The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  Uncle Rudolf’s family was not in any danger in Istanbul. It was not a question of abandoning relatives to Nazi extermination. But she was too young to think of questioning her father’s decision. Her mother didn’t object. She was too nervous and distraught from having her world, as an assimilated Viennese Jew, collapse.

  Before they left Istanbul, in April 1940, by freighter to Genoa, the women sewed Helga’s mother’s jewelry into their clothing for the journey. Each woman had some garments with the hidden stones, although Helga and her mother had the most valuable jewels in theirs. The next seven months were marked by periods of boredom of slow travel, alternating with moments of sheer terror, at ports and border crossings and arbitrary checkpoints, wherever they had to show their papers. The close quarters, made Helga, then age 14, privy to her parents’ discussions. They treated her more as an adult than they would have had they still been living in Vienna. Her mother believed that Aunt Sophie had told Uncle Rudolf which pieces of clothing held the most valuable jewelry. Helga’s mother was constantly afraid that Rudolf would steal her clothing. She was too blinded by her fear to see that Rudolf’s constant handling and squeezing and hugging of Helga had a far more devious immoral purpose than feeling for the jewels in her shoulder pads.

  Her father believed, as a Swiss bank account holder, he and at least his wife and daughter could enter Switzerland from Vichy France. Helga thought her father would have left Uncle Rudolf behind if necessary. Perhaps Rudolf had thought so too. It never came to the test. Instead, the Swiss refused entry to any Jews, account holders or not. They were all trapped together in Annecy. Even worse, Vichy France decreed that foreign Jews, as distinguished from French Jews, were not entitled to exemption from the Nazi’s racial laws. Vichy France was no longer safe for them. Her father determined they should go to Spain. Uncle Rudolf suggested her father buy a used car because traveling by train would be risky. Only Uncle Rudolf and Karl knew how to drive. From the time they left Annecy, Uncle Rudolf was in control. Helga’s father was compelled to give him money to bribe someone for petrol, or repairs for their black Citroen, or information on the best route south, always paying, but never knowing how much Rudolf kept for himself.

  For Helga, her real nightmare began once they left Annecy. She was the only one who spoke French. She had to accompany Uncle Rudolf when he went to buy petrol. She was the one who went into the little hotels in small towns and asked for directions, while Uncle Rudolf waited outside. She had to enter a store in a disreputable part of a town and try to sell jewelry and bring the francs back to Uncle Rudolf, parked somewhere near by. Although she knew the amounts received and told her father, somehow Rudolf always managed to keep some money for himself. Sometimes, they would leave the family in one town and drive together to isolated farmhouses, to buy cheese or vegetables. At each of these stops, Rudolf would ask her to inquire if there was wine or brandy for sale. Sometimes, Helga wouldn’t ask and would lie and say there was none. But when they came to farmhouses where there were empty bottles outside on a table, she couldn’t avoid it. Their precious francs would change hands and the wine would be opened for dinner. Rudolf and Karl would finish the bottle off later that night.

  When everyone was in the car together, Helga sat in the back next to Bianca, who held Ignatz on her lap. But on the occasions when she was alone with Uncle Rudolf, she had to sit in the passenger seat up front, leaning against the door as far away from him as possible. It seemed he manufactured reasons to drive alone with “his beautiful little translator” as he called her. When she had protested a trip to this town or that place was unnecessary, Rudolf had always succeeded in convincing her father, oblivious to the danger to her, that it was. At first, he had simply tried to charm her with stories of his exploits in the First World War. Later, again to impress her, he told her of his glittering life in Bucharest, attending parties and balls, his success at the gambling tables of elegant casinos, triumphing over rich White Russians, many of them exiled nobles from the court of the Czar. Finally, he had told her of the beautiful women he had met, reaching across the gearshift, to pat her knee, explaining that she too would some day grow up to be such a beautiful woman. His talk, as was his touching her, was always done or couched in a way that he could deny any accusation of impropriety she might make. Helga was terrified not of what he might deny but of what he might do. She sensed he was assessing her defenses or her willingness and waiting for the right moment. Given his alcoholism, she feared that he would assault her when he was drunk.

