CHAPTER 23

WE ARE MARRIED 1940

On January 7, 1940, Poldi and I are married. It is the start of a new year and although our lives are far from what we had ever dreamed they would be, at least we are together. We stand side by side, under the simple linen chuppah canopy. Fritz, Dolu, Walter, and Willi stand, one at each corner, their hands wrapped around the poles that support the chuppah. The rabbi pronounces the words that bind us, and we repeat the ancient vow, “Anee ledodi, ledodi lee” – “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” When the rabbi pronounces us wed, we kiss and hold hands to the sweet strains of a violin.

Poldi’s right foot stomps with a hard crack to break the traditional glass that the rabbi has placed beneath his heel. Everyone shouts, “Mazel Tov!” and we feel truly united. The rabbi reminds us of the reason for this tradition, that even the most joyous moment cannot exist without a thought for something painful as well, shattering the happiness like fragile glass, in memory of our own sadness and the sadness of our people. At this time and in this strange place, we hardly need to be told of this fact. It is the joy that is harder to hold tight than the sorrow.

I have chosen to wed not in a traditional white gown but rather in a terra cotta coloured tailored suit and hat. The outfit was made for me here by one of the excellent seamstresses that are quite easy to find, and I am very pleased with the result. With the war continuing, it seems inappropriate to dress as a picture-book bride, though I know many others who do not share this sentiment and wedding dresses with trailing veils are still quite commonly seen.

The family members are dressed in their best clothes and join to share in our celebration. Happiness is doled out in spare measure these days and savoured the more for its rarity. Erna and Fritz offer their wishes and embraces in turn. Lily runs to me and hugs me, her thin small arms clutching me tightly, as if clinging to a life preserver. Stella, her eyes moist, and her husband, Walter, are next in line. My brother, Willi, holds us each in an emotional hug as he comes to congratulate us. Eva and Dolu, who have now been married for about a month, kiss us each on both cheeks, giving us their wishes for many happy years. Mama, unable to control the tears, holds me close and whispers her love and prayers that there may yet be a happy future ahead.

Before I was married, I gave notice at the Bolero Club and said my farewells to all those who had been so helpful through a lonely and difficult time in my life. Now, after the wedding, we have decided to take a trip away from Shanghai for a month or so, but this will not be a simple honeymoon. We are planning a particular journey that may prove to be quite dangerous.

“These are hazardous times, Nini,” Poldi tells me. “We need to do something daring if we are to make a decent living here. Poverty is our greatest enemy. We’re nearly destitute and it won’t be a simple matter for any of us to get ahead.”

“What would we have to do?” I ask him, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach.

“Remember when I told you that I had made a friend named Leon Druck in Milan? He escaped from Europe too and lives in Manchuria now, in a city called Harbin.”

I think back to all of the letters from Italy, all the many things that Poldi had written about. “Do you mean that fellow who was learning about the fur trade with you?”

“That’s right. We spent a lot of time together in Milan and he wrote to me from Harbin.”

And what can he do for us?”

“There is a substantial Jewish community there, several thousand who fled from Russia through Siberia to escape persecution. Leon has written to me with a plan. There are people in Harbin who can help us. He’s told me that there is a great demand there for any goods we could collect because the refugees have shortages of everything. So, this is the idea, we’ll have to bundle up anything we can spare, anything from Europe that we have managed to take out. They are so isolated there they’re starving for anything European and, most importantly, there is American currency to be had.”

I am alarmed and astounded. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. You know it’s forbidden to carry American money. We won’t be able to get it past the Japanese. If they catch us they’ll drag us off to their prisons, or cut off our hands, or shoot us on the spot.” I feel myself getting more agitated and add with greater emphasis, “You know I’m not exaggerating!”

Poldi can see that I am unsettled by this suggestion but is determined to continue with his explanation of the scheme. “I do, but Leon has reliable connections and he will help us. I trust him, Nini,” Poldi says firmly. “Do you think we can continue to survive, living hand to mouth? I’m not going to stand in line forever at the relief organizations waiting for handouts like the others. When my pride is gone, I might as well be dead. We’re stuck here in Shanghai for the foreseeable future. I don’t know when we’ll get out and I don’t know where we’ll end up. I only know that we need the money if we are to succeed and we have to try something bold. We’ll deal with the outcome as it happens.”

“You really believe we can do this, smuggle American money back into Shanghai under the noses of the Japanese?” I feel the palms of my hands grow sweaty as I fully absorb the danger that we would have to face in this plan.

“Look around you, Nini. We’re caught once more in a desperate situation. Think where we have already been, what we have had to do to get here and what will happen to us if we don’t get sufficient money. We have no choice. And after all, we have stared down the Nazis and the Italian Fascists between us. We’re still alive, right? Are the Japanese worse than their cohorts?”

