The Seventh Gate

by Richard Zimler

  “She can argue her case in court. Some judges resent the government usurping their authority. But in the end,” he says, “the laws of Germany will not bend … at least not for dachshunds, mieskeits, and Jews. I know several people who have been sterilized this year. Martin was sterilized three months ago.”

  I’d never say so, but maybe taking away Martin’s ability to make a child isn’t a bad thing. Though even thinking that makes me feel disloyal. “I’m ashamed I’m so ignorant,” I tell Isaac.

  “Don’t feel so bad. The Nazis keep their sterilization program mostly out of the newspapers. Though if you read Der Stürmer …”

  “You read that schmatte?”

  “All the time. Who doesn’t want to know their enemy?” Isaac gives me a serious look. “Sophele, I wanted to protect you, and so did Vera, but I think now we were wrong.”

  “Protect me from what? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s Hansi, he’s in danger.”

  I look down to keep the pressure in my chest from making me cry, because I’ve always known something bad would come of his difference. Isaac moves his chair near mine.

  “Do the authorities consider feeblemindedness reason enough for sterilization?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid so, my dear.”

  “So Hansi … he may …”

  “Yes, but maybe there’s still a way to fight.” He pats my leg, then leans back in his chair. “Now tell me, has your brother seen any doctors lately?” he asks in a voice of strategizing.

  Hansi bathed in my protection

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good, because the doctors are the ones who …”

  “But he’s seen Dr Nohel at least a half a dozen times over the last few years,” I interrupt, and I understand now why Dr Hassgall asked us to keep Hansi away from physicians.

  “If Hansi has already been reported as feebleminded or schizophrenic, then we’re out of luck. Unless your father can use his influence to prevent him from being operated.”

  I ought to rush to Papa, but I feel only a heavy hopelessness. That puzzles me until I realize that my father might believe it would be better if Hansi didn’t have children. And he might want to show his superiors that he’s willing to sacrifice his own son and grandchildren for his Nazi ideals.

  I’ll have to talk to Mama alone. And she will have to work on Papa. Our only chance.

  THE FOURTH GATE

  Four are the letters of God’s name, the prayer services on the Sabbath, the cardinal directions, the elements, and the number of times the Torah commands us to tell the story of Exodus. Four are the levels of interpretation.

  Beyond the Fourth Gate are the flowers of the field where our union blooms. Known as Machonen, this level of heaven is our spiritual Jerusalem. It is presided over by the Archangel Michael.

  And it came to pass in the fourth year of king Darius, that the word of the Lord came unto Zechariah —Zechariah 7.

  Berekiah Zarco, The Book of Flowering

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vera’s doctor testifies at her hearing that she’s pregnant, so she’s safe for the moment, but she is ordered to report to Wittenau State Hospital so that physicians can make a full evaluation of her deformity and its implications to the Fatherland.

  What possible implications could her face have for the nation? would be the obvious objection of her lawyer in any country where people lived on solid ground, but we are knee-deep in the muck of Germany’s sewers already and he doesn’t challenge the judge’s order.

  Vera fails to go to Wittenau on the day she’s been assigned, convinced that physicians there will try to harm her baby. That same evening, after nightfall, she moves into Isaac’s apartment. She takes one suitcase neatly packed with clothes and another holding her sewing machine and supplies. “I’m not going to even step outside until the baby is born!” she explains to me the next day, with a ferocity in her eyes that’s not to be doubted.

  Over the next few days, I shuttle between Vera’s apartment and Isaac’s to bring her fabrics she needs for her work. Roman comes over in the evenings to keep her company.

  None of Vera’s other friends visit, and when I ask her about that she replies, “I have my baby and Roman, and you and Isaac. That’s enough for one ugly giant.”

  “But it’s weird they don’t come by to congratulate you … or even just to show their solidarity.”

  “Maybe some of them aren’t so thrilled about me being pregnant.”

  “You mean Heidi and Rolf—because they’ve failed so far to have a baby?”

  She shrugs, which obviously means yes.

