The shiny cigarette case lay on her dresser, next to a photo of Hans. His white flannel trousers were pressed into perfect pleats and there was not a speck of sand on his navy blazer, even though they were at the seashore. His face smiled out from the photo, calm and resolute, his blue eyes reflecting the North Sea behind him. There was nothing calm about the North Sea. Hans was a storm in progress, willing to flail his way through life. She found comfort in the ancient city walls, heavy brick houses that were hundreds of years old, and habits that existed for a reason. She reached for another cigarette. Hans hated cigarettes. She missed his disapproval.
Where, in God’s name, was he? All his remaining possessions had fit neatly into two suitcases, and he had left Amsterdam with a bank note that would be enough to support him in a new business venture. He hadn’t written in nearly two months.
Mother’s voice rang out. “Esther, come join us for a drink in the courtyard!” Apples and wine were laid out in the garden, a toast to a sweet new year. The quiet of the courtyard was marred by the spluttering of a radio, located in some nearby home. The broadcast was interspersed with the harsh and strident sounds of German, and Hitler’s voice.
“Damn it, they don’t need to play that tonight. We need a day off from this.” Her stepfather, Sam Goudberg, was weary from working hurriedly through the day in order to be finished by sundown. He gazed at his wife, who brought him the wine bottle, followed by Max with the tray of glasses. The blitzkrieg invasion of Poland by Germany had disturbed him deeply. Hitler evidently felt that Northern Europe was his to take. The broadcast rant continued.
Sam poured the wine. “A toast to the home! Esther, we are so happy to see you.” Esther smiled and sipped her wine. She had nothing to say. “So, how is your part time work at the stationers? Do you enjoy your co-workers?”
Max interjected, “Mother, they have a display of her calligraphy and drawings in the window. Haven’t you seen them?”
Sarah looked at him. She had avoided the shop and thoughts of her daughter at work. It was one thing to be talented and another to have to use talent to exist.
Esther smiled. “Mr. Bolsman lets me use the most expensive pens and inks. I can’t afford to actually buy one, of course, but it is nice to use a gold tipped pen. The lines just flow from your hand, no scratches, no blots, no surprises.”
Max picked up a tiny silver spoon, holding it like a pen. He wiggled his nose and in a nasal falsetto asked, “Please miss, how much for a nice pen? Ten cents or twenty?”
“About two hundred guilders.” Her eyes narrowed. “They also have beautiful inks, all colors. I wrote a poem on rice paper from Japan.”
“Japanese imports are becoming harder and harder to get.” Sam was back to business. “They open and close their harbors like the mouth of a carp. I actually like working with the Japanese, polite people who let you know exactly where you stand.”
The kitchen maid stepped into the garden. “Dinner is ready, Madam. Shall I serve your soup?”
Max blurted out, “I wish Hans were here. This is his favorite dinner.”
Esther turned her head sharply. “I’m sure he is enjoying his holiday with others now. He is twenty-one years old, and living his own life.”
“What makes you say that? Do you know where he is?” Her mother’s eyes were closed, and a deep sigh silenced the room. A brief happiness of this evening was marred. Where, in God’s name, was Hans? They missed his energy and his quirks.
The table was set. Long linen cloths were perfection, and each starched napkin glowed in its silver ring. The classic silver table setting and blue patterned china looked like still-life paintings from rooms long ago. Aromas of golden chicken broth wafted through the air. A shiny egg bread lay in the center of the table. Esther was home for the first time in six months. She wouldn’t be staying the night, but she was at the table.
“Tov Hashanah! To a sweet New Year!”
***
Amsterdam, Portuguese Synagogue
Yom Kippur
September 23, 1939
“Behind enemy powers, the Jew!” ~ Poster
Climbing up the stairs to the women’s balcony, Esther and Sarah joined friends for the sundown Yom Kippur service at the Portuguese Synagogue. She pondered the ancient traditions. The building was dark, and these heavy wooden stairs were sunken with the footsteps of three hundred years. Why was this a part of her?
Esther looked out over the synagogue, fully illuminated with a thousand candles, long tapers set for a three-hour service of meditation and chant. On the floor of the building men congregated, standing in groups conversing. But once congregants were covered with their striped prayer shawls, one was reminded of the antique paintings of shepherds and prophets.
The screen obscured views of the floor and the altars. Directly in sight were magnificent brass chandeliers, massive stone pillars and the timbered vault of the ceiling. Much of the building resembled the descriptions of the temple of Solomon.
Cantors intoned their first chants, simple Phrygian melodies, repeated by the men. Waves of sound coursed down the length of the building, rolling over and over as the men repeated their pleas to God. The women observed the worship. Throughout the ancient building, both women and men held active conversations while their children were running and slamming the heavy wooden doors. The building was alive on this night.
Esther listened more closely than usual to the rabbinical sermon. God is everywhere, and this was God’s house, but the rabbi was not talking about God on this, the holiest night of the year.
“We must convince the Queen to denounce the German invasion of Poland. Holland has been known for its tolerance, but we must make it clear that this will not be tolerated.”
