Authors: Danielle Steel
As a result, Jews were trying to emigrate, which was far from easy. In many cases, the countries they wished to emigrate to would not take them. They had to have relatives and sponsors abroad and often didn't. They had to have jobs to go to, and permission from both the Germans and the countries they wanted to go to, and were often denied by either or both countries. And they had to have money to pay for the entire process, and most didn't. Few were able to pull all the necessary elements together, in the time allotted, with success. Many German Jews still insisted and believed that things would calm down again. What was happening was hard to believe. This wasn't reasonable, they were Germans. Nothing bad could happen. But too many had already been deported and sent to work camps, and the reports that filtered back were increasingly alarming. People were dying of abuse, malnutrition, overwork, and illness. Some simply disappeared in silence. Those who saw the handwriting on the wall were already panicked. But leaving Germany was nearly impossible to do.
Throughout the year, the Kindertransport that Amadea had told her mother about was continuing to pick up children and send them to England. It had been organized by the British, and the Quakers had gotten involved with it. They were shipping children out of Germany, Austria, and Czechoslovakia. A few were Christian, but almost all were Jewish. The British had agreed to accept them without passports as long as they were no older than seventeen, so as not to jeopardize jobs for Britons. The Nazis had agreed to let them go, provided they took no valuables with them, and took only a single small valise that they could carry. Watching them leave from railway stations, and the parents who took them there, tore one's heart out. But it was the only assurance their parents had now that they would stay safe, and might escape the fate the Nazis were condemning Jews to. Parents told their children on railway platforms that they would join them in England soon. Parents and children alike hoped that it would be true. Some begged the children to find sponsors and jobs for them once in England, which was an impossible burden to put on children who had no way of helping them, but knew that their parents' lives were at stake if they didn't. Miraculously, a precious few achieved it.
Britons on the other end took them into their homes as foster children, sometimes in groups. They were committed to keep them until things became less dangerous for the Jews again in their home countries, and no one had any idea when that would be. In some cases, even small babies were among what the British referred to on arrival as the “kinders.” In an astounding burst of charity and humanity, one of the Rothschilds took in twenty-eight and set up a house especially for them. Others weren't able to be as generous, but the British outdid themselves in their efforts to house and care for them. And those who were unable to find foster parents were kept in camps and barracks and cared for there.
On the military front, the news continued to be distressing, some of which even filtered into the convent, mostly when they got deliveries from the outside world. In March the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia, and by summer they appeared to be setting their sights on Poland. Amadea professed her temporary vows for the second time. Her mother and Daphne visited her shortly after. They had had no problems with anyone harassing them, or questioning their papers, and Amadea was relieved. Daphne was fourteen, and she still had no suspicion of her mother's secret. Amadea was pleased to see that her mother looked well, and calm. But she said that the atmosphere in the city was strained, with so many Jews out of work, even those who had had respectable professions, and so many being sent to work camps. The hemorrhaging of Jews out of cities and into work camps hadn't stopped. Many of them were being held in marshaling camps outside the city, waiting to be sent elsewhere, men as well as women and children.
By then her mother had heard of the Kindertransport herself, and the work they were doing. But it was out of the question for her to send Daphne. She insisted there was no reason to. She and Amadea said nothing about it in front of her, except to praise what the British were doing. Two of Daphne's previous friends from school had already left for England, and she had heard that several more were leaving soon. They were still waiting for permission. She said it seemed so sad for them to be leaving without their parents. But the alternatives were far worse, they all agreed.
Beata was pleased too to see Amadea looking so well. She was thriving as Sister Teresa of Carmel, and it was obvious that she loved it. Knowing that was the only thing that made Beata resign herself to the choice Amadea had made. And as always the visit went too quickly. She said before she left that she had seen the Daubignys and they were well.
