“Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow” in “The Wolves at My Shadow”
Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
June 1936
At the age of eleven, almost twelve, on the cusp of adulthood, it was difficult for me to comprehend fully the forces that were at play during that stage of my life. But I now understand that at that time I was a fragile and skittish fox, fearful of the hounds at my heels, a willowy impressionable young girl who tensed at every shadow and a dutiful daughter who worried about her parents. Yes, our voyage was necessary. It was paramount to escape the Nazi oppression in Germany that certainly would have dissolved our way of life in Berlin. I deeply regret that I wasn’t able to do more to help my relatives and friends flee as well.
By early June of 1936 I had been on a train nearly every day for three weeks. But our trek across Eastern Europe into Asia wasn’t over and Japan was still far away, farther than the distant horizon. For some reason I thought of Hansi, my canary, in his cage, unable to fly. It occurred to me that I was in a similar situation. The confines of my compartment, the corridors, the club car, and the dining car were not the brass spokes of Hansi’s birdcage but part of an iron sheath that enfolded me along my way. Hansi and I were experiencing the same fate, trapped in a world that seemed never to change.
The next morning I saw pieces of azure horizontal stripes peeking through the tops of the trees, bold splashes of colour abutting the soft blue sky. The lake was not far off, just as Katya had said. That meant an extended stop, a respite, and a chance to get off the train, to walk in the fresh air, and see some interesting things as well.
As I was putting on my trousers Mutsch came into my room. She was wearing the only dress she had with her.
“Mother,” I said, “you look beautiful!”
“Thank you, dear,” she glowed, “and for you, please wear your dress as well. We want to look our best today. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course.” I took off what I was wearing and searched for the one dress I had brought along.
As the train pulled into the station I was overcome with relief. Another leg of our journey was realized and we were safe. Then eagerness surged through me like a tide. I couldn’t wait to disembark.
There were hundreds of people on the platform, most with more luggage than they could carry, children prancing along, couples, the elderly, the alone, all in a frenzy to get where they needed to go. Police were standing at the doors to the station and near the doorways to the railcars. Because we were stopping for a few hours they needed to monitor who was getting off the train and make sure that no one else attempted to board.
We were ready! We fled down the corridor and onto the platform. Katya was already there. She was with a policeman a dozen or so metres from the car behind ours, waving one hand while holding a whistle to her lips with the other, tooting short blasts to gain everyone’s attention. We hurried to her. There were eleven people in our group, all of us eager to get going. The two fashionable couples from a few days ago were among us, their clothing superb, the women’s hair in appealing order, and, of course, their jewellery shining in the light slicing through the station’s windows.
“Does everyone have their papers and tickets?”
Mutsch leaned over to Paps. “Are we prepared?”
“Yes, darling,” he said patting the lapel of his jacket, “I have everything we need.”
When our group was quiet and attentive Katya laid out our plan. “We’ll be taking a bus into the city. The bus will take that bridge across the Angara River. We will get off the bus at its first stop and then proceed to some points of interest including shops, cafés, museums, churches, and other places. But please,” she implored, looking at me, “let’s stay close together as we go.” Like ducklings waddling behind their mother we ambled with Katya, catching glimpses of our surroundings while feverishly peering ahead to make sure she was in front of us.
Our group left the station. Within a few metres we came upon an unadorned cubicle that served as a bus stop. As we gathered ranks, Katya told us that the governing body of the Russian railway system had set aside bus tickets for passengers to take sightseeing trips at extended stops under her supervision. Our wallets would not be necessary. She reminded us to stay close together and then, to reassure the two couples with the jewellery, she said the police officer standing beside her would be accompanying us, as was customary.
The bus approached and then stopped. Katya grabbed my wrist and ushered me to the first row where we sat down. Paps and Mutsch were behind us. The two couples with the jewellery found benches farther back and the other sightseers plopped down wherever there was room. The policeman stood at the front of the bus.
As we crossed the bridge Katya said, “I have a special treat for you, little one.”
“What is it?” I wondered.
“There’s a quaint café where this bus will stop. Our group will assemble there. Then one part of our group will go one way to some . . .” she scrunched up her nose as if she had smelled a skunk, “. . . really featureless and humdrum tourist places. But the rest—which will be you, your mother, and your father—you’ll go to see some special houses, a magnificent church, and other fascinating places.”
