Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler

by Trudi Kanter

  7

  I am going to visit my parents. The taxi passes the house where Elsa used to live. She was my very best friend at school.

  One day, Elsa and I were in the park. The sun was shining through the trees, onto the flowers and the wing of a large, white butterfly lying on the grass. I picked it up, and Elsa started to run.

  “No, Trudi, no! Please! Don’t come near me! Don’t! Throw it away!” she screamed.

  I went closer. She stamped her feet, in black patent sandals, tried to lift the skirt of her pink and white gingham dress over her head. The blond plaits tied with pink ribbon on either side of her head were flying.

  A new feeling of power came over me. I terrorized her with it. She was not particularly intelligent. A little fat. I made her run.

  Many years later, she took her revenge. Willi was my boyfriend—strong face, good figure, tall, intelligent. At that time, I adored plain-looking men with brains. Mother liked him, too. I had a dream: a cat with a smooth, black coat stared at me, motionless. Green eyes, full of fire and bad intentions. Elsa’s eyes. Dreaming of cats means an underhand attack. A lie. Danger.

  She and Willi were meeting in secret.

  Later on, they married and went to live in Berlin. I heard they died in a concentration camp.

  I learned never to trust a woman where men are involved.

  Mother’s best friend, Alma, a society photographer, once said to me, “Trudi, you are a very discreet girl. You never ask where my husband is. Soon, you will be a young lady and will have lots of men around you. Maybe you will marry one of them. Here is some advice from a good friend with a lot of experience. Never leave your man on his own.”

  I never did. No other woman ever got hold of Walter.

  The taxi stops outside my parents’ building. They are waiting for me at their window. I climb up to the third floor, and they are standing in their open doorway.

  I haven’t been here since Hitler’s invasion three months ago. The flat feels different, although everything is the same: the silver-gray bedroom, my room with the large brass bed and white furniture, the blue hall, the long red and blue Persian runner patterned with large green birds that used to frighten me when I was little. My mother points at the piano in the sitting room. “Should I sell it?” she asks.

  “No, Mother. Only if you really need money, or are about to leave the country.”

  “Will we? Leave?” she asks. Her eyes are burning blue question marks.

  “I promise, Mother, I’ll get you out. Trust me.” I put my arm around her and kiss her. She is so thin. “I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

  Did I realize what I was promising?

  We sit at the dining table drinking coffee and eating homemade cake. Mother looks worried, but Father doesn’t; he’s always calm.

  They show me a letter. The Austrian tax office has written to my father asking him to pay an astronomical sum in “outstanding income tax.” They are threatening to confiscate the contents of the apartment if the bill is not settled within four weeks.

  “Trudi, your father has paid all his taxes. He doesn’t owe them anything.”

  “Do you have the receipts?” I ask.

  He produces a bundle of papers. “What do you think we should do?” he asks. “I’m afraid to go over there—I could be arrested.” His cigarette ash drops onto the carpet.

  “Of course you can’t go over there. In any case, isn’t the apartment in Mother’s name? Could you prove that the apartment and its contents belong solely to Mother?”

  My mother is not Jewish.

  “We have some proof . . .” Mother says doubtfully.

  “Don’t worry, Mama, please. I’ll talk to my lawyer friend. But you might have to be prepared to go to court . . .”

  My tiny, tough, clever mother went to court, all by herself. She won her case. Hitler or not, the judge decided that the flat belonged to her alone.

  8

  Wednesday at the Kultusgemeinde was a repeat performance of Monday’s session. It didn’t take long. The man didn’t try so hard. We went home and had sandwiches and coffee with Walter.

  “How did it go?” he asks Pepi. “Have you got rid of her yet?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Pepi replies. “It was only the second session.”

  “Be patient, my friend. Third time lucky.” They both laugh.

  It’s Friday, the final session. I don’t want Walter to notice that I’m upset. I’m very possessive where people are concerned; I can’t let go. Especially not of Pepi. He’s part of my life.

