Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler

by Trudi Kanter

  “I should be so lucky,” Jacobi sighs.

  The men start to talk about politics.

  “When Churchill demanded that Britain rearm, Chamberlain refused. What a mess! Now they start air-raid precautions and gas masks! Now they are digging trenches in the parks! A bit late, isn’t it?” Jacobi says.

  “The navy and the air force have been mobilized,” Walter observes.

  Adrian laughs. “We never hear about the army, though. Is there one?”

  “Don’t be so cynical,” says Walter. “I’m sure the English know what they’re doing.”

  “Chamberlain meets Hitler and comes home with an agreement selling out Czechoslovakia—and you say they know what they’re doing! Peace with honor! Peace for our time! Chamberlain must be mad.” Adrian bangs the table.

  “Churchill called it a shameful betrayal. He’s angry—the whole country’s angry,” Jacobi says.

  Everyone has had second helpings and plenty of beer. We have eaten the apples and drunk coffee. Adrian makes his excuses and says a special good-bye to Esther. When he kisses her hand, her amber eyes follow Walter to the door, where he waits to see Adrian out.

  As soon as he has left, everyone starts talking about him. They don’t much like him, but once he has gone, it’s as though the evening’s focus has disappeared. It’s always like that with Adrian. The others start saying good-bye and getting ready to go. “Come again,” I say to everyone except Esther.

  Once they have all gone, Walter opens the windows and clears up. My yellow shawl hangs over the back of a chair. I go downstairs to the bathroom, then come back up and get into bed, turning my face to the wall and pulling the blanket right up over my head. Walter gets into his pajamas but sits at the table. He doesn’t say anything. I wait. My temples are throbbing. I feel sick. I get up and take two aspirin. He doesn’t look up, just stares down at the table. I can’t contain myself.

  “Can’t you even apologize?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Can you hear me? I’m talking to you!” I shout. I hurl the yellow shawl onto the floor. “How could you do this to me? In front of all the others!”

  “Do what, exactly?” Walter’s voice is hard.

  “Flirt with Esther,” I say, “so blatantly. How could you do this to me?” I’m howling now. “I can’t help it if she’s more beautiful than I am!”

  “She isn’t.” Walter shakes his head slowly.

  I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Walter gets up and dries my tears with his handkerchief.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong, darling. I know she tried. But she didn’t succeed, and I made sure that she knew it.”

  “Now you want me to apologize?”

  “Come to bed, darling,” he whispers.

  6

  After many delays and lost documents and weeks of anxious waiting in Vienna, Walter’s brother-in-law Hans and his wife Gretl get visas for England. When they arrive, they are sad and quiet. They cling to each other, and to Peter, their four-year-old son. Gretl has a job as a cook-housekeeper for a family in the countryside outside London; Peter will be able to go with her. She doesn’t want to leave. Her eyes are frightened.

  Hans is telling us about what happened in Vienna.

  “The knock at the door wasn’t a request for admission—it was a demand,” he says. He looks out of the window, blinking rapidly. “I knew I had to open the door, but I didn’t expect to be kicked into the room.”

  His hair, eyebrows, and lashes are white-blond. His pale blue eyes are half-covered by his pink eyelids, as if they cannot bear the light.

  “Don’t talk about it if it upsets you,” I say.

  “There isn’t much to tell. Everybody knows what they do behind closed doors. They asked where my money was hidden. Gretl’s jewels. ‘We have none,’ I told them. ‘We’re not rich.’ One of them went into the cloakroom. The one in charge told me to get my coat, that I had to go with them to Gestapo headquarters. Gretl was screaming. Suddenly, Peter appeared from under the piano. He put his little arms around the man’s leg. ‘He is my papi,’ he said. ‘Don’t take him away. Please!’ Then he put his head against the man’s thigh and kissed it. ‘Please, Herr Nazi, don’t take him away. Please.’ The German came right up to me. ‘Get yourself to the town cemetery,’ he whispered. ‘Quick. Now. Stay there until midday tomorrow.’ I left there and then, and ran without stopping, faster than I have ever run in my life.” Hans stares into space. “I owe that Nazi my life. He must have a boy of Peter’s age.” A smile splits his face.

