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Authors: Irene N.Watts

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“O
pen up Gestapo.”

Marianne and her mother collided in the entrance hall. Mrs. Kohn whispered, “Ruth’s letter.” Marianne disappeared.

“Open up.”

The sound of a rifle butt against the door.

“I’m coming.”

Marianne heard her mother open the door. The slap of leather on skin. A stifled gasp. Marianne stood in the doorway of her room. She watched the Gestapo officers, their uniforms as black as the night sky, invade their rooms.

Mrs. Kohn put her finger on her lips. Her face was very white. She waited. Marianne stood without moving, watching her mother. Cupboard doors slammed. Drawers crashed. They heard glass shatter. Something ripped. Gleaming black boots walked
toward Marianne. She edged back into her room, picked up her teddy bear, held him tightly.

The officer patted Marianne’s head. Turned away.

“Let’s go.”

They left. Their boots rang out through the building. A car door shut, the roaring engine disturbing the dawn.

Marianne and her mother did not stir until the only sound they could hear was their own breathing. Mrs. Kohn closed the front door, fastened the chain. She and Marianne held each other for a long time.

“My hair – he touched my hair. I feel sick.”

“We’ll wash it. It’s all over now.”

“What did they want? Were they looking for Vati?”

“Who knows…”

“I hid Ruth’s letter.”

“Where?”

Marianne kicked off her slipper. The folded letter clung to the sole of her foot.

“You were very brave, Marianne. Now we’ll burn it. Come.”

Hand in hand, Marianne and her mother walked into the living room. The room looked as if a tornado had hit. Every single book had been dragged off the shelves, and lay on the floor. All her father’s beautiful books were scattered, bent, facedown, the pages ripped. His desk was gashed, his chair snapped in two. The Menorah was in the fireplace, buried in cold gray ash. The box that held the dominoes was broken, the pieces strewn on the
carpet. Slashed curtains hung like untied hair ribbons. Marianne reached for the Menorah, wiped it on her nightdress. Then she picked up the dominoes.

Mrs. Kohn went into the kitchen. Marianne followed her. It was better to look at the damage together. The glass doors of the dresser and most of the crockery were smashed. The Rosenthal dinner plates were in shards. The plants on the window ledge were overturned, the soil trodden into the floor.

Mrs. Kohn picked up a box of matches and a soft cloth. She took Marianne’s icy hand, and they went back into the living room.

“I’m going to get the fire going.” She pushed the duster into Marianne’s hands. The ashes clung to the decorative crevices and ornamental curves of the Menorah’s silver base. The feel of the cloth restoring the shine calmed Marianne.

Mrs. Kohn twisted some papers tightly, lit a match and burned Ruth’s letter. She added pieces of splintered wood from the broken desk chair. Next she began to sort the books, smoothing the crumpled pages lovingly. Daylight crept into the room.

“It’s nearly seven,” said Marianne. The mantel clock went on ticking in spite of a crack across the glass.

“I’m going to make us some coffee. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Marianne, with lots of hot milk?” Marianne nodded and her mother left the room.

What could she do for her mother? What would make them both feel safe again?

Marianne remembered the gift she’d bought at the market. It was still hidden at the back of her underwear drawer. She ran to get it. Then she waited by the fire for her mother.

Mrs. Kohn came into the living room carrying a tray. She sat on the floor beside her daughter, and handed Marianne a cup of delicious, sweet, milky coffee. The cups did not match, and one had a handle missing.

“Mutti,” said Marianne, “we’re going to pretend that today is your birthday.”

“I can’t think of one reason why I’d want to be thirty-seven even one day sooner than necessary.”

“Well I can,” said Marianne. “I think you need a present.” She put the parcel in her mother’s lap.

“What pretty paper; it’s much too nice to throw out.”

Whenever Mrs. Kohn received anything wrapped in gift paper, she always said exactly the same thing. It used to drive Marianne and her father crazy, because they liked to tear the paper off quickly and get to the present. Today Marianne didn’t mind at all.

At last Mrs. Kohn finished. She drew out the box. Her fingers traced the carved flower design gently. She turned the key. Brahm’s “Cradle Song” filled the room. Marianne sang the words softly:

Sleep my baby sleep,
Your Daddy guards the sheep.
Mother shakes the gentle tree
The petals fall with dreams for thee
Sleep my baby sleep.

Mrs. Kohn said, “I will never part with this. It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you, Marianne.”

They finished their coffee, and set to work to clear up. By ten o’clock all the broken china and glass had been swept up, books were neatly stacked, and those that could be repaired put in a box. Marianne had washed her hair and sat down to a late breakfast with her mother.

“I’m glad they didn’t find your homemade black cherry jam,” said Marianne, spooning some more onto her bread.

“I was thinking we could cut up the bedspread from the spare bed. That would do for curtains, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Marianne, with her mouth full. “What else do we have to do?”

“Would you mind going to the bakery for our breakfast rolls? Mr. Altmann will wonder why we haven’t picked up our order. I’m going to scrub this floor, and then wash all the clothes in my room. They’re still on the bedroom carpet. The Gestapo threw everything out of my wardrobe.”