Poldi has a glint in his dark eyes. He is brave and tough beneath the mild exterior. I know he’s right and I’m as indignant as he is that we have been reduced to the level of beggars here. Whatever happens, we will go ahead together.

I nod my head, finally, in agreement as we hold hands and embrace. We have talked a great deal about a possible enterprise we could start. If we can manage to get sufficient capital from Harbin we have decided to open a small business of our own where we will work, side by side. This is our chance to show the Germans that they have not defeated us. I feel the old sense of determination again that I felt in Vienna. We will fight against them in the only way we can and we may succeed, but if we lose the game, we will have to pay the price.

We speak to all of the family together to tell them of our scheme. Mama is against the idea, anxious about the risks we will be taking. My sisters try to convince her that we’ll be fine and that there’s no other way out of our situation. Reluctantly and with a great deal of foreboding, she acquiesces. Erna and Stella have packed suitcases with fur stoles, needlepoint chair covers, linens and lingerie, elegant clothing from Vienna, cameras, anything they managed to salvage of value and are prepared to sell. I fill another with my own belongings including most of my dowry pieces and also many of Mama’s things. We pool our funds so that Poldi and I can buy tickets on a ship from Shanghai and for the train trip through Korea to Harbin. They warn us to be careful. We promise we will and that when we return there will be enough money for everyone to start a new life.

The day arrives for us to set off on our “honeymoon” – the only kind we can have in this war-ravaged world – and we wave cheerfully to the relatives at the pier. Our voyage will take us by ship from Shanghai to Pusan in South Korea. From there we will board a train that will take us north to Harbin. We will return by train to the port of Pusan and take a ferry across to Kobe in Japan, then make our way back by ship to Shanghai.

We are frugal with our money and manage to book passage on the cheapest means of transport, a freighter ship. By day it’s clearly a rather ugly vessel, but we make believe that it turns into a romantic cruise ship by night. We stand by the railing, arm in arm, singing Viennese love songs in harmony and looking up at the black sky with stars that glitter like a pavé of diamonds. The battering waves of the Yellow Sea beat in time with our words, and everything seems suddenly possible, even our most remote dream of a peaceful life together.

From the ship we continue on through Korea into Manchuria in a rumbling train that rocks through the countryside, passing rice paddies where barefoot men and women bend over to tend to their crop or are tugged behind oxen and ploughs. Humans and beasts are toiling together in the same way as their predecessors have done for hundreds of years, muscles strained as they trudge shin deep in the milky water. One after another, the expansive watery patches with sprouting bunches of new green growth flick by the window.

In stations along the way raggedy children, little dirty hands stretched out, beg for coins or food. So many hungry mouths to feed in this country of millions. In the towns the black market business is a flourishing trade. The most prized commodity is American dollars, forbidden as we know, but available nonetheless. Trading is swift for anything that can be sold for the Yankee buck. There is no limit to the range and variety of goods to be had. Everywhere we go we are accosted by vendors who materialize from nowhere with every possible ware for sale. Legality is not an issue. When survival itself is the single constant goal, the means are not to be questioned.

When we arrive in Harbin, Poldi’s friend Leon is waiting for us at the train station. He has a motor car and takes us to a hotel where he has booked a room for us. That evening we visit his home for dinner. As in other regions of the Orient, servants tend to our needs, one to cook the meals and another to clean the house. Native labour is cheap and any foreigner even with modest means is able to live very well indeed.

Leon is a congenial man, a few years older than us, now in his early thirties. He is so happy to see us and offers us the greatest hospitality. He and Poldi reminisce about their meeting in Milan, their youthful days of relative freedom and they laugh at each other’s jokes while we enjoy the wonderful meal.

“How are conditions here for the Jewish people, Leon?” Poldi asks. Leon speaks German so I can understand what they are saying.

“I can honestly say that the Japanese have tried to do their best for us. You probably don’t know that they supported the establishment of a Jewish Council and annual Jewish conferences which began in 1937. They met here in Harbin and brought together Jews from every region in the Orient.”

“Why would they bother with that?” I ask.

“A clever wife you have, Poldi. Well, Nini, of course in the end it is for their own interests. The Sephardic Jews in Shanghai are very wealthy and powerful. The Japanese assume that all Jews have economic prowess and more than that they believe that American Jewry has power over the government and economy of the United States.”

“Oh, I can’t even begin to comprehend such stupidity,” I say in disgust. “I think that if the last of us was destroyed, the world would still say that our ghosts were in control of the universe and they would blame our departed souls for whatever befell mankind.”

“But Leon,” Poldi asks, “what do the people here have to do with American Jewry?”

