by Trudi Kanter
“Sssh. You’re getting hysterical.”
“Don’t shush me! I am so unhappy. When someone bumps into me on the pavement, I feel as though I should go down on my knees to apologize. I’m in his country. It’s his pavement, it’s his right-of-way. I’m only allowed to be here, I have no actual rights. Walter, I can’t live like this.”
* * *
Walter takes me to the Kilburn State Cinema, the largest cinema in Europe. We watch a depressing film about slaves in the American South. Black men are taken away from their families; women and children working in the fields are whipped. They have no rights at all. I am terribly upset. When the lights go up, there is music, and everyone stands up straight.
“What’s going on?” I ask Walter.
He puts a finger to his lips and whispers, “It’s the national anthem.”
I remember Uncle Paul’s words about king and country. I whisper, “I want to thank you very much, King George, for letting us come to England.” I don’t move. I hardly dare breathe. I stand tall, full of respect and gratitude. Tears roll down my cheeks.
“Why were you crying?” Walter asks me on the way back to Victoria Road.
“I want to go home.”
5
Walter won’t be back for hours. I slip back under the blankets. On the wall opposite is a gas fire. You have to put a shilling in the slot to switch it on. I look around the room—it will be expensive to heat a large space like this, up in the roof. But I know that I can earn money. I have contacts in London and a good reputation in the millinery trade—and Viennese designers have a certain cachet.
I am very worried about my parents. There is so much to do.
Today I have an appointment with Lady Gertrude Balfour, who is the sister of Montagu Norman, the governor of the Bank of England. She has just come down to London from her house in Scotland. Nemone, her daughter, studied singing in Vienna; she was my customer, and we became friends. I met her mother when Nemone brought her to the salon. I telephoned Lady Balfour because I thought she might be able to help with visas for my parents.
I stand in front of a small, white Georgian house in Grosvenor Street, Mayfair. The front door is highly polished. The brass door handle, knocker, and bellpull shine. There are coach lamps on each side of the entrance.
“Mrs. Ehrlich? You are expected.”
The butler leads me through a spacious hall into a large sitting room. Tall and slim, her white hair piled up on her head, Lady Balfour hasn’t changed since I last saw her in Vienna.
“Nemone is worried about you. She is in New York at the moment. It must have been very hard for you. If you don’t want to talk about it, my dear, I quite understand.”
Nevertheless I tell her about what happened to us in Vienna, about how Walter was persecuted, and about the lengths we had to go to in order to get him a visa.
“And what about your parents?” she asks.
“Can you help me bring them to England? Please? I can support them myself—your guarantee would be just a formality.”
She tells me that she will speak to her husband about it. The butler serves fresh haddock roe, rolled in flour and fried, garnished with sliced, pickled cucumbers.
“I hope you like our Scottish food,” Lady Balfour says.
I think of Walter and my goulash.
The room is flooded with sunlight, leaves rustle against the windows, silk taffeta curtains shimmer. Fine old furniture, emerald green satin-covered sofa, pink roses, oil paintings, the butler in his dark suit and white shirt. And my parents are in Vienna, in danger.
* * *
I can’t sleep at night, waiting to hear from Lady Balfour. I dream that my parents are looking at me through barbed wire, pressing their faces against it. They call me: “Truderl!” I wake up screaming.
Two days later, I find a letter on the hall table. It is addressed, To my daughter, 84 Victoria Road, London, England. My mother’s handwriting. She was afraid even to write my name.
15 October 1938
Darling,
We are both well and miss you very much. We received your letter. Don’t worry, we can manage with the money we have. All we want is to embrace our daughter again. Father sends his love and joins me in my wish.
All our love,
Mother
A letter arrives from Scotland. Lady Balfour writes that she is willing to give a guarantee for my father, but not for my mother; the responsibility for two old people would be too much. I would have to find someone else to do it.
“Isn’t it mean, not to give a guarantee for both of them?” Walter asks.
