over the country. I knew it was coming. That’s why I wanted you to go. The Nationalists won and then there were reprisals against many of the key leaders from the previous government. Royals in almost every city were the subject of executions and beatings. Entire families were murdered.”

  “That sounds like what they did to us.” “Yes,” he agreed. “It was much the same.” “Was Inés subjected to such treatment?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “She and her parents escaped into the mountains. To the cabin where I wanted to send you and Mama. They remained there until things calmed down, but she is still worried that it is not over. And now,” he sighed, “with the children. Javier and Angelina are her world.”

  “As it should be.”

  “I suppose.” He was silent for a moment, then turned to me once more. “Look, Sarah. I will make some calls. See what I can find out. I still know a few people who might help. But you can’t talk to Inés about this. If she asks, you must tell her you are just visiting for a few days on your way to Malaga.”

  That bothered me. “You want me to lie?”

  “It’s not really a lie,” he argued. “If I can’t find a way to help you get to Palestine, I’ll send you to my sister in Malaga. She knows as many people as I do, and if I can’t take care of it, she will.”

  “Good,” I nodded. “And thank you for your help.”

  “Come on.” He took me by the elbow. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  “The same room as before?” I asked expectantly.

  “No. That is Angelina’s room. You will have Mama’s old room.”

  We had lunch together in the kitchen and I napped most of the afternoon. That evening, we ate dinner in the dining room. Oscar made small talk, the children were polite. Inés was both aloof and gracious, as only those who’ve enjoyed money and position can be, especially when addressing one they perceive to be of a lower station in life. Afterward, I retreated to my room and lay on the bed thinking of Aunt Haya and all that had happened in our lives since I was last at the house.

  Oscar was gone from the house most of the following day. He returned that afternoon with news of a ship leaving for Haifa. “It sails from Barcelona in two days, but you will need immigration papers from the British. They still control access to the region.”

  “Can you get them?”

  “Yes, but they cost money, as does passage on the ship. And you will need a ticket for the train to Barcelona.”

  I handed him the envelope with the money from Victor. “This is all the money I have.”

  He glanced at it and shook his head. “This won’t be enough.” “How much more do we need?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you have anything else?”

  The way he said it, standing there in that three-story house with his wife of royalty, after all I’d been through, pierced my heart. He had always treated me this way, but I thought that perhaps, after all we’d both been through, he might realize the gravity of my situation and come to my aid and defense. But no, here he was the same Oscar to the very end, even if it meant taking the last thing I owned. But I couldn’t stay there and I needed to complete the journey.

  “Yes,” I sighed. “I have one more thing. Wait right here.” Then I ran upstairs to the bedroom, opened the suitcase, and took out the locket.

  Tears filled my eyes as I looped the chain on my finger and watched it spin back and forth in the air. I remembered the day Grandma died and her last words to me: “The locket belongs to you.” Seemingly from out of nowhere, a sense of grief overwhelmed me and I began to sob. Grandma was dead. Papa and Mama were gone. I would never see David and Stephan again. The sense of their loss had been with me always but I kept those emotions at bay, consoling myself at least subconsciously that my struggle to survive united us and that we were, in some small measure, bound together by the locket, the last remaining artifact from our past. The thought that it, too, would be taken from me brought to the surface all the grief I’d been holding inside. I collapsed on the bed and wept.

  In a little while, there was a knock on the door behind me and I heard Oscar’s voice. “Sarah, are you okay?”

  I wiped my eyes with my hands and sat up. “Yes. I’m fine.” I wiped my eyes again. “You may come in.”

  The door opened and he entered the room. I picked up the locket by the chain and turned to him. “This is gold. It belonged to my Grandmother Batsheva. It must be worth something. It’s the only other thing I have.”

  Oscar slipped his finger in the loop of the chain and gently lifted it from my finger. “You have kept it all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you do that? After all you’ve been through.”

  “I hid it when we were in the ghetto.” I wiped my eyes once more. “Will that and the money be enough?”

  He had a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll see if I can make it do.”

  About midmorning the following day, Oscar came to my room with an envelope. “This is your ticket to Barcelona, passage on the ship, and entry documents for Palestine.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “We should leave for the train within the hour.”

  Four days after leaving Cordova, I stepped from the ship onto the dock at Haifa. I was prepared for a long and tedious interrogation by British officials, questioning my right to enter the country. Instead, all I encountered was a cursory review of my papers, which the officer dutifully stamped, and then he waved me through the checkpoint. And there I was, in Palestine, immersed in a world of sights and smells like nothing I had experienced before. Even the sound was different, with everyone around me speaking Yiddish, Hebrew, and Arabic—but not a word of German.

  With no money and nothing of value in my possession, I needed a job quickly. I began by inquiring at cafés and stores, in search of any work that paid a wage. After a day of that proved unsuccessful, someone suggested I might have more success in Jerusalem. So I caught a ride in a delivery truck and headed in that direction.

  Once there, I made the rounds of all the usual places, asking for work at stores, cafés, and later at one
or two factories, but they all turned me away. I wandered the city, moving from business to business until the sun began to set. With darkness approaching, I found myself once again living on the street and hungry. Behind a restaurant near the city wall I found a trash can with scraps from the tables inside. It was fresh, having been tossed out that evening, and when I pushed aside the paper and bones, I discovered the contents of a plate that had gone all but untouched. I dug it out with my fingers and ate, glad for a meal that filled my stomach.

  By then nighttime had settled and the streets were dark. I sat on a bench at the corner opposite the King David Hotel and wondered what I should do next. A group of young Arabs sauntered by, laughing and snickering among themselves. I watched them all the way to the corner. When they turned around and started back in my direction, I decided it was time to move. Four or five blocks later I came to an alley. It was narrow and dark, which made it a good place to hide. I walked as far as the third doorway, set the suitcase near the threshold for a pillow, and lay down. Soon I was fast asleep.

  The next morning, I was awakened by a man standing over me. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Groggy and disoriented, I replied in German, “Ich bin Sarah Batsheva.” Then I saw the frown on his forehead and quickly said in Hebrew, “I am Sarah Batsheva. Who are you?”

  “My name is Yohai Cohen.” He gestured over his shoulder. “This is my shop, and I don’t allow anyone to sleep in my doorway.”