August 1938
The law is not truth, Tilde. It’s only a glimpse into the values of man at any given point in history. Don’t confuse the laws of men with the word of God.” My grandfather’s words rang in my ears as though he’d spoken them yesterday. I thought of him more and more these days as the regime squeezed the life from our people like a boa with his prey. I’d longed to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps, and my father’s, but that dream was dead now.
“Good afternoon, Frau Fischer,” I said, the tinkle of the shop bell stirring me from the courtroom back to the fabric shop. “I trust you’re well.”
She was a tall, imposing sort of woman with a pinched face that looked perpetually disappointed with everyone and everything. “Fine, fine, thank you. Have you got any more of that nice white calico with the pink flowers that I bought last month? I’d like to make a dress for my granddaughter.”
“I don’t believe we do, Frau Fischer. That particular floral was quite popular. But we’ve had a few new prints come in, several of which would do quite nicely for a young girl.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh so deep one would think I’d asked her to swim the Atlantic to claim her fabric. I pulled several bolts of the floral calico that was becoming more and more popular as the magazines steered away from the high fashion of Paris and toward a more “wholesome” traditional aesthetic. Plain dresses with high necks made of sturdy fabrics. Sensible, feminine, and utterly boring. I held in a sigh of my own as I set the fabric on the cutting table for her to examine. A floral print was fine from time to time, but I’d seen enough in the past two years that I swore I’d never wear a dress made of the stuff again in my life. I personally favored the clean lines and bold colors that were gaining in popularity elsewhere. I longed for a tube of red lipstick like the American actresses wore, but Mama would have killed me for wearing something so daring.
I showed Frau Fischer a soft periwinkle blue with white poppies, a pretty lavender with yellow daisies, and a green with peonies. Nothing was quite right, but she settled for a pink-and-cream print with roses that was close enough to her original that she gave in. She selected some thread, buttons, and trim to complete the job.
“I’m sure she’ll be the prettiest girl in her class,” I said as I cut the yardage for her and wrapped the purchases into a parcel.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s a shame she has to attend public school at all, but her father insists. So many undesirables these days. I taught my girls at home, and I’d hoped my daughter would do the same. But I suppose there’s only so much a grandmother can do.”
Undesirables. She didn’t have to say what she meant. Foreigners. Gypsies. Jews like me. I forced a smile as I accepted her payment and let it sink into a scowl as she left.
I was a Mischling, of mixed blood. My mother was Jewish, and my father was a Gentile. He abandoned us as soon as it became clear that Jews would be facing persecution when the Nuremberg Laws were passed three years earlier. Papa insisted on a divorce, and my mother and I had no choice but to move from Papa’s beautiful Charlottenburg town house to the ancient apartment above a yardage shop. Mama had come up with just enough savings to buy the apartment and the shop and had used her ingenuity and sweat to turn the rickety building into a home worth living in and a shop worth patronizing. We were left to run this modest fabric shop and scrape together our living selling yardage, doing odd tailoring jobs, and occasionally giving sewing lessons to girls from families who could afford such little luxuries. Thankfully Mama’s skill with a needle soon became renowned in the neighborhood and she took the time to teach me what she knew. It had taken us three years, but we finally had a loyal clientele.
I switched the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and locked the door for a few moments so I could go check on Mama. Spending the bulk of her life upstairs took its toll and the more I looked in on her, the less isolated she felt.
“Ah, sweetheart. Look at how the dress for the Vogel woman is coming along. Good work, though I run the risk of being boastful by saying so.”
A lovely day dress in dove-gray wool graced the mannequin. It only needed hemming and a few finishing touches, but even the uninitiated could see that this was the work of a master craftswoman.
“It’s not boastful if it’s true, Mama. It’s gorgeous work. I couldn’t in a million years finish a seam as beautifully as you do. It’s far too lovely for the likes of that cow.”
“You shouldn’t say such things. Especially about a good client. Even if you’re right.” She snorted at her own jibe. Frau Vogel had been the most demanding woman we’d met in our years of running the shop. No matter what lengths we went to, there was no pleasing her.
Mama did most of the tailoring upstairs and I was the face of the shop. She looked “too Jewish” for the neighborhood and would be a liability for our safety and finances. My mother’s absence was the main reason we were able to stay in business. Because of my father, my hair was a soft caramel brown and I had hazel-green eyes. Altman wasn’t a surname that attracted suspicion as it was a “good German name.” Mama and I didn’t belong to a congregation, choosing to pray in the safety of our own home.
I denied my heritage to save my neck. And, necessary as it was, there wasn’t a day I didn’t hate myself for it.
“I’ll make dresses like this for you to wear under your judge’s robes,” Mama said. She had never thought my hopes to enter the law were silly or unrealistic. My father always thought my passion for his profession was both quaint and flattering, but never a realistic prospect. My grandfather—my mother’s father—was a different matter entirely. He’d made no attempts to hide the fact that the road to a legal career was a slog for a woman, but rather than discourage me from the pursuit, he endeavored to show me I was equal to it.
He’d been a preeminent lawyer and a senior partner in one of the largest law firms in Berlin. When my father entered the firm as a promising young attorney, it was my grandfather who mentored him, and later introduced him to his precious daughter. Mama claimed it was love at first sight, but that changed when having a Jewish wife and a Mischling daughter became tantamount to professional suicide. He claimed the divorce was just a formality, that he would be with us much the same as he had been, but he remarried to a blond, doe-eyed woman from the “right” family barely three months after we moved out.
