by Trudi Kanter
I dream that I am cut out of a large sheet of thick cardboard. I am an outline. Mother carries me under her arm; I stick out front and back. She takes me home. I wake up in a cold sweat. Mother. I want to go home.
I pile up pillows under my head. I turn over and over and over. It comes to me in a flash; suddenly, I feel certain that I know who our persecutor is. Herr Hans Holler. Monocle, barrel chest, short legs. A name-dropper, a social climber. Herr Holler was a member of the sports club Pepi and I used to go to when we were married. We would play tennis there, and bridge, and go to the socials. Herr Hans Holler was keen on me. He would follow me around the place, sitting close to me and staring. Sometimes I would find him behind me, sniffing at my neck, my hair. Because of him, I stopped going to the club.
Then came Hitler, and Herr Hans Holler reappeared. I would see him at Demel. He came over to my table, sat next to me. I couldn’t get up and move elsewhere. Herr Hans Holler was now a Nazi.
He telephoned and asked me to dinner. When I declined, he became aggressive. He didn’t ask me again; he ordered me to accompany him. I had several dinners with him. We would always meet at the restaurant. I knew that he couldn’t hold his drink, so I would make him drunk. Then I would take a taxi, drop him in front of his house, and go home.
One day, Herr Holler said, “Tomorrow, we will have dinner in my flat.” His watery blue eyes were blades; his thin, blond hair was damp.
“I can’t do that, Herr Holler. I am a lady,” I said.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. I want you to walk across my bedroom, naked, with your silver fox fur around your neck.”
“I can’t do that.”
“My dear, you have a father, a husband, and a boyfriend. Whom do you love the most? You are intelligent enough to know what I am saying. Think it over. I will telephone you tomorrow.”
Herr Hans Holler never telephoned me again. It seemed a miracle, until someone told me that he had been accused of mixing with Jews and was banished to the provinces.
Now I am certain that he is back, and that he is the cause of our present trouble. We have to get out of Vienna, out of Austria. But we can do nothing without the American or English visas.
We have to wait.
We can’t afford to wait.
8
I take a taxi to the Czechoslovakian embassy. Paying the driver, I’m shocked. On the pavement is a crowd of hundreds of people. A woman standing next to me says, “There are SS men at the entrance. They are letting people in two at a time.”
I learned at that moment that you must never allow yourself to be one of a crowd. You have to do something on your own.
“Fräulein.” I turn around. My taxi driver is behind me. “Fräulein, what is it you want here?”
“I need a visa for my husband,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.
“Come on, fräulein.” He smiles. “Don’t cry. I can help you.”
“How?”
“Come on.” He opens the taxi door for me. “Jump in. I think your troubles are over.”
He takes me back to Kohlmarkt. In the building next to the Vaterländische Front is a small travel agency.
“Go up there,” my driver says, pointing to the first floor. “He can help you. He specializes in taking groups to Pistian in Czechoslovakia. It’s a spa, mud baths—good for people with rheumatism. It’s easy to put in an extra passport.”
I get out and pay him.
“Thank you,” I say. “I will never forget you.”
We shake hands. “Good luck, fräulein,” he says. “You’re too young to die.”
Upstairs, I come face-to-face with a tall, blond, young German.
“Can I help you?” He has a charming smile. “Won’t you sit down?” He holds out a chair for me. “What can I do for you?”
I explain the situation.
“Is your husband a Jew?”
“What a question!” I laugh.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. They don’t give visas to Jews.”
“No one will know he’s Jewish! Just put his passport with all the others. Nobody will notice. If anyone asks, you can say that you know him, that he has to go on a business trip, that he’s in a hurry and can’t find his birth certificate, but you know he’s all right. Will you do that? Please?”
He hesitates, and my heart nearly stops.
“I might be able to help you,” he says, “but the official at the Czech passport office will want a lot of money.”
“How much is a lot?” I ask. He mentions a huge sum. “I haven’t got that sort of money,” I say. “You know that our bank accounts have been frozen. All my customers left, owing me money. I might be able to ask friends for help—I might be able to manage it—but I certainly won’t be able to find more than that. Can we do this deal now, immediately?”
