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
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
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