A City of Broken Glass (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  Anton prattled about horses to Lars, who listened with every appearance of interest. He knew a great deal about the topic. In a long-ago conversation, he had told me that he spent much of his childhood on horseback. Anton, too, was obsessed with riding. He had learned trick riding when we were in Argentina, much to the vexation of his current Swiss riding instructors. They endured his showy maneuvers because he was the top rider in his school, and they needed him to win competitions for them.

  “What is he to you?” Paul watched Lars.

  “We have a complicated history,” I answered. “The present even more so.”

  “Do you trust him?” he asked quietly. We both knew the dangers of misplaced trust.

  “I used to.”

  We turned at the landing. The doors were closed, and I wondered about those inside. Whom did they trust?

  “What happened to the banker?” Paul asked. “I quite liked him.”

  “Boris married someone else,” I said quietly. Unfortunately, Anton had stopped talking, and my words fell into a moment of utter silence.

  Lars stopped so abruptly that I ran into him.

  I stumbled on my stair. “Pardon me.”

  Paul steadied me.

  Lars looked back, face stricken.

  Anton, unheeding, tugged Lars down the stairs. “I’m hungry.”

  “What was that about?” Paul released my arm.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Until a few days ago, I had not seen Lars since the Olympics.”

  “That does not sound as complicated as you describe,” Paul said. “Perhaps you are omitting details?”

  Perhaps Lars regretted his earlier assumption that I was betraying my husband with Paul. But why had he assumed that I married Boris?

  We arrived at the bottom of the stairs. When Anton opened the front door, the brisk air felt good against my face. Afternoon sunlight fought through high gray clouds. People bustled by, heads down. Anton darted toward the sidewalk.

  “Hannah,” Paul said before we stepped outside. “You must take Lars’s arm before we go onto the street.”

  Lars turned and stiffly extended me his arm. “Shall we?”

  “We shall not,” I said. “I am fine on my own, thank you.”

  “It would not do for you to be seen walking around with a Jew,” Paul said.

  “Paul!” I said. “You know full well that I do not—”

  “Hannah,” he said. “I have no desire to be arrested because someone suspects that we are having … relations.”

  I gulped.

  “Certainly”—Paul guided my hand to Lars’s arm—“not without having the fun of actually doing so.”

  Lars tucked my gloved hand in his elbow and pivoted toward the door like a machine.

  Out on the sidewalk, Anton called, “Come on!”

  Lars and I walked out together, Paul a few paces behind. Lars looked straight ahead as if I were not there. We certainly did not make a convincing portrait of a couple out for a stroll.

  When Anton, waiting outside, saw that we were on the sidewalk, he raced ahead.

  “Go left,” Paul called to him.

  Anton turned left, and we followed. Paul stepped up and walked on the other side of Lars. We walked past apartment blocks defaced with anti-Semitic graffiti. Here and there, glass glittered on cobblestones, probably knocked out by a Nazi with a rock. I thought of families inside, sleeping, eating, and going about their normal lives when their windows shattered, reminding them that nowhere was safe.

  “Do you have a place in mind?” I asked Paul.

  “To the right are the Aryan-only restaurants. As a Jew, I’m no longer allowed to enter them, so we must go left.” He spoke matter-of-factly, used to these circumstances.

  I thought of the many years that we had spent in Berlin, researching stories and eating out. In those days, we could go anywhere we could afford. “I am sorry, Paul.”

  “You say that often,” he said. “Yet, is it your fault?”

  I wondered how much blame was mine to carry. I was a German, an Aryan, and I had not done all I could to stop the Nazis from coming to power. I carried more blame than most. As if he knew what I thought, Lars tightened his grip on my arm.

  Anton stopped in front of a bright storefront with a large yellow star painted on the window. Inside stood four empty tables covered with dark green cloths, set for lunch. “How about this one?”