  By January 1941, through some miracle, they had reached Barcelona. They had paid a huge bribe to Spanish border guards to escape from France. Once across, Helga felt tremendously relieved. Her translation services would no longer be needed. There would be no more trips alone with Uncle Rudolf. She was fifteen years old and very much aware that Uncle Rudolf openly stared at her developing body. They lived in a cheap hotel, she, her mother and father in one room, and Uncle Rudolf, Aunt Sophie, Karl, Bianca and Ignatz in the one adjacent to theirs. At night, she could hear through the thin walls, Aunt Sophie crying and the ripping sound of cloth, as Rudolf searched for more hidden jewelry to sell. The money he got for Helga’s mother’s jewels was spent on wine for him and Karl, or gambled away in the cheap bars along the dank, smelly wharves.

  One night, after a few weeks in Barcelona, Helga was shocked awake by a pounding on their door. Her first instinct was it was the Gestapo because the man was yelling in German for them to open up. It took her a moment to recognize Rudolf’s voice. He collapsed into the room, reeking of cheap wine and sweat, his face bruised and bloody, sobbing, falling on his knees, begging Helga’s father to help him, that they must leave immediately, get out of Barcelona. Get away now. The commotion brought Aunt Sophie and Bianca into their room, Bianca holding Ignatz, half asleep in her arms. Her mother boiled water while Aunt Sophie wiped the blood off her husband’s face with a towel. He and Karl had been attacked by a gang of toughs outside a bar, robbed of their money, Karl had been stabbed and was dead and Rudolf had barely escaped with his life. Bianca had let out a soft sob and collapsed against the door frame. Rudolf, calmer now, insisted that they leave in the morning, for where, he had no idea. Helga’s father wasn’t convinced. If Rudolf and Karl had been assaulted, why was it necessary to flee? Rudolf and Karl had been victims, not criminals. Rudolf moaned, through his swollen lips, that they didn’t speak Spanish, the young men who had done this probably were from Barcelona and the police would side with them. Even in his panicked state, Rudolf shrewdly played on her father’s fears. Since they were all refugees, the Spanish police, especially voracious against Jews, who they knew from experience had escaped with what gold and diamonds they could carry, would take everything from all of them, leaving them destitute with no resources to continue on.

  Her father finally agreed and they had left hurriedly in the early dawn, the sun just coming up over the harbor where Karl had been killed. Helga sat in the back next to Bianca, her face grey and drawn with sudden grief, clutching Ignatz to her, the little boy drowsing after his sleepless night. Helga’s father had determined they would go to Portugal, which had meant driving through the heart of Spain. After one day’s drive, the engine developed a whining, high pitched sound. Her father thought that since they were still near the French border, people might understand, if not speak French. He insisted that Rudolf and Helga drive ahead and find a garage where they could get the car fixed. Helga had dreaded being alone again with Rudolf. However, he was so distraught by the death of Karl, that he barely talked to her.

  In a small town, they found a mechanic who at least understood Helga’s French, although her vocabulary about car parts was limited. He tinkered around under the hood of the old Citroen until it had sounded reasonably normal. The mechanic told Helga the price for his services, Helga translated into German for Rudolf, who pulled a wad of dirty, worn pesetas from his pocket, peeled off the correct amount and gave them to her, before furtively stuffing the remainder back into h
is trousers. Helga said nothing to Rudolf and pretended nothing was wrong. She chatted constantly on the drive back, desperately attempting to put him at ease and make him think she hadn’t the brains to notice that a man robbed at knife point the night before, wouldn’t be carrying a thick wad of pesetas around the next day. She was terrified that Uncle Rudolf would kill her if he suspected she knew. For her, the drive from the small town back to the place where they had left the others, was the most dangerous part of their entire flight. After that, she vowed that she would never be alone with Uncle Rudolf again.

