by Trudi Kanter
Good-bye, Paris, I whispered. Good-bye, Lautrec. Good-bye fashion shows, wonderful food, avenues and boulevards, beautiful churches, picturesque houses with wooden shutters, organ grinders, spring breezes, the reflection of ancient walls in the Seine. Good-bye.
I arrived in Vienna early in the morning of 11 March 1938. Walter met me at the airport. I felt his arms around me. His lips on mine. It was good to see him. Good not to be alone.
8
I went back to work. I loved my workroom, its atmosphere, my girls. There was Betty, with the face of a truck driver and the soul of an angel; she never had much to say but was always ready to help. Little Dolly: big, dark blue eyes, always laughing, luscious and plump; she ate horse-meat steak on Sundays as a treat. Anne-Marie, the girl with the best figure in the room, had never seen herself naked; as a devout Catholic, she believed to do so would be a sin, and took her bath wearing a nightdress.
I can still see my workroom. Starting under the window and stretching almost the full length of the room stood a wooden table seating twelve milliners. Every girl had a box of pins, a cushion with needles, a pair of scissors, and several thimbles. On the floor beside each chair was a cardboard box holding necessities for the work in hand. Spools of cotton in every color were slid onto a metal rod on legs that ran the whole length of the table. It was fixed at one end and locked at the other. That way, spools couldn’t disappear. We had wig stands in various sizes. They were used to shape the hats. Against the wall was a table with gas rings, large and small irons, and a steam kettle.
There were straw braids in pastel shades and straw braids in bright colors. Velvets and silks; flowers, feathers, and ribbons. Order sheets, pieces of veiling, and other fabric were randomly pinned to the wall. Hats were everywhere: large hats, small hats, sports hats, and sophisticated turbans for evening. The place was almost a replica of the Paris workroom where I spent two months learning French hat design and techniques. Its directrice was a chic, slim woman with shrewd, penetrating eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, “you like to learn from the modiste Parisienne? Well, mademoiselle, never, never do you forget. The hat must be designed with the luxury, with the wit, and with the craftsmanship. Always it must be charming and amusing.”
It was 1935. The poor were getting poorer; the rich, richer. As always, fashion catered to the rich. And French fashion was a dictatorship. Hats became smaller and smaller. More charming. More amusing. This was the time when a feather and a sequin was a hat.
My workroom glittered. It was alive. It took possession of me, made me forget the world outside. Everyone was busy, everyone was happy, chatting and laughing. The whole place reeked of fashion.
But this time, as I entered my beloved workroom, I felt immediately that something had changed. The girls greeted me with politeness, but without the usual bright smiles and hellos. The usual questions were missing—How was Paris, madame? What are the new hats like? Again small toques? Or do we have brims for a change? Did you have fun? They were reserved—only slightly, but it was impossible to overlook. I pretended not to notice, thinking that I understood the reason for it. But I was wrong. They had not been influenced—yet—by Hitler’s propaganda. For the moment, they were afraid for me, and embarrassed. They didn’t know how to behave. They didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
“Madame, may I speak to you?” my forelady asked.
“Of course, Stefanie.”
“In private?”
Her voice was a tone higher than usual. She was tiny, ash-blond, with dark eyes.
“Come on, Steffi.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go to my room, it’s cozy there. Come, sit down. Tell me what the matter is.”
“I don’t know, madame. It’s hard to explain. I can’t understand it myself. While you were away, in those few days, everything changed.”
Her eyes were bright with tears. “You shouldn’t have come back! You shouldn’t! I hoped you wouldn’t. You were safe in Paris. Don’t you know, any moment now, German troops will march into Austria!”
“How do you know?”
“My brother is a member of the Communist Party, and they are well informed. I worry about him just as much as I worry about you.”
“I read the papers in Paris. Believe me, the world knows far more about our troubles than we do.”
“So why did you come back? Why?”
“Steffi, you love your husband. I couldn’t possibly abandon Walter. You understand.”
