with a special tax. Still, the women are only slightlythinner than before; the men exude
Gemütlichkeit
; there is no trace of the special armbands with the yellow stars that have to be worn on the street.
But earlier on the day that Rolf and Louisa returned, the horsehair sofa had been ripped open with a butcher’s knife, to see if there was gold hidden in the cushions; the chandelier had been smashed with an ax, the pearls snatched from the jewel case in Jeannette’s bedroom. The remains of the box of chocolates had been hurled from the sideboard and trampled into the carpet, along with the shards of crystal. The two proud fathers, with Otto’s father Emil, who had taken the photograph, were dragged from their houses with shouts and curses, and kicked down the steps. Both Sigmund’s eyes were blackened; Emil lost three of his teeth. They were shoved into the back of a van that, when it had its full complement of Jews, rattled through the darkness toward Dachau. It was what the American papers would call the Night of Broken Glass.
Because all three men had been awarded the Iron Cross in the war, their names appeared on the list issued by the Reichsbureau a month later, allowing for the release of decorated front fighters from the Bavarian camps. But by the time the seals had been properly affixed and the orders arrived in the office of the Kommandant, Emil was dead, having collapsed during the morning roll call a week earlier. The young SS guard—he could not have been more than twenty; he had just been promoted to captain—shouted at him to get to his feet. When he failed to do so, the boy kicked him in the head and dragged him over to the flogging blocks; there he beganwhipping him, but halfheartedly, because he had stopped moving. The SS guard threw the whip aside and stalked off. Later two of the prisoners were ordered to bury him in the pit set aside for that purpose.
So it was only Sigmund and Franz, Rolf’s and Louisa’s fathers, who returned to Nuremberg, driven home by the Red Cross, because it was clear that Sigmund was in a terminal state. Somehow Franz managed to carry the dying man up the steps of his house—he weighed under a hundred pounds, Franz himself had hardly more flesh on him by then—and then to his bedroom, where he lowered him, in his stinking, shit-smeared camp uniform, onto the remains of the mauve eiderdown that had been part of Rolf’s mother’s dowry, and which the SS had likewise slashed in their hunt for diamonds. For an hour Franz sat in a chair opposite while Trudl bathed the scabs on Sigmund’s face and spooned broth into his shriveled mouth. Each time the liquid came up again, pure greeny-gold, shiny with the putrefying fluids of his stomach lining, until she put the bowl aside and stroked his face, murmuring the same words she used to say to him when he’d had a bad dream. Then Franz left to go tell Jeannette he was safe.
She wept hysterically when he walked in. She had been out of her mind, she said, wringing her hands. She had hardly slept, she had hardly eaten since they’d taken him away. But she did not think to offer him food. He sank down on the sofa, and though its stuffing was spilling out and its carved back was full of gashes, it agitated her to see it soiled by his filthy rags. He had better take a bath, she said, her tears having dried.
The next morning he put on his yellow star and walked to Sigmund’s again—all Jewish telephones had been removedby order of the authorities some months before—where Trudl told him that Sigmund had died during the night. He stayed with her until her sister could come and then went to the post office, where he filled out a form requesting permission to send a telegram notifying Rolf of Sigmund’s death. After examining his papers, and Sigmund’s papers, and grudgingly stamping the telegraph document in all the required places, the woman behind the counter made him lay the money down before her, unwilling to take it
Gemütlichkeit
; there is no trace of the special armbands with the yellow stars that have to be worn on the street.
But earlier on the day that Rolf and Louisa returned, the horsehair sofa had been ripped open with a butcher’s knife, to see if there was gold hidden in the cushions; the chandelier had been smashed with an ax, the pearls snatched from the jewel case in Jeannette’s bedroom. The remains of the box of chocolates had been hurled from the sideboard and trampled into the carpet, along with the shards of crystal. The two proud fathers, with Otto’s father Emil, who had taken the photograph, were dragged from their houses with shouts and curses, and kicked down the steps. Both Sigmund’s eyes were blackened; Emil lost three of his teeth. They were shoved into the back of a van that, when it had its full complement of Jews, rattled through the darkness toward Dachau. It was what the American papers would call the Night of Broken Glass.
Because all three men had been awarded the Iron Cross in the war, their names appeared on the list issued by the Reichsbureau a month later, allowing for the release of decorated front fighters from the Bavarian camps. But by the time the seals had been properly affixed and the orders arrived in the office of the Kommandant, Emil was dead, having collapsed during the morning roll call a week earlier. The young SS guard—he could not have been more than twenty; he had just been promoted to captain—shouted at him to get to his feet. When he failed to do so, the boy kicked him in the head and dragged him over to the flogging blocks; there he beganwhipping him, but halfheartedly, because he had stopped moving. The SS guard threw the whip aside and stalked off. Later two of the prisoners were ordered to bury him in the pit set aside for that purpose.
So it was only Sigmund and Franz, Rolf’s and Louisa’s fathers, who returned to Nuremberg, driven home by the Red Cross, because it was clear that Sigmund was in a terminal state. Somehow Franz managed to carry the dying man up the steps of his house—he weighed under a hundred pounds, Franz himself had hardly more flesh on him by then—and then to his bedroom, where he lowered him, in his stinking, shit-smeared camp uniform, onto the remains of the mauve eiderdown that had been part of Rolf’s mother’s dowry, and which the SS had likewise slashed in their hunt for diamonds. For an hour Franz sat in a chair opposite while Trudl bathed the scabs on Sigmund’s face and spooned broth into his shriveled mouth. Each time the liquid came up again, pure greeny-gold, shiny with the putrefying fluids of his stomach lining, until she put the bowl aside and stroked his face, murmuring the same words she used to say to him when he’d had a bad dream. Then Franz left to go tell Jeannette he was safe.
She wept hysterically when he walked in. She had been out of her mind, she said, wringing her hands. She had hardly slept, she had hardly eaten since they’d taken him away. But she did not think to offer him food. He sank down on the sofa, and though its stuffing was spilling out and its carved back was full of gashes, it agitated her to see it soiled by his filthy rags. He had better take a bath, she said, her tears having dried.
The next morning he put on his yellow star and walked to Sigmund’s again—all Jewish telephones had been removedby order of the authorities some months before—where Trudl told him that Sigmund had died during the night. He stayed with her until her sister could come and then went to the post office, where he filled out a form requesting permission to send a telegram notifying Rolf of Sigmund’s death. After examining his papers, and Sigmund’s papers, and grudgingly stamping the telegraph document in all the required places, the woman behind the counter made him lay the money down before her, unwilling to take it
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