Shattered Crystals by Mia Amalia Kanner (no david read aloud .txt) đź“•
Around that time, Mama entered into a business partnership with Meyer Weinrauch. Meyer's line of business was shoes, and he was opening a new store. While Meyer obtained merchandise from various wholesalers, Mama was to be in charge of the store.
The store was one the Eisenbadstrasse, outside the main Jewish district. Mama ran the business as smoothly and efficiently as she did her home. None of my friends had mothers who worked, but I accepted that my mother was different. I always believed Mama was a genius and could do whatever she set her mind to.
My friends were Jewish children who lived in our building and girls from clubs to which I belonged. I joined youth groups and we met on Shabbos afternoons to sing Hebrew songs and discuss religion and debate Jewish concerns. On Sundays, we went on outings
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For a moment, I saw Papa pulling the watch out of his pocket and snapping it open to see if it was time to light Shabbos candles. I shut my mind against that memory in order to do what I had to do. I pushed the watch and chain to the bottom of my handbag, carefully drew my fox stole around my shoulders, and headed for the railroad station.
The pawnbroker was courteous and businesslike. He made a fair offer, and I accepted. When I walked out of the pawnshop, I felt genuinely happy for the first time in many days.
“Mia, dear, how nice you look today,” Hannah said, when I returned from Paris.
“I did very well,” I said. “I received fourteen hundred francs for my stole and Papa’s watch. I’m going to take Ruth and Eva out of Helvetia for a day and take all three girls shopping. The big ones have outgrown their shoes, and Lea needs a coat for the winter.”
“Of course, the children need clothes, Mia,” Hanna said. “But I don’t understand you. Soon, you’ll have nothing left. Why won’t you take money from the Jewish Committee? Everyone else does. There’s no shame to it. Why do you have to be different?”
“Because it’s charity!” I shouted. “I don’t need it!”
She ignored my outburst and merely looked at me quizzically.
I bought the children shoes and clothing. They now had everything they needed for the coming winter, and I felt content. I knew I could never make Hannah understand how I felt. She had never been in my situation.
By December, however, I acceded to Hannah’s urging. I went to the Jewish Committee Office in Paris for financial help. I did not want to impose further on Herman, and I had no more money.
The waiting room was filled with women, some in fur coats and expensive hats. I wondered why they were standing there.
“The cost of bread is up again,” said one of them.
“The prices are shameful,” answered a woman wearing a diamond ring. “I sent my husband some sausage yesterday. He wrote that the food at the camp is barely edible.”
I wondered about that. Sal hadn’t complained in his letters about the food. My head was beginning to pound. The waiting room was hot, and I took my coat off. Even without my coat, beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I pressed my fingertips against my temples and heard someone call my name. My turn had come.
I entered an inner room and sat on the edge of the straight-backed chair next to the desk. The woman behind the desk seemed very young, not much over twenty.
“You haven’t been here before,” she said to me. “When did you arrive in Paris?”
I showed her my passport, answered questions, provided names and dates. The young woman wrote and wrote, her pen scratching over the yellow form.
When she reached the bottom of the page, she said, “You are entitled to assistance, Frau Kanner.”
“I would prefer to work,” I said.
“We have no jobs. Besides, you don’t have a work permit. You can’t work without one. As a temporary resident, you can’t get one.”
I had harbored some hope that I would be able to contribute to my support. This new information was unequivocally clear and totally demoralized me.
“Because you’ve been here for some weeks, I can write the first check right away,” the young woman said. “You are entitled to checks for yourself and your child. But for us to continue the stipends, you have to report here once a month.”
I took the check without looking at it. I tried to say “Thank you,” but there was a bitter taste in my mouth and no words came.
“Are you unwell?” the young woman asked.
I shook my head.
“Perhaps you will need the bathroom before you leave? You will find it at the end of the hallway outside the reception room. I’ll look for you next month, Frau Kanner.”
I walked unsteadily down the hallway to the bathroom. I felt nauseated, wondering what I had come to, taking charity from strangers. “There’s no shame in it,” Hannah had insisted, but I felt myself to be a beggar and a thief.
In the bathroom, the white porcelain sink spun crazily in front of me. As I reached out to stop it from moving, my handbag slipped out of my arms, spilling the check onto the tiled floor. My chest felt as if it were being pushed up into my throat; my stomach churned. I ran to the toilet bowl and knelt on the hard tiles. Tears streamed down my face as my stomach heaved. I reached for the chain to flush the toilet and heaved again.
Finally, I stood up. I cupped my hands under the cold water and rinsed my mouth. I washed my face and hands and then drank some water. A sour odor filled the bathroom. I needed some fresh air. I picked up the check, put it in my handbag, and left the building.
“You were not raised to cook for a hundred people.”
