by Trudi Kanter
“Your sister telephoned. They’re all right.”
“Good.”
“She wants us to go over there. She says we’re neglecting them.”
“Why doesn’t she come here?”
“You wouldn’t want that! It’s much too dangerous here. She would have to bring the boy. He’s only three. And she’s right—we haven’t seen them for ages.”
We eat hot frankfurters with French mustard and freshly grated horseradish. Coffee. Walter lights a cigarette, strokes my hand. He looks like the cat who got the cream.
“Guess what?” he purrs. He is interrupted by the wretched cuckoo clock. The cuckoo looks really vicious to me now. Maybe he’s a Nazi?
“Guess,” he insists.
“If it’s something good, just tell me,” I say.
“It’s something very, very important to me. Something I wouldn’t like to live without. Couldn’t.”
“Walter. Please.”
“We’re getting married. I’ve booked the date.”
“So what?” I say and burst into tears.
2
The delicatessen at the corner is the largest in Vienna. The only one that sells pineapples from South Africa, Indian tea, English bacon, Scottish smoked salmon. Everything looks wonderful. I want to buy French raspberry jam. A salesman in a white linen jacket stands by a machine and cuts Polish Krakauer into paper-thin slices. Polish Krakauer is my favorite—ham sausage, hung up to dry until it is very hard. On a shelf along the wall are jars containing every spice in the world. A huge aluminum bucket holds peeled Portuguese almonds. A man buys a large bottle of Hungarian apricot brandy.
We haven’t had it for a long time. My eyes move to the shelves, looking for a smaller bottle. Then it hits me: I can’t afford even that. A light is cleverly directed at cold meats inside the glass counter. It makes the meat look irresistibly pink and fresh. There is the smell of freshly baked bread.
The place is packed; I have to wait to be served. A girl, brown hair, white apron, makes dainty parcels, hands them to a lady, and says, “Danke schön, gnädige Frau.”
I stand at the counter, looking at the contented faces around me. They haven’t had to get used to hiding, to being afraid. The ground beneath their feet is solid.
I hear the loud voice of a young woman. Too loud, considering her Jewish accent. She has red hair. When she laughs, her full lips open, showing small, white teeth. Her eyes are china blue. She puts her arm around the shoulders of the man next to her. Pepi’s shoulder. I draw back into the farthest corner of the shop. They can’t see me. I hear my heart beat. I feel as though it is choking me. Why? He’s free. He isn’t your husband anymore. But he’s still my Pepi! You have another man now. A man you really love, a man you are to marry in a few days’ time. You’re jealous! No, I’m not! Do you love him? Yes, like a brother! Then let him go. He’s mine!
She links arms with Pepi and presses her head into his shoulder. He’s nervous. She flirts. She’s fighting for him. I want to shoot her. Suddenly she frees her arm to point a bright red nail at the Edam cheese; she wants to touch it. Pepi stops her. He is embarrassed.
The saleslady puts their purchases into a paper bag. She doesn’t make dainty parcels for them. She hands the bag to Pepi and ignores the girl.
Pepi, she isn’t good enough for you.
3
I’m alone. We have arranged to spend the night apart. We meet tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the register office. The ceremony is at eleven.
It is midnight, and I’m still awake. Tomorrow I will marry Walter. Tomorrow, 13 July 1938. What a date for a wedding. But the number 13 doesn’t worry me. Any day I marry Walter will be a lucky day. It will be a simple civil ceremony. Not like when Pepi and I got married. That wedding was arranged by his parents. I remember my mother in silver-gray chiffon, large diamond earrings. She looked beautiful. Father, tall and elegant. He had made my wedding present himself: a necklet of South American topazes, set in circles of tiny diamonds. “To match your goldfish hair,” he said.
On his arm, I entered the synagogue, a garden of white and yellow flowers. Father admired my pale lilac tulle dress, the small, veiled hat made of violets. Father had taste and style.
