Dark Clouds are Everywhere

1932

It was just after our geography lesson ended that I realized darkness had crept into my classroom and was all about us. Fraülein Müller, my teacher, went to the windows and pushed aside the curtains to allow what little light there was into the room. Earlier that morning there were ominous coal-black clouds on the horizon but they seemed so far away. Even though it was only mid-morning it appeared as if dusk had settled over us.

We were told to place our papers aside. We sat motionless, our fingers laced together on the tops of our desks. Fraülein Müller stood erect waiting for our collective and undivided attention. I remember she dressed plainly with blouse collars so stiffly starched they appeared as if they were made of cardboard. Her long straight hair was balled atop her head. She was tall with such big feet!

“Children,” she said, “we have visitors today so we’ll be going outside into the yard. There you are to form a straight line. When your name is called you’ll signal with your arm raised. Then you’ll be told either to sit down on the grass or go to a side table where you’ll answer whatever questions are asked of you.” She clapped her hands three times. “Stand, push in your chairs, follow me. Talking is forbidden.”

Once outside she motioned where we were to form our line. We did so quickly.

It seemed like night had fallen. The clouds were dense and dark. A storm was on its way.

All the classes were in the yard, standing in perfectly straight lines. The children were stock-still and mute, our teachers rooted as sentinels nearby. Then our Schulleiter, the headmaster, came into the yard accompanied by two men in uniform. I wasn’t sure if they were soldiers or police but I guessed they were police.

Immediately I recognized the swastikas on their hats and armbands. One of the men was big and mean-looking, the bill of his cap pulled down to just above his eyes, his face in shadow, his eyes like beacons shining out from within. His lantern jaw was clean-shaven. I knew he was in charge, the leader. As the two of them walked past me I smelled the leather of their boots.¹³

When the soldiers stood at the centre of the yard our headmaster handed a sheaf of papers to the leader and then turned toward the school, leaving us in the yard. The other soldier went to a table situated near a gate that opened to an alleyway. He sat down, opened his briefcase, placed his papers before him, and then readied a pencil.

The bellowing voice of the soldier in the centre of our yard startled me. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Krüger. You will answer to your name as you have been instructed.” He gazed about our assemblage making sure everyone was attentive. Then he said, “We begin.” There was silence. Then, “Dieter Ackerman.”

The boy timidly raised his arm. The soldier checked the roster and then barked, “Sich hinsetzen!” Sit down! Like a vase falling from a shelf, Dieter collapsed on the grass. Another name was called. That child too was told to sit down. Then, another name, and so on.

Fear knotted my stomach. What name will the soldier call me by? Will it be Ingelore Rothschild or Erna Völker? To which name shall I answer? What am I to do?

“Levi Baumstein,” the soldier called. This boy was quivering when I saw him slowly raise his arm. Then pointing toward the gate, the officer said, “Proceed to Sergeant Keller.” The boy darted to the table as if a rabid dog were chasing him.

More names were called. Some children were told to sit while others were sent to the sergeant. I thought it was a random selection or perhaps a division based on neighbourhoods. As a wave of understanding washed over me my blood ran cold.

The children sent to the table were Jews.

“Adah Metzger.” She raised both arms. The colonel’s voice barked, “To the sergeant!” She ran to the table sobbing the entire way.

I will never forget those children’s names.

I looked at the lines. Most of the students were seated. There were only several boys and girls still standing. I saw conspicuous empty spaces where the Jews had been. The children at the sergeant’s table now numbered about twenty.

“Frau Robensohn,” the colonel announced. She was the teacher in the classroom across the hall from mine. She stood motionless. Impatiently, the colonel shouted, “Frau Robensohn!” With her arms akimbo she stepped toward the man, then stopped and defiantly remained still. He snapped at her, “You will proceed to the sergeant immediately!” She slowly dropped her arms to her sides, raised her chin, and walked gracefully to the table.

I vividly remember that she never raised her arm.

As more names were called my mind raced. What would I do when he called Rothschild?

Just then the headmaster hastened from the building. “My dear colonel,” he was saying as he approached.

“What is this interruption?” the colonel wanted to know.

“There are parents and passersby on the front steps. They see your vehicles in the street and they are wondering if a child is hurt or if there is some calamity with which they can assist.”

The colonel looked angry. “And what did you tell them?”

“I told them you were here to conduct a validation of our school’s roster. I said it was procedural and customary. They didn’t accept my explanation and they’re demanding to speak with you.”

The colonel pursed his lips. He looked at the sky and then turning to the table he called out, “Sergeant, gather your things.” To the headmaster he said, “I see I must handle this annoyance personally. Tell them I will be out shortly. The sergeant will bring that teacher,” pointing to Frau Robensohn with an arm as straight as an arrow, “and the children from his table to your office to complete his cataloguing. It will soon rain so be advised I shall return tomorrow to conclude my work here.” And with that he marched into the building.

The teachers began yelling, “Everyone inside. To your classrooms!” We dashed inside to escape the first drops of rain beginning to fall. As I ran toward the building I saw Frau Robensohn and the group of Jewish children being ushered to the headmaster’s office.

About an hour later the clouds and rain dissipated. In the middle of a reading, noticing how brightly the sun now was shining, Fraülein Müller said, “I see the police took the bad weather with them.” I sensed an odious sarcasm in her voice.