The Villa Helvetia sat on top of a hill, the highest point in the village. There was no public transport within the village of Montmorency, so when I went to visit Ruth and Eva Sunday afternoons, I went on foot. Walking from Hannah’s apartment, it should have taken no more than half an hour to reach the Villa. But on the last Sunday in December, the streets were icy and hard to negotiate. It took me twice as long as usual. Everyone who ventured outside had trouble walking along the hilly roads. The villagers coped by tying rags over their shoes to give them needed traction on the frozen roads. The Montmorency residents agreed the winter of 1939-40 was the coldest France had witnessed for many years.
The visitors’ room at the Villa was also cold. Dozens of relatives were assembled, all in coats and scarves. We stood about for a while until Lene Papanek, the staff physician and the director’s wife, entered. She was in her forties, had short, faded blond hair and red cheeks.
“I am so pleased that you all came in spite of the terrible cold,” Lene said. “The children will be so happy to see you. But first, I must speak to you about a problem that has arisen.”
I tensed and leaned forward, awaiting the worst.
“The pipes leading to our kitchen are frozen,” she said.
I smiled in relief, but all around I heard women moaning, “Oh, no.”
Lene held up a hand and continued. “We have overcome the problem of lack of water. The children collect snow, and we melt it.”
Now the visitors murmured, “Amazing… how resourceful… Then, what is the problem?”
“Our kitchen workers have not come for the past two days. They live on farms, and have been unable to get here because of the icy roads. So we need help with washing pots. The children wash dishes, but they cannot handle our restaurant-sized pots.”
Lene looked around expectantly.
“I will miss my train back to Paris,” said one of the visitors.
“I am not strong enough,” said another.
There was no doubt in my mind. I stood up and said, “I will help.”
“Frau Kanner, thank you,” Lene said. “Come to my office after visiting hours. Ruth knows where it is.”
It was turning dark when Lene introduced me to a young Czech woman, working in the kitchen. She taught music and was helping out in the kitchen since the personnel shortage. Four girls were making sandwiches, while the boys poured heated water from a kettle. I put on a heavy cotton apron and began scrubbing. I had difficulty reaching the bottom of the two-and-a-half gallon pot, and one of the boys put it on the stone floor. I knelt, concentrating on scouring the huge iron pot. Soon I was sweating.
At six o’clock, Lene came into the kitchen. “Frau Kanner, you must have supper with us before you leave,” she said.
In the large, noisy dining room, I sat at one of the long tables with nine boisterous boys reliving their afternoon snowball fight. After two hours of unaccustomed hard work, I felt relaxed and happy. I was surprised at how hungry I was. Lene walked over to our table as I was drinking a second cup of tea. “All of us greatly appreciate your help today,” she said. “Please be careful walking home. It is very dark because of the blackout.”
The following Sunday, Elena, the music teacher, came to greet me in the visiting room. “Hello, how are you?” she said. “Dr. Papanek would like to speak with you. Can you come now?”
“I’ll be glad to help again,” I told Lene when I entered her office.
“No, it is not necessary today, but I understand from your daughters that they were raised in a kosher home.”
“Yes, of course,” I nodded.
Lene said, “Do you know about Eaubonne? It is a home where all the children are strictly Orthodox. Most of them are from an orphanage in Frankfurt. The woman we employ as the cook in Eaubonne has received a visa for America. Would you like to take her place when she leaves?”
“A job? Do you mean it?” I asked.
“We would show you how to work in an industrial kitchen. I think you could do it. You would start after the first of the year.”
I was ecstatic. “You can’t imagine what it would mean to me to be able to work, Dr. Papanek. Right now, I have no money except charity from the Jewish Committee.”
Lene smiled gently at my excitement.
Then I remembered. “I can’t,” I said. “I have no permit. I’m not allowed to work.”
Lene nodded. “That makes it difficult, but we have two to three weeks to overcome the problem. Our OSE Board of Directors are not without influence. I think we’ll find a way to get your papers. Now go to your children. They must be getting impatient to see you.”
The cold spell continued into January, 1940. Food became more scarce. The fighting went on, and somehow, someone arranged the impossible for me. At the end of the month, the Montmorency police issued a carte d’indente that made me a legal resident alien and permitted me to work within the boundaries of the prefecture.
There was a personal price to pay, and it was very high. I had to give up Lea. At Eaubonne, a room had been set aside for me with space enough for a single cot. But as I was busy much of the day, I could not have her with me. She could not join the Eaubonne community because the children were all of school age. Lene arranged for Lea to be admitted to La Petite Colonie, an OSE home in Montmorency that cared for children aged three to six.
I was so distraught that I was almost ready to decline the position. How could I part with my baby and place her in the hands of strangers? Lea cried every night for her sisters. She would suffer if she were separated from her mother. I thought about my little Lea from the moment my permit came until I was due to bring her to La Petite Colonie. Twice, I was halfway up the hill to Villa Helvetia to tell Lene I could not do it. Each time, I turned back, knowing I could not take from Herman and the Jewish Committee when I had an opportunity to earn money. With Sal in detention, the responsibility of the family fell to me. As a charity case, there was no possibility to save for emergencies; as a worker,
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