Good-bye Marianne (5 page)

L
ate one morning, Marianne came back to the apartment. As usual, Mrs. Schwartz was on her knees polishing the entrance hall. It seemed to be her favorite place to keep an eye on the house’s inhabitants. Marianne was sure she reported everything to her husband, who had recently been made block warden.

“Excuse me, please,” said Marianne politely.

“Up and down, back and forth – you should be in school. How am I supposed to get my work finished? Don’t put your fingers on the banisters; I’ve just waxed them.” Mrs. Schwartz reluctantly made room for Marianne to get by.

Marianne managed to get inside her door with just a few dramatic sighs from Mrs. Schwartz. The telephone rang. Marianne hung up her coat. The telephone went on ringing.

“Yes?”

“Marianne, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Is something wrong?”

“Sorry, I went out for my morning exercise. Sound like a dog, don’t I?”

Her mother seemed in a hurry, and did not give Marianne her usual warning about not going too far away from home. “It’s better if you don’t meet me at the orphanage today. We’re all behind. I may be later than usual. Would you start getting supper, darling? Thank you. See you as soon as I can get away.”

Marianne replaced the receiver. It was a relief not to have to go out again. Facing hostile streets more than once a day was becoming very hard, even though she loved meeting her mother who was now working almost daily at the orphanage.

Marianne made herself a cheese sandwich, and that reminded her that she hadn’t replied to Ruth’s letter. She got paper and an envelope from her father’s rosewood desk, and settled down in the armchair to write to Ruth. There was lots to tell her…

Marianne smiled. The doorbell rang. She put down her pen and went to answer it.

“Who is it?”

“Me, Ernest.”

Marianne opened the door. “Come i…” She did not finish the sentence. She felt sick and cold at the sight of Ernest in the full uniform of the
Jung Volk
– the boys’ branch of the Hitler Youth – shirt with epaulets, black tie, brown leather belt and shining brass buckle embossed with victory wands. He wore the Nazi party armband.

“This is from Aunt Helga,” said Ernest, handing Marianne an envelope addressed to Apartment 2. Marianne took it without saying anything.

“What’s the matter? Are you in a trance or something? It’s me, Ernest Bock, your friendly house detective.”

“I didn’t expect to see anyone in uniform,” said Marianne in a voice not even she recognized.

“My mother’s taking me out to tea. I
told
you before, remember? She likes me to look smart when we go out. I brought my uniform to Berlin especially. Next year I’ll be promoted from the young people’s group to the proper Hitler Youth. I can hardly wait.”

Marianne spoke slowly and clearly so there could be no mistake. She did not lower her voice at all. “I’m Jewish,” she said. She drew out her gold Star of David which she generally wore hidden under her sweater. The Star, on its delicate chain, shimmered as brightly under the hall light as did Ernest’s belt buckle.

“I’m tired of hiding this.”

Ernest said, “I’ve never met a Jew before. I mean, I never spoke to one before. I didn’t know. Wait till I tell my brother…maybe I’d better not…he’d have to tell his group leader. Martin’s sixteen; he’s in the Hitler Youth.”

“So!”

“Martin went to a rally in Munich last September. He shook hands with the
Führer.
Can you imagine? Shaking hands with the country’s leader?”

“I suppose he’s never going to wash that hand again,” said Marianne bitterly.

“What’s the matter with you? Of course Martin’s proud of that. It was a great honor. Why are you so mad?”

Marianne said, “Why am I so mad? What’s the matter with me? You come in here, dressed in uniform, showing off about your
precious brother and your precious
Führer.
Don’t you know what Hitler’s done? He’s stopped me going to school.”

Ernest said, “Lucky you, that’s nothing to complain about!”

Marianne said, “You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything. This isn’t just missing a few days – it’s never, ever going back. I’m eleven years old. I haven’t finished learning everything. I’ll be a person who left school after five years. When people ask me, ‘And what are you going to be when you leave school?’, what’ll I say? That I’ve left already?”

Marianne looked at Ernest a moment, taking in his neatly brushed hair and polished shoes. “And another thing, look at you, cleaned up to go out somewhere special with your mother. I’m not allowed to do that. The restaurant wouldn’t let us in,
DOGS AND JEWS NOT ADMITTED
.” Ernest stood silent.

A voice shouted from the bottom of the stairs, “Ernest, I’m nearly ready. I want you down here in five minutes.”

Ernest said, “That’s my mother calling me. I know her idea of five minutes – ten more likely.”

Marianne said more quietly, “My mother wouldn’t dare call out like that; she’s afraid to talk above a whisper in case she draws attention to herself. She walks in the gutter so no one can say she’s taking up too much room on the pavement.

