CHAPTER 12

MEANS OF ESCAPE 1938

Summer in Vienna is perfumed with the scent of roses that bloom in mad profusion, aglow with the magical twinkle lights of fire-flies blinking in the night. It is young girls in large-brimmed straw hats, ribbons streaming and floral dresses that billow and flutter in warm breezes blowing off the Danube. In open-air concerts, violins are playing the music of our great composers, Mozart, Schubert, and Strauss. The sweeping melodies are so well known that everyone hums along. Sidewalk vendors are cooking bratwurst sausages that crackle and splutter as they are roasted. The aroma is too tempting to resist and there is no shortage of customers standing in line waiting for a hot thick wiener, which will be dipped generously into a glass jar of spicy mustard before the first crunchy bite can be taken with eager pleasure. There are heart-stopping rides on the enormous Viennese Ferris wheel, the Reisenrad, at the Prater Amusement Park, turning into the sky and down again to the earth, and the delightful sensation of laughing out of control about nothing at all. This is the Vienna I have known since my birth, a place that has always been my personal treasure. Every crack and crevice on the pavement is as familiar as the crisscrossing lines of my own palm. The smells and sounds are intertwined with my own heartbeats.

Ever since I can recall our family has spent the hot months of July and August in Kobenzl, at our hillside home, a rustic cottage where urban restraints are abandoned. As children we used to count the days to our holidays and as soon as school was over we chattered endlessly about going away. We assembled our things and prepared to trek up the trail to the chalet. Year after year this was our ritual; our backpacks stuffed with clothing, playthings and little books, we made our way, waving to those we knew as we passed. Along the way there were other cottages large and small, wooden structures with sprouting vegetable patches and brightly coloured flowerbeds growing in splashy abundance up to the stone steps. Away from the city we spent our most carefree times, no schoolwork, no chores, just sleeping late, playing, swimming in the huge public pool, developing ravenous appetites for the hearty suppers we devoured. We fetched drinking water from our well, pumping the handle with mad vigour, waiting impatiently for the cool liquid to gush from the spout and fill our cups, then gulping it with pleasure as it dribbled down our chins. At night we would lie on our backs in the moist grass and trace the patterns of stars strewn across the pitch sky as frogs croaked their gruff serenade.

But the summer of ’38 is no longer a place like that for me. In May I had my twenty-second birthday, a birthday with no celebration, no parties, no candles on a cake. The Nazis have confiscated the summer home at Kobenzl and now even the escape to our favoured retreat has been denied. We are Jews, and the gaiety of Vienna is no longer available to us. The treachery that has befallen our city forces us to hide from anything of joy or beauty. Even a casual stroll is a danger that we dare not attempt. We leave only for the most crucial of necessities and then hurry back like frightened rodents to seek shelter again in the hot, darkened rooms, curtains pulled to hide from the eyes of our enemies, who are lurking everywhere. Jewish women have been pulled out of their homes and forced to get on hands and knees to scrub the pavement with their lace-trimmed lingerie and fur coats. Crowds jeer. On June 10 we read in the paper that the main synagogue in Munich had been burned to the ground the day before. Daily, atrocities are committed against us and there is no end in sight.

President Roosevelt has called for an international conference to take place in July in Evian, France. We hold our breaths at this news, hoping to see an awakening of basic humanitarian values. But when the much-awaited meeting takes place and the “Jewish Situation,” as it is called, comes up, the matter is resolved in the most catastrophic way for us. There is to be no easing of immigration laws, no global responsibility taken or remedy offered for the Jews of Germany. We are left to fend for ourselves. “Ever since Evian,” people are beginning to say in sombre acceptance, “our fate was sealed.”

The news from Evian has hit Viennese Jewry with such a blow that there is panic everywhere we go. The Germans have taken the results of the conference as a green light for continued persecution. Violent arrests increase and bloody beatings are commonplace. The elderly and infirm are most frequently victimized. There is a mad rush to every foreign consulate in the city. The staunchest Austrians who had waited patiently for better times to return are finally convinced to flee. But is it too late? My family is blocked in Vienna and, just like the others, we are trying to find a way out, but the possible destinations grow fewer each day. One by one, ports of refuge are being closed.