  Later that week, Isaac’s factory is broken into by the Gestapo. A neighbor saw a young Nazi smash in the lock while an older officer looked on. Nothing is stolen but the company files are left in a mess. “They must have wanted to discover who is still buying garments from me,” Isaac speculates. “It’s no big deal. All the clients I still have know I’m a risk. Most of them are Jewish anyway.”

  “Did they break into your warehouse too?” I ask.

  “No, they apparently figured there was nothing there for them.”

  It’s while I’m cleaning the kitchen cabinets and Mama is washing the floor that I find the courage to speak to her about the Law for the Prevention of Offspring with Hereditary Diseases. Despite my urgent tone, she waves off my worries. In an offended voice, she says, “I hope you aren’t trying to imply that something hereditary is wrong with me or your father?”

  “No, I’m only saying there’s something wrong with Hansi. He must fall under the new law for Erbkranke.”

  She pushes her mop hard into the leg of the table, probably imagining it’s my head. “Sophie, I’ll thank you not to use that word to describe your brother. You heard Dr Hassgall, your brother is perfectly normal.”

  “No, that’s not what Dr Hassgall said.”

  I start to give her my best paraphrase of his words, but Mama interrupts me. “Sophie, make your point quickly. I have work to do.” She sighs with exasperation. “And if you’re not going to clean the cabinets properly, then leave them to me.”

  “My point is that one day soon we’re going to get a letter saying that Hansi has to go to a Hereditary Health Court. And three old Prussian know-it-alls in long robes are going to decide that he has the brains of a goldfish, just like Fred and Ginger. They aren’t going to care that he loves squirrels or that he peels potatoes like they’re made of Carrera marble. And they aren’t going to think it’s a positive thing that he poses for me with more patience than a street sign. They are going to rule that he’s not normal and sterilize him.”

  Mama manages a laugh. Was she acting or was she already so deep in sewer waters that she couldn’t see out? “Oh, Sophie, where do you hear these rumors?”

  “They aren’t rumors!”

  “Then show me a newspaper article that says that boys like Hansi are being sterilized.”

  “The newspapers are run by the National Socialist Party.”

  “As well they should be.”

  “Mama, please listen to me,” I plead. “If we don’t …”

  “Look, Sophie, I know you’re worried,” she interrupts, “but this could never happen to Hansi because your father is a party member.”

  “But if we get a letter anyway, what’ll you do?”

  “Any letter that comes would have to be some sort of mistake and I would speak to your father and he would have the mistake corrected.”

  “You promise?”

  “Sophie, what else would I do?”

  Vera has a dinner party to celebrate her pregnancy on Sunday, the 28th of October, 1934, and I manage to attend by telling my parents I’m off to a band concert with Tonio, who was in for the weekend but who had to leave for his base at five in the afternoon. To my surprise, she’s the only person at home when I arrive.

  “Isaac has gone to fetch Heidi and Rolf,” she tells me, leaning down so we can kiss cheeks. “The others will be here soon. You can help ma
ke the stuffing for the peppers. I need to sit for a while and relieve the pressure in my knees.”

  Vera supervises how I chop onions and mix them into the meat as though I’m dealing with explosives. “You’re driving me crazy!” I warn her.

  “Sorry, it’s the blind little deformed creature in my belly,” she explains.

  “Vera!”

  “If I talk about the worst that can happen, then it won’t happen.”

  So it is that I learn that she believes in magic. She’s opened a bottle of cheap Italian red wine, and I pour her a glass. “Now relax and stop bothering me,” I tell her.

  Roman, K-H, Marianne, and little Werner, who is now two years old and walking, drive over in K-H’s battered old Clyno Tourer, arriving just as Vera’s finishing her wine. Marianne has made roast chicken to follow the stuffed peppers.

  While K-H is setting the table and telling us about his photography studio, the dwarfs waddle in behind Isaac. Kisses, hugs, and shrieks all around.

  “Vera, if you’d have given us some advance notice, I’d have baked something special,” Heidi tells her in a scolding tone. “All I had was half a cake I made yesterday.”

