The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  And now, Eleanor and her grandchildren spent time on the weekends with Helen at that horrible nursing home. It was her son in law’s responsibility to visit his aunt, she thought. It was not right that it reduced the time the family spent with her, on the only two days they weren’t at work or school. She had refused to be dragged along to the Home. The place depressed her. All those old people, drooling and being pushed in wheelchairs, or wandering aimlessly, half undressed, around the hallways. She would never end up in a place like that. Her husband had left her enough money to be able to stay in the apartment, hopefully until she died. If the money ran out before then or she needed to be cared for, she would live with Eleanor and her family in their house. She was certain of that. Her daughter would recognize her responsibility. Just as Mrs. Fessler had taken devoted care of her mother in the Silver Spring apartment, watching tv with her, giving her manicures, and supervising the day and night shift nursing assistants. It had been such a companionable time for the two of them. Helga recognized that to enjoy her daughter’s company now, in the manner Helga wanted and not the crumbs of attention she was supposed to accept gratefully, required her to continue to manufacture reasons or occasions for the two of them to be together.

  Her mind drifted back to the lunch and tea with Eleanor and Amy last Sunday. She had taken down her fine Rosenthal china tea set, carefully washing it by hand in the morning, setting the table for their return from the French restaurant not too far from her apartment house. The service had been attentive and properly deferential, without being intrusive. She had appreciated that, although she thought the food had been pedestrian. She had enjoyed herself, telling Amy about the glorious days in Vienna between the two World Wars. Her mother had been quite the beauty, much sought after at dances and dinner parties.

  She remembered the photo studio, where her mother had gone to have her portrait taken, bringing Helga along, pointing out the portraits of famous people hanging on the walls, Counts and Countesses, Cabinet Ministers, actresses and powerful financiers, including her husband’s employer. And her mother was having her portrait taken by the same photographer. Actually, it had been one of his assistants, but it was in the same studio. And the famous photographer himself had dropped by to meet her and, after kissing her mother’s hand, had even greeted Helga, with a slight bow from the waist. She had been about nine at the time. Helga had told Amy all of this, recalling the details as if it had been yesterday. Amy had been enthralled. Helga could see that. What young girl wouldn’t be? However, Helga couldn’t understand Eleanor’s reaction. Impatient, almost to the point of being impolite, trying to manipulate the conversation to the time when Helga had fled Vienna in 1938 and the dreadful years before her family had arrived in the United States. Why would Amy want to hear about that? What were they teaching in school these days? Her granddaughter had told her she was reading a book about a young Jewish girl hiding with a Danish family during the war. Her class was going on a trip to the Holocaust Museum. Didn’t any of these educators with their university degrees realize children had to be protected from such awful experiences and not deliberately exposed to them?

  Helga noticed she was passing UDC, her landmark before Van Ness. She changed lanes without signaling, oblivious to the screech of tires behind her, turned right on Van Ness and drove up the hill toward the Embassy. She knew she would have to tell her granddaughter about the family’s escape from Europe. Eleanor had insisted it was necessary for Amy’s school project. She would have to collect her thoughts and organize the story in such a way that it would be suitable for Amy. Not now. She was going to enjoy her outing. She acknowledged, with a slight nod, the junior staff person who held the door open for her, handed her coat to another more junior Embassy employee, and mingled with people. They were mostly widows, like herself, and regulars to these lectures. She found a seat toward the front where she could see and hear better.

  The lecturer was a pencil thin, studious blond young man in his thirties, with the complexion of a peach. Too young, she thought, to be a professor from the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. The lights dimmed and the first slide was of the Vienna Opera House, quickly followed by buildings she knew from her childhood, the Schoenbrunn Palace, the Parliament and Stefan’s Dom. All she had to hear was his reference to the fate of Schiele’s art in Nazi occupied Vienna, and her mind went into freefall through the dark door she deliberately kept locked and barred. She tumbled, against her will, into the room filled with memories of the constant fear of capture and extermination by the Nazis and her family’s perilous flight through Europe.