It all seemed like a dream. An organ played soft music, far away. Is this my wedding? There were hundreds of people. I couldn’t see their faces. Mother Miller, under the chuppah, wore black with white roses and pearls. She gave me a sweet smile. Father Miller looked miserable. His black hat, too large, slipped over his ears. Pepi tried to catch my eye. He stood next to the rabbi.
The clock in the sitting room chimes. It is two in the morning. I still can’t sleep. What will I look like tomorrow? Perhaps I won’t wear my white dress. I’ll wear navy blue. I’m not in the mood to dress up, but I want to look nice. I hope, in years to come, Walter will remember. Years to come. Who can think so far ahead, when even a year from now seems an age away. Everything was so different when I married Pepi. People bought a home, brought up their children, and celebrated their silver wedding in the same house. Everything was forever. Most people I know now don’t know where they will be in a few months’ time—a few days’ time. They don’t know if they will make it through tomorrow.
My parents believed in God but were not very religious. I didn’t know much about Jewish weddings. I listened to Hebrew words I didn’t understand. I tried to listen to the rabbi. He looked important in his black hat, white and black striped shawl.
A glass, wrapped in white cloth, was placed on the floor. Pepi smashed it under his foot. This is the Jewish symbol of a husband’s commitment to protect his wife. Pepi will protect me. Pepi will protect me. I wasn’t thinking clearly anymore.
Pepi held out the ring. He put it on my finger. We kissed. Dutifully, I kissed everybody. It was over. People were congratulating me.
Why did I cry?
Daylight creeps around the blue velvet curtains, lacing their edges.
I stand in front of my mirror. I wear my navy blue crepe de chine dress. It has a small décolleté and short sleeves. The skirt is draped across to the left hip, held in place by a huge white rose.
Doris comes in with a white flower toque, holding it with great care. It is made entirely of large rose petals. Steffi suggests that I put all my hair inside the hat. A fine green veiling covers my eyes.
“How chic it looks, madame,” Steffi says. She hands me my long, white kid gloves.
“No jewelry?” Doris asks.
“No,” I reply.
The girls are more excited than I am.
4
Walter and I stand in front of the register office. Not a memorable building. We have no witnesses. We don’t want anyone to know. These days, no one tells anyone anything.
The ceremony has little to do with a wedding. It is soulless, mass-produced, commercialized, like the room we sit in, which is like a dentist’s waiting room. We are a little afraid. Behind the huge desk sits a morose, unfriendly man. The floor is covered in linoleum. There are no curtains at the window. There are notices tacked to the walls. Walter takes my hand, puts it in his pocket, and holds it there.
There are several couples waiting in front of us. Suddenly, I am excited. I squeeze Walter’s hand as we move toward the desk.
The cold voice asks, “Will you take this man to be your wedded husband?”
“I will,” I whisper.
We are outside, crossing the road. Walter stops in the middle of the traffic.
“Do me a favor, darling. Take your hat off.”
I do. My hair tumbles across my face and over my shoulders.
“Much better.” He laughs as we run to the other side.
5
Nobody tells anyone anything. People vanish without saying good-bye. Everyone is afraid. We try to be as inconspicuous as possible. Drawing attention to oneself is dangerous.
But I can’t possibly leave without seeing Pepi’s family. His parents. They are like my second parents, and it might be the last chance
I have.
We drive to Döbling, on the outskirts of Vienna. I remember going there with Pepi for the first time. I was impressed and apprehensive when we drew up outside his parents’ palatial house. We turned into the drive. Wide steps led up to huge double doors. I wanted to go home. Pepi laughed, took my hand, and led me inside.
In the hall was a magnificent Dutch commode in dark, shiny wood. It held a white, smiling china Buddha. Hedi, Pepi’s younger sister, raced across the hall to be the first to greet me. Her amber eyes.
Friedl, his elder sister, stood in the doorway watching me. The sun shone through tall French windows and lit up her red hair, the most vibrant red I had ever seen. She walked gracefully. She took my face in her hands and made me look into her leaf green eyes. Her pink mouth touched my cheeks. She smiled and took my hand. “Come, Trudi. Meet Father.” She became my favorite sister-in-law. We were like sisters.
