by Anne Dublin
“Johanna,” Mama said. “I have been thinking. Are you still determined to take that job?”
“I am, Mama.”
“It is not safe to live away from our community.” She shook her head and blew her nose into her handkerchief. “Our only safety is to stay together; to follow our laws.”
Johanna remembered when other children had often taunted her younger brother, Isaac, on his way home from cheder; had thrown dirt or stones at him; had pushed the little boy into the filthy gutter.
“Mama, don’t worry. I’ll be careful. And I’ll send you money every month to help out at home.”
Mama put her arm around Johanna’s shoulders. “I am trying to understand why you are so set on taking this job.” She walked for several moments in silence. “You probably don’t know, but when I was young, I wanted to see a bit of the world, too.” She sighed. “It is hard for me, but I … I will let you go.”
“You will?”
“I see that you are set on this path.” She shook her head. “Besides, no matter how hard I try, we are getting poorer and poorer. There is not enough money to buy food or clothes, or pay the rent. But Johanna —”
“Yes, Mama?”
“I will worry. Every minute you are away, I will worry.”
“I’ll write and visit as often as I can.”
“I will still worry.”
“But Mama, you always worry. About everything.”
“That is true. But I cannot help my nature.”
“And I can’t help mine.”
Most Jews lived in the section of Hamburg called “Neustadt,” or New City, after they had been ordered to move from “Altstadt,” the old city. Hamburg was a city intersected by two rivers — the Elbe and the Alster. It wasn’t an easy city to walk, either, because of its many canals and bridges.
The duke’s summer house was on the outskirts of the city, in a section Johanna had never been to before. Several times, she lost her way and had to ask for directions.
Dusk was falling as Johanna approached the brick mansion. Its wooden shutters were already closed against the coming night. Grey clouds scudded in a leaden sky. A cold wind was blowing the leaves off the beech and chestnut trees. Johanna shivered at the thought of the coming winter. And because of what lay ahead.
She remembered what Frau Taubman had said at the interview about not speaking to the babies. She’d pushed the thought away in her excitement about the job, but now the reality of what she had promised struck her like a blow. She sighed. I must go forward, she thought. I’ve gone too far to back out now.
A narrow, four-wheeled wagon stood in front of the cast-iron gate set in the fence surrounding the building. The driver leaned out of the wagon and tugged on the bell. Johanna imagined the sound echoing in all the rooms and corridors of the house.
“Hello there, girl.” The driver peered at Johanna from under his battered cap. “What’s going on here?” He eyed the building. “They told me to make a delivery. Couldn’t wait ’till morning, they said. Said if I did this job, it’d be regular like.”
“This is a new orphanage,” Johanna said.
“An orphanage, you say?” The man rolled his eyes. “Still don’t know what the hurry was.” He scratched his head. White flakes of dandruff landed on his coat. “Why’d the duke go into the baby business?”
Johanna shrugged. “Perhaps he has a kind heart.”
“Maybe.” The man lowered his voice. “But they say his pocketbook comes before his heart.” The man paused. “You work here?”
Johanna nodded.
“I’ll be seeing you around then. Daniel is my name.”
“My name is Johanna.”
“Nice to meet you, fraulein,” said Daniel, tipping his cap.
At that moment, Frau Taubman arrived at the gate. “There you are at last. You are late.” She opened the gate and gestured Daniel inside. He glanced back at Johanna, shook the reins, and drove the wagon along the road to the back of the house.
“You too, girl,” said Frau Taubman. “What took you so long?”
“I —”
“Come along now,” Frau Taubman said. The clanging of the iron gate made Johanna’s heart sink. What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. She followed Frau Taubman along the path and through a heavy wooden door.
They passed through a large foyer where an enormous painting of the duke hung. Bare spaces on the walls indicated places where other paintings had been removed. A richly carved pillar supported the ceiling, painted with religious scenes. Johanna had never been in such a grand room before.
A large-boned, rather plain girl of about sixteen approached them. “Monica, this is Johanna, one of the new girls,” Frau Taubman said. Monica stared at Johanna but didn’t answer. “Johanna will start work in the morning. Show her to her room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Johanna followed Monica up two flights of stairs. “Do you come from Hamburg?” Johanna asked.
“None of your business,” Monica snapped. “I’m here to earn money. Not to make friends.”
At the top of the stairs was a narrow hall with doors on either side. Monica opened the third door on the right. “This is your room.”
The walls were covered with faded black and white striped wallpaper, which looked like the bars of a prison. A worn eiderdown quilt lay on the narrow bed. A small chest, table, and chair completed the furnishings.
“There’s a chamber pot under the bed,” Monica said. “The housemaid will empty it every morning. You must keep the room tidy.”
“I will. I —”
“We start at 6:00 a.m., when we relieve the night girls. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.” Monica turned her back on Johanna and left the room.