  “Forgive me,” Vera replies, “the party was a last-minute decision.”

  I know that’s not true, since she told me two days before, and I give Vera a questioning look, but she just sticks out her tongue.

  As I serve the peppers, Vera flies around the table pouring wine, prattling on about maternity dresses she is making for herself. She’s boring for the first time in history, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

  The peppers and chicken are so good that I eat too much. Wine, chicken, and sex on the same day—things are either looking up for me or I’m dreaming.

  Before it gets too late, we put Werner to sleep in the guest room. Marianne lets me tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. I adore the sleepy smell of him. He signals goodnight by waving his little hand beneath his chin, and I signal back. I feel as if we’re emissaries from different worlds.

  After supper, Isaac grins like a devil in an Italian fresco as he picks apart the poor bird’s carcass, sucking the marrow from its bones. Such enjoyment the man gets from making a mess, just like a little boy, and he adores having Heidi clean each of his fingers with a towel.

  Rolf tells jokes and smokes a cigar. His face gets all wrinkly and compressed when he smokes, and Heidi whispers to me, quite rightly, that he looks like a turtle.

  As Vera and I are putting the dirty dishes in the sink, I whisper, “Apparently, Heidi and Rolf have gotten over their resentment.”

  “Yes, I’m relieved—it’s like putting my heart back in place.”

  For dessert, we have Heidi’s day-old Frankfurter Kranz, which has the most delicious meringue anyone has ever eaten. She always adds a special, secret ingredient to her cakes. Pulling me down to her, she whispers, “Grated lemon peel!” as if that’s the password that will win me entrance to Araboth.

  Heidi’s secret is not the only one I learn that night. After coffee, Vera corners me in the kitchen and says urgently, “I’m leaving tonight for a hiding place. Only you, Isaac, and Roman know I’m going. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll get word to you when I can, though it may be a few months from now. I can’t take any more chances with my baby.” She waves off my further questions. “I’m sorry, Sophele, there’s no time.”

  “Be careful,” I tell her.

  “You, too. And thank you for all your help.” She looks at me as if she’ll need to remember my face for a long time, which scares me. I start to speak, but she puts her hand over my mouth. “Ssshhh, everything’s going to be fine.”

  K-H and Marianne drive the dwarfs home. I walk Roman back to his apartment, our thoughts inside separate silences. Sensing I’m upset, he puts his arm over my shoulder.

  “When do you think we’ll see Vera again?” I ask him.

  “Only after the baby is born.”

  From what I later learn, Isaac waits until Roman and I have had time to turn onto Prenzlauer Allee, then slips his coat on and gives Vera a quick hug. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks as a joke, holding up five.

  “Three,” Vera answers to be difficult.

  “Exactly, I’ll be back in three minutes. Sit tight.”

  Isaac is borrowing a neighborhood friend’s Opel for the occasion but needs to fetch it. He will be taking Vera to a converted boathouse on the Havel River that was built by his grandfather. A retired seamstress from the nearby town of Gatow who worked in Isaac’s factory for thirty years will bring Vera supplies. Her name is Olga Hagen.

  As he is coming back down Marienburger Straße past Frau Koslowski’s grocery, three Gestapo officers get out of a Mercedes parked across the street from our apartment house. They slam their doors, which must mean they want to be heard by Isaac, or that being observed by a Jewish man is beneath their caring.

  One of the Gestapo officers is wearing gloves, and he is carrying an axe—a detail forever lodged in terror inside Isaac’s memory. The old man’s dread is so strong that he feels as if he might faint dead away. Has all his careful planning counted for nothing? But maybe these men are headed to another address …

  I can easily picture the Nazis pushing open the door to our apartment house and striding through the hallway as though they are our unassailable masters. I also see the lead man draw his pistol as he enters our courtyard, though maybe he’s the one wearing black leather gloves and carrying the axe. If I spoke to Mrs Munchenberg, maybe I’d know for sure, but I’m too ashamed of having skipped Raffi’s funeral and of abandoning her at Wertheim’s.

