The Earth Moves

Summer 1936

I could not understand why my father chose Mr. McKenzie for my English tutor.

“You’ve ten weeks to improve your overall language abilities,” my father said, “in order to meet the strict entrance requirements for the Canadian Academy. It’s the only private English language school in Kobe, so a tutor is necessary.”

“Yes, father,” I said.

Though Gerta did not speak English, the months and months of recitations with her when I was schooled at home in Wilmersdorf provided me with a rudimentary understanding of grammar and verb conjugation. I needed a more profound knowledge of the language before I’d be able to enroll at the academy. I wished Gerta and I could have resumed our lessons.

The CA, as we called it, was established several decades earlier by Canadian missionaries but was no longer affiliated with a church. It was staffed mostly by Europeans and I hoped I would be able to attach myself to someone who also could speak German.

On a hot, humid day in July, I walked to the McKenzie home for the first time. A maid ushered me into a dark vestibule smelling of stale tobacco and cats. The drapes were drawn tightly. Mr. McKenzie, seated in an armchair, looked up and spoke to me in English with a flurry of words I could not understand. He might as well have been speaking to me in Czech because his burr obscured his words.

“Good morning” he said condescendingly. He always spoke to me in that manner.

He stood up. His thinning reddish brown hair was combed back. His dark eyes protruded grotesquely from their sockets. He was overweight, his jowls limply hanging down from his jaw. His pipe was clenched between discoloured teeth too small for his mouth. From that moment on, and for all the years I knew him, Mr. McKenzie removed that brier only to refill it with tobacco. I still wonder whether he slept with it.

As we walked through his dark house I felt like I was back in Berlin, at one of its stately museums. The rooms were crowded with massive overstuffed chairs and sofas, embroidered pillows liberally strewn about. The thick carpets were covered with hair from Mr. McKenzie’s ten cats. I felt some of the cats rubbing up against my ankles. Just then the maid dropped something in the kitchen. The sound startled the cats. Some jumped onto the furniture while others slinked into wicker baskets.

It was intolerably stuffy and hot inside the house.

I could not imagine Paps enduring an hour and a half each day in that stifling greenhouse. I whined about the darkness and dreariness to Paps. “Lorechen,” he responded, “it’s for your own good. You’re lucky that Mr. McKenzie is on a break from his research and is available to tutor you before you start school.” I never did find out what kind of research it was but secretly I fantasized that Mr. McKenzie was working as a spy for the British government.

In his dark study, Mr. McKenzie sat in an immense armchair behind an equally enormous cluttered desk. I tried not to squirm while I sat on a chair covered with fabric as rough as burlap. It made my bare legs itch incessantly. I soon came to realize there would be no formal lessons, no grammar, no vocabulary lists, just Mr. McKenzie talking about his childhood in Scotland, his family, and his cats. He even showed me his collection of pipes from around the world.

Each day Mrs. McKenzie served tea and crumpets halfway through my lesson. She looked older than her husband. Her hair, carelessly piled high on the top of her head, reminded me of a bird’s messy nest. The McKenzies were the only people I knew who made no concession to the climate of Kobe. Regardless of the temperature, they always wore their tweed and woolen outfits.

Throughout the summer, our lessons continued in the tightly shut house. At times, it was unbearable. Nonetheless I gradually understood every word Mr. McKenzie said. One day he asked me about my life in Berlin. I began relating some of my most cherished memories of the people and places so dear to me.

He interrupted me after several minutes. “You know,” he said with a supercilious tone, “you’re speaking in nearly perfect English.”

Suddenly I realized I had been! And, to my great surprise, without the McKenzie burr!

The next fall I started school. I came home those first few days crying like a child. “I’ll never fit in,” I sobbed, “I’m not used to regular school. Why can’t I be tutored at home? I did so well with Gerta!”

“Nonsense,” Paps said. He looked at me with a piercing stare. “You speak English fluently, don’t you? You have met all your teachers, haven’t you? You only need to allow for more time to adjust.”

“But I hate school!” I said.

Mutsch raised her eyebrows. “I’ll never hear those words from you again,” she snapped. “Never,” she emphasized, “do you hear?”