In a magnanimous gesture, the British cabinet has agreed to accept 10,000 unaccompanied Jewish children from Germany, Austria, and Czechoslovakia in an action called the Kindertransport. We have read of it with dismay. To separate children from parents and settle them in Christian foster homes is a sin, but because this seems the best the world can do, our community offers humble appreciation.

The United States has issued its own announcement. Its quota for Jews is filled for the next three years with even more stringent conditions that eliminate most who would seek asylum. Some of those who have applied have been advised with apparent ignorance or apathy by the American authorities that they should wait, but the desperation many feel is evident in the rising suicide count.

We have saved whatever we could for as long as we were able to work in the store, but the young German officer whom I had convinced to help us has been removed from the position and now we have been permanently ousted. The Nazis have seen to it that we cannot return. The small amount of money remaining, hidden away in a secret spot under a loose floor board, must be used sparingly just to stave off starvation.

In our quest for options, one word is beginning to recur: “Shanghai.” We hear it whispered behind cupped hands when we pass haggard neighbours on the streets. News travels in a human telegraph line from one to the next. “Shanghai,” they say, the strange word pronounced with an Austrian accent, odd, exotic, remote, spoken with fear and hope, the only possibility. A new kind of excitement comes from the slim prospect of rescue. Those we meet brim with guarded enthusiasm, their dull eyes and malnourished faces suddenly brighter. They are eager to share their news and we are desperate to find details of this place. “There are no visas or police certificates required, and no passport inspection in Shanghai,” we are told. The Chinese are not requiring proof of financial independence either, something that other countries have demanded. Such an assurance is beyond most everyone we know, as all our bank accounts have been frozen and assets confiscated. “Shanghai,” our friends say with some trepidation, “could be our salvation.”

Since I first heard of the possibility of the escape to Shanghai and then that my sisters were already making plans to go there, I have been obsessed with the idea that Mama, Willi, and I (and Poldi’s parents, of course, as they have become my responsibility) should go to China too. What would Papa have done, I ask myself. I have decided I must search for someone who could help.

Early one morning in mid-July I dress with care to appear most grown-up and serious, in a navy blue skirt and suit jacket with a matching hat neatly set on my head. I run red lipstick over my lips, purse them together, then summon all my courage and head out to join the crowds of others in the daily vain attempt to find a country that will let us in. If it is to be China, how would we manage to get there? The day is hot and hazy, the people frantic and distraught as I force my way through the streets. Everywhere are the gruff German soldiers, who pull Jewish people out of their homes at random for the usual bouts of torture. The noonday sun is glaring down on me and perspiration is dripping into my eyes. I wipe my face and neck with a handkerchief that is already damp.

After several futile hours, my clothes crumpled and my hat squashed down on my ruined hairdo, I stop, worn and dejected. Overcome by the heat and exhaustion I lean against a building and look up at the sign: “Berger, Attorney at Law.”

I climb the steps as if drawn in by a magnet. At the front desk I say, “Please, I have to see Herr Berger, the lawyer.”

“Do you have an appointment, Fraulein?” the secretary asks, looking me up and down to assess my situation and station in life. She is stern and proper, and as she takes her black-rimmed glasses off she stares at me in disapproval.

“No, but this is an urgent matter, you see, urgent.” I can feel the effects of the heat and fatigue beginning to overcome me.

Just then the office door opens and a man comes out to hand her some papers.

“Please,” I say to him, “I have to see a lawyer.”

He turns towards me, obviously surprised by my direct approach and dishevelled appearance.

“She has no appointment, Herr Berger,” the secretary says stiffly.

“For God’s sake, can’t you see that she is ready to drop right here on the floor?” He guides me by the elbow, moving me past her desk and scowling face, into his office. He takes me to a comfortable chair and gives me a glass of cool water. I gulp it down and begin speaking immediately.

“We need your help or we will all die here,” I say at once. “We are Jews, you see, of course you do, and yet you let me in. I don’t know why but maybe there is still someone in Vienna who will do something for us. I am at my wit’s end, you see. I don’t know what to do, and then there’s Mama and my brother and the others, my God, all of us and we don’t know how to get to China and we don’t have enough money and.…”

Seeing me so upset, my words rambling on and on, Herr Berger finally interrupts and tries to get me to slow down. I breathe deeply and attempt to control my quivering hands and trembling voice.

