The Seven Year Dress: A Novel Page 6

  As if reading my mind and sensing my hesitation, my father said, “God is always with us, my child. Do not doubt Him, and He will not forsake you.

  Shana, usually in her own world, asked, “What of the violence? All the harm being done to our people.”

  “Shana, come here, my sweetheart.” My father opened his arms, beckoning to her. She went to his lap. We were never too old to sit in our Papa’s lap. “There are no words to help me explain this. It is a sense, from the deepest intuitive place in my soul that understands this whole divine play of life is under His control, not ours. You need to find that place in your soul. It’s there. For everyone.”

  Shana sat erect and raised her voice when she said, “God doesn’t kill innocent people. I refuse to believe that!”

  “No, He doesn’t. People do that to each other.”

  “Why?” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Shush,” he whispered in her ear. “Calm yourself. Be still.” Rubbing her back, he continued, “Take a deep breath and feel your body. Notice the life within you.” He hugged her close to him and repeated what he had said to us earlier. “The gift of life is what is important…” He looked at her, then gazed at each of us around the room, and then continued, “We are not bestowed with the wisdom of what to do with the life we are given. That is out of our control. Men go astray, Shana, but that is not the fault of God.”

  “I don’t believe that! I don’t believe that.” She burst into tears.

  “Let it out.” My mother went to Shana’s side and gave my father a warm smile. She touched his cheek and said, “Irving, she needs to get it out of her. Let it be.”

  Lawrence, Ben, and I watched my sister break down and cry a wail to stir the dead. I began to cry—for myself, for my family, Max, and for all the guiltless who were subjugated by the repulsive oppression that had darkened Germany. What started with a song ended with grief. Day in and day out, this was how our lives unfolded: on an emotional roller coaster.

  Several days later, as I was coming down the stairs for breakfast, I heard a loud crash in the kitchen. I rushed in just after my father. Shana, Lawrence, and Ben were still upstairs. My mother was crouched on the floor next to a shattered platter that had held eggs and pancakes. Making no attempt to clean it, she whimpered to my father, “My sister gave me that dish for our wedding.”

  He took a slow and deliberate breath in an attempt to move air through his constricted chest. Fearful of the cumulative effect the emotional turmoil was having on him, I went to help him with my mother. He put a hand on my mother’s arm to help her up—a mere gesture of support from an ailing but loving husband. His heavy, weary eyes locked with mine. Then, with a gentle nod, he told me to leave them alone.

  Without a word, I exited and stood on the outside of the door to eavesdrop. My mother’s crying intensified. My father’s voice soothed, “Oh my darling, Rose. I’m so sorry…”

  Mamma’s voice cracked. “You…you are…are sorry?”

  “If I had not taken the job with the government in Berlin, we would still be living near your family in Munich.” Most of our extended family lived there: my father’s two brothers and my mother’s entire family. We hadn’t seen our uncles, aunts, and cousins in several years.

  She mumbled something unintelligible, and then the room went silent. Even with one ear pressed up against the wall, I couldn’t discern the rest of the conversation. This wouldn’t be the last time I listened to their private conversations. A few nights later when I couldn’t sleep, I paced the floor outside their room. They were talking quietly. My mother reacted to my father’s plea to God for help. “Where is God now? The help has not come.” She said more, but she lowered her voice, so it was inaudible.

  When my father erupted with, “Sheket Bevakashah!” I gathered what Mamma said was not nice. I knew it was Hebrew for “quiet please.”

  My father rarely spoke Hebrew, so it surprised me to hear him say this. We didn’t adhere to strict Jewish tradition and laws; my mother didn’t even keep kosher. Papa understood that it was easier for her when entertaining his non-Jewish friends while employed with the government. The only religious event I recall my family observing was the Passover Seder. The rules of our religion did not define us, yet others were defining us by our religion. This pathetically sad irony labeled us for extinction.

  They argued back and forth, but when my mother started sobbing loudly enough for me to hear, my father’s voice softened. The conversation ended with them whispering.