* * *
Now I feel sorry for the Millers’ house. It has lost its shine; it is crying. It has seen so much happiness, that house to which we all returned again and again. One by one, its occupants are leaving. Soon the house will be all alone.
Pepi’s mother rushes out of the kitchen. There are no servants left, yet still she has a bunch of keys hanging from a bunch around her waist.
“Welcome home, my child,” she says, stroking my hair.
Pepi’s father, as always, sits on the green sofa that stands on the large, red Bokhara carpet. He is nearly eighty now. He looks at me over the top of his glasses and says, “Good-bye, my child. Have a lovely time.” He thinks I am going on holiday.
My heart is heavy. Pepi’s mother walks me to the front door, puts her arms around me, and holds me for a long time. Pepi drives me home. He has decided to stay with his parents until they are able to leave.
The members of the Miller family who were already in New York City eventually managed to arrange a passage to Havana for their parents. The plan was that they could wait there in safety until their quota numbers came up and they could enter the United States. But Pepi’s father died before they could leave Vienna. His mother, seventy years old, went to Havana all by herself. For eight months she lived there on her own, without friends, not understanding a word of the language, until she was finally allowed to join her children.
6
As I enter my building, Janos steps out of the shadows. He has been waiting for me. He looks around furtively.
“I have seen him again,” he whispers, “the man who was asking about your new husband. He didn’t see me—he didn’t come into the building. I just saw him in the street.” He looks at me with his innocent brown eyes.
Oh, Janos. Dear Janos. Say something good.
I can’t speak. I touch his cheek, put my finger to my lips, and go upstairs. Walter is out. I stand at the window of my sitting room, looking down at Kohlmarkt.
Where is he? Why isn’t he home yet? He has gone out to collect some kind of plastic prototype that he needs for a design. He told me, “This prototype will be the basis for my next business.”
I take refuge in my workroom. The girls are busy: steaming, ironing, sewing, singing. They exchange looks when they see me. Dolly borrows the model hat that Maria is copying. It is for a customer named Frau Schumacher; Dolly imitates her, tilting the hat at an angle so that it almost covers her right eye. She puts a pencil in her mouth, pretending it is a cigarette, puffing imaginary smoke. I join in the laughter.
I try on some straw hats. The fittings are good. The room radiates industry and good humor. But it doesn’t help the sinking feeling inside me. Walter, come home. Please.
I warn Steffi and Doris. They know what to do if the men come calling again. I go into the showroom. The lovebirds are courting noisily. Feathers proudly puffed out, they turn their heads from side to side, cheeping. I poke my finger through the bars of their cage, and they peck at my nail. Steffi comes in: “Madame, the lady from upstairs is here. She wants to talk to you.”
“Thank you, Steffi. Show her into the sitting room.”
Anna, my neighbor, is Russian, about fifty. She is thin, tiny. She was a prima ballerina once; she fell in love, gave up her career, and now is a widow, lonely and sad. She is fond of me and adores Walter.
“Frau Trudi, I noticed a man hanging around yesterday—short, stocky, gray hair. He was standing on the other side of the road and seemed to be watching the entrance to our building; he was there for more than an hour. Then this morning, he stopped me in the street. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I am looking for Herr Ehrlich. I believe he lives in this building. Can you tell me where to find him?’ I told him I know no one of that name. ‘He’s very good-looking,’ the man said. ‘Dark hair, blue eyes. We believe he might be connected with a Frau Miller who lives on the first floor.’ ‘I know Frau Miller well,’ I said, ‘but I’ve never heard of this person. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’ He left me alone after that. I’m really sorry. It’s bad news, I know. I hope it will be all right in the end. You can trust me. I’m your friend.”
I realize that Walter mustn’t come back to No. 11. I need to warn him. I wonder if he might be at the Café Rebhuhn—he always said it was a good place to meet his friends because he thought it was unlikely that they would make a big arrest in front of so many people “They try to fool people that everything is normal,” he said. “They try to do everything in secret.”