  I remember the first time we drove out to the country. Pepi made a wreath of cornflowers and put it on my head. “I make you my queen,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

  We sat on the grass, listening to the birds, lingering in the sunny meadow. A breeze rustled the trees; in the distance, cows mooed.

  We arrive at the Kultusgemeinde and are shown into a different room this time. The chairs are more comfortable. The desk is less orderly. There is a vase of wild roses and some photographs of children in shorts playing ball. The window is draped with patterned curtains.

  A woman comes in and sits down and smiles at us. Then she moves about in her chair, gets up, turns the cushion over, and sits down again. She grins apologetically, showing her white teeth. Her green eyes are laughing. I like her. She uses her pencil to move the blond fringe from her forehead. Pepi gropes for my hand underneath the desk.

  “Well?” the lady asks. “Two people, so young, so lovely.” She shakes her head, tries to persuade us. It isn’t a sermon; it’s the warm, intelligent effort of a young, understanding woman.

  “Can you reconsider?” She looks from me to Pepi, then back to me. We shake our heads, say no, feel guilty. Pepi tightens his grip on my hand.

  He walks me home. We stop at the entrance to my building and face each other, hands clasped. Suddenly, he releases my hands and walks away. His hair blows in the wind as he turns the corner.

  PART FIVE

  A Voyage

  (London, 1936)

  1

  Looking through Walter’s cupboard, I find a flannel suit of mine. My Tyrolean costume! The one I wore on that trip to London back in June 1936. There was a new king on the throne: Edward VIII.

  My small suitcase is packed; I have said good-bye to Walter; I am ready to leave. I have booked a passage on a boat from The Hague to England. I am going to London and from there to Paris to do my buying before returning to Vienna. I have chosen the route from Holland because it is the cheapest.

  Frightening news has been coming across the border from Germany. Jews were being persecuted. No one seemed to believe it; no one wanted to. But deep down, part of me did believe it. I wanted to be safe. I wanted Walter to be safe. I wanted to live with him in a free country, far away from Hitler. I was going to England partly to see for myself what it was like.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. In those days, it was considered chic to wear Tyrolean outfits for sport and travel. Emerald green braid ran down each side of my slim, gray flannel skirt. My gray flannel jacket had a tiny emerald green stand-up collar, wide revers, and cuffs. The buttons down the front were made of horn. My blouse was white lawn. My small-brimmed, black, silky velour hat was trimmed with a wide emerald green ribbon. Black flat-heeled crocodile shoes and a black crocodile clutch bag completed the outfit. I would have felt less proud of my appearance had I known what was in store for me en route . . .

  Austria is landlocked, and I had never seen the sea. I imagined it to be blue and smooth. But today, it is rough. The yellow-painted boat in the harbor lurches up and down; I can’t read its name, and it makes me feel giddy even to look at it. I climb up the gangway, and sailors help me on. They speak French among themselves. I am shown to the luggage room, where I take off my hat and sit down.

  The engines are noisy and grow louder and louder. My head is splitting, and the smell of oil is making me feel sick. Sailors shout in French. I am on a French cargo boat. Oh God, who booked thi
s trip for me? How did this happen? I can’t remember. I feel sick. The boat is moving. I have to hold on to my seat, tightly, with both hands. No, I can’t; I have to hold on to my handbag, which has no handles and contains my passport, traveler’s checks, money, and jewelry. Why did I bring jewelry? I clutch the bag. The boat pitches.

  Through the open door, I see water sloshing around the deck. I have to be sick. I rush outside, bend over the rail, and vomit. More and more. I can’t stop. A sailor stands behind me, shouting in French. I’m so ill I can’t understand him. I wouldn’t have understood him no matter what language he had been speaking. I don’t care what he’s saying. I grip my crocodile bag, pressing it against me. My body is pressed against the railings. The sailor continues to shout. He points to a big ridge in front of the rail. I finally understand; if I bend over the rail, the wind will blow my vomit onto the side of the boat, and he will have to clean it.