  It had started when she was only 12 years old, living an upper class life in Vienna, with parents who didn’t even think of themselves as Jewish. It had ended almost five years later in New York City after a dangerous, hard journey through Europe where her birth religion was a death sentence. Her family had been lucky. They had survived. In retrospect, they had always moved on just before the borders closed, the Germans invaded, or the local fascists, as willing accomplices for the Nazis, had rounded up the Jews for deportation to concentration camps. Or killed them outright.

  Besides luck, her father had been clever. Shortly after Anshluss in March 1938, anticipating that the Nazis would bring their Nuremburg laws and impose them on the Jews of Austria, he had liquidated their assets, opened a Swiss bank account, and become a partner in a Hungarian trading company. That money, together with her mother’s jewelry, which was sold when needed, had given them the means to pay for their travel and bribe officials when necessary, all across occupied Europe.

  They had stayed in Budapest for about a year and a half, living quite well and leaving for Romania in November 1939, before Hungary entered the war on the side of Germany. After a short stay in Bucharest, they had hurriedly fled the country through a port on the Black Sea before Romania had sealed its borders and cracked down on what it called the Bolshevik Jewish population. They had spent almost ten peaceful months in Istanbul living in the Balat Section, one of the old Jewish quarters on the western shore of the Golden Horn before leaving by freighter, west across the Mediterranean, to Genoa and Marseilles. This was the time of the Phony War, while Germany digested Poland and planned its invasion of the Low Countries and France. They had arrived in Marseilles, a month before France surrendered and Marshall Petain formed his Vichy Government. Her father had taken them to Annecy, near the Swiss border in hopes of getting asylum in Switzerland because he had a Swiss bank account. When it had become clear that the Swiss were more fond of Jewish money than Jews and the border was closed to them, they had begun a perilous trip by car through Vichy France, across the border with Spain and finally arriving in Lisbon in July 1941. Ultimately, they had left Europe for good in April 1942, bound for the United States.

  Helga decided this much she would tell Amy, and perhaps the story of her father’s arrest and how they had lived in Budapest. She had never told Eleanor, and she certainly would not tell Amy, about Uncle Rudolf and Aunt Sophia, their Rumanian relatives. Nor how Rudolf, an alcoholic, an inveterate gambler and cheat, had convinced her father to take him and his family with them, and how his dissolute life had cost all of them dearly. Some stories were best left untold. She wished she could forget them but they would at least die with her.

  Helga vaguely heard the lecturer referring to Gustav Klimt as Schiele’s mentor in Vienna. Instead of drawing her away from her bad memories, his comment made them more vivid. She knew for certain the date her father had been arrested. It was May 8, 1938, the day she won the French language award in her school. She had been describing the ceremony to her mother, when one of her father’s employees had called. Her father had been publicly taken by the Gestapo, in the middle of the afternoon, from his office on the RingStrasse near the StadtPark. Helga’s mother, frantically called her husband’s attorney. Insisting on an immediate appointment, she rushed down to meet with Herr Doktor Otto Klausner. Helga had never been clear on the details. She only knew that after several telephone calls, Dr.
Klausner, who had represented the German Embassy for years, was informed that her father would be released that night on the condition that he leave Austria within 24 hours. Nothing else could be done and his release itself was miraculous because he was a Jew. Her father had gone back to his office to ‘wind up his affairs,’ leaving her mother and Helga to pack. Her mother had been distraught, overwhelmed by the task of deciding what to take and what to leave.

  The next morning they had abandoned their spacious apartment, leaving behind massive, dark carved wood antique furniture, oriental rugs, most of their clothing, her mother’s fine china, crystal and silverware, and the paintings they had hanging on the walls in heavy, ornate plaster gilt frames. All had been left in the care of Frau Rosa, the family cook and servant, who had lived with them for as long as Helga could remember. Poor, distraught, diminutive Frau Rosa had been up all night helping them get ready, her grey hair pulled back in a bun, with wisps straying like frayed wool at her temples. Helga remembered the poor woman had alternately wailed and bowed as they left, swearing that she would maintain the apartment exactly as they had left it until they returned.

