A Short Walk to Paradise

The side door shuts behind us. My Opa takes my hand and we walk down Main Street together. We walk past the blacksmith shop, past Town Hall. We cross a little bridge that spans the creek.

I always had to stop here. I loved the sound of the water splashing over the rocks. Opa let me pick some little white berries that looked like beads. I would lay them on the ground, stomp on them with my feet until they popped.

Our garden had an iron gate. I could look through the grillwork, down the straight path lined with strawberry vines. At the end of the path was a red-roofed gazebo.

For me, it was paradise. Here my grandfather—my Opa—and I became a team, co-workers and best of all, friends. There was a sandbox he built for me, right next to the gazebo. Inside the gazebo were the garden tools and a round table with two iron chairs.

The garden was about two or three acres of level ground, rich in minerals and sandy-soft in texture. Our harvest was always plentiful. New white pota-toes, cabbages, carrots, leeks, and plenty of kale. Berries there were—strawber-ries, raspberries, gooseberries, currants—the sweetest fruit I can remember. Fruit trees—pear, apple, plum—yellow and purple. All of it was allowed to ripen to its fullest flavor. Our root cellar was always filled to overflowing. We gave to those who were needy.

For Opa and me in the late 1930s, the garden was, indeed, more than para-dise—it was our salvation. He was no longer permitted to conduct his cattle-dealing business. I was no longer allowed to attend public school. In the garden, we felt happy, safe and productive.

When I return to the German town of Schermbeck now, I can still walk down Main Street. I can still cross the little bridge, still hear the water babble. The bush bearing the little white berries still grows. Only now when I get to the spot where the garden gate once waited to be opened, there is just sidewalk and a path leading to someone’s front door. There are no more lined strawberry paths, and the gazebo is gone.

But the taste of the fruits is still on my tongue. The joy of those moments in our garden lingers on.

Opa

When I think of my grandfather I think of the pungent aroma of his cigar. I think of how on Friday night, it lay on an end table in our living room. Along-side it, a cigar clipper to cut off the end. It lay there until sundown Saturday when the Shabbat was over. He enjoyed his cigar.

Opa had breakfast before sun-up each morning, always fully dressed. Shirt and tie, vest, the gold chain hanging from his pocket watch. He was a dapper man, a cattle-dealer of status in our town.

In 1935, the Nuremberg Laws came to Germany. Jews could no longer deal at the stock market. The local butchers who used to buy from my grandfather were told to buy from someone else.

Inspecting his cattle in his pastures at the edge of town, he has to decide quickly what to do.

“Do I call Ridder now to transport a hundred head to market? If I don’t sell soon, they’ll take these cows away from me regardless.”

The signs are all around him, humiliating and depressing. A prestigious group of men in town have a club, the Kegelclub, people who run businesses, tavern owners, the druggist, the dentist and my Opa. After the meetings they play cards. Opa is no longer welcome.

“What has happened?” he thinks. He remembers back to 1929, the big three-day festival, Killian Schützenfest. The king of the festival, the best marksman, chose a maiden to reign beside him in the town of Schermbeck for an entire year. The choice was Opa’s daughter Paula—the first Jewish queen. He can still see the white horse-drawn carriage taking Paula past our home, up and down the street. She sits across from the mayor and his wife, and next to the king. A tiara crowns her beautiful black hair; it sparkles in the sunlight.

With the Nuremberg Laws, all Jews lost their citizenship. It was no longer safe in Germany. But where was he to go? He was too old to begin again. He spoke only German.

The incomprehensible November 9th, 1938—Kristallnacht—was the final blow. Every Jewish home was ransacked. All material things lay in pieces in the street. All houses of worship were destroyed. Our sacred Torahs were burned. Prayer books, prayer shawls and arc curtains were burned.

In our house, the Kachelofen, the tile stove, was totally destroyed. There wasn’t a chair with four legs left whole for my ill grandmother to sit on. Com-ing back at dusk, we heard Opa say, “Who would do such a thing to my little canary?” The bird lay on the living room floor, trampled. The cage was smashed. Opa’s bird, who sang our wakeup song every morning, who sat on his special oversized coffee cup on Passover.

Only one of our neighbors resisted the Nazis that night. He went after them with a pitchfork. Within minutes, all of the windows in his home were broken. The family suffered many harsh consequences as a result of being our friends, Judenfreunde.

“Come,” Opa says to his family. His voice, the usual gentleness gone, is stern. “It’s time to leave. We are not wanted here anymore.”

We left Schermbeck in January of 1939, heading toward our cousins in Berlin.

My Place in the Park

Only a suitcase to take away from this place where once we had proud posses-sions. I clutched my doll.

There was still enough light for me to see the beautiful lake, only a short walk from our home on Main Street. The lake was frozen over. People of all ages were ice skating. They wore colorful, handmade hats and scarves.

We walked toward the railroad station past barren winter fields. In the sum-mer, red poppies and blue cornflowers created a sprinkle of color throughout the vast wheatfields. I was leaving the natural beauty of this village to go to the noise and concrete of the big city of Berlin . . .

The part of Berlin where my aunt, uncle, and twin cousins lived was a quiet residential area. Beautiful Körner Park lay across the street from their home. The ivy-covered walls were the backdrop for the vivid colors of the flowers that changed with the seasons. Neatly trimmed bushes and paths wound around the high fountain in the middle of the park.