Her mother had often told the children of her childhood in Poland after pogroms had forced the family to flee westward. All she remembered about Poland were the fields of wildflowers, flowers that bloomed all over the countryside on her birthday. There she had played with her cousins… until another forced emigration, and still another. Mother had come through Germany to Holland. Thank God the Germans were moving in the other direction.
A celebrant tripped and stumbled, upsetting a large wooden torchiere. The heavy stand and its candles began to tip. Esther thought about her city, and the community she had joined at birth. Since infancy, she had been terrified of fire. A nightmare began as she sat on her bench, looking at a candelabra above her head. A set of candles burning, flames licking up the long hem of a man’s coat, then lighting on the wooden furniture, draperies catching, a congregation immolated, and her community lost in the flames.
Through the screen she could see that the stand had been caught and was once again upright. Today’s prayers had done their work, and tonight they were safe. Once again they were threatened, but they would survive. Her fears were groundless.
Chapter Four
Upstate New York
September 1939
“German forces have invaded Poland and its planes have bombed Polish cities, including the capital, Warsaw. The attack comes without any warning or declaration of war.” ~ BBC
Hans dragged his luggage behind him. The vast lobby of Grand Central station had hundreds of signs in English and a labyrinth of hallways that tunneled under the streets. It reminded him of anthills that he had played with once on a sandy farm. Just shoving a stick into the anthill would release thousands of creatures, hurrying to their invisible destinations. Then they would form into lines and return underground with their treasures, morsels of food, and thousands of ants following. But now he was one of the ants, a nobody. He had wanted to become anonymous and in this vast train station he had found anonymity. The signs were a tangle of letters. These odd American names – Mohawk, Mohegan, Poughkeepsie, Narragansett, Massachusetts – were utterly confusing. How did people say such words?
Bums slept in corners of the station and Hans ste
pped carefully to avoid scattered remains of food and cigarettes. He hurried through the tunnels in order to look like a businessman, a furious race with no destination. So many people were rushing around to do important things. What would it take to be like them? After two weeks of searching for work in New York, he realized that he could end up spending a long time as a junior accounting clerk in a business that did not interest him.
Hans had come to New York to be a photographer, but he would have to settle for an entry-level position in someone else’s business. Inquiries led him to Eastman Kodak in Rochester, about an eight-hour train ride away. At least a trip to Rochester would give him a breath of fresh air. Reading board after board he found a schedule of upstate trains and approached a ticket agent. The day was warm but his hands were clammy as he tugged at the bills in his wallet.
The Erie Lackawanna train pulled out of Penn Station, and headed upstate. As it left the city, Hans scrutinized his surroundings. The coach was full of travelers. Men were reading newspapers. Nobody was looking out the windows as the train pulled north. He did look. The shadows of Harlem were even darker than Manhattan’s. Jazz had been born and become popular in Harlem, but he had stayed away from its intimate dark cellars. The Bernsteen teenagers had imagined that Jazz came from grand hotels and nightclubs with crystal lights and cocktails with twists of lemon. A glittering stage would separate dark skinned musicians from patrons. The letter he wished to write to Esther and Max might have been about seeing a great dance band and meeting a beautiful blonde. The realities of New York were so different from his expectations.
Harlem was bleak and dirty. Blockhouses had laundry hanging on lines from the windows, that is, when the windows were not broken out. The overall impression was of a war zone. Evidence of poverty was everywhere, not just a few bums out of work, but an entire community without homes or workplaces.
Following the river, lovely homes with broad lawns appeared. The train tracks went along back yards, but wood framed houses and gardens were neatly lined up along wider streets. The houses were painted in colors. Brick was used as trim, and the whole effect was one that seemed cheap to him. The sturdy brick houses of Amsterdam had stood for centuries, and many of these seemed to have been built quickly.
The Hudson Valley flowed into view, with broad tributaries leading away from the river. The dense hillsides and their broad trees painted a tapestry of greens and golds, reflecting an autumn sun above. Oh, if only he had color film and a day to wander these hills.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” A new passenger sat down next to him, stout and sweating. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, opened his briefcase, and settled a newspaper onto his lap. For some reason, he decided to read the comics first. Here the world was imploding, and an adult man wanted to read the funnies. Well, people were strange. The man responded to his gaze. “Where you headed?”
“Rochester.”
“Good God, why? It’s cold up there. Damn winds blow off the lake and the whole town freezes over.”
“Today?” Actually, Hans would have welcomed a blizzard at this point.
“Nah, not today. Lots of mosquitos though. Got mosquitos the size of small birds. Suck you dry.” The man turned back to his paper, this time opening up the sports section. Football season was in full swing. Hans had no concept of American football, except that they dressed up in strange gladiator armor with helmets. Most of the time players seemed to be piled on the ground, in some sort of grotesque wrestling match.
“I want to work for Eastman Kodak.”
The man did not look up from his paper. “What do you do?”
“I’m a photographer, but I have been processing my own film since I was eight years old.”
“You mean you want to make a living taking pictures? What kind of luck do you think you’re gonna have?”