“I have no idea where my father is. The Nazis took away his business. For all I know, he might be in a concentration camp being punished and starved because he’s a Jew. The Nazis smash Jewish shops, burn our synagogues, and the police don’t do anything about it. Just stand and watch.”

Marianne stopped. She was out of breath with an anger that she did not know she had inside her. Ernest’s face was red, his fists clenched by his side.

“Now you wait a minute,” he said. “I didn’t start this fight, you did. My father was out of work for three years, but now he’s working thanks to Hitler. Our
Führer
is making this country great again. If he says Jews are troublemakers, then he’s right.”

“Troublemakers?” said Marianne. “We don’t make trouble. We spend our lives trying not to get into trouble. You don’t know what it’s like not daring to answer back, even if you’re in the right; trying to make yourself small and invisible so you won’t get hurt; being scared all the time; not wanting to tell you my name – Kohn – in case you found out I was Jewish.”

Ernest stood motionless, listening.

“And how would you like it if one day you were told you had to change your name?”

“Great,” said Ernest, “I’d call myself Gustav,” and he sounded his motor-horn.

“Not choose,” said Marianne, “ordered. One morning you wake up and your name is Sara.”

“Sara’s a girl’s name,” said Ernest.

“Oh, Ernest, you’re being stupid,” said Marianne. “Not you – you’d be called Israel. Your leader ordered all Jewish boys to be called Israel, and all Jewish girls to be called Sara. It was even on my school records.”

“Sara’s a nice name,” said Ernest.

“But it’s not what my parents chose for me. And another thing – no one ever helps us when we get pushed around, beat up. Just like that man at the market the other day. Did anyone help him?” said Marianne.

“Why should they? I expect he was a criminal,” said Ernest.

“You mean a Jew, don’t you?” said Marianne. “Your leader hates us; he said so and he wasn’t even born here. We’re just as German as he is – more.”

Ernest’s mother called angrily from below, “Ernest, I’m waiting. Come down this instant – I’m ready to leave.”

Ernest stood up very straight. “You’re a troublemaker – the
Führer
is always right. You’re an ignorant Jewish troublemaking girl.” He clicked his heels together, saluted, and said,
“Heil Hitler.”
He walked away stiffly.

When he was halfway down the stairs, Ernest pressed the motor-horn. It sounded like an insult to Marianne. She shouted after him, “You’re just like all the others. You’re all the same.” Then she ran inside, slammed the door and fastened the safety chain. She stuffed the envelope into her skirt pocket and went back into the living room.

Marianne picked up the letter she’d started earlier and, without re-reading it, tore it up into very small pieces and threw them into the wastepaper basket. Tears ran down her face.

“To think that I told Ruth we’re becoming good friends. I
never
want to see him again. I hate him. I hate them all,” she whispered.

I
t was almost six o’clock before Mrs. Kohn arrived home. Marianne had finished grating raw potatoes, and was just starting to chop onions. She’d set out flour, salt, eggs, and milk, and had put the heavy frying pan on the stove.

“You get my award for daughter of the year,” said Mrs. Kohn, and kissed Marianne. “I honestly don’t know how I’d manage without you. Can you believe we were four suitcases short, so someone had to go and buy them? That was just one of the problems. Each child needs changes of warm clothes. They can take only what they can carry themselves, so that means the little ones have to leave behind favorite blankets or toys. Well, the socks are all darned, the shoes polished, the children’s hair washed. Sixty orphans will leave from Friedrichstrasse Station on December 1st. It
must
go smoothly.”

Mrs. Kohn beat the eggs before folding potatoes and onions
into the flour. Marianne wiped her streaming eyes. “Onions always make me cry,” she said.

“Vati’s favorite supper,” said Mrs. Kohn.

The telephone rang. Mrs. Kohn wiped her hands on her overall. “What is it this time – surely not another crisis?” She went into the hall to answer the telephone.

Marianne set the table. Mrs. Kohn came back into the kitchen. Her cheeks were pink.

“Put the water on for coffee, then stand in the hall. Don’t turn on the light. Take the safety chain off. When you hear a tap on the door, open it, and fasten the chain again.”

Marianne looked at her mother’s face and did exactly as she was told. Three minutes later she stood in the dark hallway, listening for the knock. She could smell the onions frying, and hear the crackle of hot oil.

There it was. She opened the door. A tall, thin figure came in, closed the door, and held her so tightly she couldn’t have screamed even if she’d wanted to.

“Vati!”

“Marianne, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Don’t ever go away again.”

Marianne took her father’s hand and held on to it, even while she secured the front-door chain with her other hand. “Mutti, he’s home. Vati’s back.”

By the time her father was seated in his usual chair, sipping coffee from the blue cup that only he was allowed to
drink from, her mother was serving up the perfectly browned pancakes.