“I’m finished eating. I’ll go right away.” Marianne put on her coat. Something rustled. The envelope that Ernest had delivered the day before was still in her skirt pocket. She must have put it there after their quarrel.

“Mutti, I’m dreadfully sorry, I forgot to give you this note from Mrs. Schwartz.”

“It doesn’t matter. Hurry back, darling. Oh, and take fifty pfennig from my purse for shopping.”

“Good-bye. I’ll come home as fast as I can.”

I
t was good to be out in the fresh air, away from the terrors of the night. Out here, things seemed to be normal. Marianne passed a few morning shoppers with their string bags on their arms.

She loved going to the bakery; it had always been one of her favorite chores. It was the first errand she’d ever been entrusted to go on alone. She had only been seven then and her mother had waited at the corner for her the whole time she was gone. Mr. Altmann never let any child leave his bakery without a taste of something warm and delicious, fresh from the oven.

At the corner of the Schillerstrasse, a familiar name was gone.
FAMILY SAMUELS, FAMILY SHOE REPAIRS
, had been replaced with a new name –
BAUM, SHOE AND BOOT REPAIRS. NEW OWNER. ARYANS ONLY
.

Who would mend their shoes now?

Marianne reached the bakery and saw her face reflected in
the window, splintered like the broken glass in the door. The heavy, wooden door frame was badly gashed, and the sign on the door said, CLOSED. A pile of shattered glass had been neatly swept up beside the step, which had dark stains on it. The display case was bare.

Marianne saw Mr. Altmann washing down the counter, and knocked on what was left of the door. Mr. Altmann looked up, smiled and walked toward her. For the first time since she’d known him – all her life, really – he looked old. His forehead had been clumsily bandaged; a little trickle of blood had seeped through the material and dried.

Mr. Altmann unlocked the door, and then quickly bolted it again.

“I don’t know why I do that; habit I suppose. Don’t look so worried, Marianne, it’s nothing.”

“Did they close you down?” Marianne asked.

“Temporarily. It’s not so easy to close me down, even if they do break the glass. Close me down? No. Your mother, is she well? And your father, he is away on business, I hear.”

“The Gestapo came last night, looking for something, but we are all fine now, thank you. What happened to you, Mr. Altmann?” Marianne said.

The baker began to sweep the floor.

“The usual things. This time a little more boisterous, perhaps. So they break a little glass, smash an old man’s head. Mostly, the police look the other way. This morning they joined in.”

Marianne said, “Some people leave.”

“Not me. My grandfather built this shop. I use the same oven he did. I was born here, and here I stay. I can wait out a little madness, wait for things to get better. Don’t look so sad. I’m going to fetch your breakfast rolls right now. The Gestapo didn’t spoil everything.”

When Mr. Altmann came out of the back room, he held a brown bag in one hand, and a triangular-shaped pastry in the other. “A little taste – warm from the oven.”

“That’s a hamantasch,” said Marianne, “Purim’s three months away. Why are you baking those now?”

“Because from now on the festival of Purim will be celebrated in my shop all year round. I want my customers to remember the brave Queen Esther and her cousin, Mordecai. I want them to remember how a tyrant, who tried to kill the Jewish people, was defied.”

Marianne interrupted, her mouth full of the pastry Mr. Altmann had given her. “I love Purim. It’s such fun to shout and clap in the synagogue, and wave noisemakers when Haman’s name is mentioned. What a wonderful idea,” said Marianne, licking the last of the jelly from her fingers.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Altmann. “After the cruel Haman’s death, the Bible says, ‘The Jews had light and gladness, and joy and honor.’ I wait for that time to return.”

Marianne said, “I know a boy who has a motor-horn. It would make a wonderful noisemaker, but he’d never let me borrow it. He can’t wait to join the Hitler Youth. I thought he was nice at first – kind, and fun – but they’re all the same.”

Mr. Altmann smiled at Marianne, and his eyes looked very bright, even through the cracked lenses of his spectacles. “It’s hard to speak out, to be one voice against so many, but there are always some if you listen hard enough. Not everyone is a hoodlum.

“Keep well, child. My regards to your mother. And Marianne, remember what happened to Haman? We know another tyrant whose name begins with the same letter, don’t we?”

Mr. Altmann made the sign of the letter
H
on the damp counter, and then quickly erased it with his cloth. He winked at Marianne. Marianne winked back, and stood on tiptoe to kiss Mr. Altmann’s lined cheek.

“Good-bye, be careful,” she said.

Marianne walked out of the shop, her head held high, and Mr. Altmann watched her until she was out of sight. Then he turned the
CLOSED
sign to
OPEN
, and waited behind the counter for his customers.

W
hen Marianne came back with the breakfast rolls, her mother was still sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes were red. She pushed Mrs. Schwartz’s note across to Marianne. It read:

AS OF DECEMBER 10, 1938
JEWS ARE PROHIBITED FROM LIVING IN THIS BUILDING.
PLEASE VACATE APARTMENT TWO BY DECEMBER 9TH.
AT TWO O’CLOCK.
HEIL HITLER
   HELGA SCHWARTZ

Marianne said, “She can’t do that. That’s just a few days away.”

