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

one last encounter with Nazi officialdom in Halle. A few days before our departure, I was summoned to the police station. This was about the life insurance policy Sal had taken out after our marriage, and on which he had been paying regular premiums. As always with the Nazis, I had no say in the matter. I was handed a fully completed form, agreeing to give up all our rights in the policy; but the payments he had made were to be kept by the insurance company. The official handed me a pen and said “Your name here. Amalia Sara Kanner, nee Azderbal.” I signed as directed, including the addition of Sara to my name as the Nazis required. With this signature, I legalized another theft by Hitler’s henchmen. But what did it matter? I hardly cared. I was getting out.

Three thousand marks remained in the bank account. I had spent a huge sum of money in eight months, almost fifty thousand marks. I had paid for Marthe’s smugglers, for the documents that freed Sal from Buchenwald, for the telephone calls. There was my fine and taxes. The export tax on our shipment was set at double the purchase value of everything acquired since 1932. Since ten marks was the limit each person was permitted to take out of Germany, I withdrew a final forty marks from the account and put the bills in my purse. All the rest of the money I signed over to my father, amazed that the Nazis permitted it.

Coming out of the bank, I met Kaese. “So, you are going to Paris,” he said.

“Yes, the day after tomorrow.” It no longer mattered to me that the police knew my every move.

“Only a handful of you are left in Halle now,” he said. “We will clear the remaining Jews out of the city soon. Yes, Halle will be Judenrein.”

I said nothing. After Kaese finished spouting the official Nazi line, he said as pleasantly as always, “Well, give my greetings to your husband. I congratulate you.”

I ran to my room at the seamstresses house to pack the few clothes I kept there. The sewing machine was whirring in the living room when I knocked on the door. “Frau Feldman, I am leaving. We have a visa for France.”

“You are fortunate,” Frau Feldman said. “The room shall remain empty. I do not believe my son will get out of Buchenwald. You did not disturb his things. I am grateful for that.”

“Frau Feldman, thank you for sharing your home,” I said. “I pray that God will help you and your son. Goodbye. I wish you well.”

“Thank you,” she said, and returned to her sewing.

In the time that I had lived with her, I had never seen her smile. I wondered what would become of Frau Feldman. She seemed to have no one and no place to go. Please God, don’t let the Nazis take away her sewing machine.

At the warm, windy airport, I embraced my father, my tears mixing with his. My only regret was leaving him. He looked old and frail, his wispy, white hair blown unruly by the strong breeze. Until this moment, selfishly, I had counted on him without really worrying about him. He had taken in my children, an old man caring for three little girls. I realized that my father had never asked anything of me. It was my mother who had shaped my early years, had told me how to behave and what I could expect in life; but it was my father who was there for me.

“Go, daughter. Have a safe trip. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get out.”

I thought, “I shall never see him again.” I don’t know where this feeling came from; nor can I explain my conviction that our parting was final, but I was certain it was true, and I was filled with immeasurable sorrow.

I entered the small, one-engine plane that would take us to Cologne. There, we were to transfer to a flight for Paris. Single seats lined the two sides of the narrow plane. “Lea, you have to sit,” I said over the roar of the engine.

We moved along the airstrip. There was a sudden bounce, like a car hitting a rut on a country road, and we were off the ground.

“My ears feel funny,” I heard Ruth say.

“Look, look at the little houses,” Eva shouted. “It looks like a toy village down there. Oh, it’s all spinning around. I feel sick.”

“Here, in the paper bag,” I told her.

The stench of vomit filled the plane. All of the twenty-nine passengers on the plane were sick except for Lea. The child skipped gleefully up and down the aisle. I felt too ill to stop her.

When the plane landed at Cologne, the Jewish travelers, identified by the “J” stamped in their passports, were led to a low stone building. Immediately, the men were separated from the women. A steely-eyed matron wearing a man’s uniform ordered all of us to undress. Lea giggled; the two older girls obeyed quietly. Wide-eyed, we watched the matron turn pockets out and shake each item of clothing.

I stood in the warm room, holding Lea by the hand and shivered helplessly. After an eternity, the matron allowed us to get dressed. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at us. Her eyes filled with hate. I buttoned Lea’s dress and tied the bow at the back. I stroked her hair and hoped she did not feel the malice that emanated from that woman.

In a small outer office, an official stamped our passports and pointed to the French plane. The seats of the first class compartment were upholstered and so wide that two children could sit comfortably together if they wanted. A steward offered me wine. I shook my head. I was afraid I would be sick again. The children ate little triangular sandwiches without the crust and drank milk out of wine glasses, chatting happily.

The plane circled over Paris. The landing was so smooth, I was not aware of the plane touching the ground. Walking down the ramp, surrounded by my children, I thought the girls looked just lovely in their new frocks. I felt glamorous in my stylish silk suit and gloriously happy.

“There’s Papa,” Eva shouted. “I see him. I see him.”

I looked toward the crowd behind the rope and saw my husband standing next to Hannah and Herman. I went toward them, the children running ahead of me. I felt elated. This is how it should be, I thought. I felt alive. For the first time in many months, I felt that I was a human being.