Shattered Crystals by Mia Amalia Kanner (management books to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: Mia Amalia Kanner
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When Markus came to Halle, the city had only one shul, with a minyan that was not sufficiently Orthodox for him. The davening was different from the way he had been taught, and he did not feel comfortable there. He located recent immigrants from Eastern Europe who felt as he did and became a founder of a separate minyan. The men met in an area set aside in the Gemeindehaus, the building that housed Halle’s main synagogue and other Jewish activities. That minyan flourished and continued operating until Kristallnacht.
At the close of the First World War, Markus retired from business to devote himself to the study of the Torah. He deeded his original store to his elder son Moritz, but a dozen years later it was still known as “Old Kanner’s place.”
The six Kanner children all ran retail stores. Markus had given each of his four daughters a dry goods store as a dowry. Elke and Lene had moved to Leipzig when they married, while Malia and Fanny had found husbands in Halle.
Markus visited each of his married children in Halle daily, walking from one store to the other, eating his midday meal with Malia, Fanny or Moritz.
I don’t know when Markus ceased eating meat, but it was before I came to Halle. He was a strict vegetarian and continued to prepare his own evening meals, as he had done before Sal married. His supper was likely to consist of rice or other cereal with boiled milk.
“I am used to taking my evening meal alone, and I do not wish to make additional work for you, dear Mia,” he said. Often, he would join us at our dinner with a glass of tea.
All his children loved and honored him, and I gladly devoted myself to this kind and gentle man. In many ways he was like my own dear father. I respected my father-in-law because he did not flaunt his wide knowledge but sought to teach by example.
Sal encouraged me to buy new furniture and redecorate the apartment to my taste. Still adjusting to my new surroundings, I discovered that I was pregnant. Sal was overjoyed, and said that we should not delay the move to a larger apartment. A seven-room apartment on the third floor of Number 18 was available. It was airy and spacious and even nicer than my home in Leipzig had been. I made many trips to Halle’s shopping district for drapes, carpets, and a new sofa. I also bought a new sideboard in which I arranged the sets of china, silver and monogrammed linens we had received as wedding gifts.
When we moved to the large apartment on the third floor, we hired Lisbeth. She was just fourteen years old, and was the daughter of Fred Wetzel. A building janitor and an occasional customer at the store, he had asked Sal to take his daughter into service when he heard of our marriage.
Ruth was born on October 29, the day before I turned twenty-five. Fifteen months later, our daughter Eva was born. I felt so blessed to make a Jewish home for my husband and my children. What more could anyone want? I had a beautiful home, two darling babies, and a wonderful husband. With him, I shared a life that embraced our shul, family and friends, his business, and our love of music. I gave thanks to Hashem for everything; I was supremely happy.
My years in Mama’s shoe store came to good use now. Sal’s store was rarely without customers; it required my presence several hours an afternoon to help with sales of table linens, baby clothing, and sewing supplies. All the items that one might look for in a well-stocked dry goods store comprised our inventory. Though Sal employed a saleswoman, there was enough business to keep all three of us occupied.
Our social circle consisted of young couples from the Jewish community and Sal’s cousins, the Padaver and Geminder families, and his sisters and nieces. We entertained them frequently at “coffees” on Shabbos afternoons and Sunday evenings.
Apart from entertaining our friends and relatives, Sal and I had our secret holidays in Berlin. Four or five times a year, we would travel to the capital just for the day. We wanted a day to ourselves, to explore the city on our own. We would tiptoe out of our apartment before daylight, leaving our two little girls with my father-in-law. He had Lisbeth to help him care for Ruth and Eva.
Dear, kind Markus was the only person who ever knew of our excursions. We did not tell Sal’s siblings because we were worried that they might become jealous. We could easily afford the cost of the day’s travel and entertainment. Sal’s brothers and sisters could not. They did not seem to have a knack for business and just managed on the income their stores produced. Of the six Kanner children, Sal, the youngest, was the most prosperous, perhaps the only one who could be said to be prosperous.
Nor did I tell Mama. I imagined her saying, “So frivolous, so extravagant,” and I could hear her tone of disapproval. Although I had my own home and family now in another city, I was not prepared to risk Mama’s criticism. All my worries that others would not think well of us vanished as soon as we settled into the first-class compartment of the Berlin Express. Sal and I were together, happy with each other.
It was on one of those special days that the unrest and trouble began, the first sign of the upheaval and turmoil that were to follow.
“Hitler will put a stop to this.”
It was the last Sunday of January, 1933. Sal and I were in a wonderful mood, as always on one of our secret holiday outings in the German capital. The journey from Halle an der Saale to Berlin had taken more than three hours, but we were young and thought nothing of the long ride, nor of the long walk to our first destination.
