Twilight in Danzig

by Siegfried Kra

  The two youngsters ate their meal as she idly turned the pages of a book.

  If Jonas ate alone with Fräulein Marlow, it was another matter. She permitted him to eat in his pajamas while she tied her long cotton robe snugly around her body. At the table she never would wear her silky low-cut black robe, the one she dressed in whenever she expected Brand, the one from which her full breasts almost escaped as she walked and moved. Jonas sighed. That was the one he much preferred.

  After the children finished the chocolate pudding, the governess left the table and said to Jonas, “Now, you be the perfect gentleman to Alexandria. Entertain her properly.”

  He whispered to Ala, “Let’s go to our favorite hiding place.”

  The governess allowed them – even tactfully encouraged them – to run through the darkened house, up the elegant staircase, to his parents’ sensual bedroom while she went to her sitting room. She knew their destination. They squeezed through the narrow opening where the large mirrored armoire met the alcove. The usual hand-embroidered blanket was on the floor, as well as Jonas’ tin soldiers and little boxes. It was dark, but the lights from the hall slipped under the armoire, allowing them to see enough of each other.

  Alexandria sat on the blanket, as she had done so many other times, her small legs tucked beneath her. “I don’t want to play doctor tonight,” she said.

  “Just a little,” Jonas urged. “I want just five minutes. You are my guest and you are supposed to do what I wish.”

  They went through a familiar routine, but one that was never really familiar; each time it was somehow new, fresh, and exciting, but in a different way. Alexandria lay back on the blanket, pulled her dress up and pulled her panties down to her ankles. Jonas started the examination by touching her stomach and then proceeded to examine the new silky hair beginning to cover the slit between her legs. Sometimes his enthusiasm brought a sharp rebuke.

  “That hurts, Jonas!” she said. “You can look and feel, but don’t stick your finger in me. It hurts. Do it gently.”

  “Do you have breasts yet? I know how they should look and feel,” he said.

  She pulled down her blouse in the shadows. “How do you know that?” she asked in a perturbed voice.

  Jonas saw the tiny buds on her chest but did not answer her.

  “They are beginning to grow,” she said. “You can touch them, but if you hurt them they may not grow.”

  He touched them gently and Alexandria relaxed, closing her eyes.

  “Jonas, promise to keep it a secret if I tell you something?”

  “I swear I will,” he said, “and I have something to tell you, too.”

  She sat up and nonchalantly pulled her panties to her waist.

  “The examination is over,” Jonas complained, “and you did not play doctor yet.”

  “I don’t want to touch you tonight. I must tell you something because I love you.”

  “I love you too, Ala,” Jonas said.

  “We are leaving for America soon and not one person knows. I don’t want to go,” Ala added sadly. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” an alarmed Jonas blurted. Then, “I want to go, too.”

  “Someday, when we’re older, we can get married if you come to America,” Alexandria brightened. “We are like being married anyway because only married people see each other like we do, and I will always love you, Jonas, even when I am in America. Will you miss me?”

  “Yes. It will be sad without you, lonely and very sad. Why do your parents want to go?”

  “I don’t know, except I heard Father say something about the Nazis, that it won’t be safe for the Jews.”

  Jonas was about to tell her that he belonged to the Hitler Youth Movement, that it was a lot of fun, and the Nazis were not bad at all, but just then he heard his governess call from downstairs.

  “Jonas and Alexandria, please come downstairs. Her father is here,” Fräulein Marlow called.

  Slowly, they came down the winding stairs, Ala tucking her blouse into her skirt.

  “Hello, Papa,” she said.

  Jonas clicked his heels at the bottom of the stairs and greeted him. “Good evening, Herr Greenspun.” He extended his hand.

  Grecia Greenspun, the tall aristocrat from White Russia, grinned widely and said, “Thank you for being such a good host to Alexandria.”

  Jonas clicked his heels once more and shook Ala’s hand too, but he lowered his head to hide the sadness in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Fräulein Marlow, for being so attentive. When are the Krugers returning from Marienbad?”

  “Early next week.”