  Isaac begins to rush. In the courtyard, he hears our visitors stomping up the back staircase. Praying for strength, he runs ahead and hears one of them call out for Vera to give herself up.

  He finds the men standing on the third-floor landing, in front of his door. Panting for breath, he asks what they want.

  “Shut your filthy mouth!” the oldest of the Nazis shouts. He has a pinched face, and his thinning gray hair is visible beneath the rim of his cap.

  “And back off,” says a tall officer with a Hamburg accent. The youngest man—a handsome boy, Isaac will later tell me, shouts through his door for Vera to open the lock.

  She makes for the kitchen window, wondering if she would survive the thirty-foot drop—and be able to hobble off into hiding. Feeling faint, she leans on the sill, crushed by remorse for having dragged Isaac into this mess. Outside her door, Isaac begs the young man to leave them in peace.

  “Shut up!” the Nazi orders. Turning around, he shouts, “Open the goddamned door!”

  “Vera, don’t come out!” Isaac hollers. “Use the phone to call for help!”

  He grabs the boy’s arm and tugs it as if to pull him down the stairs, falling backwards onto the floor of the landing and taking the Nazi with him.

  Another man’s fist catches Isaac on his head, by his ear, which makes him grip the boy’s arm as tightly as he can. He told me later, “All I knew was that I could never let go.”

  But he does release the boy’s arm when he’s hit over the head with a revolver. Moaning, Isaac reaches to his forehead and sees blood. As he looks up, a boot is placed on his chest.

  All he remembers next is crashing down the stairs to the landing below.

  Vera hears him fall. Her mind shrinks back, as it does when we sense we have been caught by a fate we’ve long feared. She sees clearly that she has only herself to blame for being caught, though I won’t learn why for nearly another six years.

  When the axe blade slices through the wood of the door, Vera screams and backs up against the wall, hard, as though trying to push through to another world. A gaping hole by the door handle opens, and a gloved hand clicks open the lock.

  She meets the intruders with her sewing scissors in her hand. The men are stunned for a moment by her frightening face, which gives her time enough to lunge forward and slash the arm of the gray-haired officer. The two other Gestapo thugs tackle her and p
ush her face against the floor. One of them breaks her right wrist as he snaps on handcuffs. On purpose, I would imagine. Then they drag her away. The officer who has been wounded taunts her as he staunches the blood with his handkerchief.

  “You fucking freak!” he spits at her. “Even if we took the axe to your head right here, you couldn’t be any uglier.”

  The men step over Isaac’s body, which is lying limp on the landing. Do they kick him? It’s impossible to say from the pattern of bruises on his body.

  The Gestapo officer in charge shouts that she’s a Jew-loving freak while they drag her through the courtyard. Everyone in the building must hear, including my mother. But no one comes to her rescue.

  When she tells me what she saw, Mama will say, “It gives me shivers just thinking about that wretched woman. And to think, I let you go to the same party as her two years ago!”

  How did the Nazis learn where Vera was hiding? One of our neighbors—or maybe even my mother—might have reported the presence of a giant with a cavewoman’s face living in Isaac’s flat, but more likely, he and I think, a traitor is still at work.

  Miraculously, the old tailor only suffers a badly sprained ankle and some cuts and bruises. To repair the gash on his brow just below his hairline, Dr Manny Löwenstein—a friend since high school—sews him up with five stitches.

  Dr Löwenstein also nails a plank of wood over the hole in the door. “No extra charge,” he tells Isaac, adding, “no more headlong dives into the stairwell for you. It’s not a pool and you, my friend, are no Yiddishe Johnny Weismuller.”

  How long will the Jewish sense of humor be able to persevere in this country?

  I manage to get Dr Löwenstein alone for a minute and ask him to solve an old puzzle for me. “Imagine someone’s windpipe has been broken, as if he’s been strangled, but there are no bruises on his neck. How could that happen?”

  “Are we talking about anyone I know?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me think about that and then get back to you.”