  I can’t move. I’m screwed to the deck. He waves his arms, shouts, “Merde,” gives up. He fetches a deck chair and forces me down onto it.

  My suitcase and my Tyrolean hat are in the luggage room. It is raining. The water floods over me from the sky and from the sea. I am soaking wet and deathly sick. I don’t give a damn about anything except my handbag. People fall off their deck chairs. Shoes fly through the air. Even the sailors are being sick. They say it is the worst crossing for fifteen years.

  Wet hair sticks to my face, my makeup. The flannel cloth of my suit has absorbed so much water it weighs a ton. It is caked in vomit. One of my hands clings to the rail, the other clutches my bag. If it slips out of my hands into the raging sea, I will jump in after it!

  Eventually, we arrive. I don’t move. I can’t move. Let them come and get me. Now I know why this route is so cheap.

  The London train is waiting. A porter finds my luggage and helps me to my compartment. I still feel dreadful. A young woman offers me brandy. I grab the bottle and take a big sip. Maybe it will help. Anything, I’ll take anything if it might make me feel better.

  “I know how you feel,” she says. “I felt bad myself. Everyone was ill on that wretched boat. Not as ill as you, though. Can I fetch you anything?”

  I shake my head and close my eyes. I want to die. Eventually I fall asleep, and I must sleep for quite a while, because when I open my eyes and look out of the window there is no sea, just towns and houses and people in cars. I feel better. I’m still clutching my crocodile bag.

  The young woman who gave me the brandy brings me a cup of tea. Her black eyes smile at me; her black curly hair reminds me of my favorite doll. She is flirting with the man sitting next to me. Suddenly, I realize how I must look. I get up, walk to the door, trip over my friend’s long legs, and apologize.

  I look at my reflection—is it really me? I clean the front of my jacket as best I can. The smell is intolerable. I wash my face, brush my hair, and put on fresh makeup.

  Returning to my compartment, I find my neighbor sitting close to my new friend. She must be out of her mind. The man has passed his fifties. He has a haggard face and body, thin gray hair with a yellowish tinge. His fingers are stained with nicotine. I close my eyes and fall asleep again.

  When I wake up, we have arrived. I glimpse my reflection in the window. Good God! What a way to arrive in London for the first time!

  I call a porter. Walking along the platform, I hear someone call: “Hello! Hello, wait for me!” It is my friend from the train. “Where are you going?” she asks. “Have you booked a room?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I reply, as we walk along. “Have you?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Shall we try together?”

  I look at her. She is well dressed. She was kind to me. Why not?

  “All right,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  “Shirley. Shirley Levin. It’s a Jewish name.”

  “Is it?” I grin.

  The taxi takes us from hotel to hotel. Finally, at the Strand Palace, we find a room—a double room, but it’s all they have. It is large, with light blue walls, a royal blue fitted carpet and—thank God!—twin beds. There is a small white desk and two comfortable armchairs. I like the four flower pictures in bright red frames above a small blue sofa.

  The next morning, I watch Shirley brush her hair and apply makeup in front of a large mirror.

  “I was in Vienna to see my mother,” she says. “She lives there with her second husband. I am married to an Australian. We live in Sydney. It’s lovely there, but I’m bored. I’ve come to see what England is like. We might move here with the children. How about you?”

  “Something similar.”

  My friend Doris has given me the telephone number of a young Viennese man, a friend of hers. I ask the clerk to put me through. A man’s cultured voice answers.

  “Is this Mr. Tony Winkler?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?”

  “I bring regards and good wishes from Doris Stoerk.”

  “Ah, Doris. How is she? Are you visiting from Vienna?”

  “Yes; I arrived last night.”

  “Then I am at your disposal.”

  We arrange to meet for dinner at my hotel. He asks how he will recognize me.

  “You can’t miss me.” I laugh. “Bright red hair.”

  I like him as he strides into the bar, tall and thin, late twenties. Usually I find tall men either awkward and shy or arrogant and superior. But Tony Winkler seems to be neither. He sees me at once, comes across the room, hands outstretched in greeting.

