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

“The Nazis are not interested in people like us.”

Sal was surprised when Hindenburg named Hitler the Chancellor of Germany. “Listen,” he said. “The Nazi Party lost ground in the elections last year. I’m not so pleased about this new Hitler government, but all these political moves won’t affect me personally.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

“Remember, Halle is different from other major German cities. It’s not like Berlin, or Frankfurt, or even your Leipzig.”

Halle was different because of its minuscule Jewish population. It was a city of two hundred thousand inhabitants, but only eight hundred were Jews. We did not have a Jewish quarter, or even an exclusively Jewish street such as Nordstrasse. We had our shochet, our shul, our cheder, but Jewish homes were scattered throughout the city. There were not too many Ostjuden, immigrant Jews from the Pale of Eastern Europe, in Halle; mostly, the Jews seemed to blend into the life of the city. The Protestant majority in the city had always been indifferent to our religion. I had never noticed any anti-Semitism in Halle.

Jewish businesses were boycotted for a time in other German cities during the spring of 1933, but not in Halle. In Leipzig, notices with the words Juden Unerwuenscht, Jews Not Wanted, had been posted in some store windows. Hannah told us this when she came to visit. I did not see such signs in Halle. None of Sal’s customers or suppliers left him, and our store continued to prosper.

It is true that people were arrested. But they were not people we knew, not members of our shul. They were socialists and intellectuals, union leaders and political activists, people who were outspoken in their opposition to the government. They were not ordinary businessmen like Sal.

“We will be all right,” he said. “The Nazis are not interested in people like me.”

But for the first time, Sal’s gentile acquaintances took note of his religion even if only to reassure him: When the landlord came to collect his monthly rent he said, “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving Halle like some other Jews. Your business is an asset to the neighborhood.” When Sal went to the bank to deposit the weekly receipts, the manager said, “This nonsense over the Jews means nothing. I see things go as well as ever, eh Kanner? Good, good.”

Even Kaese, the local chief of police, came into our store one afternoon. It was natural for us to be acquainted, because the police headquarters was on the Reilstrasse, across from our store. Luckily, I was not waiting on a customer when Kaese walked in. I surely would not have been able to continue with a sale, my hands were shaking so.

Yet Kaese was his usual, affable self. “Spring must be on the way. It’s getting somewhat warmer,” he said.

I grasped the counter to stop my hands from shaking, wondering; What did he want? Unperturbed, Sal nodded at the chief’s pleasantries. Kaese said, “Don’t worry, Kanner. Don’t pay any attention to rumors. There will be no trouble here.”

That was it. Kaese walked out, but left me shaken.

Observing my reaction, Sal asked, “Why do you become so upset? Go upstairs and rest. I can manage without you.”

In the evening, Sal said, “You see, Mia, they all tell me the same thing—Kaese, the bankers, everybody here. Nobody is bothering with people in business. I see to my store, serve my customers. I know what they want. My merchandise is good, my prices are fair, and my customers stay with me. I do well because I know how to run my business, and I stick to running my business. I stay away from politics, and it will stay away from me.”

It did not stay away from the city. Black swastikas appeared everywhere, on billboards, on banners carried in almost daily street parades, on the armbands of the ever-growing number of S.A., the brown-shirted storm troopers of the Nazi party. Uniformed men swarmed through downtown streets and department stores. Their presence was felt in parks and social halls. They made Sal uncomfortable, but nobody interfered with his life.

Newspapers reported the arrest of trade union leaders and changes in organization of government. Some of our friends insisted that Jews were not safe in Hitler’s Germany, but Sal thought they were exaggerating. He remained confident, but I was apprehensive. Even though I did not personally know anyone who had been arrested, that was not a guarantee that the Nazis would not come for us. In spite of Kaese’s assurance, I continued to fear the knock on the door.

It happened for the first time on a summer Sunday in 1933. I know it was a Sunday because Sal was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper when the doorbell rang. It was late morning, not a time for our friends to stop by. Perhaps our cousin Geminder who lived around the corner from the Reilstrasse needed something from Sal. With Sal at home, I did not think twice about opening the door on a Sunday morning.

