The Far Side of the Sky (6 page)

Franz looked down. “It seems that the rest of the world has not gone out of its way to help the Jews, Obersturmführer.”

“That is one way of putting it,” Eichmann grunted. “What progress did you make at the consulates?”

Franz considered his answer carefully. He did not want to endanger any of his options by sharing them with Eichmann, but he wasn’t sure what the lieutenant might already know regarding his visit with Edgewood. “It is possible that my daughter might qualify for the Kindertransport program.”

“Yes, of course.” Eichmann wrinkled his nose. “Seeding England with more young Jews.”

“She is only half Jewish,” Franz said. “My wife was Catholic.”

Eichmann scoffed. “In our eyes—as established by the Nuremburg Laws—that makes her a Jew. Nothing more.”

“She is much more,” Franz blurted, regretting the words as soon as they left his lips.

Eichmann stiffened. His face went blank, and his eyes froze over. “How is that?” he asked in a soft voice more frightening than all of Schmidt’s screeching.

“I meant no disrespect, Obersturmführer,” Franz said, desperate for a way to placate the man. “It’s only that … my family has lived in Vienna for generations. We have lived a secular life. I always saw myself as an Austrian first and foremost. I never even raised Hannah as Jewish.”

Eichmann eyed him for several seconds without moving a muscle. “And yet, that’s all either of you are,” he finally said. “Please don’t imagine for one moment that I care a whit for your university standing. We have rid ourselves of far more famous Jews than the likes of you—Einstein, Freud and Mahler, to name only a few.”

Franz dropped his gaze to the desk. “Of course, Obersturmführer.”

Eichmann leaned back slightly in his seat. His tone turned philosophical. “I am forever astounded at the total lack of appreciation among you Jews for just how deep-seated anti-Semitism is in society and the very legitimate reasons behind it.”

Franz continued to stare at the desk without replying.

“If you will excuse the medical analogy, Dr. Adler,” Eichmann went on, almost speaking more to himself than to Franz, “Jews remind me of microscopic parasites. As I understand it, those germs invade a healthy
body with the sole purpose of multiplying and spreading. All they care about is continuing their line. They mean no harm to the host. In fact, if the host dies, then they will be lost as well. Nonetheless, these tiny leeches do weaken their host and, if left unchecked, they will destroy it.” He looked up at Franz, clearly proud of his analogy. “You see, the same is true of Jews and Germany. It isn’t personal, but it is imperative we rid the fatherland of this dangerous parasite, and soon.” He paused. “Do you understand, Dr. Adler?”

Franz understood more clearly than ever. Kristallnacht was only the beginning. If the Eichmanns of the world had their way, countless more Jews would suffer the same fate as Karl and the Yacobsens. Emotions raged inside his chest, and Franz did not trust himself to speak. Keeping his expression as neutral as possible, he looked up at Eichmann and nodded.

“I’m glad we agree. And if you ask my advice, I suggest that you drag your family to somewhere far away. I doubt the rest of Europe will be much more welcoming to Jews in the near future.” Eichmann lifted the top sheet from a stack of papers. He slowly filled in the blanks and then signed the bottom with a flourish. “Consider this your notice. Once you have proof of an accepting destination, bring me the paperwork and I will sign your exit visa. You have two weeks to leave.”

Franz swallowed. “I see.”

Eichmann studied him with his frigid eyes. “If you cannot find an acceptable destination within two weeks, I will be forced to relocate you to the concentration camp at Dachau.” He shook his head, and his voice dropped even lower. “And once there, Dr. Adler, I can no longer guarantee your well-being.”

Franz’s head throbbed. He doubted he had slept a moment all night. Upon returning home, he had postponed plans to enrol Hannah in Kindertransport, but he knew that, barring some amazing stroke of luck, he would still have to send his daughter away.

Franz had spent much of the night huddled close to Hannah, whispering stories to her to try to distract her from the raucous mob rampaging on the streets in a second night of anti-Semitic violence. Even after the rioters stomped away and Hannah finally drifted off, sleep eluded Franz. He tossed and turned, haunted by memories of Karl’s dangling corpse, Frieda Yacobsen’s plaintive screams and, most of all, Eichmann’s soft-spoken malevolence.