“They use pictures in advertising and magazines. I can take pictures of things to sell.”
“Maybe, but that work is all in New York. You’re going the wrong direction.”
“My boss in New York thought I would like Rochester.”
The stout man shook his head. “I’ll bet he did.” He pulled his newspaper up over his face, and pretended to read it.
The train moved along riverbanks, rocky cliffs, and waterfalls. There was no evidence of proper cities – just simple little towns, a few factory smokestacks here and there. Where exactly had he been sent? He needed to get noticed as a talented photographer and Kodak was in Rochester. He had no idea where Rochester was. By evening, lights began to glow from a city and, eventually, the train began to slow down. Newspapers folded, and bags lifted from the racks as passengers prepared to end their long day. He had arrived, and he found his way to the local YMCA.
The following morning, Hans located a bathroom with a mirror and got out his shaving kit, put a new blade into the razor and began to lather up. He needed to look his best today. In his travel bag was one starched collar that he had carried for a special meeting. He dressed and slung his camera bag over his shoulder, looking like the photographers he had seen in magazines.
In the lobby of the Eastman Kodak company he boarded an elevator leading to the Executive Offices. At the top of the building there was yet another lobby, carpeted and even grander than the one downstairs. At the end of the lobby near tall windows sat a group of three secretaries. One seemed to be taking phone calls, a second was writing notes, and the third, a pretty brunette, looked up at him.
“May I help you?”
“Please. I am here to see Mr. Eastman.”
“What is your name?”
“Bernsteen. Hans Bernsteen.”
“Excuse me, sir, but what time is your appointment?”
He did not have an appointment. In Holland, his father’s friends would see him whenever he was announced. The combination of telephone static and a foreign accent would not convince anyone to see him. Hopefully, a broad smile and friendly gaze would encourage her to make room for him. “He asked me to be here at 9:00, but of course I am a little early.”
“It’s only 8:15 and I don’t see your name on the schedule. In fact, he is in meetings until 11:00. With whom did you make your appointment?”
He presented a business card. “Hans Bernsteen, Photographie, Amsterdam Holland.” The address would have impressed a Dutchman, but she recognized nothing except that this young gentleman did not belong here.
“Sir, Kodak does not hire aliens.”
“Excuse me?”
“We do not employ aliens. Europe is at war, and no Europeans are allowed in our facilities. Or Japanese either.”
Confusion and doubt crossed his face. “There must be some mistake? I have come all the way from Holland.”
“You need work, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
The brunette looked at him sympathetically. The other two ladies peeked up from their desks as they watched her escort the handsome young man to the door. She spoke very softly. “Why don’t you go and visit the drugstores? Most of them have a photo lab. At least you can get some darkroom work. They don’t care who they hire, and they will pay by the hour. It’s not regular, but at least it will be something.” Barely concealing his disappointment, Hans lowered his head and mumbled, “Good day.”
He didn’t even thank her. The idea that a pharmacy would also develop pictures was strange to him, but this was new territory.
Near the YMCA was a F.W. Woolworth Company five and dime store. Woolworth’s did not have a photography department. It looked something like the shops of his family’s clients in Holland: wooden bins were piled high with small items. Women threaded their way down narrow aisles to grab prizes tangled into a web of tags and string. He began to recognize the names of some items from the ledgers that he had been keeping since he was fourteen. He wandered the aisles, memorizing the names of common household items.
Along one side of the
store was something like a café, a place where people were drinking coffee and eating ice cream. It certainly was far-removed from the Café Americain where he had enjoyed many pleasant afternoons. The black and white linoleum tiles were a poor substitute for the elegant marble block floors in Amsterdam cafes. This was clearly not for social gatherings. These people were all in a hurry, or thinking about something besides eating. The frustration of his “interview” at Eastman Kodak left him with a growling stomach and he stared at a menu on the counter, a list of items named after German cities, like Hamburgers and Frankfurters, and Italian dishes like macaroni and spaghetti. Didn’t America have any food of its own? His forehead began to throb. A young waitress approached him, a real blonde, caramel and honey colored, not like the platinum blondes in New York City.
“Hello dear, what can I get you?” He looked around to see who was being addressed so familiarly. “Would you like a coffee?”
He hated coffee. “How about some tea? And maybe some bread?”
“Coming right up. Say, I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?
“Oh, yes. Quite new.”
“And you have an accent. Where are you from?”
“I am from Amsterdam.” He was a little flustered at her forwardness, but taking care of customers was her job.
“Holland? Oh, my father is from Germany. So were my mother’s parents.”
He smiled at her friendly comments, and then responded in German. “Meine Mutter war Deutsch.” They continued to speak a few sentences in German.
“What would you like to eat? Was wollen sie essen?”
He struggled with the menu. All sorts of odd words jumped out at him. A hot dog? No, he certainly wouldn’t eat dog meat. A hamburger? He recognized the greasy patties, but they were adding all sorts of colored goo to them, red, yellow, some odd greenish bits, slimy fried onion. His eyes wandered off into space. He didn’t know what to ask.
Islands of Deception Page 4