Shattered Crystals by Mia Amalia Kanner (no david read aloud .txt) 📕

“It is not comfortable for a Jew in Germany anymore.”

Emigrating would not be so simple: it would mean leaving my parents and sisters in Germany; it would mean parting from Sal’s family; it would mean leaving the shul community which had welcomed me and made me one of its own; it would mean giving up the home I had created for my husband, my children and Markus.

Where could we go? We would have to start over in a new country and a new community where we might not know anyone. How would we live? Sal would have to abandon his thriving business and build a new one. These were concerns we discussed between ourselves, with Markus, and with my parents on visits to Leipzig. We also talked about it with friends on the way home from shul and over coffee in their homes and in ours.

As usual, Sal was methodical and meticulous in acquainting himself with rules and regulations so that everything would be done correctly. “There is no point getting into trouble before we start,” he said. “I need to familiarize myself with the regulations.”

After collecting information about emigrating, Sal summarized the process. First we had to find a country that would take us, then obtain a visa from that country. With the visa secure in our passports, we could go.

Then there was the problem of money. Strict laws existed about taking money out of Germany, and we would have to leave most of our funds in Germany. While the Nazis were eager to rid the country of the Jews, they went to great pains to prevent the flight of their wealth.

Sal was worth close to one hundred thousand marks, including his savings, the value of his business and stocks he had purchased over the years. Sal was meticulous about keeping records. He declared all his assets, without exception, at his bank and on his tax returns. Moreover, he had the documents that verified all his transactions.

“We could leave if we accepted spermarks,” Sal explained. “But I would get three pfennigs, just three percent on each mark. I can’t take such a financial loss. If we settle in another country, I will need capital to go into business. I have to be able to take care of my family.”

Jews had begun smuggling money out of Germany almost immediately after Hitler became Chancellor. We knew this from the beginning. People hinted, and people whispered. Some talked openly, so we knew what was done. They carried sums of cash when they went on holidays and business trips to foreign countries. They deposited the money in banks in Paris, Switzerland, London, Brussels and Amsterdam. They shipped merchandise to foreign countries but took only partial payment in Germany. The balance stayed in those countries, in the names of relatives or associates, with fabricated bills backing up the spurious transactions.

Yes, we were aware in 1933 and 1934 that many Jews already smuggled money out of Germany. We knew some of them. We also knew that sometimes people were caught. The penalty for smuggling money out of Germany was death. If we knew anything, we knew the Nazis enforced the death penalty.

“I am not prepared to take the risk,” Sal said vehemently. We were finishing our evening meal in the dining room. Markus was with us, sipping tea from his glass, listening without comment. He seldom interfered, unless Sal asked for specific advice.

“Don’t talk to me about smuggling. I have seen death in 1918 during the war. It would be insane. Insane to risk my life smuggling money out of Germany. I will not do it.”

I knew that force in his voice, the tone of finality with which I could not argue. In truth, I agreed with my husband.

One afternoon in 1934, a manufacturer’s representative for children’s clothing came into the store. Sal had dealt with him since before our marriage and gave him orders four or five times a year. Heinz was his name, and he was Jewish.

“I have a little extra time today,” he said. “I wondered if we might have a coffee?”

Sal glanced at our sales clerk and at me and said “Why not come up to my house? Ella will look after the customers.”

Heinz was not looking for a casual cup of coffee. I had just begun pouring when he told Sal how he was converting all his assets into cash.

“I’ve been holding back money from my bank for a while,” he said. “And I draw a little money from my account each week. I want it to look as if business is falling off. That would be natural in these times. It’s known that I’m a Jew and that I had many non-Jewish customers. There should be no suspicion.”

He leaned forward intently. “I have a plan, a very good plan, Sal. What I intend to do is to stuff all the money into the tires of my car. Then I’ll drive to Holland.”

I was wondering why Heinz was unburdening himself, telling us everything, when he came out with it.

“Come with me, Sal,” he said. “Come with me,” he repeated, as if to emphasize that he truly meant what he said.

For a moment I visualized Sal climbing into Heinz’s old, black car with a billfold full of money in his breast pocket and more in the lid of his suitcase. Or would it be better between his shirts? It occurred to me that it did not matter where he put the money if he were stopped. If someone searched him before he transferred the money to the tires, they would find the cache in either place.