  The waitress, in a black dress with a white apron and cap similar to Gretl’s, wiped her hands on her apron and watched us suspiciously. Anton looked at Lars, probably thinking of our last restaurant incident.

  I looked at him, too. “Does your collection of women extend this far?”

  Paul tilted his head to the side. He clearly wanted to know the rest of that story.

  “Paul.” Lars spoke with an obvious effort. “Is this acceptable?”

  “Certainly.” Paul led us inside and procured a table near the back. I hung my coat over the back of my chair. When I tucked my gloves into the pocket, I realized that they did not match. Lars must have substituted one of his gloves for my right one so that it would fit over my cast. For someone who claimed to care about getting me out of the country only to save his own skin, he was surprisingly thoughtful.

  Lars did not say a single word during the meal. Anton sat to my right and went on about his football game, reliving each play. Paul sat next to him and tried to put in a desultory word or two. My headache grew as I watched them. I ate chicken soup with matzo balls, happy to have something familiar and well cooked in my stomach. Lars ate mechanically and paid the check without looking at it.

  I reached for my coat. Paul rose quickly. “Thank you, Lars. Anton, let’s go see if they have candy at the counter.”

  As Paul stepped by, he shot me a meaningful look before propelling Anton toward the front of the restaurant where a long glass counter displayed colorful candies in trays. I pursed my lips in exasperation. I understood his intent. Busybody.

  “Lars,” I said quietly. “What is wrong?”

  When his dark eyes met mine, a wall had gone up behind them. Nothing came through—not anger, not worry—nothing at all. “Could I prevail upon you to remain at Paul’s until tomorrow morning?”

  I hesitated. “Why is it suddenly your concern where I sleep?”

  “Promise me you won’t disappear before then,” he said. “Just that. Promise.”

  “This afternoon you told me I had to leave Paul’s.” And he had no right to dictate where I slept. I donned my gloves.

  “Where would you go?” A muscle jumped under his eye.

  “I do not see how it is any of your concern. We discussed this earlier.” I picked up my coat.

  “Promise.” His voice broke. “Please.”

  “Lars.” I put my hand on his arm. “Tell me why.”

  “Promise you won’t disappear.”

  “Like you did?”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Lars?”

  “Like I did,” he whispered. “Yes.”

  Behind his head, I watched Paul and Anton heading toward us. When they got close enough for Paul to see Lars’s face, he took Anton by the shoulder and led him away.

  Pain knifed through my head. This was not the calm suggested by Doktor Anonymous. I massaged my temples. “Why do you care now?”

  Lars opened his eyes. “Spatz, please. One night. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I will explain then.”

  “One night,” I told him.

  Instead of answering, he stood. I rose, and he helped me into my coat. His hand lingered on the small of my back. “Thank you.”

  Anton came over with a paper bag of candy. “Cat’s tongue licorice! Would you like one?”

  I took a strong black lozenge from his bag. When I glanced back, Lars and Paul were speaking by the door. By the time I reached them, Lars had limped down the street.

  “Now what?” Anton asked. “There’s an afternoon football game back at Herr Keller’s.”

  “L
ars suggested I try the Jewish orphanage,” Paul said. “He thought that the neighbors might have taken her there.”

  “We will come, too,” I said.

  “I can go on my own,” Paul said. “I am quite grown up.”

  “I would prefer to go with you,” I said, remembering his expression last night.

  Paul and Anton looked at each other and shrugged. Both knew better than to argue.

  Paul used his passport to change some of my Swiss francs for German marks, since my passport was still not properly stamped. I tucked the bills in my pocketbook and dropped it into my satchel. I felt better with my own money, although it would not last long.

  We took the subway to Baruch Auerbach Orphanage, the most likely place for Ruth to have been taken if someone thought her an orphan. Paul carried her framed photograph, her birth certificate, and an expression of hope so fragile, it hurt to look at him.

