One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping (6 page)

We got our report cards today and I did much better than I thought I would. I think Mrs. Thompson was just trying to scare me.

I was hoping to show Daddy at dinner but he wasn’t there. This is the second night this week he has had to make house calls late into the evening.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1938

Daddy came into my room late last night and sat on the bed and whispered that there was something he wanted us to talk about, “just the two of us.”

He wants me to take English lessons. I told him I am already learning to speak English in school but he said that is not enough. I don’t understand. Enough for what?

He’s arranged for me to see a Miss Sachs every day after school. He’s already spoken to Mrs. Konig and she will no longer be expecting me.

I was speechless. I didn’t think Daddy even knew who my piano teacher is let alone where she lives or where to call her.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but one look told me Daddy just wanted me to trust him and so I did.

Miss Sachs lives only a few blocks from school, and I am to be certain no one knows I am going there. “No

one, Jewel,” he said sternly. “Promise,” I said. I want Daddy to know he can count on me.
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1938

Milli and the new cook (I still don’t know her name) have been busy all week getting everything ready for Mother’s dinner party.

Mother instructed Milli to use our very best china and be sure the silver is polished to a mirror finish.

There’s a crisis
every
hour and the latest one involved the ashtrays. Each of the gentlemen must have his very own ashtray and there seems to be a whole box of them missing.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1938

I must admit Mother did look radiant last night. She wore the blue velvet floor-length gown (the one that took Mrs. Svoboda so long to fit her for that day we went shopping) and a simple strand of pearls. The hair-dresser spent nearly all afternoon getting her hair
just right
, but it was a triumph in the end and the rhinestone-

studded tortoiseshell combs sparkled and glittered in the candlelight all night long.

Mother’s the
perfect
hostess. She has something personal and flattering to say to each guest as they arrive (“You’re looking younger every day”; “Where did you get that dress?”; “Why don’t we see more of each other?”), kissing them on the cheek, calling everyone “dear,” whirling around like a top spinning from room to room, making sure the shy ones are talking to the bold ones, convincing those who are sitting to stand and those who are standing to sit and pouncing the moment she sees any sign of discomfort, discontent, or (heaven forbid) boredom.

She was even pleased with the food, which is a first (so I think the cook can stay on). Milli and the servants she hired for the occasion were twirling around the apartment almost as fast as Mother, making sure everyone had enough caviar, chateaubriand, roast chicken, red cabbage, mashed potatoes, apricot-filled dumplings, cake, and chocolate soufflé.

I didn’t eat as much at dinner because by the time we sat down I had already stuffed myself silly with the chocolate-covered coffee beans that were placed in bowls all around the apartment (even in the WC!).

I noticed that Mother decided to play one of her tricks on Uncle Daniel. Uncle Daniel has trouble hearing out of his left ear, although he never admits it, so Mother sat Mrs. Blumenthal on his left because she’s the most talkative person in Austria (besides Uncle Daniel himself, of course).

Mother usually suffers Uncle Daniel in silence but not always. One night, last year, she told him he was a profound speaker but a superficial thinker and Uncle Daniel stormed out of the restaurant.

Mrs. Blumenthal was looking her usual gaudy self thanks to her ruby-red dress, far too lavishly applied makeup, huge rings on every finger, and her habit of smoking one cigarette after another so that her head is always partially enclosed within a cloud of smoke. She looks like a giant parrot.

I must admit Mrs. Blumenthal did tell a wonderful joke that completely mortified Uncle Daniel because he likes to let everyone know that he’s not Jewish anymore.

Mrs. Blumenthal asked if anyone had heard of the Jewish man who converted to Protestantism and then, right after that, converted yet again to Catholicism.

When the man was asked why he converted twice

he said, That way, if anyone becomes suspicious that he was once a Jew and asks, What was your religion before you were a Catholic? he could say he was a Protestant.

The whole table had a good laugh except for Uncle Daniel, who either was embarrassed or possibly just couldn’t hear and was getting angry.

Watching Mrs. Blumenthal and Uncle Daniel was the highlight of the dinner, and I could tell by the amused look on Mother’s face that she was thoroughly enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Mother was in such good spirits that she even told the story of when she and Daddy had to elope because her family did not approve of their marriage on account of Daddy’s family not being rich like Mother’s. (I think that’s why we never see any of them.)

After dinner Mr. Heller proposed a toast “to our lovely hostess, the most beautiful woman in all of Vienna.” Of course he doesn’t know that every year Mother tries her best not to invite him because he’s just a shopkeeper, but Mr. Heller is the one person who Daddy insists on inviting.

The topic of conversation over cognac and cigars (Milli had found the ashtrays just
hours
before) was the

same as it’s been for weeks now: Hitler, what is happening in Germany, and what is going to happen in Vienna.

The discussion was even more spirited than usual because of the surprise announcement on Radio Vienna this afternoon that Chancellor Schuschnigg is meeting Adolf Hitler in Berchtesgarten.

Almost everyone agreed that the Chancellor will most certainly set matters straight now that he is finally meeting Hitler face-to-face. Mr. Blumenthal added that Hitler’s crazy ideas might be all right for the Germans but he won’t get very far with them here in Vienna.

