Before I served the cake Gerta took us outside. We played games, sang songs, and then she sat us down on the grass. From her pocket she retrieved a book with a tattered cover. I knew right away which one it was. She began with my favourite tale, the one father had read to me a thousand times, Der Erlkönig, and, as I knew it would, the story frightened all of us but in such an exciting and intoxicating way.

  My memories of that day are fairly clear since it’s the only birthday party in Germany that my friends were permitted to attend.

  That was sixteen years ago. Of the children there that day, one in particular presently comes to mind. I haven’t thought of Inga Goldman lately but suddenly I see her before me, and a flood of remembrances overtakes me and I’m overwhelmed with thoughts of her.

  She and I grew up in Berlin, each of us an only child. Inga’s parents, Jules and Naomi Goldman, and my parents met at a bridge class and became close friends. My father and her father were in the export-import business and though they didn’t work for the same company they both travelled through Europe, occasionally crossing paths in a foreign city where they would play tennis or just sit and talk for hours over coffee.

  I remember going to the Staatliche Museen with Inga, her parents, and my parents. At the time there was a new collection of Egyptian artifacts there. Our parents also had season tickets to the Berliner Philharmoniker and the Staatsoper. On a few occasions they took us with them. The performance halls were beautiful with their gleaming chandeliers and gilded busts of famous musicians. We sat in red velvet chairs overlooking the stage. We saw bows of a dozen violins, every one moving in unison. When ballerinas appeared their costumes created a magical world of billowy filmy pastels when they leaped through the air.

  Gerta leads the birthday guests in games and songs.

  The children gather for a photograph. Ingelore, on the far right, embraces her friend, Adah Metzger.

  I didn’t appreciate Naomi’s nickname for her husband. She called him Dickerchen, which means little Fatty. He walked in an odd way, balancing his protruding stomach by leaning slightly backward, his large head swaying to and fro. His gait faintly reminded me of a rooster. I called him gentle Uncle Jules because he smiled so easily. I still can smell the minty cologne he generously splashed on his face after shaving.

  With no other siblings Inga and I often felt lonely. She said many times, “A large family! I want lots of children when I grow up!”

  I once told Inga that when I was three years old I asked my mother for a brother or sister. Mother later confided that although she and Paps had wanted another child the times were so unsettled that they were afraid to have two little ones to care for.

  I know I don’t want to have a lot of children but I know I’ll never have just one.

  Inga was a very sensitive child. One day, out of nowhere, she shouted, “Remember last year? That was the best summer!” That year, I believe it was 1933 or 1934, we enjoyed a wonderful summer with our families taking frequent visits to the lake. We rowed in our kayak, swam in the crisp water, and snatched berries from bushes behind the many outbuildings.

  Inga often reminisced about the day when a couple of boys had picked flowers for us and my mother had offered them some cookies that Gerta had baked.

  I would laugh and remind her, “Those boys weren’t interested in us, Inga. They knew how good the cookies were, that’s why they brought the flowers.”

  That was the same summer that my father had become dreadfully ill with typhoid. His fever had run as high as 41 and he was gone for what seemed like months. I never told Mutsch but at the time I was sure Paps was going to die.

  It was sometime during 1935 that Inga and I first visited the new Reform temple in Dahlem. It was beautiful inside.

  From that day on we pestered our parents to attend services there. I remember the rabbi, a man named Joachim Prinz.12 His leadership was magnificent. I loved listening to the organ music and the lilting voices of the choir. But most of all I enjoyed staring at the stained glass windows from which shafts of light spread reds, blues, and yellows on the oaken pews. I felt at the time that that had to be the most beautiful temple in all of Germany.

  Eventually our parents decided to attend services at the new Reform temple. I suspect their intensified religious interest was a reaction to the spread of Nazi influences.

  Despite memories of my warm friendship with Inga and the experiences our families shared that year, this was also the year that my world suddenly fell apart.

