A Ritchie Boy Page 5

  Brandeis leaned back into his chair, his lips pursed. A pained look, like a shadow, crossed his face.

  “I know you are a good man, a generous man. That you’ve always focused on giving the needy the opportunity to work. That you’ve used your good fortune for the welfare of many.” She paused to steel herself for her next words. “I am here asking you, begging you, to consider three people—a husband and wife and their fifteen-year-old son. They need someone with credibility to vouch for them so they can obtain visas and immigrate as I have—as your ancestors have—to America.”

  She was aware of Brandeis’s eyes on her. They were hazel with glints of green. Deep set, direct. His face had an intensity, a self-confidence, perhaps mixed with, what—sadness? She didn’t know this man. Yet, in a way, she did. He was the boy, filled with pride, who laid the cornerstone for his family’s new store; the one who watched his parents give back to people less fortunate. She bit her tongue, hoping her words had been persuasive.

  Brandeis was still, off by himself someplace. It seemed he’d been holding his breath as he listened to her and just now let it out. “Mrs. Muni, you must care very deeply about this family to advocate for them.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “I’ve received letters, many letters. Jews in New York and throughout the United States have also received such petitions from people who know people who need to leave Austria or Germany or Poland or Russia.”

  He turned his head, then spoke to the air. “And yet, naturally, I can’t save everyone.” His voice sounded weary. “From these letters, I can’t even know whom to vouch for.”

  Of course Brandeis would have been asked to help others. There were throngs of Jews desperate to escape persecution, repression. Certainly, countless requests came from people he knew, not from some chambermaid. How foolish she was, how presumptuous. What was she thinking? Why did she imagine she could enlist him in the cause of Lila, Bart, and Eli, who were nothing more to him than faceless strangers?

  The image of Lila and her family burst through Zelda’s thoughts. A darkness was closing in on them. They were trapped. She wanted to shout, They will die if you don’t help them!

  His voice, sad and serious, brought her back. “Tell me more about these friends of yours, Mrs. Muni.”

  Brandeis’s invitation hung in the air. Zelda at first felt immobilized by the weight of what she had to do. But, in his words, she heard a plea. And in Lila’s as well.

  You must help us reach America. You are our only hope, Zelda.

  “Lila Rohm—that was her name before she married Bart Stoff. Lila lived close to my apartment building in Vienna’s District Sixteen. We were both poor, relatively speaking, but with loving families. We were like sisters. I loved her like a sister.” Zelda’s eyes misted. She struggled to maintain her composure.

  “We’d spend Sunday mornings in Stadtpark or attend an afternoon symphony. We’d exchange books we loved—Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice or Kafka’s Metamorphosis.” Her mind raced as she grasped at the memories. “We shared a love for art and music. Lila played the piano—Mozart, Schubert, and Haydn were her favorites. We grew up at a time when a Catholic and a Jew could live and study and work side by side. Today—”

  “Mrs. Muni, you are not Jewish?” Brandeis interrupted. He stared in astonishment. “I suppose I should have known that from your name.”

  “I am Catholic, as is my husband. We met during a skiing holiday near the Austrian-Italian border. Giorgio was studying structural engineering not far from his hometown. I was studying art history at the University of Vienna. His dream was to come to the United States to design and build bridges. When he graduated, I was already working as an art curator. We got married and were among the fortunate to obtain visas and …” Zelda stopped, her cheeks burning.

  “Go on, Mrs. Muni.” Brandeis’s face relaxed, and Zelda caught a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “While some gentiles seek to help the Jews, you are the first who has come to me.”

  She straightened in her chair. “Because of Hitler’s strict racial policies, I couldn’t even associate with the Stoffs if I still lived in Austria.” Brandeis nodded, suddenly pensive.

  “Lila is a teacher but can no longer work in the public schools. Her kind husband owned a small uniform manufacturing company that has been seized. Their teenage son, Eli, is spat on, bullied, and humiliated on the very street where he lives. They have no option but to escape while that’s even still possible.”

  “And you have reached out to me.” He inched forward, his expression just then like someone in torment.