“Today is Tuesday,” he says. “I am going to the Czech embassy on Thursday morning. Where will you be at one o’clock?”
I give him the number of Café Rebhuhn. “I’ll be waiting for your call,” I say. “Good-bye. Thank you.”
I haven’t the money to pay him. I am going to have to sell the large diamond clip that Pepi gave me. I know he won’t mind. I telephone my parents and ask them to come over to No. 11 straightaway. “Take a taxi, please,” I say to Mother. “I need to speak to Father urgently.”
When they arrive, I explain. “How much can I get for it?” I ask, handing Father the clip.
He walks to the window and examines it with his loupe. I have seen him do this so many times. His kind face is serious, his dark brown eyes intense. Thick, white hair. Father, Mother, how can I bear to leave you behind? My tiny mother, once so strong, now so helpless. And I will be leaving them alone in this dangerous place.
If Father is right—and he always is—I will have enough money to buy our freedom. Our lives. And—with the help of God—the lives of my parents.
“Don’t go by yourself, Truderl,” my father says. “They cheat Jewish people.”
I don’t look Jewish. Still, they might guess. He advises me to let the Retzabecks, my parents’ closest friends, sell the clip for me. They are Catholics and can be trusted.
I am taking a risk. If the man at the travel agency doesn’t get the visa, I will have sold the clip at a low price and lost money for nothing. But I have no choice.
But everything goes well. The clip is sold. The money comes to more than I need. I arrange to meet Walter at midday on Thursday at the Café Rebhuhn.
I have a lot to do. If the travel agent gets the visa for Walter, I will be able to leave with him; I will say I am going on my sales trip to London. I will be able to take only one suitcase and one piece of hand luggage. I have to be careful that nobody suspects I am not coming back. Only Steffi will know the truth.
I wander through the apartment. What shall I take? I love everything in my apartment. How much of it can I fit into a single suitcase?
Is this what we have come to? Here I am, in the middle of my sitting room, holding my favorite oval snuffbox. On the outer lid, enameled in beautiful colors, Cupid guards two half-naked lovers in a sunny meadow. A brown and white dog observes the scene. On the inside lid, a soldier woos a fair-haired girl who leans against a tree. He holds her hand tenderly. They will have to stay in their idyll. There’s my pale blue Persian pottery. My Louis XV onyx clock, a family heirloom. It chimes softly every half hour. My paintings—they are not valuable; they are colorful, decorative.
Some of the best things that would not be missed by visitors we have put in storage already: Walter’s two carpets from Stubenring, some furniture, silver, bed and table linen. A large Brussels lace tablecloth with twelve napkins like transparent clouds woven by spiders. I decide to have these belongings, along with the clock, sent on to Holland to be kept in storage there. The storage agreement is in Walter’s name.
* * *
It is Thursday. Midday. They are all here in the café. Good-natured Beppo, loyal Tony, and Poldi, my enemy. A blond
man I don’t know, and my Walter. They sit at their usual table, the large one in the corner. Café Rebhuhn looks the same as ever—relaxed, old-fashioned, a place for intellectuals to meet and talk. Round tables with dark gray marble tops, wrought-iron legs. Banquettes covered with dark red plush. Cigarette burns: the sign of life in a place. Plain, brown, uncomfortable bentwood chairs. Nothing has changed here since the reign of Franz Josef.
I haven’t seen Walter for four days. He sees me first, stands up, grins. His eyes sparkle through the thick haze of smoke. He hurries toward me, knocks over a chair, embraces me. His friends greet me warmly: “Hello, Trudi, how are you?” “Congratulations Frau Ehrlich!” “Where would you like to sit?” We kiss, shake hands, laugh. Walter puffs out his chest with pride, like my lovebirds. For the first time, I realize properly that I am now Frau Ehrlich.
They order Turkish coffee for me, a speciality of the house: finely ground coffee and demerara sugar boiled together, with two drops of cold water added at the end to settle the grounds. They give me the best seat. Walter sits next to me, holds my hand. My soldier from the snuffbox.
