November 10, 1938
We trembled on the floor of the closet, holding each other and wordlessly lifting up prayers to anyone who would listen.
I offered prayers to keep us safe.
I offered prayers to the disembodied voices whose screams pierced the still of night.
I offered prayers of thanksgiving that my mother was safely on her way to New York.
I prayed this was all some horrid dream from which the whole country would soon wake.
My back was pressed against the cold plaster of the closet wall, Samuel’s arms encircling me. We both shivered despite the linens I’d stripped from the bed and pulled over us. Samuel had positioned himself as a shield against anyone who might invade the sanctity of our home. The gesture was kind, but we both knew it was useless. If what we could hear was any indication of the forces at work that night, Samuel’s sacrifice would only buy me a few extra seconds of terror.
I waited for the thunder of boots coming up the stairs and the splintering of wood as they kicked down the doors. If they came, our only hope was that they would see the stripped bed and almost-empty drawers and assume the residents of the apartment had fled. If they asked our Gentile neighbors, that’s the story they would get. There was no smell of a recently cooked meal lingering in the air. Thanks to my weeks of cleaning, there were no telltale signs of recent habitation. I sent up another prayer—that it would be enough for them to pass us over.
I had no idea how many hours we stayed huddled in the closet, clinging to each other and wondering if our first night of married life would be our last. I wasn’t sure what time it was when we realized the horrifying sounds in the distance had faded and light began to creep in around the edges of the closet door. Slowly, the demands of my body made themselves known, but I was terrified to move, let alone speak.
Samuel sensed my subtle shift and tightened his embrace.
“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked in the barest hint of a whisper.
“We can’t stay in here forever,” he said, but he remained still. He finally heaved a sigh and rolled to his side to open the closet door.
The light was blinding, and my muscles screamed against the movement after so long lying in one place. My legs quivered as I attempted to stand. I steadied myself by holding one of the bedposts until the blood flowed normally back to my extremities. Samuel pressed a finger to his lips and opened the door to the bedroom. He gave me one pleading glance and shut the door behind him. Stay put. Stay safe. I didn’t know what he was planning, only hoped it didn’t involve heroics. I stepped to the window but did not move the drapes aside. I carefully peered from the edge and hoped no one would notice the gentle ruffling of the fabric. It seemed everyone nowadays noticed everything. Some Gentiles noticed every move of their Jewish neighbors so they might report it. We who were Jewish noticed every move of our Gentile neighbors in hopes of staying alive. Of course, there were those in the middle. Those who weren’t Jewish or out of favor, but who didn’t support the regime. They were our greatest hope, and so very often our biggest disappointment.
From what I could see of the Berlin skyline, there were plumes of smoke coming from various points in the city. I couldn’t tell where they came from, only that the damage was not limited to our neighborhood, and it was extensive. I couldn’t begin to calculate the homes destroyed, the livelihoods ruined, the families pulled apart.
A few moments later, Samuel returned.
“The apartment is empty, and the shop was untouched,” he said, the relief plain on his face.
“Many were not so lucky,” I said, gesturing for him to look from the window. His face turned ashen as he stole a glance at the smoldering city.
“Oh, Tilde,” was all he could say. He crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled.
“We should eat,” I said. I knew neither of us would be able to stomach much, but would be able to face the day more easily if we had some fuel.
We dressed in our sturdiest clothes, and I took care to hide our nightclothes under the bed linens. It might be completely unnecessary to hide our presence in the apartment from Hitler’s goons, but it was an advantage I didn’t want to lose.
We ate a simple breakfast of toast and eggs. It should have been a joyous occasion—the first meal I’d made for Samuel. The first meal we’d shared as man and wife in our own home. We picked wordlessly at our food, unable to speak about the horrors that had encircled us that night. I knew the same questions circled in his head as did in mine. Why had this happened? What was left of the city? Who among our neighbors had been left alone and who had gone missing?
After twenty minutes of trying to eat, Samuel pushed away his plate of cold eggs and half-eaten toast.
“I must go check on my family.”
I felt a lump of iron form in the pit of my stomach. They were immigrants. They had made no attempt to hide their identities. If the party had been targeting Jews, and it seems they always were, the Eisenbergs would have been prime targets.
But there would be no persuading Samuel to stay home. Nor would I want to have married a man who was willing to when he thought his family was in danger. We had no way of knowing what danger lay beyond our front door, but it was my sacred duty to follow him as we crossed the threshold.
SAMUEL TOOK MY hand as we walked the streets of Berlin toward his family home. We didn’t dare speak. We didn’t make eye contact with anyone, nor did they with us. The smoke burned our nostrils and scratched at our lungs. Books, clothing, and household goods were strewn among the shards of glass. Scattered like ashes over the cobblestones. I thought back to all the arguments between Mama and me about when it would become too dangerous to stay in Berlin. It was clear that we had crossed that threshold just that night. I had argued that when that moment came it would be impossible to leave. For perhaps the first time, I hoped I was wrong.
As we approached the Eisenbergs’ neighborhood, I realized the mistake we were making could be fatal. If people saw us anywhere in the vicinity of the Eisenberg apartment, they would recognize Samuel. They would connect him with me. Our best hope was that the chaos surrounding us would be enough to distract people from paying too much attention.