“Yes, Katya,” I said, “that sounds much better.”
We got off the bus and followed Katya and the policeman to the café. We huddled at its doorway.
“This is where we will meet later this afternoon. We have exactly two hours. We’ll reconvene then.”
Then Katya addressed the group. “Fräulein Völker and her parents will pursue a sightseeing course to my left while the rest of our group will head off to my right.”
The woman with the wrist full of gold bracelets asked her gentleman companion, “Why are they being singled out and separated from our group?” she asked disquietly.
“It’s all right,” I whispered to her. “Katya wants me to see some really interesting things —something special, but more suited to a child.”
“I see,” the woman said condescendingly.
The larger part of our group walked away. I was puzzled because Katya went with them. The policeman came over to Paps. “I’m here to accompany you as Katya has directed.”
“Wait!” I screeched. “I thought Katya would be guiding us.”
“No. I’m your guide. My name is Alexi. Follow me.”
He started on his way. Paps and Mutsch didn’t seem overly concerned. “Let’s go with him,” Paps said. I was heartbroken that Katya wouldn’t be with us. I didn’t understand why she chose the other group.
The policeman was very cordial. He took us to see several houses decorated with intricate trim. “These,” Alexi told us, “many years ago, were the homes of the families of exiles, those writers and thinkers sent here as punishment for their participation in a revolt against our Czar.”26 Then a short while later, “This is the Kazan Church. Note the incredibly intricate architecture.” Alexi didn’t say much, but when he did speak I found myself eager to listen.
He led us through some foreboding side streets to several streets with enormous brick buildings. There was a great variety in this city, variety everywhere.
Two hours later, as instructed, we arrived back at the café. As we approached, I saw the other sightseeing group had already arrived. Through the window I could see that everyone was seated, conversing, laughing, and gesturing among themselves, the steam from their hot beverages wafting in the air.
But I didn’t see Katya.
Alexi opened the door. Mutsch entered, then Paps and I stepped in. Everyone stopped talking at once. I saw only blank expressions on their faces. The air was thick with silence. Time seemed to stop. I was horrified. Had I done something wrong? The seconds seemed like hours.
Then, from the rear of the café I heard a familiar voice. “Who are we here for today?”
There was no reaction from anyone.
Mutsch turned to me. “Lorechen, close your eyes.”
“Yes, mother,” I said squeezing my eyes shut. A knot of guilt was tightening in my stomach. There was a commotion, first of chairs being pushed back, then people standing, then handbags, napkins, and cutlery being moved and then that familiar voice singing out, “Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag!”
I opened my eyes. Everyone smiled as brightly as I had ever seen. And there was Katya, holding a cake, one lit candle at its centre.
“To our guest of honour!” Katya bellowed. Everyone applauded. Room was made for us at a centre table where Katya placed the cake. It looked delicious, a square concoction of layers topped with flowery swirls of icing and nuts sprinkled on top. Voices chirped all those nice things said at birthdays. I staggered with surprise.
“Mother,” I asked in between shallow breaths, “what’s this? It can’t be my . . .”
“Yes, Lorechen,” she said, “it is your birthday. Well actually not until tomorrow. Your father and I and Katya and our friends from the train wanted to do something for you. Happy Birthday, darling.” She kissed my cheeks.
“But . . .” I stammered.
“But nothing,” Katya boomed. “Here’s your cake and here . . .” Katya reached out to one of the women with the jewellery who rushed to hand her two packages enclosed in what looked like butcher’s paper. Katya gave them to me. “I’m sorry for the wrapping but in Siberia we must do with what we have!” Everyone laughed.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.
Mutsch urged me to open the packages. The first was a diary, covered in the softest leather, its pages lined.
“That’s from your father and me. We love you very much. With it you may wish to record your experiences, for future reference and enjoyment.”
It was difficult for me to speak. “Thank you, mother,” I said.
“And this,” Katya beamed, handing me the other package, “is from me. Use it often and as a remembrance of me.”
I opened it. Inside was a drawing pad and two dozen coloured pencils. I looked up at her. “I’m so . . .”
“Draw your recollections of our beautiful country and our majestic cities, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course I will.” She kissed my forehead.
