CHAPTER 1

PAPA 1921

Kneeling on a high-backed chair, my face propped on my open palms, I wait by the window and watch as the rain clatters against the glass and the cobbled streets below. Shutters are rattling in the wind. The streets of Vienna are wet and puddled. People are rushing about in the cold downpour, and there are so many round black umbrellas darting in and out of doorways that they look like crazed turtles. I can see only the fluttering domes, not the people beneath them as they flit about, zigzagging, colliding and parting, each in search of his own shelter.

Brownstone apartment buildings stand in rows on both sides of the wide street. Our home is in one of the spacious flats at 56 Lichtenstein Strasse. Our parents have lived here since their wedding day, and it is in this home that Mama has given birth to each of her children. We are three girls, of which I am the youngest. “Nini, you must come now. It’s time for bed,” my mother calls.

My older sisters, Erna, who’s thirteen, and Stella, who’s ten, don’t have to go to bed yet. They call me “Baby” although I’m five already. Good Austrian names have been chosen for each of us to connect us firmly to our homeland. My real name, which no one uses, is Gerda. My father has nicknamed me “Kindi,” meaning “Little Child,” a term of endearment that I cherish. In my baby version of this, however, they say that I used to repeat “Nini” and that is the version that has stuck. My sisters are always teasing me about my silly name. I’m the only one who is not called by a given name, and although I hate their taunting calls, secretly I think that I am the special one, the one that Papa loves best because of his pet name for me.

He is my protector, the source of all wisdom and strength that holds the family together. His skill as a businessman is widely extolled as he has established three large department stores of considerable repute in Vienna. He is proud to announce that his wife and children will always be well cared for and will want for nothing, living in this perfect world. He is a patriotic Austrian and reminds us often of our duty to the beloved country of our birth. My favourite time of day is the moment when he arrives home from work and swings me up in a tight embrace. I feel his prickly face rub against my cheek as I inhale his aftershave cologne, a mixture of wet wood and spice. His robust laugh starts deep in his belly and erupts, rippling in bursts, filling the room with spontaneous joy. We gather around his big deep chair where he plops in weary contentment at the end of the day to listen to our stories and to give us the benefit of his advice. He has discovered many things about the world, about human nature, and these he uses in business to his advantage. He often tries to share his thoughts with us, punctuated with colourful detail.

“There will be times, my children, remember my words, when you will rely on the help of a stranger, perhaps even an enemy. At that moment you will have to walk away from your own pride and make a deal, if necessary, even with the Devil, himself. If the need arises, you must be brave and search for any means, no matter how harsh. Don’t be afraid to fight for your rights, and never lose the courage to save yourself, or to rescue someone in the family. In this world you will meet obstacles of all kinds. Search for the help that you require, no matter the source. If necessary, put pride aside and cut the hangman’s rope from around a murderer’s neck, even as he is strung on the gallows. If he is the one who can preserve you, you must free him. There is nothing that you should not do to survive. Only the strongest of us will succeed in life. You, my children, will have that strength.”

We always listen to his words in rapt concentration and confusion. We try to memorize these stories and morals but can neither understand their meaning nor imagine any possibility of their use. As I look at my older sisters, I can see that they have no greater comprehension than I do. Their mouths agape, they try to absorb the bizarre imagery and hidden message but can’t truly comprehend the mysterious words. Still, I know that this advice will be repeated again and again, as are many other stories, each told in grave consideration, weighed and measured, then offered as tiny treasures to be safeguarded and tucked away for use some day.

“And how are my young ladies today?” he asks in a tone of mock seriousness. My sisters and I curtsy and reply, “Well and happy, dear sir.”

Then we abandon all pretext of etiquette and run to squeeze him in our arms. Mama laughs and scolds, “Leave Papa in peace. The poor man is exhausted and can’t contend with you all.”

Mama is getting rounder each day and now her belly is so full that she can’t lift me. Anyway, I am too grown up to be carried around like a baby. My sisters have told me that Mama has a new baby inside her tummy and that I will soon be displaced as the youngest. At first I don’t believe them but Mama says that it’s true and she has let me touch the spot where the baby is alive, hiding where we can’t see it deep within her expanding body. I have felt it kick my hand as if it knows I am there.

Reluctantly I kiss Mama and Papa and am bundled off to bed by the nanny. I don’t like the dark and pull the covers close up to my nose for warmth and security and close my eyes to block out the demons that seem to haunt the shadowy corners and creak in the floors at night. I hate the rumbling thunder that starts growling far away, moving ever closer until it becomes a booming roar that shakes the walls. Lightning fractures the sky and suddenly illuminates the room, casting eerie shadows of fairytale witches and ogres.

When I scream Mama rushes in to reassure me that the storm will soon pass and that good little girls will be kept safe in their beds until the morning light. She sings a lullaby, an old tune in Yiddish, and hugs me in her arms until I can shut out the monsters and settle into the soothing depths of a child’s sleep.

