A Perfect Madness (11 page)

“
As a man, your innocence
continues to amaze me, Erich. No, we could be wrapped in the arms
of your Jesus for protection, and they would still come because of
who we are,” Dr. Kaufmann said, smiling faintly at Erich before
continuing. “Now you must leave, please, there is much for my
family to discuss.”

Erich could hardly breathe. It was as
if a giant bell jar had suddenly dropped over him from the ceiling,
trapping him in its vacuum and sucking the last bit of air from his
lungs. If Dr. Kaufmann’s words were true, Julia’s fate would be no
different than that which awaited her family.

Ignoring Dr. Kaufmann’s request that
he leave, Erich inhaled deeply twice before insisting that all the
Kaufmann family must leave Prague immediately, and that he would go
with them. Hearing Erich’s boldness, Julia released his hand and
began to sob softly again as she waited for her father’s words,
which she knew would crush Erich, as they already had
her.

“
You wear your honor well,
Erich, thank you. But arrangements are in place for Julia and Hiram
to leave by train to Rotterdam and England as soon as their visas
are issued. Mrs. Kaufmann and I will follow when we
can.”

Erich became silent, thoroughly
whipped and unable to speak, his throat dry and hot. Julia would
not look at him. Covering her face with a hand towel, she began to
cry uncontrollably. Instinctively, he moved to Julia, taking her in
his arms. In a few seconds, though, her spine stiffened and she
backed away from him, no longer crying.

“
Erich can come with us,
Papa,” Julia sang out, like she always did as a little girl when
the sun finally broke through on a cold gray day in winter, filling
everyone and everything with its healing warmth.

Dr. Kaufmann’s heart ached
unmercifully as he looked at Julia and heard her happy words. He
had talked with her one day, not too long ago, about such a moment
as this and what they could expect. Nothing is ever promised by
God, he had told her, not even love. We receive what we deserve by
our own goodness maybe a few seconds in our life, but it ends
there, nothing more. All the rest comes to us by grace, if it comes
at all. Julia’s happiness was Erich’s and would change in time, he
knew, because happiness is made up of a million tiny moments, each
one different, each one waiting to be lived. They are there waiting
in the darkness where there is no light, but we must always believe
so, or there would be no hope.

“
I am afraid not, Julia.
Your and Hiram’s visas will be conditional on traveling with
hundreds of young children as chaperones. You must attend to those
in your assigned car.”

“
But Papa—”

“
Our conversation is over,
and so is Erich’s visit,” Dr. Kaufmann said, interrupting Julia.
“You understand, Erich, what may be at stake here—my daughter’s and
son’s lives,” he continued, turning to face Erich. “Perhaps you can
find some way to follow, but not with a trainload of Jewish
children.”

Erich remained silent, staring at the
floor, mired in a despair he had never experienced nor understood.
Many months later, while reading Kierkegaard’s
A Sickness Unto
Death
, he began to understand the magnitude of his depression
and the sickness that had seized his mind after Julia left for
England.

“
I must be going, I
suppose,” were the only words Erich could muster, looking across
the room to where Julia stood crying next to her mother. Then he
went to her and whispered so no one could hear, “I will wait for
you tonight in our sacred place. It will be the last time, and then
I will stay away.”

Julia said nothing, nor looked at him
as he walked to the front door with her father. There Dr. Kaufmann
unashamedly embraced Erich for several seconds before watching him
step into the night, gradually fading from sight and their life. As
he went, the last words Erich would ever hear from Dr. Kaufmann
rang continuously in his ears: “You have been a dear friend, Erich.
Some day we will be together again, I’m sure. Goodbye and God bless
you.”

