Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler

by Trudi Kanter

  “That sounds rather a big undertaking.”

  “No, sir, I’ve done it before.”

  “All right,” he said. “In the next few days, you will receive our permit and letters to the consulates of the countries you mentioned. I have confidence in you. You see, many people would take this opportunity and never return.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Good luck, young lady,” he said, and turned away.

  I was stunned.

  “Don’t forget what I told you,” he said.

  “No, sir, I won’t. Thank you.”

  I floated through the door, past the young clerk, into the street on the way to No. 11, straight into Walter’s arms.

  “That’s wonderful. Wonderful. Darling, you’re safe!” His eyes were larger, bluer. “I’m so proud of you. How did you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I was just lucky. He advised me not to come back . . .”

  There was one hurdle left.

  Next morning, I was at the tax office as the doors opened. I went straight to the first floor to see my tax man. I liked and trusted him. I told him about the business trip I intended to take and explained why I could not possibly pay my income tax right then. He understood the circumstances, but he couldn’t help me.

  “You need to speak to the man in charge of exit visas. I’ll take you over there.”

  I had to wait to be called in. I had to repeat my story and show him my letters. He was small and tight-faced, withdrawn, unfriendly, bad-tempered.

  “Fräulein,” the man said, “the law is the law. And the law says that an exit permit cannot be granted unless all taxes are paid in full. You haven’t paid them, have you? So, you cannot have an exit permit. Right?” He had nasty little bird’s eyes.

  I collected myself, looked down, and said in the smallest, softest voice I could muster, “Please, sir. Help me.”

  He gave a disagreeable smile.

  I explained that, through circumstances beyond my control, I was penniless. That I would be able to pay my taxes only if I were permitted to make this trip and earn some money. My tax man and the visa man exchanged glances.

  “Well,” said the visa man. “You have been warmly recommended. In the opinion of the tax office, you can be trusted. So I will take it upon myself to make an exception.” He took a form from his desk, signed it, and gave it to my savior from the tax office. Then he turned to me and said, “You will be given this form after it has been stamped. Now you have your exit permit. I hope that you will earn a lot of money. You owe us a lot of money. Good-bye.”

  My friend from the tax office pulled me into an empty office and said, “Quick, before he changes his mind. Wait here.”

  He was back in minutes and handed me the stamped form, a big grin on his face. It was the most important piece of paper I had ever held in my hands.

  “Good luck to you,” he said. His face was serious. “Frau Miller, in case you intend not to return to Austria, I want you to think before you decide. Look”—he turned over his lapel and showed me his swastika pin—“I have been a member of the Party for a long time. Our arrangement with the Germans is as follows: they come in to establish a National Socialist state. Having done so, they will leave again. Austria will be run by us. By Austrians. We will have our own version of National Socialism. I want you to know that Jewish people like yourself will not be affected. You, your parents, and your grandparents were born in this country. You are Austrians and have nothing to fear.”

  I tried to hide my tears and turned to the window. A group of girls marched by. Sharp steps, one-two. Heads high, one-two. Hair short, practical. Uniforms practical. White knee socks. Heil Hitler.

  “Look at them,” he said. “They call themselves women.”

  The rest was easy. With the letters from the Handelskammer, I had only to gather the English and French visas. I had the letter from Bijenkorf to the Dutch border authorities requesting permission for my entry into Holland. The Czech visa was easily added. The greatest task still lay ahead. I had to find a way to get a visa for Walter.

  2

  Walter sits at the window, despair in his eyes.

  “Darling, don’t be upset. Please don’t. It’s not your fault. You have had no opportunity to get a visa. I only got the chance because of my business. What does it matter who gets us out of this mess, as long as we get out? I have plans. I’m sure one of them will work. Don’t destroy my hopes. Don’t make me unhappy. I need all the strength I can get. Help me. Please.”

  He holds my hand and strokes it.

  All my life, I had tried to achieve things with kindness, with love and reason. But they are not helping now. I change tack.

