My Birthday

1930

In anticipation of my sixth birthday, which was only two weeks away, I planned to mind my manners, pick up after myself, be polite to a fault, and to be as helpful as I could with regard to duties around the house. Of course my parents noticed.

“You’re perfect,” my mother said. “It’s not necessary for you to try so hard.”

Father teased, “We’re satisfied with you. There’s no reason to call the stork to take you back!” And then, after a few moments, “Your mother and I have decided that you can invite several friends to our home for a party!”

“Thank you!” I answered with excitement. A party with my friends!

That year my birthday fell on Monday so my parents arranged for a party the previous Sunday. Gerta was alerted as were Omi and Opa and our relatives who lived nearby. Alas, on that Thursday, Paps told me that my grandparents, along with Aunt Jenny, Uncle Hans, Uncle Alfred, and Uncle Erich were all unable to come.

“They have matters to attend to, nothing that’s an emergency, but things that require their immediate attention. Uncle Sieke, too, is away on business. They have sent regrets and have promised gifts for you.”

I was saddened my grandparents and relatives wouldn’t be joining me but I also was overjoyed with the prospect of belated presents! My relatives, especially Uncle Sieke, were generous and I always appreciated their largesse.

Although my parents allowed me to invite ten friends to the party my father told me that the invitations should indicate that gifts were not necessary.

I was taken aback. “But why? It’s my birthday!”

“You know many families are trying to persevere through difficult times now, Lorechen,” Paps explained. “They’re not as fortunate as we are. It may be a hardship for them to spend what little they have on anything other than food and necessities.”

Mutsch said, “You’ll tell everyone to bring a flower. We’ll place the sprigs in a vase as the centrepiece.”

Part of me understood completely. Yet a part of me, well perhaps it’s best I don’t say.

Gerta chimed in. “We can have a treat for them. I’ll bake cookies. When your guests arrive we’ll trade their flowers for cookies!”

“Besides,” Mutsch added, “there’ll be gifts enough from your relatives. Paps and I will have something for you, too.”

Plans were finalized. Mutsch and Gerta arranged for food and activities and I was watched very carefully as I wrote invitations.

The day of the party was warm with bright sunshine. Though some friends could not come, many did. First to arrive was Adah Metzger, a gorgeous little girl from synagogue, bright-eyed with jet-black hair. Then, Inga Goldman came. She lived a few houses down. She was plump but so pretty with hair the colour of the sun. After she entered the foyer, Gerta said, “Thank you for visiting this afternoon, Inga.” Mutsch then asked her, “How are you today?” Inga was so flustered all she could do was hand Gerta her flower, accept a cookie in return, crane her neck downward, and bury her face in her hands, the force of which caused the cookie to crumble in her palms. When Gerta handed her another cookie, she grasped it tightly and Gerta advised her to keep her arms at her sides for now.

The three of us played in my room. Later, other classmates came by. There was Dieter, a boy somewhat meek as I recall, but who excelled in our recess games, and Levi, a tall boy, very smart but so unkempt with his shirt too small and his shorts too big. To me he looked like a scarecrow. But for some reason I fancied him.

Everyone brought a flower. I’ve always adored the magnificence of flowers, especially orchids, but I can’t remember by name the flowers the children brought that day. I do recall how when Mutsch brought the vase of blooms to the table everyone remarked that the spray was splendid in colour and texture.

Before I served the cake Gerta took us outside. We played games, sang songs, and then she sat us down on the grass. From her pocket she retrieved a book with a tattered cover. I knew right away which one it was. She began with my favourite tale, the one father had read to me a thousand times, Der Erlkönig, and, as I knew it would, the story frightened all of us but in such an exciting and intoxicating way.

My memories of that day are fairly clear since it’s the only birthday party in Germany that my friends were permitted to attend.

That was sixteen years ago. Of the children there that day, one in particular presently comes to mind. I haven’t thought of Inga Goldman lately but suddenly I see her before me, and a flood of remembrances overtakes me and I’m overwhelmed with thoughts of her.

She and I grew up in Berlin, each of us an only child. Inga’s parents, Jules and Naomi Goldman, and my parents met at a bridge class and became close friends. My father and her father were in the export-import business and though they didn’t work for the same company they both travelled through Europe, occasionally crossing paths in a foreign city where they would play tennis or just sit and talk for hours over coffee.