We arrived just in time for brunch at Kraentzler’s, an elegant restaurant in the fashionable center of Berlin. Waiters in black jackets trod softly on the carpeted floor, confidently balancing laden trays. One poured steaming black coffee for us from a silver urn as we studied the day’s entertainment bulletin. I cannot forget the date. It was January 29, 1933.
As always on these secret excursions, we scoured the listings during our late morning meal to select a concert or symphony performance for the day. We would select our afternoon program, then stroll in the park or along the capital’s beautiful avenues until the performance began. If the weather was bad, Sal might agree to a museum visit or a lecture. I knew he did not enjoy them so much, and I did not ask often.
I was luxuriating in the warm, graceful surroundings of the restaurant when Sal found an announcement in the newspaper that a noted Jewish singer was to begin a week-long engagement that evening. The premier performance! I agreed at once. I could not think of a better way to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary.
After we had bought our tickets, we walked along Unter den Linden, the best known and perhaps most beautiful avenue in Berlin. Sal and I fitted in perfectly with the well-dressed crowd on the Avenue, my black coat highlighting the fox stole wrapped around my shoulders and the pale lavender satin trimming my dark hat. Sal liked me to dress fashionably, and I enjoyed fine clothes.
As we strolled along, a thin, stooped man in a long, threadbare black coat suddenly rushed past us. From under the wide brim of his black felt hat, his payos bobbed against his tangled gray beard.
“He is a chassid. He must come from Grenadierstrasse,” Sal speculated. “His clothes are not warm enough for January. I wonder what he’s doing in this section?”
“Grenadierstrasse? That’s the Jewish quarter isn’t it?” I said. “I’ve never seen it.”
“It’s not very different from the Jewish quarter in Leipzig,” Sal said.
“Still, I’d like to see it. These avenues are beautiful, but I want to walk where our people live,” I said. “Why don’t we go there?”
“Why not?” he asked. “I know the way. I went there once with Padaver when we came to Berlin for a soccer game.” Of course he would know the way. Sal explored every city he ever visited and prided himself on his knowledge of diverse urban neighborhoods.
“We’ll take the underground,” he said, leading me through the crowd of Sunday strollers.
The subway ride was pleasant and brief. In twenty minutes, we reached our station. As we neared the staircase leading to Grenadierstrasse in Berlin’s Jewish quarter, I heard people yelling. The shouts of anger became louder as we began to mount the steps. Sal and I continued up the steps leading to the street, climbing until we reached the top of the stairs. A German policeman stood at the head and barred our way.
“Back, back! You must turn back. It is forbidden to go!”
Peering past the policeman, I saw a double column of Nazi storm troopers marching in the center of the cobblestone street. Their huge red banners, black swastikas on white circles glared against the drab stone houses of Grenadierstrasse. Agitated men in work clothes rushed at the Nazi marchers in a frantic attempt to break up the column. They pushed them on, using their fists and rolled-up newspapers. A lanky youth in a torn jacket dragged a long, wooden plank towards a column of Nazis. Over the shouts of the workers, I distinguished the rhythmic chant of the strutting Nazis: “Hitler, power, Hitler, power, Hitler, power.”
The violent scene with its din of the competing camps overwhelmed me. I was filled with horror and fear. Someone was going to be hurt.
“What’s the trouble?” Sal asked the policeman, his tone totally calm. “We were just going to have lunch.”
A brick flew past. The policeman flinched as it clattered to the sidewalk beside him. “Back! Back!” he shouted. “You must turn back. It is forbidden to go. Grenadierstrasse is closed.”
Then, lowering his voice, he addressed Sal directly: “You would not wish to go there today, sir. Take the lady away from here. Communists and Socialists are fighting with the Nazis.” Lowering his voice still more, he said in a conspiratorial tone, “Jews are behind all this. Hitler will put a stop to it.”
There were more people on the stairs behind us now, and the policeman resumed shouting, “Back! Back!”
Something did not sound right to me. I turned to Sal and asked, “What does he mean, ‘Jews are behind this?’” Then I stopped short. “He doesn’t realize that we are Jewish.”
I could not get my legs to move. I began to shiver and pulled my fox stole more tightly round my coat. My husband began urging me to follow him down the subway steps. We could still hear the angry roar of the rioting men when we reached the station platform.
We rode on the subway back to the part of Berlin that was familiar to me. Sal led me to a cafe. We needed to sit and calm ourselves with a pot of tea. I became aware of a tiny stage, occupied by a stand-up comic. Like many of Berlin’s cabaret entertainers, he was a Jew. In a high-pitched voice, he poured forth barbed, satirical lines, castigating Nazis, Communists and Socialists alike, likening the fighting of the various political parties to a barnyard brawl. I did not
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