***

SEVEN

Germany, 1991

J
ulia gazed fondly on
Anna trying to sleep stretched out across the compartment seat, her
body rolling slightly back and forth with each twist and turn of
the fast-moving train. One generation was all that separated her
from the fiery horrors of the war that had painted the passing
countryside blood red fifty years ago. Now, looking through the
dusty train window at the wide autobahn running alongside the
tracks, every lane as far as she could see was filled with hurrying
motorists speeding back and forth to their own individual
destinies. It was a scene Julia would have eagerly exchanged for
all that she saw on her first train trip across Germany to
Rotterdam. Then massive iron tanks and long cannons and marching
green-clad men were everywhere, loading her young eyes with terror
as she held two frightened children in her arms. How strange. A
distant moment and a present moment separated by a space of time,
yet inseparable as the future.

Anna’s generation and those that
followed might care about history and the boundless magnitude of
the human slaughter that took place along the passing countryside
and elsewhere, but they would never feel its sorrow, Julia
believed. And it is a feeling that becomes more silent each day, as
the last days of the last warriors grow near. So it is with those
whom fate let live in the death camps of Germany, like her cousin
Abram. They will always feel it during some passing moment because
they were there.

England, 1939

Anna was there, too, though she didn’t
know it, nor did Julia: a seed in Julia’s womb coming alive the
evening before she boarded the train for Rotterdam. Rushing to
secretly meet Erich at Rabbi Loew’s grave, they lay together with
muted emotions in the dark and stillness of the cemetery, each
giving their love to the other for the last time. But Julia was
never certain that the treasured moment was Anna’s time to enter
history. Within two weeks after she left Prague and arrived in
England, the British were rushing to mobilize what forces they
could gather to wrestle with the German monster when the time came,
which everyone knew would be soon. In the outskirts of London, all
the streets around the temporary refugee camp where Julia boarded
were cluttered with army trucks loaded with thousands of British
soldiers, readying to depart for France. The exhilarating madness
that always accompanies the rush to war before the killing and
dying begins covered the city like a spreading plague. Julia
provided no exception. Swept along by the mounting excitement, she
would leave every night after bedding the young refugee children
under her care and rush hurriedly to a nearby pub. There,
struggling with her poor English, she would keep company with small
groups of unnamed soldiers, listening the best she could to their
history, laughing with them, but most of all reminding them of all
that was still good in the world.

In time’s passing, many emotional and
conscious human acts are blended with a mixture of good and evil.
In one moment, all the goodness of humanity may flicker brightly
then quickly dim when doused by its own polluted waters. So it was
with Julia one terrible night when her own sense of right and wrong
would be scarred. Leaving the pub late for the dark walk home
alone, she reached the narrow path leading to her dormitory.
Running alongside a wide green where children laughed and played
unafraid each passing day, the winding path took her through a
magical tunnel fashioned by rows of young common oak trees on each
side, their long, fingered branches entwined like thousands of
loving hands clinging to each other. The gang rape came swift and
brutal from the shadows lurching forward from behind the trees.
Torn and bleeding and violated, Julia lay face down naked in the
dewy grass, hidden from every passing eye except God’s. Her rape by
a drunken group of Her Majesty’s soldiers came not because of who
she was, but because she happened to be there—an existential moment
when a wrong seemed the right thing to do.

Hours later the cold wetness of a
passing shower gradually revived Julia’s senses, and she made her
way back to the dormitory, collapsing on the tiny cot in her room.
Too hurt to cry, she stared blindly into the darkness hiding
everything around her, including the terrible shame she felt. In
the morning she would tell only Eva Stransky, her new friend, about
the night’s horrors.