While we continue talking a Chinese maid moves about silently removing plates and glasses. She is tiny and polite, with a white apron tied around her waist and a blue and white checked kerchief covering her hair. Her head remains lowered. On her feet are the soft-soled slippers that make her movements almost indiscernible. She sets a black lacquered tray with a painted motif of songbirds and blossoms on the table before us. On it are a porcelain coffee pot, matching cups and saucers, creamer and sugar bowl and little silver spoons. She slips out again and Leon pours the dark steaming liquid into the cups.

“I’ve been told that the Japanese have grander ambitions. Their island is small and their population is bursting – they need to expand and they would like the United States, as well as Britain and Holland which have possessions here, to give them free rein in the region,” Leon explains.

“And the Jews, what do the Japanese expect of us?” I ask.

We each have coffee that we sip while we talk. The deep flavour of the strong brew reminds me for a moment of the coffee back home, but then I think again of the situation at hand as Leon goes on with the explanation.

“If you can believe it, the Japanese think we can influence our American counterparts to convince Roosevelt to let them do as they will without interference. Listen, we know all of that is nonsense but it is the word circulating here in Harbin – and the sources are reliable.”

The maid appears again, this time with a cut crystal decanter and brandy glasses on a silver tray. She sets it down and removes a full ashtray, replacing it with another clean one. Poldi removes his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and we each take a cigarette.

“We believe that our time here can only be temporary. At any moment the Japanese could decide we are ineffectual and turn against us. Many of us have applied for visas to the United States or South America and plan to leave this country as soon as it is safe, but we can stay here for as long as things remain calm and the Japanese allow us to live in peace. What more can we ask?” Leon leans comfortably back in his chair and shrugs his shoulders in a manner of acceptance when circumstances are beyond one’s control. I decide that he is a pleasant fellow with a good heart and generous spirit. He puts me at ease with his relaxed manner and wide grin.

Poldi nods in agreement and says, “That is the lot of the Jewish people. Our lives are always in flux. It has been that way forever and may never change.” He takes a sip of cognac and sets the glass on the dining table. We have had a comforting meal and are finishing our coffee and liqueur. Poldi takes a deep draught of his cigarette, sets it down on the ashtray, then becomes earnest and leans towards his old friend. “Leon, you know we have come here for more than a friendly visit.”

“I know, Poldi. Well, then listen, this is my plan. Tomorrow you and I will head into the city to meet with a man I know very well. In the meantime, I have purchased a few bushels of crab apples.”

Poldi and I look at Leon, then at one another, and break out into laughter so rollicking that we have to wipe the tears from our eyes and hold our aching sides.

“I didn’t know that my old friend could get drunk from just a few glasses of cognac,” Poldi says at last, still red-faced and grinning. “What happened to my drinking buddy, the one who could go from bar to bar and drain one bottle of whiskey after the other and still walk a straight line? What is that you said about apples?”

Leon has not joined us in the gales of laughter. Through it all he has sat smiling, with an air of concealed wisdom that he is waiting patiently to impart, refilling his glass and continuing to drink in silence. When we are back to reason, he begins to explain. His cook will prepare the apples by cooking them in water and sugar until a thick gooey sauce is produced and the apples are thoroughly preserved. This mixture will be poured into heavy metal cans with handles and lids like paint cans that can be firmly closed. In this dense liquid, rubber packets – sewn by hand, tied with string, and weighted – can be submerged and hidden. And inside those pouches, resting safely on the bottom of the tins, will be rolls of American dollars.

We listen intently, beginning to understand his idea. Leon has another scheme as well. He suggests that he and Poldi leave early the next day and head into the city to meet with someone he knows who has helped others in similar circumstances and is skilled in smuggling techniques. We head back to the hotel and have a good night’s sleep in the comfortable room, pulling the covers up over our weary bodies and easing into the clean sheets.

I am still asleep when Leon comes for Poldi in the morning and the two set off. When they return, Poldi tells me what he has been doing.

“Look, Nini,” he says, taking off his shoes one by one while seated on the edge of our bed. He holds the shoes up for me to see. “The heels have been hollowed out and in these hollows we can conceal money. There is a false bottom that flips back over and nothing is visible – see?”

I stare at the shoes and see the way the plan will work. Still, I wonder if we will manage to succeed.

“Now, we have to get the money,” I say.

“That’s where you come in, Nini. We will all head into the city tomorrow. Leon will put us in touch with people connected to the black market, the underground economy. You have to convince them that our belongings are of great value.”

“Of course they are,” I say indignantly. “After all, we have brought them over eight thousand miles from Vienna, then to Shanghai and finally here to Harbin. They must be worth a fortune just for that alone. Right?”

“Right,” he says with a smile. “You were always a good saleslady.”

We take our suitcases into Harbin the next day and open them one by one before the purchasers. They are seasoned negotiators but, then, so are we. By the end of the day we go back to the hotel and close the door to our room. We empty my purse and Poldi’s pockets onto the bed and stand back in amazement at the sight of all the money, so many American dollars, crumpled dirty greenish paper with English printing. To us this money means the world, every possibility for the future, worth every risk that we will have to take.

