CHAPTER 11

THE DEVIL’S WARRIOR 1938

Early the next morning the heavy boots of Gestapo soldiers thump on the steps as they enter our home. They present the documents of confiscation to Mama. Her hand is trembling and her face is ghostly pale but she signs the papers without a word and without a tear. Standing as straight as I can beside her chair, my hand clenched tightly on the frame, I try to remain as brave as Mama, who will not cower before the uniformed men. Towering over us, tall and unflinching, one staring vacantly and disinterestedly into space, the other two sneering their haughty disdain, they have come to plunder all of Papa’s hard work, the dreams of his lifetime and all that he had believed in and treasured. I know that her heart is pounding with fear like mine, and with anger at the corruption and injustice.

When they shut the door behind them, we remain suspended in silent agony. The full impact of the act hits us with a blunt thud. At first we cannot move or speak, cannot fully comprehend what has happened. We focus on Mama’s face and search for the courage she has always shown, courage that will allow us to endure this latest travesty. But she has changed. She no longer seems the figure of resolve that could surmount the most severe obstacles placed before her. She appears suddenly shrunken, her shoulders hunched in defeat, dry-eyed, gazing into space, her mind trapped in shock. We fear she has given up or that she is suffering a nervous breakdown.

I smooth the wisps of grey hair back from her forehead, then kneel beside her, at her feet. Holding her hand in mine, I try to speak to her as gently as possible, although my own emotions are rattling in my chest and threatening to overwhelm me. With tears clouding my vision I beg her to listen. “Mama, we will be all right. You know at least that we are all still together and safe. We have not been taken away like so many others. We will find a way to leave Vienna and to build a new life. Please, Mama, we need you to be strong.”

She turns towards us. The pride that was so important to her, the sanctity of her household, the safety of her family had been eroded. She reminds me of a stray animal, searching for a way home. When Papa died we feared she would fall apart and never conquer the pain, but she was able to carry on. Throughout the hardships of widowhood with four dependent children she carried on, but now, what has she left to keep her from giving up?

All day she sits by the window, hardly speaking, not able to eat or function in any way. Willi and I are worried about her but go about our own activities. I still go to open the store and Willi heads off to see Fritz and Erna. The circumstances of our existence are more oppressive than ever.

That evening when we return home there are only a few words exchanged among the three of us. After our simple dinner, just bread and some stew reheated from the night before, Willi and I are surprised to see Mama reach for the needlepoint in the basket by her chair.

“Nini, perhaps you could make some hot tea for us all and then we can go to bed. Tomorrow I will search for some solution to this mess,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Willi and I head out to the kitchen to make the tea.

“Do you think that Mama has gone mad?” he asks as we wait for the water to boil.

“No, probably not. I’ve seen this before.” I take cups and saucers from the cupboard. “She sets her mind on something familiar and comforting and then she can go on. No matter how awful the circumstances, she is determined to persevere. We will have to do the same.”

I have tried to comfort Willi but only believe part of what I have said. Mama’s forced composure, I think, will not be enough this time. We will need more than that, a real plan of escape, a destination and means of leaving this horror behind.

All the family is caught up in the whirlwind. Whenever I see Stella and Walter or Erna and Fritz and their little girl, Lily, we talk about rumours, news of places that might take Jews in – countries that don’t demand visas or vast sums of money to open their doors. But until now there is nothing definite, no place to go.

The next day I am alone in the store, trying to attend to business. Somehow, life goes on – people still need the things that we sell, yards of cloth to be made into clothing, linens, hats and gloves, stockings. But I am worried that the shelves are growing sparse, wondering how long we will manage with what we have as we are unable to purchase more from manufacturers who will no longer do business with us.

Suddenly, as I am waiting on a customer, an SS officer enters. He is dressed in a black uniform, precise in its detail, terrifying in its cold perfection, from his peaked cap and white gloves pulled tightly on his hands to the sheen of his high black leather boots. A gun hangs at his hip and a scarlet swastika armband encircles his upper arm. He has come to claim the business. Without it we will starve to death. He holds the documents that Mama has signed under duress as he marches into the store. He has the pompous air of a conquering hero and the calm arrogance that the uniform has provided.

In dismay I observe our customers raise their arms in a stiff Nazi salute and utter “Heil Hitler” to the officer at the register. Some of them are familiar, some are even known to me by name. The same people who would have greeted me with a friendly smile and a “Good day, young Fraulein Karpel,” now divert their eyes or stare at me in revulsion as if I have become too ugly and repulsive to even acknowledge.

I am anchored to my spot, quivering and choking back the tears that are always ready to fall. My skin prickles with goosebumps. Can I think of any course of action that could save us now? As the soldier walks towards the counter behind which I am standing, I search my mind for some salvation. Papa’s face flashes in my thoughts. What would he do? If only he were here, he could help me somehow. I force myself to look directly into the face of the Nazi officer. He is not much older than I. My only hope might be to soften his heart.

Papa’s words, hidden away safely in the darkest crevice of my mind, return to me: “If you need him, cut the murderer from the gallows to save yourself.”

I obediently show this man, who is my declared enemy and possible executioner, all the contents of the store, the bookkeeping, and everything he requires to run it. He has been given orders to take control of the daily operations and to take all the money to the Nazi coffers. People bustle in and out and move about whispering, their heads flicking back in nervous concern, returning again and again to the man in black, who observes every detail with an unwavering gaze and silent control.

All day we are together. I speak to him as if he might be just another human being. “This is a difficult time for everyone, isn’t it?” I ask with all the courage I can muster.

At first he seems startled with the question. After all, he is in control of the situation and has been given the power over life and death. Nevertheless, a ridge between his eyebrows indicates that he is considering the question carefully. He responds with a degree of kindness that was too much to hope for. “When we were told to remove property from people we have known all our lives, we wondered at first if it was right. When violence became common practice, we wondered if it was right. But now the reasons are clear. We want a strong Austria and our Fuhrer has the solution and so, we are prepared to follow him no matter the direction. Our faith is solid now and even when there are doubts, we must push them aside.”

“You are a thoughtful man,” I say, trying my best to control my anger and frustration, all the time thinking that any excuse for the evil that is happening is wrong, hating his doctrine and his Fuhrer with every fibre within me. “I’m so worried, though, about my poor mother and how we can exist without this business.”

“You must try to leave Austria for now,” he replies. “The war is only a temporary situation. We are confident that once the Reich has been established, the strength of a united Austro-Germany will be prosperous and magnificent again. Then you and I, Fraulein, could become very good friends.”

“Yes, of course.” I smile as confidently as I can. If ever I wanted to prove my acting ability, this was the time. How could he dream of such a friendship? How could he imagine that I might see him without the constant reminder of the cruelty I have witnessed? I look straight into his eyes, which are filled with the promise of youth and the fervour of national pride, ignited by his leader’s fanatic rhetoric. He can’t see the devastation, only a vision of glory.

I have shaken hands with the Devil’s warrior for the sake of our survival. In my thoughts Papa’s voice whispers his encouragement and promises to guide us to a safe haven. The plan is successful. I have been able to break open a tiny crack in this man’s hardened shell, armour created by continual brainwashing and reinforced bigotry. The human being within the uniform has been forced to see me as another living creature, battling to survive through the insanity of war. The Gestapo officer violates his orders by allowing me to take something from the till at the end of the day and every day thereafter so we will be able to eat and to survive. This is a small miracle in a time of desperation and very little hope.