Sal’s face was flushed. He was struggling to control himself. “You’re crazy, Heinz. Don’t you know there’s a death penalty for smuggling?”

“No, no, I’ll make it, and you’ll be free, too,” he said. “I’ve considered all this very carefully, Sal. You go away every year, don’t you? So tell people you’re going on a vacation. Put your wife and girls on a train to Amsterdam, and we’ll meet them there at the station.”

Sal shook his head, but Heinz kept talking. “We’ve done business together for a long time, Sal. You are my best customer. I trust you. Come with me.”

Sal did not even take time to think about the offer. He shook his head and said, “It’s different for you, Heinz. You’re single. I have my family to think of. How will they manage if something happens to me? And it’s normal for you to drive all over the country. But I own a store, and I’m well known. If I’m seen in the car with you, it will arouse suspicion. That will only endanger both of us. I appreciate that you trust me with this proposal. Bless you for trying to help us. But we will emigrate legally, my friend. It will take longer, but I’m afraid of your way.”

The two men shook hands. It was the last we ever saw of Heinz.

It was 1934, and Hitler had been at the helm for less than two years. It was a time when we believed that we had choices about when to go and where to go. Palestine was the logical place for us to settle because Sal’s niece, Hanni, and several of my cousins lived there. We would not be totally alone. Also, my great-grandfather had made aliya as an old man in 1910 and was buried on the Mount of Olives.

I had been a Zionist since I was thirteen. My old dream of living in Palestine had never really left me. I believed in a Jewish homeland. Settling in Palestine would ease the pain of parting from my parents and giving up the home Sal and I had built in Halle. We would take part in the building of the new land of Eretz Yisrael.

We soon discovered it was not so simple to settle in Palestine either. Palestine had strict immigration controls, accepting mainly three groups of Jews. One desirable group comprised chalutzim, young men and women under the age of thirty-five. After a six-month period of instruction, the young were assigned to work in kibbutzim. They either worked on cooperative farms in the desert or in the cities as construction crews.

Jews who possessed skills needed in Palestine—trained electricians, plumbers and mechanics—formed the second group of preferred immigrants.

The third category was made up of capitalists, people with a minimum of twenty thousand marks or one thousand British pounds. Sal decided that this was the way for us and made an appointment at his bank in October 1934.

As always, the bank manager cordially ushered Sal into his office. As always, Sal cordially refused a cigar and waited while the manager lit one for himself. He listened patiently as the manager launched into an analysis of the stock market and speculated about several recently-formed companies. Finally, the manager asked how he could be of assistance, and Sal told him of our plan to emigrate to Palestine.

The manager tried to discourage him. “Nothing will happen to you here, Kanner. Your business is going well. Look at your deposits. You’re doing even better than ever.”

“A man has to look ahead,” Sal responded. “Who knows how it will be in Germany?”

“But you’re a pillar of this community,” the manager protested sincerely.

Sal had been in his office for half an hour, and the cigar smoke was beginning to irritate him. He conceded that the profits were continuing to come in. Then he ended the conversation by saying “It is not so comfortable to live as a Jew in Germany anymore.”

The manager made the arrangements.

Part of Sal’s capital was now segregated. With a bank statement certifying that twenty thousand marks had been set aside for the purpose of qualifying him as a capitalist immigrant to Palestine, Sal went on to the next step of the process. He traveled to the Zionist Bureau for the Resettlement of German Jews in Berlin. There he filled out a number of forms and submitted the bank document. The Zionist bureau entered his name on the list of capitalist applicants for a visa to Palestine and assigned a number to our family.

As soon as Sal’s number was reached, government authorities would use his money to purchase goods from Germany. Then, the government in Jerusalem would open a bank account in Sal’s name, deposit the equivalent of the twenty thousand marks it had spent in Germany for heavy machinery, and issue a visa for our family. Thus, on arrival in Palestine, we would have the equivalent of twenty thousand marks to set up a home and business.

This procedure made it possible for the Nazis to keep Jewish money in Germany and for Palestine to receive settlers with money to invest in the struggling country.

We were still trying to reach a decision about emigrating when my sister Hannah was married and became the first of our near relatives to leave Germany. Who would have thought she was serious when she first announced that she and her childhood friend would be married?