I remember going to the Staatliche Museen with Inga, her parents, and my parents. At the time there was a new collection of Egyptian artifacts there. Our parents also had season tickets to the Berliner Philharmoniker and the Staatsoper. On a few occasions they took us with them. The performance halls were beautiful with their gleaming chandeliers and gilded busts of famous musicians. We sat in red velvet chairs overlooking the stage. We saw bows of a dozen violins, every one moving in unison. When ballerinas appeared their costumes created a magical world of billowy filmy pastels when they leaped through the air.

Gerta leads the birthday guests in games and songs.

The children gather for a photograph. Ingelore, on the far right, embraces her friend, Adah Metzger.

I didn’t appreciate Naomi’s nickname for her husband. She called him Dickerchen, which means little Fatty. He walked in an odd way, balancing his protruding stomach by leaning slightly backward, his large head swaying to and fro. His gait faintly reminded me of a rooster. I called him gentle Uncle Jules because he smiled so easily. I still can smell the minty cologne he generously splashed on his face after shaving.

With no other siblings Inga and I often felt lonely. She said many times, “A large family! I want lots of children when I grow up!”

I once told Inga that when I was three years old I asked my mother for a brother or sister. Mother later confided that although she and Paps had wanted another child the times were so unsettled that they were afraid to have two little ones to care for.

I know I don’t want to have a lot of children but I know I’ll never have just one.

Inga was a very sensitive child. One day, out of nowhere, she shouted, “Remember last year? That was the best summer!” That year, I believe it was 1933 or 1934, we enjoyed a wonderful summer with our families taking frequent visits to the lake. We rowed in our kayak, swam in the crisp water, and snatched berries from bushes behind the many outbuildings.

Inga often reminisced about the day when a couple of boys had picked flowers for us and my mother had offered them some cookies that Gerta had baked.

I would laugh and remind her, “Those boys weren’t interested in us, Inga. They knew how good the cookies were, that’s why they brought the flowers.”

That was the same summer that my father had become dreadfully ill with typhoid. His fever had run as high as 41 and he was gone for what seemed like months. I never told Mutsch but at the time I was sure Paps was going to die.

It was sometime during 1935 that Inga and I first visited the new Reform temple in Dahlem. It was beautiful inside.

From that day on we pestered our parents to attend services there. I remember the rabbi, a man named Joachim Prinz.¹² His leadership was magnificent. I loved listening to the organ music and the lilting voices of the choir. But most of all I enjoyed staring at the stained glass windows from which shafts of light spread reds, blues, and yellows on the oaken pews. I felt at the time that that had to be the most beautiful temple in all of Germany.

Eventually our parents decided to attend services at the new Reform temple. I suspect their intensified religious interest was a reaction to the spread of Nazi influences.

Despite memories of my warm friendship with Inga and the experiences our families shared that year, this was also the year that my world suddenly fell apart.

When Paps first announced that we would be moving to Japan I pleaded desperately with him. “Why must we go to Japan when Inga and her parents are going to Brazil?”

He told me, “Gerber, the company I work for, has an office in Kobe.”

“Why can’t the Goldmans go there?” I was sick with the thought of being separated from Inga.

Paps said, “We have to leave our home because of the Nazis. Unfortunately we can’t choose where we go. Jules was able to arrange for visas to Brazil for his family so that’s where Inga must go. You’ll see Inga again someday. I’m sure of it.”

It was so difficult saying goodbye to Inga.

When we each arrived in our new countries, we wrote letters to one another. She and her family first immigrated to France; then, they fled to South America. Inga told me about Rio and I told her about Kobe. She sent me pictures of herself at the beach, the most beautiful place in the world she said, and photographs of Pão de Açúcar, Sugarloaf Mountain. She was learning Portuguese and had already made many friends. “There are so many festivals here,” she wrote, “and we dress up in costumes and dance in the streets.”

I sent her pictures of our home in Kobe. I told her I had a kitten with a broken tail that is supposed to, the Japanese believe, bring good luck. I didn’t tell her kittens’ tails are often broken when they’re newborns. I wrote instead, “Learning Japanese is difficult for me. As of now I only can read street signs.”

The Goldmans visited us in Japan in 1938, without Inga. I was angry with them and with Inga, too. They told me she preferred to stay in Brazil during Carnival. I was heartbroken.

I don’t write to Inga anymore. Yet I think of her often. I hope she is happy.

And I’d like to think she still dances in the streets at Carnival time.