“No, darling, not mean, just cautious. Scottish people are careful with money. We’ll find something for Mother. I’m just grateful for Lady Balfour’s help with Father.”
* * *
A few days later, I get another letter, one that makes me cry as I read it:
18 October 1938
Dear Madame,
It is now three months since my lady went to England on a selling trip. I have not heard from her, and I have the feeling that she will not return.
I have kept the business going as well as I could, but without her it isn’t the business it was. Customers are asking for her, the girls are upset, and now is the time to go to Paris for the spring collections. I cannot do this. I know nothing about Paris, I have no money, and I am not a designer.
I had to close the business and hand the key to the Gestapo. It was a hard decision to make, and a hard thing to do. I did everything the way my lady would have wanted me to. She wasn’t a boss. She was our friend—and we miss her.
I had just enough money left to pay the girls. There was enough left over to buy cakes. We made coffee and sat in the workroom, reminiscing about our lovely times together, and we cried. We wished our Madame good luck. And then we sang:
Muas i denn, muas i denn, zum Städtle hinaus,
Städtle hinaus und Du mein Schatz bleibst hier.
Wann i kum, wann i kum, wann i wieder, wieder kum,
Wieder, wieder kum, kehr ich ein mein Schatz bei Dir.
Kann i gleich net immer bei Dir sein,
Han i doch mein Herzele bei Dir.
Wann i kum, wann i kum, wann i wieder wieder kum,
Wieder, wieder kum, kehr ich ein mein Schatz bei Dir.
(Do I have to, do I have to leave my town?
When you, my dear, stay here?
When I come, when I come, when I come back again,
I will come to you, my dear.
I can’t always be at your side,
But I left my heart with you.
When I come, when I come, when I come back again,
Back I will come to you, my dear.)
Madame, I wrote all the lines of the song so you won’t forget them. Not forgetting them, is not forgetting us.
Yours respectfully,
Steffi
I hear about a millinery firm in the West End run by two German brothers, refugees from Frankfurt, Otto and Fritz Levy. I telephone and make an appointment to see them. I put on my smart, blue tweed suit.
“It suits you,” says Walter. “You look respectable.”
“I’m going to the West End to apply for a job as a designer. I need to look chic, not respectable.”
I catch the number 8 bus to Marble Arch and hurry down Oxford Street. Crossing the road, I find myself standing in front of Waring and Gillow, a furniture store. The Clarendon Hat Company is on the third floor of a building around the corner.
I walk through a large workroom. Girls bend over their worktables, looking up at me with narrowed eyes—watching the rabbit. The young German forelady, stocky, blond, blue-eyed, sits at a separate table, dipping sugared biscuits into coffee. She pretends not to notice me. The afternoon sun casts four elongated shadow table legs across the floor. The room is sober. I think of my workroom in Vienna, my girls, my Steffi, straws, silks, velvets, flowers, feathers, and veiling: the glitter of it all.
I am asked to take a seat. The workroom b
uzzes. These girls are going to be dancers, nurses, secretaries—anything but milliners. My tweed jacket feels hot and scratchy. My mouth is dry.
I am introduced to the brothers Levy. They are alike, yet so different. Otto Levy, who runs the factory in Luton, is the older one. He is losing his hair. Fritz, the one who might be my boss, is dark-haired with clever, cynical, olive black eyes. His teeth are strong and white. They ask me a lot of questions. They tell me the German designer is going home to be married; she wants to leave before war breaks out.
“Do you know Paris well?” Otto asks.
“Very well,” I reply.
They look at each other. “We will be in touch.”
At four o’clock, depressed and thirsty, I cross Oxford Street again, cursing everything to do with the hat business.
Walter is out. I take off my suit, kick off the smart, tight shoes, and put on my dressing gown. From across the backyard, I can hear the clatter of pots and pans. People shout, children scream. I dream of Paris.
Three days later, Walter stands at the door waving a letter. THE CLARENDON HAT COMPANY, OXFORD STREET, LONDON is printed on the envelope.
