by Trudi Kanter
* * *
A letter arrived from London, from Elli and Tina, two of my favorite customers. They were sisters-in-law whose husbands had many business connections in England. The week before the occupation of Austria, they had gone to London, supposedly on holiday.
I hadn’t been in touch with them; I didn’t even know that they had left. Now they wanted to help me escape. They were related to the owners of a large chain of department stores in Holland called Bijenkorf. They had mentioned me to them, and Bijenkorf had offered to employ me as a hat designer and head of millinery in its Rotterdam store. The sisters told me that all I had to do was apply for the job, sending a short CV and a recent photograph.
I had never answered a letter so quickly in my life, and almost by return a contract arrived from Bijenkorf. Enclosed was a letter to the Dutch border authorities. A miracle had happened. I had an entry permit to Holland and a first-class job. But what about Walter?
“Darling, why don’t you write to your uncle in London?” Walter had told me about this man, who had been naturalized for forty years and was married to an Englishwoman. “I’m sure he will send you a guarantee, or a letter of invitation, and you’ll get a visa for England. Once we’re out of here, we’ll find a way to be together.”
“I can’t write to him—I only met him once, and that was twenty years ago. He’s a stranger; he won’t help us.”
“You have to try, Walter! Doing nothing will get nothing.”
No reply. I realized it was useless to argue.
Things grew more and more grave. We still heard the “cleaning squad” stories. But more often now we heard of friends and acquaintances being taken from their homes, leaving their families with heartache, terror, suicide.
One morning, the bridge over the Danube connecting Franz Josef Quay with Leopoldstadt was suddenly closed at both ends. Halfway across the bridge stood a huge, open cattle truck. People trapped on the bridge were sorted into Jews and non-Jews. The non-Jews were allowed to leave. Jews were thrown into the van. Who knows how many arrived at their destination with broken bones? Who knows how many arrived at all?
9
Pepi came to see me. He was very excited. A letter from the Millers’ rich American aunt had come out of the blue—they had not written to her to ask for help. She would guarantee the whole family. They were told to go to the American consulate to collect their visas.
“Pepi, how wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”
“Yes—but the snag is that my parents were born in Czechoslovakia.”
To limit immigration, the United States had assigned a quota to each country. The size of the quota depended on the population of that country. You were bound to the quota of the country of your birth, and US visas were issued according to your quota number.
“The quota for Czechoslovakia is exhausted. One year’s waiting list.”
I had never seen Pepi look so desperate.
“Austrian quota numbers are easily available, and as all of us children were born in Vienna, we will probably be able to leave very soon.”
“What will you do, Pepi?”
“If all else fails, I’ll stay behind.”
“You can’t do that. You must leave with the others.”
“Will has an idea. We could try to get our parents to South America where they will be safe; they can wait there until they are allowed to enter the US. Trudi, God will help us. Listen, I have some more news for you, good news.”
He had asked his aunt to extend her guarantee to include Walter and me.
* * *
Olli Loewinger came to see me, with her daughter and a young American. Mother was charming, but I had never liked the daughter, Sarah, who was plain and sulky. The American boy was lovely. Squat, open, friendly face, crew cut. Always laughing.
“This is Nat,” Olli said. “Sarah and Nat are engaged. I came to say good-bye—we’re going to America.”
“How lucky you are,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“You know how they met?” Olli said. “It was an act of God. Sarah was knocked down by a bicycle at the very moment that Nat was passing on his motorbike. It’s a miracle. He put her on his pillion and brought her home. He has never left her since.”
Nat was a student, and in with the staff at the American consulate. Olli and her daughter already had American visas and quota numbers. Their money and jewelry would go in the diplomatic bag.
“Nat, we have a guarantee from an American relative, which I hope will arrive soon. What’s the situation with the quota?” I asked.
“Can you and Walter meet me tomorrow at the consulate at three p.m.?”
“We’ll do anything, if you can help us.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
Our quota numbers were three and four.
PART THREE
A Fashion Show
(Paris, 1935)
1
I had a friend called Mitzi, who also owned a hat salon in Vienna. Within two weeks of the German occupation of Austria, busy Mitzi had found a young man. Jewish. Born in England. British passport. Poor. In need of money to buy new clothes, new teeth, and a ticket to England.
They married. Tomorrow, Mitzi would step onto English soil, an English lady. There was no one like Mitzi.
I remember when she used to go regularly to the Paris shows, and the time she invited me to join her . . .
* * *
It was 1935 when we took the express train to Paris, a twenty-four-hour journey. We settled ourselves in upholstered corner seats. Doors were slammed, porters stood back. The whistle shrieked, the engine blew white steam, the train rattled, shook, and began to move.
How exciting, I thought. I’ll meet interesting people. Broaden my horizons.
We ate our homemade sandwiches, drank coffee from our flasks. The train was packed; we had to sit up straight. Eventually, Mitzi fell asleep. I looked at her blond hair, her china complexion. She was small and slim; her broad shoulders and short neck made her look square. I had accepted her invitation to Paris because I knew she was businesslike and shrewd. I would learn a lot.
