Everything Worries Me

February 1936

Mutsch hurried me along as we exited the grocery store onto the frozen sidewalk. The sleet was like needles falling from a thousand pine trees, the slush gathering at our feet as we trudged along. The oddest thing was the thunder. Roars of it barrelled across the black sky. But with our scarves, boots, and woolen gloves we weren’t too uncomfortable as we went home.

Just as we were approaching a butcher shop Mutsch pulled me toward an alcove covered by an awning. She was shivering.

“Mutsch,” I asked, “shall we go inside? Look at the steam on the window glass!”

“No, Lorechen,” she said, her teeth chattering, “just hold my hand and let me rest.”

People plodded by, heads bent, their bodies leaning into the wind. Just then a man sidled by us, opened the door, and eased his way inside. I felt Mutsch flinch. She released my hand and hastened toward the street. I heard her cough and then she vomited into the gutter. She had her arms wrapped around her midsection. I ran to her.

“Mutsch, are you all right?” I screamed.

She composed herself, wiping her lips and chin with a tissue from her pocket. “Yes, I’m fine. It was the smell of the meat when that man opened the door. The odour overwhelmed me. I’m fine now. Let’s go.”

We changed out of our damp clothes as soon as we arrived home. Gerta was preparing the next day’s lessons but when she realized Mutsch and I possessed a chill she went to the kitchen to prepare hot cocoa.

While she was at the stove I snuck up behind her. She stood erect, her posture always beyond criticism. I was flushed with the thought that soon I would have to say goodbye to her. She turned to me, smiled, and then said softly, “Come to me.”

We took the cocoa to the table. Gerta pushed aside the papers that were spread about. Evidently Paps and Mutsch had been reviewing them the previous night and uncharacteristically had left them there. Mutsch, Gerta, and I sat down. The warm cocoa was frothy with a rich aftertaste of bitter chocolate.

As I sipped, one of the papers protruding from under some others caught my eye. It was written in Italian. Even though my French and English studies had been going well, I didn’t speak or read Italian. But I did recognize the word ospedale, which was similar enough to the English word hospital and the French word l’hôpital. The German word Krankenhaus is so very different.

A wave of fear rolled over me.

“Is Paps ill?” I demanded, pointing to the exposed page. “That’s information for a hospital. Are his headaches more serious?” Mutsch looked at me and then Gerta. “Tell me, is father ill?”

I was terrified by the thought of my father suffering any more than he had already. He often described his headaches as blinding. He would direct me to close the shades so no sunlight would aggravate him. Frequently I had to be very quiet and if I needed to speak I was to do so in a whisper.

Mutsch reached for my hand.

“It’s not for your father, Lorechen,” she stammered, “it’s for me.”

I jumped to my feet and screamed as loudly as I ever have. The vision of my mother vomiting in the street passed before my eyes as did images of my father during his many headache attacks. Then came a flash of the ogre from my nightmares, about to clutch me at my throat, laughing, knowing my parents had vanished.

I bolted from the kitchen. Suddenly I crashed into what felt like a tree trunk. I was stunned. Then Paps took me in his strong arms and lifted me up. I was kicking frantically, shaking my head from side to side as forcefully as a piston in an engine. My father tightened his embrace.

“Lorechen,” he gasped, “what’s wrong?”

Mutsch and Gerta hurried from the kitchen. Mutsch was holding the brochure from the Italian hospital waving it in the air. Paps saw it.

“I see,” he whispered, “now you’re aware.”

He carried me into my room. The commotion had set Hansi to screeching. Gerta snatched a pillowcase and placed it over his cage. Hansi fell silent.

I must have fainted because the next thing I knew I was sitting on my bed. I looked at my father, his eyes were warm and tender with concern. Gerta sat beside me, her arms around me. Mutsch knelt at the foot of my bed nervously wringing her hands.

I grilled Paps about Mutsch and the hospital spluttering questions between sobs and shallow breaths. He knew I was afraid and thinking the worst. He tried to calm me as best he could.