  “They are fortunate having such a distinguished young woman caring for Jonas.” He was staring into her eyes, but his eyes wandered. He could not resist surveying her sensual body and peeking into her cleavage. She read his thoughts all too easily and calculatingly lowered her eyes in a girlish way that made her even more alluring. Let her tease the Jew, she thought.

  “Thank you, sir. We love having Alexandria here. She is a perfect young lady. Well brought up. We hope to see you again. It is too quiet without the whole family being here.”

  He read her thoughts and said, “If that is the case, we certainly will return soon and help to liven up your beautiful home while the Krugers are away.”

  After they left, the governess noticed Jonas’ downcast face.

  “Don’t look so sad, Jonas. Alexandria is a darling child. She can come back any time you wish.” Jonas, burdened with his secret, shifted uneasily.

  “I will never see her again,” Jonas said with tears.

  “Such nonsense, Jonas. You can invite her next week. Come now, my little man, get undressed and we will have a nice bath together and lots of bubbles, and I will make you feel nice and relaxed. Cheer up. You can sleep in my bed tonight if you like.

  “We are alone here,” Fräulein Marlow called over her shoulder as she went to fetch some towels. “Cook is off. It is just you and I, and we have to keep each other company. Tomorrow you can stay in bed as long as you wish. It is Saturday. The Rabbi won’t be coming for your lessons, and we are not going to go to the Boy Scouts. But you can wear your uniform in the house, if you wish.”

  In the bathtub, Jonas pushed his small tugboat along the water, singing to himself. His governess arrived with a large sponge in her hand, disrobed, and climbed into the large golden bathtub filled with pink bubbles. He was not surprised. He knew what was going to happen next.

  “Now stand up so I can wash you well.”

  She looked down at his pubis and frowned, “Jonas, you are getting small hairs. Your father, well, it is his job to explain this but he is very busy. So I have to tell you what will happen next. Something called puberty. Don’t be frightened if one night your bed is wet. It is called semen, which comes from your peepee. When the sperm in your semen swims into a woman’s vagina, the sperm and egg meet and then a baby is made.”

  As she washed him she explained that his voice would also deepen, probably around the time of his Bar Mitzvah.

  “Good, Jonas? Does it feel nice?” she asked as she continued to wash him.

  “Yes, it makes me feel strange.” His body suddenly tightened, convulsed. She laughed.

  “That is what grown-ups call orgasm. Even young boys can have one if they rub themselves the right way. It helps you to go to sleep.”

  At breakfast, he ate quietly, yawning, while Fräulein was shiny and crisp, her face sparkling.

  “Look how beautiful it is; a wonderful spring day to go out. Today, Jonas, there will be a big parade in the square and you have been invited to march with the other boys in the club. One of our leaders has come from Berlin to speak to us. Is that not exciting?”

  “Fräulein, I feel tired. I don’t want to go.”

  “Then let’s just go to Springer for some ices, and we can watch the whole show. We will ask Karl-Heinz to drive us there in the Duesenberg, and you won’t have to walk.”

  “You
are playing a dangerous game, Fräulein,” Cook, back at her post again, said to her in the kitchen, clearly alarmed by the little Jew training to be a Nazi. Jonas had gone upstairs to dress so the women could speak freely. “If they find out what you are doing to that boy, they will throw you out on the street, or worse.”

  “And if you tell them I will see to it that your legs are broken, or worse,” the governess added archly.

  “It makes no difference to me, except that they have been very good to all of us. I don’t give a damn about your crazy Hitler and his party. I have seen them come and go. The Germans, the English, the Reds, and now the Brownshirts, and that, too, will pass. I have cooked for them all, and these Jews are better than most. I think you are sick, Fräulein, sick with hatred.”

  “Shut up, you old maid! You are disgusting. What do you know about anything but cooking? Mind your business or it will go badly for you later. Understand?”

