Soldier Doll (8 page)

“
Auf Wiedersehen,
Englischer
,” said Max softly. He bent forward to close Ned's eyes then began tugging at his coat, as if looking for something.

“What are you doing, Max?” Franz frowned as Max bent over the body.

“Looking for cigarettes.”

Max rummaged under the soldier's jacket, searching. He thrust his hand into the breast pocket and frowned. “What is this?” He pulled out a small object and examined it. It was a little wooden figure—a doll. A doll dressed as a soldier. “Odd,” mused Max, turning it over in his hands.

“What is it?” Franz tried to get a closer look.

“Some kind of doll. You take it,” said Max. He pressed the toy into his friend's hands. “Maybe you can sell it in your father's shop.”

“Thanks,” said Franz. He looked at it again. So strange—a baby doll, in a British soldier's uniform.

Max suddenly seemed to remember his friend's injuries. “We need to get you to a medic.” He looked around. “I don't want to leave you here. Can you hold on to me if I hoist you out?” He offered Franz his arm.

Franz grunted. “I think so,” he said. “It's a small wound, really.”

With Max's help, he tucked the soldier doll into his pocket, and the two escaped into the night.

After the armistice, when they were finally allowed to come home, Franz did indeed bring the doll back to his father's shop. The painted uniform was peeling; the rain and muck from the trenches had been hard on the little doll. Franz carefully restored the uniform with his own paints—but he modeled it after his own German uniform.

For some time, he displayed the little soldier on his desk, after he took over the shop following his father's passing. But when the Nazis began their rise to power, he grew tired of its eyes on him. It reminded him of the war, and his service and medal in the war meant nothing to the new regime. According to Hitler, he was not even a German at all, but a Jew: a second-class citizen, or worse. First the doll went into a drawer, out of sight. But when he stumbled on it one day while looking for some old accounts, he inflated with rage. Earlier that day, he had been spit on by a boy, an ordinary boy, no older than eight or ten. Shock and fear had mingled with humiliation and wounded pride as he stood very still, listening to the boy's anti-Semitic insults, torn between an overwhelming urge to commit an act of violence and the simpler desire to cry. Looking at the doll that afternoon, he toyed briefly with the idea of selling it in the shop, but remembered the last moments of the English soldier and found he could not. Bitter and determined, he wrapped it in an old blanket and put it where he would never have to see it again.

. . .

“And so, Hanna,” said Franz, settling back once again in his chair, “that is the story of the little soldier doll.”

Hanna, who had been listening with rapt attention, gazed at the toy. She picked it up and examined it. “I wonder why the soldier was carrying a doll.”

“Most likely it was a token from a girlfriend or wife.” Her father's voice was knowing. “I carried a silly embroidered scarf from your mother the entire time I was in Flanders. It had roses on it, for goodness sake. Roses! Pink ones. But we were courting then—I cherished it.” He grinned at the memory. “Max gave me a terrible time about it.”

“What happened to Max?” asked Hanna, curious. Her father's story surprised her, as she had not heard him mention Max before. “Why have I never met him?”

“Oh, but you have,
Liebchen
—only you were just born at the time.” Franz smiled. “He came to see you when you were born. He lives in Frankfurt now, a prominent lawyer there, as I understand it. We used to correspond frequently. But since the Nazis…” her father's voice trailed off.

“Is he a Nazi, then?” Hanna's expression turned cold.

“No, no. But I stopped corresponding with him; I didn't want him to have to be associated with a Jew and risk his career, his connections. He kept writing, but when I didn't respond, the letters eventually stopped coming.” Franz looked wistful and sad.

Hanna shook her head at her father. “He was your friend.” She looked reproachful. “I don't agree with you, Papa.”

“I know you don't.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking rueful. “But you're young still. Only sixteen. Wait until you've been around as long as I have. You'll see how the world works.”

Hanna protested, but he shushed her with his hand. “Hanna, I must get back to my accounts now,” he said firmly. “You can have the doll if you'd like—it's yours. Go upstairs to your mother. I'm sure she is expecting your help with supper.”