The next day, I met Joan, a pretty, blond classmate with big blue eyes. She noticed how frustrated and uncomfortable I was during our lessons.

“I’ll be your helper,” she offered.

I was surprised. Joan was popular. All the students knew her and everyone sought her acceptance and approval. Why did she want or need to help me?

Joan and I became friends. Many times on our way home from school we would talk about our hopes, dreams, and secrets. Whenever I needed help with pronunciation or vocabulary Joan was there to pronounce, define, and explain whatever words I was struggling with or searching for. I stopped worrying about what I believed was my shallow command of English and I rarely panicked when teachers called on me for answers or recitations.

I continued my lessons with Mr. McKenzie a while longer and still had tea and crumpets each time I visited. When Paps and my teachers at the Academy determined that I no longer needed a tutor I stopped going to Mr. McKenzie for lessons but would drop by occasionally to see them for we had become friends. A few years later, just prior to the invasion of Poland in 1939, they returned to Scotland and unhappily, as with so many others, we lost touch.

As 1936 drew to a close, we felt that the wave of Nazi terror in Europe would crest and savagely inundate nearly all its nations. Fascism seemed to be boiling across every border there.

Though I had grown up observing Chanukah rather than Christmas, that year our family and all whom we knew celebrated every occasion that helped us to forget, even for a little while, the tension and anxiety and the fear and dread of the times. We understood war was inevitable. Many of our friends and relatives were still stranded in Europe, many in hiding. Celebrations, parties, and get-togethers in our part of the world relieved our worries if only for a few hours.

On Christmas Eve, my parents went to a party at the home of some friends. I stayed at the villa with Kikuchan, our favourite maid, and Obachan, our cook. Mutsch had loosened her stance concerning the use of servants, although she still had some reservations. Mutsch settled on employing two. Paps had wanted more but Mutsch stood her ground.

Kikuchan was young, very slender and, at nineteen years old, not much taller than me. I don’t know whether she was unusually short or if I was unusually tall for twelve and a half. She was so pretty with her dark eyes, beautiful olive-toned skin, and long shiny black hair that she often wore in a knot at the back of her head.

The two of us were fond of each other. She helped me with Japanese and I helped her with English. Though there was a language barrier between us most times we understood each other perfectly. Our relationship was uncommon because contact between Westerners and Japanese was defined and managed by class. I, as a German, was privileged and Kikuchan, as a native domestic, was not. Our interactions should not have gone beyond those distinctions. But we liked each other and decided to do away with those silly boundaries, confiding in one another and often giggling together.

Obachan at the dinner table and Kikuchan posing outside Ingelore’s home in Kobe, circa 1936.

I knew that Kikuchan was probably as lonely as I was. Like many of her contemporaries, she had left her home in the country to earn money in the big city to better her lot. And I imagine that working for foreigners in a Western-style home must have been a strange experience for her. She and Obachan lived in a separate wing of our villa that was separated by sliding rice-paper doors and furnished with the more traditional tatamis, a traditional Japanese rush-covered straw mat that covered the floors.

That Christmas Eve a messenger came by with a gift. I tore the outer wrapping to shreds in my haste, removing layer after layer of hand-painted tissue. Inside was a glass and wooden showcase containing an exquisite Japanese doll. I knew these dolls were art objects rather than toys. A small card read: A little gift for Ingerorechan from your friends at Gerbers. I smiled because I knew there was no letter L in the Japanese language hence the strange spelling. Paps and some of his colleagues must have arranged this! When I thanked Paps for the thoughtfulness he told me that the doll was handmade and dressed by the wives of several of the executives in his office.

I understood how much work had gone into dressing my doll. I was enchanted with this lovely gift. I was fascinated by the fact that all Japanese clothing was hand-sewn. Kikuchan had told me about traditional Japanese clothing. How the fabric was chosen for its colour and pattern and according to the age and gender of the wearer—the younger the person, the brighter the colours—a tradition that applied to doll clothing as well. She told me that ceremonial kimonos made of fine silk and exquisitely embroidered with gold and silver thread had family crests sewn into the back panel. Favourite motifs included dragons, birds, flowers, and trees and were chosen depending on the season. The fabric for kimonos was cut to the proper length for the wearer and would then be hand sewn with a tiny running stitch. Kikuchan told me that every seam was straight with the exception of children’s sleeves which were rounded off at the lower edges. The sleeves served as pockets but all valuables were kept in an opening in the obi or sash. Before each washing, the seams would be taken apart and then yards upon yards of fabric would flutter from clotheslines supported by bamboo poles as they dried. Dry kimonos would be re-sewn by female members of the family, a skill taught to young girls early in life. In the winter, kimonos would be layered for warmth.