  She’d never considered the awesome responsibility of someone like Brandeis, a wealthy American Jew, his entire culture and people being threatened from afar. In a way, they were all trapped. Lila by the Nazis. Zelda by her lowly status, powerless to save her friends, except through this desperate gamble. And Brandeis by his guilt, his sense of futility at the vastness of the danger and how few he could rescue.

  “You can do this,” she submitted. At that moment, Zelda realized she was giving him permission to act. “If I may be blunt, sir, you have that power. I am just an immigrant chambermaid.”

  Brandeis remained silent. Zelda became aware of the ticking of a clock; for a second, she broke his gaze and turned toward the sound. She could hear her heart beating and swallowed hard, knowing she had done what she set out to do. There was nothing more she could say to him.

  Finally, his mouth stretched ever so slightly into a smile. “But you, Mrs. Muni, you have more power than you think.” He stood, walked out from behind his desk, and grasped her hand in his.

  A BRILLIANT SUN MET Zelda as she left the department store. It was as though spring had burst forth without warning. She felt a light breeze glance across her face and stood for a moment to relish it before she retraced her steps along the crowded sidewalks. She thought about what she might pick up at the grocery on her way home from work. Perhaps some crisp lettuce and red peppers, garlic and olive oil for a fresh salad. She’d stop at the butcher and get pounded veal. Yes, some Wiener Schnitzel like her mother used to make would be perfect. Giorgio would like that very much.

  And, after dinner, she would write back to Lila.

  THE SUITCASE

  August 1938

  “THERE WILL ONLY BE three affidavits!” Lila cried out loud to no one in particular. Her letter to Zelda told of Bart losing his small company, of Eli being bullied. In her harried state, she hadn’t thought to share that her mother, now in poor health, lived with them. That Mutti, too, needed a way out of Austria.

  “I will write her back, tell her—”

  “There’s no time for that, Lila.” Jenny leaned forward from her wooden wheelchair. She squeezed Lila’s hand. “I couldn’t handle the trip to America. And I won’t leave your father.”

  Lila realized the truth in her mother’s words, but it was no easier to accept. After her beloved Vati died last year, they lay him to rest in the Jewish section of Vienna’s Zentralfriedhof. Her mother had visited the cemetery often when she was steadier on her feet. Now that the gravesite visits were rare, Jenny seemed to equate leaving Vienna with abandoning her husband’s memory.

  Zelda’s letter should have been cause for celebration. She’d found a New York businessman to vouch for the three of them so they could go to America. To live in a country that allowed belief without restraint. Where citizenship meant that people have the right to choose their own destinies, where each can speak and think freely.

  But at what cost?

  “I could ask Zelda to talk to this man. He sounds generous and kind. He’d certainly agree.” Even as she said this, Lila doubted she could undo a complicated sponsorship process likely in motion well before the letter from Zelda arrived.

  “These Germans won’t bother old ladies like me. I’ll be fine. I can move in with Aunt Miriam.”

  LILA STIRRED. HER EYES fluttered, and her mouth twitched. She caught a slight movement in the loosely woven voile of curtains, recalling the window s
he’d left open the previous evening. She fixated on the ineffectual breeze. It was, again, too early to be up, the summer heat compounding her fitfulness. Fully awake now, she heard her quickened heartbeats pounding in her ears. So much to consider and so little time.

  “Why can’t I take my skis?” Eli had pleaded with her yesterday, until she told him they were only permitted two suitcases.

  “And one suitcase will be for all the things that will help us remember.” Lila had wrung her hands as she spoke, her eyes surely taking on a crazed look that she knew scared her son. “Other things we can get in America.”

  A month had passed since Zelda’s letter arrived, exuding excitement that she had a guarantor for their passage. This is what Lila wanted. What she had hoped for. But now the reality was closing in on her. They were to leave their home. Not just their home but their country, their life as they knew it. And they were leaving Mutti, though Lila saw this as only temporary. She planned to send for her mother after they were settled. But how? And how would Mutti get along without her? Since Vati’s death, being there for Mutti had become Lila’s purpose.

  There was so much unknown.

  Lila tried to push away those debilitating thoughts. She had to focus on the packing and transporting of physical objects. What to take, what to leave behind? She envied her husband and son, their lack of wistfulness or sentimentality. Bart suggested she gather practical items to ease their transition. Eli wanted to bring his most treasured possessions, like the skis or his jazz albums.

