Pictures of the Past (23 page)
He looked up and saw Sarah nodding slowly. “And yet, and this you will find hard to believe, Hannah is happier now than she has been. There is a relief to her that we are returning. She does not know if she can locate Miriam, and she understands, anyway, that we should not try just now. But she wants to find ways to help with the Resistance herself. And she knows that I too feel the same now. You see, we made a good match. We were
beshert;
we are soul mates. And now that is very important. And these people organizing the evacuation of the children, they are proof that there is humanity among some of the Gentiles. We were lucky in this one respect. God provided our community with a few Church elders who have compassion for our plight, who despise the Germany that Hitler is creating, and so they are helping us. And Hannah believes that we must do more to help ourselves. When she saw you earlier on the ship, before today, she pointed you out to me. ‘This is a young woman for our cause,’ she said. ‘Look how she handles the children, and she does not look Jewish, but I know that she is.’ And so I see that my emaciated wife still has energy in her mind. She wanted us to talk to you—to recruit you to the Resistance—and then on to Palestine when we succeed.”
Late that next afternoon aboard the
St. Louis,
sitting at a small deck table and grabbing the sun’s lingering rays, Sarah composed her letter to Taylor. She had been formulating thoughts in her mind since the voyage had reversed its course, but she kept waiting to put pen to paper, initially still holding out hope. But finally she was facing the truth—the same truth she saw reflected in all of the bleak faces that surrounded her on the lounges of the promenade level. The days of people smiling, laughing, playing games, and even simply conversing were only a memory. They had been swept away with the ocean breezes. And now only a thick, depressive fog was palpable in an ostensibly cloudless sky.
It had been so long since she had written to him that the very act of gathering the stationery materials was overwhelming. Only the previous week, she had been practicing the words she would surprise him with on a telephone call. “It’s me—yes—it’s Sarah. No, I am not calling from Germany.” She didn’t know exactly where or how or when the call would be made—but she wanted it to be perfect. She could envision him on the other end, almost dropping the phone in relief. But now there would be no such call. Instead, she had to picture him receiving this letter and she winced when she visualized the reaction it would evoke.
My Dearest Taylor:
Darling, I can only imagine the way you have quickly torn this envelope, ready to devour its contents as a starving man would unwrap a gift of chocolates. Yes, I know you still care for me as I do for you, although I have not been at home to receive or send any correspondence for over six months. But your dreams have reached me, even when your letters could not. In those dreams, I sensed your search for any word from me and my family, and some answers to that are the meager bites I can offer you.
This past year, the terror that you knew was coming managed to strike hard. I have been separated now from both of my parents. My father was arrested and taken away in November of 1938. My mother and I later left Berlin and assumed Christian identities in the countryside until we could find a way to escape to America. But just as you would have expected
—
you would have understood it even before me
—
my mother would not leave the country without word of my father.
I have spent these last weeks on a ship that was to bring so many refugees to a safer life across the ocean. But we have been denied
—
we have become a leper ship looking for a port. And now we are almost back on the continent from which we sailed in fear. My latest news is that I will leave the boat in Belgium. I have so much to tell you
—
and although I know I need you more now than ever before in my life—I must try to explain to you briefly why our reunion, which once seemed inevitable, now seems impossible.
So many experiences in my recent past have molded me into a different person. Even the new person still loves you, still hopes to be with you someday, but I don’t know if that is someday soon. I feel I cannot put my wants and needs first right now. I cannot be more forthcoming in this letter, as I do not know whose evil hands may contact it before it reaches your sweet touch. I only know that I cannot turn my back on my people now, especially the children, when I am told that I can be of help. I know none of this makes sense to you
—
and that now both of our dreams will be only nightmares. Although I will pray to be once more in your arms, I cannot ask you to put your life on hold for me. No matter what the future will bring, I promise I will always love you, I will never forget you…It is all in God’s hands now.
With all my love,
Sarah
As she sealed the envelope, she could not move from her chair to deposit it with the purser. She simply sat back and held it at the end of her fingertips, as if a postal agent would happen by and collect it on his rounds. And within only moments, a very trim, blond young officer, his epaulets possibly signifying a fairly high rank, and the metal buttons of his impeccable white uniform glowing with the reflections of the last beams of light, tipped his cap toward her and reached for the letter she seemed to be offering.
“Miss,” he said, and then repeated again, for she did not appear to be concentrating on the present and seemed lost in thought. “Please let me take that for you. It would be my pleasure to see that it is on its way to its destination.”
She looked up only briefly. He and his fellow officer exchanged knowing glances, immediately sensing her sadness, imagining the story behind this beautiful girl with tears in her eyes. And she had seen the pair before, so alike they could have been twins or, at least brothers, not inconspicuous on the ship, both in their professional roles and outwardly flirting with the female staff.
“Thank you,” she said so softly that it was almost inaudible, and then remembering her manners, she gave them an appreciative smile as she released her hold on the letter.
