Leaving Europe

September, 1938. 

"We have to leave" Katherine said. Her voice was high and tight. Robert sighed

"I have a good job here, Katherine," He said.

"They need engineers in America," she replied. 

Robert was tired of arguing. He wasn't sure his wife was right, but he wasn't sure she was wrong, either. That German maniac had promised to be satisfied with the Sudentenland, but no one believed it. Still, could he come here, to Bratislava? Robert wasn't sure that was likely. Here, he had a lucrative business, installing the new high-tech building systems that both heated and cooled the interior air. He had worked on some of the new office buildings downtown and felt a surge of pride when he saw them dominating the skyline. His family had a nice house and clever, interesting friends. His parents lived in Austria, or what used to be Austria, before annexation into Germany the previous spring, still only a few hours away by rail. Close enough to visit regularly, but not so close that they stopped by unannounced or to require attendance at Sabbath dinner every week. The idea of giving all of that up was painful. 

Even if Hitler did invade, what would that mean to this family? Some ominous rumors had come with mail from Robert's parents. Hitler's Nazis were identifying Jews and confiscating their property. But Robert and Katherine weren't observant Jews. Robert had expressed his disdain for the old, antiquated customers of his religion nearly a decade and half earlier, when at his Bar Mitzvah he'told the assembled crowd that his first announcement as a man was to let them all know he was an Atheist. They had many friends and customers among the goyim, In their social circle, what mattered was intelligence and progressive thinking, not religion. 

But he'd voiced all these concerns before. The reality of the threat meant nothing in the face of his wife's paranoia. Catherine had become fragile in recent years. She had suffered terrible, debilitating postpartum depression after Veronica was born five years earlier, and while it had abated somewhat she was still afflicted with bouts of crying and paranoia that were impossible to ameliorate. 

Robert had hoped that Martha's birth two years ago would help restore his wife to the sparkling, vivacious woman he'd married. Instead, she handed the squalling red bundle to a wet nurse immediately. She seemed equally uninterested in the sturdy, rambunctious toddler the baby had grown into. Veronica, at least, was her mother's helper, at five a quiet child with a luminous beauty and nimble fingers that quickly mastered the crocheting and embroidery lessons Katherine gave to her.  

Ever since March, when Austria had been annexed, Katherine had been campaigning to leave Europe and Robert knew he was losing the battle. The threat from the north wasn't entirely in his wife's head, and it was patently obvious there would be no rest in this house while they stayed.

"Fine. I'll apply for a Visa to America." Robert said. 

September turned into October with no reply from the American consulate. In early November, Robert's family sent word they had survived the violent pogroms that swept Austria but were prevented from traveling outside the Vienna Ghetto. Robert prayed that the visa his wife had insisted he apply for came through. Finally, a few days before Chanukah,  the envelope came. Robert opened it. "Denied," the paper said. 

"America won't take us," Robert told Katherine, relieved that he wouldn't have to leave the things he loved.  "There's nowhere in Europe safer than here. We might as well stay." 

"No. We have to go somewhere," Katherine insisted. She said no more that night, but when Robert came home the next night, the breakfront in the dining room was covered with a stack of books on English instruction from the library. 

"We are learning English," Katherine announced, her Hungarian tongue turning the W into a V and separating the word 'learning' into three distinct syllables, inserting a t before the sh of English: Vee are Lee Air Ning Englitsch. 

Winter passed into spring and summer and while rumors seeped out of Germany about additional and frightening restrictions imposed on the Jews there Robert continued to hope that the trouble would be contained. 

Summer was giving up it's last days of warmth and sunshine when Robert came home one day to find his wife frantic, tearing the art from the walls and rolling up the carpets.  

"What is it?' Robert asked his wife. 

She pointed at the cover of the newspaper. "Hitler Invades Poland," the headline declared.

"He's coming," she shrieked, in a voice twisted tight with fear and anxiety. "He's coming. We have to leave." 

"There's nowhere to go," Robert replied. "America wouldn't let us in, remember?" 