Two weeks after their visit, the Nazis invaded Poland, and on the same day, Jews in Germany were given a nightly curfew. They had to be indoors by nine o'clock at night, which would be shortened to eight o'clock in the winter. Two days later France and England declared war on Germany. On that morning, the last Kindertransport pulled out of the station. It was to be the last one of its kind. Having declared war, they would no longer be able to get Jewish children out. They had operated for exactly nine months and two days, and had rescued ten thousand children. A miracle in itself. As the last “kinders” left Europe for England, the Poles put up a valiant fight for survival, to no avail. They surrendered nearly four weeks later. The stories of Warsaw brought tears to Beata's eyes when she heard them.
A month later all Jews were ordered to be evacuated from Vienna, and all Polish Jews from fourteen to sixty were sent to forced labor. The horrors continued, and seemed endless.
Given what was happening, and the fact that Germany was at war, it was a bleak Christmas, even in the convent, where they had several cheerful letters from Sister Teresa Benedicta from Holland. Her sister Rosa was still with her at the convent, and they both felt safe there, although Sister Teresa Benedicta said she missed the Sisters in Cologne, and prayed for them daily, as they did for her.
Amadea turned twenty-three in April 1940. Her mother and sister came to visit her. Daphne was turning fifteen, which was hard for even Amadea to believe. She was truly beautiful, and looked almost exactly like photographs of their mother at the same age. But much to everyone's horror, eight days later the Nazis invaded Denmark and Norway. A month later, in May, they took Holland and the Lowlands, which no one had expected, and put Sister Teresa Benedicta at risk once again. Speaking of it in whispers over lunch, the sisters were panicked for her. It was impossible to know what was going to happen anymore. Hitler appeared to be taking over all of Europe. In June they took France. By then Amadea had renewed her temporary profession once again. She had three years left before taking her solemn vows, which would attach her permanently to the order. She felt solidly attached to it now. She could no longer remember or imagine any other life. She had already been there for five years.
The Nazis invaded Romania in October, shortly after Daphne went back to school. And in November the Cracow Ghetto was sealed off, containing seventy thousand Jews, and the Warsaw Ghetto, containing four hundred thousand. What was happening was unthinkable. But in spite of all that was occurring, and the relentless Nazi policies to eliminate Jews at every level of society, Beata insisted to Amadea when she saw her at Christmas that she had had no problems. No one had ever questioned her, or asked for documents that could expose her. It was as though they had forgotten she existed, or never knew. No one seemed to care. She was just a Catholic widow, living alone with a daughter, minding her own business. In essence, she had been overlooked. Amadea was always relieved to hear from them that all was well.
It was in the spring of 1941, just after Daphne's sixteenth birthday and Amadea's twenty-fourth, that Beata was at the bank and saw a woman who looked oddly familiar to her. She stared at her for a long time, while they both stood at separate windows, but no matter how often she glanced at her, she couldn't place the face. Beata was making a sizable withdrawal that day, which was something she rarely did, but it had occurred to her after a dream she'd had recently that it might be a good idea. She had spoken to Gérard Daubigny about it, and he was amenable. She wanted to leave some money with him, in case anything ever happened to her, so that he could hold it for the girls, in an emergency. He didn't see why she couldn't leave it all in the bank, but Beata had always seemed nervous to him since Antoine died, and if it made her feel better, he was willing to humor her and do it. He was happy to do what he could for the wife of his old friend. It had been obvious to him and Véronique for years that she had never recovered from his death. The years since had taken a heavy toll on her, and at forty-six, she looked ten years older than she was. She was planning to ride out to the
Schloss
that afternoon, to give him the money, in cash, that she wanted him to hold. It wasn't much, but it would tide the girls over if anything went wrong. She had even written to Amadea about it, and told her that Gérard Daubigny would be holding funds for them, in case anything happened to her. Amadea hated to hear her thinking that way, but she knew that her mother had worried for years about what would happen if she fell ill, or worse, particularly with Daphne still so young. Now, with such uncertainty around them everywhere, it was even easier to become anxious, and Amadea knew she was nervous about the Nazis and the steady progression of the war.