  But, for Lila, the tangible embodiment of her family—her culture, her memories—had to fit into her suitcase. Her favorite piano compositions by Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, and Schoenberg. Some of the watercolors she’d sketched during quiet Sundays in Stadtpark, far from their poor, urban neighborhood. The family photo album—those early prints of Mutti and Vati, of Aunt Miriam, along with her other aunts and uncles and cousins, now mostly dispersed, and of her adored first cousin Arthur. A recent formal portrait of her with Eli and Bart. The box of letters she kept. And her beloved books, although she knew she could only carry a few favorites—one from each: Franz Kafka, Joseph Roth, Stefan Zweig.

  Her mother had offered the most basic advice: “Take a blanket and pillow, for God’s sake!” Their small group of friends in their predominantly non-Jewish neighborhood suggested transporting food that might keep or, as Max Rothstein advised, “Bring anything that can be exchanged for American dollars.”

  Lila rose soundlessly so as not to disturb Bart, slipped on her robe, and slowly walked through their cluttered two-bedroom flat. She eyed every shelf, every photograph, every souvenir they’d ever bought or received. A dull ache above her eyes spread to the top of her head as she asked herself over and over: What do I put in this suitcase? What do I want to carry along with me?

  STANDING BEHIND THEIR TIGHTLY packed belongings in the seaport town of Trieste, bracing herself for a long journey, Lila couldn’t shake the churning in her gut. She kept telling herself she was getting out, after all, with Bart and Eli. But her mind fixed on the others. What would happen to the Rothsteins? And Bella, her colleague at the school that fired the two of them with no explanation? And Mutti, my dearest Mutti. Will I ever see you again? There is a trail I am leaving behind, she thought, and soon it will simply disappear.

  She eased herself down onto one of their suitcases and took a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe the back of her neck. Slipping off her shoes, she felt the damp grain as she curled her toes into the sand. A cacophony of conversations carried over the sound of wind and gulls and waves lapping toward shore. Mostly Italian, but also German, Czech, and Hungarian. Inhaling the salty air, she scanned the expanse of a now-hidden beach, blanketed by the hundreds of families who had also planted themselves and their belongings along this coastline in northeastern Italy. All awaiting the ship that would take them into the Adriatic Sea and then across to America.

  She looked over at Eli, soothed by the hopefulness in his stance. She watched him approach another boy about his age. They found a ball and began to kick it back and forth across the sand. One shot bounced off a man’s back. He turned and smiled at the boys. Eli waved back, and she saw that twinkle in his eye that always won him friends. This is what she needed to focus on today. Her Eli. He was outgoing, confident, resilient. In America, he could have a promising future. After all, when he was only ten, he had been chosen for Realgymnasium, a program devoted to modern languages and science studies for the most capable.

  She counted backward. That was the year Hitler became Germany’s chancellor, the year the turmoil seeped into Austria. She hadn’t noticed at first, so immersed was she in Eli, the family, her job. German refugees trickled into Vienna. Bella was one of them, and as the women grew closer at work, Bella shared stories about the building of prisons and the laws enacted to deprive Jews of their rights as workers and citizens. Some hoped for things to improve in Austria. Lila envisioned a more frightening vista. She had pressed Bart about finding a safer haven while they still could and had reached out to her old friend Zelda Muni. By the time the sponsorships came through in late August, the Stoffs had new passport IDs stamped with a J.

  The sound of a sharp whistle pulled Lila out of her reverie. She looked up to see a large ocean liner approaching the harbor, its towering apparition otherworldly.

  “It’s here! Where’s Papa?” Eli, his only white collared shirt now drenched in sweat, lifted the other suitcase and rushed toward the queue forming at the dock.