At dismissal, my class was taken to the lobby to wait for elders or governesses to record our removal from the property with the school’s secretary. Gerta signed the log and we left. On the street she looked at me. “Is everything all right? You look peaked. Is there something wrong?”

“I’m fine, Gerta,” I lied, “I’m just tired.”

As we walked home in silence I couldn’t help wondering what was destined for the Jewish children and for Frau Robensohn.

That night our supper routine began as it always did with Paps talking and Mutsch and I listening. I was tense. I knew the conversation soon would turn to me.

I’d just put some food in my mouth when father asked, “And you, Lorechen, how was your day?”

Everything went dark just as my classroom had earlier that morning. I could smell the leather of the boots. I could see Frau Robensohn and the Jewish children being led into the school building. The entire morning flashed before my eyes.

Reaching for my napkin, I gagged.

Grasping my wrist, Mutsch asked, “What’s wrong, Lorechen?”

I retched.

Sensing something was awry, father demanded, “Tell us at once!”

It didn’t take long to recount what had transpired at school. I was surprised my parents had so few questions. They understood the implications of that day better than I did.

“And what of Frau Robensohn and the Jewish children?”

I whispered, “I’m not sure.”

My parents looked to each other. There were no words between them but there was communication and a clear understanding.

Paps said, “It’s the only thing we can do.”

My parents decided I would not return to school. It wasn’t safe. They said the actions of that day were an affront to Jews, to civility, to education professionals, and to all children and families as well.

“You’ll not return to school,” father declared.

I protested. “But I enjoy school! Fraülein Müller is a wonderful teacher! I’ll miss my friends!”

He said, “No! We’ll make arrangements for Gerta to tutor you in the library. Mother will assume some of her domestic duties while she is teaching you.”

He stared into my eyes. “You’re to remain inside this house when school is in session. We can’t have people seeing you on the street, they’ll wonder why you’re not in school.”

“Yes, father,” I moaned.

I knew there was no way I could change Paps’ mind. Once he reached a decision it was done. Only Mutsch, on the rare occasion, could change his mind.

That night my eerie nightmare returned. This time the deformed demon is wearing the colonel’s hat and when I run to my parents’ bedroom he’s closer to me, just inches away. I awoke more frightened than I have ever been.

The days of attending school were over. I would see a few of my former classmates at synagogue and a handful of others by chance on the street on weekends but I was forbidden to speak with them. I never had the opportunity to explain what happened to me. I never had a chance to say goodbye.

I do not know which is worse: saying goodbye, face-to-face, exchanging a warm embrace, looking forlornly into one another’s eyes, the tears about to come; or, the ghostly absence of a conclusion, only a memory of a last encounter, the last hours or days, never knowing it would be the last.

It took just two days for me to realize that Gerta was a strict teacher. She meticulously allocated times for my instruction in science, literature, German language and history, mathematics, European and World history, art, music, and various domestic skills. She scheduled recess periods during which we exercised inside or went for brisk walks several times around the apartment. Although she didn’t speak English or French she worked with me when we pored over those language texts, one hour every odd-numbered day for French and one hour every even-numbered day for English.

“Your father will correct your pronunciation,” she reminded me.

When we were “at school” she wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense. I still laugh when I recall her frantically admonishing Hansi, my canary, for singing too loudly during her tutorials.

“You’ll learn your lessons,” she said, “and your father will see progress.”

After several days Paps, Mutsch, Gerta, and I sat in the library to discuss my comportment. I was relieved to hear Gerta say I was a model student.

“I’m pleased,” my father said.

Suddenly there were rapid knocks at our door. We looked to one another. Fear brushed across our faces. Paps rose to attend to the disturbance. He returned and ushered Herr Bayern into the library. The landlord looked tired and wan, his eyes bloodshot. He trembled as he spoke.

“A few days after the attendance sessions were completed the authorities submitted their report. All teachers and students were accounted for save three or four Jewish children, one of them was your daughter. Since there was no report of illness or accident to explain their absences, the colonel demanded addresses. He sent someone from the police station to the Records Hall to examine real estate documentation and confirm the addresses.”

“How do you know this?” Mutsch asked.

“I know the man they sent. He’s a clerk there. His elderly mother rents from me. Upon his return he verified your address but suggested that they question me first, as landlord, to avoid wasted efforts, rather than come directly here.”

“And the result?” Paps asked.

“I told them the Rothschilds no longer live there. They moved to Munich. I showed them the lease. I proposed that the school’s roster was in error.”

Mutsch was wringing her hands. Gerta and I were speechless.

“And now?” Paps probed.

“The clerk told me if they’re unable to locate the girl,” he pointed to me, “they’ll issue a warrant for your arrest. They’re on your trail, Herr Rothschild. You must consider what this means not only for you but also for me. They won’t stop until they find you. Your wife isn’t safe either. No Jewish family is safe. It won’t take them long to confirm you’re not in Munich. What will you do when they come to your door? What will I do when they demand an explanation for my obvious diversion and the falsified lease?”

Father was calm. It’s something in him that I admire to this day. He possesses a quiet courage, he’s intelligent, and above all he is fearless.

“I’ve planned for this, Herr Bayern. We thank you beyond measure for what you’ve already done for us. I assure you things will work out. No harm will come to you or anyone else.”

I had no idea what Paps meant. How could things possibly work out?

We had already changed our names. We couldn’t change much else.