Suddenly Walter says, “It’s one o’clock.”
Everyone falls silent. They know why I am here. We wait.
“Frau Ehrlich, telephone.” The waiter moves the table to let me out. I feel faint.
“Hello?”
“Frau Ehrlich?” It is the German.
“Yes.” I try to keep my voice steady. The floor of the kiosk is littered with cigarette butts. I see the torn pages of the open telephone directory.
“I am at the Czech embassy,” the German says. “The official wants more money. What shall I do?”
“I told you when I was in your office that I would have to borrow some of the money. And now he wants more? I haven’t got it. I’m terribly sorry. You know how important the visa is to me—it’s a matter of life and death. Really. Believe me. Please.”
A pause. “Very well,” the German says. “I will try again, but don’t blame me if I can’t get it. I will meet you at my office in half an hour.”
Now he has frightened me. Maybe he was telling the truth. I am gambling with our lives.
“He telephoned from the embassy?” Walter asks. “How can he be back in his office in half an hour? It takes at least forty-five minutes, door-to-door.”
My heart is pounding as I climb the stairs to the first floor of the building on Kohlmarkt. The German hands me Walter’s passport with the visa inside. He smiles impishly. Oh, I think, You bastard, you had it all along. I cross the road to No. 11, looking around me carefully, still afraid of the man who was looking for Walter. I go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee, and sit on the window seat. The cuckoo calls three o’clock. I won’t miss you, I think. Your hard, shrill voice. Your beady, soulless eyes. The sun shines through the windows. The clouds are dispersing. We are free to go.
I telephone Walter at the Café Rebhuhn. “Everything is all right, darling,” I say. “Stay where you are. Pepi will come for you. I love you.”
I am calm. Pepi and I will smuggle Walter out of the Café Rebhuhn and into the car. I still have some packing to do. And I have to say good-bye to the girls, without giving away the fact that I might never see them again. They helped to pack a collection of 150 model hats that were sent to England for my business trip.
“Have a good time,” Dolly says. “Bring back lots of orders.”
“Good luck, take it easy.” Doris smiles. “Auf Wiedersehen!”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” I say.
I ask Steffi to come into the kitchen. I take off my gold locket that I wear on a long, black velvet ribbon and put it around her neck. We cry. Steffi tells me she will look after my parents and do all she can to help them. She will keep the business going for as long as possible, despite the risk of retribution from the Gestapo when they finally realize that I am not coming back. And she promises to keep in touch with Pepi.
“Steffi, before you close down, take anything you want from here—the workroom, the showroom, and the flat. I want you to have it all. Steffi, dear Steffi, I’ll never forget you.” Tears run down our cheeks.
The Prague train leaves at five thirty p.m. It is now four o’clock. Pepi will be here any moment. I’m dressed, ready to go, and I’m relieved when he arrives. He carries my suitcase and my hand luggage downstairs. I watch from the window as he puts them in the boot of his car, next to Walter’s case. I look for a short, stocky man with gray hair.
“Please, God, don’t let it go wrong,” I pray out loud.
Pepi runs back upstairs, pulls me away from Steffi, and rushes me into the car. I look through the back window and say good-bye to No. 11.
We drive to the back entrance of Café Rebhuhn. Pepi strolls through the corridors to the front, signals to Walter, walks him to the back door, and pushes him quickly into the car. Walter doesn’t look at me as Pepi drives off.
The station is busy. The porter puts the luggage into our compartment.
We stand on the platform. Walter’s face is white and strained. He hasn’t said a word since he left the café.
Pepi embraces him. “If you don’t make her happy,” he says, “I’ll break your neck.”
He embraces me quickly and hurries away. I have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from sobbing.
9
We are on the train. My thoughts are tumbling about, from childhood to marriage, from divorce to remarriage, to good-byes, to my parents. I have left them all alone. I used to find them tiresome. Now I want to look after them forever.
