“A little,” I answered hopefully.
After a while he found what he was looking for and pushed the newspaper over toward me, without saying a word. It was half a page, at least. I read and read; there was no end. And the older gentleman just sat there the entire time and watched me.
Who will sponsor Jewish sisters from a good family, 14 and 16 years old?
Unmarried Jewish woman, 34, teacher, seeking any household position, gardening, child care, in exchange for room and board.
Urgent! Married couple, Jewish, mid-40s, academics, still in Vienna, seeking any kind of work.
Who will make it possible for a young man, 22, to emigrate to England…
And on and on and on.
When I had finished reading, I didn’t have to ask anything else. “Those are notices that land on English breakfast tables every morning,” said the older man. “I’m sorry I had to show them to you, but I think it’s better if you know what you’re dealing with.”
“But,” I started, but my voice faded. My hand lifted in an almost accusing gesture that took in the room, the piano player, the violinist, the fancy cakes, all the people at the tables. I stood up. Suddenly I was filled with so much rage that I just wanted to get out. It was as if I could see directly into the rooms of the people who had placed the announcements, people who were trapped, like my parents and Bekka’s parents, like Aunt Ruth and Uncle Eric, and waited desperately for help.
“Go to the Jewish Refugee Committee,” said the man. “To the Red Cross. To the church. To the prime minister. Knock on the doors of the biggest houses, maybe someone there needs help. But you should speak good English if you do that. You have to make a very good impression; they’ll judge your family by what they see of you. You know,” he said, suddenly smiling, “I think you might just manage it.”
“Thank you for the hot chocolate,” I muttered.
“Come by again! I’m Professor Julius Schueler, and you’ll always find me at this table at about this time of day.”
Back through the streets. It seemed to take all my energy to set one foot in front of the other. Had I been unfair to the old professor? I turned on my heels and ran back. Professor Schueler was just paying and putting on his coat. He smiled when he saw me.
“The addresses,” I panted, “of the Red Cross. Of the prime minister. Do you have them?”
“Of course,” he said calmly. “We all do.”
“Mum says you’re working really hard at learning English,” Gary said. We sat by my window and searched the dark night sky for the first three stars, which meant the end of Shabbat. “She’s very impressed by your progress.”
“And you?” I asked sassily.
“Me? I have great hopes! Now we only have to look up every third word. Soon it will be a real pleasure to have a conversation with you!”
“Do you want to know a secret?” I asked. “I wrote to the prime minister this week.”
“You wrote… you mean Mr. Chamberlain?”
Now he was amazed! “Yes, that’s his name,” I answered with satisfaction. “He should help me get visas for my parents. But don’t tell anyone!”
Gary said, “I have a secret too. And this you really can’t tell anyone else, otherwise there’ll be a disaster. My parents think I’m going to the university this summer. But I’m not going. I’m taking the entrance exam for the Royal Navy.”
I looked at him questioningly. He reached for one of the little model ships on the shelf next to the desk. “If they take me, then I’ll be a soldier on a ship. If there’s a war, I want to fight Hitler. He should pay for everything he’s done to the Jews.” His face took on a hard look.
“War?” I repeated, shocked. There it was again, that word that had already been mentioned in Mrs. Collins’s office.
“Yes, don’t you know? This week the Germans marched into Czechoslovakia. First Austria, then Czechoslovakia, and what will be next? Poland, maybe? Holland? Belgium? Jews live everywhere over there. The world will pull together and help them. Soon they won’t have any choice. And then there will be war.”
I was speechless. I had never thought of it that way. I had always thought of war as something terrible, frightening, something my father didn’t want to talk about even twenty years later. But what Gary said made me see it in an entirely different light. Suddenly I could see the whole world before me, setting itself into motion to help the Jews. Little black troops marched like ants from every direction over a big, round globe like the one that had stood in Papa’s office and met in Germany, until there was nothing visible but a united, determined, seething mass that suffocated Hitler beneath it.