  The orphanage was only two stops on the subway, but the first one had been renamed to Horst-Wessel-Platz to celebrate a Nazi folk hero. I thought of Jewish orphans, many of whose parents had been killed or imprisoned by the Nazi regime, riding through that station every day. Bile rose in my throat. I stared down at my tightly locked hands to conceal my expression.

  On the train I prepared a cover story about being a Swiss reporter interested in the deportations to Poland. I had my Adelheid Zinsli press credentials ready in my satchel. Unlike a German orphanage, a Jewish one would be unlikely to check my identity with the Gestapo, so I felt safe using my Adelheid Zinsli identity there.

  We climbed out at Senenfelderplatz and walked up Schönhauser Allee to the orphanage. Gently arched windows welcomed light. It looked friendly, but the exposed bricks on the first floor were the same hue as those at the stable in Zbąszyń. A crudely painted yellow star on the front door ensured that no passersby could fail to treat the children with the expected contempt.

  Gray trees rose on both sides of the stoop. Bare limbs rattled above our heads. In summer, these trees probably provided leafy green shade, but now their skeletal forms outlined the chill.

  Paul took the broad steps to the front door three at a time.

  A harried matron opened the door, wiping her square hands on a starched white apron. Her dark eyes skated over Paul and me and settled on Anton.

  “We’re not taking older boys.” Her tightly coiled bun quivered with disapproval.

  Anton seized my hand.

  “We are not here to drop off a child,” I said.

  “I’m here to find my daughter.” Paul showed her the picture of Ruth. “Her mother is Polish, and during the deportation they were … separated.”

  The matron stepped briskly out of the doorway and gestured for us to enter. “Follow me.”

  Her round form sped down the corridor, and I hastened to keep up. She stopped at a closed door. A rustling and squeaking sounded behind it. “A moment, please.”

  She flung the door open. I peered into the dark room. Shapes humped under blankets. They looked asleep, but judging from the sounds of a second before, most of them had just jumped into their squeaky beds.

  “There will be no more horseplay,” she said sternly. “It is nap time.”

  “Yes, Frau Goldberg,” chorused several young voices.

  She closed the door softly and herded us to an office at the end of the hall. We followed, as obedient as the children. She ushered us inside and sat us down.

  Not a speck of dust had dared to settle on her gleaming desk. “Tell me about this child.”

  Paul handed her the picture again. “My wife was deported to Poland a few days ago. She and our daughter were separated, and I thought someone might have brought Ruth here.”

  “She has been missing for that long?” The matron scowled. “Yet you just now come?”

  “I thought that she was with my wife.” Paul wrung his hands. “I found out only last night that they were not together.”

  “How did you find out?” The matron straightened the blotter and lined an old-fashioned inkwell next to it.

  He looked at me helplessly, too worried to come up with a good lie.

  I held out my hand for the matron to shake. “I am Adelheid Zinsli, a reporter for the Neue Zürcher Zeitung. I was recently in Zbąszyń reporting on the plight of the refugees.”

  “I read your piece.” The matron softened and shook my hand. She had a strong, confident grip. “On the young mother in the stable.”

  “And her curly-haired daughter.” I gave her my official Swiss press pass, glad that she had broken the law and read foreign papers. “While I was interviewing refugees, I came across Herr Keller’s wife, Miriam. She told me that her husband had been away during the deportations and that their daughter was left behind. So I traveled to Berlin to see for myself.”

  The matron held my press credentials at arm’s length and scanned them. “You came all the way to Berlin for that?”

  “Not just for that,” I said. “I also intend to write a story on the situation here, about children left behind, the effect of the deportations on those who remained here, and so on.” I stopped and looked at Paul’s worried face. “But first I would very much like to see Herr Keller reunited with his daughter.”

  “How do I know that you are this girl’s father and not someone intent on stealing a beautiful little girl?” She looked down her nose at us as if we were kidnappers or worse.

  Paul handed her the documentation that he had brought. “She’s mine.”

  I wondered if that was true. And did he know?