Mitzi was single, and man-mad. The boyfriend, the fiancé, the husband of her very best friend: Mitzi tried hard—without subtlety, and without success.
The restaurant car attendant woke her, ringing his bell. “First service for breakfast! Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats!”
Mitzi rushed to the dining car, took a table with window seats. A French waiter appeared, wearing a white linen jacket, white napkin over his arm. He had dark eyes, liked the girls. We ate eggs fried in butter, served sizzling hot in the flat aluminum pans in which they had been cooked. The bread rolls were crisp and hot. Coffee was served with boiling milk.
Our hotel was small, old-fashioned but not expensive. We had a pleasant room. Mitzi annexed the better-positioned bed, then made for the wardrobe, appropriating four of the six hangers.
Mitzi explained how things worked. “The Paris houses know that small firms like ours can’t afford a lot. But we have to stick to their rules. They know we will copy everything we can remember, and they can’t do anything about that. We just have to try to get away with as much as we can. Watch me—I’ll show you how to copy without their noticing. When you are holding the model hat, you can measure. Use the length of your thumb, your middle finger and your little finger. Use the palm of your hand and the length from your wrist to the end of your middle finger. Color, shape, and trimming you have to memorize, and then apply the measurements you have taken.”
I was amazed, and a little uneasy.
In the dining room at breakfast, Mitzi got the best table and took the best seat. She snatched the brownest, crispest roll and tasted everything on my plate, offering nothing from her own. Now I know why she’s never had a man, I thought. Her eyes, round, like large marbles, were light blue. Left-right, left-right, they never missed a thing.
I walked through Paris in a dream. Rue de la Paix, avenue Foch, Champs-Elysées: luxury at its bes
t, its most international. The world’s most elegant hotels. Huge lobbies were filled with comfortable armchairs, soft sofas, mirrored walls, thick carpets. Flower arrangements as tall as trees. The commissionaire was tall, gold-braided, an exiled Russian aristocrat, one of many. The Russians were tour guides, waiters, porters, taxi drivers, and were good-looking and polite. They gave comfort with humility, not servility. They were still aristocrats.
Paris in 1935 was incredible. Charming people, beautiful buildings, wide boulevards. We sat outside one of the cafés lining the Champs-Elysées. Five years later, Hitler would ride along there in triumph, right through the Arc de Triomphe.
Shops were sparkling glass and metal outside, mirrored walls within, reflecting the colors of that season. Girls with swinging hair, swinging handbags and hips, wear jangling bracelets and ropes of pearls and many rings. They are slender and well-coiffed, have clear, petal-smooth complexions, wear tiny hats, veils, camellias in buttonholes.
“When I’m in my late thirties, I want to live in Paris,” Mitzi said. “No one here wonders about your age. They don’t care.”
Suddenly I see my reflection in a shopwindow: walking shoes, practical coat, sports hat. I feel absurd and want to go home.
To get the feel of the season’s modes, we had to see at least one show that included dresses as well as hats. We make our way to a prestigious model house.
There is a mystique about these places. Carpeted stairs, mirrored walls, flowers everywhere: on the marble-topped commode, on the desk, on the stairs, upstairs, everywhere. Their reflection in the mirrors competes with that of the numerous crystal chandeliers.
“You have your invitation, mademoiselle?” The directrice stands in front of me: arrogant, condescending, piercing tones. A small woman with a small head, small gray eyes, and small feet. A tall, moustached gentleman stands behind her. He has a large mouth and huge teeth. Mitzi explains our credentials, gives our names, our addresses, the names of our salons in Vienna. She commits us to buy. I can see that they are not satisfied. They are still suspicious. But we will be allowed to see the show.
Crowding the hall, lining the stairs, peering out of the showroom is an army of employees bursting with pride and importance and wearing superior smiles. They are watching us.
The large showroom has a gray carpet. There are enormous gilt-framed mirrors and small, silver-gray moiré-covered chairs in rows. The first row is occupied by bejeweled ladies. Some young, mink-coated; some old, mink-coated; fat or slim, beautiful or plain, mink-coated. The really chic women wear tweed suits, a little gold jewelry, sables.
Mitzi recognizes a famous actor but can’t remember his name. “Look,” she whispers. “He has a cowboy’s face. His nose has been smashed—several times. He seems educated and gentle. The contrast drives women wild. He is so sexy!”
We take our seats. The saleslady places a program and a pencil in our laps. “For marking the names of the hats we like,” Mitzi whispers. “Don’t be tempted to sketch, or we’ll be blacklisted.”
The showroom is crowded. Glasses of champagne are offered, tension mounts, the show begins. I hardly dare breathe.
Mannequin after mannequin glides through, passes us, turns around, shows clothes and hats quickly from every angle. Spring is to be a flower season. A toque made entirely of violets. Large, floppy hats of black horsehair braid, the crows covered in white cabbage roses. A large, soft beret of roses in all shades of pink and red. The bride wears a skullcap of white camellias, a white camellia bracelet on her left wrist. The applause is tremendous.
We have seen almost a hundred hats. I can remember twenty.
“Look behind you! Your saleslady is waiting,” Mitzi whispers. “She appeared like the secret police.”
