1938
Jules put down his newspaper and listened carefully to the radio. “Hanna,” he called loudly.
“I am coming,” she said from the kitchen. Shortly, she arrived with a tray, holding cups of tea and some pieces of cake left over from the weekend.
“Listen,” he said, motioning to her to pay attention.
The news commentator was angrily explaining that in Paris, France, a Jew had murdered a German embassy official without the least provocation. It is part of the Jews’ avaricious plot to dominate the world, he raved. They had selected the Third Reich, the only force not yet under their insidious grasp for power, as their main target, and here was a prime example of their perfidious conspiracy to rule all mankind.
Jules’ face was red with anger. He got up and snapped off the radio.
“There will be the devil to pay now,” he murmured, going to the wine cabinet and taking out a bottle of schnapps. His hands were shaking so hard that he had trouble filling a glass.
“Can it be worse?” said Hanna, placing a cup of tea by his chair. “After five years of that crazy man, Hitler, what more can he do?”
“I don’t know,” said Jules, shaking his head with exasperation. “I really don’t know.”
In truth, though, Jules had been one of the luckier people. While all Jewish professionals were being restricted or prohibited from practicing their occupations with non-Jews, and his own department store boycotted, he and Hanna had gotten along well on his savings and her fortune. What had pained them the most was communication with Paul, which had been severely curtailed. They had learned that he had remained with the London hospital as a resident doctor, had married Gabrielle the following year, and that they were doing well financially. Hanna was not concerned about that, for years ago she had given Paul power of attorney over her accounts in Switzerland, and she had told him in no uncertain terms to take whatever he needed. Also, there was Natalie’s stock in the United States, which had been growing yearly.
Hanna and Jules had discussed their future a number of times. They realized that they had miscalculated, that they should have left Germany when the opportunity was still available, and they had even put out feelers to the Office of Jewish Emigration about obtaining permits to leave the country. It was an open secret that Reinhard Heydrich, the Number Two man of the Schutzstaffel, the dreaded SS, was the instigator and administrator of the exit permit project, and that he was enriching the SS and himself beyond their wildest dreams. The word had come down to the Jewish community that permits were possible, but only for those with large holdings, and that everything, including foreign bank accounts, property outside Germany, and whatever could be raised from relatives and friends, would be the necessary payment. The decision to issue an exit permit, they added, would be made only after a thorough investigation and complete accounting. It was ransom, pure and simple, but most of the Jews were suspicious. Suppose they listed all of their assets, and the permit was not issued? The Nazis would now know what they owned and could use devious means to seize their valuables.
The two had decided to take the chance by the end of the year. And now, this killing by the Jew in Paris.
“Drink the tea,” ordered Hanna. “It will calm you down.” She took a seat and began to work on knitting a sweater for Jules.
“Tea! This schnapps is more necessary. Do you want a Likör?”
“No, thanks. Tea is better.” She held up her work. “You should put on some weight. You are as slim as a boy.” She sipped at her tea. “Tomorrow I am going to speak with Herr von Kaltenberger.”
Late the following morning, she was ushered into the attorney’s office. It had expanded greatly, and now occupied an entire floor. However, he had moved back his calendar to speak with her.
After the pleasantries and a cup of tea, Hanna got down to business. “Herr von Kaltenberger, you have heard of the killing in Paris, I am sure.”
“That was a stupid act on the part of that man,” he replied, his face dark with anger.
“I can see it might not end there,” said Hanna. “I wondered if you could give me some advice about the Office of Jewish Emigration?”
“I don’t understand why you have not gotten out of Germany before now.”
“It has been a combination of hope that conditions would improve, of this being our home, and perhaps having let time pass too quickly.”
“I assume you are ready to leave now?”
“Yes. Herr Weiner and I, together. But we are concerned about whether we will obtain the permits.”
The attorney had put on more weight, and his face was bloated with good living and contentment. “You were left with…how much?”
“Six million marks. I have spent about five hundred thousand.”
“And Herr Weiner?”
“He can raise about three hundred thousand.”