Johanna began to take her meagre possessions out of her bag — clothes, handkerchiefs, toiletries. Just when she thought the bag was empty, her fingers grazed something else. At the bottom of the bag, she found Mama’s lace kerchief, the one she wore when she lit the Sabbath candles on Friday evening. A note was attached to the kerchief, in Mama’s childish script:
My dear daughter Johanna,
May you find light and luck in your new life.
Be a good Jewish daughter. Keep the commandments.
Stay warm and dry.
Always keep a handkerchief in your pocket.
With a heart full of love,
Mama
For a moment, Johanna held the kerchief against her cheek. She could smell the faint scent of Mama’s soap. She was suddenly overcome with homesickness. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one she got when she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. She desperately wanted to escape this strange place and rush back home.
Johanna gently placed the kerchief back into her bag. I dare not light the Sabbath candles. If someone finds out I’m Jewish, I’ll be fired. She shivered. Even worse, I might have to leave Hamburg forever because I pretended to be a Christian. Then a thought struck her, like a blow to her stomach. I am doing exactly what Grandfather Samuel did. I am hiding my Jewish identity in order to survive.
She gazed out the window as she ate the bread and cheese she had brought with her. The spires and domes of the nearby churches — St. Michaelis, St. Jacobi, St. Petri, St. Nicolai, and more — towered above houses and shops stretching away from the harbour on the banks of the Elbe River.
Johanna tried to shake off her feeling of uneasiness. It was strange being alone in this room, in a bed she didn’t have to share with Mama, in a room all her own. For a long time, she had trouble falling asleep.
— Chapter Three —
At the Orphanage
Johanna woke to the sound of shouting outside her room.
“What do you mean you did not have time?” Frau Taubman’s voice seemed to bounce off the walls. “When I tell you to do something, I mean do it, and do it now.”
“Yes, Frau Taubman,” a girl said in a quivering voice.
“Why are you standing there, gawking at me?”
A loud slap jolted Johanna fully awake. “Now go!”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s sobs faded away down the hall.
Trying to shake off a feeling of foreboding, Johanna stood up and groped for the chamber pot. In the near-dark, she walked to the washstand and poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin. She washed her hands and face, and dried them with the rough linen cloth hanging from a hook on the wall. Johanna shivered. The room still held last night’s chill. She got dressed as quickly as she could. She ran a comb through her thick hair, attached it in the back with a leather clasp, and walked down to the foyer in search of breakfast. Following the clatter of pots and pans and the smell of porridge cooking, Johanna found her way to the spacious kitchen.
A stout woman was standing in front of the stove. She was stirring something in a large copper pot. She looked up and noticed Johanna standing at the door.
“Come in,” said the woman, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “You must be the new girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Johanna Richter.”
“I’m Frau Hartmann. Sit down over there. I’ll give you your breakfast in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Frau Hartmann pointed to a rough wooden table with a bench on each side where two girls were already sitting. Monica glanced up at Johanna.
“Johanna!” The other girl said. Her eyes lit up when she recognized Johanna.
“You’re —”
“Cecile.”
The girl nodded. “From the town hall.”
Johanna sat down opposite Cecile. “When did you get here?”
“The day before yesterday. And you?”
“Last night.”
Frau Hartmann placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of Johanna. “Here. Eat. It looks like you need some fattening up.”
Johanna remembered the old story of the witch who lured children into her cottage. She fed them cakes and cookies — and maybe oatmeal? — to fatten them up so she could eat them. But Frau Hartmann didn’t look like a witch. Johanna shook off her overactive imagination. She blew on the oatmeal, poured some milk on it, and started eating while Cecile cut slices of rye bread.
“So, what is it like here?” Johanna asked Cecile as she reached for a piece of bread. She felt famished — yesterday she had been too nervous to eat much more than the bit of bread and cheese she’d brought with her.
Cecile glanced towards Monica. “It’s fine,” she said.
“How many babies are there?”
“Ten, so far. Six girls and four boys.”
“Why are there more girls than boys?” Johanna asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I do,” Monica said, banging her spoon on the table. “Because girls aren’t worth as much as boys.”
“What are you talking about?” said Johanna. “Of course we’re worth as much!”
“And more,” added Cecile.
“That’s what you think!” said Monica. “Some people think that girls are only good to get married, do housework, and have babies. Boys can work in the fields, or learn a trade.”
“I wish I could learn a trade,” said Cecile.
“People shouldn’t give their babies away, just because they’re girls,” Johanna said.
“Maybe not, but they do.” Monica shrugged. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. These babies are foundlings. Their parents are dead. Nobody wants them.”
“I don’t think —” Johanna said.
Just then, Frau Taubman strode into the room. She glanced at the half-eaten breakfasts on the table and grabbed a piece of bread. “There you all are. Aren’t you finished yet?” she barked.
Johanna tried to stuff the rest of the bread in her mouth. Mama always said it was a sin to waste food. This is my first day here, and I’m already breaking a commandment.
“Yes, Frau Taubman,” the girls replied quickly, as they stood up.
“Come along then,” Frau Taubman said, gesturing impatiently for the girls to follow her.
“Haste makes waste,” muttered Frau Hartmann as she gathered up the dirty dishes.
