Shattered Crystals by Mia Amalia Kanner (management books to read .TXT) 📖

“We’ve caught another smuggler, this Jew with a large box.”

In the first few days after Sal came back from Buchenwald, he slept long hours. When he got up, I served him thick, nourishing soups made with fresh vegetables. He ate slowly, a damask napkin on his lap, savoring the rich broth, luxuriating in the calm, civilized surroundings of our dining room.

Word of Sal’s release spread rapidly. Again, as on the day after his arrest, women came to our apartment for news; for a few days there was a steady stream of visitors seeking firsthand information about husbands, fathers, sons and friends.

Sal assured them that the men were well. “The food wasn’t good, but we got by. The first day, we didn’t get anything to eat and drink. The second day, each man received a salted herring.”

“Is that all?” The women stared at him, not immediately comprehending, thinking only, as I had when Sal told me, that it was so little.

“There was no water,” he said, “and we were desperately thirsty after the salted fish. But Hashem heard our cries. It began to rain. We found rusty tin cans in the barracks and caught the rainwater. The water was so precious we did not rinse the dust from the cans. The third day, they began to give us three meals a day. Bread, coffee, soup, occasionally with bits of meat.”

It was not coffee, but a dark, bitter liquid that the men received with the single piece of dry bread each morning. They received a second piece in the afternoon, with the thin, awful-tasting liquid called soup. The soup was ladled from a huge cauldron into a half-dozen tin cans. Standing, the men drank the fluid and passed the container to those waiting their turn.

Buchenwald had a forced labor contingent. The men in the labor squad were awakened at five o’clock each morning. After a breakfast of bread and “coffee”, they faced a workday that continued until sunset. They were forced to carry heavy rocks on their backs. Men died from exhaustion, malnutrition and disease. Some tried to escape. Those who reached the barrier were electrocuted by the deadly cables twisted around the fence. Those caught before they reached the barrier were hanged in broad daylight, an event all the inmates were forced to see.

Sal saw no point in telling these women what their husbands were going through. “When they come out, it will be time enough for them to hear about it,” he told me privately. What good would it do the women to know how their men ate and suffered in Buchenwald. Instead, Sal urged the women to secure visas to get their men out, that anywhere in the world was better than Buchenwald and Germany. “Everyone sits and waits. You answer the roll call, eat, take a turn at cleaning the barracks, and that is a day.”

The women began discussing the Judenrat, the commission the Nazis had created to handle the day-to-day affairs of the Jews. Every city in Germany had one, and the Nazis designated a Jew as its head. A lawyer named Neman was made head of the Halle Judenrat.

Sipping coffee, one woman complained, “Neman does nothing but hand out money to the poor.”

“It hasn’t been easy, Herr Kanner,” Frau Birnbaum explained. “The Nazis made a rule that we have to pay a tax to support the poor Jews. But our bank accounts are frozen, and we are limited to withdrawing only four hundred marks a month.”

“The poor have to eat,” I said. “And I can give you a little trick to use with the bank. I use it all the time, and I always manage to withdraw more money. I claim special needs. Every week while my husband was away, I went to the bank with a new story. I told the officials I had to support my father in Leipzig. I pretended that I needed a new coat, winter clothes for the three children, money to repair my stove. I was never refused. You should try it, Frau Birnbaum. What have you to lose?”

“It’s all so dreadful,” Frau Birnbaum said. “I’m afraid that anything I do will bring me problems. My husband always saw to everything.”

I was not concerned about money. I was concerned about losing my home. Every Jew in Halle was deeply worried about the Nazi decree that no Jewish family was entitled to an apartment of its own. One room was deemed sufficient for a Jewish family. The decree was to go into effect early in 1939. The government was drawing up a list of residences for Jews. The occupants were ordered to take in the Jewish families who were not on the list and who would be forced out of their homes.

While Sal was in Buchenwald, I had concentrated my efforts on securing a visa for him. I had given little thought to any of the new decrees. Now I faced the fact that my home was to be taken from me. Reilstrasse 18 was not on the list of approved Jewish residences. My first reaction was disbelief. That did not last long. Was not all our effort focused on leaving Germany?

Sal needed a few days to regain his strength and his focus. Then we talked about the future and quickly agreed to accept my father’s proposal for the girls to go to Leipzig. Papa’s apartment on the Nordstrasse was on the Nazis’ list. It had been chosen as a designated Jewish apartment. The girls would be in familiar surroundings with Papa. They would be among other Jews. Another advantage to Leipzig was that the Jewish school was still in operation. Ruth and Eva would be able to attend. I had to stay in Halle, but Leipzig was the best place for the children now.

Sal had to leave Germany by mid-January, and he wanted to be with the children when they went to Leipzig. Eva sat on her father’s lap throughout the trip and kept insisting she wanted to go to Paris with him. She cried until Sal quieted her with the promise, “We’re all going to Paris soon.”

When we returned to Halle, I commented on how quiet the apartment was without the girls.

“They will be all right,” Sal said. “Children listen and accept things.”

Moritz and his son were freed from Buchenwald the last day of December. Rosa’s sister, who had lived in Holland since 1937, secured visas to Bolivia for the two men and Rosa. They left Halle three days after Moritz and his son were released. They took only clothing, as much as would fit into three suitcases, one for each of them. They abandoned all their other possessions and fled with ten marks each. That was all the Nazis permitted.

At the railroad station, Rosa and I stood apart from the two brothers. During the month Sal was away, she had come almost every day to help with the children. “Only the best, Rosa,” I said. “I wish you health and strength, only the best.”

Moritz walked a few paces toward me to say goodbye. “You and your family will live in Palestine,” he said. “I should have applied years ago, as you did. I might have had a chance to go there. Now, I am lucky I can go anywhere. You know, I had to get a map of South America to see where Bolivia was. I am fifty-three years old. God knows what future I have there.”

Because it was not wise for Sal to travel out of Halle, I was the one who made the trips to the Zionist Bureau in Berlin. Even though I kept coming home empty-handed, we still expected our visas to be issued to us shortly. We decided to ship our possessions to Tel Aviv. We sorted our belongings for shipment and packed them in crates provided by a moving company.

The Nazis insisted on a complete record of everything a Jew planned to export. A tax, double the original purchase price, had to be paid on all items acquired after 1932. Sal had an innate sense of order and would have kept a detailed list even if this had not been demanded by government rules.

We packed sheets, towels, hand-embroidered tablecloths with matching monogrammed napkins, draperies, curtains and blankets. I had sets of milchtig and fleishig dishes for Pesach, Shabbos and Yom Tov, and for everyday use. Piece by piece, we wrapped cups, plates, serving dishes, six sets in all. Sets of silver service, including fish forks, cake forks, and demitasse spoons went into cartons with cut crystal vases, silver platters, the menorah, and my two candlesticks. We packed lamps, framed paintings, and studio portraits of our parents.

We made an appointment with the movers to crate our furniture. Because so many Jewish families were sending their household belongings out of the country, there was a long wait. The last week in January was the earliest date available. By then, Sal would have left for France.

Sal packed Markus’s clothes in a heavy carton and tied a rope securely round the box. Then, he carefully printed his father’s name and address in Mielec, Poland on each panel