The Runaway Family (35 page)

Hans spoke little of his past and never of family, but he revealed himself in his generosity to Kurt and in his hatred of the Nazis.

They had decided that the best way forward was for Kurt to travel to England through Holland, visiting another of Hans’s business acquaintances in Amsterdam on the way. He would have letters of introduction to the Dutch jeweller and to James Daniel in London, and he would travel on Günter’s passport, which named him as a jeweller. Other papers were needed before he was able to leave the country, and Hans, through unnamed contacts, set about getting these, all in the name of Günter Schiller. In the meantime, Kurt learned as much as he could about the trade, so that he could, at least, answer superficial questions without difficulty. He was seen in the shop, and though it was not the sort of establishment that encouraged idle chatter with its prestigious customers, they let it be known that Günter was a cousin of Hans, who had moved from Munich. After some discussion they had decided against the beard.

“It makes you look too Jewish,” Hans said, “as it did with Günter, but it used not to matter as much.” So, Kurt remained clean-shaven.

At last the day came for him to try and leave. All his papers were in order; he had the relevant permits, identity card, ration book and passport with its visas still in date, all in the name of Günter Schiller, jeweller. Each, including the passport, was adorned with a recent picture and stamped with the required stamps. How Hans had managed it, Kurt didn’t know, and Hans had refused to tell him anything.

“What you don’t know can’t harm anyone but yourself,” he said. “If you have a problem with the authorities, you can point them in the direction of no one but me… and with the current political thinking I am probably on one of their lists already. It is almost certainly only the high profile of several of my regular customers that has saved me from a knock on the door in the middle of the night.” It was the nearest he ever came to explaining himself and the relationship he’d had with Günter.

The station was busy, reverberating with the noise of steam engines, announcements and whistles. Carrying a small suitcase, Kurt boarded the train that would take him on the first leg of his journey to Amsterdam. Once across the border into Holland he would be safe. In a wallet in his inside pocket were the required documents to leave Germany, including a return ticket from the Hook of Holland to Harwich.

“They won’t let you into England, even on business, unless they think you will be leaving again,” Hans had said. “Günter travelled over quite often, so if they decide to check their records they will find you there. Once you’ve contacted James Daniel you’ll have to be guided by him as to what to do next.”

The two men had said their goodbyes in the privacy of Hans’s sitting room, with the firm grip of a handshake. Kurt was surprised to see tears in Hans’s eyes, and reaching forward put his hands on the other man’s shoulders.

Hans pulled him close for a brief hug and then broke free, saying as he did so, “You’re more like Günter than you know. Now be off. Write to me from London, and I’ll forward any letters that come for you here.” He smiled a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t let her lose track of you.”

Kurt settled himself in a corner seat and buried his face in a newspaper. As he scanned the inside pages, an item, tucked away at the bottom of a column, caught his eye. He read it and then reread it, hardly believing what he read, and he realised that he was getting out of Germany just in time to escape the next move against the Jews. All Jewish men were going to have to add the extra name of Israel to their names, and all the Jewish women, Sarah. There would be no protection afforded by a non-typical Jewish name. Every Jew would have to register, every Jew would be known. Every Jew would soon have to have a huge red J stamped on his passport. Kurt stared at the article and knew real fear. The Nazi grip was tightening, and his family were held within it. Now, even more, he must try and get them away to safety, and his best chance was to work from England.

The train pulled out of the station, and Kurt sat back in his seat, apparently at ease reading the news, but vitally aware of the people around him. The compartment was almost full and there was a steady flow of people up and down the corridor. Kurt watched them from behind his paper, but as the train gathered speed and steamed its way through the suburbs of the city, the flow decreased as people found seats and settled down for the journey. Kurt did not relax, could not relax, he felt as taut as a bowstring, but he closed his eyes, as if in sleep, to discourage any conversation with his fellow-passengers.

The train stopped in Bremen, and it was after this that the ticket collector made his rounds. Kurt passed over his ticket and it was clipped and returned without comment.