Daddy and Mr. Heller were strangely quiet and kept looking at one another as if there was some secret they shared.

I wish I knew what Daddy and Mr. Heller were thinking but I’m afraid to ask. I don’t think they are as optimistic as the others. I’m not, either.

Max went right to his room after dinner, and I wanted to talk to him so much that I decided to risk knocking on his door.

He was rolling one of his cigarettes (actually he’s gotten quite good at it) and, at first, he looked annoyed

that I had disturbed him. But when I told him why I’d come he softened and was like he used to be.

He said he wasn’t going to lie to me. They are all underestimating the seriousness of the situation: os-triches sticking their heads in the sand and hoping Hitler will just go away. But, Max said, Hitler isn’t go-ing to go away.

He offered me a puff of his cigarette and I took it because I didn’t want him to think I was afraid.

For what seemed like the longest time, we sat there in silence, broken only by the sound of the dinner party going on outside.

Finally Max spoke. He said only when the Jews are in Palestine will they be safe and not until then.

But I can’t believe that. I won’t believe that. Why should we not be safe here? We are living in Vienna.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1938

Miss Sachs’s apartment building doesn’t even have an elevator and, since her apartment is way up on the top floor, I had to walk up nine flights of regular stairs and then, as if that wasn’t enough, climb up this

winding iron staircase that goes nearly to the roof. Her tiny apartment is the only one on the whole entire floor — you would hardly know it is even up there.

She’s not nearly as old as I thought she would be and she certainly teaches English differently than they do in school. For one thing, she speaks perfect English — she doesn’t even have an accent — but she talks so fast I can barely keep up. When I complain she laughs and warns me that soon we will be speaking only English (I honestly don’t see how that is possible). The best part is the last half of each lesson. We listen to gramophone records by American singers. Miss Sachs says this will improve my pronunciation and

make it more authentic.

Today we listened to the Boswell Sisters and they are
terrific
. My favorite song is “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.” Next week we’re going to listen to someone named Ella Fitzgerald. She’s a Negro.

Miss Sachs says that by the time we’re done I will speak English just as well as she does, but I think she’s saying that just to be nice.

Even though Miss Sachs lives in the opposite direc-tion from Mrs. Konig I still turn right when I leave school as if I was going to my piano lesson. Then I

walk all the way around the block because if Sophy sees me going a different way she will wonder why and start asking all sorts of questions I don’t have answers for. I’ve never really lied to Sophy about anything and I don’t want to start now.

Daddy said to be certain
no one
sees me. Although I’m not sure why he’s so insistent about this (now that I think about it, I don’t even understand why it’s so important that I take English lessons), Daddy must have a good reason. Especially because Mother thinks I’m still taking piano lessons! I asked Daddy what would hap-pen if Mother ran into Mrs. Konig and he said I should take care of learning English and he would take care of Mother and Mrs. Konig.

Ernst Resch was watching me today, standing there surrounded by his friends. At first I was worried that, somehow, he knew where I was going, but I think he was just being his creepy self.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1938

Sophy told me at recess that Mr. Erickson started talking about the Jews right in the middle of the geog-raphy lesson. He had this big map of the world up in

front of the class and was pointing to one country after another asking anyone if they could name each country and tell him what they all have in common. Mr. Erickson said that what they all have in com-mon is that the Jews who live there are considered a plague and not wanted because they are inferior in every way to the Aryan race, which is a superior race

and destined to rule the world.

Sophy wanted to say something but was too afraid.

She said it is
awful
being in Mr. Erickson’s class and that I am lucky to be in Mrs. Thompson’s.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1938

I finally agreed to accompany Uncle Daniel to his favorite coffeehouse. He’s been asking for
weeks and weeks
and my feeble excuses were getting pretty obvious and, besides, he usually behaves himself better when it’s just the two of us. I must admit I do enjoy seeing all the strange and interesting people who con-gregate there, but of course the
real
reason I decided to go was that Daddy asked me to: “Your uncle likes to show everyone how beautiful his niece is,” so how could I say no?

Uncle Daniel practically
lives
at the coffeehouse. He gets his meals there, takes his phone calls, and his friends stop by and leave messages. The only thing he does at his apartment is sleep and I’m not even sure about that.

The coffeehouse is always filled with men who look like they have nothing better to do than sit around talking and drinking
café au lait
.

Every time I come I see this one man who sits by himself, scribbling away furiously in his notebook and glowering at anyone who comes even remotely near his table.

If he doesn’t want to be bothered, why doesn’t he just write at home? I suppose it’s because he feels lonely there. If it were me, I would write at home.

He wears a black patch over one eye. It was suppos-edly injured in a fencing duel with a rival writer who insulted him in print.

A small glass of green liquid is always in front of him. Once he was so absorbed in his writing that he put his cigarette out in the glass — I was hoping he would drink it but at the last minute he noticed.

I asked Uncle Daniel what it was and he said, “Ab-sinthe,” and ordered me a glass before I could stop him.

It didn’t taste nearly as good as it looked — quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. It wasn’t cool and re-freshing — it was bitter, burned my throat, and tasted like licorice of all things.

Uncle Daniel and his writer friends have their own table right under the skylight next to where the chess players gather.

I like to watch them play, even though I only understand which way the pieces move and not much more.