Hanna sighed. She scooped up the soldier doll with care, the way she did the other antiques in the shop, and clattered up the steps to the apartment she shared with her parents. She gave her father a final, disapproving look before disappearing through the door.

Franz Roth shook his head. To be young again like Hanna, and to approach life with such passion! He rubbed his temples as he looked down at the books in front of him. He finally had the money to get what he needed: three tickets on a ship bound for Palestine. He intended to get his family out as soon as possible. Now all he needed was the proper papers. How odd that Hanna had brought the doll to him now, today of all days. He picked up his pen and toyed with it. Should he ask Max, after all these years? It would put them both in possible jeopardy should the correspondence be intercepted. He groaned. The internal wrestling over whether or not to write had been going on for days. Franz had tossed and turned for three nights over the matter. On the third night his wife, Sarah, had angrily banished him to the living-room settee. “I cannot listen to this another minute, Franz!” she had admonished. “You must do it. Think of your daughter.”

He thought of Hanna. His wife was right, of course. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write to his old friend.

. . .

It was dusk when they first heard the shattering of broken glass.

“What was that?” Franz Roth started at the sound and put down his novel. Sarah paused too, looking up from her needlepoint, concerned. “Go check outside, Franz—make sure no one is hurt.”

There was another sound of glass being broken, followed by shouting. This time, the sound was closer. Franz and Sarah exchanged fearful glances, and Franz stood abruptly.

Hanna rushed in the room, eyes wide and frightened. “Mama, they're smashing the windows!” She gestured wildly. “They've gone mad!”

“What windows? What do you mean?” Her father looked at her in alarm and rushed toward the kitchen where the view of the street was clearest. Below, an angry mob advanced down the Auguststrasse, deliberately smashing storefronts. Blinking in disbelief, Franz watched, open mouthed, as two young men smashed the Goldstein's bakery window just two doors down. Good-looking young men in quality clothing with neat haircuts. They didn't look like thugs. Franz looked closer at the mob. The people didn't look remarkable in any way—they looked like ordinary citizens. Mostly men, but a number of women too.

“Death to Jews!” Someone shouted. Everyone cheered.

“What is it, Franz? What's going on?” Sarah rose from the table and glanced at her husband fearfully. Instinctively, she moved to stand in front of Hanna. “What's all that racket?”

Franz looked grim. “People gone mad,” he whispered dully. He paused for a moment, thinking. Then, decisively, he turned to his wife and daughter. “Go.” His voice was urgent now. “Turn off all the lights, and wait in the sewing room. It looks like a closet; no one would think to check there if they came up. Close the door, and stay there until this passes.”

They stared at him dumbly. “You think they're coming up? Here?” Sarah's voice cracked with fear. Hanna stared at her father as if he, too, had lost his mind.

“Now!” He was practically shouting. “Now!” Obediently, the two grasped hands and made their way to the little room at the back.

Taking a deep breath, Franz went back to the window. The Goldstein's sixteen-year-old son, Joseph, had come down from his apartment over the store to take stock of the damage to the bakery. Bewildered, Joseph had thrown an overcoat on top of what appeared to be a pair of green striped pajamas. The mob turned on him with a fury.

“Dirty Jew,” a younger man shouted at Joseph, eyes blazing. “Get out of our country!” The mob cheered again. Someone heaved a large rock at the broken bakery window, triggering a second round of shattering glass. He saw a woman toward the back of the crowd hold up a young child—about two or three, by the look of him—who was clapping his hands in delight at his mother's coaxing. Joseph felt his stomach heave with nausea and turned away.

“No!” he heard someone scream. He turned quickly back to the window, where Anna Goldstein was shrieking in fear as the mob pushed and swore at her son. But nobody acknowledged her as the mob whisked Joseph Goldstein away. His mother's screams grew louder and more desperate. Franz shuddered. What would they do to Joseph? He was only a year older than Hanna, and he was no match for the mob. A small boy, he had neither the brains nor the brawn to outwit or defeat his pursuers. He had to go down there, to intervene. David, Joseph's father, was bedridden; he'd had an apoplexy in July and hadn't recovered. There wasn't anyone else to help. Franz's heart filled with fear, but how could he not help the boy? What else would a decent person do? He imagined if it were Hanna, and he were in David's place, and he quickly made up his mind.