She started to cry. “It’s not so much what has actually happened. It’s what is going to happen. Hitler isn’t even here, but suddenly everyone is a Nazi. They’ve all been members of the Party for a long time. They don’t hide their swastika pins anymore—they wear them openly. Proudly.”
“Steffi, don’t worry so much. Not everybody is bad. I am sure there are plenty of people like you.”
She looked at me anxiously. While I was away, Chancellor Schuschnigg had called a referendum on Austria retaining her autonomy. He wanted to see the people’s loyalty. All day long, youngsters paraded up and down the Kärntnerstrasse. On the left side of the street, the Socialists were shouting, “Heil Schuschnigg!” On the right, the Nazis screamed, “Heil Hitler!”
“And who do you think I saw on the Nazi side, wearing a swastika pin and shouting?”
“Who?”
“Our two little learners, our two little nobodies—Pauline and Anna.”
That really shook me. It hurt. I flew back to the workroom and started shouting at the two girls—hard, angry words, in front of everyone. Then I walked away, wishing I could undo what I had done.
* * *
A few days later, there was a knock at my door. In those days, a knock at the door could mean the beginning of the end.
“Come in,” I said.
A huge bunch of flowers appeared first—with two pairs of eyes peeping through. Pauline and Anna. Only fifteen, Pauline was like a young deer—slim, with long, delicate legs, dark, calm eyes. Anna was a country bumpkin.
“Frau Trudi,” Pauline whispered. “We have come to tell you not to worry. We are members of the Nazi Party, and we have told our friends in our group how nice and kind you are. They promised to protect you. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
PART TWO
Swastika Flags
(Vienna, 1938)
1
The eyes of the dictator across the border were fixed on the land of his birth. Long ago, Hitler had stated that German Austria must return to the Great German Fatherland. People of one blood belonged together in one reich.
Austria was invaded, occupied, annexed, and made a province of Germany during the course of one week in March 1938.
It had become clear that any intervention by the guaranteeing powers—England, France, and Italy—was unlikely. Dr. Schuschnigg made desperate attempts to stop the German Reich’s bid to annex Austria, but to no avail. The referendum he called was intended to show the world that Austrians wanted their country to be free and independent, Christian and united. But it was too late. By 13 March, polling day, the flags of Nazi Germany were already flying over Austria. On 15 March, Hitler declared it an integral part of Germany.
* * *
11 March 1938. Eight p.m. Dr. Kurt Schuschnigg, the Federal Chancellor, addressed the Austrian nation. He began his speech with his back turned toward his colleagues and opponents. He spoke facing his own empty office.
“Men and women of Austria. Today we face a difficult and fateful situation.”
He told us that the German government had presented him with an ultimatum, requiring him to appoint a government approved by them. If he failed to comply, German troops would cross the border.
He continued: “I declare before all the world that reports of workers’ riots, of rivers of blood, of a government not in control of the situation and unable to maintain law and order, are pure invention. Our president has instructed me to inform the Austrian nation that we are yielding to force. Because we are resolved
on no account to spill blood, we have ordered our armed forces, in the event of an invasion by the German army, to offer no resistance.”
He ended his speech by saying, “And so I take leave of the Austrian people at this hour with a heartfelt wish: God protect Austria!” His voice shook.
I could hear shouts in the street.
Hitler’s orders:
The conduct of the troops must give the impression that we have no desire to wage war against our brother nation. It is in our interests that the whole operation should be carried out without the use of force in the form of a peaceful entry, welcomed by the population. Therefore any provocation is to be avoided. If, however, resistance is offered, it must be broken ruthlessly by force of arms.
The freedom and even the lives of supporters of the ex-Chancellor, of resolute opponents of National Socialism, and of the hundreds of thousands of Jewish citizens of Austria, were now called into question. On the night of 11 March, squads of Nazis rampaged through the city. People were dragged from their homes and flung into requisitioned houses. Others were placed under house arrest. A dark week in a darkening world had begun.
