The Seven Year Dress: A Novel Page 3

  “Sounds nice to me. I’d love to get away from all the commotion and be with you where it is peaceful around some agriculture.”

  “Then come with,” he joked.

  “Very funny. Your father would love that.”

  Before they left to vacation in the countryside, Max came to say goodbye. “It’s a great hideaway. No longer used for farming and only occasionally for hunting.” He smiled. “If my father ever falls off the edge and joins the Party, we can run away together and hide there.”

  While he was gone, I missed him. And I wondered if he would tell his parents about his preference if they insisted he not be friends with me. With the political weather dramatically changing, I highly doubted it.

  My uneasy feelings about Max’s situation and the role I played in it were nothing compared to the reality we were both about to face.

  Chapter Three

  When people I was taught to respect were openly repeating rhetoric about Aryan superiority, I had questions. How does body type or one’s coloring make such a difference in the quality of their personality? I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about and was sickened when I overheard a conversation between two teachers in my school. In the hallway on my way from class to recess, I passed an open door and heard something about Hitler. Curious, I leaned against a wall, pretending to fix my shoe, and listened.

  “Hitler bases the Aryan race he is promoting on the premise of targeting humans for destruction who are mainly living in state-operated facilities and some private ones. Prisoners and degenerates like the feebleminded, epileptic, and homosexuals,” said one of the teachers. “He wants to return humankind to Nordic roots, eliminating any taint from darker skinned races.”

  “And this is his idea of purging the hereditary chain?” asked the other. “He includes Jewish people in those categories. That’s crazy.”

  “Shush, that sarcasm will get you in trouble.”

  Jewish people, homosexuals! Max. A wave of grief washed over me, and I choked back tears. Footsteps approached the door. I instantly stood and left.

  Needing to understand more about what was happening in my country, I went to the library. Page after page of glancing through newspapers and magazine articles, my eyes took in what I believed was nonsense. Vile drivel. The Aryan race is the master race! This smacked in the face of my belief that Jews were the chosen people. God favored us. Reading a brief synopsis of Mein Kampf in a journal, I was angered. What gave this Hitler the right to decide who was good and who was bad? What makes people with light-colored hair, light-colored eyes, fair skin, and tall superior to me, to my family, to people with dark curly hair, hooknoses, dark eyes, and full lips? I moved a hand through my dense, wavy hair, feeling the thick texture as I curled the light brown strands around my fingers. I remembered my mother combing my hair and saying how lovely it was. I liked how I looked and protested to myself that my features didn’t fit the descriptions I’d read about in those degrading magazines. I didn’t have a hooked nose; mine was straight and small. And so what if my eyes were brown? They were big and round and expressively beautiful, like a lot of the Germans I knew. Blue eyes make you superior. What rubbish! My family all had handsome features, and I was proud of their good looks.

  I thought of Max, who fit the Aryan description perfectly. On the eve of his fourteenth birthday, he was handsome with his blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled nose. His muscular frame was filling out, and he had grown to a little more than six feet, which towered over my five feet two inches.

  At home that night, I looked at myself in the mirror, and again I thought of Max. Those teachers were talking rubbish and the things I read at the library were insane. I was raised to love myself, my family, and everyone around me. I was a confident girl. Maybe I was naïve, but I didn’t think about my appearance or my religion as the most important features of who I was as a person. Judge me on what’s in my heart or my mind, not on how I look or what religion I was born into! I discarded the garbage I had learned that day to a locked mental box: the place inside my mind where I hid things I didn’t want to face or believe, what I refused to accept as real.

  * * *

  When Max arrived back from vacation, we met at a secluded park to catch up. He was different, more reserved. It pained me that he took his time to give me a hug. And I could have spat blood when he told me he was going to join the Hitler Youth movement on his upcoming fourteenth birthday. By then, I had read and heard enough to know this could end our friendship. Gritting my teeth, I looked around to be sure no one could hear, and asked, “Did your father convince you to do this?”

  “No, it’s my idea.” His eyes warmed and his shoulders relaxed.

  The change from his aloof composure when we greeted each other confused me. “Why?” I searched his eyes and saw in the depth of his wide pupils what I felt was resolution. A pang of tension twisted my gut.

  He leaned in closer and whispered in my ear. “My father had me read Hitler’s writing, and we talked about it. He believes we’re either with them or against them, and being against them is dangerous.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Helen, it’s not what you think.”

  “You have no idea what I think! It will be the end of us.” My stomach was a tight knot.

  “It will be the end of us,” he breathed warm air into my ear sending a chill down my spine, and continued, “if I do nothing. You know how I feel about you. I don’t care that you’re a Jew. But what do you think is going to happen to you and your family? Hitler is talking about killing Jews!”

  “It’s just talk, Max. Try as he might, he can’t hurt us with just words. What does this have to do with you joining them?” No longer able to stop myself from crying, I blurted out, “How could you?”

  “I’m not joining them,” he smiled, “I’m going to pretend…”

  His words calmed me, easing the clumps of spasms in my neck muscles. “Huh?”