  Aside from spying on family conversations and indulging myself in my private, intimate explorations at night, I looked forward to visiting Max. He kept the sewing jobs coming and, as anxious as I felt, I enjoyed having a reason for being out in public.

  * * *

  Excited to see Max, I opened the closet I shared with Shana and thumbed through my dresses. I especially looked good in a couple of them that clung to my waist and hips. I was proud of my body, its shape with a narrow waist, flat stomach, rounded hips, but I felt self-conscious about my bountiful breasts. I attributed that to Mamma’s constant admonishing me to “cover yourself up” and “your body is for your husband to see.” All I knew was that, alone at night, touching them gave me pleasure.

  After trying on both dresses, I decided on the floral magenta with dark pink flowers and green leaves. Looking in the mirror, I thought to myself it looked perfect. In the bathroom, I brushed my brown shoulder-length hair back off my neck into a tight bun. I didn’t want my curly hair to go frizzy. After applying light rouge to my cheeks and a blush of rose to my lips, I went back to my closet and took my coat off a hanger. Putting it on and buttoning it to the neck, I knew it would lessen Mamma’s concern about me being seen on the streets.

  On my way out, I heard Momma and Papa laughing in the kitchen. I didn’t want to know why; it was enough that they were happy. A smile came from somewhere deep inside of me and wouldn’t let go. Those were the good times.

  On that mild summer day, I was in a better mood than I had been in a very a long time. I made my way to the main street, three blocks from my house. Passing people on bicycles, seeing couples walking hand-in-hand, smiling to a woman pushing a baby carriage, and nodding to a man sweeping the sidewalk, I was reminded of what my life had been like before Hitler came to power. Nostalgia overwhelmed me as I continued past lush trees lining the familiar street, the eclectic stone façade architecture, and the aroma of wurst and fresh-baked bread coming from stores and cafes. I was born and raised in Germany. She was my country, and I loved her. I longed for my old friend back.

  Two men in uniform approached me, interrupting my thoughts. Acid rose into my tightened throat. My neck muscles tensed. My fond and wistful musings vanished along with the serenity they gave me. The reality of Hitler’s Germany hit me: I should never feel safe walking through Berlin. I prayed they didn’t stop me. I prayed I didn’t look Jewish. Averting my eyes, I took a relaxed breath when they passed me without a word. The image of the swastika on their arms stayed in my head as I rushed to Max’s apartment with my head lowered.

  Turning the corner onto Max’s residential apartment lined avenue, I felt more at ease. The uniformed men were gone and, aside from a couple of children playing outside, the street was empty. I took in a deep, much-needed breath.

  “You look lovely.” Max greeted me by smiling and waving me into his home.

  Removing my coat, I looked around his tidy, 700 square-foot apartment and noticed that he had painted the walls. “You did all this since my last visit?” I walked into the tiny living room with only enough space for a couch, desk, and chair.

  “Yes,” he smiled.

  “When do you have time to do this?”

  Laughing, he replied, “Very funny. I do get an occasional day off.” He followed me as I walked past the kitchen, noticing he had cleaned the stove and hung knickknacks on the refrigerator.

  Down a three-foot hallway was a bedroom with a minuscule closet, and a bathroom. “You like th
e color scheme?” He smiled. “If it’s not a decorating trend, it should be. A different color for each room. Very modern, yes?”

  “It looks great, Max. So alive!”

  When we reached the bedroom, he said, “Yellow for you.” He knew I loved yellow.

  “Ah, that’s so sweet of you. When you’re in here resting, you can think of me sending kind thoughts to you. And it’s a nice light touch for a bedroom. It goes well with that plaid spread,” I commented on the red and dark blue geometrical design of the material.

  Max puffed out his chest. “I finally get to arrange my things the way I want them.” A big smile came over his face, and he lit up when he said, “My father, being ultra-conservative, wouldn’t allow this degree of colorful flamboyance.”

  We both laughed. It felt so good to be just who we were, two friends spending time together. And having fun.

  “Come, let’s have some tea.”