  “Why don’t you write to your uncle?”

  His face tightens.

  “You know that it’s your only option. Why don’t you try it? You take the line of least resistance. Anybody can do that. And you won’t even let me write to him. Do you remember when the Nazis marched into Kohlmarkt and I wanted to leave straightaway? Do you remember what you said? You said, ‘What we fear will come later.’ Walter, later is now.”

  When I go to bed, there is a note on my pillow with his uncle’s name and address.

  The window is open. A breeze parts the drawn curtains slightly. A small beam of light appears on the ceiling. It comes and goes. Walter sleeps beside me.

  Tomorrow I will write the letter. If Walter can’t leave, I won’t. And if I don’t leave, my parents can’t.

  I close my eyes. Long ago, a feather and a sequin was a hat.

  12 May 1938

  Dear Uncle Paul,

  May I call you that? In a few days, Walter and I will be married.

  I assume that you know the trouble we are in. The whole world knows. Can you help? Will you? It is a matter of life and death.

  I already have a visa for the United Kingdom. It is for Walter that I ask your help.

  Please send him an invitation, or a letter of guarantee. With this, he will be able to gain entry to England. We will be grateful. This is meant sincerely. You see, if Walter can’t get out of here, I will stay with him.

  We will be no burden to you, financially or otherwise. I am a hat designer, and my firm is quite well-known in England. It should not be difficult for me to get a job as a designer. I have some money and jewelry. That will enable us to get a place to live, to buy time until we find a way of earning our living.

  Walter said that you will not help him because you hardly know him. I cannot believe that. Strangers from all over the world are helping to save the lives of people like us. And Walter is your nephew. Uncle, please, we are running out of time.

  I very much hope that I will be able to meet you and will be in a position to thank you personally for your kindness.

  Yours,

  Trudi Miller

  In the middle of the night, I woke up and knew what to do.

  In the millinery trade, hats are shaped on wooden blocks, and as fashion changes so quickly, these blocks, which are expensive, can be used for only a season. A man in the trade, a Mr. Kaltenbrunner, had found a way to manufacture a similar product for a quarter of the price.

  I went to Mr. Kaltenbrunner to talk to him about his invention. I came to an arrangement with him and took out a patent in my name.

  There was huge unemployment at that time in England. The British vice-consul’s wife was one of my clients, and I thought she might be able to help. I told her about the patent I had taken out and suggested that the new kind of hat block might help to create work in her country.

  “Do you think that your husband could put in a word?” I asked. “I would be so grateful. I’m sure he will realize what this means to us. If it weren’t so important, I wouldn’t dream of asking.”

  Next morning, she returned in triumph with her husband’s card. He had written a note on the back suggesting that he would greatly appreciate the help of the consulate in this matter.

  I hurried over to the British consulate with the note. I explained to the young Englishwom
an behind the desk why I had come, and wondered if someone could help me. The whole time I was speaking, she looked past me. I handed her the vice-consul’s card. She took it. Without looking at it, she tore it up, dropped it into the wastepaper basket, turned around, and walked away.

  Walter, my darling. You didn’t know how desperate I was. Maybe this was God’s punishment for my having made you suffer. Remember when I made you jealous? I never wanted to upset you.

  * * *

  Francesco was an irresistible Italian aristocrat. Count Francesco Scocchera di Santa Vittoria.

  I met him in Vienna during those confused days and weeks before the German occupation of my country. Vienna was preparing for spring. Green shutters on white villas were painted greener. Black railings had their pointed gilt tops regilded. At the coffeehouses, newly white-painted chairs and tables were hopefully put outside. Waiters in white linen jackets carried white napkins over their arms. They welcomed the sun and invited customers to be the first ones to sit outside.

  The city looked crisp and polished, full of goodwill and expectation. Full of romance. Even strangers greeted each other with a big smile and a bright, “Good morning.”

