Chapter Forty-three
November 1938–April 1939
Sara
After Mildred told Sara that Jews might be forced from their homes to make room for Aryans displaced by Albert Speer’s construction projects, Sara and Natan urged their parents to put their home up for sale before it was taken from them. “Get every mark you can for this place while you have the chance,” said Natan. “You know if the Nazis seize it they’ll give you nothing in return.”
“But this is our home,” their mother protested. “You children grew up here. We built our lives here.”
“We’re planning to emigrate anyway,” Sara said. “If we move out now, we’ll be ready to leave the moment our visas come through.”
“Ifthey come through,” her mother countered, but eventually Sara and Natan convinced their parents to put their home on the market. Their father reminded them that moving the proceeds from the sale out of Germany would be a formidable challenge, but they would worry about that later.
A few people toured the house soon after it went up for sale, but they were more curious than serious, and made no offers. Then, in the middle of October, a couple in their late thirties came for a showing, first just the two of them, and then again with their three young children. On a third visit, the Wagners made an offer—reasonable, yet far less than Sara’s parents would have considered were they not so eager to sell, especially since the purchase included most of the furniture.
As if worried the low bid would insult them, the Wagners hastily, apologetically explained their circumstances. Although they had both lived in Germany for nearly twenty years, by birth he was Austrian and his wife was Polish. Their current home was in a predominantly immigrant neighborhood with many other Poles, but given the recent disagreement between their two countries, it seemed prudent, for the sake of their children, not to draw too much attention to their Polish heritage, and to move as soon as possible.
“Earlier this year, my wife inherited a sizable trust from her late grandmother,” Herr Wagner said, reaching for his wife’s hand. “We could write you a cheque today for the entire amount, but the trust is held in a bank in Kraków, and we would be obliged to pay you in zloty.”
“Usually most people turn us down at this point,” said Frau Wagner with an anxious, self-deprecating smile.
Sara’s father mulled it over. “As long as your bank confirms that the funds are available, I see no reason why the location of your trust should be an issue.”
In the week that followed, Sara’s parents and the Wagners haggled briefly over the price but soon reached an agreement. As Sara’s parents waited for the Kraków bank to confirm that Frau Wagner’s trust held sufficient funds, Wilhelm set up an account in his father-in-law’s name with a bank in Geneva. After the Wagners’ payment went through, Herr Wagner and Sara’s father signed the paperwork, shook hands, and congratulated one another on a good deal fairly struck. The sale was complete, the income safe in a Swiss bank a short drive from Amalie and Wilhelm’s chateau. Now all the Weitzes had to do was get to Geneva to claim it.
“Actually, from Switzerland the money could be transferred to any bank in the world, wherever we decide to settle,” Sara remarked to her mother as they packed the belongings they planned to take along to the flat they had rented in Friedenau, a few blocks from the Kuckhoffs’ place. Valuable artworks and family heirlooms not included in the sale had already been carefully wrapped, crated, and loaded onto a truck Natan had borrowed from a friend. Earlier that day, Sara’s father and Natan had driven everything to Schloss Federle for safekeeping. They could have returned by nightfall, but they had decided to stay a few days to work on the hiding place and take inventory of their supplies.
That was November 8.
When the pogrom erupted, Sara’s father and Natan could not risk driving back to Berlin, even though they were frantic with worry when their phone calls home did not go through. On the morning of November 10, when the SA swept through the city arresting Jews and the inevitable pounding on their own front door came, Sara’s mother ordered her to run upstairs and hide.
“What about you?” Sara asked as her mother began pulling open kitchen drawers and closing them, searching for something.
“Go,” her mother ordered, snatching up an apron and cap their former housekeeper had left behind. Her voice was iron. Sara turned and fled.
Crouching on the floor of the closet in Amalie’s old room, Sara heard her mother open the front door and calmly greet the officers. Even when they demanded to see Natan, her manner remained briskly efficient as she replied that he was not there.
“He is a convicted criminal,” one officer said. “We have his release papers identifying this as his permanent residence. His parole has been revoked. Bring him to us at once.”
“As I said, I cannot.”
“This is the home of his father, the Jew banker Jakob Weitz,” said another officer, his voice hoarse as if he had been shouting for hours.
“Officers, you are mistaken,” Sara’s mother replied, feigning puzzlement. “This is the home of the Austrian businessman, Herr Ernst Wagner. He bought this house from Herr Weitz last month.”
“Jakob Weitz! Natan Weitz!” the hoarse man called into the far reaches of the house. “Present yourselves immediately or we cannot guarantee the safety of anyone in this house.”
“Goodness,” Sara’s mother exclaimed. “If you’re going to make threats, just come in and look around. While you’re in the study, please take note of the papers on the desk. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. The Wagners own this house now. Herr Weitz and his son are not here.”
When Sara heard boots crossing the foyer floor, she inched back into the depths of the closet and held perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. While the men strode through the house, her mother pleaded for them to be careful. “My mistress is very particular,” she said, begging the officers to mind this piece of furniture or that one, thus warning Sara where the men were.
They must have found the paperwork on the desk, for they abruptly called off the search. With no apologies for disturbing the household, they ordered Sara’s mother to call the Gestapo immediately if the Weitzes should return. The front door slammed, the house fell silent, but Sara waited ten minutes more before she left the closet and crept downstairs.
She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table clad in the housekeeper’s cap and apron, her head in her hands, her shoulders trembling as she wept without making a sound. Choking back sobs, Sara ran to her, knelt beside her chair, and embraced her.
“I was terrified,” her mother confessed.
“You were brave. So very brave.”