From Bratislava, Eva had little in
common with Julia except that they were both Jews; but they had
become quick friends on the refugee train, sharing many stories
about families and lovers during the long hours crossing Germany to
Rotterdam. When Julia’s story of Erich and her deep love for him
was told, Eva said nothing but only smiled and nodded. No judgments
would ever pass between the two, even after Julia gave birth to
Anna some nine months later. When the time came to complete Anna’s
birth certificate, it was Eva who insisted to the government
authorities that Anna’s father was a Jew hiding somewhere from the
Germans in Prague now that the war had started. His name was Eli
Kahn, Eva continued with her resolute lie, a young silversmith from
Brno. Julia had sat silent, not with embarrassment at the flow of
fanciful tales from Eva, but rather in awe at such boldness in
protecting Anna’s honor. On paper at least, she would not be born a
bastard, open to society’s silent judgments and hidden smirks. And
so, Julia became the fictitious Mrs. Kahn, married by a fictitious
Rabbi Thien, with Eva as a fictitious witness the day before she
left Prague behind, much too late to have her visa
corrected.

Months later Julia sat looking
wishfully through one of the two windows in the small family
quarters assigned to her after Anna’s birth. A cold, icy rain
rattled the window with loud drum like rat-a-tats each time the
gusting storm winds blew against it. Julia held Anna a little more
tightly in her arms, as if the gods that had changed her life now
wanted Anna as a sacrifice. With each wild rush of wind against the
window, she would stir in her sleep before the gentle voice of
Julia’s soft lullaby reassured her that all was well. Julia
wondered silently if her father and mother too were searching now
through such a similar storm, trying to find the same god to curse
for what had befallen them. Two months after her arrival in
England, she had received a one-page letter from her father. At
first, she left the letter unopened on her drop-leaf table, as if
it were some ancient scroll that would crumble into a thousand tiny
pieces should she touch it. But Julia’s fears were its contents.
Hitler’s goose-stepping green men had been in Prague since mid
March, unfurling their swastika banners from every open balcony
across the great city. Even Hitler himself came to Prague then,
racing ahead of his advancing army to Hradcany Castle, where he
posed triumphantly, as Caesar might have done in Rome centuries
before, from a high alcove window, looking down at a defeated
people.

What else could there be for her dear
father to write? Julia thought. The day of the Jew in Prague would
soon be over. Putting Anna in her crib, Julia returned to the table
and picked up the letter. Gently caressing it, she brought the
envelope to her nose, catching the faint aroma of jasmine, which
her mother always dabbed across the top of her letters, and began
to cry. Not openly, but in a whimper, like a lost child. Even with
Anna by her side, she felt more alone than she ever
remembered.

Dearest Julia,

We wait each day for the mailman to
bring a letter from you but nothing comes. There is little we are
allowed to say to you. I would like to hear from you—that, for me,
would be the best thing.
Sadness fills our empty house with
you and Hiram gone. If only dear God would bring peace so we could
be together again before it is too late. This month was Grandpapa’s
yahrzeit. We lit the candle and you should too. You will remember
to let it burn for twenty-four hours. If you have no picture of
Grandpapa to put by the candle, pretend one is there and tell it
everything you can remember about him, as we have.

Don’t forget us, or your
precious homeland, and God will protect you.

Papa

There would be no more letters from
home. “Don’t forget us,” is what dear Papa had said. “What could be
more certain,” Julia cried aloud, startling Anna, who began to cry
with her. Before Julia could think further about her father’s
letter, Eva burst into the room, frantically waving in her right
hand several papers rolled up like a scroll. Her enthusiasm quickly
dampened when she saw Julia’s tears.

“
You’ve been
crying.”

“
Yes, my first letter from
home.”

Handing Anna to Eva, Julia carefully
folded her father’s letter, placed it on the table, and looked
through the window again at the heavy cold rain forming large
puddles of water in the small playground area next to the
dormitory. If only Anna were older, Julia wished. They would play
together in the small muddy oceans, having great sea battles with
great armadas made of paper, as she and Hiram did a thousand times
over when the heavy rains came to Prague. Like Ares, the Greek god
of war, their father would watch over the titanic sea wars from
high above on the back porch. There he would build more paper ships
for whichever side had less so that no one could claim victory when
the day came to an end. Those were the golden times of childhood,
when nothing else mattered except the closeness of family, the kind
old people think of as their mind slowly withers away.