  Lila called after him that she’d be close behind. With each step she took toward the ship, it grew taller, forcing her to tip her head fully back to follow the curved bow. She turned to scan for Bart among the crowd and spotted him farther down the beach with a man she recognized from their neighborhood. She followed Bart’s gaze to the advancing vessel, its dark hull forming a sharp point that sliced through the emerald sea like a blade. She shouted his name several times, waving to get his attention. So many thoughts swirled inside her head as she watched him bound, grinning, across the sand. Bart always had an easier time being happy, one of the reasons their pairing worked for her. She brooded. His thoughts were simple; nothing kept him awake at night. She was a pessimist, he an optimist. At times, she felt him incapable of deep inquiry and considered him beneath her intellectually. Now, she was grateful to have his buoyant spirit to counter her inner turbulence.

  THE TRIP ACROSS THE Atlantic lasted nearly two weeks. As they careened toward America, the division of passengers was conspicuous: the affluent comfortably ensconced in staterooms and cabins; the rest of them crammed in tight quarters below. After a while, it didn’t matter how tasteless the American food was. More than once, Lila thought she would die from the nausea. The sickly stench reeked throughout the steerage, the sound of retching only fueling her queasiness.

  Now, the ship’s foghorn sounded three deep blasts. Lila had been trying to rest—they all had as the rhythm of the sea calmed beneath them—when the piercing noise brought her to her feet. She could feel the waves shift course and sensed the boat slowing. She pulled a sweater over her blouse, shoved on her shoes, and shook Bart’s shoulder, then Eli’s. “Hurry! Land must be near!”

  They ran up to the deck as the engines throttled back. Commotion erupted. Yelling and screaming drew Lila, Eli, and Bart toward the bow. Strangers hugged one another, weeping with joy. Eli grabbed her arm and pulled them forward until they could steady against the rails. Water splashed against the hull, exploding into sparkling arcs. A cool breeze bathed her face. Squeezing Eli’s hand on her left and Bart’s on her right, Lila searched the harbor, then spotted the enormous beacon of liberty rising from the sea: a stone sculpture of a robed female bearing a torch aloft. Lila drank in the rush of salty air, tipsy as it filled her lungs, immobilized as if in a stupor. This grand lady with her right arm held high seemed to welcome all of them to America. Lila glanced at Eli. His eyes were gleaming, his smile jubilant.

  A voice boomed across the deck. “
Gather your belongings. A ferry will deliver you to port!”

  Lila raced to the bottom level with Eli and Bart at her heels as she tried to organize her thoughts, scattered wildly, as were all the personal effects in their quarters, apparently displaced when the boat shifted and turned toward land. Amid the disarray, she began grabbing stray items, cramming them into her open suitcase. Her head spinning, she scrutinized their small space. Where was the framed photo of Mutti? Lila silently gasped, a lump caught in her throat.

  Just behind her, Eli stepped to the side onto the blanket, partially lying on the floor. A soft snap sounded as he put his foot down then retracted it, almost losing his balance. He pulled the coverlet back on the bed and bent down to retrieve the framed picture, pausing, bringing it to his lips, unaware of his mother’s eyes on him. The glass was cracked, the photo unharmed. Eli sheepishly turned to hand her the damaged mounting.

  “It’s fine. All that matters is the photograph.” She felt it solid in her hands but knew what remained was paper-thin and would yellow over time. She placed the broken frame between two sweaters and secured the leather suitcase.

  Bart touched her arm. “Bereit zu gehen?”

  Lila drew in a breath and slowly exhaled to calm her nerves. “Yes, ready.”

  Bart took the heavier bag, Eli seized the other, and they joined the queue moving up the metal stairs. Hundreds upon hundreds of immigrants filled the deck, packed together, luggage in hand, misshapen duffels slung over their shoulders, a derby or scarf catching in a gust of wind.

  “Mama, you need to push forward.” At Eli’s prompting, Lila quickened her pace. Bart motioned the two to get in front of him as they exited the steamship onto the ferryboat.

  OFFICERS WEARING UNIFORMS GREETED each person as the transport moored at Ellis Island. One man shouted out instructions to walk down the gangplank to the main building. He handed Lila a numbered tag. She understood him perfectly but saw from her husband’s puzzled expression that he hadn’t. Like Bart, many understood little English. A discordance of languages erupted into mayhem until a column began to form. The men helped women and children struggling with their trunks, cloth sacks, and suitcases as they disembarked, following one another along a path. Soon they all entered an imposing red brick structure.