Shadow of His Hand Read online

  “What time is it? Come where?” Mutti wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “It’s in the early hours of the morning—perhaps two.” Inge shivered.

  “Forgive my manners. Come in. Catch your breath.”

  The younger woman stepped inside, but did not sit down. “You must come back to your house. When you left yesterday, Fritz left soon afterward. We didn’t think anything about it, since he rarely stayed at home when you were there.” She poked a wet strand of hair under her hood. “Tonight, when the storm broke, we heard banging sounds from inside the house and thought perhaps Fritz had returned.”

  Mutti began to wring her hands.

  “When my Otto came home an hour ago, he heard the knocking and banging sounds right through Fritz’ door. As he went to the door to ask if all was well, Hella called out.” Inge put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Your Fritz had not yet been back since he left the night before—more than twenty-four hours earlier. The thunderstorm had terrified Hella, but the door was locked and she had no way to get help.”

  “Hella … oh, no. My Hella …” Mutti began to pull her clothes on over her bed clothes.

  “She told me you were staying over here temporarily and asked if I would get you.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Mutti kissed her friend.

  Without further conversation, a tired, wet Inge took her leave and hurried to go back home.

  Mutti dressed Anita and the two of them followed, walking back to the only home Anita had ever known.

  When they arrived, Mutti fitted her key into the lock and Hella practically fell out of the house into her mother’s arms. Hella clung to Mutti, sobbing. Anita stood alongside, patting Hella’s arm. As Mutti murmured comforting words, they gathered a few things and left.

  As they walked down the silent street in the hour just before dawn, Hella let go of her mother’s hand to shift her umbrella. “I should have left Vati a note.” Her sobs had long since given way to sniffles. “Do you think he ’ll worry?”

  Days later when the three of them came back to pack their things for the move to the tiny apartment they’d found on the other side of Zimpel, Anita’s stomach ached the whole time.

  Hella slowly packed her things, carefully smoothing out all the wrinkles and lingering over every memento. Anita figured Hella could finish much faster if she wouldn’t keep looking to the front room where Vati sat, shoulders hunched, listening to the wireless.

  As they gathered things for the last parcel, Vati walked into the room and put a tentative hand on Mutti’s arm. “I … well, I realized it wouldn’t have worked out caring for Hella after all. Sorry.”

  Hella kept her head down and moved toward the door.

  As they stood there watching the movers loading the last box on the truck, Vati looked hard at Mutti. “I agreed to give you and the girls money each month against my better judgment. I don’t have to, by law, you know, because you are a Jew.” His eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think I’ve managed to make a clean break from my political past. You see before you a proud member of the Nazi Party.” He paused and then spoke with precision, “If you so much as breathe a word about my past, Hilde Dittman, you’ll not get another cent. Do you understand?”

  Mutti just looked at him.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Vati.” Hella ran and hugged him. “I love you.”

  Vati stood still, looking uncomfortable with his arms by his sides. As Hella moved away, Vati reached an awkward hand up to pat her head.

  Anita stood nearby, wishing he’d say good-bye. Look at me, Vati, Look at me.

  A Time to Dance

  Judenfratz.” Anger spilled out of the boy’s mouth along with the single word that meant Jew-brat.

  The startled six-year-old Anita flinched and dropped her ballet satchel. One pink satin slipper tumbled out onto the street. “Mutti, what does that mean? Why is he mad at us?”

  “Pick up your shoe and brush it off, Mein Liebling.” Mutti opened the satchel so Anita could put her things back in order. Mutti handed the bag back and waited until the boy left before speaking. “Some children have nothing better to do with their time than to bully helpless little girls.”

  “Shall we tell his mother?” Anita knew he lived near their apartment.

  “Oh, no, child. No.” Mutti shook her head, sighing. “You must be very careful with what you say. Things are topsy-turvy these days. I don’t want to speak any further about this, but you must remember this—” Mutti paused in the street and squatted down right in front of her daughter. “Are you listening carefully?”