  Walter had a business meeting with Francesco’s cousin, Paolo. A dark-eyed, dark-haired, good-looking Italian. He had brought Francesco along, and Walter telephoned me to invite me to join them. Lunch was at the Three Hussars, the “in” restaurant at the time. In the dining room there was just enough room for one round table on each side. The white, starched tablecloths and napkins looked striking against the red walls.

  Slender, of medium height, Francesco had the face of an aesthete. Light blond hair, deep-set olive green eyes. He hid an incisive brain behind an air of mild bafflement.

  Later, Walter asked, “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s superb,” I said. “I have never met anyone like him. Have you?”

  No reply. I carried on teasing him. “Gertrud, Contessa Scocchera di Santa Vittoria.”

  “Oh, stop it!” he thundered, and blew out of the room.

  That evening, we all went to a nightclub.

  Francesco was a bachelor of thirty-four. A lawyer and architect, he owned the largest building firm in Milan. I couldn’t resist his flattery. Francesco intoxicated me with words. I had never met a man like him—a count. I couldn’t escape the soft net blown around me. The open attention. The compliments.

  We were dancing. Francesco whispered in my ear: “I’m lucky to have found you.”

  Catastrophe! I sprained my ankle, and the dancing had to stop. Next morning, a bouquet arrived—thirty-six red roses held by white orchids. A card: “I hope your ankle is better. Are you able and willing to meet me? Francesco.”

  He had hired a fiaker, an open horse-drawn carriage.

  “Where would you like to go, and what would you like to see?” I asked.

  “You!” he replied.

  I avoided his eyes, wanting neither to hurt nor encourage him.

  “Show me what you like best,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll like it, too.”

  “Francesco, I love all of it—and I love Walter.”

  We took a slow ride to the Prater, the lovely old-fashioned park I had visited with Walter—restaurants, beer gardens, an amusement park, the Ferris wheel. People walked in the woods. Youngsters rode horses, laughing and calling to each other. Birds chirped. The scent of the new green.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau, mein Herr,” said the fiaker, doffing his round, flat hat.

  We were back at my apartment. I asked Francesco to have coffee with me.

  He told me that Mussolini’s dictatorship had become unbearable and he had decided to leave Italy. He had spirited large amounts of money out of Italy to Switzerland. If his transactions were discovered, he would be in serious trouble.

  “Anything could happen,” he said. “Trudi, stretch your imagination to the limit.”

  “But Francesco . . .”

  “Don’t say any more. I want to marry you.”

  “Francesco, I love Walter.”

  “We will talk about love when I come back. Which will be soon.”

  He stood on top of the steps of his wagon-lit, talking to me as I stood on the platform. He held my hands. As the train began to move, he tightened his grip. He tried to pull me up to him. It was so unexpected, I lost my balance. Two porters, who had been watching, helped me off the already moving train. It was heading nonstop to Milan.

  I saw Francesco’s outstretched arms and troubled face receding.

  There was no word for two weeks. Returning home one day, I was told of a telephone call from Milan. A lady with an Italian accent had tried to contact me urgently. She promised to telephone again.

  A week later, thirty-six red roses arrived. I wrote, sent a telegram. No reply. Telephone calls went unanswered.

  The Germans came. Walter and I married. There was no news of Francesco. I didn’t know where he was. I had no new address to give him.

  I wish he hadn’t said, “Trudi, stretch your imagination to the limit.”

  * * *

  My friend Doris, who worked in my showroom, was most upset.

  “How can you, Trudi? How can you say no? A name like his. Imagine! You would be the Contessa Scocchera di Santa Vittoria. Any girl would marry him. Just for the name!”

  Doris had affairs with men—and women. Money didn’t come into it. Doris was a sucker for love. Her father was a professor, her mother a doctor. They were baptized Jews. Both parents died of cancer. Poor Doris was permanently terrified. She examined her body constantly. Maybe this terror explained the wild life she led.

  I had known her since childhood, running around Vienna, joyous. Even as a child, her body was heavy, but her legs and arms were slim. She was beautiful, intelligent, and witty, a success with everyone. Once I asked her, “Who in this world do you love the most?” The answer came quickly, without hesitation: “My cousin Violet.” For years, Doris had an affair with Violet’s husband.