Von Kaltenberger pursed his lips. “That should be adequate for exit permits,” he said casually. His eyes were hooded, alert.
“We do not mind leaving Germany with what is on our backs. What we would like, though, is to be certain we do leave.”
The attorney now stared at Hanna, sizing her up. “Frau Charnoff,” he finally said. “Certainty has a price.”
“How much?” She said it as calmly as if she was ordering some dress material, but her heart was thumping.
Von Kaltenberger thought over the question carefully. “About five million of the marks you now have.” Then he leaned forward. “Plus one million American dollars,” he added softly. “In cash.”
Hanna had faced crucial situations before, so she did not make the mistake of a long deliberation. “The marks are readily available, of course. As for the dollars, I will have to contact some friends. How can it be gotten into the country from abroad?”
“I will go to get it. Which country?”
“Switzerland.” She would use the smaller account. There was a little over one million dollars deposited in that bank.
“You will have to give me an authorization.”
She had decided not to bluff or act the innocent. “Of course. When can you guarantee the exit permits?”
He stood up. “One moment, please.” Then he left the office. In about five minutes, he returned. “I have been assured that you will obtain the permits directly upon my return. You will not, of course, mention your Swiss account in your exit questionnaire.”
“I will remember.”
He drew up an authorization for a bank that she mentioned in Switzerland to pay to the bearer the sum decided upon, to divulge the secret number, had her sign it, and then called in one of his clerks to notarize the document. “I will leave tomorrow,” he said, when all was completed. “I should return the day after.”
“Very well.” She stood up. “And thank you.”
Just before sunrise the following day, the phone rang. Hanna switched on a light, padded downstairs, and took the call. She heard a voice being deliberately muffled, but she recognized it at once as belonging to Elfriede.
“Frau Charnoff,” it said gruffly. “Get out of Germany. Right away.”
She had met Elfriede half a dozen or more times for coffee or tea since giving up her company. The German woman had retained her position as general manager for the new owners, and she often chuckled that her ample salary was a bone of contention between her husband and herself. She had also mentioned a couple of times that Hanna should consider leaving Germany.
“I will be putting in for an exit permit in a few days,” Hanna said to the caller.
“It will be too late. Orders were received a couple of hours ago to attack the Jews. Your synagogue is already on fire. They have killed your Rabbi Gluck. Get into your car and go south. Try to slip into Switzerland. Use any means.” The voice faltered. “I am sorry, but I cannot say more.”
There was a long silence, and then Hanna said, “All right. I will do as you say. Thank you, my friend.”
“Good luck…my friend.” The connection was cut off.
Hanna let the phone drop to the hook. She turned a horrified face towards Jules, who had come down during the conversation. “They have attacked the Jews. Rabbi Gluck is dead. The synagogue is on fire.”
“Oh, my God!” said Jules. “Who told you that?”
“A good friend. We must run, at once.”
“Run where?”
“We must get in the car and start driving–towards Switzerland.”
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll pack a bag.”
She stood there as he started up the stairs. Then, suddenly, from out of her memory came the evening when she was walking home, just after Natalie died. It was raining, and lightning had filled the sky. She had asked herself whether this was to be a life of thunder. The thunder never stopped. It went from Russia to Stephen and Germany to Jakob and Natalie. And now, it was here with Jules. God, oh God. Stürmische Lande, went through her mind. The lands of thunder.
She started towards the staircase. “Hanna,” she heard. She looked up.
Jules was staring intently at her, his single eye as sad as the day Natalie died.
“Yes, Jules.” The blood had frozen in her veins.
“I would like you to go alone.”
She shook her head, a tightness in her throat almost choking her. She had sensed that this was coming from the moment he spoke her name. “I will not go without you.”
He stepped forward slowly and took her into his arms, holding her close.
She felt the tears falling down his cheeks. She closed her eyes, to shut out the world, to focus in her brain only the sight of him, holding her tightly.