  “May I?” He sits down.

  Intelligent, golden-green eyes look through large glasses. He asks about Doris but doesn’t seem very interested. He gives me a nice dinner, ordering beautiful wine. We eat raspberries and cream, stir our coffee. Basking in the soothing effect of the wine, we decide to go for a walk to the river. Moon and stars shine and sparkle. The illuminated Houses of Parliament are reflected in the Thames. Little boats are outlined by small white lights. I miss Walter.

  Back at the hotel, I book a call to Vienna. No reply. The telephone rings and rings. Maybe he’s asleep. “No reply,” says the operator.

  If I hadn’t telephoned, I wouldn’t have known. Now I will not sleep. Why is he not at home? Where is he? With whom? Why?

  Love has so many twists and turns. Jealousy is one of them. I’m insanely jealous.

  It is midnight. One o’clock. Shirley tiptoes into the room, holding her shoes.

  “I’m awake,” I say. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

  “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  I tell her.

  “You shouldn’t have telephoned,” she says.

  “I know that now.” I look at her. “Where have you been? You can tell me that it’s none of my business. It isn’t. But having shared a room for a night, one cares a little.”

  She smells of alcohol. Her lipstick is smudged.

  “Look at yourself. You stupid girl. You have a husband, two children, a lovely home. What are you doing?”

  “I’ve done nothing,” she sulks.

  “You went out with a stranger. Ate and drank with a stranger. In a strange country. And I know who you have been with. He could almost be your grandfather.”

  “He asked after you,” she whispered. “Sends his regards.”

  She goes to bed. I fall asleep. Next morning, I leave while her head is still buried in the pillows. I have booked a guided tour of the city.

  London is beautiful. Majestic. It has class, tradition, elegance. People are charming, polite, and kind. They look prosperous. I think of my poor unemployed Vienna. I think of Walter. I buy him a silk tie.

  There are fresh tea roses in my room when I return. No card. Tony Winkler telephones at six thirty. He invites me to dinner. Against my better judgment, I accept. Maybe I am more like Shirley than I think. Where was Walter last night?

  The embrace takes place at the side entrance to the hotel. It is dark. He takes me by surprise. I feel no attraction, no curiosity. I want to get a
way from him. He makes me feel dirty as his arms tighten around me, his face moves nearer to mine. His blond hair touches mine. My arms stretch out to push him away. He pulls me closer, presses his thigh against mine. He is aroused. It is revolting. Gently, with my palms, I push his face away, twist out of his grip, and run inside.

  Next morning, Shirley is still asleep when I am ready to leave. I want to say good-bye, exchange addresses.

  “I’ll miss you!” she says. She is truly upset.

  “Be a good girl, and be sensible,” I say.

  “I am,” she says with pride. “You were quite right. I found myself a much younger man!”

  I set off to Paris in my express-cleaned suit. I longed for my home, my routine, my friends, my workroom. I longed for Walter. I rushed through my work in Paris and cut my stay short.

  * * *

  As my train pulled slowly into the station in Vienna, I saw Walter on the platform. My heart walked in front of me to greet him. On the way to my apartment, I told him all about London.

  “Walter, the money lies in the street, waiting to be picked up. The place, the people—I love it all. We could be happy there!”

  Walter just smiled. “Why don’t you go first? Get everything ready, and I will follow?” He spoke as if I were a child, his tone benevolent. I was hurt, and never raised the subject again.

  I never asked him where he had been that night.

  PART SIX

  “Walter, We Must Run”

  (Vienna, 1938)

  1

  The workroom door is half-open. “Hello,” says Walter, putting his head inside.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Ehrlich,” say my girls. They like him.

  “Want some lunch?” I put my arm through his. We go to the kitchen.

  “Any news?” Walter asks, dipping some radishes into salt and helping himself to some thinly sliced black bread. I have prepared it as he likes it, well-buttered and topped with finely chopped chives.