“We could all use some time away from the city,” said Sara’s mother, some of the tension leaving her face. “And Amalie and Wilhelm did ask us to look after things in their absence.”
At first Natan demurred, citing work and other vague obligations, but his parents’ disappointment was so obvious that he fell silent, chagrined. “It won’t be much of a family vacation without you,” said Sara, pressing her advantage, and Natan conceded.
An invitation was sent to the Panofskys, arrangements were made in a series of phone calls with the estate staff, and at the end of January, the two families drove in tandem about 400 kilometers west of Berlin through forests, villages, snow-covered pastures, and dormant fields of barley and alfalfa. Twice they had to pull off the road to allow convoys of military vehicles to pass, presumably on their way to the Rhineland, but those were brief, jarring interludes in an otherwise scenic journey to Wilhelm’s ancestral estate.
Schloss Federle took Sara’s breath away every time she glimpsed it through the trees growing on the banks of the broad encircling moat, ice-choked now but no less a formidable barrier, traversable by a single stone bridge at the foot of a long garden in front of the residence. Although the original castle dated back to the thirteenth century, the residence as it now stood had been constructed around 1780, with significant refurbishments to the interior made just before the Great War. The large main building and two perpendicular wings stood three stories tall and were fashioned of white stone and golden stucco. Curved single-story galleries connected the east and west wings to the main building, facing each other across a long oval garden encircled by the driveway, snow-dusted now, but bursting with lush greenery and colorful, fragrant flowers from spring through autumn. Tall rectangular windows framed by green shutters filled the walls, and teardrop-shaped rust-colored tiles covered the mansard roof and numerous dormers. And yet for all its grandeur, it was warm and welcoming, steadfast and strong.
Several members of the household staff hurried out to greet them as the cars halted before the main entrance. As the footmen carried their luggage indoors and her parents introduced the Panofskys to the housekeeper and butler, Sara turned to admire the view back the way they had come. The day was crisp and clear, and in the distance she could just make out the frosty blur of the Wiehen Hills in the distance. If only Amalie and her family were there, everything would be perfect.
The Panofsky party included Mr. Panofsky, his wife, his silver-haired mother, and the two children—Hans, one day shy of eleven, and his younger sister, Ruth. All was happy chaos as the two families called out cheerful greetings to one another, stretching their legs, inhaling deeply the cold, pine-scented air. The children darted about, leaving tracks in the snow and shrieking with delight, while the adults chatted and looked on indulgently. Sara felt a knot of worry loosen in the pit of her stomach, and as she drank in the familiar, beloved sights of her sister’s home, she was struck by overwhelming relief at the absence of a single swastika or black-clad SS officer. She had not understood how depressed her spirits had become by the ubiquitous presence of Nazi symbols until they no longer obstructed her view.
“It is so quiet and peaceful here,” marveled Mrs. Panofsky. “The perfect remote country retreat.”
“And yet we’re only about one hundred twenty kilometers from the Dutch border,” said Sara’s father. “In ninety minutes, we could be in the Netherlands.”
Mr. Panofsky, his wife, and his mother nodded thoughtfully.
Eventually the adults grew too cold to linger outdoors, so when the children wore themselves out from scrambling through snowdrifts, they all headed inside to warm themselves by the fireplace in the great hall before supper. A whirling snowstorm descended while they dined, and afterward, the intermittent scour of snow crystals on the windowpanes followed them as the Weitzes led the Panofskys on a tour of the castle. Hans and Ruth enjoyed the way their voices echoed down the marble halls, and they were very impressed by the suits of armor in the north gallery. Their parents were more interested in the antique Persian rugs, the vast library, and the art collection, not only the portraits of Wilhelm’s illustrious ancestors displayed in gilded frames throughout the public rooms, but the modern paintings and sculptures he and Amalie had acquired on their international travels. “Magnificent,” proclaimed Mr. Panofsky as he examined a cubist painting of musical instruments. “Picasso, I assume?” Natan confirmed that it was.
As they went along, Sara shared some of the fascinating stories her brother-in-law had told her about the history of various rooms, distinctive antiques, and illustrious or notorious visitors from the past. In the conservatory, when her gaze turned to the beautiful, gleaming black Steinway with some of Amalie’s sheet music still poised upon the stand, she felt a pang of longing for her sister so acute that tears sprang into her eyes. It was painful and strange to be in Amalie’s home without her, paradoxically drawing her closer and emphasizing the vast distance between them. When she heard her mother’s soft sigh and felt her touch upon her shoulder, Sara knew she felt the same.
After the tour, they returned to the great hall for stories and games before Mrs. Panofsky put the children to bed. Then it was time forKaffeebefore the blazing hearth, as well as schnapps for those who wanted something stronger. They toasted their absent benefactors, Amalie and Wilhelm, and the conversation turned from fond reminiscences about happier occasions they had spent together at Schloss Federle to recent news the young family had sent from Geneva.
“Switzerland is lovely,” said Mrs. Panofsky, with a significant glance for her husband. “We have friends in Zurich, and your old classmate says his bank in Basel is growing.”
