Shattered Crystals - Mia Amalia Kanner (that summer book TXT) 📗

apartment was congested and noisy. There was a constant coming and going, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the street, and back after a walk or a trip to the grocery store. Each family tried to maintain its privacy, but even when the doors were closed, I could hear the residents talking or playing their radios.

“The bathroom is actually a bigger problem than the kitchen,” my father said. “Each boarder is allowed one bath a week and gets half an hour in the bathroom for it. The trouble is that as soon as he steps into the tub, someone needs the toilet. So now we announce, ‘bath time in fifteen minutes.’” Lea jumped up and down, chanting, “Bath time, bath time.” Papa picked her up and bounced her on his knee. “Soon you will do this job without me.”

Short and slim, my father was already in his sixties, and I knew that he was physically weakened by an intestinal ailment. I marveled at his acceptance of all these strangers into his home. How well he had organized everyone. I had not given any thought to his problems when I had sent my children to him. I certainly lacked his equanimity. Sitting in the living room, I resented not being able to make a cup of tea because Frau Muller was preparing supper in the kitchen, my mother’s kitchen, the warm, comfortable room, where I had learned to cook and bake.

One day, when Ruth came home from school, she said excitedly, “Mama, guess what! We had a contest to see who had the most people living in her apartment. Rivkah shares her house with twenty-one other people. Imagine!” Thus, it was my oldest daughter who made me see how self-centered my attitude was.

I learned from Sal that scheming and subterfuge had become an accepted tool of survival everywhere. Soon after his arrival in Paris, Sal visited the Zionist Bureau in Paris for the visa I bought from the middleman. They were amazed at his request and told him, “There is no visa for you, Kanner. It does not exist.”

Sal thought he had heard wrong and said, “I don’t understand.”

The French Zionist explained how things were done now. “The document we issued was a ruse, just to get you out of Buchenwald, nothing more. You applied in Germany, and a true visa for you and your family will have to be issued by the Berlin office. Meanwhile, we are glad that you arrived safely in Paris.”

I kept up my journeys to the Zionist Bureau in Berlin, reminding the officials that I expected them to issue our five visas for Palestine. By now, I hated the Berlin Zionist officials, but I continued to pester them. I was afraid that if I ceased going there, I would be overlooked or forgotten. As it was, they told me more than once of Jews who had to leave Germany immediately or face certain death. “But your name is on our list, Frau Kanner, and you have to be patient just a little longer.” Sometimes on the long train trip back to Halle or Leipzig, I wondered why I bothered. Yet there seemed to be no other safe way to get out of Germany.

In Halle, I was lonely for my husband, and I missed the girls, but I could not spend all my time in Leipzig. I was required to be in my official residence. Every week, I signed the register at the dressmaker’s to prove that I actually stayed there. I was afraid that merely signing the book might not be enough. I did not know if I was being watched and decided it would be best to sleep at my official residence several times a week. Each time, I exchanged polite greetings with Frau Feldman. She was a good woman, but I never felt comfortable in her home.

Once a week, I went to our Halle bank to withdraw money for living expenses. Nazi regulations now allowed me one hundred marks, but many times I wheedled additional sums out of the bank officials. I continued to invent tales of special needs, and reinforced my pleas with occasional bribes.

I called on Herr Neman at the Judenrat to pay my assessment to the fund used to support the destitute Jews remaining in the city. I reported to him my lack of progress in my quest for our visas and obtained news of the dwindling number of Jews in Halle.

Neman was always courteous and pleasant. Forced into the position of heading the Judenrat, he doled out money to the needy and provided names of smugglers to those with funds who were willing to risk crossing the German border without any documents. It was Neman who arranged for Fanny’s daughter to emigrate to England. There Hanni would work as a chambermaid for a wealthy family in a London suburb. The indenture agreement stipulated that she remain in service for a minimum of one year.

Once more, I went to the railroad station to bid farewell to one of our family. I stood back as Fanny held her daughter until we heard the platform conductor shout, “Last call.” Afterwards, I helped Fanny pack her possessions, and she moved to Berlin to live with her sister-in-law.

Hanni sent me a photograph of herself wearing a black uniform with a stiff, white half-apron and white eyelet cap. “I dust and make beds all day,” she wrote. “There are eighteen rooms in the mansion. The mistress seems satisfied with me.”

Sal’s last remaining relative in Halle came to my room one evening. She was gaunt and harried and obviously not looking after herself. He white blouse was wrinkled, and the black scarf was frayed. Her husband Mendel was in Belgium, released from Buchenwald with a forged document. Like Sal, Mendel had no choice but to flee and leave his family behind.