Someone suddenly shouted, “Mangeons du gâteau!”
“Yes!” I said. I blew out the candle and then cut the cake.
“Your manners, Lorechen?” Mutsch asked.
At once I stood up. “Thank you all for this wonderful surprise party. I’m so grateful.” I looked to Katya. “Thank you for everything.” Then I looked to Mutsch and Paps. “Thank you for today and for everything that you have . . .”
Just then I felt dizzy. A memory flashed before me. I smelled sauerbraten and Bienenstock cake. I saw Omi and Opa with Gerta portioning plates just as the waiter was doing here. I saw numerals on a calendar, the twenty-fifth of May.
I realized it had passed by, forgotten and neglected.
I had failed to remember Paps’ birthday.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Paps said pulling me to his side. “It’s nothing. Just to have you safe is what matters most. You’re here with us, we’re with friends, and at this moment we have the opportunity to celebrate with you, albeit a day early!”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
He kissed my cheeks. “Everyone,” he boomed, “may I now tell you of the day our Lorechen came to us? Let me see, at dawn there was a slight mist of rain . . .”
I knew what was coming. I stood up, walked over to Katya and asked her if we could step outside for a few moments. “Of course,” she said.
On the sidewalk, she explained the planning for that day. “Your parents asked the German passengers if they wanted to participate in a celebration for you. I’m surprised those two couples, you know who I mean . . .”
“The ones with the jewellery?” I asked.
“Yes. I was surprised they were interested. One of the women, the skinny one with the black hair and the fancy hat, she was the first to voice interest! So, with her help this sightseeing trip was arranged. But we needed time to get ready so we sent you and your parents off by yourselves so the rest of us could prepare.”
“Paps and Mutsch knew?” I asked.
“Of course! It was your father’s idea. After you left with Alexi, and before I left with my group, I asked the baker to fashion a cake by the time we returned. We came back twenty minutes before you arrived. Your father had given me money to purchase the diary. Your parents wanted to do something special for their dearest one.”
“I feel terrible. I forgot Paps’ birthday!”
“As your father said, it’s nothing. He’s grateful that both you and your mother are safe and that the three of you are together. For him that’s gift enough.”
“And the pad and pencils?”
She smiled. “It’s something I wanted to do for you. I’d like you to remember your voyage in my country and I hope you’ll remember me. You will draw pictures, yes?”
“I shall do some later this evening,” I said.
We were about to go back inside when Katya placed her hands on my shoulders and leaned over to me, “You’ve much to remember. And I know in my heart that I’ll always remember you, little one.”
We returned to the train just in time to scramble to the dining car for an early supper. We were hungry from the day’s adventure and Mutsch could not wait for her bowl of caviar. The pieces of cake at my party were delicious but very small!
Later that evening I took out the pad and coloured pencils and tried to draw a portrait of Katya in her uniform. Unfortunately, I realized what I knew from my days in Wilmersdorf when Gerta would read and I would draw on poster board: I was better with inanimate things. I didn’t yet fully understand proportion and scale when it came to the human body and face.
After a few tries I looked out my window. The horizontal stripe of Lake Baikal, much wider now, stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. We were rapidly approaching it. Even in the fading light I saw that it was as clear as crystal. I didn’t know how far we were from it but it was enormous, dividing the sky from the terrain as far as I could see. It was as vast as an ocean, utterly breathtaking. I remembered Katya telling me that there were towns and villages along its edge and sure enough, as our train sped into the dusk, lights became visible in the distance.
I alternated between drawing on my pad and reading my book and then I dozed off. I was startled awake by the train rattling to a stop. There was a hint of dawn. Wherever we were, we stayed only long enough for some passengers to detrain and others to board.
Mutsch and Paps greeted me with a celebratory cascade of good wishes, hugs and kisses, and repeated declarations of love and thankfulness on this, the precise date of my birth.
“Please,” I said, “don’t fuss. I’m so happy and so grateful for the wonderful surprise yesterday. I love you both.”
“You are our joy,” Mutsch said.
When the train arrived at a station that afternoon I saw a placard with four Russian letters of which only the last two looked familiar to me. At lunch, Katya told us we’d linger at this stop for a while because many passengers intending to board were Chinese on their way to Manchuria. This would necessitate an examination of travel papers. Even though many of the railway employees in the station spoke Chinese only one of Katya’s subordinates did.
