The Seven Year Dress: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  “Why bring up things we can’t change, things that will only haunt you?” he asked.

  I nodded. He sounded like my father, not like my sixteen-year-old friend. He looked and acted older than I remembered. I noticed faint wrinkles on his forehead and a dullness in his eyes. Where were Max’s dancing, bright eyes? What had aged him so much? “You may not understand this, but I have to know, Max. I just have to.”

  “You want to hear about murder?” When his voice became gravelly, he cleared his throat. “Senseless acts of violence?”

  As the night grew darker and stars lit the sky, I kept quiet and waited.

  Wiping his blond hair back off his forehead, he began with, “Gretel Bergmann was kicked off the team of high jumpers. Everyone in Germany knows that she is one of the world’s most accomplished athletes in track and field. I heard an unconfirmed rumor that, when a few of her friends protested the injustice, they were shot. Some were wounded. Two were killed.” With a finality in his words, Max added, “I suspect it is true.”

  “Oh no!” I jolted erect. “I can’t believe it. After all she had gone through,” referring to the fact that, after the Nazis had risen to power, she was prohibited from her sport for being Jewish. Her parents sent her to Great Britain where she partook in and won the British championship.

  “Then Hitler wanted her returned, to put up a front as a liberal, tolerant country,” said Max. “But she was not allowed to participate in the Games.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “It’s what I was trying to tell you about this recent change being for show.”

  “And people died trying to help her?” My chest felt like a ton of rocks was pressing in on it.

  “That’s not all. People are dying for doing nothing. You wanted to know? What I just told you is nothing compared to—”

  “Nothing? How could you call people dying ‘nothing’!” Releasing the frustration from feeling powerless, I slammed my fist on the bench. “It’s madness!”

  “How can I say that? People are being killed because of how they look. Jews are being treated worse than animals.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “You wanted to know. There it is. I’m sick about it.” He put his face in his hands. “But there is nothing you or I can do about it.”

  Although I didn’t want to accept it, I knew he was right. I knew because Max had told me that the German army under Hitler had grown to millions, with Heinrich Himmler enlisting and training hundreds for the Schutzstaffel (SS). The latter petrified me because I had heard it was established by Himmler to get rid of the “sub-humans.”

  The sound of gunshot in the distance and a steely look from Max over in the direction where it came from snapped me out of denial. As Max’s words ricocheted in my brain, their meaning shook me to the core.

  Suddenly I felt that I was the sub-human Himmler spoke about. What was left of my naivety abruptly disappeared. I was now a vermin Jew to be purged from Hitler’s pristine Germany. Helen—a free, kind, loving young woman—no longer existed in the eyes of my country.

  Chapter Seven

  Max was right. The Olympics ended, and the hostility toward Jews returned with a vengeance. It didn’t hit Berlin with full force until November 1938. Before that point, the reign of terror was frightful, but horrific devastation on a mass scale began when the world, once again, wasn’t watching closely. There were singular incidents of violence, vandalism, and disruptions of Jewish businesses, but our family continued on in relative safety.

  The laws that the Nazis initially put into place were not as stringently obeyed as they were in the late 1930s. I didn’t mind, nor did I fully understand, the Nuremberg Laws (also known as, the Nuremberg Racial Purity Laws) when they were enacted, criminalizing sexual relations and marriage between Aryans and Jews. The prejudice and persecution they caused did not initially result in physical violence. Other than feeling offended that I was considered an object of segregation from Germans, I did not think that I was in bodily danger. But I was bothered that the laws stated that people with three or four Jewish grandparents “belonging to the Jewish race and community were not approved to have Reich citizenship.” Stripped of my citizenship, my official status along with thousands of other Jews became “subjects of the state.” Most troubling, though, was that Jews had no authority to influence politics, education, or industry without voting rights or representation in professional jobs.

  The escalation of hostilities against Jews began with Himmler’s increased power as leader of the SS, with membership climbing to over fifty thousand members strong. Under his direction, through orders from Hitler, conditions for Jews took a turn for the worse. My father told me that, although not trusted by the paramilitary Sturmabteilung (SA), the SA supported the SS and Himmler. This gave Hitler the power to control the government and political attitudes toward the Jews. Whenever my father spoke about Himmler, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end; it was an ominous feeling. I wondered what it portended.

  Being a lawyer and having a great respect for the law, my father hated the laws that were enacted to separate Jews from Aryans. He especially loathed that Aryan doctors were forbidden from treating Jewish patients, hindering their medical treatment. When I protested to Max about what I’d overheard my father say, Max told me, “What’s happening is horrible, but never lose sight of the fact that opposition of any sort, or plots to overthrow the Nazis, are met with executions.”

  Executions! My throat seized into a lump that made it hard to swallow. It was difficult to refrain from sharing these conversations with my family. But I assumed that my father had already heard these things by the way he looked lately. I learned a few days later I was right not to say anything to him. My father had just returned home from collecting clothing for me to mend when I heard my mother ask him, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” He put down the bundle of clothes as I entered the living room. Ben was following me.

  “Papa, you don’t look well.” I motioned for him to sit on the couch. “Put your feet up. Relax.”