We laugh and hug and bounce on the bed in the middle of the bills. Then we get up, sober again, gather up every single dollar, checking under the bed to be sure that we have left nothing behind. We count and bundle them neatly and stuff them back into my purse. We prepare to take all of it to Leon’s home, where he and Poldi will conceal it as planned.

Harbin is a small city compared to Vienna or Shanghai and because of its location it is more primitive and less metropolitan. Still, we go out to restaurants and spend a few wonderful days with Leon. We have some money now, enough to feel truly prosperous after so long. Who could ever have believed what we would be doing and where we would be. I feel like the spies in movies, caught in a web of high-stakes intrigue. Cigarette smoke swirls around us, shrouding us in a mist of gauzy mystery. I will play a dramatic role after all.

It is a sad farewell when we finally board the train that will begin our journey back to Shanghai. Leon and Poldi exchange a warm bear hug and Leon kisses me on both cheeks.

“Nini, take care of my good friend. We are like brothers, you know.”

“I do, Leon, and I will do my best. Thank you for everything. We’ll meet again, won’t we?”

“How can we know what the future might bring? But if there is a way, somehow, somewhere we will all be together again. Go in peace.”

A porter takes our baggage and the two heavy metal cans of fruit. The train station and our friend grow smaller in the distance and soon are out of sight. Signs posted in various languages, including German and English, remind us that we are not allowed to have foreign currency in our possession in strict violation of the Japanese occupation army. Along the way travellers undergo brief inspections at stations, just a formality – a check of our documents and a wave of the hand sets us off again.

Poldi tells me not to worry, that everything will be fine, but as I lie in his arms I find that sleep will not come. The next day we will be taking a ferry boat into Japan and military police will be inspecting all our belongings. If we are arrested, we are finished. If he is taken away, how will I survive alone? I look at his sleeping face so close to mine, peaceful and handsome, dark curls over his forehead, deep in dreams, and I am comforted. Another tomorrow is all we can hope for. The rest is in the hands of Fate.

The next day, my heart thumps wildly when armed Japanese soldiers enter our room on the train at Pusan. If we pass inspection here, we will be allowed to board the ferry boat to Kobe. The soldiers are stoic, rude, and abrupt. They bark commands in Japanese or Russian. Poldi speaks to them in Russian. I understand neither language but the motions are clear enough. I speak to Poldi in German, telling him to be careful. When the Japanese soldier turns to me and questions me in perfect German, asking what we have to hide, I feel my face turn scarlet.

One officer points to our cans of fruit. Poldi smiles, looking proud of the contents and as if he wants to share the apples with the inspectors. He takes a pocket knife carefully from his jacket, showing it very slowly to make sure they will not mistake it for a weapon. He opens both cans. The Japanese soldiers peer into the thick, dark syrup with the little red apples bobbing around on top. Poldi takes a cup and scoops up some of it, offering it to the men, obviously suggesting that they taste it. They refuse it with disdain. Poldi takes a bit himself to show what they are missing and grins with delight at the taste of the sugary concoction.

One of the soldiers tells him to seal the can again. Then another soldier has an idea. He decides that Poldi should be searched. Again I find it hard to conceal my fear. Poldi, however, seems cool and at ease. They point their rifles at him and demand that he empty his pockets. He smiles at them calmly, shows them his wallet, which holds only Chinese paper money and is of no concern to them. The others ransack our suitcases in a mad search for valuables and tear through my handbag. Poldi removes his shirt and stands, arms raised in the air, legs astride waiting to be checked. A soldier pats down his body, down the length of his pant legs, down to his shoes. Then he stops.

The Japanese exchange a few more words, then leave. When they stomp out of our little cabin, I take several deep breaths. I feel as though the air in my lungs has been constricted and that my chest is being held in a vise. I marvel at Poldi’s courage under the rigid gaze of the vicious armed men and at his unflinching disregard for the possible consequences of discovery. We have seen the Japanese beat offenders nearly to death or hack fingers off thieves without a moment’s concern. We both know what he has risked.

Poldi looks at me. I look at him. We say nothing, sitting side by side on the lower bunk of the bed, wondering if they might return, whether they might think of something further to inspect. We wait. After some time has passed, I whisper to him, “We did it.”

Having passed the border inspection, we can relax and enjoy the beauty of Kobe and also visit Osaka and Tokyo. We have our money carefully hidden and use only the Chinese currency, which we have converted to Japanese yen for our expenses. We do nothing to alert the authorities to our activities. We go about like common newlyweds, simple sightseers, arm in arm, laughing at private jokes, shopping for souvenirs, with no care in the world.