  That day there was no talk of Germany, Jews, or work. We indulged only in light banter. As our time together was ending, Max confessed he had a crush on a man he worked with. “If anyone ever overhead this…” He blushed.

  I made a closing-zipper motion across my lips. “Your secret is safe with me.” There was a new relaxed comfort about Max, and I wondered if the hues on the walls were more than a minor rebellion against his strict father. Was it a way for him to express his repressed nature?

  When it was time for me to leave, he handed me a stack of three garments that needed mending. We agreed on when I would return them. I put my coat back on, hugged him, and left.

  On my way home, I thought of my visit with Max. He had found a way to express himself and be happy in this oppressive regime. It gave me hope that maybe I, too, could carve out a “normal” life for myself—one filled with a lover and future.

  Chapter Nine

  As summer moved into fall, I continued with my sewing duties while Lawrence and Ben scouted Jewish neighborhoods for odd jobs. Shana rediscovered her passion for baking and devising ways to be creative with limited ingredients. Her disposition improved dramatically. One of my favorites was her banana bread pudding. I loved to hear Shana’s humming while making noises with the beater—clanging pots and pans were music to my ears as she filled the house with the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She also helped prepare meals, which gave Mamma time to spend with my father to ensure his health remained stable. Dr. Schecter urged him to take it easy through winter, which, he told us, is harder on coronary circulation. “Come spring, you’ll be ready to do part-time work if you want to,” he told my father.

  “That is good news, doctor,” said Papa. I was happy to see the encouraging smile on my father’s face.

  “Well, I have other patients to see.”

  I handed him his coat and, as he was putting it on, he lifted his head to inhale a pleasant cinnamon scent coming from the kitchen. “What might that be?” He smiled.

  My mother came out with gaily-wrapped goodies that Shana had baked. “Cookies and a spice cake—a thank you for all your help. Shana is excellent in the kitchen.” She handed the treats to Dr. Schecter.

  “My wife will appreciate this.” He accepted the package. As he turned to leave, he stopped. “You know,” he said, “if you want to make a little extra money, perhaps Shana could sell her baked goods. From what I am smelling, I am quite sure some of our friends in the neighborhood would be interested.” He patted my mother on the back.

  With that boost to Shana’s morale, she doubled her baking efforts, using leftover bread to make puddings and overripe fruit for muffins. Before long, she was helping to increase the family income.

  While my family had found an acceptable way of surviving under the oppressive political regime, the Nazis were focusing on reclaiming Germany’s lost territories and expanding into Czechoslovakia and Poland. The newspapers mainly wrote Hitler’s propaganda, but I learned what was really occurring on the international front from Max. He told me that when Jews were displaced and relocated to ghettos, resistance movements flared up. The geographical changes in 1938 began with Hitler’s intrusive crusade for Lebensraum—the territory that Hitler felt was needed for the natural development of Germany. Britain, France, and Russia, not wanting to go to war with Hitler’s army, assuaged the German bully. Because of this, Germany was able to annex neighboring Austria without bloodshed and divide up Czechoslovakia. I was shocked when I heard that no countries challenged this violation of the Treaty of Versailles. The choice of appeasement instead of military confrontation enabled a shift in the climate that allowed for Hitler’s pogrom, which was on the horizon.

  I wished I could have shared the information Max continued to trust me with, but I had given him my word. I kept silent when I learned much more about what was happening in Germany. While geographical encroachment continued, state programs were changing as well. Initially set up as a camp to house political prisoners, Dachau concentration camp was expanded by Himmler to hold forced-labor detainees. Soon it would become the place where Jews were imprisoned. Himmler worked hand-in-glove with Sigmund Rascher, the doctor who was in charge of medical experiments at Dachau. Rumors circulated that Rascher was in cahoots with Hitler’s personal medical doctor, Dr. Karl Brandt, to design and carry out programs of involuntary euthanasia. Under the rationale called racial hygiene, the murder of millions of Jewish people and other undesirables would soon begin.

  While political tension was building with Germany’s hostile takeover of other countries, my family was uninformed about what was happening. Except for the rumors circulating in Berlin.