  Max went on to explain that he felt the best way to protect himself was to join the Hitler Youth movement and go along with the party line. And pretend to like girls. He also saw a way to help me.

  “Me? I don’t see how I figure into your scheme. That’s some plan, Max.” I pulled back from him.

  “Listen to me,” he moved closer. “If something happens—”

  “What?” I snapped. “What could happen?”

  “Never mind all that.” He took in a deep breath. “Just trust me.”

  What choice did I have? He was determined to go through with his stupid plan. He even swore me to secrecy. But I had to ask and had to know, “What about intimacy? Don’t you ever want to know love? I mean…, you know?” I couldn’t find words that weren’t embarrassing.

  “Of course, I do. But how would that be possible as long as haters remain in power?”

  “Oh, Max.” My breath caught in my throat. “What are we going to do?”

  “We are going to stay alive.” He grabbed my hand. “Right now, there’s nothing more important than that.”

  Sounding wiser than his age, I couldn’t argue with him. A slight breeze picked up, scattering leaves. Since we weren’t sure if the noises we heard were people approaching, we took our leave of each other.

  * * *

  As time progressed, my parents agreed with Ludwig Müller’s dictate to separate us and to break up our friendship. Once my parents discovered that Max was planning on joining the Hitler Youth, the tension between our families escalated. My parents told me I could not associate with him. Defying both our parents’ orders, Max invited me to his fourteenth birthday party. I accepted. Max fought his battle with his parents, and I fought mine with my parents. I don’t know which one was more difficult. With the coercion of my other siblings, especially Ben, my father finally yielded. “Just this one time, then you have to stop seeing him,” he commanded.

  The small victory wasn’t enough for me. “He’s my best friend. I won’t stop being his friend!”

  My mother took hold of my fat
her’s arm. “Irving, they are just children. It is not serious…”

  He jerked his arm from my mother’s grasp. “Children! He’s joining a despicable hate group designed to become the army that will dispose of Jews!”

  “Irving, not in front of the children.” She hushed her tone and shooed me away with her hand. In the hallway outside of the dining room, I overheard the rest of the conversation. “What harm could come from their friendship? They have known each other all their lives. How will driving a wedge between them help any of us? Certainly Helen would be devastated. Look how she is acting out now. Her grades are already slipping.” She was referring to the changes in my marks since Max told me about his plans.

  My father responded. “Rose, I will not hear of my daughter being friends with a boy who is in a group that prepares its members to join the Sturmabteilung, the adult military wing of the Nazi Party.” He coughed, loudly cleared his throat, and continued. “That wicked Hitler is disbanding all other youth organizations to ensure his power. What next from that maniac?”

  Later that night, my mother came to find me. Shana was asleep in the room we shared as my mother tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “Your father loves you, Helen. What he is doing is for your own good.”

  Tears escaped from my eyes. “I won’t abandon my friend, Mamma. You taught me about loyalty and being a good person. I won’t do it. We aren’t hurting anyone,” I whispered.

  “I know my sweetie, but these are the times we live in.” She shook her bowed head.

  “You have to help me,” I begged. And, eventually, my mother did turn a cheek when she knew I was sneaking out to see Max.

  * * *

  I received icy stares and cold shoulders from the Aryan-appearing boys Max invited to his party. He included them to keep up appearances.

  One of them asked Max, “Is she a Jew?”

  Max laughed as he responded, “She’s just a neighbor. So what?”

  So what? Brokenhearted, I left before having cake.

  Much later that night, when our families were asleep, he came to find me. Pebbles bouncing off my window brought my attention to Max below, motioning for me to come outside. Max knew I was forlorn from the way I trudged toward him. My sad shoulders sagged from the weight of a mountain of dejection. “How could you not defend me?”

  “Oh, Helen. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful for you. Please try to understand, I have to play these kinds of games so those dummköpfe believe I’m one of them,” he repeated and repeated to my thickheaded, naïve protests until I broke down and cried, confident of Max’s continued love and loyalty to me, but confused about why my world had become so complicated.

  Max continued his charade, pretending to be everything he wasn’t while convincing me he was, nonetheless, my friend. A big part of me wanted to believe he was still “My Max,” but a small part of me couldn’t help but wonder what kind a stranger he was becoming. Before long, the real Max would reveal himself to me.

  Chapter Four

  In 1933, Max and I turned fourteen. While he spent time in the Hitler Youth movement marching at rifle practice and attending the weekly meetings in his swastika-emblazoned uniform, I continued with school. My crush on Isaac Blau had evolved into a closer friendship with him. He took Max’s place walking me home when classes were over. Soon we spent time strolling through parks on the weekend. I was smitten.

  At the same time that I was swooning over Isaac, the German Reichstag granted Hitler dictatorial status. Shortly after the German Republic gave him this power, Jewish students were barred from attending school in Germany. That was a bleak time for Isaac and me.

  One day while out on a walk with him, I knew something was terribly wrong. He walked slowly, hesitantly, as if he was balancing a stack of dishes on his head. Isaac finally stopped, looked at me and said, “We’re moving away.”