“I could smell those latkes right across Berlin,” said Mr. Kohn, helping himself to applesauce.

“I had to bring you home somehow,” said his wife, smiling. No one spoke for a few minutes, but Marianne was too excited to eat much.

“Are you home for good now, Vati?”

Her father said, “You are old enough to understand what’s happening in Germany, and old enough to be told the truth. I know Mutti agrees with me. I’ve had to go underground.”

“You mean like in subway stations?”

Her father didn’t laugh. “Sometimes,” he said. “It means I must keep moving, never staying in one place very long. Many people have managed to escape the Gestapo by just walking the streets. Berlin is a big city. I’ve not come close to being picked up again.”

Marianne said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean
again
?” She stared at her father’s hands – usually so cared-for, hands which loved to hold books. The knuckles were swollen and misshapen – the skin cracked and split.

“After the terrible night of the fires and looting on November 9th, I was picked up with thousands of other Jewish men. Boys, grandfathers – young and old – marched to Sachsenhausen concentration camp on the outskirts of Berlin. They struck us with whips as we went through the gates.”

Marianne held her breath. She didn’t want to miss a word of her father’s story and yet, she was afraid to hear what had happened next. Her mother said, “David, must you speak of this now?”

Her father continued, “We stood in the yard naked. It was freezing cold. It began to snow. Not everyone survived the night. Next morning, some of us were released. By a miracle, I was one of the lucky ones. I think, perhaps, by mistake. Things were very confused that day. For the moment, until things change in this country, I have to rely on friends and kind people to hide me.”

“I still don’t understand why you can’t stay here,” said Marianne.

Her mother said, “The Nazis have lists. They know the name and address of every Jew in Germany.”

“My name is on another list as well – I’m especially wanted, you see – popular man, I suppose, charming, intelligent…”

Marianne could see her father was trying hard to make one of his jokes. “Please go on,” Marianne said. “I need to know.”

Her father continued, “When Hitler forbade Jews to own a business, I sold the bookshop. After the new owner took over, he found some books written by banned authors. It was very careless of me. The man reported me. So now, the Gestapo would very much like to re-educate me in one of their concentration camps. That’s why even Mutti doesn’t know where I am at any time. There, I’ve told you everything. Don’t look so sad, both of you. I have good friends, and I feel sure that any day now, permission
will come through for all of us to travel to another country. Who knows, next year we might be in Holland or England or Jerusalem or, perhaps, Canada or the United States.”

Mrs. Kohn put the last pancake on her husband’s plate, poured more coffee for him and a glass of milk for Marianne. Mr. Kohn ate quickly. “I must go. I’m just going to change into warmer clothes and dry shoes. Back in a moment.” Her parents left the kitchen together.

Marianne cleared the table, and ran hot water into the washing-up bowl. She needed time to think over what her father had told her. What if he was caught again and sent back to a concentration camp? Why hadn’t her mother told her all this?

“I’m not a baby,” she muttered into the sink. “Why wasn’t I told before?”

Her parents came back.

“Be brave, both of you. I love you very much. We’ll be together again, even if, for now, it’s only in our thoughts. Remember, not even Hitler can prevent that.” Mr. Kohn hugged Marianne.

“See you soon. I love you, Vati.”

Her parents went into the hall. She heard the front door close and the chain being replaced. “I’ll finish in here,” said her mother. “No more chores for you today. We’ll have a cosy evening. You get into your nightdress, and I’ll light the fire in the living room.”

“Let’s have a game of dominoes – we haven’t played that in ages,” said Marianne. She would be just as brave as her mother!

Marianne went into her room and changed. Then she opened the bedroom curtains. The sky was black and clear with a few stars shining over the city streets. The yard was white and clean with snow. So peaceful.

Mrs. Kohn had the fire going. A few pinecones gave off a woody smell. “If I close my eyes, I’m back in the forest with my mother. When I was a little girl, we’d pick blueberries and mushrooms and walk for miles through the trees.”

Marianne got the box of dominoes down from the bookshelf. Her grandfather had made the brown wooden box. It was very plain, but the pieces inside were of real ivory, black-and-white. Her father had played with them when he was a boy. They played three games and Marianne won two. She yawned.

“Time for bed. Goodnight, my darling, sleep well. Everything will come out right in the end. I’ll just sit by the fire a little longer.”

Marianne went to bed. After awhile, she heard her mother’s door close. She couldn’t sleep. She went over everything that had happened that day. She closed her eyes. There was a Ferris wheel going round and round in her head, and she was on it. When she reached the top she was happy, but the wheel never stayed still long enough before turning again, so the happiness didn’t last. She could see it, but she couldn’t hold on to it.

Marianne slid into sleep.