Mr. Panofsky regarded her fondly. “Last week you preferred London.”
“London, Zurich, New York—” Mrs. Panofsky waved a hand. “Whichever city will welcome us, I’ll happily make it our home.”
“Have you decided to emigrate?” asked Sara.
“I didn’t want to spoil our holiday with talk of business,” said Mr. Panofsky reluctantly. “However, since the partners intend to make a public announcement soon, it could do no harm to confide in you now, in appreciation for your hospitality.”
Sara and Natan exchanged wary glances as their father frowned pensively and shifted in his chair. “Nothing you say will leave this room, of course,” he said.
“The Jacquier and Securius Bank cannot continue as it has under the Reich,” said Mr. Panofsky, spreading his hands, letting them fall to his lap. “The partners hope to sell the bank, and if that fails, we’ll liquidate the assets and close our doors.”
“It’s not right that you should have to close an institution that has thrived for more than one hundred years,” said Natan.
“I quite agree,” said Mr. Panofsky.
“Afterward, yes, we intend to emigrate,” said Mrs. Panofsky, a tremor in her voice. “After restricting ourselves to the attic of our own home for all these years, I’ve simply had enough—” She broke off, and when her husband reached for her hand, she managed an apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to complain. Our arrangement has kept us safe so far, and the Dodds are pleasant people.”
“We understand,” said Sara’s mother kindly. “Your feelings are perfectly reasonable.”
“Liquidating the bank won’t be easy, dear,” said Mr. Panofsky. “Nor will emigration.”
Tears filled Mrs. Panofsky’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “I know.”
They all knew. For a country that wanted to rid itself of Jews, the German government seemed determined to thrust daunting obstacles in the path of those who wanted to go. Jews who intended to emigrate had to relinquish the titles to their homes and businesses and were required to pay staggering emigration taxes. Their personal possessions and financial savings were considered German property and very little could be taken with them. Severe restrictions were placed upon the amount of money that could be transferred from German banks into foreign accounts, and travelers were permitted to carry only ten Reichsmarks with them when they left the country. None of this applied to Wilhelm, as he was Aryan and had not officially emigrated but was merely residing in Switzerland indefinitely, as was a wealthy baron’s prerogative. For the Panofskys, however—and the Weitzes, if they ever chose that path—emigration meant sacrificing homes, livelihoods, and everything they owned and starting over in a new country utterly impoverished.
Sara knew none of that mattered unless they could convince another country to accept them. The most desirable nations subjected would-be immigrants to arduous application processes, requiring German Jews to provide detailed information about themselves and their family, extracted with great difficulty from physicians, banks, and the German police. The United States was particularly difficult to enter, for potential immigrants must provide affidavits from American citizens willing to become their sponsors. They also had to secure a place on the waiting list within the quota permitted for each country of origin, and with thousands of German Jews desperate to escape to America, the competition was fierce. The uncertainty obliged them to apply to several different countries at once, creating an exhausting and expensive bureaucratic snarl with no guarantee of success.
From his contacts in the international press, Natan had learned that the United States, Canada, and Great Britain were reluctant to increase their quotas and allow more impoverished people to flood their shores when they were already struggling with unprecedented unemployment, poverty, and widespread hunger due to the Great Depression. He had heard rumors that the number of German Jews allowed to enter the United States was actually far below what the quota stipulated. “Antisemitism isn’t exclusive to Germany,” he had told Sara the previous autumn, little guessing how crushed and bewildered his offhand remark had rendered her. Her entire academic career had been devoted to American and English literature. Every American she had ever met had been kind and generous, although it was true that she hadn’t met very many. Even so, she could not bear to think that the country she had admired from afar for so many years, a country founded on liberty and religious freedom, would reject her and her family simply because they were Jews.
The next morning dawned sunny and clear, with a sparkling white blanket of snow covering the landscape outside Sara’s window. Smiling at the muffled laughter of the children as they played somewhere downstairs, she quickly washed, dressed warmly, and hurried to the dining room where the families were gathering. After breakfast, Sara’s parents offered to show Mr. and Mrs. Panofsky and Mr. Panofsky’s mother around the grounds while Natan and Sara took the children sledding. Natan, caught off guard, looked so wary that Sara had to laugh, but the children were fairly bouncing in their chairs from excitement, so he smiled and agreed.
After an hour outside in the clear, crisp winter air, Sara knew her brother did not regret being conscripted to entertain the children rather than spending the day clattering away on his typewriter. The nearest hills were either too tame for Hans or too steep for Ruth, so instead of racing downhill, Sara pulled Ruth on one sled while Natan pulled Hans on the other, escorting them on their own tour of the estate, over the bridge and into the woods, singing and laughing, pausing to study the tracks forest creatures had left in the snow. They deduced from the paths traced through the drifts that the older set had made the rounds of the orangery, the greenhouse, the stables and indoor riding arena, and the gardener’s cottage before returning indoors to a warm fire.