He moved back. “I must say this, Hanna. I have loved you with all my heart for many, many years. I wish you could have been my wife.” He leaned down and kissed her eyes, then her lips. She looked up at him with the accumulated years of happiness on her face. “I am going upstairs to get dressed now,” he said quietly. “I want to be ready when they come.” He looked at her again with infinite tenderness. “Please go, Hanna. I beg you.” She shook her head again, unable to reply. He placed an arm around her shoulders, and together they went up the steps to don their clothing.
She was in the kitchen preparing their breakfast when she heard the pounding on the front door.
“Open up, there! Gestapo!”
As she put down the food, she found her hands shaking with fright. She walked slowly into the hallway, her hand over her mouth, barely able to breathe.
“Open the door, Hanna,” came Jules’ voice. She looked up the stairs. He was descending. He was dressed in his army uniform, in gleaming boots, his medals on his chest, his saber and pistol at his side, his helmet brightly polished. He had not worn it for four years–since the twentieth anniversary of the Kriegsgefahr of his army unit. His thick eyeglasses made his black patch and remaining eye loom large.
They were pounding harder, so she unlocked the door. It flew open. In strode two heavily featured men, clad in long, black leather coats. Behind them was a squad of SS, armed with rifles and sub-machine guns.
The Gestapo agents stopped in surprise at the sight of the uniformed officer, coming down the steps. Then one, his lips twitching with disdain, stepped forward. “Are you Jules Weiner, the Jew?” he asked harshly.
Jules halted two steps from the bottom so he could look down on the intruders. “I am Herr Leutnant Jules Weiner,” he said tightly. “Of the German people.”
The Gestapo agent exploded in fury. “You bastard Jew!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “What are you doing in that uniform?” Without waiting for a reply, he pointed a finger shaking with anger at Jules. “You are under arrest, you slime-faced Yid.” He shifted his head to glare at Hanna. “Are you Hanna Charnoff, Jewess?”
She nodded, the ice still in her veins; her lungs clamped shut with terror.
“You are also under arrest! Both of you, outside! Get into the truck.”
“One moment!” snapped Jules. He was not going to allow himself to be intimidated by this arrogant animal. “By what authority are you here?”
“Authority!” screamed the agent, amazed that anyone, especially a Jew, would challenge his order. It was unheard of. Raging, he leaped forward and drove his fist viciously into Jules’ midriff.
Jules let out a gasp of pain and bent forward in agony. He slipped off the steps and fell in a heap on the floor. Hanna bit off a cry of fear and went to his side. She knelt to help him.
“Outside, Jews,” shouted the agent again. “Or I’ll have the soldiers use their rifle butts.”
Jules climbed painfully to his feet; his face white with pain and mounting fury. “Get out of my house!” he shouted in return. “You have no right here. Get out!”
He pulled open the holster of the pistol at his side. Hanna opened her mouth to cry for him to stop.
“Watch out!” yelled the agent.
His companion acted immediately. He whipped out a pistol he had been holding in his pocket and fired.
Hanna’s scream broke forth as she saw Jules struck squarely in the chest.
He staggered back; his face contorted with shock, and then his own pistol was free. Holding tightly to the rail to steady himself, he fired. A small, dark hole appeared like magic in the forehead of the agent who shot him. He stumbled back into the path of the SS soldiers coming through the door.
The first agent now had his pistol out. He fired twice, in quick succession!
Jules’ nose shattered and his throat was torn open. He fell to his knees, gagging; his gun falling to the floor.
In front of Hanna’s horrified eyes, blood gushed from his mouth. The agent stepped closer and fired twice again. Jules’ helmet flew off, and his head cracked open.
Hanna froze with shock, and then she spun towards the Gestapo agent. “Cossack!” she screamed. “Cossack!” She dropped to her knees on the floor and grabbed up Jules’ pistol. As she turned, a spear of white hot metal bored through her side, slamming her back against Jules’ body. The agent’s finger tightened for a second shot. With pain flooding throughout her, she pulled the trigger in desperation. The Gestapo agent grunted loudly as a bullet struck him in the shoulder. He quivered from the blow, and then he fired again.
A bolt of lightning struck her at the side of her head, whirling her into black oblivion!