“Where are you staying, Marthe?” I asked.

“We have a room near the Judenrat office. Four of us sleep in two single beds. I share one with my little daughter Elsa, and the twins have the other. The boys fought constantly, until we came up with the idea of taking the bed apart at night. Now they take it in turns to sleep on the box spring.”

“Children get used to new surroundings,” I said. “The only thing my girls complain about is that I’m not with them all the time. I wish I could offer you some coffee, Marthe, but it’s not my turn in the kitchen.”

“It’s all right. I couldn’t swallow anything anyhow. Tante Mia, I located a smuggler who will take us to Belgium. It took a long time to find a man who was willing to take three children.” Marthe was rubbing her wedding band with her thumb. “He wants one thousand marks,” she said.

“He will take all four of you for that sum?” I asked.

“Yes, but I only have two hundred marks. I don’t know what to do.”

What would Sal have done if he were here? I knew everyone in his family had always counted on him, and I decided. “I will give it to you,” I said. “Now, don’t cry, Marthe. Don’t say anything. I have ways of getting extra money from the bank, and you know I can’t take it out of Germany. What else shall I do with it? You are family.”

“Tante Mia, I don’t know how to thank you. We can leave the day after tomorrow. Oh, I’ve lived in Halle all my life, and now I can’t wait to get away.”

A week later, I was brooding about being the only member of the Kanner family left in Halle when Marthe came again to my room. For just a moment, I thought I was imagining things, but there she stood, more distraught than on her last visit.

“Marthe! I thought you’d left. What happened?”

“We didn’t make it.” She dropped her pocket on the floor and sank down on the bed. “Thursday morning we took the train to the last stop in Germany. We reached the border village in the evening. The smuggler took us to a cafe. We sat there for two hours. The proprietor let us stay long after we finished our sandwiches. The boys thought the coming journey was an adventure and were eager to start. At eleven o’clock we began to walk. The smuggler led us out of the village onto a dirt road. Then we crossed a wheat field. The smuggler told us to wear good walking shoes, but the grain was high and hard to walk through, especially for Elsa. She’s only eight. We pushed through the stalks for two hours. I have no idea when we left Germany and crossed into Belgium. It was dark and it all looked the same.

“Finally we reached a dirt path, hardly wide enough for one person. The smuggler said, ‘You are in Belgium. Walk on this path and in half an hour you will see railroad tracks next to the road on the right. Follow the tracks for about fifteen minutes and you will reach the Belgian village. The train for Brussels stops there at two-forty. You will have plenty of time to make it. Here are your tickets.’

“It was just as the smuggler had said. We reached the village and were in sight of the station. It was no more than a small wooden building on one cement platform. A Belgian policeman appeared unexpectedly and asked for our papers. Of course, we had no legal permits to be in Belgium. The policeman put us on a train back to Germany. We arrived back in Halle late the next afternoon.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

Marthe rose from the bed and prepared to go. “I’ve got to get back to the children. I just wanted you to know.”

I bent down and picked up Marthe’s handbag. “I’m sorry, Marthe. You were brave to go. I wish it had worked out.”

“It’s not your fault, Tante Mia,” Marthe said.

A few days later, I met Marthe at the Judenrat. She was smiling. “Guess what! I found another smuggler who will take children. The man said there are no guarantees, but I must try again. We have to get to Mendel in Brussels, and I need you to give me another thousand marks.”

Marthe had changed, I thought. She was no longer asking for money. She was demanding it. “Marthe, it is up to you to decide what is best. Come to me tomorrow. I will have the money for you.”

Sitting on the train after another fruitless trip to Berlin, I wondered about Marthe. I thought of her often. She had taken a terrible risk with her children. I had heard of Jews caught while trying to escape and being sent to concentration camps. Such reports were not unusual. I had heard such a story in the Zionist office just that day. Jews vanished, and no one could say if they had been arrested by the Nazis or had surreptitiously escaped.

There seemed to be so many arrests. How much longer would we be safe in Germany? If I hired a smuggler, I would have to carry Lea all the way. Was there any truth to the latest promise of the Zionist official? “Your visa might come through in three weeks.”

As the train approached Halle, I reached the answer I always did during these discussions I had with myself. I decided once more that it was better to wait than to take the risk of hiring a smuggler.

In the railway terminal a stranger bumped into me. “Marthe is in Brussels,” he whispered and disappeared into the crowd of travelers.