  The square by the old Marin Church was filled with thousands of people and the buildings were draped with red, white, and black Nazi banners. The crowd came to hear Heinrich Himmler and his cronies speak. There were all sorts of people – children, bankers, lawyers, bakers, shop owners, workmen – all dressed in their Sunday clothing. The mood was festive and exhilarating. The very air was charged as if they had come to watch a wonderful event. There was an unmistakable recklessness; the masses were already infected by the nationalistic virus of hate.

  “Germans, defend yourself against the Jewish Atrocities! New Beginnings for a New Germany!”

  Such slogans were displayed everywhere on the square. Just a year ago the crowd was small and indifferent, even often shocked and disgusted, but now they packed the square in support of the new party, the party of hope. The party that made it all so simple and comprehensible: “The Jews – the unclean ones – have sapped the energy of the folk, devouring money, jobs, will. But no more! The vampire will be returned to the dark, with stakes in their hearts!” So screamed the orators from Berlin.

  Springer’s Café was crowded. It was, however, warm enough to sit comfortably outside around one of the charming wrought-iron tables in the square. Each table had a small Nazi flag standing on it. Everywhere there were Germans in the sparkling summer white uniforms of the SS. Some were sitting at the tables.

  When Jonas finished his lemon ice, a tall blond-haired man marched over to the table.

  “Ah, Fräulein, good to see you here today with your charge.”

  “This is Jonas Kruger,” the governess said very proudly.

  Jonas meekly rose from the table, clicked his heels and stretched out his hand.

  “I have heard a lot about you, young man. I am proud of you, but why are you not marching in the parade with the others?”

  “He feels a little under the weather, Herr Reichführer. Otherwise he would march, and gladly. Isn’t that so, Jonas?” He wanted to answer the tall man but just now he felt nauseated and began to sweat as the wrought-iron table began to spin around him as if he was on the ferris wheel at Sopot. Suddenly, Jonas grew very pale, bent over sharply, and vomited unceremoniously all over the table. He wanted to run away from the cafe into the crowd never to be seen again.

  “My little Jonas, too many ices,” the governess said as she gently placed a napkin soaked in ice water on his face.

  “The lad looks ill, Fräulein. Better take him home. Young man, you will get your chance another time,” the German officer said. Jonas felt too ill to rise up from the table to make his customary formal good-byes of hand-shaking, bowing and clicking his heels.

  They swiftly returned to the parked Duesenberg where the chauffeur stood waiting. The crowd by now had greatly increased in number and noise. It had become a seething mass.

  Jonas climbed into the rear seat, perspiring profusely. He leaned against the leather seat, pale and frightened. The governess took hold of his hands, saying, “Your little tummy is upset. We will get you home soon, safe in your own house with Astor. You did not get enough sleep.”

  Fräulein Marlow had never seen the boy ill like this, and she began to feel somewhat uneasy, responsible, even guilty. Perhaps she had gone too far. She reviewed in her mind what they had eaten in the past few days. The boy suddenly lurched forward and vomited again, this time all over the shiny leather interior of the car. He then lay back against the seat holding his hands over his mouth, his efforts absolutely exhausting to him. “We better get back quickly,” she told the Karl-Heinz, but the Duesenberg was unable to make such headway through the crowd.

  “If you have to vomit again,” she told Jonas, “take deep breaths and then hold your breath as long as you can.” She placed her hand on his head, then kissed his wet cheek. With the perfumed scarf she wore around her neck, she wiped his face.

  The crowd was in a frenzy as they heard the speakers on the platform. Jonas, holding his breath, stared blurry-eyed through the closed window as he watched the boys in their uniforms waving flags and shouting, “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  God is punishing me for last night, Jonas thought to himself.

  The chauffeur shouted through his open window, “Let us through! I have a sick child in the car!”

  At last, home was such a welcome haven. Astor led the way up the winding staircase to Jonas’ bedroom. The governess did not have to tell him to get undressed. By the time she had removed her coat and entered the room, Jonas was lying under the duvet, Astor at his feet. His face was flushed and his eyes were half closed. She touched his forehead and said, “You feel warm, my little man.”

  In the medicine cabinet she found the thermometer next to the valerian drops that Lucia used to make her sleep. She placed the thermometer under the boy’s armpit while Astor carefully observed every move.