As the pair walked away, she did not follow them with her eyes. And so she was not cognizant of their suddenly cheerful, posturing gait, their jovial discourse. She did not hear their words, as they were approaching the turn at the stern of the ship. “Yes, my dear blond Jewess,” one remarked to the other. “I will be sure this letter is properly handled…Poor Captain Schroeder. He has not been able to protect his charges like he hoped— and now one more time he has failed.” As he spoke, he led his friend closer to the ship’s railing and then without the slightest hesitation, he let the letter fall to the water. The two officers watched its slow descent, and then turned toward each other as if on cue. “Heil Hitler,” they said in unison.
Only a nine-year-old boy, scouting the ocean horizon for passing ships or hints of land, would bear witness to the fate of the white rectangular object as it floated ever so slowly to the waters below, lingering on wind pockets and drafts of sea water currents, gracefully dancing in the air before it was engulfed by the powerful waves and then disappeared. And he walked away, thinking that one more of his playmates’ art projects was making its way back to the very place that he had hoped to be.
Throughout the days of the return voyage, the very brave Captain Schroeder of the
St. Louis
had worked closely with Jewish groups to negotiate with the four European countries that would absorb the passengers so they would not have to return to Hamburg, their port of embarkation in the Third Reich. All of the passengers would leave the ship at Antwerp, Belgium, and then be processed and transported to their assigned locations. And just as Sarah’s mother had surprised her by parting from her by the dock of the
St. Louis
when it began what turned out to be its doomed voyage, so Sarah now turned to the Blumberg family to say her farewell.
Once again, in small groups, the passengers were dispersed on a dock area sitting on suitcases, dressed in suits. But there was no hint of hope on their faces this time, only fear and despair for the majority, rebellion for a minority.
“No, Sarah,” Alfred had insisted. “You are part of our family now. You are our daughter and our sister all in one. We will proceed into the future together.” He was holding her hands tightly and sincerely as he spoke. “Sarah, we all love you,” he continued as his wife and the children devoured her in a circle of affection.
“I love you all so much also,” Sarah returned. “But I have made a decision that I believe my mother would approve of. No one knows what lies ahead for any of us now, but we know that we have many enemies in this world and few friends. These last evenings I have spent in meetings with our fellow passengers who are not going to try to make their way to America again, but are impassioned now to join the Resistance Movement. They feel I could be of great help to them because of my Christian looks. And I do hold a second passport as Liesel Schultz. I have to admit that I initially met their proposal with reluctance and trepidation. But they insisted that they have been watching me on the ship and they see I have an ability with children. Some of them say they are happy to return because they shared my same guilt of leaving and they plan to become involved in relocating German Jewish children to the French or British countryside. They know there are many displaced young people and many orphans. They not only want to protect them, but include them in a Zionist vision. And now I am telling you that I have signed onto that same philosophy. I know that you are set on making your way to the United States, and believe me, I don’t fault you for that. I care so much for you and I pray for you to be settled in safety as soon as is possible. But right now, I feel I must follow this calling. Just please—never forget me—I will never forget any of you.”
And then, just as she did when they initially met, she acknowledged each family member separately—but no longer with a handshake—now with a hug and a kiss and tears.
Sarah would disembark at the same port as the Blumbergs in Antwerp, but she would surreptitiously meet up with her new group and would eventually become a resourceful and respected member of the Resistance Movement during the war years. In 1947, she would finally sail to Palestine on one of the ships evading the British blockade. This ship would provide passage for refugees from four centers: Switzerland, Belgium, France, and the Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Even after liberation from Buchenwald, many of the Jews would have wished to return to Poland or Hungary—but the shocking truth spread quickly. They were not wanted back home—there were few, if any, Jews, and anti-Semitism had taken no rest.
The stories they exchanged on the way to the Promised Land were remarkable and followed a distinct pattern—those from the three countries told of years of fear and luck and the aid of decent, moral countrymen. And those from the camp told of the inhumanity of misguided and evil men.
The irony was that in decades ahead, when Yad Vashem, the Jewish Memorial of the State of Israel, began honoring those Gentiles who aided Jews during the Holocaust, the name Liesel Schultz was put forth many times. The grateful sponsors would be shocked when they were assured that Liesel Schultz was actually of Jewish heritage, just like them. In 1993, however, Gustav Schroeder, captain of the
St. Louis,
was recognized posthumously for the Righteous Among Nations honor.
“T
aylor, dear,” his mother said as she uncharacteristically greeted him at the front door and ushered him into the expansive living room.
His day at work had been long and he actually felt gritty and grimy from hours spent in the factory, training with the two foremen on some new machinery.
“Mother, you seem especially welcoming this evening—I don’t usually see you downstairs for another hour with your dinner dress preparations completed.” The family was still maintaining the formal dining pattern of the previous generation.
“But, darling. You just must see this. The most delightful surprise has come today. I don’t know who would have sent it to us, but it appears to have come from abroad. It is so beautiful. I didn’t know what it was at first. The doorbell rang and since I was passing the foyer I just answered it myself and this fairly tattered package was dropped off.”
“Mother—I haven’t seen you so excited like this— actually, maybe ever. I’m not really sure what you are telling me—could you be less cryptic, please?”