I am convinced that they were watching us through little holes in the ceiling.
We order two model hats and say good-bye. “Merci, madame.” “Merci, mademoiselles.” “Bon voyage.” “Au revoir.” “Merci beaucoup.” The process of good-byes is repeated on the ground floor. “Bonjour, madame.” “Merci beaucoup.” “Au revoir.”
We are on the pavement. There is no time to draw breath. We rush to the nearest bistro, find a corner table, and order ham sandwiches. They arrive and are half a yard long. I feel exhausted; my mouth is dry. A small brandy, a small Perrier, my sketchbook, my pencil. I write a description of each hat I can remember. Then I sketch them. I calculate the size of each brim, the depth and width of each crown. Mitzi’s tips have helped. Then we go to the outskirts of Paris, to the poorer suburbs, where the wholesalers are. We choose straw, velvet, silk, flowers, feathers, pins.
On our way to the railway station to catch our train back to Vienna, we have to go through a revolving door. Mitzi makes me go first—she wants me to push. But before I can enter my section, she has flitted in herself. I have to go in second, and push again.
She can’t understand why I can’t stop laughing.
PART FOUR
The Glass Roof
(Vienna, 1938)
1
The doorbell rang twice in quick succession. It was Mitzi.
She looked pretty. There was more shine and depth in her eyes. Her blond hair was lighter; she held her head higher, which made her neck seem longer. Success was written all over her.
“Come in, Mitzi. Come on through.”
Her eyes darted left-right, left-right, registering everything in my sitting room.
We sat by the window, drinking coffee. Sun, blue sky. Peace. That was a lifetime ago.
“What will you do in London?” I asked. “Do you have any contacts?”
“Yes, quite a few. Customers of mine. Hat manufacturers and wholesalers. I’ve already been in touch—they seem eager to help. What about you and Walter?”
I told her about my job offer in Rotterdam. About the possibility of the United States. I told her that Walter was bitter and frustrated. And that I was unhappy and worried that I hadn’t yet found anything for him. Suddenly, I had an idea. I asked Mitzi to help.
She saved my life, Walter’s life, and the lives of our families.
She sent me three letters from English hat manufacturers. They said that they were very interested in seeing my collection of model hats. They were keen to buy. Armed with these letters, I visited the Handelskammer, the Board of Trade.
I told them I needed permission to travel abroad on business. They thought I was joking.
“Fräulein, don’t you know that we’re not Austria anymore? We’re Germany now, and Germany is boycotted. We can’t sell abroad.”
“I can,” I said quietly. “May I show you these?” I gave them the letters Mitzi had sent me. I translated them. They shook their heads, shrugged, and instructed a clerk to take me to see the head of the department.
His office didn’t seem to fit with the otherwise modern style of the Handelskammer. It was old-fashioned, solid, simple. The man behind the desk was huge. Quite old. He looked at me over his round, metal-rimmed spectacles, pointed to a chair, told me to sit, and asked the clerk to wait outside. He carried on reading the papers he had been reading when I came in. The only sound in the room was the ticking of an enormous wooden clock hanging on the wall.
He looked up. “What can I do for you, young lady?” His accent was upper-class Austrian.
I told him that I needed permission from the Handelskammer to go on a business trip to England. I knew all about the boycott, but I felt certain I could do business. I explained that most of my customers had left Austria, and I needed to replace the lost turnover. For a while he sat quite still. His fat fingers stroked his balding head, ruffling his sparse, gingery gray hair. His muddy carp’s eyes, old and wise, looked straight ahead. Five minutes, ten minutes. Why was he taking such a long time? It was yes or no. The ticking of the clock seemed to get louder. Then he lifted his heavy body off his creaking chair, clasped his hands behind his back, walked to the window and stared outside. Eternity.
“What makes you so sure you can sell?” He turned to
me. “Did you export before?”
“Very little,” I said. “But I know that I can now.”
“Why should you think that? Let me tell you that there are firms who, before the boycott, did thousands of pounds’ worth of business with England, and they can do nothing now. What makes you think you are any different?”
“These, sir.” I put my letters on his desk.
I was lucky. The man spoke English, and he was very proud to be able to read them.
“Well, young lady,” he said, with a twitch of a smile. “Let’s see how many hats we used to export before the Anschluss.”
He picked up the telephone and asked for these figures. Oh, God, please let it be a lot! I bit my nails. He noticed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth reappeared. Suddenly, the old clock gathered its forces, took a deep breath, screeched, rattled, and announced the three-quarter hour with three thunderous strokes. The telephone rang.
“Yes,” he said. “Is this the figure for the last year? Thank you. Yes, that will be all.”
He looked at my letters again.
“Frau Miller. Frau?” A gallant, surprised look at me. “Frau Miller, the export figures for hats last year were excellent. But that doesn’t mean I can give you a Handelskammer permission to go to England. It is not enough. I want you to know that if I do let you go, it is against the instructions I have been given, and I am taking a great risk. Tell me, where exactly do you want to go?”
“I want to go to London with my collection, where I hope to get good orders. On my way back, I would like to stop for a few days in Paris to see the new hat shows. And from there to Holland, where I hope to get more orders.”