When I was a child, I had the best of everything—holidays, clothes, teachers, nannies, maids, doctors. But I wanted my parents to kiss me, to stroke my hair, to put their arms around me. I wanted to feel important. They didn’t understand.
I think of my mother’s thin neck, the lines under her eyes. I saw her clean her spectacles with the hem of her skirt. I saw large veins on my father’s elegant hands.
I look out of the window at the busy platform. A girl in a Tyrolean outfit kisses her parents. I want to take Walter’s hand, get out of the train, walk along the platform, through the turnstile, into the street, catch a bus to Kärntner Ring, walk down Kärntnerstrasse, look in the windows of Gardos, the Hungarian who makes my shoes. Walk across Graben, past Knize, Walter’s tailor, turn into Kohlmarkt, greet every shop, every street corner. Past the jeweler, into No. 11. I still have my keys. I walk through my lovely apartment, my workroom, say hello to my lovebirds . . .
I am on the train, leaving.
I am the lucky one, so they say.
PART SEVEN
A New Life
(London, 1938)
1
The train crawls. We have yet to face German passport control. Our Austrian passports are still valid. On mine, I’m still Frau Gertrud Miller. I’m on a business trip, selling model hats in order to bring English pounds to Nazi Germany. I sit opposite Walter Ehrlich, a stranger in a salt-and-pepper suit. Next to him, two elderly ladies dressed in black whisper together. On my right sits a tall man with a squashed nose like a boxer’s. A thin man sits next to him.
We have gone through the outskirts of Vienna. I take a last look at the trees and the cornfields. Walter’s eyes are closed.
“We’ll be at the border soon,” says the man next to him.
Walter opens his eyes. We exchange looks.
It is forbidden to take more than ten Austrian schillings in cash out of the country. I have letters of credit for my business expenses. The English, French, and Czechoslovakian visas are in my passport. I wear tiny diamond studs in my earlobes, my Omega gold watch, and an antique gold bracelet. The topaz necklace that Father made for me is in my handbag.
Please God, don’t let them take it away. Help us to cross the border safely.
The train slows down, screeches, rattles, and stops. The conductor races through our compartment. The thin man yawns, clasps his fingers behind his head, stares out of the misty window. It is raining. Walter
looks at his watch, doors open and close, people walk along the platform. A man in a navy blue suit enters our compartment, looks at us, and closes the door.
“Passkontrolle!” the German says.
He holds out his hand to Walter. “Pass?” Walter gives it to him. He scrutinizes each page and hands it back to him. He repeats this procedure with everyone in the compartment, leaving me to the last. I feel faint. He takes my passport, looks at each page, looks at me, checks each page again. Our lives depend on the whim of a single Nazi.
“Which is your luggage?” he asks.
I point it out to him.
“Is this all you have?”
I nod.
He’s still not satisfied. He stares at my face. Is he trying to decipher whether or not I am Jewish? He returns my passport, opens the door slowly, hesitates, glances back, then leaves. A few moments later, we see him on the platform, walking away. Walter smiles at me.
Shortly after we left Austria, a new German law came into force: Jews had to have a large red J stamped in their passports.
The train moves slowly across the border. It is over.
2
We arrive in Prague, put our cases in left luggage, and rush to the nearest café. Walter finds the number of his uncle Moritz in the telephone directory. Ten minutes later, under an umbrella, through sheets of heavy July rain, he arrives at the café. He is pudgy, homely looking. His shoes and turnups are soaked.
“Children, how wonderful to see you! Ilsa is telephoning everyone. We’re so thankful you are here. Don’t worry about a thing; we’ll look after you. Why didn’t you tell us that you were coming? We’re so happy. Two lovely young people. Two of our family! What a miracle! How did you do it? No—it doesn’t really matter; you’re here, that’s all that counts.”
Ilsa welcomes us with tears in her eyes. Leon looks like his dark-eyed father. Rosi, a tiny, red-haired doll, wears a short, pink and white gingham dress trimmed with white rickrack. She looks at me with big eyes—she has been told that we have escaped from Hitler, the Monster.