The girls followed Frau Taubman along a wide corridor. The keys hanging from her belt jangled with each step she took. At the end of the corridor, they entered what once must have been the grand ballroom. Now it served as the nursery.
Johanna counted six cribs along one wall, six along the other. A wooden partition separated each crib from the one next to it. Babies were crying, some more loudly than others. Three girls were sitting in various parts of the room. They stood up and walked to the door as the group entered.
Frau Taubman dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “Monica,” she said, “tell the new girls what to do. I have other duties to attend to.” She paused. “And remember. No talking to the babies or to each other, no singing or humming. Absolutely not one word.” Frau Taubman left the room in a swish of black silk.
How could I have forgotten? Johanna thought. How can I not talk or sing or hum to the babies? It’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s not even human.
Monica pointed to some shelves. “The wet nurses leave the milk in these bottles for the babies every morning. Diapers, blankets, and clothes are in the linen closet. Each baby has a sign on its bed, showing its name and birth date, if we know it, and its measurements, like weight and height. Doctor Keller measures them every Monday.”
“Who’s Doctor Keller?” Johanna asked. “Does he take care of the babies?’
“Yes,” said Monica. “But it’s really Professor Gottfried Leibniz who’s in charge of this experiment.”
“Experiment?” Johanna’s heart skipped a beat.
“Sure. What did you think this was?”
“I thought …” Johanna said. “I thought this was a regular orphanage.”
“I did, too,” Cecile said, twisting one of her braids.
“Don’t think too much around here,” Monica said. “You’ll be better off.”
“But —”Cecile said.
“But nothing.” Monica continued with her instructions. “There’s lots of other things you need to know. So be quiet and listen. We’re each assigned our sections. That’s Johanna’s,” she said, pointing to the far end of the room, “and that’s Cecile’s,” pointing to the middle section. “Mine’s here near the door. You can sit or stand or walk around, whatever you want. When a baby cries, you take care of it. Change its diaper, feed it, things like that. Just remember —”
“No talking,” both girls said at the same time. They started to giggle until Monica gave them a hard look.
“Stop it. It’s not a joke,” Monica said. “Now let’s get to work.”
They walked to their sections. Johanna read the names of her babies: Rebecca, Angela, Gertrude, and Joseph. They were all about the same age, between one and three months old.
During the next few hours, Johanna learned more about her charges. Rebecca was the oldest and the most restless. She liked to lie on her stomach, raise her head, and look around her with big, blue eyes. Wisps of thin blond hair covered her almost-bald head and she held onto Johanna with a fierce grip. Joseph and Gertrude cried almost constantly. Angela lay quietly in her crib, and didn’t seem interested in anything.
Johanna was determined to take good care of her babies, but it was harder than she had expected. No sooner was one baby quiet than another one would begin to fuss and cry. She felt like the juggler she had seen at the fair last year. She wished she could work on her lace, but at first she was too busy and then she was too tired.
A servant brought them lunch — bread, cheese, and milk. Later, another maid came into the nursery and took out the baskets of dirty diapers and clothes for washing. Johanna felt as if the day would never end. Finally, as it grew dark, the night girls arrived and the day girls were allowed to leave the nursery. They walked to the kitchen for the evening meal.
They washed their hands at the washbasin and sat down at the table. Johanna was amazed by the luxury she saw around her. Water was piped into the kitchen, and a huge earth
enware stove called a kachelofen was used instead of the fireplace and hearth Johanna had at home.
“What do you think?” Cecile asked, looking around to make sure Monica was out of the room.
“It was a long day,” Johanna said.
“For me, too,” Cecile said. “It doesn’t seem natural, to be so quiet around babies.”
“I know. I wanted to talk to the babies. I had to stop myself every minute.”
“I felt the same. You know, I’m used to talking a lot. Mother calls me a regular chatterbox.”
“Not me. I like to read or work on my lace,” Johanna said.
“Then this place must be perfect for you.”
“I guess. But it’s hard for me to be so quiet with babies, too.”
Just then, Monica walked into the room. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Cecile said.
“Well, in that case,” Monica said. She sat down on the bench opposite the girls, a sullen look on her face.
“Here’s your supper,” Frau Hartmann said.
“What’s this?” Johanna asked, poking at a pale object in her stew.
Frau Hartmann answered, “Why, they’re potatoes, my dear. Have you never eaten ’em before?”
Johanna shook her head. “At home, Mama made stew with cabbage and onions, and sometimes turnips or carrots.”
“Try them. They’re delicious,” Frau Hartmann said. “My cousin grows them on his farm in Alsace. He says they’re like manna from heaven.”
“This stew isn’t manna, and this orphanage isn’t heaven,” said Monica. “Anyway, potatoes give me gas.”
“Watch your tongue, young lady,” said Frau Hartmann. “In my kitchen, I expect good manners.”
“Sorry.” Monica glared at Frau Hartmann, lowered her eyes, and picked at her food with her spoon.
“Try it,” Cecile urged. “We grow them in Denmark, too. They’re good.”