Mrs. Kohn blew her nose. “Sorry, darling. She can. It solves some problems, really. I’ve been thinking we should visit
Düsseldorf – spend some time with Oma and Opa. They’d feel safer having us there. You can share my old room. It will be good to be together in these dreadful times.”

“What about Vati – how will he know where we are? What will happen to our things? Will I go to school there?”

“I’ll get word to Vati somehow. Things can be replaced. They really aren’t so important right now. Perhaps the Schmidt sisters would store some of our furniture. They’ve always been friendly to us.

“As for school, I’m sure the Düsseldorf community will arrange classes for Jewish children. Opa will find out for us. Think what fun it will be to live in the house where I grew up. I’ll fetch our suitcases.”

Marianne hugged herself joyfully. How wonderful to go on a trip with her mother. Of course she’d miss her room, but Oma always let her sleep in the little attic, “the ship’s cabin” Opa called it. You could see the whole garden from there. All the fruit trees. Oma would have finished bottling the apples and plums, and would make plum tart, Marianne’s favorite, sprinkled with golden-brown sugary pastry crumbs. Absolutely no one in the whole world made plum tart as delicious as Oma’s.

Marianne loved taking Wolf, Opa’s German shepherd, for walks. He was nearly as old as she was. He growled if anyone even looked at her!

She’d take her favorite books, her new green bedspread, her collection of glass animals – there were ten now. Her postcards,
and of course all her clothes, especially her new green velvet “best dress” with the lace collar. Oma loved to see her granddaughters dressed up.

Marianne heard the telephone ring, and her mother’s voice. A few minutes later, Mrs. Kohn came running into the bedroom. She took Marianne’s hands and whirled her around the room before collapsing, breathless, onto the bed.

“A miracle. Listen, Marianne, that was Mrs. Rabinovitch on the telephone. You know, the supervisor at the orphanage. Two of the children have measles.”

“Mutti, you call
that
a miracle? Are you feeling alright?”

“Don’t you understand? This means the girls can’t travel. They will have to wait for the next transport. You’ve been offered one of their places. It’s all happened so quickly, I can’t believe it. I have to give Mrs. Rabinovitch our answer in ten minutes.” “Mutti, what about you? Are you coming too? And Vati? How can we leave him behind? What will we tell Oma and Opa? Ten minutes? I’d need ten years to decide something like that. Mutti, how can we leave everyone and everything behind?” Marianne was walking up and down her room, her thumbnail in her mouth.

“Marianne, listen to me. No, don’t turn away.” Mrs. Kohn took her daughter’s hands in hers. “Look at me, darling. We don’t have weeks or days to decide. We don’t even have hours. This transport is a rescue operation just for children. A
Kindertransport.
The grown-ups must wait their turn. There are bound to be other opportunities for us to leave.”

Marianne pulled her hands free. She was almost incoherent.

“You mean, I have to go by myself? No! Absolutely no. I’d have to be crazy to agree to something like that. I won’t leave you all. How can you even
think
of asking me that? Mothers don’t send their children away. Why did you say you don’t know how you’d manage without me if you didn’t mean it? Well, I mean it. I can’t manage by myself. Who would I tell things to, some stranger? Who’d wake me up to go to school? Who’d nag me, and tell me to be careful when I go out? Anyway, I refuse to be an orphan. I refuse to go. I’d miss you too much.” Marianne slumped down on the bed beside her mother, biting her nails.

Mrs. Kohn took Marianne’s hand and held it tight. “We all have to learn to say good-bye to people we love, and there never seems enough time to prepare. But I am prepared to live without you, if it means giving you a future.”

Marianne said, “I don’t believe you. I won’t say good-bye to you, and that’s final.”

Mrs. Kohn said, “Marianne, I think you have to. You see, I can’t keep you safe anymore. I don’t know how. Not here in Berlin, not in Düsseldorf, or anyplace else the Nazis are. You need to live a normal life, to go to school, to have friends over. To play and walk anywhere you want. How can I let you stay in a country where you dread a knock on the door; where we are afraid to light our Sabbath candles; where our houses of prayer are destroyed? I don’t want you to grow up afraid because you are Jewish. Germany is a bad place to grow up in right now. One day it may be safe to live here again. For now, we must take this chance for you to escape to a free country.

“Vati asked us to be brave. Marianne, help us both to be brave enough. Agree to leave.”

“Vati said we should look after each other, remember? I can’t do that if I’m away from you,” said Marianne.

“Can’t you see how hard this is for me?” Mrs. Kohn tried to smile. “If you go to England first, it will be easier for Vati and I to follow you. It will mean we’ll already have a foothold in a new country. It could make it easier for us to get an exit visa.”

Marianne said, “On one condition. You must swear to come.”

Her mother said, “How can I do that? But I solemnly swear to try. Marianne, there is no time left. What is your answer?”

“Alright, I’ll go.” Marianne put her pillow over her head so as not to hear her mother leave the room to telephone Mrs. Rabinovitch.

BOOK: Good-bye Marianne
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