Good-bye Marianne Page 5

  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.

  It 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.

  “Open 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.”