And then we could all go back: Professor Schueler, Thomas and me, Walter Glücklich and the Seydenstickers. My father wouldn’t have to work as a butler and my mother wouldn’t have to be a cook. We would get our apartment back and no one, no one, would have to be afraid of a knocking at the door in the night.
A thought raced through my mind: Why would all these countries that didn’t want to take in Jews who were in desperate need come to our aid?
But just as quickly it occurred to me that if they conquered Hitler, they wouldn’t have to take us in. They wouldn’t even have to be inconvenienced by all our letters and emigration petitions anymore, because we could just stay in Germany! It was best for everyone that Hitler disappear. Of course they would help us.
And Gary, my brother Gary, would be part of it!
“One, two, three!” he counted, pointing to the stars that all of a sudden blinked from the heavens. “Let’s go! Time for the havdalah!”
I already knew that I played a not unimportant role in the havdalah ceremony that marked the end of Shabbat. As the youngest child in the family, I held the candle with a certain pride as the blessing was said over it. And just as the Sabbath had begun with the greeting “Shabbat shalom,” I knew the words used to wish each other a good week as it ended: “Shavua tov!” I had the feeling I was going to have a special need for that blessing in the coming week. On Monday, right after the lunch break at school, I wanted to start knocking on doors and asking about positions for my parents.
I was glad when Gary leaned over and whispered something in my ear that immediately distracted me: “There’s another secret!”
“What?” I whispered eagerly, stealing a glance at his parents.
Gary placed a finger on his lips and pulled me up the stairs to his room. On the way he pulled a small book from the living room bookshelves. When he opened it, I looked at the countless Hebrew characters, bewildered. “This is a Haggadah, the Pessach ritual,” he explained. “Passover is celebrated about the same time of year that you celebrate Easter, because it’s the ritual that Jesus conducted the night before his death.”
“Jesus?” I repeated. “What does Jesus have to do with a Jewish holiday?”
Now it was Gary’s turn to be dumbfounded. “What else should he have celebrated, as a Jewish man?” I was thunderstruck. “Do you mean you don’t know that Jesus was Jewish?” Gary asked. “He was a rabbi from Galilea and did a lot of good things. We Jews just don’t believe that he’s the Messiah we’re waiting for.”
All I could do was silently shake my head. I couldn’t believe it. Jesus, a Jew! Even my religion teacher in Berlin surely didn’t know that, otherwise he would have mentioned it at some point! I’d heard often enough that the Jews had killed Jesus, but never that he had been one of them, of us. “You mean he did all these things that you do?” I asked excitedly. “And what’s this Hagga thing?” I asked eagerly.
“With this Hagga thing you’ll learn your part for the Seder. You have exactly two weeks.”
“For what?”
He grinned. “For a huge surprise. Your first official solo in Hebrew!”
Chapter 8
A Cinema Surprise
I listened for my letter as it fell through the slot, slid down, and landed in the big red mailbox with a soft thud. It had taken me a whole week to write. The letters to the prime mini
ster, the Refugee Committee, the Red Cross, and the Anglican Church asking for help for my parents practically wrote themselves, but the first letter to Mamu since she told me about the situation with Bekka turned out to be really hard. What I put in the mailbox must have been the seventh or eighth version, and it had so many pages that I had to use double the usual postage. And still, as soon as the envelope disappeared through the letter slot, I had the feeling that I’d made yet another mistake.
The first two pages consisted of a glowing, enthusiastic description of my life in London: how comfortable my room was, that I looked forward to school every morning, got to wear a uniform, and was practically the teacher’s right hand; that in England, Jews were not only allowed to go to the movies, but the Shepards actually owned a movie theater called the Elysee, and had equipment to set up a portable theater too! I had even thought to slip in a word of English here and there, as if I was already starting to forget German.
But the part that I hoped would get under Mamu’s skin the most were the pages about my host mother.