At this point she took his hand to lead him farther into the room. Taylor was used to the controlled decorum with which his mother usually presented herself. She was truly a wonderful, warm and supportive mother—a demonstrably loving wife—and he adored that about her. But she was also extremely formal and regimented. Tea time at three o’clock, and then from four to seven, she would have her evening repose, and then appear newly made up and fashionably attired, ready to share a pre-dinner cocktail with her husband, son, and any guests that may have been invited. But now it was well after six and she looked as if she had begun no such ritual preparations.
“I opened the door,” she continued, “and a driver brought in a rather large package. It had ‘Woodmere Residence’ written on the outside—some customs markings—and so I tipped the driver, naturally, and he was on his way. I wasn’t even going to open it, but it was a bit torn at the edges and something was protruding.”
Although she had been leading Taylor toward the object under discussion, at this point she held him back, wanting to finish her narrative before she revealed her prize. “No Taylor, just wait now. I want to unveil it to you as it was unveiled to me.”
“OK, Mother. I am trying to be patient—but I would request you come to the point, as I am in need of major freshening before dinner. Do you see the dirt on my hands?”
“My goodness, Taylor—you are not touching it.”
“Yes, I agree—whatever it is, I am not touching it. Go on, please.”
“So I start to unwrap the package and I see that it is a blanket—actually some sort of small quilt and then another… How odd, I thought, the package had a stiff rectangular shape. And then I realized these were blankets protecting something. I removed the blankets and then I saw the surprise. The most beautiful painting—museum quality—perhaps a French Impressionist work.”
At this point Taylor was having fun with his mother, humoring her with a pretense of fascination with her story. “Mother. Are you to tell me it was a Renoir dropped on our doorstep?”
“No, dear—now don’t make fun of me. The signature was clear. But I admit no familiarity with the name.” And now she finally moved Taylor to the corner of the room where the painting rested on the bridge table. See there—she pointed to the lower right portion of the work—it reads, ‘Henri Lebasque.’”
His heart stopped. His senses blurred. He could not hear or see clearly for more than a few seconds. He had the sensation of floating briefly and then of drowning. He was suspended in space and time and he could not will his body to move forward.
“Taylor, dear—are you OK?” His mother looked at him quizzically and he saw her face as one views a person through the distorted peephole of a door.
Although it seemed forever, it probably was a full ten seconds before he regained his composure and was able to focus on the painting.
And there before him, as vibrant and compelling as the day he purchased it, was
Jeune Fille à la Plage,
the beautiful work he had bought originally for Emily Kendall, but shortly after had presented to Sarah Berger. It was the very painting that he had left for Sarah in Berlin until both she and the painting could join him in Chicago. That was in August of 1937, and now it was three years later. Three years of torment, of waiting and searching for Sarah.
He fell to his knees before the painting. But instead of studying each colorful stroke of its canvas, he first wiped his hands on his trousers and then grabbed and caressed the blankets that had lovingly protected their hidden treasure. He brought them to his nose, as if they still held the wonderful fragrance of Sarah’s home and maybe of Sarah herself. For, instantly, he had recognized these as the same fabrics that had adorned the family beds during his stay with the Bergers. He held them tightly and then he simply leaned back on his heels and he cried as he had never before allowed himself to cry.
And then he rose abruptly—so quickly that he was dizzy from the sudden change of blood flow. He rushed to the front door, opened it, walked to the edge of the high front stoop and searched forward, then left, then right. Nothing. No one. He had been taken by the moment, hoping that the incomprehensible arrival of this painting was easily explained as that childhood prank when someone rings the doorbell, drops off a package and then hides in the bushes. He was looking for Sarah, seeking his Alice in yet another “adventure in wonderland.” But the lawn was empty, the street quiet except for an occasional passing automobile. And once again he was distraught and breathless.
His mother, and now his father who had returned to the estate through the rear entrance, watched incredulously as their son actually ran the long expanse of driveway, which led to the gates bordering Sheridan Road. They looked at each other and then stood arm in arm waiting for him to return to the door and, hopefully, offer an explanation.
Eventually, Taylor made his way back up the drive and into the foyer with a pathetic look of resignation and despair. And then he was once again re-energized, racing toward the wrappings that bore their address, piecing together the puzzle of its origin. It was stamped not only with a Miami seal, but with Spanish words that he finally realized signified a Cuban port. There was a familiarity to the name that was on the markings and custom stamps. The name of a shipping line and then boldly marked words—The
MS St. Louis.
He remembered when the newspapers covered the story—the ship of Jewish German refugees turned back at freedom’s gate. At the time he agonized for the passengers and had even sent a cable to President Roosevelt to allow the immigrants safe harbor. He had done this out of his newly formulated empathy for the plight of these people—he had never dreamt that Sarah Berger herself had been on board.
In the year to come, Taylor Woodmere would be an industrious and productive asset to the family business, but his free time would continue to be spent in an obsessive campaign to locate Sarah and the Berger family. He would be among the first in his area to volunteer for the army following the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. With considerations made for a recently diagnosed heart murmur, combined with the important government supply contracts of Woodmere Industries, he would be placed as a director in adjunct services and would remain in Chicago.