At three minutes past midnight on 12 March, German troops crossed the Austrian border—a disaster marching toward us. Marching, marching, marching. Droning planes. One hundred thousand soldiers. Armored cars. Tanks.
A deadly silence covered the land.
* * *
We hear it, coming from the end of the street. Closer, closer. Each step at the same split second. Each step the same length, loud, powerful, terrifying. We are like tiny ants whose nest has been disturbed, running in all directions, trying to find a hole, a blade of grass, somewhere—anywhere—to hide.
Darkness. Walter and I crouch on the floor of my hat salon. No lights, strangled radio. We hold hands. Mirrors reflect streetlamps. My hats, in their large display cases, seem ridiculous, frivolous. In the dim light, the silver-gray walls and carpets, so elegant, look ghostly and drab.
“Don’t worry, darling. Don’t worry. Please.” Walter’s voice is a cracked whisper. “Everything will be all right.”
“Walter, how can it possibly be all right?”
He squeezes my hand.
They are coming closer still. I don’t cry. Walter puts his arm around my shoulders, pulls me toward him. He, too, wants to feel close, to hold me tightly. For how much longer will we have each other?
Tramp tramp tramp.
My hands tighten around his. We have waited hour upon hour; followed the German advance on the radio step by step, town after town after town, across the whole of our undefended country. Poor Austria. Poor deceived Austrians. Poor defenseless Jews. Now the boots stop. What will they do? Take us from our homes? They have stopped outside the building of the Vaterländische Front, their greatest and most dangerous enemy in Austria. The streets are packed with Nazi supporters—hysterical people. Dangerous people.
Shrieking, screaming, screeching of stopped cars. Shouted commands, running motors. Every scream, every shout seems directed at us. Oh, God, how frightened I am.
Then sudden quiet, followed by howls. Shattered glass, splintered wood.
“They’re smashing up the building,” Walter whispers.
The lava of hatred erupts.
Kicking boots leave at three a.m.
We dare not look out of the window. We are still on the floor, in the dark. They may have left guards behind. They might see us.
“Walter, we have to get out. Immediately.”
There is a pause.
“Do you mean now? As we are?”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Yes, in the middle of the night. Now. Darling, you don’t seem to understand the danger we’re in.”
“Trudi, where do you want to go? And how? We have no money. The banks are closed.”
“We have enough money to buy tickets to Czechoslovakia, and when we get there your family will help us. And we have my jewelry. Walter, please, listen to me. You know my brother-in-law, Otto? Two days ago, he crossed the Czech border. He left his family behind. He’s a well-known industrialist, and he was afraid he might be arrested at the frontier and implicate them. When he was safely across, he telephoned Julie and told her to pack her jewelry, nothing else, and follow him with the children. They are safe now.”
Walter touches my cheek. Our eyes meet.
“This afternoon, Frau von Alpenheim came to the salon to pay her bill. She advised me to leave, and leave soon. She said I was running out of time. That she knows what Hitler has planned for the Jews. That no one can imagine what is going to happen, and that no one will be able to help us. She wouldn’t say more than that, she just kept telling me to get out, looking me straight in the eye. And you want to wait? Wait for what, Walter?”
The answer came slowly. “You know that you always put your head down and charge at the wall, whereas I need to think carefully before I make a decision. Let’s make arrangements and leave in an organized way, openly. We are not going to flee under cover of darkness, like criminals. Trust me. The Nazis have a lot to do, consolidating the occupation. The things that we fear will come later.”
“Walter! How can—”
“Trudi, you are forgetting—what will happen to your parents? They have no one to advise them, no money. They are helpless. Will you leave them? Without saying good-bye? Without making arrangements for them?”
Of course, Walter was right. Except that neither of us expected the world to act as it did. Later that same day, the frontiers of neighboring countries were closed to refugees from Austria. We were trapped.
2
12 March 1938: My eyes won’t open. My brain is paralyzed. Daylight brings back nightmares. I reach for his hand. He isn’t there.
“Walter!”