  When Paps first announced that we would be moving to Japan I pleaded desperately with him. “Why must we go to Japan when Inga and her parents are going to Brazil?”

  He told me, “Gerber, the company I work for, has an office in Kobe.”

  “Why can’t the Goldmans go there?” I was sick with the thought of being separated from Inga.

  Paps said, “We have to leave our home because of the Nazis. Unfortunately we can’t choose where we go. Jules was able to arrange for visas to Brazil for his family so that’s where Inga must go. You’ll see Inga again someday. I’m sure of it.”

  It was so difficult saying goodbye to Inga.

  When we each arrived in our new countries, we wrote letters to one another. She and her family first immigrated to France; then, they fled to South America. Inga told me about Rio and I told her about Kobe. She sent me pictures of herself at the beach, the most beautiful place in the world she said, and photographs of Pão de Açúcar, Sugarloaf Mountain. She was learning Portuguese and had already made many friends. “There are so many festivals here,” she wrote, “and we dress up in costumes and dance in the streets.”

  I sent her pictures of our home in Kobe. I told her I had a kitten with a broken tail that is supposed to, the Japanese believe, bring good luck. I didn’t tell her kittens’ tails are often broken when they’re newborns. I wrote instead, “Learning Japanese is difficult for me. As of now I only can read street signs.”

  The Goldmans visited us in Japan in 1938, without Inga. I was angry with them and with Inga, too. They told me she preferred to stay in Brazil during Carnival. I was heartbroken.

  I don’t write to Inga anymore. Yet I think of her often. I hope she is happy.

  And I’d like to think she still dances in the streets at Carnival time.

  Dark Clouds are Everywhere

  1932

  It was just after our geography lesson ended that I realized darkness had crept into my classroom and was all about us. Fraülein Müller, my teacher, went to the windows and pushed aside the curtains to allow what little light there was into the room. Earlier that morning there were ominous coal-black clouds on the horizon but they seemed so far away. Even though it was only mid-morning it appeared as if dusk had settled over us.

  We were told to place our papers aside. We sat motionless, our fingers laced together on the tops of our desks. Fraülein Müller stood erect waiting for our collective and undivided attention. I remember she dressed plainly with blouse collars so stiffly starched they appeared as if they were made of cardboard. Her long straight hair was balled atop her head. She was tall with such big feet!

  “Children,” she said, “we have visitors today so we’ll be going outside into the yard. There you are to form a straight line. When your name is called you’ll signal with your arm raised. Then you’ll be told either to sit down on the grass or go to a side table where you’ll answer whatever questions are asked of you.” She clapped her hands three times. “Stand, push in your chairs, follow me. Talking is forbidden.”

  Once outside she motioned where we were to form our line. We did so quickly.

  It seemed like night had fallen. The clouds were dense and dark. A storm was on its way.

  All the classes were in the yard, standing in perfectly straight lines. The children were stock-still and mute, our teachers rooted as sentinels nearby. Then our Schulleiter, the headmaster, came into the yard accompanied by two men in uniform. I wasn’t sure if they were soldiers or police but I guessed they were police.

  Immediately I recognized the swastikas on their hats and armbands. One of the men was big and mean-looking, the bill of his cap pulled down to just above his eyes, his face in shadow, his eyes like beacons shining out from within. His lantern jaw was clean-shaven. I knew he was in charge, the leader. As the two of them walked past me I smelled the leather of their boots.13

  When the soldiers stood at the centre of the yard our headmaster handed a sheaf of papers to the leader and then turned toward the school, leaving us in the yard. The other soldier went to a table situated near a gate that opened to an alleyway. He sat down, opened his briefcase, placed his papers before him, and then readied a pencil.

  The bellowing voice of the soldier in the centre of our yard startled me. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Krüger. You will answer to your name as you have been instructed.” He gazed about our assemblage making sure everyone was attentive. Then he said, “We begin.” There was silence. Then, “Dieter Ackerman.”