Franz grabbed his coat from the front closet and pulled his cap on tight over his ears. He put his hand on the doorknob and paused. Turning, he rushed back to the sewing room where he'd ordered Sarah and Hanna to hide, and he flung the door open. Inside, his wife and daughter huddled together in the corner. They looked up at him, frightened. “I'm going down there to help Joe Goldstein.” He tried to sound calm. “If I don't come back, find Max Reinholz. I've written him about you both.”

Hanna jumped, startled. “Joe Goldstein?” Her high-pitched voice trembled. “What do you mean? Have they hurt him?” She hugged her arms across her chest. “Not Joe.” She started to cry. Her mother gave her a knowing glance and put her arms around her.

“It will be all right,
Mammale
,” she said soothingly. “Joe will be fine. I know it. Your father will go down and make sure of it.” She gave Franz a troubled look.

Hanna took a deep breath. She started, as if she'd just remembered something. “Papa.” She reached into her skirt pocket. “Take this. It might protect you.” She pressed the little wooden soldier doll into his hands. “It was lucky for you before.”

Franz kissed both his women on the head, pocketing the doll. He left the room without turning back.

Down on the street, the mob continued its path of destruction. The noise of shattering windowpanes competed with the sound of broken glass crunching under the feet of the angry crowd, a symphony of devastation. Recalling his army training, Franz kept his head down and moved quickly amid the rabble. What had happened to Goldstein?

Suddenly, he heard a terrible sound, like an animal being slaughtered.
What was that?
Franz looked around frantically, eyes searching. Then he saw. Joseph Goldstein was crouched on the ground, shrieking in pain and terror as a gang of teenagers took turns kicking him, their boots covered in pieces of broken glass and blood.

Franz took a deep breath and went over. “Enough!” he commanded bravely. His voice shook. “Leave him. He's half your size. What has he done to you?”

One of the young men, a short, red-haired boy of about fourteen, snarled at him. “What's it to you, Jew?” he sneered. “You're next.” His mouth twisted with hatred.

With Joseph momentarily forgotten, the miniature mob moved to circle Franz. The red-haired boy grabbed a splintering plank of wood and hit Franz square in the face. The wood clattered to the ground, and Franz, tasting blood, noticed that this makeshift weapon had only hours before graced the storefront of Katz's butcher shop as a sign. It was barely recognizable now: the
K
and the
A
were both missing.

Reeling, Franz grabbed the plank and raised it, threatening the boys. He took Joseph by the arm and tugged him away. Was it safe to go back yet? He wasn't sure where to go. He paused.

“Not so fast, Jews.” The voice came from behind. Its tone was one of both amusement and cruelty, and it commanded authority. “No one is running anywhere.”

Franz and Joseph turned around slowly. A police officer stared back at them. His face was flushed with excitement; he had definitely been partaking in the bacchanal of destruction and was not there to help.

The officer looked at the boys. “Run off now,
Jungen
,” he said. “I'll take over from here.” The boys scattered. The red-haired one gave Franz and Joseph a final menacing glance before turning to follow his friends.

“Now, Jews,” drawled the officer. He clapped his gloved hands together. “What shall we do with you?” Joseph and Franz exchanged a quick, worried glance. They no longer harbored even the smallest hope that the officer had intervened to help them.

“Ah, I see you're frightened!” He snorted with laughter. “What is it with you Jews?” He winked at them. “Surely you have money to pay me off. You Jews are rich. You eat well and prosper while good hardworking Germans starve.” His eyes were as cold as the Rhine on an icy January morning.

Franz's heart sank. Neither he nor Joseph was wealthy. The wealthy Jews—the financiers, the physicians—had all left Germany months ago for places like London or New York. If the officer was expecting a bribe, there was almost certainly no way he or Joseph could afford to pay it. He glanced sidelong at Joseph, whose face revealed terror. There was a gash above his right eye, and his nose trickled a steady stream of blood.