  At Max’s apartment, he told me he was getting a new position with the SS. Still clerical, he would be dealing with secret information. His security clearance would be much higher, too. “I’ve seen things, Helen. Sensitive things. It scares me.”

  “What’s going on?” I nervously picked at a cuticle.

  “Whatever I tell you, you mustn’t tell anyone. Not even your family.” He took a hard swallow. “This can’t slip out.”

  “You don’t have to keep saying that to me. I haven’t said anything you’ve told me to anyone!” I pulled back from him. “Don’t you trust me?”

  He reached a hand to my shoulder and pressed firmly. “I do. I do, but this is very sensitive. I needed to say that.”

  I took hold of his hand and felt our sweat commingle. “I understand. Go on.” It was an effort for me to breathe the toxic air that seemed to have entered the room.

  He explained that security leaks were dealt with severely. “Anyone engaged or suspected of being engaged in violations will be punished or killed. You. Me. Anyone.”

  Finding it hard to accept and knowing Max liked to exaggerate his importance and, at times, his stories, I wasn’t sure how to react to him. “You’re kidding? You’re blowing something you heard out of proportion, right?”

  “No, Helen, not this time. I’m dead serious.” Reconsidering, “Never mind.” He shook his head, and then looked at me, probably deciding that saying more would be too risky.

  But he had already said too much. My curiosity was piqued. I wanted to know anything that could put my family in danger. I begged him to tell me, swearing I’d keep my mouth shut. “What could be worse for you, what you’ve already confided to me or whatever this is?” When he didn’t respond, I knew it was bad. His reticence was making me more nervous than I already was. Tightly wound, my throat dry, my voice wobbled. “You’ve trusted me all your life.” Sitting next to him on the couch, I let go of his hand and wiped the wetness off mine on my dress. Pensive and brooding, conflict blemished his handsome face. My stomach turned sour. With certitude, I raised my voice, and once again I pleaded my case. “You know you can trust me! I need to know. I have a right to know.”

  Finally yielding, he began with telling me about secret plans to expand a concentration camp in Dachau—from political prisoners to others. He used the words “death camps.”

  “Who are the others?” I plucked a loose piece of skin I’d been
picking at off my finger.

  He pulled his moist shirt away from his chest and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t know for sure. But I have a very bad feeling…”

  So did I. The toxic air was spreading. I no longer needed validation for what I’d already suspected as true. Talk of outbursts in the streets with Jews being beaten to death and young girls being raped were more than rumors. Now I knew the horrible stories were not just idle, exaggerated gossip passed on to create fear and subjugation. The unimaginable propaganda was real. The dark circles under Max’s young eyes and the worry lines etched too deeply on his face told me what I didn’t want to accept. I was living in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  What I didn’t know was how unthinkable it would become.

  Chapter Ten

  At the beginning of November 1938, the United States was still reeling from Orson Welles’s broadcast of his adaption of H.G. Wells’s, War of the Worlds. I read in the newspaper that the radio show sent the nation into a panic. Americans thought that space aliens had landed on their home soil. While America was reeling from a fictional crisis, Germany was facing a real national disaster. That ominous feeling Max and I shared in his apartment a couple of months earlier was about to flare into an unimaginable nightmare.

  On the 7th of November 1938, a German-born Polish-Jewish refugee, Herschel Feibel Grynszpan, entered the German Embassy in Paris and shot the German diplomat, Ernst vom Rath. He died two days later. Hitler was livid. He dispensed his close and devoted associate—the vicious Joseph Goebbels—to handle the situation. Goebbels, known for his deep-seated, virulent anti-Semitism from an early age, started the retaliation on all Jews in Germany. Goebbels gave a speech at a Nazi party meeting. It was in this speech that he told SS officers to use the SA to inflict violence on Jews, making sure the attacks appeared both spontaneous and instigated by the German people, not the SS. Jews were no longer safe; they were to be assaulted in the streets and synagogues. Jewish businesses throughout Germany were to be demolished. Goebbels’s retaliation for the murder of one German diplomat paved the way for Hitler’s pogrom, the annihilation of an entire population.