  Her serious tone frightened Anita. “Yes, Mutti, I’m listening very carefully.”

  “No matter what anyone says or does, you must keep your head down and go on about your business. No matter what. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “And when you are out on the street or even at school, do not make eye contact with anyone. Do you know what eye contact is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s when you look at someone eye to eye.” Mutti stood up and looked over her shoulder as if only just aware of the attention her conversation with Anita might draw to them. “Come, let’s walk. Always keep your head down and your eyes averted.”

  “But why? I don’t understand. Is our new neighborhood dangerous?”

  “No. Not any more than any other neighborhood in Germany. Let’s talk tonight at dinner, neh?”

  Mutti hurried her on to ballet practice. This would be the last practice before Anita’s recital at Breslau’s beautiful Century Hall.

  How Anita wished she still fit her chiffon ballet costume, but she’d already outgrown it. The silky petals of the skirt had fluttered and quivered with every movement. There was no money to buy fabric for a new one. Her ballet slippers were worn shiny, and they fit so snug that it took Mutti a long time to work them onto Anita’s feet.

  “No matter,” Frau Mueller-Lee, her dance teacher, had said. “You will capture every heart when you dance.”

  Her words always gave Anita hope. Less than a year ago, Frau Mueller-Lee had called Mutti to a meeting to talk about her daughter’s future. Anita still remembered the meeting. Her teacher had looked at Anita and said, “Child, with your natural talent and my training, you will someday be famous. Audiences will worship the very stage you dance on.” From then on, Anita spent two hours a day with Frau Mueller-Lee, doing calisthenics, etiquette, and her favorite—ballet.

  Mutti sighed and put her lips together in that worried way of hers when Frau Mueller-Lee complimented the tiny dancer, but it was the stuff of Anita’s dreams.

  Now she was to dance her most important performance ever. Mutti found an old crepe paper costume that had been Hella’s. The paper had faded slightly, but once carefully steamed, the pink and blue looked more delicate than ever. Anita didn’t even ask for another chiffon costume. She knew Mutti had gone without coffee to scrape together pennies for some paper flowers to wreath her hair.

  Anita sighed. Her shoes pinched her toes, but she vowed to dance her very best. The better the dance, the less it mattered that her costume was only made of paper. She practiced as diligently as if the studio were a stage.

  That night, as the sisters set the table, Mutti seemed preoccupied. “We must talk about the events happening around us.” She put a bowl of soup on the table with three slices of warm pumpernickel bread. “I long for you to have a gentle childhood, filled with friends and games and parties, but most of all, I wish it could be free of worry.”

  The girls took their places at the tiny table tucked into the corner of the warm kitchen as Mutti ladled thin soup into each bowl. Anita sensed Mutti’s seriousness. Neither girl seemed to know how to reply.

  “Sometimes it feels as if the world has gone crazy.” Mutti sat down. “Hitler is working his way to complete power in our country. Hella, you understand this, neh?”

  “Ja, Mutti.”

  “President von Hindenbur
g has long been unwell—weak. In his place Hitler managed to push his way in, using the unhappiness of the people to seize power. But, weak as von Hindenburg is, he’s the one who stands between Hitler and his hatred for the Jews.”

  “Why are people unhappy?” Anita knew she was mostly happy.

  “It’s complicated, Mein Liebling. After we lost the World War, the German people took a beating. We had no money and precious little pride left. Adolf Hitler spoke to the German sense of pride. The message came at a time when people needed hope.”

  “So, he’s good then?” Hella sounded confused.

  “Oh, no. No. It is dangerous to say so, but Hitler is bad, very, very bad.” Mutti put down her spoon, leaned forward, and looked at both girls. “You must listen to me very carefully and try to understand what I am saying. Our lives may depend on it.”

  Anita put down her spoon. “I will listen hard, Mutti.”

  “And I,” Hella added.

  “Day by day, Hitler’s evil unfolds. Just this spring Parliament passed the Enabling Act. That law gave Hitler all the power he will ever need. You’ve seen me sitting here at the table listening to the wireless, neh?”