In the morning, Franz awoke to find Hannah still asleep, curled up on her side and cradling—almost as though shielding—Schweizer Fräulein, her doll. Franz brushed his lips over her forehead and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He was relieved that Esther had not yet risen either. The evening before, he had downplayed the significance of the SS interrogation. But after coming face to face with Eichmann, Franz’s time frame for getting Hannah out of Austria had accelerated from weeks to hours.

Money would be pivotal. Esther’s hidden jewellery would help if they managed to escape, but now they needed cash. The time had come to access his emergency funds. Karl had persuaded him to hide the money only days before the government froze all Jewish bank accounts.

Franz dressed for the cold and then headed to the bathroom with a paring knife. He crouched behind the toilet and ran his fingers over the floorboards until he found the gap. He dug the blade between the boards and gently pried one loose, then reached inside the hidden compartment and pulled out the stack of banknotes.

“Thank you, Karl,”
he whispered as he wedged the floorboard back into place.

The six thousand Reichsmarks—four thousand more than the legal limit for a Jew in Austria to possess—represented a lifeline. He slid the wad of bills inside his coat pocket and patted the front. After convincing himself that there were no bulges, he headed for the door.

Outside, cloud cover and a light morning drizzle had warmed the city. Shards of glass still glittered on the pavement and anti-Semitic graffiti covered the vandalized storefronts, but some of the smashed windows were already boarded up. The streets were quieter than they had been the day before. Franz spied only a few uniformed Nazis, and he saw no forced Jewish work gangs.

Despite the relative calm, he was more on edge than ever. He wore his hat low and kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk as he hurried along Liechtenstein Strasse toward the Rolf Travel Agency. The aged owner, Julius Rolf, had always been courteous and helpful in booking vacations for him. Franz prayed that the Viennese gentleman had not transformed into an ardent Nazi overnight, like Horst Schmidt and so many others had.

Franz arrived well before nine o’clock and was not surprised to see the Closed sign still hanging in the travel agency’s window. He regretted never having photographed the charming old brick building before. He was certain now that he would not get another opportunity.

Franz decided to wait in the café across the street. Inside the boisterous, smoky coffee shop, he spotted a table being vacated by a young
couple. He wove his way over and dropped into a still-warm chair. Anxious to blend in, he picked up the copy of the official Nazi newspaper, the
Völkischer Beobachter,
which the couple had left behind.

A heavy-set waitress sidled up to the table.
“Ja?”

Franz looked up and caught sight of the shiny swastika pin stuck in her lapel. Dropping his gaze back to the newspaper, he mumbled his order for an espresso and
krapfen.

The coffee was not as good as Willi Altman’s, but its bitter bite was still vaguely comforting. Biding his time, Franz turned back to the newspaper. More numb than outraged, he read article after article espousing the glory of Kristallnacht. An editorial characterized the torching of synagogues and vandalizing of Jewish businesses as bold acts of German nationalism. And Hermannn Göring was quoted as saying that the government intended to levy a one-billion-Reichsmark fine against the Jews for “instigating events.”

Through the window, Franz spotted Julius Rolf entering the travel agency with a younger man. One of them flipped the sign in the window to Open. Franz dropped a few marks beside his unfinished
krapfen
and leapt to his feet. He hurried across the street and into the office. The walls were lined with posters of ocean liners and alpine châteaux. A middle-aged man with greased hair, spectacles and the nondescript face of a low-level bureaucrat rose from his desk and welcomed Franz with a stiff smile. Franz recognized him as Julius’s son, Stephan.

“Good morning, sir,” Stephan said. “May I be of service?”

“Thank you, but I am accustomed to dealing with Mr. Julius Rolf. Is he in today?”

The man looked over his shoulder and called out, “Father!”

After a moment, Julius Rolf hobbled out from the backroom. More hunched than Franz remembered, Julius moved with a shuffling unsteady gait. “Ah, Herr Doktor Adler! How very pleasant to see you again,” he said with a slight slur. “My son, Stephan, runs the business now.” He smiled, but only the right side of his face co-operated. “I am merely his assistant.”

“Of course, Mr. Rolf, but as you and I have a long history, I was hoping you still might be able to assist me with my travel,” Franz said, wondering if the old man knew he was Jewish.