  The boy timidly raised his arm. The soldier checked the roster and then barked, “Sich hinsetzen!” Sit down! Like a vase falling from a shelf, Dieter collapsed on the grass. Another name was called. That child too was told to sit down. Then, another name, and so on.

  Fear knotted my stomach. What name will the soldier call me by? Will it be Ingelore Rothschild or Erna Völker? To which name shall I answer? What am I to do?

  “Levi Baumstein,” the soldier called. This boy was quivering when I saw him slowly raise his arm. Then pointing toward the gate, the officer said, “Proceed to Sergeant Keller.” The boy darted to the table as if a rabid dog were chasing him.

  More names were called. Some children were told to sit while others were sent to the sergeant. I thought it was a random selection or perhaps a division based on neighbourhoods. As a wave of understanding washed over me my blood ran cold.

  The children sent to the table were Jews.

  “Adah Metzger.” She raised both arms. The colonel’s voice barked, “To the sergeant!” She ran to the table sobbing the entire way.

  I will never forget those children’s names.

  I looked at the lines. Most of the students were seated. There were only several boys and girls still standing. I saw conspicuous empty spaces where the Jews had been. The children at the sergeant’s table now numbered about twenty.

  “Frau Robensohn,” the colonel announced. She was the teacher in the classroom across the hall from mine. She stood motionless. Impatiently, the colonel shouted, “Frau Robensohn!” With her arms akimbo she stepped toward the man, then stopped and defiantly remained still. He snapped at her, “You will proceed to the sergeant immediately!” She slowly dropped her arms to her sides, raised her chin, and walked gracefully to the table.

  I vividly remember that she never raised her arm.

  As more names were called my mind raced. What would I do when he called Rothschild?

  Just then the headmaster hastened from the building. “My dear colonel,” he was saying as he approached.

  “What is this interruption?” the colonel wanted to know.

  “There are parents and passersby on the front steps. They see your vehicles in the street and they are wondering if a child is hurt or if there is some calamity with which they can assist.”

  The colonel looked angry. “And what did you tell them?”

  “I told them you were here to conduct a validation of our school’s roster. I said it was procedural and customary. They didn’t accept my explanation and they’re demanding to speak with you.”

  The colonel pursed his lips. He looked at the sky and then turning to the table he called out, “Sergeant, gather your things.” To the headmaster he said, “I see I must handle this annoyance personally. Tell them I will be out shortly. The sergeant will bring that teacher,” pointing to Frau Robensohn with an arm as straight as an arrow, “and the children from his table to your office to complete his cataloguing. It will soon rain so be advised I shall return tomorrow to conclude my work here.” And with that he marched into the building.

  The teachers began yelling, “Everyone inside. To your classrooms!” We dashed inside to escape the first drops of rain beginning to fall. As I ran toward the building I saw Frau Robensohn and the group of Jewish children being ushered to the headmaster’s office.

  About an hour later the clouds and rain dissipated. In the middle of a reading, noticing how brightly the sun now was shining, Fraülein Müller said, “I see the police took the bad weather with them.” I sensed an odious sarcasm in her voice.

  At dismissal, my class was taken to the lobby to wait for elders or governesses to record our removal from the property with the school’s secretary. Gerta signed the log and we left. On the street she looked at me. “Is everything all right? You look peaked. Is there something wrong?”

  “I’m fine, Gerta,” I lied, “I’m just tired.”

  As we walked home in silence I couldn’t help wondering what was destined for the Jewish children and for Frau Robensohn.

  That night our supper routine began as it always did with Paps talking and Mutsch and I listening. I was tense. I knew the conversation soon would turn to me.

  I’d just put some food in my mouth when father asked, “And you, Lorechen, how was your day?”

  Everything went dark just as my classroom had earlier that morning. I could smell the leather of the boots. I could see Frau Robensohn and the Jewish children being led into the school building. The entire morning flashed before my eyes.

