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We're in America Now. Fred Amram
Читать онлайн.Название We're in America Now
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780986448041
Автор произведения Fred Amram
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
There were soldiers in khaki uniforms and shining leather boots. There were drums and clarinets and all the wonderful brass instruments one expects in a marching band. And between platoons of more soldiers we could see a long black open car. The man standing near the back of the car had dark hair and a mustache. Just as he drew even with our balcony he saluted with an outstretched arm at a 45-degree angle. At that sign the spectators raised their arms and, with one voice, shouted, “Heil Hitler.” The platoons of German military might echoed in unison, “Heil Hitler.” Mutti pulled us inside. Adolph Hitler was not a welcome guest at my bris. He was, however, the second butcher to attend.
Is there a blessing for two butchers at a bris?
UNCLE MAX ALWAYS spent the first night of Chanukah with us. Our large apartment in Hannover had space for overnight guests. Uncle Max, Papa’s brother, was a bachelor living in Hamburg. He visited often. Like most bachelor uncles, he doted on his nephew—in this case his only nephew, an only child. Uncle Max was short like papa. However, unlike Papa who was thin and fit, even a little muscular, Uncle Max was round. After the Chanukah dinner and the lighting of the first candle and the singing of songs, Uncle Max lay on the couch, lit a cigar and relaxed. His round belly created a mountain on which my few lead soldiers could climb. Just when Uncle Max lit his cigar, my father announced that he had to go to the post office for business—weekday or weekend.
Even before Kristallnacht, Crystal Night, the night of broken glass, the Gestapo came to search Jewish homes. Sometimes they took the men with them. The men never returned. Later they came for the families, but in 1937 it was mostly men who disappeared. Papa was never home when the gruff uniformed men, with their “Heil Hitlers” and their pistols knocked on our door. He was out “on business”—perhaps he had gone to the post office—just as he was out each year on the first night of Chanukah.
And on the first evening of every Chanukah—every Chanukah before Kristallnacht—after the first candle was lit, the electric lights turned low and round Uncle Max on the couch blowing huge round clouds of cigar smoke, Papa announced that he needed to go to the post office for business. After a short while, a man with a deep voice would ring the doorbell. Mutti would let him in and announce with great surprise that the Chanukah man had come. He was wearing a hooded green Mackinaw which he never opened. I sat on this stranger’s lap, almost as frightened as when the Gestapo came to our house.
Papa’s childhood Chanukiah
“Have you been a good boy during the past year?”
I assured the Chanukah man that I had been as good as I could be—allowing some room for error. Uncle Max laughing aloud on the couch, with his jelly belly rocking, assured me that I was safe.
“Do you deserve coal for Chanukah?”
“No,” I whimpered. I was too well-behaved for that. In the end, the Chanukah man produced a small toy—once a lead ambulance that would ride on my uncle’s belly when we played together or on my blanketed legs when I was sick. And then the stranger was gone.
When Papa arrived home, I complained that he was always at the post office when the Chanukah man visited. Surely, I must have been the only Jewish boy in history who had a personal Chanukah man.
We arrived in New York City just before Chanukah of 1939, too poor to have a Chanukah that first year. Too poor even for a Chanukah man.
MUTTI AND I PEEKED INTO the ice cream shop window as we did each time we passed on our way to Goethe Platz, an island of trees and flowers at the end of Goethe Strasse—our busy commercial street. We lived on Goethe Strasse, shopped on Goethe Strasse and caught the trolley right in front of our house on Goethe Strasse.
“Will we stop in for ice cream on the way home?” I asked. We almost always did.
“If you’re a good boy,” was Mutti’s answer. That meant I had to hold her hand all the way to the park and all the way home.
I held Mutti’s hand tight and we walked to a corner, watched for traffic, crossed the street and walked another block and then another. Mutti liked to window shop and so did I. We checked for new displays.
“Look. There’s a new black hat we could get for Papa to wear to the synagogue.”
“Would your father like that striped tie for his birthday?”
But we never bought anything.
There were a few dress shops with manikins. Once we saw a bright red dress that I promised to buy Mutti with my first earnings. She said she hated the color. She wanted the burgundy colored one to wear to the opera.
We always stopped at WMF, an elegant cutlery shop. When we had company for dinner we used knives and forks and spoons from the WMF store. We also owned one of the store’s silver butter dishes and a candy dish. These only came out for visitors.
“Can you read the letters on the sign,” Mutti asked, pointing at three big letters over the shop.
“W—M—F.”
“And they stand for…,” Mutti began.
I interrupted. “F is for Fabrik. M is for Metallwaren. W is for…” I made some funny sounds and Mutti laughed. I couldn’t pronounce the six-syllable word so I faked it.
“Good boy,” she kvelled. “Can you say Wurtemburgische?”
I couldn’t and we walked on.
A few stores had the letter J painted on them. Others spelled out JUDE. People were supposed to boycott those stores. I didn’t know why and Mutti always evaded my questions about the J. She just walked faster.
Manfred (Freddy) at Goethe Platz
We crossed the last street and just as we stepped into Goethe Platz I let go of Mutti’s hand and ran. I hid behind a fat bush twice my size and watched Mutti walk by. She was supposed to look for me as she did on most of our outings. But this time she pretended to ignore me. I knew she was only pretending to ignore me because she always whistled songs when we played “Find Me.” Her whistling said, “I’m looking for you” so I knew she really was. Mutti was a really good whistler. She could whistle a whole song and then sing it in French or in German.
When Mutti was a few steps past my hiding place I jumped out behind her and hollered, “Boo.”
“Oh, you frightened me. I may faint.” Mutti fainted sometimes but this time I knew she was teasing.
I ran ahead to my favorite bench. It was hidden in an alcove surrounded by tall trees. I liked it because it was shady and lots of birds lived in the trees. Mutti sometimes pointed to the nests and identified many types of birds. I gave them individual names like Suzie or Hannelore. There was one bird that came often and Mutti identified it as a boy bird. I named it Little Manfred because it was smaller than me and I really liked it. Sometimes Mutti called and Little Manfred came and tilted his little yellow head.
Sitta (Mutti) at Goethe Platz
The birds whistled songs and Mutti whistled back at them. I think they liked Mutti’s whistles.
On this day