He’s gone. He has gone back to his apartment to check on things. What has happened? Oh, God. I crawl under my blanket again. I have to think for both of us. Act for both of us.
I get up and go to my bathroom, avoiding looking in the mirror. The sky is cloudless, almost Mediterranean blue.
I make coffee, go back to bed. It is empty. The room, the flat, everything is empty without him.
I brush my hair. Long, wild red hair—Walter’s pride. Who will sleep here, after we have gone, in this lovely pale blue and cream bedroom? The windows look out on Vienna’s first skyscraper. At night, when all the lights are on, it looks romantic. The windows of my drawing room face Kohlmarkt. I can’t look out there, not on my own. The Nazis have smashed the building that protected us.
Nobody will come today. It is an undeclared day of mourning. Everything has changed. Overnight we lost our country. Without a fight. Being Jewish, we are fair game, unprotected by law. They will take everything from us. They will hurt us. They have done it already in Germany. Children cried. Wives pleaded. They were kicked in the stomach. Tears mixed with vomit. Neighbors turned to stone. Don’t you see, Walter? Don’t you see? We must run.
The next day, and the day after that, no one came to work. And then I screwed up my courage and went downstairs, out of the door, and into the street. I took one look around and went back inside. My heart thundered in my ears. Kohlmarkt was empty, as quiet as if the plague had struck. Enormous red flags with swastikas—hundreds, thousands—had been hung closely across the street, from one end of Kohlmarkt to the other; they formed a ceiling, blocking out everything. There was no sun, just swastika flags. No sky, just swastika flags. There was no God.
The shock slowly disappeared, but I feel gripped by a thick, sticky feeling. It paralyzes me. Sticking to my hands; I can’t work. To my legs; I can’t walk. To my brain; I can’t think or sleep. Fear fills my black dreams, turning them round and round, sitting heavily on my chest. I can’t breathe.
Few people know the real meaning of fear, its hopeless, crushing effect. Fear had been in me for a long time. This indescribable atmosphere. There was something hovering over me, urging me. What did I do? I carried on, stubbo
rnly, pretending to be deaf. Stupid? Of course, but helpless, too. I was in love. No changes, please. No yesterdays, no tomorrows. I was a coward.
Not anymore. I scrutinize myself with critical eyes. Is it just a front? Is there a crushed face under the mask? No, I am strong now. I will do everything possible to make sure we escape.
3
14 March 1938: Jews were not allowed to wear swastika pins. This was the privilege of party members only. Every person without one was fair game. It seemed grotesque that a quarter inch of silver metal had so much power. I had made an appointment for 14 March with my lawyer to sign some important papers. I had to go, and I had to go without a swastika pin.
“Why don’t you take Pauline with you?” Walter suggested. Arm in arm, we were soon on our way: me, Pauline, swastika pin.
On our way back, from across the road, we saw a crowd of people in front of the Vaterländische Front, staring at the pavement, white-faced and still.
Cars stopped; people stopped. A crowd quickly formed. The silence was occasionally broken by sharp commands.
We went closer. Young girls, young boys, old men, and old women on their knees were scrubbing the pavement. A girl of about ten held a big brush in her bleeding hand. “Acid,” someone whispered. “There is more acid than water in those buckets.” I smelled it. However hard the people on their knees scrubbed, the writing in red paint wouldn’t come off. The brown-shirted youngsters jumped onto their cracked, bleeding hands to remind them and the Austrian nation who was the master.
A woman vomited into her handkerchief. Men turned their heads away.
A shaft of sunlight shot past them and lingered farther down the road. People came out of shops and quickly went back in again. For a split second the face of an old man appeared at a window. It was too much, even for those who had welcomed the invading army.
Before the invasion, illegal Austrian Nazis had painted the pavements outside the Vaterländische Front with slogans: DOWN WITH JEWS. KILL THE PARASITES. HEIL HITLER. Members of the Vaterländische Front had painted their own slogans: HITLER IS A HOMICIDAL MANIAC. DOWN WITH HITLER AND HIS NAZI THUGS.