I would sit in the park with my cousins, Hanna and Ruth. They read won-derful stories to me, walked the paths with me, while I pushed the doll buggy that once belonged to them. After a while, since I was old enough, they would leave me—wave good-bye and go to meet their friends. I sat on the white wooden bench and rocked my doll in the buggy and felt very smug. I heard splashing water from the fountain, I looked at the colorful flowers. I lifted my doll out of the soft buggy and as I held her upright, her eyes opened. I felt a sweet love for this doll, my only real possession. She belonged to me. I needed her. I felt satisfied.

One day—it was now 1940—a sign went up on the gate: “Juden ist der zutritt verboten.” I could no longer enter this place—no longer take my doll for a walk, pretend that I was her mommy, gently take her out of the buggy, lay her over my shoulder, or cradle her in my arms. No longer the gentle sound of the splashing water of the fountain or the aroma of the flowers. Just like the walks I used to take with my Opa in our village, it was all taken away.

Our legal papers were in order; it was a miracle. We prepared to leave Ger-many in May 1941. We were each allowed to take fifty pounds of clothing and my mother was permitted to keep her wedding ring. I still held my precious doll Püppchen close to me.

Before we left, Mother and I stood at the gate of Körner Park for one more glance at the beautiful fountain and the green lawn, now dotted with huge anti-aircraft guns, their turrets aimed to the sky. I turned away from the park, reached for my mother’s hand, and walked to the main railroad station. My family stood on the platform and as the train began to move, I cried. They waved their arms at us. We waved out of the window until they were out of sight—never to see them again.

We stood in the middle of the cobblestone street in front of my grandparents’ house. The windows were not shiny glass any more, with those lovely lace curtains. They were all boarded up. It was getting dark. I clutched my doll and my sewing basket close to me.

We had survived Kristallnacht in this village of Schermbeck, in the Rhineland, North Germany. We stood there, my mother, my Aunt Paula, my grandparents, and I. We were about to walk away from our home, where generations of my family had lived.

As we were leaving, my Christian friend, Irmgard, leaned out of her second story window and asked, “Wo geht ihr hin?” (Where are you going?) I told her I was not sure, but we would go to a big city and stay with my aunt’s family. I couldn’t even tell her when I would return. She had been a loyal and sweet friend to me and now I had to leave her. Impulsively I tossed my sewing basket to her. She caught it and began to cry.

We walked toward the train station silently. It was a long sad journey. My grandmother was ill, my Aunt Paula weak from worry and stress. As for me, at eight and one-half, I just felt secure because I had my mother there to hold my hand.

At the train station we boarded the train to Berlin. Special documents in hand allowing us to travel, we found our seats and the train slowly pulled away. I loved this place. The village, the church bells so crystal-clear with few street noises to interfere. Horses’ hooves, clickety-clack on the cobblestone streets, accompanied by pots and pans rattling in the distance. How excited I would get! But when the horse-drawn wagon appeared around the corner, I would stay close to the front door. The gypsies were coming through Schermbeck on their way to the countryside where they would camp overnight. I loved the lake where the ducks chattered, the swans honked and the frogs made their unique sound.

Our family welcomed us in Berlin. Through air raids, food shortages, and curfews, we managed to stay together until my mother, sister, and I were permitted to leave Germany in 1941.

Meanwhile, in Schermbeck during the war, my friend Irmgard kept under her bed a wooden suitcase built by her father. She stored all of her precious possessions in it. She carried it to the bunker out of the village during the deadly air raids. In the wooden suitcase was my sewing basket.

After the war, Irmgard married and had a family. In her dining room china closet sat a curious little sewing basket. If her children asked if they could play with it, the answer was always “No.” When they were old enough to understand, Irmgard told them the story of a little Jewish girl who lived next door, her very good friend, who was made to leave her home one night because of Nazi persecution of the Jews.

Films, books, and records had appeared through the media about the mur-der of millions of Jews in concentration camps. Irmgard had been convinced that I was never coming back. She was so sure that I was a victim.

For a long time I blocked the tragic past out of my memory, but in 1981 I made contact with a minister friend, Reverend Wolfgang Bornebusch from Schermbeck. This was the beginning of a new life for me. I began to remember. I was able to express in words all that I had suppressed. But did I recall Irmgard and that moment we had to separate? Not until 1982. My return to Schermbeck was encouraged by the compassion of this young minister who saw the need to remind those village people that there had been a Jewish community that was a vital part of the success of the village for many years. My return was published in the local papers.

Irmgard read this article and saw my picture. Crying and in disbelief, she reached for paper and pen and began to write. “Liebe Marga, Ich habe immer-noch dein kleines Nähkörbchen.  I still have your little sewing basket. Would you like to have it returned to you? Now that I know you are alive and well, I am so very happy.”

Tears running down my face, I wrote back to her. “Dear Irmgard, I can hardly find the words to express myself after all the years that have passed. Yes, I would love to have my sewing basket back, but please don’t send it. I will return next year, we will have a reunion. You will be able to hand me my sewing basket. Thank you, dear friend, for giving me back some faith in humanity and your friendship.”

Since our first reunion, and the indescribable moment when she handed me this precious piece of my past, we have met eight times. Each time we look at each other in disbelief.

My sewing basket will be part of my legacy to my grandchildren, in loving memory of friendship.