  I last saw her when she came to visit us one evening at home. She wore a red velvet cape, its hood resting against her black hair. Walter opened the door. She stood still, smiling at him, showing her white teeth and her pink gums. She took no notice of me all evening.

  Soon afterward, she married a man ten years her junior. With the guarantee of Violet’s husband, they managed to go to America.

  Doris died of cancer.

  3

  “Trudi, I’m going out,” called Walter through the workroom door. He stood in the hall, hand on the doorknob, eager to leave.

  “Do you have to? You know how I worry.”

  “I can’t sit at home all the time,” he said irritably. “I have to go out sometimes. And I need to see what’s happening with my car.”

  A few weeks ago, he had taken it to the garage to be serviced.

  “I want to see what they’ve done to it,” he said. “I’ll be home for lunch.”

  Doris is in the showroom, looking after customers. I don’t want to see anyone. I go to the kitchen to prepare some cold food. Poor Walter. He seems numbed. I lay the table, add some flowers, and open the window to let the sun come in. Walter used to be strong, someone to lean on. Now his pride is hurt. He feels useless.

  There is a mechanical whir from the cuckoo clock. Out pops the red and green painted bird. “Cuckoo!” I used to love it. Today, its beady black eyes and its frozen expression mock me. When I was little, my parents took me on a mountain holiday; I fell in love with the clock, and they bought it for me. Now, in its ridiculous voice, the cuckoo tells me that it is one o’clock. The telephone rings. I race to answer it. It is a business call.

  Usually we have lunch at twelve thirty. Maybe he has been held up at the garage. One thirty. Walter is reliable. If he is running late, he telephones. Maybe the telephone is out of order? I lift the receiver and hear the dial tone. Maybe the telephone at the garage is out of order? Of course it isn’t. Something has happened to him. I am frantic.

 
I don’t know the name of the garage. There is nothing I can do but wait. Be calm. I go to my sitting room, stand at the window, and look down at Kohlmarkt. I can see nearly the whole street.

  “Refugees from Nazi Oppression.” That is what they called the German Jews who came to Austria seeking shelter. What a terrible description. I didn’t understand what it meant. I didn’t know that one day, I would be one. It is two o’clock. Walter, please come home. Together we will be Refugees from Nazi Oppression. The door opens; someone comes in; I don’t turn around.

  Steffi says, “Madame, what’s happened?” She turns me to face her. “Good God, madame, what’s happened?”

  By now, I am shaking all over. I sit down on the floor. She sits down next to me, puts her arm around me. She strokes my head, kisses my hands. I am crying. She asks no questions. She puts me to bed. I can’t stop crying. She brings me a cup of coffee. I am calmer.

  “Steffi, I can’t ring the hospitals to find out if there has been an accident. I can’t ring the police. I can’t do anything in case they don’t have him. It would draw attention to him. It could be very dangerous.”

  Steffi brings a large glass of brandy. I drink all of it and fall asleep.

  * * *

  Someone kisses me. I wake up. Walter smiles through tears. We gaze at each other. We embrace. We laugh. I jump out of bed.

  “Hungry?”

  He nods. I take his hand, and we run into the kitchen. We are ravenous.

  Walter was on his way home when three Brownshirts took him to the former headquarters of the Vaterländische Front. The building had been repaired, and now they needed cleaning squads.

  “They ordered me to scrub floors,” Walter said, “polish floors, clean shelves and furniture. People were cleaning carpets, windows, and lavatories. Trudi, you know how I am. I did a perfect job. Then one of the young Nazis said, ‘The old man has worked well. He can go home.’ I looked around me for the old man. ‘I mean you,’ he said, pointing at me. I said, ‘Thank you,’ put on my coat, went downstairs, and crossed the street. I came home to you. I never thought that a bit of gray at the temples made you an old man. Does it?”