  “I am fine.” He waved a hand as if to dismiss the concern we expressed at his obvious pastiness. Remaining standing, he told us, “Today was not a good day. I need to speak with the family. Where are Lawrence and Shana?”

  “Shana is upstairs, and Lawrence is out back,” said my mother.

  “Ben, please go get them.” Papa turned to my mother. “Rose, could you please make me a cup of tea? Chamomile. Perhaps a pot? Enough for all of us.”

  My father only drank Chamomile tea when he was worried. Now I was nervous. What did he want to tell all of us? Thinking of the worst, I assumed he had bad news about his health. I sat down and patted the place next to me. “Papa, please come sit by me.” Helping him was the only thing that mattered to me, that and not making him self-conscious. I said, “I need my Papa’s warmth next to me. It’s cold today.”

  He smiled and sat by me. “Helen, it’s 73 degrees outside.”

  Putting my arm through his, I felt hot sweat pouring from him. Afraid to say the wrong thing, I decided to say nothing.

  Lawrence came in with Ben. “You wanted to see me, Papa?” asked Lawrence.

  “Where is Shana?” My father looked past my brothers.

  “I told her,” said Ben, his voice a few pitches higher than usual. “She should be here.”

  My mother went to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Shana, come now! We are waiting for you.” Moments later, Shana scuffed down the stairs. My mother narrowed her eyes and tapped her toe when she directed her displeasure at Shana. “Pick up your feet when you walk. Too many pairs of shoes are worn out that way.”

  “Yes, Mamma.” She smacked her lips and rolled her eyes.

  The pressure of living under constant fear must have had gotten to my twenty-four-year-old sister. Yes, she must sorely miss a time when she was allowed to be a carefree young woman! None of us were immune to the dread that was now part of the air we breathed, but
Shana’s moods had gone from irritability to petulance, which she took out on the rest of us. Her quarrelsome antics were getting on my nerves. I suppose we were all getting on each other’s nerves in some way.

  Noting her sarcasm, my father sat up. “That is enough, Shana! Go sit down.” He slowly glanced around the room. When his eyes fell on the window, he got up and shut the curtains, folding them over each other. “Keep these closed from now on. Our business at home is private. Understood?”

  When his facial pallor flushed red, Mamma told Papa, “Sit down. Please. Tell us what is happening.”

  He took a sip of tea and said, “There are some very bad men policing the streets. You must avoid them.” He went on to tell us that Himmler’s Gestapo (the Nazi secret police) was spying on Jews. They were enlisting informants, including Jewish people, to report on any resistance to Hitler’s regime. The Gestapo was silencing political opponents or Jewish sympathizers. That day, my father had heard about a shop owner protesting to his customers about the injustice of the boycotts. Among the people in the store were two secret police officers. Mistaking the Gestapo for safe patrons, others snickered in agreement. The spying Gestapo drew guns and ordered the shop owner into the street, onto his knees, and shot him in the head. They then returned to the store and beat up everyone there, including innocent bystanders. “I was told that the Gestapo gunmen screamed, ‘let that be a lesson,’ and ‘next time it will be worse for those of you who dare to sneer!’ They clicked their heels, saluted ‘Heil Hitler!’ and left the store.” My father frowned in disgust and continued. “Instigating Jews to report on Jews. It will destroy whatever trust there is in our dwindling community.”

  “Who was the store owner Papa?” I asked, wanting to know if we knew the man.

  “Helen, who he was is not important. It could have been anyone of…” Lowering his head, he broke down in tears. Papa knew the man who was killed. Maybe we all did.

  My mother spoke in the kind of whisper she used whenever I was sick or frightened, but she was talking to Papa. “Tell us, Irving. To see you this upset, he was obviously someone you were fond of. Get it off your chest.”

  As if the word “chest” was an omen, my father’s hand flew to his chest just as his breathing became labored. He tried to say something, but all he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish on land.

  My mother screamed for Lawrence to phone Dr. Schecter. “Tell him to come immediately!”

  When my father started to froth at the mouth, I panicked.

  “Get a washcloth, Helen!” Momma gently laid Papa’s head on her lap while I stood paralyzed. “Now, Helen!” My mother’s urgent voice shocked me into motion. I ran to the kitchen for a washcloth.

  With my father’s head on my mother’s lap, we huddled around him and waited for the doctor to arrive. I cursed the amount of time it was taking and blamed that damn evil Hitler for forbidding us entry into hospitals. Since German physicians and facilities denied Jews treatment, we had to rely on Jewish doctors’ houses and small offices for care.

  By the time Dr. Schecter arrived, my father’s breathing had become increasingly labored. “He is having a heart attack.” The doctor signaled Lawrence. “Bring a blanket. We need to keep your father warm.” He instructed Shana. “Bring me a glass of water.” I was relieved that she obeyed him without hesitation.

  Dr. Schecter gave Papa a pill. He told Mamma, “This will calm his heart and keep blood clots from forming. Keep him quiet and hydrated. No salt or stimulating foods.”

  “What are those?” I asked as Lawrence returned and put the blanket over papa.

  “Alcohol and caffeine. Keep him downstairs. Bed rest until I can return in a week. Only up to go to the bathroom. No exertion or excitement and he should be fine.”