Together, Kikuchan and I opened the case. The doll’s face was intricately painted. She was dressed in an apple-green silk kimono with tiny gold appliqués. Her brocade obi was interwoven with green and red silk yarn. The hair, courtesan-style, was piled in layers on top of her head. A bun sat low on her white neck. “White skin,” Kikuchan said, “sign of great beauty!” Tiny silver combs and miniature bell-like, fluted bands were tucked into the layers of the doll’s jet-black hair. Her kimono, open at the bottom, revealed a red embroidered lining. The outfit was complete with pure white tabi, socks that could accommodate the thick straw of the zori sandals around the big toe that also came with the doll.

Kikuchan and I admired the doll in the living room, a fire roaring in the coal-burning potbelly stove. We were playing noh, the Japanese equivalent of checkers, while munching on delicious rice cakes Obachan prepared earlier in the day.

Muschi, my cat, was sleeping in the space between the stove and sliding doors that separated the living room from my bedroom.

Several weeks earlier, Kikuchan had come into my bedroom with a package wrapped in Japanese cloth.

“Be careful,” she said looking down at the floor.

Inside was a kitten! It looked like a little fur ball. Kikuchan said it was six weeks old. It had little black ears and a tail that formed a right angle to its body.

“She’s beautiful, Kikuchan,” I said. “May I keep her?”

Kikuchan beamed. “Hai! Hai!” Yes! Yes!

“But look,” I said, “look at her tail! It’s broken! The poor little thing must have caught it somewhere.”

“Nashi!” No, she replied. “I did it.”

I was incredulous. How could this young woman, so friendly and so warm, break a kitten’s tail?

“It’s good luck,” she said.

I didn’t tell her what I thought of this custom but the word barbaric came to mind.

Muschi was the first to know that something was wrong. Suddenly she jumped onto the couch and dug herself into the pillows behind my back. “Strange,” I said, “I wonder what’s the matter with her.”

Kikuchan was standing up when suddenly she pitched backward and I was tossed off the couch! I saw my doll go sliding across the room! The stove lurched forward! Things were crashing throughout the house! Kikuchan, who according to custom had never touched me, grabbed me and pulled me into a doorframe just as Muschi started to mew frantically! In the kitchen, Obachan dove into the pantry.

This must be an earthquake! My heart was racing, my bones turning to jelly. I was terrified. Would the house collapse? The ground rumbled and swayed beneath my feet. The walls fissured, some of the windows shattered, dishes and pictures from shelves crashed to the floor, mirrors broke. I imagined the stove tipping over and starting a fire, the ceiling coming down around us, the wood rafters of the house splintering and crushing us to death. I felt numb with terror.

Kikuchan and I held on to each other yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

Suddenly everything became deadly quiet. We felt safe but we didn’t move or release our embrace. Five minutes went by and then another tremor reverberated! Again my doll slid about the floor while Muschi screeched eerily.

Finally, it was over. Kikuchan and I held each other tight. We got up. Obachan came to us. I rushed to my doll, stepping over debris and displaced furniture. The case was resting against the couch, the doll lying precariously on her side.

It was a miracle! The case had protected her! Aside from dust and a few small pieces of plaster on her clothing she was in perfect condition.

Muschi was too!

The telephone rang.

“Thank God you’re all right!” Mutsch burst into the receiver. “Just stay where you are. We’ll be home as quickly as possible.”

I hung up. I asked Kikuchan, “Where does she think I would go?”

Kikuchan and Obachan were visibly more shaken than I was. Perhaps they had experienced many earthquakes that were far more damaging than the one we just experienced and they feared the worst.

Kikuchan and I inched our way through the debris putting items away and picking up broken pieces of glass and pottery and slivers of plaster and splintered wood.

