The Runaway Family (36 page)

“At least you have a roof over your head,” he said. “Lots of families have been turned onto the street with nowhere to go.”

However, he agreed to take her name and the names and ages of her family, wrote down their address and promised to contact her if there was anything else he could do for her.

“There is a fund,” he said, “which we’re building up to help families like yours to emigrate, but it isn’t just a question of money, you know; there are all sorts of documents and certificates required if you are to leave. All this takes time, and we have to work with Herr Eichmann’s Central Office of Jewish Emigration.”

“I thought they
wanted
us to leave,” Ruth said bitterly. “That’s what Goering said back in March. Vienna, a Jew-free city!”

The young man shrugged. “They do,” he said, “but only if we pay a fortune for going and leave everything else behind.” He gave her a few Reichmarks, and told her that her family’s wish to emigrate had been noted.

It was the very next day that the letter arrived, addressed in Kurt’s handwriting… and it had English stamps. Ruth could hardly believe it. With shaking hands she slit open the envelope and drew out the letter, in which was wrapped a large, white, English five-pound note. Ruth stared at both the letter and the banknote through eyes flooded with tears. Kurt was safe… in England. She dashed the tears aside and began to read.

My darling Ruth,

I am here in London, staying a few days with my friend James Daniel. I had a smooth crossing and am now setting about my business. You can write to me at the above address and even if I have moved somewhere else, the letter will find me.

I think about you and the children every day and hope that things are not too awful. I loved the letters from the girls and the pictures the twins drew for me, and I carry them with me always.

I am hoping to start a new job here in the near future, but there are things that need to be sorted out before I can take up my post. James is being very helpful about it all, he has found me a job as a manservant with a family living in a place called Hampstead. It is in London, but there is a wide, open heath here, with trees and grass and lovely views, so there are times when it will feel like living in the country. Once I am settled I can work on your arrangements. Each of you will need a sponsor, so it may take some time to organise, but I will spend every waking hour trying to find people willing to act as such.

My darling, it is almost a year since I saw you all, but I carry the photo you sent me next to my heart. Give my respects to your mother, kiss the children for me and know that I love you, forever and always.

Kurt

Ruth read the letter over and over. He was safe. He was going to have a job. He was going to get them out.

The money from the Jewish Community Office and the five-pound note would help tide them over for a little while, but Ruth knew she desperately needed to find work. Day after day she trudged the streets, but there were too many others, thrown out of their jobs; doctors and lawyers no longer allowed to practise, teachers banned from schools, professors from the university, all searching for work, no matter how menial.

Ruth was coming home despondently yet again, when a young man came hurrying round a corner and cannoned straight into her, almost knocking her over.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, putting out a hand to steady her. Ruth looked up to respond to his apology and found herself looking into the cheerful face of Peter, the student she had met in the Heldenplatz on that fateful day in March. She recognised him at once, the cheerful young man who had helped her up onto the statue, the young man who had clapped and cheered and waved his hat at the sight of the Führer, who had said that the Anschluss was a great day for Austria… who was going to be a lawyer and approved of Hitler’s laws.

“Wait a minute, don’t I know you?” Peter demanded. “Yes, I do. Now don’t tell me… Helga Heber. Am I right or am I right? I never forget a face. Remember me? Peter Walder?”

Ruth almost denied remembering him, but knew it would be stupid as he so clearly remembered her, so she managed to conjure up a smile and say, “Yes, I remember. A law student.”

“Not a student anymore,” Peter said proudly. “I’ve graduated. I’m working for my uncle in his law firm. I’m a real lawyer now!”

“Congratulations,” Ruth said faintly, not knowing what else to say in the face of the young man’s enthusiasm.

“Your son is called Peter, too, isn’t he?” Peter Walder went on, clearly delighted with having remembered this piece of information too. “How is he liking our brave new Austria?”

For a moment Ruth was at a loss for an answer to this, but then she said, “He’s only just turned four, he doesn’t realise what has happened.”

Peter grinned. “Yes, well I suppose four is a bit young. But what does your husband think?”

“My husband is away… on business,” replied Ruth, but this time Peter Walder picked up on her hesitation, and, still holding her arm, scrutinised her more carefully.

