The World That We Knew(5)

CHAPTER THREE


THE RABBI’S DAUGHTER




BERLIN, SPRING 1941

IT WAS PAST NINE AND therefore illegal to be in the street, but Hanni couldn’t think about what would happen if the authorities discovered her. She went quickly, wearing a cape Ruth had sprinkled with herbs that would make her invisible, if the night was dark enough, and the soldiers’ eyes were bad. Soon she had passed the community’s poorhouse, behind the synagogue on Pestalozzistrasse. The air was sweet with the scent of new leaves, despite the garbage that had been dumped on the streets. It was a soft March night filled with promise. Fortunately, there was no moon.

The house was a squat stone structure that had once been a stable and appeared to have been abandoned. No lights burned. The rabbi and his family lived in small austere rooms, like mice in the dark, dependent on handouts from their community. When it was time for prayers, dozens of somber men in black hats had come to pray and to look to the rabbi for guidance in all matters of scholarship. Jewish men were no longer allowed to shave, so that they would stand out as enemies of the Reich, and the young men appeared to be as old as grandfathers, and the grandfathers seemed so ancient they might have been entering the World to Come, Olam HaBa, and had already left the world that we walked through and knew so well.

The men had once praised God three times a day in their long, black coats, but now, there was only one prayer meeting a day, held secretly at dawn, when the men of the community dared to leave their homes to assemble in the rabbi’s kitchen, which served as their shul. It would be a death sentence if they ever were found out.

The first stars were sprinkled across the sky by the time Hanni reached the rabbi’s door. She shrank against the building as she knocked, softly at first, and then, when no one answered, with more urgency. It was late to be calling, a perilous hour, and she feared her presence would be ignored after the risks she’d taken to come here. But to her joy, the door opened at last and a bright-eyed young woman of seventeen stood on the threshold. She had pale red hair and a narrow face that was sparked with intelligence. She spoke in Yiddish, asking Hanni to come in without any questions. The stone hallway was dim, lit by a single candle on the wall. It was so cold in the house the girl wore a jacket and, underneath that, a hand-knit sweater. It was the time of year when one day was spring, and the next was winter, when birds in their nests often froze to death, and roses bloomed in the snow.

“I need your mother’s help,” Hanni told the girl. By now she was so nervous her head was spinning. How she hoped that the rabbi’s wife would have compassion for her situation. “Please! I must speak to her.”

“My mother has gone to bed.” The girl’s name was Ettie, and it was she, not her mother, who had the tender heart, although she was careful to hide it, for such things were bound to cause only grief. All the same, she was naturally curious, so she brought Hanni into the kitchen and gave her a drink of water. The kitchen was large and cold, with a fireplace in which to cook and a rusty iron sink. The place was a hovel, really, with no electricity. An old-fashioned lantern sputtered black smoke that singed the plaster ceiling.

It was said that Ettie was too clever for her own good, and perhaps this was true. She was ambitious and often wished she had been born a boy and could do as she pleased. Her mother had taught her to keep her eyes downcast, unless someone addressed her directly. Then she could not stop herself from speaking bluntly and honestly. She had a heart-shaped face and a lovely body, but no one was bold enough to court her, although many considered doing so. Young men her age feared her contempt, which flared easily when she thought someone was a fool. She could always tell when a caller was desperate, as this visitor certainly was, for people in need often came to this house in search of help. Wanderers, widows, those without family or food, all begged for what they needed. Whenever possible and practical, Ettie’s mother did what she could to help, not out of the goodness of her heart, but because it was her duty. If she’d ever had a tender heart it had been locked away long ago. She had too many children and too many responsibilities to be tender, a quality that was weakness in her eyes.

Now the rabbi’s wife had been awoken by the murmur of voices. She came into the kitchen in her nightgown, her shorn hair covered with a kerchief called a tichel, her face worried and drawn. There was danger everywhere, but it wasn’t her place to speak about such things. She had given birth to ten children and five of them had lived. Among the five, Ettie was her favorite, not that the rabbi’s wife let it show. What good did it do to have a favorite in a world that was so cruel?

“What have you done?” she asked Ettie when she spied a stranger in her kitchen. She was not so foolish that she didn’t see that her favorite child had her flaws. The girl was too open and modern and much too smart, all qualities that led to nothing but trouble. “It’s too late to invite anyone in. The children are sleeping.” She gave Ettie a dark look that conveyed what was really meant: Your father cannot be disturbed.

Ettie loved and respected her mother, and was wise enough to defer to her. They both had strong characters, but Ettie’s mother could be won over when she was convinced that God’s will was being upheld. “I thought the Almighty would want me to offer kindness to a neighbor,” Ettie said in a solemn voice.

“She’s not my neighbor,” Ettie’s mother told her daughter. “I’ve never seen her before.”