My parents arrived about a half an hour later. They had walked through streets full of rubble on their way home. Many trees lay uprooted, some wires were downed, and fallen branches and large pieces of roofs had crushed several cars.

They had been terrified for me. “You’re our only child,” Mutsch said with tears in her eyes, “and with you, Kikuchan, and Obachan here without us . . . well, we were worried something terrible would happen to all of you.”

After a concerted effort to tidy up and countless trips to and from the trash, the five of us sat and talked into the early morning. Paps reminded everyone that Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the first earthquake-proof structure, the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, ten years ago. Although it withstood every earthquake it eventually succumbed to the Allied bombing a few years hence.

The next day I learned that compared to some of the other houses and buildings, our home had sustained only minimal damage. I saw pictures in the newspapers of several places that had collapsed completely. It was very sad to see such ruin and destruction.

During the decade we lived in Japan we experienced numerous earthquakes, some more powerful and destructive than others but none terrified me as much as that first one on Christmas Eve.

In the New Year I returned home from school one day to find Kikuchan with a stack of mail on the dining room table. She smiled as she rifled through it. Shyly, she handed me one of the envelopes. It was addressed to me!

More than six months had passed since father had brought home stationery along with a dozen or so interesting Japanese postage stamps and had said, “It’s time for you to write your letters to family and friends again, Lorechen.”

Immediately, I sat down and wrote to Omi and Opa, Uncle Sieke, Uncle Hans, Aunt Jenny, and Aunt Irma and her stepdaughter Stella. I also wrote to Herr Bayern, Adah Metzger, and my cousin Ullie. I missed Gerta, Katya, and Frau Beck so much that I composed my longest scripts for them. My hand was nearly crippled when I finished. Paps mailed them the next day and I had forgotten all about them until Kikuchan handed me that envelope.

The envelope was made of some delicate but strong material. The lettering was impeccable and there was a slight hint of perfume about its seal. The stamp was from China. I opened it carefully.

Inside was a wafer-thin piece of rice paper. I unfolded it slowly and was pleasantly taken aback when I realized that it was from Frau Beck.

Dearest Erna, it began, I was unaware that I was acquainted with someone named Ingelore.

I gasped!

I had forgotten all about the ruse! The day after we arrived in Japan Paps secured proper papers for us through Herr Griesbach’s connections in the immigration offices in Tokyo. Herr Griesbach has been our longtime benefactor. So, at the time of writing I had forgotten all about our masquerade.

My heart was racing as I read Frau Beck’s next words, terribly ashamed now and frightened that she might be angry with me.

She continued. I’m well, earnestly hoping you and your parents are, too, and I’m relieved and thankful that you arrived safely in Japan. It’s occurred to me that you must have had your reasons to disguise yourself but it’s no concern of mine. I’m as fond of you now as I was when last we were together.

I was relieved that her words and tone suggested indifference, if not forgiveness. I wished I could explain all our trials and tribulations.

I love you for who you are not for your name.

I had told Kikuchan a great deal about Frau Beck. She was amazed when I showed her the bracelet she had given me. Kikuchan asked if I would read Frau Beck’s letter aloud.

“But Frau Beck writes in German,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll listen to the words,” she replied haltingly, her English still very much in need of improvement.

I told her, “I’ll read it and you are more than welcome to listen to my native language.”

It’s been a long time since we were together. You may be interested to know that I gave birth to a precious little girl only five weeks ago. When we were in China I suspected that I was pregnant but I didn’t wish to disclose that to anyone at the time, not even to my husband, for fear that the voicing of it would somehow affect me badly. I’m happy to say that I’ve been fortunate. Like you, my daughter is a treasured pearl.

I started crying. I remembered Frau Beck’s guilt. How she felt she had been punished with barrenness for escaping the fate of drowning. I said to Kikuchan, “If anyone deserves good fortune, it’s Frau Beck.”

She went on. Our vacation has been prolonged due to my condition and by some business concerns my husband and my father have needed to address but now we’re about to return to Berlin. Before we do, I must go to the Records Hall to change the name of my daughter from Erna to Ingelore.

I nearly fainted with happiness.

Please continue to write and to think of me often. Give your parents my warm regards.

She closed her letter with, All my love and devotion, your friend, Li.