  My heart sank. “What do you mean by away? To Leipzig? To Dresden?”

  “No, much further.”

  “There are trains to Nuremberg. Even cross-country to Bonn. Surely, we could visit each other by train.”

  “I’m afraid not, Helen. We’re moving to America.” He lowered his head.

  Stunned, I waited for him to look at me. When he did, I thought I saw what he was trying to hide. I was sure it was the sorrow he must be feeling over not just the loss of me as his girlfriend but also the loss of his homeland, the only place he’d ever lived or known. My bright-eyed Isaac was gone. In his place was a dispirited friend saying a sad goodbye.

  That night my tears wouldn’t allow sleep. He had told me that his parents were extremely upset when their home was robbed and defaced. Vandals had written on the inside walls of their house Jews get out or die! And so they were doing just that before things got worse.

  My mother had a similar reaction the next morning when I told her at the breakfast table what had happened. She instantly responded that we should consider changing locations as well. But my father refused to be intimidated by this new army moving in, that they surely wouldn’t displace us. He didn’t want to believe the gross corruption would cost us our lives. “They are using typical bully scare tactics to harass us,” he complained to my mother. “They won’t kill us. Be patient and goodness will prevail.” Later, his optimism would prove to be our family’s ruination.

  “Where shall our children go to school, Irving?” my mother asked.

  “You can teach them at home.”

  “At home!” Momma never shouted, but her reaction came as close to yelling at Papa as I ever remembered. “Helen, Ben, Shana, and Larry all have different subjects. I have no books. Everything from their classes remains in their lockers in school. They weren’t even allowed to bring them home.”

  My father sternly repeated, “You will teach them. You will find a way.”

  “What is happening, Irving?” My typically calm mother raised her voice even higher. “What is going to happen to us if we stay here?” Her eyes bore into his as if waiting for him to suggest moving.

  “You listen to me.” He pounded a fork on the table. “Nothing is happening we cannot handle. We will live through this inconvenience until it passes.”

  This inconvenience! I had lost my boyfriend and my best friend to THIS INCONVENIENCE! I felt like taking that fork out of my father’s hand and stabbing it into the table. I wanted to scream that this was more than an inconvenience. Moving my untouched dinner away from me, I kept quiet.

  My father looked to Larry. “You are the eldest. I want you to outline what you remember of your lessons for Helen’s, Shana’s, and Ben’s grade levels. Help your mother teach them as best as you can. Look through your room for any notes, books, anything that is instructional. I will see if I can get some books to help you out.” He glanced at my dish. “Helen, eat your food. You must stay healthy.”

  * * *

  Months had passed when, at the end of 1933, a letter finally arrived from Isaac. He was living in New York with his mother’s sister’s family. The letter described life in the Unites States, and he spoke about meeting other refugees from Nazi Germany. “One man, in particular, is fascinating. Mr. Albert Einstein. My parents enjoy spending time with him, indulging in what they say is the end of something called Prohibition. I overheard them talking about it being odd that the Constitution of the United States repealed this Prohibition. What does this all mean? It means they can legally drink alcohol. Can you imagine all the fuss over a drink when over there you’re worried about your lives?” He rambled on as if starved for a friend to talk to. I read his words, wishing he were speaking them to me so that I could feel his warm breath on my neck. Oh, how I missed our sweet, intimate moments! I wondered if he had changed now that he was in America, free from the oppressive cloud of fear under which we German Jews lived. He wrote of things making national news, like a bridge being built in the city of San Francisco, while we were reading about the opening of a concentration camp in Dachau
.

  I felt the texture of the paper and ink, smelled the aroma of what I knew was Isaac’s cologne, and my wistful heart was reminded of the times I spent with him. Ah, our first kiss. We never went further than our lips softly touching, just a few times and only briefly at that. But his kisses awakened a longing in my body that could not be quelled. I wanted to be touched where my mother told me only my husband could venture. My breasts had formed, and puberty found my private parts. Experimenting with my sensuality—my hands roaming and fondling my body, exploring new sensations—distracted me from my frustration and agitation. Being under the same roof with my family for days on end was getting on all our nerves. Fantasizing about Isaac’s hands moving along my body helped pass the time. I looked at my hands holding his letter. He had held this letter. Oh, how I wished those same hands could hold me and satisfy the lusty hunger my young woman’s body was craving.

  The front door slammed, and my father screamed something, interrupting my daydreaming.

  I ran to see what the commotion was about. My father appeared panting and red-faced. “Helen, get in the dining room!” Then he yelled to my mother. “Rose, get the children. Now!”

  Once there, my pale, frightened mother asked, “What is it, Irving?”

  He put his index finger to his lips, a signal for us to be quiet. “Shush.” He shut the curtains.

  Loud bangs in quick repetition rang out, followed by shrieking in the street.

  “Dirty Jews!”

  “Filthy pigs! You are ruining our country!”

  More screaming. More loud explosive sounds like automobiles backfiring in rapid succession.

  “Get down,” my father commanded as loud popping noises came from outside of our home.

  “Papa, what is that?” I went to him.