  Initially, Rudolf had been submissive, almost obsequious towards her parents, consoling to his wife and Bianca, and doting on his grandson. The further away they got from Barcelona, the more he reverted to the way he had behaved on the drive across France. He demanded money for food, bought wine, ostensibly for all of them, and finished the bottle himself after dinner. It was Aunt Sophie who had changed. She seemed harder, more watchful and doting on her grandson. It seemed to Helga that Aunt Sophie and Bianca, had become more attached to each other in their grief and in their common purpose to protect the little boy.

  It took them until early May 1941 to reach the border with Portugal. They were not the only refugees seeking to cross but after a few weeks of waiting, applying for entry permits, finding the right officials to bribe to move their applications through to approval, they entered Portugal in early June and reached Lisbon by the middle of the month. They found lodging in a dilapidated house, on a narrow cobble-stoned street, in two dark, cramped, rented rooms, with a common door to the hallway and one connecting door between them. They lived off the money they obtained from selling the remaining rings and necklaces, brooches and bracelets, studs and pins, and gold watches, chains, and settings, that Helga’s mother had first carried in her jewelry box when they had left Vienna three years ago. They sold the Citroen which had gotten them from Annecy to Lisbon and with that, they were no longer dependent on Uncle Rudolf. Her father became much more careful in doling out their dwindling supply of money. More often than not, he handed it to Aunt Sophie in the morning, who would immediately leave to buy bread, milk and cheese, and extra food for Ignatz.

  Her father purchased a small German-Portuguese dictionary, called a Lilliput because it was no bigger than the length of his thumb and half as wide. Over the next few months, he managed to teach himself the language by listening to Portuguese radio and tediously working his way through the newspapers. He frequented the city’s parks and coffee houses, gathering information while planning what to do next.

  And then, Ignatz became ill. At first, it seemed like a common cold, caused by the constant rain of early winter. But then it developed into a terrible chest cold, with a surprisingly deep hacking cough for such a small body. Ignatz lost weight and turned grey in color. Finally, Bianca and Sophie carried him to a clinic, attached to a Catholic Hospital in the neighborhood and found the sheltered courtyard filled with adults and children in similar condition. A nun, walking among the anxious mothers with their coughing pale children, had stopped, looked at Ignatz and said a word in Portuguese which had sounded familiar, and then in German, “die Tuberkulose.” The hospital had no medicine. The nun explained in poor German that there was nothing they could do for little Ignatz.

  Surprisingly, Rudolf was the one who had not despaired. He was certain he could find someone who knew where to buy the right medicine on the black market. Perhaps because they wanted to believe there was some hope, they trusted him. Perhaps, it was because he didn’t ask for any money or jewels to sell for escudos. For the next several nights, as Ignatz barely held his own, Rudolf was gone, prowling the city he said, but without any luck. Then, one morning, as they were just waking up to another cold, rainy November day, he had come back, smiling with success. Not only had he found a source, he had found a German-Jewish refugee doctor who would examine Ignatz and give him the injections. But, it would be expensive and he needed to pay for the medicine up front. The doctor, being Jewish and treating refugees like himself, would not charge much, but he too had to be paid something. Helga’s father gave Rudolf all the money they had received from selling the Citroen. Rudolf had stuffed the roll of escudos into his shirt, kissed his wife, Bianca and Ignatz and hurried off on the mission to bring back the miracle medicine and doctor to save his grandson.

  He returned before noon, ushering in a bent stooped unshaven man, wearing a stained suit and carrying an old leather bag. Rudolf introduced him as Dr. Flegler. The doctor felt Ignatz’ throat, lifted his lids and looked at his eyes, and then, with shaking hands, took a syringe from his bag, wiped the boy’s arm with a cloth and injected the contents into a vein. Bianca and Sophie stood by, smiling hopefully, watching everything but really seeing nothing. Helga’s mother offered the doctor some tea but he said he was too busy with other calls to accept their hospitality. He was flustered when Bianca asked him when he was coming back, mumbled something about probably tomorrow at the same time and left abruptly.