A lady comes to our home to visit sometimes, carrying a small leather bag with her. She spends her time mostly with Mama, in her room, with the door closed. Mama says that she is called a midwife and that she will help to get the baby out of Mama’s belly. I am mystified by this notion but not frightened because Mama tells us that we each came into the world this way and that everything will be fine.

One day the lady arrives as usual but Mama is in her bed and not feeling too well. Her face is flushed, with drops of perspiration on her forehead, and she begs us not to disturb her. When I creep into the bedroom to see her, she looks so different to me, just a head with a huge mound attached, concealed beneath the covers. When the midwife arrives, she appears more serious than usual and hurries in to see Mama without her usual greetings to us. I am hustled out of the room.

The two women are closed away for a long time. The midwife has a white apron tied neatly around her middle and her hair is tied back with a kerchief. She is very serious and snaps orders to everyone around. A maid dashes about, carrying in tubs of steaming hot water and piles of clean towels, and rushing out again with soiled ones. Papa has come home early today looking pale and worried but he doesn’t go in to see Mama. He is fidgety and impatient, unable to sit still or listen to our stories. We can hear some noises from the room that sound like Mama crying and talking at the same time, punctuated by the midwife’s stern commands, followed by softer words. Then there is silence alternating with sobs and wails. We are frightened by all the strange sounds but are hushed by the nanny and told not to ask questions or to bother anyone.

We are all sent to bed at our regular time but the midwife is still with Mama and the muffled sounds coming from her room are getting louder. I can’t fall asleep because of the agitated voices that fill the house. For many hours I try to lie as still as possible in my bed, hugging my rag doll close to my face and concentrating on the sounds in the other room. Hurried footsteps click on the wooden floors of the hallway. There are long periods of silence. Finally my eyelids feel heavy and I rub my sore eyes and drift off.

In the early morning, Papa, his face lit with excitement and joy, awakens us with the news that we have a new baby brother. We scramble out of our beds and run to see the newest family member, cradled in Mama’s arms. Propped up by plump white pillows, she is sitting in her bed, holding a very tiny bundle wrapped in blankets and announces that the small red face screaming uncontrollably is our new little brother named Willi. This is a wondrous occasion for us all, especially Papa, who is overjoyed to have a son at last. We girls fuss over the baby and argue immediately over who will hold him and play with him. We lean forward in amazement trying to get a better view of the tiny fingers and toes of the new little being, his eyes tightly shut. Mama and Papa explain that we have become big sisters now and that Willi will need us to take care of him. We each nod our heads in acceptance of our new roles and consider this to be a serious responsibility.

Papa is proud of his only son and speaks glowingly about plans for him as he grows. He has so much to tell him, sharing with him the advice that he has learned, guiding him along his path. He will become a young Austrian, comfortable in his native land, able to take over the business or to pursue a profession of his choosing. With a large family such as ours, Papa puts great importance on provisions for our futures. He and Mama talk about the suitable marriages that will one day take place for me and for my sisters and a look of peaceful contentment settles over his face. He is satisfied and confident that everything will be as it should.

We are awed by the changes in the baby within his first year. Every day he seems to learn some new word and we marvel at his performance. We rediscover our commonplace surroundings, seen through his fresh eyes, everything done or observed for the very first time. Entranced, we watch as he reacts to his small world with the pure delight of innocence and magic. When I put my finger into his hand, he grasps it with all his might and doesn’t want to let go.

Bath time is an adventure of slapping and splashing. We gather together, wide-eyed as the pudgy arms flap and splatter the water, and the baby’s startled reactions make us giggle. His first tastes of food are met with gusto or adamant rejection and squishy grimaces. When we go outside, the miracles continue from the surprise of the first raindrop flicking on his eyelash to the touch of any unfamiliar object clutched in his round baby fist. His first gurgling laugh is greeted with applause from everyone. Crawling on all fours like a puppy, he surveys his home. Although only five years separate us, I feel grown up and protective of my little brother.

I am allowed to feed the bottle to the baby sometimes by holding him in my arms very carefully and letting him suck on the rubber nipple. The milk is tipped towards him and the liquid pours down his hungry throat. He gulps it so quickly that I’m afraid he will choke.

While he drinks he holds my finger firmly in his fist, not letting go, and if the rubber nipple slips out of his mouth he immediately starts howling for more.

“I want to feed him next,” Stella says, pushing my arm. “It’s my turn anyway.”

“No,” I shout, “it’s my turn, you just did it last time.”

“Stop fighting or Mama will be cross with you both,” Erna admonishes us.

Papa does not interfere in our squabbles. He sinks back into his favourite chair, which hugs him like an old friend, and rustles his newspaper. A contented smile crinkles lines around his lips and eyes. Things have returned to normal, sound and secure: his wife is busy with the children and his household is at ease.