The hours passed and at last the moment that Kurt feared most arrived as the train reached the border. It pulled up with the squeal of brakes and a shriek of steam. Border guards in uniform swarmed onto the train, demanding passports, papers and permits. Everyone in the compartment pulled documents from their pockets and wallets, ready for inspection. Kurt did the same, rehearsing yet again his explanation for travelling, business in Amsterdam and London. Tucked in with the official papers was a letter on Hans Dietrich’s headed paper stating “To whom it may concern”, that Günter Schiller was “travelling on the firm’s behalf to diamond merchants in Amsterdam and London”.

Kurt could hear the border guards moving closer, and it was all he could do to maintain a calm expression, when his heart was pounding so alarmingly that he thought the whole carriage must hear it.

The compartment door slid open with a screech and a uniformed man blocked the way out.

“Passports!” he demanded. “Have your passports ready for inspection.” Each person’s papers were carefully scrutinised before being handed back.

“Which is your luggage?” he demanded of a woman sitting in the opposite corner to Kurt.

“It’s up on the rack.” The woman’s voice was hoarse with fear.

“Get it down!”

The woman stood up and reached for her case. The man snatched it from her, and opening it on the seat upended it, searching through the clothes it contained. Then with a shrug and without a word of apology, he left the woman to repack her belongings and turned to Kurt.

Trying to keep his hand from shaking, Kurt passed across his papers. The official checked both the passport and the official permit to travel, squinting at first the picture and then at Kurt, before grunting and passing them back. He withdrew from the compartment and the door screeched protestingly shut behind him. His departure was greeted with palpable relief within the compartment, but no one dared relax until, with the sound of banging doors and much shouting, the German border guards left the train and it began to edge forward. Another hundred metres up the track it stopped again, and more uniformed men came on board, this time Dutch customs officials. Once again they all had to present their papers.

“And your reason for entering the Netherlands, Herr Schiller?” asked the official who inspected Kurt’s documents.

“Business,” Kurt replied. “I am going to see Herr Torben Stuyvesant in Amsterdam.” He produced Hans’s letter on the headed paper. The guard gave it a cursory glance before handing all the papers back and turning to the woman in the corner.

Ten minutes later the train moved forward once more, and picked up speed as if, Kurt thought, it was as anxious as he to leave Germany behind. He felt weak with relief and sank back into his corner seat, watching the flat Dutch countryside pass the window. The others in the compartment sat back too, and although no one spoke, the atmosphere was lighter as they sped onwards towards Amsterdam.

At last Kurt was safe, at last he no longer had to look over his shoulder, at last he was out of Germany. Now all I have to do, he thought, is to reach London and arrange, somehow, to get them all out. All I have to do! He knew a moment’s despair at the enormity of the task, before giving himself a mental shake. “It’s all I have to do.”

Life was very difficult for Ruth and her family over the summer months. The first disaster was that Ruth lost her job at the haberdashery. She met Frau Merkle, the proprietor, at the door of the shop one morning sticking a notice to the window.
No Jews.

Looking a little flustered, Frau Merkle said, “Ah, Frau Friedman. Please come inside for a moment.”

For a moment? Ruth had come to work her normal nine-hour day. She followed Frau Merkle into the shop, and almost as if the act could stave off what the woman was going to say, began to remove her coat and hat. Frau Merkle went to the till behind the counter and took out some money. Turning, she thrust it towards Ruth.

“This is what you are owed, up to last night. I’m not able to employ you anymore. Trade is falling off, and it is clearly because there is a Jew behind the counter.” The woman lifted her chin defiantly. “Understandably, no one wants to be served by a Jew.”

Ruth stared at the proffered money for a moment, before reaching out to take it. The old Ruth longed to tear it in two and fling it back into her employer’s face, but the new, wiser Ruth knew that those few notes were all that stood between her children and hunger. As she took the money, her fingers touched Frau Merkle’s and the other woman, withdrawing her hand, wiped it on her skirt, as if to remove the touch of Jewish flesh.