We didn’t leave our compartment.
I saw dozens of people inching their way toward the loading doors as Katya’s police thoroughly checked papers. It then occurred to me that this was the first time I had seen so many people of a different race. I was fascinated by what I observed. I wished I could talk with them, learn about them, know something of their lives. And then, of course, I could share my story too.
After an hour we left the station, travelling east, always looking behind us, to see if our shadows would be overtaken, distancing ourselves from what we cared for most, our beloved Berlin, our dear family and friends, and our former way of life.
Much later, after spending time in the club car sketching scenes of the countryside, I entered our compartment to find my parents’ valises on their bed, their folded clothing piled beside, both of them arranging their belongings for packing.
“What’s going on?” I wondered.
They stopped what they were doing. With sadness in his eyes Paps said, “Lorechen, there’s something we need to tell you.”
Mutsch took my hand. My nerves awoke.
“What is it, mother?” I asked.
Paps stood near me. “Well, Lorechen,” she said, “in less than an hour we’ll arrive at a town where it’ll be necessary—”
“—We can’t be at our destination,” I said.
“. . . no, but it’ll be necessary for us to switch trains.”
I was bewildered. Why? I thought this train would take us to the end of Russia and then we would sail to Japan. Did something happen? Please, I thought, not another detour to a hospital. Is Mutsch all right? Is father suffering again from his headaches?
“Lorechen,” my mother scolded, “are you daydreaming? You must listen.”
Paps didn’t wait for a response. “We’re to change trains. You’ll pack your belongings. When we arrive at the station we’ll exit to find the train that goes to the border. We will cross into China.”
“Yes, father, I understand,” I said. “So everyone will change trains? I’m so glad we’ll all be travelling the same route.”
I stood up, eager to go to my room to begin packing but Mutsch braced me with her arm.
“Lorechen, it’ll just be us and a few German passengers.”
I stopped breathing. Where will Katya be? Why must we leave her? Will we be without police protection? Will we be safe? For so many days this compartment had been home. I didn’t want to leave it.
I heard my father’s voice. “This train will continue on through Russia to Vladivostok. We’re to go a different way. Our next train will travel through Manchuria and China and then to Korea. It’s the safest and quickest route to Japan.”
There was no breath inside me for words of protest. This would be another sacrifice. More lost friends, another moment of sorrow and sadness when we would leave our friends behind in order to maintain our distance from our relentless oppressors. But I knew that we must continue our flight to freedom. I was resolved.
“I understand, father.”
Mutsch embraced me. “I’m sorry, Lorechen, but we must persevere.”
After packing my things I sat by my window for my last look at the Russian landscape. There were rolling uplands that swelled into mountains. I was so despondent I nearly became ill.
Paps called to me. “A policeman has come to tell you Katya is in the dining car and that she’d like to speak with you.”
I ran to meet her.
She was seated alone in the dining car, a glass of vodka in her hands. She looked up, smiled at me, then waved with enthusiasm for me to come to her.
“Sit,” she said pulling out a chair for me. “Can I order you something? Tea? Perhaps some cookies?”
“No, thank you, Katya,” I said, sitting.
She sipped from her glass. “Well, by now you know what will occur shortly. I’m disheartened that our paths will separate. I won’t have the delight of seeing you every day. I know where you and your parents are going but of course I can’t go with you.”
“I’ll miss you so much,” I said with tears beginning to well.
“Now, now,” she said trying to comfort me, “there can be no tears when friends reflect on shared memories, only joy. You understand I’m a better person for having to come to know you, little one.”
I repeated myself. “I’ll miss you so much.”
“What is the well-known phrase? Parting is such sweet sorrow, yes?”
Abschied ist so süß Leid.
I never will forget those words.
Abschied ist so süß Leid.
She stood up extending her arms to me. I rose and clasped her hands in mine. We stood there for a few seconds smiling at each other. Then she let go of my hands and wrapped her arms around me. She hugged me for a long time.
“I’ll miss you so much,” I said again, embracing her with all my might.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Care for yourself and for your parents. Always be safe.”
As we released each other, Katya kissed the top of my head, touched my nose with her forefinger, and said, “Farewell, little one.”
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