  7

  8 November 1938

  Dear Mother,

  When I write to you, I feel like a little girl again, the little girl who called you Mama.

  I’m so glad Steffi brings my letters to you. It’s good to know that you and Father are well. If you need any help, please ask her. She is very loyal. If you need money, she’ll write to me, and I will send it at once. I miss her so much, especially now that I have a job as a designer in a small hat salon near Bond Street. It’s in a similar position to mine at Kohlmarkt, but nothing else is the same. It’s not as bright or sunny, or as nicely furnished. The milliners aren’t my girls. There’s no Steffi, and I can’t telephone Mama whenever I want. They pay me £1 a week—I don’t have a work permit yet. And they have paid for my collection of model hats to be released by customs, and they’re going to help me sell them. 150 hats should bring in a lot of money. A fortune, in our present position. I will use it to make a nice home for all of us.

  I am waiting to hear from the Home Office about your visas. It won’t be long, Mother, don’t worry.

  Here we have the coldest of cold dawns, turning into warm autumn weather during the day. Walter is my mother and father, brother and sister; he is my child. We are happy in our large, bright room in the eaves. The days and nights slip away. Some mornings, when I’m half-asleep, I stretch out my hand to make certain that he is still here.

  I love you both.

  Trudi

  My collection of model hats had finally been released by customs and was to be sold at Barbara’s Hat Salon, a place near the Clarendon Hat Company with flock wallpaper, mirrors in carved gilt frames, large oil paintings, red velvet curtains, and mahogany furniture. The business belonged to Barbara and her associate Valerie.

  They helped me to unpack the hats. They made me try them on, talk about them, explain how they were made—a kind of sales pitch.

  Valerie’s face is flushed, and her ginger hair falls over her freckled face. Barbara is calm, her black eyes amused. They gush over my hats; I’m embarrassed by their praise. Barbara suggests that we stage a show for select customers.

  Next morning, she flies into the workroom from the salon, eyes ablaze. “Help, Trudi, you’ve got to help me. She’s impossible. Nothing’s ever right for her. She’s well past it, the fat, ugly cow. She puts the sailor cap with hanging ribbons on her big head—she looks like one of the three little pigs—and announces she wants to buy it! You deal with her; I can’t.”

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “A rich widow who thinks she’s eighteen. She’s man crazy. Her boyfriend just did a runner.”

  The lady—tall, square, without a waist—stands like a tree trunk in front of a showcase. She pulls out one hat after another, throws them onto the table, drops them on the floor. She catches one of her high heels in some veiling, totters, and nearly falls. Valerie shrugs, looks over at me apologetically. She’s near tears.

  I say, “Good morning, madame. May I help you?” She does not reply, just picks up her gold-rimmed lorgnette and looks past me. She picks up my large black velour beret. Her clumsy fingers prod and poke. She sails to the mirror, sits down, and plonks the beret on her iron gray hair.

  “Put some veiling on it,” she orders, without glancing at me. “I hope you can understand English—I never know with you foreigners.”

  Valerie shoots me a worried glance. I bring over some finemeshed veiling, arrange it carefully, and tie it int
o a neat bow at the back of the hat. I don’t care if it looks good or not, but for the sake of Valerie and Barbara, I say in my most subdued, respectful voice, “Madame, it looks beautiful at your backside.”

  She stiffens. Her eyes stab me. Valerie runs out of the room, apparently choking. Barbara’s hand is covering her mouth. I realize what I have said, and blush.

  * * *

  For the hat show, customers arrive in chauffeur-driven limousines wearing Balenciaga and Patou, jewelry from Van Cleef & Arpels and Cartier, sables, mink, chinchilla. They push and shove to get the best seats. White mink on black suits. Russian lynx on a red coat. Pearls. Diamonds.

  The crystal drops hanging from the gilt chandelier shoot sharp lines across the Persian carpet. The salon is filled with pink flowers. Pink hats draped with pink chiffon squares are arranged in the showcase. Every seat is taken. People lean against walls, holding glasses of champagne. Women chat, smile, say hello.

  Barbara and Valerie are beaming. Valerie nudges me and giggles. “Look at the Adonis standing behind the baroness. He’s a gigolo.” Valerie is wearing a white, tailored tweed suit, a huge cabochon emerald on a string of pearls around her neck. She’s the best-dressed woman in the room.