Without a word Ruth turned on her heel and went to the door, with Frau Merkle’s parting salvo ringing in her ears. “Ungrateful Jewish bitch! I didn’t
have
to pay you!”

“What are we going to do now, Mother?” Ruth asked when she had told Helga what had happened. “We’ve enough money for a week’s rent and a little food! The miserable cow didn’t even pay me a full week’s wages, let alone a week’s notice!”

“We’ll manage somehow,” replied her mother, imbuing her voice with far more optimism than she actually felt. “We’ll think of something.”

They discussed the situation long into the night and decided that Ruth must approach all the Jewish businesses still operating in the area and try to find work with one of them.

“But there aren’t many,” Ruth said, “and they’re all family businesses, so any jobs go to the family. They’re all fighting for survival.”

“I know,” agreed her mother, “there was an SS soldier outside Liebermann’s yesterday. He was stopping any non-Jews from going in to shop. There were a few of their old customers who tried, but the SS man turned them away and called them ‘Christian pigs!’ When I went in poor Frau Liebermann was in tears.”

Ruth set out next morning and visited every Jewish shop in the area, but they all turned her away, and Ruth couldn’t blame them.

It was Helga who had the idea. “Why don’t you go to the girls’ school,” she suggested. “I know it’s school holidays now, but there might be something.”

Ruth went to the school the very next day, to ask Herr Hoffman, the Jewish head, if there was any work available.

Herr Hoffman recognised her as a parent of two of his pupils, and saw the desperation in her eyes even as she said calmly, “I’d be happy to do anything round the school. I’m not afraid of hard work, Herr Hoffman.”

He smiled at her. “I’m sure you’re not, Frau Friedman,” he replied. He thought for a moment and then said, “We could do with a temporary cleaner. The whole school has to be scrubbed from top to bottom and the classrooms repainted before the children come back in the autumn. But it wouldn’t be permanent, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ruth. “The cleaning and the painting, too.”

Herr Hoffman looked doubtful. “The painting is quite a big job,” he said.

“I painted our shop last spring,” Ruth told him. “I can do it. Please, Herr Hoffman, I’m a good worker, and I need the work.”

Herr Hoffman saw the determination in her eyes and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job,” he said.

They agreed a wage, much less than she’d been earning at the haberdashery.

“But at least we’ve got some money coming in,” she said to Helga, “and it’s several weeks’ work.”

It was hard work, but Ruth found it very satisfying, seeing the dreary classrooms bright with new paint. At the end of each day she could see the progress of her work, but each day brought her nearer to its completion.

Once again she found herself tramping the streets, further afield this time, looking for Jewish-owned businesses, but so many had been “Aryanised”, their Jewish proprietors simply pushed aside or made to sell out for a pittance, that there was no work to be had there.

She even went back to Frau Liebermann at the little grocery shop, pointing out that she used to run a grocery herself and was familiar with what was needed, but yet again she was disappointed.

“You’re wasting your time,” Frau Liebermann told her. “We shall have to close down soon. Twice our shelves have been raided by gangs of youths and though we called the police, they stood by and did nothing.”

During the hot days of the summer, things in Vienna had calmed down a little, and Helga, along with so many other Jews, began to think that perhaps the worst was over. Ruth was nothing like as optimistic. So many things were closed to Jews now, cinemas, swimming pools, theatre and opera house, the parks and gardens, even the benches along the tree-lined boulevards were
for Aryan use only
.

As the weeks passed, more anti-Jewish directives were announced, all of them designed to oppress the Jews in every aspect of their lives. Oppression and exploitation were the weapons of choice for the everyday anti-Semitic Austrian; the true Nazis had something far more sinister in mind.

Many wealthy Jews, those with enough money to buy their way out as had David and Edith, were fleeing the country, leaving the poorer Jews to their fate. Ruth didn’t blame them. Goodness knows, she thought, if I had the chance to get my family out there would be no stopping me.

She went to the Jewish Community Office, queuing for hours before she was able to see anyone, and although the man she finally met was sympathetic, he pointed out that there were hundreds of others in the same situation or even worse.