You asked me to describe Mrs. Shepard. That’s impossible! I could write that she has brown hair, green eyes, and a pretty face, but that doesn’t mean much, does it? Imagine someone who’s just extraordinary, speaks English, Hebrew, and Yiddish, and has an answer for everything because she knows more than 600 laws. I already mentioned that the Shepards are Orthodox, didn’t I? [I knew full well I had done no such thing!] And even though Orthodox life is so complicated, Mrs. Shepard always has time for me.
Last week, for example, we were downtown because the things I brought with me from Berlin are getting so worn out already. I was allowed to pick out what I wanted myself, and Mrs. Shepard really enjoyed shopping for me. My English lessons are fun too. We are reading a book together, out loud, so I learn the words and the sound of them. I hope I’ll have as pretty a voice as hers someday.
Mrs. Shepard wants to ask if it would be okay with you if she says a Jewish bedtime prayer with me at night. It’s a lovely prayer to keep away bad dreams and ugly thoughts, and it really helps! I haven’t had any bad dreams for weeks now! I told Mrs. Shepard you definitely wouldn’t have anything against the prayer when I wrote you that Jesus was Jewish! You didn’t know that either, right? Otherwise you would have told me that we actually belong to Jesus twice, even more than ordinary Christians.
Please say yes! It’s so lovely when Mrs. Shepard sits on my bed, lays her hand on mine, and says the prayer.
That was a lie. Mrs. Shepard had never placed her hand on mine, only on the bedspread once.
My letter ended with the news that Gary was teaching me the questions, the ones the youngest child in every Jewish family asked at the Passover Seder supper. I would practice every day for the next two weeks so nothing would go wrong. Gary’s grandparents were coming for Pesach, and they were supposed to be very strict. And now Mrs. Shepard and I were going to a café together, just like Mamu and Bekka.
Mrs. Shepard had no idea she was supposed to have invited me to a café with her. Sunday and Monday were her nursing home days, and she wouldn’t even notice that I got home from school late because I had been scouring the neighborhood for work for my parents.
As I stood in front of the mailbox and had already put my letter in, and it was too late to take it back, it occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned even a single word about the petition letters I had written and the door-to-door campaign I was about to begin for them! And I had completely forgotten Papa. I hadn’t even asked how he was doing, not once. He would be so disappointed in me! And Mamu wouldn’t be jealous, just angry, when she read my letter.
I clenched my teeth as I stepped through the first garden gate. The house had a large front yard that might offer something for a gardener, and looked more well-to-do than the houses in Harrington Grove. An impressive car was parked at the curb. The heavy, melodious sounds of the doorbell sounded elegant. I was intimidated even before the door opened.
But the young woman wearing a white kitchen apron who stood before me looked quite friendly. I took a deep breath and recited my memorized speech: “Excuse me, need you a help in the house? My mother is very good cook and sewer and my father a servant or gardenman or…” Thinking on my feet, I pointed toward the car in front of the house and improvised, “carman. You can buy them without money, only for bed and food.”
The young woman smiled, shook her head, tapped herself on the chest, and said something I didn’t understand. I was so confused, I forgot my next lines, and had to pull the paper from my coat pocket and read from it. “My parents are in Germany. They are very clean and educationed.”
The young woman shook her head again, spoke, and tapped on her own chest again. Suddenly I understood: She was the cook in this house! I looked at my paper, said “Thank you for your time,” and ran away as fast as my feet could carry me.
I didn’t stop until I reached the end of the street. I looked back and, despite the rejection, I felt triumph well inside me. Ha! I had actually done it! My first house! That hadn’t been so bad. Just two months ago I had pressed myself against walls and hidden in entryways—now I could just go up to a stranger’s door and ring the bell! I could hardly wait to go to the next house.
