Read Online The Nazi Officer's Wife by Edith H. Beer - Free Book Online
Authors: Edith H. Beer
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arrested Uncle Richard and Aunt Roszi too.
They spent six weeks in prison. To get out, they gave the Nazis everything they possessed: real estate, bank accounts, bonds, dishes, silver. Then they left immediately, heading east. Russia swallowed them. My mother waited and prayed for word of them, but none came.
One day a young man in uniform knocked on our door. I must tell you, they had a certain way of knocking, these Nazis, as if they resented the door, as if they expected it to disappear beneath their pounding fists. My body could always tell when they were knocking. My skin crawled. My stomach tightened. The Nazi told Mama that Grandfather’s house and shop were being taken over by “good” Austrians, and that he had to go live in a room with relatives.
That was it. No more Stockerau.
Grandfather had been living in that house for forty-five years.The dishes, the chairs, the pictures, the pillows, the rugs, the telephone, the pots and pans and spoons, the piano, the gorgeous knitted lace doilies, the Puch motorbikes, the sewing machines, the letters we had written him that he had saved in his big wooden desk, the desk itself—all of it, every stick and memory, was stolen; and the thieves sold it to his lifelong neighbors for a very good price.
Mama sent me to take care of him. The stroke, following on Grandmother’s death, had slowed him; but the loss of his home, his place , now crippled him beyond repair. I led him to the toilet; I massaged his feet. Whatever I made for him to eat on his special diet, he would thank me and then say, sweetly, almost apologetically, “Your grandmother made it better.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone.”
“Ah, yes, of course, I knew that, I knew that.” He looked at his old hands, worn, callused, scarred from all their work. “When can I go home?” he asked.
He died one morning.
I saw his house again, in later years. I believe it was still being lived in. Donaustrasse Number 12, in Stockerau.
C OMPARED WITH G RANDFATHER’S eviction, ours was a triviality. Our concierge stood weeping in the doorway, holding an eviction notice from our noble landlord. “What could he do?” she said. “The regime demanded this.”
So Mama and I moved to 13 Untere Donaustrasse, in Leopoldstadt, the Vienna ghetto, to the flat of Milo’s widowed aunt,Frau Maimon. Two other ladies were already boarding with her—sisters, one a spinster, the other with a husband in Dachau. We lived, five women in a flat intended for one, and we never argued; we never failed to excuse ourselves when we could not help violating each other’s privacy.
Mama and I supported ourselves by sewing. Not couturier tailoring, of course, but mending and recutting old clothes to fit the new times. We did a lot of “taking in,” because our Jewish neighbors in the ghetto were growing thinner.
My cousin Jultschi, however, was growing fatter.
She sat with me in the park, crying her eyes out, her skin blotchy and broken out.
“I know I shouldn’t have gotten pregnant in such terrible times,” she wept. “But Otto had been drafted and we were afraid we would never see each other again and we were so overcome. It just happened, and now I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe they’ll leave the child alone. What do you think, Edith? I mean, it has to be of some help to at least have a father who is not a Jew, who is a soldier of the Reich.”
“Maybe it will help,” I said, although I did not really believe that.
“I tried to get a job as a maid in England. I thought they would just think I was fat. But they knew right away that I was pregnant.” Her large melting brown eyes fixed on me. “I have to not be pregnant, Edith, with Otto going off to war and all these laws against the Jews. I have to go see a doctor.”
I got in touch with our old friend Kohn. He had just finished his studies and opened a practice—and now the Nazis had revoked his license. He looked
They spent six weeks in prison. To get out, they gave the Nazis everything they possessed: real estate, bank accounts, bonds, dishes, silver. Then they left immediately, heading east. Russia swallowed them. My mother waited and prayed for word of them, but none came.
One day a young man in uniform knocked on our door. I must tell you, they had a certain way of knocking, these Nazis, as if they resented the door, as if they expected it to disappear beneath their pounding fists. My body could always tell when they were knocking. My skin crawled. My stomach tightened. The Nazi told Mama that Grandfather’s house and shop were being taken over by “good” Austrians, and that he had to go live in a room with relatives.
That was it. No more Stockerau.
Grandfather had been living in that house for forty-five years.The dishes, the chairs, the pictures, the pillows, the rugs, the telephone, the pots and pans and spoons, the piano, the gorgeous knitted lace doilies, the Puch motorbikes, the sewing machines, the letters we had written him that he had saved in his big wooden desk, the desk itself—all of it, every stick and memory, was stolen; and the thieves sold it to his lifelong neighbors for a very good price.
Mama sent me to take care of him. The stroke, following on Grandmother’s death, had slowed him; but the loss of his home, his place , now crippled him beyond repair. I led him to the toilet; I massaged his feet. Whatever I made for him to eat on his special diet, he would thank me and then say, sweetly, almost apologetically, “Your grandmother made it better.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone.”
“Ah, yes, of course, I knew that, I knew that.” He looked at his old hands, worn, callused, scarred from all their work. “When can I go home?” he asked.
He died one morning.
I saw his house again, in later years. I believe it was still being lived in. Donaustrasse Number 12, in Stockerau.
C OMPARED WITH G RANDFATHER’S eviction, ours was a triviality. Our concierge stood weeping in the doorway, holding an eviction notice from our noble landlord. “What could he do?” she said. “The regime demanded this.”
So Mama and I moved to 13 Untere Donaustrasse, in Leopoldstadt, the Vienna ghetto, to the flat of Milo’s widowed aunt,Frau Maimon. Two other ladies were already boarding with her—sisters, one a spinster, the other with a husband in Dachau. We lived, five women in a flat intended for one, and we never argued; we never failed to excuse ourselves when we could not help violating each other’s privacy.
Mama and I supported ourselves by sewing. Not couturier tailoring, of course, but mending and recutting old clothes to fit the new times. We did a lot of “taking in,” because our Jewish neighbors in the ghetto were growing thinner.
My cousin Jultschi, however, was growing fatter.
She sat with me in the park, crying her eyes out, her skin blotchy and broken out.
“I know I shouldn’t have gotten pregnant in such terrible times,” she wept. “But Otto had been drafted and we were afraid we would never see each other again and we were so overcome. It just happened, and now I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe they’ll leave the child alone. What do you think, Edith? I mean, it has to be of some help to at least have a father who is not a Jew, who is a soldier of the Reich.”
“Maybe it will help,” I said, although I did not really believe that.
“I tried to get a job as a maid in England. I thought they would just think I was fat. But they knew right away that I was pregnant.” Her large melting brown eyes fixed on me. “I have to not be pregnant, Edith, with Otto going off to war and all these laws against the Jews. I have to go see a doctor.”
I got in touch with our old friend Kohn. He had just finished his studies and opened a practice—and now the Nazis had revoked his license. He looked
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