  The girls nodded.

  “Every day Hitler reveals a new part of his plan. Remember when we had to walk over to the district office to register?” Mutti continued, “We had to declare our nationality. Not German, mind you, but Aryan or Jew.”

  “What’s Aryan?”

  “Hitler decreed that it means a white—Caucasian—person who is not Jewish. When we registered, you girls registered as half Jewish, since your father is Aryan. I registered as a Jew.”

  “Is that bad, Mutti?” Anita asked. “You do not go to synagogue.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Hitler hates the Jewish people. He also hates those who are poor or handicapped. Ja, and the Gypsy people and—”

  “That’s a lot of hate, isn’t it?” Anita didn’t know why, but her stomach ached. She broke off a corner of her bread and ate it slowly.

  “Yes, little one. Too much hate. That’s why we must talk. Every day sees more laws—Jews cannot own land; Jews cannot keep their seats in the symphony. Jews cannot exhibit art in the galleries; Jews are prohibited from being newspaper editors—”

  “It’s a good thing Vati is an Aryan.” Hella took a deep breath in through her nostrils.

  “Ja, but he has his own problems because of things he wrote in his newspaper over the years. For his sake, you must not mention him or talk about him, even to your friends.”

  The sisters nodded.

  “This is the hard part.” Mutti leaned in close and talked in a low voice. “We must be very careful what we say and do. The only place you may speak freely is at home. And—this is important—we must not repeat anything we hear at home to anyone.”

  “What about to our friends?” Hella shifted in her seat as she rubbed one foot against the other leg.

  “How ’bout Frau Mueller-Lee or my teacher at school?” Anita wanted to ask a question, too.

  “I’m glad you ask the questions,” Mutti said. “You need to understand this. Our lives will depend on it.” Mutti broke off a piece of bread. “You must not talk freely with friends or even with your teachers. You two may be the only students at your school who are not members of the Hitler Youth organization. You must be cautious; they will be allowed to say or do anything they like to Jewish students.”

  “So you mean we can’t fight back, like when that boy called me Judenfratz?” Anita didn’t like to be called names.

  “Ja. That’s right. You must look down and walk away. You must not talk back and you must not fight. Hitler’s people listen everywhere.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hella said.

  “As Hitler came to power, he brought his bodyguards with him—the Schutzstaffel or, as they are now called, the SS.” Mutti shuddered. “They are to be feared.” She put her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth. “Oh Hella and Anita, my sweet little daughters, I hate to tell you to live in fear, but if I keep from warning you in order to protect you from the ugliness, I might very well be sending you straight into the heart of trouble.”

  “We are big enough to understand, aren’t we, Anita?” Hella came and put an arm around her mother. “We ’ll make it like our game—our secret game. Anything you say to us will be locked in our hearts.”

  “Ja! And nobody has the secret key ’cept Hella, Mutti, and me.”

  “Why did I worry about you girls? You are my wise ones.” Mutti hugged them both. “And we will play the game together. Now—tell me the parts of the game.”

  “Everything we say to each other gets locked deep inside.” Anita sat up straight, proud that hers was the first answer.

  “We must not fight back if we are teased,” Hella added.

  “We need to keep our eyes down and our heads down when we are on the street.” Anita smiled wide. “That was a hard one, wasn’t it, Mutti?”

  “And we mustn’t ever talk about Vati,” Hella said, “or he might get in trouble.”

  “Can we lift our heads to watch the brown shirts marching down the street in a parade?” Anita wondered who could ignore the explosive sound of hundreds of men goose-stepping down the street. It reminded her of the thunder she loved.

  “No, no, no.” Mutti pulled Anita close. “This is one of those confusing things. Those brown shirts are the SA—the storm troopers. They are much like the SS. Dangerous. They are all Nazis. They may be marching, but they are watching. Always watching.” Mutti took Anita’s face between her hands. “Hitler decreed that no Jew can salute the Swastika flag, so if you raised your arm in salute you could be taken away. But here’s the hard part—if you are standing on the street when a parade turns the corner and you do not raise your arm and shout ‘Heil Hitler,’ you can be slammed to the ground or even worse for the disrespect.” Mutti planted a kiss on Anita’s cheek and said, “Enough of this doom and gloom. Our soup may be lukewarm, but it’s nourishing. Let’s eat.”