“Is he now? Where is he? What does he do?”

Becoming entangled now in her web of lies, Ruth said, “He works for a jeweller… he’s gone abroad… to buy…”

Peter Walder’s expression changed. He seemed to take in, for the first time, the worn state of her clothes, the gauntness of her face, the thinness of her body. He looked her up and down and said, “He’s a Jew, isn’t he?”

When Ruth didn’t answer, he gave her a shake. “Isn’t he?”

Ruth still did not reply and he said, “And so are you! Aren’t I right, Helga Heber?” He peered into her face for confirmation and then said, “So, he’s gone. But why didn’t you go with him? You and little Peter? Austria’s no place for any of you anymore.”

“I have other children,” replied Ruth at last. “We couldn’t all go.”

“So he skipped and left you!” Heavy sarcasm. “What a brave man!”

“It’s not like that,” Ruth asserted angrily. “He was able to go. We need sponsors from abroad. He went to find them.”

“And in the meantime…”

Ruth’s shoulders sagged suddenly. “In the meantime, I’m trying to find work to put food on the table, but as I’m sure you know, no one wants to employ a Jew anymore.”

“Well, Helga…”

“Ruth, my name is Ruth.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, Ruth, what work can you do?”

“I can do anything that will feed my family,” Ruth replied.

“What on earth were you doing in the Heldenplatz that day?” demanded Peter, suddenly changing the subject. “What the hell were you doing at a Hitler rally?”

“I was on my way to work and I was swept there by the crowd,” answered Ruth. “It was go with the crowd or get trampled underfoot.”

“Hmm, yes, it was a seething mass, wasn’t it?” He gave a shout of laughter. “How ironic! How funny! A Jew at the Anschluss rally!” His face clouded for a moment. “Well, not funny for you, I suppose.” He thought for a moment and then said, “And now you need a job. What can you do, I wonder?”

“I told you, I can do anything that will feed my family.” Ruth tried to pull away from the hand that was restraining her, but his grip tightened.

“Come on,” he said, and turning, he set off down the street, pulling Ruth along behind him.

“Where are we going?” she cried, trying to break free. “Let me go!”

“We’re going to find you a job,” he snapped, “so just be quiet. People are staring at you.”

A job? Ruth followed the young man more meekly now, though he still had a firm hold of her wrist and she doubted if she could have broken away if she’d wanted to. He led her through the streets, and stopped eventually in front of an elegant apartment block. Four stories tall, with an arched portico, it was similar, Ruth thought, as he pushed her in through the door, to the one where David Bernstein’s parents had lived. He opened a door on the first floor and led her into a spacious apartment. It was fully furnished with heavy furniture, long silk curtains, plush rugs on the polished floors, ornaments in glass-fronted cases, books on the bookshelves.

“My mother’s coming to live here,” Peter Walder said. “But it needs spring cleaning first. The previous owners – ” he hesitated, “ – have gone.” He took her into the kitchen. “The whole place needs airing,” he said. “Every inch of this needs to be scrubbed.” The faintest aroma of food lingered in the air, a familiar breath of spices that Ruth recognised at once. Now she knew for certain. This had been a Jewish kitchen.

“And the bathroom, of course” – Peter led her further along the passage – “has to be totally refurbished.” Ruth stared into what had been the bathroom, now completely gutted, no bath, lavatory or basin. “They’re fitting the new bath and things tomorrow,” he said, “and then the floor must be scrubbed, the walls washed and the tiles polished.” He took her through the whole apartment, telling her what had to be done in each room. “And when you have cleaned it,” he said, “I will pay you.”

“How much?” whispered Ruth, staring round the huge apartment, recognising how much there was to do.

“Enough, but you’ll have to trust me for that, won’t you?” His face broke into its cheerful grin. “Don’t worry, Ruth, I won’t let little Peter starve. You’ve a week to get this place habitable, and, who knows, if you’re any good, my mother might just keep you on.”

“A new bathroom, Mother, simply because Jewish bottoms had sat on the lavatory!” exclaimed Ruth as she told her mother later that evening all about her encounter with Peter Walder. “Can you believe that?”