We didn’t need to enter the building to know that the instrument shop had been pillaged. Perhaps a dozen instruments—cellos, violins, violas—lay in splinters on the sidewalk. Countless hours of work destroyed for nothing. The building and the apartment above it still stood, but the contents had all been ransacked by expert looters.
The blood drained from Samuel’s face as he crossed into the shop, the door of which now lay in pieces by the entrance. His eyes were wild as they scanned for any sign of his parents or sister.
He bounded up the stairs, me a half pace behind him. The door was splintered and the apartment was as disheveled as the shop. China and glass everywhere.
“Mama! Papa! Lilla!” Samuel called once we shut the apartment door behind us. There was no answer.
Samuel knelt. Lilla’s violin lay on the parlor floor, pulverized by the heel of a jackboot.
Lilla. She would never have willingly left behind this treasure.
“Maybe they’ve hidden somewhere,” I said, knowing we ought to be doing the same.
Samuel cast his eyes up to me. He was clinging to that glimmer of hope.
“Samuel!” An unfamiliar voice called up the stairs. We rushed down to answer it.
The old man who’d lived in the building next door for more than half a century was doing his best to climb the stairs despite arthritic knees.
“Get out of here, boy!” he warned. “It isn’t safe.”
“Herr Vogt, what happened here?” Samuel asked.
“The same thing that has happened everywhere. They’re punishing the Jews for the assassination of some German secretary in Paris. Looting. Imprisonment. Burning synagogues. I’ve never been more ashamed to call myself a German.”
“But what of my family?” Samuel pressed. “Where have they gone?”
“I didn’t see for myself, but one of the neighbors said they saw them loaded up in a truck. Foreign-born Jews. More trouble with their passports, or some such foolishness.”
Samuel slumped onto the step and buried his head in his hands.
“Son, you can’t help them by getting caught. Get out of here and stay hidden the best you can. If I hear anything, I’ll find a way to send word.”
“You can find me—”
“Hush, boy. I know where to find you. I’ve known your parents since the day they arrived in this city and have always kept an eye on things. Go home. Don’t go the way you came. Have your wife run your errands and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourselves.” He turned to me. “Tilde, open your shop this afternoon as though it were any normal day. Do everything as you normally would and pretend all this is just ‘unfortunate business that happened to others.’ If you want to keep Samuel safe tell everyone who will listen that you are a German-born Aryan and do anything you can to keep that story alive.”
I nodded and pulled Samuel to his feet and back onto the street, leaving Herr Vogt to hobble back to his own apartment alone. I’d never met the man, never even been properly introduced, but it was the only advice we’d been given, and it seemed like the best we could ask for.
My mother’s apartment—our apartment—seemed colder and more unwelcoming than I’d ever felt it. Samuel’s face was gaunt, and I couldn’t tell if he needed a hearty meal, a week of sleep, or both. If he was anything like me, he wouldn’t be equal to food, so I made up the bed and ordered him to rest in it while I carried out Herr Vogt’s orders and opened the shop. According to my watch, I was only a quarter of an hour behind schedule, which could easily be explained by all the “unfortunate business” that had happened in the neighborhood.
Klara bounded in not long after I’d flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, panting to catch her breath. “My father says the damage is everywhere. I had to lie to get out of the house.”
“I saw some of it,” I admitted. The worry for my parents-in-law and sister-in-law had to be plain in my voice, but I tried to master it. Klara might be sweet enough, but her parents were party members and their loyalty to the Nazi cause was sacrosanct. “Are you well? I wonder that you didn’t spend the day at home with all the chaos in town.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Listen, my father seems to think things are going to get worse before they get better. Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course,” I said. I’d never admitted to her that I was Jewish. And I never would. I wondered if her concern now wasn’t just a ploy to get me to confess my vulnerability. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re alone,” she said. “It’s uncertain times. If you want to stay with us, I’m sure I can get my parents to agree.”
She didn’t know about Samuel. This was good. Or claimed not to. I wouldn’t enlighten her.
“You’re so sweet, Klara. I confess I was worried. I had no idea what was going on. I spent the night under my bed fearing that the world was coming to an end. But clearly it was just some . . . unpleasantness.”
“That’s one way to put it,” she said wryly. “But truthfully, if you don’t want to be alone, you needn’t be.”
“You’re after free lessons,” I said with a wink.
“You’ve spotted me in my own con,” she said. “My very own live-in tutor.”
“You can’t afford me full-time,” I said with a flippant chuckle. I walked over to some new claret-red wool we’d had in a few weeks prior. I cut six yards and wrapped it for her, along with a pattern for a flattering suit with a particularly fussy lapel. The color would complement her complexion and the heavier fabric would be practical with the coming winter. “I want you to work on this suit before I come see you next. You need a challenge to take your mind off all this,” I said, gesturing to the world outside.
“If only things were solved so easily,” she said, accepting the parcel. “I’m not doing much sewing these days, but it’ll do more good than harm to have a project.”
“Well said.” I opened the door to the shop and watched as she merged with the ever-increasing foot traffic outside and went back to the outskirts of the city.
And for a moment, I envied her hours of oblivion as she sat at her machine and lost herself in her craft for a few days. She didn’t have to worry about her family disappearing. She didn’t have to worry about thugs breaking down her door as she slept. She would sleep soundly and wake untroubled—a luxury I hadn’t known in years and wondered if I would ever know again.
And for hours I would have to keep at my station while my husband worried over what had happened to his family. It was true that we all might be in the same ocean, but some were sailing on very different vessels.