“Just take your time,” he says with a smile and great courtesy that is uncommon in the current environment. He is a fastidiously attired gentleman in his early forties. I notice the knife-sharp creases in his trouser legs and the high-gloss polish on his shoes.

“Thank you, Herr Berger,” I answer, holding my handbag tightly on my knees. I decide the best approach is the direct one. “You know what is going on here in Vienna. I have come to ask for your help.”

I can hear my voice cracking, and despite my resolve to be brave I am afraid I will fall apart at any moment.

“What can I do, Fraulein?” he asks, shutting the door to give us privacy. “As you know, there are informants everywhere these days. The Nazis have corrupted the most loyal secretary and the most honest clerk. Words have wings, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t go to our store any more and we have no income,” I tell him, putting my pride aside. “We fear for our lives every day. I don’t know what to do, but we have been told about Shanghai, we think we could get in there.” My voice falters, and I choke back the tears. “I don’t know how to go about it. Can you do anything for us?”

“Here, drink a little more water and try to calm down a bit,” he says kindly, pouring water from a crystal pitcher, then going back to his big leather chair.

He begins to write on a notepad. “I will need as many details as you can provide. How many people are involved?” he asks, looking up over his eyeglasses.

“Well, there is Mama and Willi, that’s my brother, and me. My sisters already have passage arranged through their husbands’ families. And there are the Kosiners, a couple, parents of a dear friend of mine who is in Italy. Yes, five all together. That will cost a fortune of money, I’m sure, to secure train and boat passage. We’ll never be able to afford that.” I start to shake again.

“All right, all right, Fraulein, please, have some trust in me.” He continues to ask for details and writes everything down.

Finally, he puts his pen down and removes his glasses. “I am ashamed of my people. Whatever has happened to the integrity of the Austrians?” he asks with a sigh. “Well, there may be a few of us left willing to risk something to help a fellow human being. I want you to stop worrying now. Leave this matter in my hands. I still have something to say in this country despite this new rule of terror.”

“I had nowhere else to turn, Herr Berger,” I say, wanting to explain my appearance here. “Certainly I would not want you to jeopardize your own safety. Can you be sure that it will be all right, that the Gestapo will not blame you for anything?”

“That is not something you should be concerned about. I have lived my life with a deep regard for fairness and I’m sworn to serve justice. Now that justice is nothing but a hollow word, I will adhere to my own justice.”

Despite my resolution to keep my emotions in check, tears well in my eyes. Just when I had believed that there remained not one courageous and righteous person in all of Vienna, this man has offered to risk his own life for ours.

“Fraulein,” he says, “I know how hopeless this seems but I will see what I can do and will get word to you within a day or two.” Getting up from his chair he adds, “Don’t worry about the money for now,” and pats me on the shoulder. “I will advance any necessary funds and you can pay me back one day, after the war perhaps, when we can return to a normal life again.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Herr Berger.” I pump his hand up and down vigorously.

When I finally get home, I tell Mama and Willi what I have done. They are incredulous that I would have had the nerve to approach a stranger, someone like Herr Berger, a Gentile, influential and probably connected to the Nazis, and they are shocked further that he agreed not only to help but to use his own money for our sakes. They agree it would be wonderful if he is successful, but they are still sceptical about his promises.

But Herr Berger has kept his word, and in two days he himself comes to our door. Sending a messenger is too risky. He sits down with Mama, Willi, and me in our front room and tells us what he has arranged. He has purchased all five tickets. We only have to get our emigration documents approved and we should be able to get out.

I am so overjoyed that I jump up and hug him. His face reddens at my emotional outburst but he smiles and shakes hands with Mama and Willi, who both thank him profusely.

That same evening I hurry to the Kosiners’ apartment to tell them of the wonderful news. They are overwhelmed with gratitude but are still concerned. They are Polish citizens and have not been able to obtain exit visas till now, but I tell them they must pick up their tickets at the shipping office in person and then we will somehow arrange the necessary documents – “freedom papers” they are called among the Viennese Jews. I have emphasized how much I trust Herr Berger, that I’m sure he will get everything arranged, and that before long we will all be together again, reunited in Shanghai, and that Poldi and Dolu will be with us too.