  “One hundred and three degrees,” she muttered to herself. “I have to sponge you down with alcohol,” the governess said, “and I will call Doctor Citroen.”

  The doctor could not be reached and when she phoned the hotel in Marienbad, she was told that the Krugers were in the mountains on a picnic.

  Jonas fell into a deep sleep while Astor stood by, vigilant at his bedside. The little boy twisted and turned, sweating more and more profusely as his fever soared. He dreamed he was marching in his brown uniform and Ala, standing on the curve of the long street, was applauding. Then a small bearded man – the Rabbi who came every Wednesday to give him Hebrew instruction – broke into a marching phalanx, shaking his finger meaningfully at him.

  “Shande, shande, disgrace,” the Rabbi yelled. “You, a Jewish boy! How dare you march with them?” The Rabbi grabbed Jonas by the neck and dragged him away from the riotously laughing crowd. The Rabbi’s hands were hurting his neck! Help! he cried out to his governess. She was standing beside Bruno enjoying the parade, and she was naked to her waist. Her arms were outstretched, towards him, but not long enough to reach his own small, desperate fingers. Then, he was being pulled from one side by the Rabbi, from the other by Fräulein Marlow, now absolutely naked. Pulled. Torn apart!

  When he suddenly awoke, he was drenched. The concerned governess was wiping his brow.

  “My poor Jonas, you had such a bad dream,” she said softly. “The doctor is on his way over to see you now. It will be all over soon.”

  “I don’t want him to see me,” Jonas said in a tiny voice. “He hurt me last time with all those shots for diphtheria.”

  “Jonas, he has to see you. You’re very sick. He will help you,” the governess said in a pleading tone. “Jonas, do this for me.”

  It was three in the morning when Doctor Citroen arrived. In spite of the hour, he wore a very dark suit and carried an ominous-looking black bag that no doubt contained long syringes for painful injections.

  “How is my friend, Jonas?” the doctor asked cheerfully. As soon as he put one foot in the room Astor lurched at him with bared teeth. He growled and would have attacked the physician if the gentleman had not quickly moved behind the door back into the hallway.

  “Tell A
stor to let the doctor in!” the governess commanded. But nothing she said or threatened changed the boy’s mind.

  “All right,” the doctor finally said in frustration, “sponge him down some more, Fräulein, and give him a tincture of belladonna and the phenobarbital. At least we will quiet him in bed.”

  By morning the fever had dropped, the doctor was long gone and Jonas felt hungry. After a breakfast of applesauce and a soft-boiled egg, Jonas was ready to begin his day. It was as if yesterday had never been.

  “You have to stay in bed. The doctor said so. I reached your parents. They will be home by tomorrow, and then they can fight with you.”

  In the late morning, the Rabbi arrived to give Jonas his Hebrew lesson.

  “You better not go in,” the governess said. “Astor will attack you.”

  “Rubbish.” The Rabbi entered the door. Astor excitedly jumped on him, licking his face with great enthusiasm.

  “You do look sick, Jonas. I guess we will skip vocabulary and letters today, but I will read you a story by one of the great Jewish writers, a man called Sholom Aleichem.”

  Jonas fell asleep as the Rabbi finished the tale. When he awoke, it was late afternoon, and to amuse himself Jonas tore open the pillowcase and tossed the feathers into the air. Soon the room was so covered with feathers that it looked like a chicken-coop. He crawled out of bed and went into the library, Astor at his side, climbing the ladder leading to the forbidden books.

  As he was about to pull out the volume with pictures of naked women in Africa, the governess stormed into the library.

  “Get back into bed! You are really a bad boy. Don’t you see enough of naked women?” she admonished.

  As soon as Jonas was back in bed he began to vomit again, and once more his temperature began to rise. When Doctor Citroen arrived he again saw a very angry dog standing between him and a very sick boy lying in the bed.

  “I have to get to him. Call the chauffeur and get a net. We have to get the dog out, even if we have to shoot it; otherwise, I am afraid for the boy’s life.”