  They had taken a taxi to the Bahnhof and boarded the morning train for Budapest, her father carrying his black, locked briefcase, wearing a dark blue three piece suit with the gold watch fob and key to the briefcase, stretched across his prosperous stomach. They each had one suitcase and her mother kept her oxblood leather jewelry case on her lap for the entire journey. They traveled first class in their own compartment, her father quietly contemplative, her mother nervous and distraught. Helga remembered how frightened her mother had been when the train had stopped at the border, expecting either the Austrian border guards to haul them off, or the Hungarian soldiers to deny them entry. Her father, exuding just the proper mix of confidence and politeness, had produced their passports. His was Czech. Theirs were Austrian.

  The appropriate stamps were imprinted on the watermarked pages, and they had entered Hungary as easily as if they were going on vacation.

  For Helga, but for the terror of having to leave immediately, and her mother’s frenetic behavior, it was like a vacation. They arrived at the Hotel Szent Gellert, in old Buda on the west side of the Danube, an impressive, solid multi-story stone building, with thick rich rugs in the lobby and uniformed doormen, bellmen, desk clerks, elevator operators and maids everywhere, bowing and greeting them obsequiously. Her father had reserved a suite, with a spacious sitting room and bedroom. Both rooms, with their floor to ceiling windows, had a magnificent view of the Danube. The next morning, despite his wife’s pleas, not to be left alone, Helga’s father went out to attend to business in the financial and banking district. He instructed his wife to enjoy herself and take Helga somewhere educational.

  Instead, her mother had called room service and the two of them spent the entire day barricaded in the suite, her mother afraid to venture out. She had talked incessantly to Helga, as an adult, although she was only twelve at the time, about how could this have happened to them. They knew important people, they attended balls and concerts, went to the Vienna Opera and the New Years Eve Ball at the Opera House, to which only the finest people were invited; they could not be lumped together with the Jews from the shetls, or those who were simple shop keepers, or rag collectors, or coal cart haulers; her family came from Bratislava where, for one hundred years, they had been newspaper publishers; her aunt was married to an Austrian Count, who had been in the court of Emperor Franz Josef before the war. There must be some mistake. The Germans, who themselves were cultured, although not to the same degree as the Austrians with their long history of art, literature, music, opera, Mozart and Strauss, she said in an aside, didn’t understand Viennese society. She went on and on, alternately assuring herself that it had been a mistake and they would receive a telegram to return to Vienna.

  No. The authorities would send tickets for them to return, along with a lengthy apology. Or, the Nazis would be in Budapest within the month and all was lost and what would become of them.

  Her father was furious when he returned to the Hotel and found his wife in such a state, having remained hidden in the rooms the entire day. It was the first time she had seen him lose his temper with her mother. Helga was afraid he was going to slap her. “You stupid, foolish woman,” he repeated over and over again. Then, he ordered her to get dressed for dinner. They had dined in a fancy restaurant overlooking the Danube, where a violinist in a tuxedo had played a Strauss waltz especially for them. Back at the Hotel, he deliberately strolled to the mezzanine overlooking the hot thermal pool, exclusively for use by the guests. Returning to their suite, he ordered a brandy and a cigar and explained what the family would do.

  Tomorrow, his ladies would go shopping. They would buy bathing suits for taking the thermal waters at the Hotel Spa. They would go to the Castle Quarter or the Danube Promenade, if the weather permitted, or if it did not, they would go a Museum, St. Stephan’s Basilica, the Matthias Church, or even the Dohany Street Synagogue. He didn’t care where they went, so long as each day, Helga and her mother did something cultural and exciting. He had business to attend to, but would be back in the evening when they would all go to dinner. When her mother had protested and said they were refugees, her father had become angry again. There were many things she had never understood, business and politics being two of them. Those were his responsibilities, he said. He was a financier, a middleman doing business in goods, lumber and turpentine from Austria, sugar, dessert wines and brandies from Hungary, food stuffs and petroleum from Romania, fine soaps, perfumes and wines from France. These products were still in demand. He had business connections in Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest, Paris and Berlin. Vienna and Berlin were closed to him. The other capitals were not. While it seemed that Germany, under Herr Hitler, might provoke a war, there was no war yet, he said with optimism.