Grandfather refused to work with him after that and had been applying pressure for the other partners to force Father out. But then the laws came down that disqualified Jews from practicing law and his battle was left unfinished. What was worse, Father was promoted to Grandfather’s position as senior partner. It was too much for Grandfather’s heart to bear and he died not six months after the goons made him pack his desk. I only wish he’d lived to see how well we’d rebounded after Father left us behind.
“I have another party dress for Frau Becker to start on, too. Emerald satin. It would look far better on you, but so would most everything.”
I bent down and kissed Mama on the cheek. For all the ways my father had failed me, Mama was parent enough for both of them.
THERE WAS A small cluster of people waiting for me to reopen, some looking rather impatient, though none could have been waiting for more than a few minutes. I swallowed a sigh, for too many customers was far less grave a concern than the inverse. Three women pushed in right away. They were the ones armed with a lifetime of experience tending families and came with fabrics already in mind and a list of notions at the ready. They were rarely friendly but were efficient as customers, which was of far more importance.
After the gaggle of housewives cleared out, I noticed in their wake a tall, pale young man with a mane of curly black hair stuffed under a dark cap. While we did have the occasional male customer, he didn’t seem like our usual confirmed bachelor sort who were determined to learn how to do a bit of mending. He looked vaguely frightened to be in such a feminine domain and seemed relieved when the other customers left.
“You’re lucky you survived. They’ve been known to trample a man if the notion takes them,” I said, replacing fabric on the shelves.
“Thank you for the warning. I’m glad I made it out with my life.” He spoke with a slight accent, and I realized his mother was one of the Polish immigrants who frequented the store. She was a sweet woman, and I could see that same kindness in her son.
“It’s your lucky day, it would seem. And a fortuitous day for buying fabric. What can I get for you?”
“Well, it’s a gift for my sister. My mother wants to make her a dress for her birthday.”
“Ah, is it a special birthday?” I asked.
“She’ll be twelve,” he said. He cast his eyes downward for a moment as though he were betraying a secret. It was possibly the most significant birthday his sister would have, and this was meant to be no ordinary dress. She was coming of age, according to our laws. If she had been born a boy, she would have become a bar mitzvah at thirteen and read from the Torah before the congregation. As she was a girl, she would take those first steps into adulthood a year earlier. There wouldn’t be the same ceremonies, but she would most likely have a special meal and hearty congratulations from her congregation. And a new dress.
“Ah, becoming a young lady. Nothing too babyish, then.”
“Exactly right,” he said. “I thought sixteen was traditionally the significant birthday among—” He stopped himself short.
“It is, among the Gentiles,” I said.
“But you’re not?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I thought I sensed something of the kindred in you,” he said. “But you don’t . . .”
“My father isn’t,” I said simply.
“Ah.”
I turned my attention back to the task at hand. I found a pattern that I knew would suit her well. It was still demure enough for someone so young but acknowledged the transition to womanhood with subtle nips and tucks in the right places.
“That should do well,” he said, not paying much attention to the details of the design. I stood, arms akimbo, considering a few fabric choices.
“Is she dark haired like you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Though her skin is a bit fairer.”
“She would do well in a nice plum color. Perhaps a nice rayon crepe? It’s light but a bit more durable than chiffon. It should last her a few seasons at the least. If you’re looking for something more durable, I’m sure we can find some nice calico.”
“I think the rayon would do well,” he said. “Since it’s meant to be a treat.”
“Very well,” I said. Mama had stocked the rayon on a higher shelf because winter wools and tweeds would soon come in and most people had already done their summer sewing. I glanced up at the stacked bolts of fabric and decided climbing up the shelves like a monkey wouldn’t be exactly professional. “I just need to get the stepladder.”
“Let me help,” he said. “I can reach it for you.”
He came to my side, reached the fabric I pointed to, and placed it in my arms. I felt pinpricks of electricity on my skin when he looked at me, rooted in place. Never before had a man’s proximity registered with me in such a way, and it was all I could do not to stammer like a fool.
“You smell like lilac and vanilla,” he said, breathing deeply. He shook his head and took a step back. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”
“N-no,” I said. “It’s fine.” It was more than fine. I’d had a few crushes in school so I wasn’t completely inexperienced with the sensation of flutters in the stomach and sweaty palms, but those seemed trifling compared to the sensation I felt now. I hadn’t considered taking in his scent, but now that I did it was a pleasant combination of freshly laundered cotton and linseed oil. I supposed he worked as a carpenter or in some other line of work that required him to finish furniture.
I went about cutting the fabric and gathering the notions his mother would need to complete the dress. When I presented him with the parcel, he looked reluctant to leave.
“I hope your sister will enjoy the dress. Every girl needs something pretty to wear on such an important birthday.” His eyes flashed upward and he smiled. She was important to him.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .”
“Altman,” I said. “Mathilde Altman. Everyone calls me Tilde.”
“I’m Samuel Eisenberg,” he said. “I hope I have the chance to see you again soon.”
I nodded and felt the warmth of a genuine smile spread across my face. The occasions for smiling were rare enough now that the sensation seemed foreign. He took my hand in his ever so briefly before he left, and at once all the evil that surrounded us seemed blissfully unimportant and distant, even though neither was true.