  “But Mutti,” Hella asked, “if we are on the street and the flag goes by, what do we do?”

  “Slip into a shadow. Carefully and slowly make your way out of sight without drawing any attention to yourself.”

  The shadows will cover me. Anita liked that idea—another part of the game.

  On the night of the recital, the city never looked prettier. Mutti, Hella, and Anita took the streetcar to the hall. They left home hours early to make sure nothing would go wrong. The lights sparkled, and the fragrance of summer jasmine scented the air.

  Backstage, Mutti braided Anita’s braids so tightly that the little dancer’s scalp pulled. She imagined that her eyes must have stretched wider. Mutti then wound the braids into a figure eight at the nape of Anita’s neck and pinned the paper flower wreath to her head.

  “Schön. What a cunning little thing.” The flutist stopped on her way to the orchestra pit. “How can a tiny child like that be dancing already?”

  Anita smiled at the compliment. After all, Schön meant beautiful, but she couldn’t bear to let the misunderstanding about her size stand uncorrected. “Thank you, Fräulein, but I am much older than I look. I’ve always been slight, but I dance like the big girls.”

  The musician laughed. “And how old are you?”

  “I am six, nearly seven years old.”

  “Forgive me,” she laughed again, “I hadn’t realized how very old you are. I look forward to seeing your dance.” She winked at Mutti as she left.

  Anita drew herself up to her full height, trying to hold her head high in a classic ballet stance. The hunger to dance sometimes grew stronger than the hunger for food. “When she sees me dance,” she said to Mutti, “I don’t think she’ll laugh or wink.”

  “Oh, Anita,” Mutti said, “you are one of a kind. Sometimes I think you are the spitting image of your father—all the good things of course—along with a dose of that stubborn German pride.”

  “Do you think Vati will come tonight?” Anita asked as
Hella came backstage.

  Mutti did not answer.

  “Eine Kleine Schwester,” Hella said. “That costume looks wunderbar. Mutti, you did such a beautiful job.”

  Anita loved the compliment, but not being called “baby sister.” “Hella, I’m big. I’m dancing with the biggest girls. None of the little dancers are performing tonight.”

  Hella laughed that beautiful rich laugh of hers. “Oops. I guess you are getting too big to be called ‘little sister.’ I shall be far more careful in the future.”

  “Places, dancers.” Frau Mueller-Lee bustled through the troupe of nervous girls.

  “Come, Hella.” Mutti planted a quick kiss on Anita’s rosy cheek. “Let’s take our seats out front.”

  The sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments always stirred something inside Anita. It was the sound she hoped to hear for the rest of her life. She knew that Mutti thought her too young to know her future, but when she danced—whether practice at the barre or during a performance—Anita knew contentment. As her muscles stretched and her limbs reached, she felt happier than at any other time. Sometimes at night she’d dream of flying. Her earthbound body would lift off the floor and she’d soar. In real life, dancing felt like flying. The ache in her stomach went away, and her body seemed to float somewhere between earth and the heavens.

  Her solo dance came near the end of the evening. As the older girl before her danced, Anita became so caught up with the fluid motions of the choreography, she nearly forgot her own dance. Then she listened to the applause and knew it signaled her turn.

  Anita took a deep breath in through her nose and let it out slowly through her mouth. Frau Mueller-Lee told her that exhaling released every bit of nerves and allowed a performer to focus on the dance. She ran out to center stage, remembering to keep her toes pointed and her back straight. The leather on the bottom of her ballet slipper made a whispery brush-thud on the wooden stage as she ran. Starchy crepe paper rustled with every step. She couldn’t see anything beyond the footlights. Mutti and Hella sat somewhere in the audience. Was Vati out there? Look at me, everyone!