  “But the Nazis are in Austria,” Helga’s mother had protested. “We’ve lost everything. How long can we live in this hotel in Hungary?” Her father had smiled, a kind of knowing, self congratulatory smirk. “We haven’t lost everything. We’ve lost what we had in the apartment and the little cash I left in the bank.” Helga hadn’t understood everything but she grasped, from what her father told them, he had anticipated the Nazis would confiscate the property of Austrian Jews. Between March and May he had transferred money to a Swiss bank account and become a partner in a Hungarian trading firm. That firm would carry on the business of his now defunct Austrian company. He himself had been born in a Hungarian part of Austria. Hungarian was his first language. He had, in his briefcase, stock certificates which could either be cashed in or become equity in his Hungarian business. And that company would continue to be profitable and he would share in those profits. The Nazi laws prohibiting Jews from being partners with Aryans, or doing business, or owning stock, did not apply in Hungary. They would stay in Hungary. He would find a nice furnished apartment for them and he would continue to work and earn money. They would hire tutors for Helga and they would wait and see what would happen. In the meantime, he demanded that his wife act properly in a dignified manner that reflected well on him, and not sneak around as if she were compelled to wear the yellow Star of David on her fine winter coat.

  And that was how they lived, in relative luxury and calm for the next fifteen months, while the Jewish communities in Austria were decimated. Then, in September 1939, Germany invaded Poland and her father had been forced to make other plans.

  They left Hungary for Bucharest where her father had other business contacts. Helga’s mother also had relatives in Romania, although they had never been close. Helga had once overheard her parents talking about Uncle Rudolf and his wife, Sophie. Her mother’s tone had been contemptuous of her aunt, and venomous in describing her uncle’s bad habits. Perhaps, because of what her mother had said, when they first met, Helga had been repulsed by her uncle kissing and patting her affectionately.

  Uncle Rudolf was almost forty. He was waiting for them
at the Gara de Nord, Bucharest’s main railway station. He had a face like a ruined Greek or Roman temple. One could see how well proportioned and handsome it must have been when it was first built, by the remnants of what was left. He still had a high forehead and square jaw. His mustache, which must have given him a dashing air as an officer in the Austro-Hungarian Army in the First World War, set off his sensuous lips. His eyebrows were straight, not arched and just the right distance apart, bushy lintels for his dark, penetrating black eyes. With age, and, according to Helga’s mother, his bad habits, his head appeared too large for his thin neck. The flesh under his chin sagged like the dewlap of a cow. Helga had disliked his habit of constantly smoothing the hairs of his mustache under his nostrils and using the same hand when he patted her cheeks or touched her. She hadn’t liked the way he had looked at her mother’s jewelry box or her father’s fine suit, as if appraising them for their cash value. She had been especially uncomfortable when he had studied her in the same way. At the time, she had been too young to understand what his look meant.

  They had stayed in Bucharest less than a month. The Government, virulently anti-Soviet, regarded Romanian Jews as Bolsheviks and foreign Jews as worse. When they left for Istanbul, they had been accompanied by Uncle Rudolf, Aunt Sophie, their son, Karl, his wife, Bianca and their three year old boy, Ignatz.

  Helga’s lasting impression of Istanbul was of the graceful minarets of the mosques. They had been so strange and oriental and Moslem and yet the family had been safer here than in the old capitals of Europe with their more familiar and imposing Catholic and Protestant cathedrals. Turkey, in early 1940, was a refuge for Jews fleeing Europe. It was a reprise of the Ottoman Empire’s compassionate policy of welcoming the Jews expelled from Spain almost 450 years earlier. Helga’s father could have decided to sit out the war in Turkey. But the pull of Europe was too strong for him. Perhaps it was the hope that they would be accepted in Switzerland. After all, there was her father’s Zurich bank account. Whatever the reason, they made the decision to leave the safe haven of Turkey and take a ship across the Mediterranean to France. And cunning Uncle Rudolf, who was living off her father, persuaded him to take his family with them. Helga never understood her father’s decision. Since she and her parents lived downstairs from them, even Helga knew that Rudolf and Karl frequently came home to their own apartment, late at night, noisily drunk and rowdy. They boasted of how they had cheated this one or fleeced that fool at cards.