“They want me! Hooray!”
We buy a bottle of wine to celebrate, drinking it in bed, in each other’s arms.
I wake late the next morning. Walter has already been out. He brings me a tray with coffee, fresh rolls, butter, and jam. One red rose. In spite of all the worry about our people in Vienna, I have never been so happy. I look around the room—our home. I love the peculiar curtains, the washbasin, stove, and cooking utensils concealed behind a gray curtain, the dining table and chairs. I even love the umbrella in the corner, waiting to protect us from the leaking roof above our bed.
* * *
Sometimes I get a bit hysterical. I shout at Walter, but the next moment I want to hold him, stroke his hair, kiss him. He knows. He looks at me, head cocked to one side, and grins.
A letter arrived from the Home Office. They were granting me a permit to work as a designer for the Clarendon Hat Company. And my permit for a three-month stay in England had been canceled; I was now a permanent resident.
“Walter! I don’t understand—maybe it’s a mistake? I thought foreigners had to be in England for three years to apply for permanent residence, and five years for naturalization. I have been here for four weeks—and I haven’t applied for anything. How did I get it?”
“It’s wonderful,” says Walter. “Why worry?”
“But darling, we need a permit for you as well—one is no good.”
The Levys recommend a solicitor in the City. We sit in a mahogany-paneled office, in front of a large mahogany desk. A red and blue Persian rug beneath our feet. Hundreds of books line the wall. We are waiting, sitting in two comfortable leather armchairs. The leather is old, and the top layer is temptingly easy to peel off. Walter gives me a reproving look, and I stop.
When the lawyer arrives, I hand him my letter from the Home Office. “Well?” He gives me a questioning look. He has clear hazel eyes.
“How did I get this permit? I didn’t even apply for it.”
“When you arrived in this country, did the immigration officer ask you how long you wished to remain in England?”
“Yes. I told him we wanted to stay forever.”
His expression is the same as the one on the immigration officer’s face when he heard my reply.
“There’s your answer. You told him the truth. Knowing you wanted to stay forever, he allowed you in, and that became what is called your landing condition.”
“Will you take us on as your clients?” I ask.
“With pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“Can you get the same permit for my husband?”
Six weeks later, Walter was granted permission to stay in England permanently.
“Walter, now do you believe in miracles?”
He laughs. “No.”
* * *
We have met some other Viennese émigrés, and we decide to have a dinner party for them. I try to make our room pretty; I want Walter to be proud of it. I try to drape the ugly cotton curtains to break up their design of purple flowers. Behind the gray curtain in the corner, in our “kitchen,” are three tall, gaudily decorated ceramic Victorian vases. I put them on the three window ledges, turning them plain-side out. I fill them with green leaves and yellow chrysanthemums.
I have a huge, yellow silk shawl with a yellow silk fringe that I used to wear with a black silk sheath; now it does duty as a bedspread. The brown furniture, the brown linoleum, even the purple flowered curtains don’t look too bad now.
Walter arrives home with onions, potatoes, and apples. He is delighted when he sees what I have done. “You’re a genius,” he says, dropping the shopping bag and waltzing me around the room until I’m breathless.
At Woolworth’s, we hunt down reject plates and glasses and search the stalls for oddments of cutlery. Walter sees a small glass vase. It is slightly chipped, but he can’t resist it. “Darling, it is only sixpence and it’ll look nice on the table.” He feels guilty because he knows I can’t bear things that are chipped or cracked.
I make goulash. The meat costs four pence a pound. My mother taught me to use the same weight of onions as meat. Walter peels potatoes. It is raining.
“Four pounds of potatoes for a penny!” Walter says. “Who’s coming?”
“Mitzi and her new business partner, Esther. Pepi’s friend Jacobi—he’s fat and clever and plays bridge for a living.”
“Lucky fellow. Who else?”
“Adrian—the one with money in America. He carefully pulls up his trouser knees before he sits down, inspects his food minutely with a fork before eating, refolds the newspaper after reading it. And he’s a bit of a snob.”