The woman Beata had been looking at in the bank finished her business at the same time, and the two women headed for the door almost side by side on the way out. Beata almost fainted when the woman called out, “Miss Wittgenstein!” Feeling her knees nearly buckle under her, she walked outside with a determined stride. All she wanted to do was get away from her as quickly as possible, and hail a cab. She showed no sign of recognition and raised her arm as a taxi sped by. But the woman had caught up to her and was looking her right in the face with a broad smile. It was only then that memory stirred for Beata, and suddenly she knew who she was, despite the ravages of time. She had been a young Czech girl who worked as a maid for her parents nearly thirty years before. She had been there in fact when Beata left home. “I knew it was you!” she said victoriously. “I thought I was seeing a ghost. Your father told us you died in Switzerland.”
“I'm sorry…I have no idea…I…” As she looked at her, Beata tried to keep all sign of recognition from her face, pretending there was some mistake. But the woman clearly knew who Beata was and would not let it go. “I don't know who you mean,” Beata said coldly, shaking with terror over the possibility that someone might have heard the woman call her by her maiden name. It was not a name Beata could afford to acknowledge. To do so might put her life at stake.
“Don't you remember me? Mina …I worked for your parents.” In fact, Beata now remembered that she had married her father's driver, some thirty years before. It all came rushing back to her, on a wave of fear, knowing what this chance meeting could do to her.
“I'm sorry …” Beata smiled vaguely, trying to be polite and anxious to escape, as a cab slid mercifully to a stop beside her.
“I know who you are,” Mina said with a dogged look, as Beata slid into the cab and turned away. All she could hope now was that Mina would believe she had made a mistake. With luck, the unfortunate chance meeting would come to naught, and the woman would forget. She had no reason to pursue Beata. She was just trying to be friendly. She had been a sweet girl, and desperately in love with the chauffeur. They had gotten married not long before Beata left, and Mina was pregnant at the time. Beata knew Mina must have been surprised to see her, since her father had said he would tell the entire household she was dead. In fact, she was very much alive. Perhaps that was why Mina was so determined to acknowledge her. But in these frightening times, Beata could not afford to be identified as a Wittgenstein, even at the risk of being rude to their former maid.
Beata was surprised to find that she was shaking violently in the cab. It had been one of those unnerving chance encounters that meant nothing, but hearing her call Beata's maiden name across the bank was risky business. It was a name she could no longer afford to admit ever having had. Hopefully, Mina would simply let it go. There was nothing Beata could do about it. It had been a frightening moment, but it was over. And Beata had not admitted her identity to her. She had remained outwardly calm throughout, even if shaking inside. Hopefully it would be the last she'd see of her. On her way to Gérard and Véronique's
Schloss
, she put it out of her mind, determined not to let it panic her.
The Daubignys had been lucky to keep the property intact, despite the war. Fortunately, Gérard had had the foresight years before to take German citizenship, as had Véronique, although Beata knew from conversations with him that he deplored what Hitler was doing to the Jews. He said it made him sick. He didn't question her as to why she wanted to leave money with him. He thought it was more anxious eccentricity than due to anything else. She was an unhappy, lonely woman on her own with a child. It was understandable that she was nervous. With a war on, and all of Europe up in arms over the fate of the Jews, these were frightening times for everyone, and the entire world seemed unstable. He suspected that what she was worried about was that the banks would fail. It was the only explanation for the amount she gave him that afternoon. She had given him an envelope with the equivalent of twenty thousand dollars in it, which she said would tide the girls over for a while, if anything happened to her, until they could get the rest. He assured her he would take good care of it, and put it in the safe. He sat down and had tea with her then, since Véronique was out.
The stables were still beautiful, she saw when she went in, although he said he had far fewer horses than he had when Antoine was alive. He had never found anyone to compare to him, to run the horse farm for him. Antoine had been gone by then for fourteen years. They reminisced for a time, and after a while, he called a cab for her to take her back to the city.