  “Are you sure? With no hospital care or…” my mother pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves.

  “Yes, Rose. What I’ve done here is what I would have done at the hospital. Just do your part and keep him calm.” Looking around the room, he said, “All of you. Do your part. His heart can’t be excited.”

  “I do not know that he will stay calm, Dr. Schecter.” My mother wrung her hands. “I’m worried that with—”

  Schecter interrupted, handing my mother a box of pills. “Here is something to calm him and help him sleep. Give him one a day. That is enough to keep him sedated until I can return.” By the time Dr. Schecter left, the medication was taking effect. Papa was nodding off.

  We never found out who the Gestapo killed that day. We wouldn’t ask and were never told. And too many similar scenes started to occur to try to figure out which one my father had referred to. I hated the Gestapo! I hated the man named Himmler! I hated Hitler! If anger had entered Papa’s heart and nearly broke it, I understood; I felt its acid eating away in my chest, too. Those bastards! The lesson my mother had taught us about how holding on to hatred is the same as swallowing poison seemed like a child’s fairy tale. I had grown up and was now facing a terrible reality—I was frightened, hurt and angry. Horrible people were torturing innocent people. I hated them and wanted to harm them. And I was clinging to my hatred for dear life.

  Chapter Eight

  As my father was resting and healing, my siblings and I continued to bring in some money. I carried on with my sewing jobs while Lawrence and Ben did carpentry and handyman work for people in the neighborhood. Shana helped around the house as Mamma tended to Papa.

  At the same time as my father regained his health and a rosy color returned to his cheeks, I was undergoing changes as well. My sensuality was in full bloom as I approached my nineteenth birthday. Sewing and reading failed to alleviate the sexual urges building in my body, so I tried to quell persistent waves of passion by exploring my body. My large breasts were fully formed, and I found great pleasure in stimulating my nipples while I imagined kissing sweet Isaac. At night, once Shana was asleep and snoring, I gave into my primitive, carnal instincts by letting my mind and hands take me to places I never dared venture before. Satisfying my physical needs also helped me release some of the pent-up hostility that I was feeling from all the injustices and suffering surrounding me.

  * * *

  When my father was feeling better, he started to do more around the house, but at a slower pace. We all forbade him from working the way he did before his heart attack. “Your life is more important. And Helen has taken on extra sewing work from Max,” my mother told him. He didn’t protest. My mother was both relieved and amazed. “I wonder what is in those pills the doctor gave him,” Momma whispered as she winked at me. I shrugged and smiled.

  What I didn’t tell Papa was that Max had continued his ruse by joining the SS. He had worked his way up in the ranks of the Hitler Youth movement as a leader with merits. One of the youth directors recommended him for a clerical SS position. Now having a salary, he rented an apartment and could help me. Jews were being used for cheap labor. Under the guise of working for him, I could get out of the house and spend more time with Max while earning money for my family.

  He also referred me to men he worked with to do their sewing. The idea of doing anything for anyone involved in the grievous acts against Jews gave me a stomachache. But with my father no longer working the odd jobs he used to pick up, we needed the money. Learning to be of service and catering to the enemy became a valuable lesson for me; indeed, it would save me.

  My mother agreed that, since Max would arrange and bring the sewing to his apartment for me to pick up, my new job was safe enough. I assumed that, even in the German police, there were most likely good men—like Max. That operating assumption helped me feel better about my work.

  Little did I know then that, regardless of a man’s basic decent nature, orders were to be taken seriously, especially when the stakes were raised. Ethics? Morals? To hell with them!

  Max, with his secret, would prove to be a rare exception. Working for him mending clothes turned out to be fruitful. In addition to what Lawrence and Ben earned, the cash I brought
in helped to make ends meet. There was even a little extra for the occasional treat; chocolate was our favorite. Our collective efforts appeared to help my father regain his health. And once Papa’s positive attitude returned with outbursts of gratitude, a cappella singing found its way back into our home. Sitting in the living room, we’d hum, whistle, and sing in soft voices. When my father led us in a song, I sobbed, stopping everyone cold.

  “What is it, Helen?” my mother asked.

  “The words.” I was referring to the lyrics about God sheltering us and keeping us strong. I didn’t remember all the lines but knew it was a Hebrew song my father had taught us in our childhood. Knowing the verses wasn’t important, knowing God was.

  My father tilted his head to the side, smiled broadly, and placed a hand over his healing heart. “Yes, my darling, this strength cannot be taken from us. Not with words or threats. And not with guns or violence. And always remember above all else, this gift of life is the most important. It’s our gift from God, to be valued always. When there is life, there is a chance and reason for hope. One never knows what the future will bring, but as long as we are alive, there is the possibility for something good. Trust in the goodness and kindness of people. And no matter what, never, never give up. Make this your sustaining attitude. This can never be taken from you.”

  That day was precious to me. My whole family was together, happy and hopeful. With the hymn still in the air and my father’s words in my heart, I had faith that God would protect us. But would that sustain me if the future brought something more horrible? I wondered what would come and how I would feel. Before long, my conviction would be put to the test.