Florence Adler Swims Forever(79)
Joseph, I know there’s not much more you can do. You have your own family to consider. I remain grateful that Anna is safely in the United States and look forward to learning how she is settling in at school.
As for us, there’s a rumor that the American consulate in Vienna is friendlier to Jews. Leaving Germany and waiting for a visa in Austria might be a prudent decision, particularly since we are now considered stateless in the eyes of the German Reich. My worry is that if we go and the consul there needs us to present additional documents, they will be more difficult to obtain from outside the country. The U.S. consulate here keeps urging Jews to wait it out in Germany. Apparently, the Americans think Hitler’s government will soon be toppled. I wish I could believe this but everything we see, in the streets and in the newspapers, seems to indicate otherwise.
My love to you, Anna. And my sincere thanks to you, Joseph.
Inez
Anna pictured her mother, a coat tightly cinched around her waist, a folio of papers clutched to her chest, standing before the consul general, making a case for herself. She could picture the little room where the interviews were conducted, the way the people waiting in the lobby—almost all German Jews seeking visas—refused to so much as whisper to one another, lest they say or do anything that might ruin their chances of being granted a visa. The officials who had conducted Anna’s interview had sneered at her documents—more than fifty in total—and asked a series of questions that in any other circumstance would have been considered impertinent. When had Paul met her mother? When had they married? Was Anna illegitimate? At every turn, Inez had produced the right document—Anna’s father’s military records, his death certificate, her mother and Paul’s marriage certificate. By the time Anna received her student visa, she or her parents had passed through the doors of more than twenty-five government agencies.
Anna would show the letter to Joseph but she suspected her mother was right and that there was not much more he could do. It had been one thing to plead for his help when what she needed was an affidavit, even several of them. Everyone knew that affidavits were of no real consequence; no American who signed one for Jewish relatives, friends, or even acquaintances actually expected to have to provide financial support to them forever. But this was different.
Anna folded the letter and carefully placed it back in the envelope. She hurried to her bedroom, grabbed her handbag, and tucked the envelope inside it. Then she shouted down the hallway, toward the kitchen, “Esther?”
Esther was at the sink, scouring a pan. She didn’t look up.
“Where does Eli Hirsch work? Is his position with the American Jewish Committee full-time?”
Esther looked surprised to have been asked about Mr. Hirsch, and also slightly curious. But asking Anna why she wanted to know would have meant engaging her in a real conversation—something Esther hadn’t done in weeks. So instead she answered Anna’s question in as few syllables as possible: “The office is on Vermont Avenue. Near the lighthouse.”
“Thanks.”
“If you’re heading out, could you take Gussie with you?”
Anna had already turned to go, so she merely waved a hand over her shoulder and called behind her, “Sorry, not now. I can’t.” It was, she realized, the first time she’d ever told Esther no.
* * *
At least some of the money Eli Hirsch raised for the American Jewish Committee had to have been poured into its offices, which were large and lavishly appointed. A secretary greeted Anna, asked if she had an appointment, and when Anna admitted she didn’t, took her name and hurried down the hall, no doubt planning to tell Mr. Hirsch about his unannounced visitor in person so she couldn’t be overheard speaking into the telephone. When the secretary returned a few moments later, she looked vaguely disappointed to tell Anna that Mr. Hirsch would, in fact, see her.
“Anna,” Mr. Hirsch said, standing, when the secretary led her into his office at the end of the hall. “What a pleasure.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course,” he said, leading her away from his desk and over to an arrangement of furniture by the window—a small sofa and two club chairs, all expertly upholstered. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s my parents,” said Anna, pulling her mother’s letter out of her purse. If Mr. Hirsch had been able to read Hungarian, she’d have handed it to him and saved them both the trouble but, instead, she summarized the letter’s contents.
As Anna spoke, he pressed the pads of his fingers together and closed his eyes. Was he listening? It was hard to tell. When she finished, she didn’t give him time to say a word. “What she doesn’t tell me—ever—is how bad things must be getting. My father’s been out of work for over a year, and I read enough in the papers to know Jews aren’t just being let go from their jobs. Before I left, that tourist couple was beaten nearly to death, and Kalterborn’s son, too.”
Mr. Hirsch had opened his eyes and was now staring at Anna intently. “Parents will always try, I’ve found, to protect their children.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to be in a position to protect my parents,” Anna said. “At lunch last month, you made a joke, or at least I thought it was a joke—about marriage being the surest way to get my parents out of Germany.”