“Just be grateful for the work,” Helga said, wearily.

“Oh, I am, believe me I am,” replied Ruth. “It’s just that he’s such a strange mixture. One minute revelling in the new Austria, and the next finding work for a Jew… when he clearly doesn’t like us.”

“Don’t question his motives,” advised her mother, “just take the work on offer.”

Ruth spent the next seven days at the Walders’ apartment. She scrubbed floors, polished furniture, cleaned windows, washed curtains, beat rugs, swept and dusted. Many of the ornaments she cleaned were clearly valuable, and she wondered which wealthy Jewish family had lived there and had had to leave all their treasured belongings behind. Clothes still hung in the wardrobes, and when she asked Peter Walder what she was to do with them he said they were to be burned.

When he saw her reaction to this, he said, with a sort of casual generosity, “You can have them if you want them, just get them out of the place.”

The next day Ruth took their two suitcases over to the apartment and filled them with as many of the clothes as she could. She carried them home to Helga, who marvelled at the quality.

“These are beautiful,” she said, feeling the softness of a cashmere jumper, admiring the cut of a dark blue winter coat. “Imagine just leaving all these behind.”

“They had to leave everything behind, Mutti,” Ruth said sadly. “Not just their clothes. Everything.”

They selected a new coat each, a skirt and blouse, some underclothes and a warm jumper.

“It’s a pity there are no children’s things,” Helga sighed as she sorted through the rest of the clothes.

“But we can sell all these,” Ruth pointed out, “and then get some winter clothes for the children with the money.”

By the end of the week, the work on the apartment was finished. The new bathroom was fitted, and the whole place smelled of beeswax and lemon. Peter Walder came to inspect what she had done, and then, keeping his word, paid her. It was little enough, but Ruth pocketed the money gratefully. Another week’s rent and a little over for food. With the money she had made from the sale of the remaining clothes, she knew that she and her family would eat for another couple of weeks.

Frau Walder moved into the apartment and sent for Ruth. She was a grossly fat woman, but her grey hair was expensively coiffed, and her jowls heavily made up. She had a small pug nose, and small eyes that peered out at the world through folds of flesh. They studied Ruth now, assessing her, faintly contemptuous.

“My son tells me that you are a good worker,” she said. “I shall have my maid, of course, and a cook, but I’ll need someone to do the rough work. Be here each day at six-thirty in the morning, and you’ll be told what to do.”

Ruth thanked her and promised to be there at half-past six the next day. With the new Jewish curfew ending at six in the morning, she knew she could just get there in time. There had been no mention of pay.

“But her son paid me,” Ruth said to Helga, “so I have to trust her, too.”

With the small amount of money Frau Walder paid and the occasional pound note in Kurt’s letters, they survived; September slid into October, and the weather grew chilly. The girls had gone back to school, and found it crowded with new pupils; children expelled from the state schools, no longer allowed into mainstream education. The classrooms were crammed with children, the teachers struggling to teach so many and the parents continually worried about them. How long would it be, they wondered, before even the Jewish schools were closed?

Many Jews, forcibly ejected from their homes, had been forced to move into the increasingly overcrowded Jewish areas, Leopoldstadt and Brigittenau, working-class districts on the island between the Danube and the Danube Canal. There was nothing like enough accommodation and still they crowded in, many living several families in an apartment too small for even one. Rumour was rife; rumour fuelling fear, fear fuelling rumour. And always new directives to be complied with; everyone scrambled to comply… obey the rules and you might be safe, but there was no certainty. No certainty about anything. No prospects for a Jewish child.

There was no question of university for any Jew now, nor entry into the professions, and many of the older children left school immediately. The Jewish Community Office organised practical courses, training plumbers, mechanics, electricians, trying to equip young Jews with skills still needed in Vienna, skills that might make them “useful Jews”, offering slight protection, and providing them with a trade should they ever have the chance to emigrate.

More directives were announced; all Jews must disclose their wealth and assets, Jewish firms must register with the authorities, all males over fifteen must apply for an identity card, the addition of Sarah or Israel as middle names for every Jew. All Jewish ration cards and passports must be stamped with the letter J.