  “She is just over two years old. She loves to play on the swings and her favorite food is turnips, because I once told her that children didn’t like them. She’s contrary. And she loves butterflies.” He listed the facts desperately, as if their simple accrual would convince the matron.

  She pulled a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and read each document thoroughly before handing them back.

  “Very well. Let’s go see.” She unlocked the center desk drawer and took out a giant ring of metal keys. “While the little ones are down for their nap.”

  We bustled along behind her.

  “I can’t say that we have your daughter. We have had several children brought in, I’m sorry to say. Between parents being taken to the concentration camps, the deportations, and the suicides, we have more children here than ever before. It’s becoming difficult to keep track of them.”

  Anton clung to my hand. I remembered his fear after I took him in that I would abandon him at an orphanage. “No need to worry,” I whispered. “You leave with me.”

  His grip did not loosen. I stepped close to him.

  The matron stopped in front of a light blue door. “This is the ward for girls under five. Please keep your voices down.”

  We followed her into a darkened room. Two dozen cribs lined the walls on either side. We walked between them, close enough to touch the cribs’ slats. To the side of each crib stood a simple oaken wardrobe.

  Anton and I stood in the center of the room while Paul and the matron checked each sleeping girl’s face. No Ruth. Paul’s shoulders slumped.

  When the matron closed the door behind us, she turned to him.

  “Are there any more?” he asked. “Any more wards?”

  She shook her head. “Not for girls that age.”

  “Where else might she have been brought?” I asked.

  The matron’s eyes fixed on Paul. “Nowhere.”

  He crumpled back against the wall.

  “Could you make inquiries?” I asked.

  The matron hesitated. “Of course. Do you have a telephone?”

  “No,” Paul said.

  “I will telephone you tomorrow evening,” I said.

  She patted Paul’s back and led him to her office, where she gave him a shot of schnapps. I declined. I should not be drinking with so recent a head injury.

  He stared at his shoes while the matron reeled off statistics about the number of children they had taken in because of the
deportations. I took notes and asked questions. Paul drank. Anton sat so quietly, I worried for him.

  The matron caught my shoulder as we stepped through the front door. Anton and Paul walked forward, but I stayed.

  “You realize”—she leaned forward to speak into my ear—“that there are no inquiries I could make?”

  I had suspected as much. “Where is the harm if it gives him another day of hope?”

  “Eventually he must face the truth.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “His daughter is gone.”

  “Or perhaps we will find her.” Paul had to have that hope.

  She gave me a pitying look and stepped backwards into the hall.

  Paul and Anton stood at the foot of the stairs, illuminated by pale golden light from inside the orphanage. The matron closed the door. Darkness swallowed them.

  “Mother?” Anton’s voice quavered.

  I hurried toward him.

  13

  I embraced Anton. He hugged me back hard before stepping away.

  “I told you that you would leave with me,” I said.

  Anton lightly punched my shoulder. “I know.”

  “I need to find a telephone booth,” I told Paul. “It will take only a moment.”

  Paul’s haunted eyes glanced once more at the dark front of the orphanage. He did not answer.

  I quickly found a telephone booth and left them outside while I called in a story about the Berlin orphans to my Swiss paper. Herr Marceau dutifully took notes.

  I already wrote under a pen name, but I could not take even the slightest chance that someone had connected that name to Adelheid Zinsli.

  “I need this to come out under a different name,” I said. “Until I leave Berlin, it is too dangerous to let anyone reading the paper know I am here.”

  “You are in Berlin?” His voice rose in astonishment.

  “Yes.”

  Icy silence poured down the line. Herr Marceau was having an affair with a German actress and longed for a posting in Berlin. I knew that he viewed my filing stories from here as a personal affront, but I would not hide the orphans’ story to mollify his ego. He said, “I see.”

  “I have no intention of staying longer than I need to.” I glanced through the glass at Paul. He stood with his hands in his pockets, weight on both legs, even though I knew it must hurt him.