  We begin. From the workroom, where I am pinning up my hair, I hear Barbara announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present a collection of hats designed by Mrs. Trudi Ehrlich, who has brought them here from Vienna. She has kindly agreed to model three of her designs for you. We hope you will be as enchanted as we were.” Applause.

  I am wearing a short, sleeveless, black crepe de chine shift with a large diamanté clip at my shoulder. I put the black ostrich feather toque on; it fits as closely as a wig. An ostrich fringe falls onto each cheek, covers my forehead. I glance in the mirror. My heart is pounding. I have seen Paris fashion shows, mannequins floating as if on a cloud, trailing long chiffon scarves. I know what to do, but I’m nervous. I walk around the room, turning to display the hat from all angles.

  Back in the workroom, I put on a tiny, pink, draped chiffon pillbox, tilt it slightly forward, and arrange the long ends of the draping around my neck. I am more confident this time. The women’s eyes are shining. Then comes the pièce de résistance: a black broadtail model with a large brim and a diamanté band around the flat crown. I wear it with long, pink suede gloves.

  “Bravo, madame, bravo,” shouts the gigolo.

  We bring in the hats. The scrum begins. Vixens fight for their prey. A diamond bracelet catches in veiling. Sharp red nails crush velvet. A mascaraed lynx glares at another.

  “My hats, my lovely hats, what are you doing to them?”

  In the scrum, I step on the foot of the baroness, who screams. Her open mouth shows perfect teeth smeared with lipstick. Are these wild creatures the same ladies who arrived in limousines? I see Valerie’s terrified face. The gigolo is leaning against a wall, laughing. The women know they have to buy now—the models are one-offs. I see them leave clutching several hats. We have to bring in more and more from the back room. Ladies are trying on hats in the bathroom.

  We serve customers until late in the evening. By the end, only a few hats are left—Barbara wants to keep them to take orders. I am happy and exhausted—and astonished. Yes, they were lovely hats. But not that lovely.

  I walk up New Bond Street. The wind buffets me around the corner into Oxford Street. Rain dims the streetlights, ships against shopwindows. I stop at Bond Street Station to buy a newspaper. “Not a good night,” the newspaper man greets me. I can see people stopping to read his placard; I try to get near it to read it myself: POGROM IN VIENNA.

  I grab the newspaper.

  Pogrom . . . bombs . . . synagogues . . . explosions . . . thousands of Jews arrested. From our Vienna correspondent, 10 November 1938.

  My shaking hands drop my purse. Coins roll off the curb. I wait at the bus stop, the newspaper inside my coat to protect it from the rain. I don’t want to read it, not without Walter. I hurry along Victoria Road, shaking.

  Walter isn’t home yet. I take off my wet clothes, change into my warm dressing gown, and pace back and forth with bare feet, shivering. The newspaper lies on the table. I see young Brownshirts in my parents’ house. Father stands in front of Mother, his hands outstretched. He says calmly to one of them, “Young man, my wife is not Jewish. Leave her alone.” They laugh.

  I feel so guilty. Their applications are sitting at the Home Office while I wait for a reply. I’ll go first thing in the morning; I’ll sit in the corridor and wait until I have permission to bring my parents to England. I will not move until I get it.

  I hear the front door close, Walter coming up the stairs. He sees me, by now huddled on the floor. He sits down next to me, still wearing his wet overcoat and hat. He holds me, lets me cry.

  “What’s happened, darling?” he asks.

  I point to the newspaper. His eyelids crease as he reads the headline.

  He puts me to bed and gives me a cup of tea and a small brandy. He says this pogrom is the German’s revenge for the shooting of a German diplomat by a Polish Jew in Paris two days ago. He reads me some of the newspaper report: “Anti-Jewish rioting broke out shortly after midnight. Jewish shops were attacked by crowds incited by Brownshirts, windows smashed, goods destroyed or looted. The second-largest synagogue in Vienna has been destroyed by a bomb.”

  “Walter, I don’t care about buildings—I care about people, about my family, your family, the Millers!”