  Reaching for my napkin, I gagged.

  Grasping my wrist, Mutsch asked, “What’s wrong, Lorechen?”

  I retched.

  Sensing something was awry, father demanded, “Tell us at once!”

  It didn’t take long to recount what had transpired at school. I was surprised my parents had so few questions. They understood the implications of that day better than I did.

  “And what of Frau Robensohn and the Jewish children?”

  I whispered, “I’m not sure.”

  My parents looked to each other. There were no words between them but there was communication and a clear understanding.

  Paps said, “It’s the only thing we can do.”

  My parents decided I would not return to school. It wasn’t safe. They said the actions of that day were an affront to Jews, to civility, to education professionals, and to all children and families as well.

  “You’ll not return to school,” father declared.

  I protested. “But I enjoy school! Fraülein Müller is a wonderful teacher! I’ll miss my friends!”

  He said, “No! We’ll make arrangements for Gerta to tutor you in the library. Mother will assume some of her domestic duties while she is teaching you.”

  He stared into my eyes. “You’re to remain inside this house when school is in session. We can’t have people seeing you on the street, they’ll wonder why you’re not in school.”

  “Yes, father,” I moaned.

  I knew there was no way I could change Paps’ mind. Once he reached a decision it was done. Only Mutsch, on the rare occasion, could change his mind.

  That night my eerie nightmare returned. This time the deformed demon is wearing the colonel’s hat and when I run to my parents’ bedroom he’s closer to me, just inches away. I awoke more frightened than I have ever been.

  The days of attending school were over. I would see a few of my former classmates at synagogue and a handful of others by chance on the street on weekends but I was forbidden to speak with them. I never had the opportunity to explain what happened to me. I never had a chance to say goodbye.

  I do not know which is worse: saying goodbye, face-to-face, exchanging a warm embrace, looking forlornly into one another’s eyes, the tears about to come; or, the ghostly absence of a conclusion, only a memory of a last encounter, the last hours or days, never knowing it would be the last.

  It took just two days for me to realize that Gerta was a strict teacher. She meticulously allocated times for my instruction in science, literature, German language and history, mathematics, European and World history, art, music, and various domestic skills. She scheduled recess periods during which we exercised inside or went for brisk walks several times around the apartment. Although she didn’t speak English or French she worked with me when we pored over those language texts, one hour every odd-numbered day for French and one hour every even-numbered day for English.

  “Your father will correct your pronunciation,” she reminded me.

  When we were “at school” she wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense. I still laugh when I recall her frantically admonishing Hansi, my canary, for singing too loudly during her tutorials.

  “You’ll learn your lessons,” she said, “and your father will see progress.”

  After several days Paps, Mutsch, Gerta, and I sat in the library to discuss my comportment. I was relieved to hear Gerta say I was a model student.

  “I’m pleased,” my father said.

  Suddenly there were rapid knocks at our door. We looked to one another. Fear brushed across our faces. Paps rose to attend to the disturbance. He returned and ushered Herr Bayern into the library. The landlord looked tired and wan, his eyes bloodshot. He trembled as he spoke.

  “A few days after the attendance sessions were completed the authorities submitted their report. All teachers and students were accounted for save three or four Jewish children, one of them was your daughter. Since there was no report of illness or accident to explain their absences, the colonel demanded addresses. He sent someone from the police station to the Records Hall to examine real estate documentation and confirm the addresses.”

  “How do you know this?” Mutsch asked.

  “I know the man they sent. He’s a clerk there. His elderly mother rents from me. Upon his return he verified your address but suggested that they question me first, as landlord, to avoid wasted efforts, rather than come directly here.”

  “And the result?” Paps asked.

  “I told them the Rothschilds no longer live there. They moved to Munich. I showed them the lease. I proposed that the school’s roster was in error.”

 

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