This evening the guests – they were ten – were subdued. Someone brought up the new production of Schiller’s Wallenstein at the Deutsches Theater. Then, of course, someone brought up the Olympics. Everyone was eager to see the great American Jesse Owens run. But inevitably every topic they touched – even a foot race – turned into a political discussion. The evening ended early.
The Lindstroms were the last to leave. ‘I would like to see Willi Geismeier,’ said Edvin. ‘Do you think you could put us in touch?’
‘You know he’s no longer with the police?’ said Benno.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Edvin. ‘We wrote each other for a while. We had to break it off. But do you think you could arrange a meeting?’
‘I can get a message to him,’ said Benno.
‘And we, Benno, you and I, we have to talk as well,’ said Edvin.
‘Yes,’ said Benno. ‘We do.’ Benno knew enough about international diplomacy these days to understand that, while Edvin might be the Swedish cultural attaché, he probably had other, more sensitive duties as well. Back in the 1920s Edvin had already revealed an interest in matters beyond his diplomatic purview. He had warned and briefed his German friends – Benno and Willi among them – about Hitler, well before anyone believed he could ever come to power. Outsiders could sometimes see things Germans couldn’t.
Now, as a senior diplomat, Edvin found himself in a particularly advantageous position for conducting extra-diplomatic activities. Since the Nürnberg race laws had come into being, many consulates and embassies had been helping people whose lives were in danger to leave Germany – mainly Jews, but others as well. The Swedes in general, and Edvin and Ella in particular, were part of that effort. They also had other, more clandestine duties.
Josef and Marta Stein, while still invited to the Horvaths’ evenings, had not been there for several months now. Then one day – not a Sunday – they called on the phone and made an appointment to stop by.
‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ said Josef. Marta burst into tears.
The Steins said they were emigrating to the United States. Marta had cousins there who had agreed to sponsor them. Armed with the signed affidavits and all the other required papers, they had gone to the American consulate and gotten visas for themselves and their two children. They had had to wait in line.
That line, however, was nothing compared to what it would become. By late 1938, just two years from now, the deportation and murder of Jews had begun, and leaving legally became very difficult. Every consulate and embassy of every country had long lines of desperate people snaking around the block trying to get out of Germany. By then, just standing in such a line made you an easy target for harassment. At first it was the SS and storm troopers who harassed you, but eventually it was your former friends and neighbors.
For now, Hitler’s government was happy to have Jews leave voluntarily. All they had to do was turn their worldly goods – their property, their wealth, including the proceeds from the sale of Josef’s law firm, family jewelry, art – over to the Reich. They could get their passports – imprinted with a big red J for Jew – with relative ease. Of course, often enough the official issuing the passport demanded a bribe. Why not? He was a poor office drudge who was paid a pittance for doing tedious and distasteful work. Why shouldn’t he get his little piece of a Jew’s money? The Führer said it wasn’t even theirs to begin with; they had stolen it from real Germans.
The official looked the Steins up and down, saw their nice clothes, their proper manners. No jewelry was showing, but that didn’t mean anything; by now all Jews knew not to wear jewelry when they went to get their passports. But the official had been doing this long enough to be a pretty good judge of what a Jew could afford to pay. He just had to be careful not to get too greedy or he’d get in trouble with his boss. ‘A hundred Reichsmarks,’ said the official, and held out his hand. ‘Each.’
Josef Stein had known this was coming. He reached into his pocket several times until he had pulled out four hundred. The official wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand impatiently. He knew there was more money in there. But he didn’t have the right to order Josef to show him. So he settled for the four hundred and regretted not asking for six.
When the Nürnberg Race Laws had been passed, Josef had been outlawed from owning the law firm he had founded – in fact, from practicing law at all. Marta had also been forced to dismiss their children’s nursemaid, Frieda Schultze, who had been part of the family for many years. As a young woman she had been Marta’s nursemaid. But it was now against the law for an Aryan woman to be working for a Jewish family. Frieda couldn’t stop crying.
‘The writing is on the wall,’ said Josef. ‘Thank you, Benno and Gretl, for your friendship, your kindness and hospitality. It means the world to us. But we can’t stay in Germany any longer.’
‘How can we?’ said Marta. ‘Our families have been here since the middle ages. But