“Yes, yes. One should never turn his back on history. Soon, history is all one has. Please.” Julius pointed a shaky hand to the desk at the far side of the office.

“My apologies, Herr Doktor,” Julius said as they sat down across the desk from one another. “I am still recovering from a stroke. Your colleagues at the hospital assure me that it can take quite some time to get one’s strength back.”

Franz nodded sympathetically, doubtful the man would ever get much stronger.

“Never mind all that,” Julius said. “Where would you and your darling daughter like to voyage to now?” “Shanghai.”

“Ah. A very popular destination all of a sudden.” A knowing look darted across Julius’s face. He glanced over to where his son sat and then lowered his voice. “When do you intend to depart?”

“As soon as possible, Mr. Rolf,” Franz stressed.

“I see.” Julius didn’t appear the least surprised by the answer.

“Aside from Hannah and me, I need to book passage for two other adults. My father, Jakob, and my sister-in-law, Esther.”

“I know from experience that liners heading to China are heavily booked these days, Dr. Adler.” Julius exhaled noisily. “However, I will telephone the booking offices in Trieste and see what is possible.” He laboured to his feet. “Please excuse me a moment.”

The old man shuffled toward the backroom. Franz glanced over and caught Stephan glaring at him. Breaking off eye contact, the younger Rolf jumped up and marched into the backroom after his father.

Franz tried to eavesdrop on the Rolfs’ conversation, but they were talking in low voices, and he caught only snippets. At one point, Stephan raised his voice loud enough for Franz to hear him say, “Bump the Schillings?
You must be joking!
It will be the absolute ruin of us if
word ever gets out that we are aiding Jews. Especially at the expense of
real
clients!”

Moments later, Stephan stomped sullenly back to his desk.

Franz could hear Julius talking on the telephone, but he was speaking Italian, and Franz only understood a smattering. From the inflection, he could tell the old man was struggling to persuade the person on the other end of the line. Twice he heard Julius repeat the phrase
“di vita o di morte,’”
which Franz understood as “life or death.”

Ten minutes later, Julius reappeared and lowered himself slowly into his seat. His cheeks were flushed but his timbre was even. “I am sorry for the delay. My agent in Trieste tells me that space is at a premium on all ships heading to Shanghai.”

“No space at all, Mr. Rolf?” Franz gulped.

“Precious little. However, I was able to secure passage for all four of you on a magnificent Japanese liner, the
Bingo Maru.
It is just that the cost is … well …” Julius shook his head. “Three thousand Reichsmarks per person. Even your daughter is required to pay full passage.”

Though it was twice as much as Franz possessed, he felt a glimmer of hope. “The ship is departing soon?” he asked.

“Very,” Julius said, raising Franz’s hopes even higher.

“When?”

“The fifteenth of December, to be precise.”

“Not for a month?” Franz’s heart sank as he thought of Eichmann’s two-week ultimatum.

“That might seem like a long time to you, Dr. Adler,” Julius soothed. “However, typically, we have been booking people six to twelve months in advance.”

“Of course, Mr. Rolf. Thank you. Do you happen to know if there is a waiting list for cancellations on earlier sailings?”

Julius nodded, though skepticism was etched into his wrinkled face. “We can always try.”

Perhaps proof of a departure date will placate Eichmann?
Though Franz doubted anything would. Having run out of other options, he decided he
could not afford to pass up this one. “Mr. Rolf, I have only six thousand marks on me.”

Julius viewed Franz with another kindly, lopsided smile. “Providing that the tickets are paid in full at least two weeks prior to departure—”
“Father!”
Stephan protested.

Julius swivelled his head and shot Stephan a look that silenced him. He turned back to Franz. “As I was saying, Dr. Adler … as long as you pay the balance at least two weeks prior to departure, I can hold all four places on the ship with your down payment.” His face sagged with defeat. “However, if we were forced to rebook for a later date, I doubt I would have anywhere near as much luck as I had today.”

Franz reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the stack of bills and passed them to Julius. The old man did not bother to count the money. Instead, he left the pile on the table and turned to his son. “Stephan, will you be kind enough to draw up a receipt of sale for Dr. Adler?”

Franz shook Julius’s hand gratefully. “Herr Rolf, you have no idea how much I appreciate your decency.”