  Walter tries to reassure me—my parents live on the second floor of an old building in a quiet neighborhood. He tells me not to panic. Eventually, he falls asleep. I sit at the window, looking at the moon.

  Next morning, Walter comes up the stairs waving a telegram.

  ALL IS WELL STOP FANNY

  I laugh and cry. Steffi, my friend Stefanie: sometimes we used to call her Fanny.

  8

  11 November 1938: it was a stampede at the Home Office. Hundreds of people were milling around, anxious for news of relatives and friends, and not only in Austria and Germany; the pogrom had frightened Jews in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Holland, France, and Italy. Applications for British visas flooded every desk.

  Once more I stand in a long queue in front of an official building, not knowing how to get inside. This time there is no kindly taxi driver to help me. I pull my coat tightly around me and wait for two hours, then hurry home, longing for warmth. I’m depressed about my parents. They are alone and frightened. What can I do to help them? My feet are too cold for inspiration. I go to bed.

  I remember my mother coming to say good night to me before she and my father go out in the evening. She wears her favorite marquise-cut ruby ring. Surrounded by diamonds, the bloodred stone sparkles. She tells me it came from the Czar’s collection. In her wine-colored chiffon dress, golden hair piled high, she is a fairy queen, Father her handsome prince. They cuddle and hold hands; they’re in love. They go out; I stay with Marie.

  All day, Father is in his workroom. Mother cooks, sends Marie shopping. Mother goes out to meet friends. I run to Marie in the kitchen. They buy me lovely toys, but they never play with me.

  I can’t bear to think of my parents in danger. I want to go back to rescue them.

  “All you can do is wait,” says Walter, turning on the lights. He sits on the bed, smoking, gazing out of the window. Sheets of sleet cling to the glass.

  Every morning I queue at the Home Office. After several days, the queues shorten. I am directed to the clerk in charge of my parents’ case. He can’t find their file, promises to telephone the next day, doesn’t. I telephone the Home Office. The line is engaged. I go back and queue. Lady Balfour’s letter has been lost. I manage to get her to write another one. I queue again in the snow. And so it goes, on and on.

  My mother writes, “You don’t care about us. We can’t stay here any longer. We’re going to Shanghai.”

  “That’s unfair!” Walter is angry. “They know how reliable you are.”

  Th
ey are desperate.

  I don’t hear from Mother. I’m extremely worried. I take the chance and ring Vienna.

  “Mother! How are you?”

  “We’re fine.” Mother’s voice is faint.

  “I can’t hear you properly. Is Father there?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Mother, for goodness’ sake, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, darling, we’re fine.”

  “Mother, we’re doing all we can . . .”

  Much later, I learn that Steffi had asked my parents regularly if they needed money. The answer was always the same: “No, no, Trudi left us plenty. If we need anything, we will tell you.” The fact was that they had been robbed of almost everything and were penniless. They were selling what was left of their possessions, one by one. Eventually, all that was left was the bedroom suite and Mother’s marquise ring. Father pawned the ring, hoping to sell the bedroom suite when they left Vienna and use the money to redeem it. But the redemption date came and went, the pawnbroker sold the ring on, and Father had to sell the bedroom suite straightaway in order to get it back. On the day I telephoned, Father was lying on a mattress on the floor, in an empty house, dangerously ill.

  The Jewish doctor who had examined my father told my mother that he had a blocked bowel. She was instructed to give him three tablespoons of castor oil every six hours. If this didn’t open the bowel, surgery was the only option, and the chance of success was small. That night, my mother’s boldness and pluck returned. She gave him seven tablespoons of castor oil. And the miracle happened. He recovered.

  They had to sell the ring.

  * * *

  At Christmas, Walter and I walk arm in arm along Oxford Street. Rain or no rain, the streets are packed with shoppers. Unemployed or not, people are buying. I remember Vienna: the exquisite window displays, the pretty, sparkling lights. There, Christmas was a religious affair. People went to church, had a meal with family, drank a glass of wine, watched children’s excited faces as they opened their presents. Here, people with fraught expressions snatch glass and pottery out of each other’s hands. The shops are in chaos. Customers are “served” by people recruited specially for the season. I ask to see some Waterford glass and get only a disdainful look.