Everything went unexpectedly quickly. I said, “Excuse me,” and the door was already shut again. I didn’t even have time to find out if a man or a woman had opened it! I decided the next time someone opened a door for me, I would smile at them in a friendly way for a few seconds before I said anything.
I practiced the smile as I walked. Someone smiled back. With this encouragement, I rang the bell at the next house. The door was opened by an older man in slippers, and before I had uttered a single word I was invited in: “Come in, dear! Have a cup of tea!”
This was getting better and better! I was already in the house, and now the people would surely listen to what I had to say! Excited, I looked around me. The living room was small and dark, stuffed full of furniture, books, and at least a dozen cats. There were blankets, pillows, and baskets everywhere, and used dishes and cups too. In short: The house was perfect! A housekeeper was desperately needed! The old man busied himself with the teapot.
“My name is Frances,” I introduced myself, but only when I held a cup in my hand. “Need you a help in the house?”
The gentleman lowered himself into a wing chair. Cats came from all directions to crawl onto his lap or chest, and I watched as he almost disappeared under purring cat fur, all the while answering my question. He talked, called, and coughed, occasionally waved his arms about, pounded on the arms of his chair, and laughed in a croaking voice.
After about two minutes I started to think about Professor Schueler. “Wait with your visits until you understand more English,” he had advised me, and if I had been smart enough to listen to him, I would have at least understood what I had done to launch this man into such a state of excitement!
It was when the old man stood up, went to a cupboard, and pulled out a photo album that I realized he hadn’t understood a word of what I was trying to say to him.
“My mother is cook!” I tried once more.
“You hungry?” he yelled, and fell back onto the couch next to me with the album.
“No! My parents look work!”
It was pointless. The poor old man was deaf as a stone. We bent over the photo album together and all the cats came over to join us on the sofa.
Professor Schueler thought that for a beginner, I had done quite well. Although I hadn’t managed to get a domestic permit for my parents yet, I was gaining a lot of experience in knocking at strangers’ doors.
“But since then I’ve been to so many doors,” I protested, “and all of them either have someone or don’t want anyone. My mother could have a job as a cleaning lady right away, but only for a few hours a week, and that’s not enough to get a visa. I just have to find bigger houses. Really wealthy houses!”
“I don’t understand why you don’t ask your host family for he
lp,” Professor Schueler remarked. “They’re very good to you, aren’t they?”
That’s just the point, I thought gloomily.
“You say they own a movie theater? That means they come into contact with a lot of people. Surely they could keep their ears open for you.”
“It’s a pretty small theater,” I muttered.
But Professor Schueler, who sat at his usual place at the window and had already ordered me another cup of hot chocolate, just continued to brainstorm all kinds of ways the Shepards could do something for my parents. But I was too timid to ask the Shepards, who were already doing so much for me, to do even more.
The last two days had made it abundantly clear to me that I wouldn’t be able to do it. All the houses near my school had already been canvassed. I would have to expand my search, but how could I do that without anyone noticing? So I had gathered all my courage and asked Mrs. Shepard, “Do you have a bicycle?”
“Of course! We have Gary’s old bike!” she answered immediately. “Come, let’s go right now and look!”
The bicycle stood in the shed, slightly rusted and with flat tires, but otherwise perfect. And when I came home from school the next day, there it was in front of the house waiting for me, cleaned up and repaired and with a new bell. I tried it out under Mrs. Shepard’s watchful eyes, riding in a circle, then without hands, then in some wild curves, showing off my skills, and found her all the more worried when I stopped in front of the gate. “You have to promise that you’ll ride carefully,” she warned. “We’ve only borrowed you from your parents and we have to be absolutely certain that they get you back in one piece.”
Borrowed! What was she trying to say? I had only borrowed a few things myself, but all of them had been things I had been curious about and would have liked to have owned myself. Valuable things. How could anyone want to borrow me?
Borrowed! Congratulations, you’ve been borrowed! You’re valuable!
My Family for the War Page 10