Afterwards, I could never remember if the first thing I noticed was that the man was a total stranger, or that he wore the uniform of the Party. Before I had a chance to collect my thoughts, he clicked his heels; his right arm shot up and he bellowed “Heil Hitler!” My heart was pounding. No one had ever shouted “Heil Hitler” at me. I stood motionless, unable to take my eyes off the glaring white armband with its black swastika.

“Eintopfgericht,” he announced. The word filtered through my mind. I recalled a Jewish acquaintance telling me about a new Nazi rule that compelled all families to make a weekly cash donation to the Party. According to the decree, every German could probably afford the donation to the Nazi Party if he cut back on food expenditure. Cutting back was easily accomplished: One merely replaced the traditional elaborate Sunday dinner with a simple repast. Ein Topf, one pot. Keep the meal simple. Put it all in one pot. Thus, the assessment would not be a hardship. “Healthy eating; help the Nazis,” the said.

My shoulders sagged in relief. Yes, the stranger was a Nazi, but his presence on my doorstep had nothing to do with our being Jewish.

Sal came to the door. He spoke calmly. “Certainly. My wife is cooking the stew right now.” Sal reached for his wallet as the Nazi nodded and consulted a list. “Three adults, Salomon, Amalia, and Markus Kanner. Two children, Ruth and Eva Kanner. Five family members. Five marks.”

The stranger took the bills from Sal and made a notation on his list. “Heil Hitler!” he barked. Then he turned smartly on his heel and left. The entire episode took three minutes.

He came every Sunday after that. He never stepped past the front door into the apartment, had no interest in checking the pots on the stove. He showed no sign that he recognized me. But I knew every feature of his face, the thin mouth, the pale cheeks, and the large earlobes sticking out under his cap. He accepted the money we had ready for him and made a check mark on his list.

The routine was always the same. He saluted, produced his list, took five marks from us, made his notations, saluted again, and left. He was unerringly polite, yet I was afraid. How could I be sure that the party would not send a different official who would make demands we could not meet?

When I cooked on Sundays, I felt that my kitchen was not my own. Gone was the pleasure of cooking the roast goose that Sal liked, and the fruit soups. Gone was the fun of baking my linzertorte and nut cakes, experimenting with new recipes and varying old ones Mama had given me. I cooked only the most ordinary Sunday meals, beef and potatoes, boiled chicken and noodles, always everything in one pot, and never dessert. I still had the joy of preparing meals for Shabbos and of anticipating the warmth when we were together around the table. But Sundays, no matter what I put into the one pot, I could never enjoy the meal. Though I did not use it in front of Lisbeth or the children, I coined a name for it. I called it “Hitler Stew.” How could it have Geschmack, a good taste?

Lisbeth, our eighteen-year-old nursemaid, also became a cause for worry. She was very good with the children and I was very confident she loved them. But her boyfriend was a Nazi. She boasted to me about it. It unnerved me that she took pride in his membership in the nefarious Nazi Party, but I worried more that Lisbeth might talk against us—though I could not imagine what she could report.

There were no more secret outings to Berlin for Sal and me. On Sunday afternoons that summer, we picnicked along the banks of the river Saale, to the delight of our two girls. Sal and I found that we did not really miss the excitement of Berlin; good entertainment was available in Halle, too.

Although several Jewish families were leaving Halle and emigrating, our circle of friends remained intact through 1933. The men still talked about business and politics, but, now, political comments peppered their conversations to a greater extent than during the pre-Hitler regime. And we still had our Sunday evening “coffees” with friends and Sal’s large family.

Once during the autumn, Sal and I entered a downtown social hall to see the newsreel that always preceded a film. As the curtain rose, Hitler appeared on the screen. Throughout the hall, men in uniform rose to their feet and cheered. All of them flaunted swastika armbands on brown shirts, black shirts, or gray jackets. All of them bellowed for their Fuhrer. Slowly, one after another, the rest of the audience stood up and shouted “Heil Hitler.”

I was glued to my seat, trapped by the furor that enveloped