“So why did you ask him?”
“Well—he’s nice, and good-looking, and he’s got class.”
“Do you flirt with him?” Walter comes up behind me and puts his arms around me. I drop the wooden spoon, full of gravy. He has to mop it up.
Egg mayonnaise on a bed of crisp lettuce and watercress is already on the table. Walter switches on the overhead light; its enormous yellow paper shade throws a warm glow onto the table, putting it center stage. Walter was right. The glass vase, filled with blue flowers, looks pretty next to the green lettuce, the yellow and white eggs. The odd pieces of cutlery gleam. White paper napkins stand upright in water glasses. I look around the cozy room. In this light, even the peculiar curtains look nice.
Oh, Walter, remember how proud we were?
“We have a home again,” Walter said, and kissed me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the apples he has bought. “Look at those horrible things!” I shout at him. “They are supposed to be our dessert!”
“Darling, they were the cheapest I could find—”
“They look it,” I cut him off.
* * *
My old friend Mitzi is the first to arrive. Her appraising eyes flash about the room.
“Can’t you close the windows?” she complains. “It’s freezing in here.”
She is wearing a light blue wool coatdress which matches her eyes. Her hair is soft, blond. I haven’t put on a good dress because I didn’t want to get goulash on it; now I feel like the cook.
Adrian arrives: gray flannel suit, red bow tie. Mitzi stops talking midsentence and stares at him, mouth hanging open. She goes over to introduce herself—she is short and has to put her head back to look up at him—and from that moment on she doesn’t leave his side.
In the kitchen corner of the room, Walter hisses at me, “She’s horrible—why did you have to invite her?”
“Oh, she only saved our lives, darling, that’s all.”
Adrian perches on the edge of our divan bed, on my yellow silk shawl. Mitzi positions herself next to him, firing questions at him.
Esther and Jacobi arrive together, having been caught in the rain. He runs his fingers through his unkempt red hair. Esther is
wearing a navy blue suit. Her reedlike body moves gracefully. I introduce her to Adrian.
“Delicious smell,” Jacobi says, sniffing appreciatively. “Is it goulash?”
“Dinner is served,” I announce.
Our guests help themselves to the egg mayonnaise, and then I go to the “kitchen” to serve the goulash. Esther gets up and follows me, offering to help. Adrian’s brown eyes are fixed on her long, beautiful legs. So are Walter’s. He pours beer for our guests. They chat and laugh. They eat and drink. Esther’s eyes seek out Walter’s.
“Have you heard from Pepi?” Jacobi asks me.
“Yes—and I’m very worried. They’ve lost his permit at the American consulate. He’s trying to come to England—his girlfriend, Gina, came with a domestic permit, and she’s been here to ask my advice.”
“What’s she like?” Mitzi asks.
“Fair hair, blue eyes. He’s quite serious about her. Of course”—I look at Walter—“she’s not as beautiful as Esther. Gina has applied for him to come over with some kind of youth organization, but of course he’s far too old; she’s given a false date of birth. I wish he had asked my advice earlier. If he’s found out, and they cancel his permit, he will never be allowed in again. You know the English.”
“Are you still planning to go to America?” Walter asks Jacobi.
“I’ll have to. I’d much rather stay here, but my wife is there already; I’m just waiting for my visa.”
“What about you?” I ask Adrian. “You have a sister in New York, don’t you?”
“I have an American visa and could go whenever I want, but I prefer it here.” Suddenly I feel sorry for him. He is thirty-six, and on his own.
“I’m staying here, too,” says Mitzi, batting her eyelashes at him. “Why do you prefer it?”
“Inertia,” replies Adrian. “I enjoy being a man of leisure in London.”
“Have you ever worked?” Mitzi asks.
Adrian looks uncomfortable. “There’s work and work, Mitzi,” he says enigmatically.
“Adrian believes in money and power,” I say. “His sister sends him a monthly allowance from America. He doesn’t have to lift a finger.”