I telephone my parents. “Mother, don’t ask questions, please—Walter needs to stay with you tonight.”
“Why, darling? What’s happened?”
“Please don’t ask questions, Mother. Walter will explain. I’m sorry I can’t come—I might be followed.” She is shocked. I am very upset. I say good-bye.
I am terrified the man will come back when Walter is at home. The glass roof might not work again. This time they will search every corner, every cupboard, every place where he might hide. Every cupboard? Good God! Walter’s clothes! I need to move them. Where? In a panic, I telephone Pepi.
“Pepi, you need to come over, quickly. I’m in trouble. Help me. Walter’s suits—his books—it’s too much . . .”
“Calm down, darling,” he says. “Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t talk now. Please come. Come at once. Please.”
I run into the bedroom, take down Walter’s suitcases and start to pack his clothes. The shirt with the blue stripes, his favorite. On the hanger is the white one he wore yesterday. The blue suit needs cleaning. All his shoes need cleaning. I pack them. I pack the beautiful red cardigan I gave him for his birthday. His razor, his shaving brush. His files of business correspondence. There must be no trace of him in the apartment, nothing that connects him with this place in any way. Oh, God, his glasses!
What if they are waiting for Walter downstairs? If they catch him coming into the building, it’s the end. Walter will simply vanish. My legs give way, and I sink onto the bed.
The doorbell rings. I run into Pepi’s arms and howl into his shoulder. He strokes my hair, whispers to me, trying to calm me down. I don’t hear what he is saying, but after a while I stop crying. I show him the suitcases I have packed and tell him what has happened.
“Please take them away, Pepi. Now. If anyone stops you, the cases belong to you, they are yours. They have been here since before we divorced. Understand?”
“Don’t worry, darling. Everything will be all right.”
“Please, Pepi, hurry!”
* * *
Walter comes home. He wasn’t seen.
“Walter, thank God you’re back, but you have to leave. I don’t know how, but you have to. You’re in terrible danger.”
“What’s happened? You’re shaking. What’s the matter?”
“The man, he was here again, asking for you . . .”
“How do you know?”
“Anna told me. He asked her if she knew you.”
Walter tries to hide his fear.
We have to get out of here, out of Vienna, or he wi
ll break. He has been singled out. Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong. Everyone loves him. He has no enemies.
We are sitting on the floor, side by side, holding hands. I remember walking with him across frozen snow. The crunch. The sky was blue, and the air was cold, bubbly as champagne. The sun was shining on Vienna. The snow glittered.
7
“Hello, Father. How’s everybody?”
“Fine. Do you want to speak to—”
“No! I can’t speak to anybody.”
“Darling, everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“OK, Papa. Give my love to—”
It is dark. I draw the curtains. It’s the first night since we were married that I am in bed without Walter. He’s safe with my parents—or as safe as anyone can be at the moment. I have locked the door, locked all the windows. If the doorbell rings, I won’t answer.
The telephone rings. It isn’t the signal I have arranged with my parents, Walter, and Pepi. I’m frightened. They could come anytime, demand that I open up.
I try to read a magazine, but I can’t concentrate. I turn off the light and put my head under the pillow, but I can’t sleep.
The persecution of Walter is coming from someone specific, someone with a grudge. If the Nazis wanted to arrest him, they would have had him long ago. The person who wants Walter must know a Nazi, someone high up in the Party, and is prepared to pay. Who is it? Who wants revenge, and for what?
Is it a woman? A woman scorned?
It is quiet in my bedroom. No traffic or voices filter through to the back of the building. I dream my childhood dream. I’m picking wild strawberries in the woods. The largest and ripest are hidden under small shrubs and tree stumps. I collect them in my jam jar. I don’t eat a single one; they are for Mother. Usually I’m happy when I wake up from this dream, but not this time. There’s a weight on my chest, and I can’t breathe.
It’s raining. The wind hurls slabs of water against the windowpanes. I pull the blanket over my head.