Chapter 8 Escaping the Swastika
Escaping the Swastika
Berlin
The library was quieter than ever. It had gone back to the still, boring place it had been some twelve years prior, before
Helene had become the director.
Helene’s love of books began in childhood. While her parents were both avid readers, her maternal grandmother, Dorothea, had
played the biggest role in fostering in Helene a love of reading. Helene’s mother’s family had not taken kindly to Maria distancing
herself from Judaism. Most of them had cut her off. Maria’s father only spoke to her when no one else was around, but Dorothea
was her own sort of rebel. Never turning her back on the Jewish faith, she voiced eloquent critiques of the chauvinism of
Orthodox rabbis. And she read widely, from the Torah and the writings of rabbis both famous and obscure, to Gentile literature,
especially novels. It was Dorothea who introduced Helene to the Russian, French, British, Belgian, and Spanish authors.
That afternoon, alone and surrounded by books, Helene’s mind kept wandering to her grandmother. Eventually, she picked up the phone and called Dorothea.
“Grandmo—”
“Oh, hello, my child. What a pleasure to hear your sweet voice amongst all the shouting and singing—they’re drunk as sausages
out there. Ah, your voice is balm to my ears.”
Dorothea’s comment took Helene off guard. She was worried about her grandparents living where they did: in Berlin’s historic
Jewish neighborhood in the Mitte district off Oranienburger Strasse. They were faithful attendees at the New Synagogue and
refused to move away from it. Its gigantic golden dome was a sign to Berlin of the vibrancy of the Jewish community, and its
attraction for Helene’s extended family was like that of an evening torch for moths. When she was young, visits to the Jewish
neighborhood fascinated her. It was like a trip to an exotic far Eastern land. Yet the area was being stripped of its charm.
The only parts that stood out now were Yiddish signs in store windows and the robes of the Orthodox Jews, a mixture of the
nineteenth-century gentleman and desert Arab.
“Is something going on?” Helene asked, nestling the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could continue stamping books.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? The Nazis tried to enforce a boycott on all Jewish businesses in Berlin, and maybe the whole country, for all I know.
When I went out to do my shopping this morning, two soldiers were right outside Abraham’s fabric store.
They were only letting in Jewish shoppers.
I stood there just waiting to see how far they’d press the point with a poor old hag.
I guess I looked too Aryan for them,” Dorothea giggled, “because they wouldn’t let me by!
Oh boy, did my temperature spike, and I let them have it.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?
’ and all that. They turned red as a tomato, then opened the door for me. ”
Helene burst out laughing and then realized how long it had been since the last time she had laughed. So that was one more
thing the extremists were stealing from the German people.
“Oh, Grandmother,” Helene said, still laughing, “just don’t do that sort of thing again, please!”
“What are they going to do to an old lady? I’ve had a long and wonderful life with that stubborn mule you call your grandfather.
When I was born, there were no cars, or electricity, or planes, or telephones. But now things are just harder. Your mother
used to walk to school with her friends, and nobody bothered them for being Jewish. What good does all this technology do
if human beings are more primitive than ever? If I’ve learned anything from the rabbis, it’s that what’s missing is a strong
dose of love. Hatred isn’t snuffed out with more hatred but with love and compassion. Sinat chinam—you remember that? It’s when you hate just because, for no reason. Sinat chinam will be the demise of us all.”
Dorothea was a veritable Torah maestro, Helene mused. Then a movement caught her eye. Derek had just come in.
“I’ve got to go, Grandmother. I promise I’ll stop by for a visit soon,” Helene said, her delight growing as Derek approached
her desk. He had been busy for the past several days.
“Of course, love. Do come soon, and don’t forget what another rabbi said—was it Hillel the Elder? Ah, my memory these days.
‘Every day that goes by is another chance to drop a little piece of eternity into the souls of others.’”
“Okay, love you, Grandmother!”
As soon as she hung up, Helene turned her full attention to Derek.
With so few patrons in the library, Helene stole a quick kiss.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she sighed into his neck.
Helene leaned in to kiss him again, but Derek shook his head and gently moved her away, nodding toward an older woman who had just emerged from behind a row of shelves.