  During the damp night, with the cold air leaking into the room, Ignatz’ cough became more of a rattle. By mid-morning the next day, he was breathing so shallowly, that Bianca implored Rudolf to run and find Dr. Flegler. Rudolf had not returned by mid-afternoon when Ignatz breathed his last. Nor was he back by nightfall. Sophie and Bianca left to go to the hospital and ask where they could bury Ignatz. Bianca carried the wasted body of her son in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. When they returned, without the boy, Helga and her parents sat with them in their room, grieving together in silence. Helga’s mother boiled some water for tea, Sophie and Bianca wrapped themselves in blankets and sat on the bed where Ignatz had died. Everyone seemed too exhausted with fleeing, struggling to exist and dealing with fear, uncertainty and now death, to speak. Helga’s mind returned to her secret, of Rudolf paying for the Citroen’s repairs the day after Karl had been stabbed.

  As they prepared to go to bed, the quiet somber mood was disturbed by the sound of someone crawling up the stairwell, like a wounded animal moaning in pain. Sophie went to the apartment door and found her husband in the hallway, on all fours, sobbing uncontrollably and smelling of alcohol and vomit. Rudolf, leaning on his wife, staggered into the apartment. He collapsed into a fetal position on the floor, holding his head with his hands over his ears, trying to protect himself from whatever he thought was pursuing him.

  Helga’s parents left Sophie to tend to her husband and retreated to their room. When Helga lay down, with her head close to the wall separating the two rooms, she heard Sophie talking too softly to make out her words and Rudolf pleading loudly and repeatedly for her forgiveness for what he had done. Helga fell asleep exhausted, wondering what Rudolf thought he had done which was so terrible to compel even him to beg his long suffering wife for absolution.

  The morning of December 1st dawned cold and rainy, as had most of the days of the preceding month. Sophie came into Helga’s parents’ room and without even greeting them, announced that after Rudolf had regained control of himself she had told him to leave. The last she had seen of her husband, he had been walking unsteadily down the hill toward the city center. Helga’s father left shortly afterwards to meet someone in a park but returned almost immediately. There was a crowd at the bottom of their street, an ambulance and the police. Rudolf lay dead in a crumpled heap, apparently having fallen and hit his head on the cobblestones. Sophie received the news stoically, as if she already knew. Her eulogy for her husband was the cryptic comment that a man responsible for the deaths of his own son and grandson could not expect any mercy in either this life or the hereafter. She excused herself to tell Bianca. Helga noticed the questioning glances her parents exchanged and the silence from Sophie’s room.

  In the spring of 1942, when the grapes in the vineyards were just beginning to become plump with promise and Lisbon’s parks were filled with young lovers, Helga’s father applied to the U.S. Embassy for transit visas to China for their family. A few weeks later, they were granted. Her father
had been able to prove, with the precious partnership papers he had carried with him from Istanbul, that he owned part of a business in Shanghai. He offered to try and take Sophie and Bianca with them but both refused. Sophie, now looking more like a woman with steel for a backbone than the mousy, submissive wife who had joined them in Bucharest, said she and Bianca wanted to stay in Lisbon. They were tired of running. Before leaving for the United States, Helga’s mother gave Sophie some of her blouses. Only later, did Helga remember that these were the ones with the larger diamonds sewn into the seams. With numbness more than fear, they endured the perilous voyage across the U-boat infested Atlantic. Upon landing, her father applied for permanent visas to the U.S. After the mandatory six months living across the New York State border in Canada, and another cold winter, Helga and her parents finally arrived in New York City, as permanent U.S. residents, in January 1943. It was almost five years since they had fled Vienna.

  “That is why, Egon Schiele loved Vienna so much,” the lecturer concluded, to a smattering of polite applause. Mrs. Fessler wearily stood up. Her body felt as if it had been cramped into that old Citroen for weeks. She looked around slightly confused, almost expecting to see Sophie and Bianca among the women clustering around the young professor at the podium. After their arrival, Sophie and her mother had exchanged letters for a few years. The correspondence had then dribbled on and off over the years following the war and then nothing. She thought she knew what had happened to Karl and why Ignatz had died. If Aunt Sophie were still alive, Helga would have asked her to confirm her suspicions. But, sometimes, she knew, it was better to leave some questions unasked. She would tell none of what she knew about Rudolf and certainly none of what she suspected to anyone. Certainly not to Amy, her granddaughter.