“Lorechen, I’m fine. Mutsch will be fine as well. For the past few weeks she’s complained of stomach problems. She’ll need a minor operation to correct what’s bothering her. It’s nothing major. We’ve chosen a hospital in Italy because there the doctors specialize in abdominal . . .” he stopped for a moment, “. . . curiosities for which they are renowned in their ability to remedy. No other facility we know of, none in Berlin certainly, has such a reputation.”

“What’s wrong, mother?”

“You know, with age come some challenges.”

“But you’re young,” I protested.

“Thank you, Lorechen, but at times I don’t feel as I know I should. This operation will make me even better prepared to take care of you and your wonderful father.”

“So,” I reasoned, “Paps will go with you to Italy and Gerta and I will remain here?”

They looked at each other.

Paps said, “No, Lorechen. Mother will go by herself. This is only a minor procedure. She couldn’t go alone if it was anything major. She’ll have the operation and convalesce there for a few days.”

I retorted, “Oh, I understand. Mutsch will be in Italy while Gerta, you, and I will carry on as usual.”

Paps replied, his voice now sharper and higher-pitched, frustration causing him to speak faster.

“You will listen carefully. Mother is to go to Italy. She’ll remain there until she recovers. I need to go to London to wrap up my business affairs before our departure. Have you forgotten what lies ahead for us? We need to leave Berlin. We will be hunted down if we don’t.”

“But what of me?” I was stricken with terror. “Am I to be alone?”

“You’ll go to Amsterdam. You’ll wait there for us.”

“But—”

“You’ll wait with Uncle Heinburg, his wife, and Ullie. You will—”

“But, I—”

“Silence!” he shouted. “Don’t you understand? I’d be with your mother if I could. I must go to London. You’re going to Amsterdam. It is done.”

He stormed out of the room.

Mutsch sat down on the bed beside me.

“Will we be apart for long?” I asked.

“We’ll be separated for a time that’s all. Each of us will be on our own but only for a little while. We’ll meet in Italy and then begin our voyage to Japan.”

My mind raced to offer alternatives so I could be with either Mutsch or Paps.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mutsch said, “but you can’t come with me. I’ll need complete rest to be strong enough for the next part of our adventure and your presence would be . . .” she was searching for the right word, “. . . counterproductive. The long trip, especially the part of it across Siberia, would be too strenuous for me if I have not regained my strength. You’ll do as we say. You’ll go to Amsterdam.”

“Why can’t I go with Paps to London?” I persisted.

“You can’t. His business there demands his presence not yours.”

“Then I’ll stay with Gerta at her house!”

Now she was panting with rage. “Have you forgotten? The Nazis are still looking for your father and they continue to look for you. They know he’s not in Munich. It’s only a matter of time before they retrace their steps to look for him here in Berlin. You may not stay at Gerta’s house. She’s already done so much for us. If you’re there it will put her in danger. We’ll not ask her to harbour a fugitive! You must leave Germany!”

“But—”

“Ingelore!” Mutsch shouted. “Enough!” She hurriedly left the room.

Gerta got up, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’m sorry, but it is decided.”

What at first appeared to be a family trip filled with exciting adventures now played out as three separate and distinct journeys each fraught with menacing risk, danger, and the possibility of being left behind. Would we ever be together again? I didn’t understand. Why should I go to Amsterdam, Mutsch to Italy, and Paps to London? Why couldn’t the three of us go together to each place?

With overwhelming regret and hideous embarrassment I write of those next few days. Because I suffered from ignorance and selfish immaturity I was uncontrollably incensed. I was being obtuse. As it often the case when one encounters unimaginable tragedy, I could not believe that the fate of others could also be my own.

I pouted for days. My parents absorbed as much of my petulance as they could. They made dozens of attempts to further explain the necessity of our plans. They tried everything: reason, analogy, threats, guilt, fear, and as a last resort, bribery. Finally, it was Gerta who made me appreciate what they were trying to do for me.

“Your parents are doing the right thing,” she said. “Look at what’s happened over the past few years and especially over the past two months. The Nazis not only have transformed our country but they’ve also crept into Berlin and into our daily lives. They’ve altered the ways we can choose to live.”