He straightened up, coughed, and said, “It gets harder and harder to keep working for von Blomberg. I detest being surrounded
by all these people. It’s like they reek of death.” His face grew sadder the longer he spoke. Helene stroked his cheek, and
her fingers rested on the circles underneath her beloved’s eyes. The Nazis were extinguishing the flame of the most brilliant
light she knew.
“Well, you’re with me now, and the wedding isn’t too far off. As long as we’re together, the rest of the world can just disappear.
We’ll get a cabin way out in the Alps and live there among books and animals. You’ll go out to hunt, we’ll plant a garden,
and we’ll have a tiny farm where all our little blond and carrottop children can run around.”
Derek perked up. “That sounds like the best plan in the world!” Then he sniffed a few times. “Something smells really strong.”
Helene pointed to the shelves and then led him by the hand. “We’ve refinished everything and cataloged every book again, as
well as every section. And just in case . . .” She stopped in front of an ordinary shelf and moved a few books aside to reveal
a small handle. She pushed it, and the shelf folded inward. Helene flicked a switch, revealing a small room full of books.
Derek’s jaw dropped. “What’s all this?”
“We’re trying to stay ahead of things. We’ve put away some of the books that might be in danger.
We’ve heard the Nazis are making lists of banned books.
We don’t know what’s on the lists yet, but to be safe, we’re keeping in here anything written by philosophers like Marx and Engels, as well as important Jewish authors who are going to have to leave the country sooner or later. ”
Derek nodded in admiration. “Well, the boycott against Jewish businesses didn’t go as the Nazis planned. The people might
be harder to subdue than they’re bargaining on. The Nazis are figuring out that they need to go slowly and cautiously because
the country could turn against them at any moment. Plus, the military is none too pleased with all the SA brutes terrorizing
decent folks. They want to meet with von Hindenburg, but Hitler basically has a security belt around the president. Von Blomberg’s
doubts are growing. He wants to try to see the aging von Hindenburg, but it’s risky business.”
Helene hugged Derek again, then led him out of the secret room. They checked every row, letting the few patrons know it was
time to leave.
“It makes me nervous. I wish you would get out of the army.”
Derek gave her a serious look and crossed his arms. “My position in the army is the only thing protecting us right now. The
Nazis would come after you—you know that, right?”
“That doesn’t actually worry me,” Helene said, just as serious. They were making the rounds to turn off the lights so the
books and shelves could rest after another day of unmet expectations. The life of a book was one of boring, monotonous waiting—until
someone snuck up and opened it, letting the light jump into its pages once again.
“We have to be careful. Please, stay under the radar and don’t go looking for trouble. Will you promise me?”
Unable to make such a promise but unsure of how to respond, Helene was about to open her mouth when they heard someone banging on the door. They jumped and ran to open it.
At first, Helene did not recognize the figure on the other side. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, and blood was pouring
out of a broken nose onto the white beard below.
“Oh no, Dr. Vichow!” Helene exclaimed. “Come in, come in!” She pulled him inside, looked around the street, and then bolted
the door.
The professor staggered to a chair. He reeked of urine. The tidy gentleman who strode with confident ease had been replaced
by a dizzy, broken shell of himself.
“What happened?” Derek asked. “And can I get you some water?”
The old man nodded.
Helene glanced at his wounds and ran for the medicine bag. She pulled out rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and a bandage.
Dr. Vichow drank the water Derek offered feverishly, not bothering to wipe the part that dribbled out of his busted lip.
Helene cleaned his cuts and stopped the blood from his nose as best she could between the professor’s wincing. Several minutes
later, he was calmer.
Next the young couple had to solve the problem of the professor’s clothing, covered as it was in blood and something that
smelled of rotten eggs.
“Derek, will you go check in the back and see if there are any of Klaus’s clothes? Sometimes he leaves a change in the office.”
Derek came back with pants and a jacket, and they helped the professor change. His body was covered in bruises, and every
fiber of his being seemed to be in pain. Once he had the clean jacket on, he started to look more like himself.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Helene asked gently.
“This morning in class, I spoke out against the boycott. Half of my students wear SA uniforms, as if they were back in grammar
school. They didn’t let me finish class. They came up and started hitting me without even saying a word. Then they rubbed
rotten eggs all over me.”