"It doesn't matter where, Anyplace is safer than here," Katherine insisted. 

His wife raced around the apartment like a dervish, stuffing candlesticks into luggage. When she started folding their horsehair mattress in half, he could take no more. He caught her by the wrists,  

"Katherine, please. Calm down. We can't leave tonight," Robert said. "We don't have anywhere to go. But sit for a moment, dear. There's nothing to be done right now. I'll find someplace for us to go, I promise."

A few weeks later, Robert came home and presented his wife with a small booklet.  A picture of an impossibly high mountain and the words, "Bolivia" were printed across the front. 

"Katherine, this is our only choice. If you insist we have to go, this is where." 

"I'm not going to live in the jungle," she cried.

"This is our only choice." 

"Then we're going." she decided.

By the time Robert returned home from work the next night, the English texts were gone and replaced with Spanish instruction. With only a few weeks to prepare, Katherine decreed Spanish would be the only language spoken in the home.  

When the visa from the Bolivian government arrived, the family packed up what they could and gave away the rest. They headed West in a car laden with the things they thought were the most precious; wedding crystal, a Modernist lithograph that Robert gave Catherine when Veronica was born to cheer her up, the horsehair mattresses. 

The family drove across what used to be Austria, heading for Le Havre. They thought they were fleeing one step ahead of the Nazis They were nearly right. 

At the border to France, their vehicle was blocked by strapping young men in gray uniforms and high, shiny boots. 

"Get out of the car," the soldiers ordered. 

Robert was instantly afraid, both of what the soldiers would do and what Catherine would do as well. "Mind the children," he said to Catherine, trying to mentally will her to take the children and stand quietly by the side of the road. 

Eyes bulging with fear, Catherine stepped from the car and opened the rear door. Veronica meekly emerged and stood quietly shivering on the side of the road. Martha, at three, utterly failed to comprehend the danger the family was in, She bounded from the car, ran down the embankment, back up, and hid behind the legs of the soldier standing nearest the car. She peered out from behind his boots and waved at Catherine and Veronica. 

"Come here," Catherine ordered behind clenched teeth. Martha grinned and disappeared behind the boots

"Show me your papers," the soldier demanded of Robert 

The only papers they possessed marked the family clearly as Jewish. The Jews in Slovakia were being encouraged to leave, but here they were in Germany, where Robert had heard stories of the Nazis arresting Jews, particularly healthy strong men, and shipping them off to brutal work camps. Robert's hands shook as he pulled them from his inside coat pocket. He knew France, and freedom, were just a few yards away, but those yards were guarded by men with guns who would not hesitate to shoot.   

Robert handed the papers to the soldier. His eyes begged the man to just let them go. 

The soldier looked at the papers. The word Juden leaped from the page in heavy red letters. The soldier looked at the papers again, and then at the tall, elegant man standing in front of him with shaking hands and imploring eyes. He looked at Catherine, a slight woman with six-year-old Veronica clinging to her skirts. His face hardened. He opened his mouth to issue the order for arrest. 

"Peek a boo!" Martha said, smiling up at him. She had smooth shiny hair topped with a ridiculous bow that was half again as large as her head, and big dark eyes.

"She's a cute little girl," the soldier said to Robert. Robert offered a shaky smile in return.   

Something changed in the soldier's face. "Just go," the soldier ordered sharply, thrusting the papers back into Robert's hand. "Go. Now!" 

Catherine and Veronica ran to the safety of the car. 

Robert grabbed Martha from behind the soldier's boots and shoved her into the back seat so quickly she was too startled to start crying until the soldiers were tiny matchsticks in the car's rearview window. 

The remainder of the drive to Le Havre was uneventful. The family boarded a boat to Bolivia. 

Boats from Europe were crowded and expensive. Robert paid for the cheapest berths, but when the rats threatened to gnaw on Martha's toes, Catherine insisted Robert bribe a porter to move the family out of Steerage and into slightly better accommodations. 

After what seemed an interminable journey, the family arrived in a hot, humid, and totally unfamiliar place.