“But you’re a Christian. You’re not affected,” I countered.

“Everyone is affected, Ingelore. I’m very much affected.”

I knew she was at her most serious because she had called me by my given name no more than five times in all the years we had been together. Although I have had other friends, no one has ever been as close to my heart as Gerta. She is my heart.

“We just want to be left alone!” I said.

She thought for a moment. “Do you see how our world is changing? No longer can a Jew marry a German. No longer can I be your housekeeper. No longer can—”

“—Why not?” I interrupted.

“There are laws. Right now your father and I are breaking the law. A German woman cannot be a housekeeper for Jews anymore. And the marriage ban between a Jew and a German, the Nazis say it’s because of the sanctity of Aryan blood. Another law says your parents can no longer vote in elections. And if your father were, say, mayor of Berlin, he’d need to step down. Another law concerns our national symbols. I’m afraid this is only the beginning.”¹⁹

“So, when I’m older I can’t marry a German who’s not a Jew?” I asked.

“No, you cannot.”

“When I’m an adult, I can’t vote?”

“No,” she said.

“Once I finish my university I won’t be able to work for the government?”

“No, you will not.”

Then I asked, “What do you mean when you say there are rules about national symbols?”

Gerta looked exhausted. “Because you’re a Jew you cannot display the German flag or the German national colours. But,” she added disdainfully, “you can display the Jewish colours in, around, and outside your home.”

“See,” I said, “Jews do have some rights!”

She became angry. “Don’t you understand? The Nazis want the Jews to display their colours. It’ll make it easier for them to find you! They won’t be your colours. They’ll be a target.”

“But—”

“No! You must understand! They are wolves. They will not stop hunting!”

She cupped my chin in her palm. “The worst thing is that they are telling you who you can love. Think, my angel. When the time comes and you fall in love with a German boy, or a Christian, and you are swept away with feelings of happiness, the law will tell you that you may not couple—” She stopped abruptly.

I was curious. “Couple? What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “You want to be in love, you want to kiss, and then you want to . . .” She stopped again. “. . . and then you want to couple.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, Gerta.”

“But it’s against the law! If you’re caught, both you and your German boy will be imprisoned and made to do hard labour in a work camp somewhere. Do you see now? The Nazis have altered the way you may choose to live!”

My time of revelation had come. It was swiftly followed by my time of remorse. I felt terrible about the way I’d acted with my parents. I understood now how grave the situation was for Jews and how necessary it was for us to leave Germany. What my parents had decided I must do was for my safety and well-being. I should have been more cooperative and not so insufferably contrary. I needed to apologize to them immediately.

That evening as soon as we sat down for supper Paps recited his usual blessing, offering thanks for the bounty before us and so on. I was stunned when he added, “We’re also thankful for our progeny, our only child, who matters most to us.”

I burst out crying.

“Paps, Mutsch,” I wailed, “I’m sorry. I’ve been a dreadful daughter these past few days. I’m so sorry.”

Mutsch reached for my hand as father came to kneel down beside me.

“We love you, Lorechen,” he said. “There’s nothing more important to us than you. We’ve done what we feel is best for you. You need to be strong now. We all do.”

I wept uncontrollably, “I’ve been a disgrace to you both.”

“Hush,” father said. “You are no such thing. We love you and we are proud of you. Look at what we have been through already. Are we weaker as a family? No, we are stronger.”

“I was so worried about your headaches all the time and then you said you were going to London.” I looked at Mutsch. “I am so scared thinking that you have to go alone to the Italian hospital. I’m tired of the shadows all about us, everywhere we look and everywhere we go. I don’t want to be away from you.”

“We understand,” Mutsch said. “It’s been very demanding and burdensome for you. But as your father says, we must carry on.”

“I’ve never been apart from you. I’m afraid of being on my own even if it’s only for a few days. What if we are separated? I worry that we might never reunite.”

All of a sudden another wave of grief engulfed me.

“And what of Gerta?” I bawled. “What will become of her?”