Jumping Over Shadows Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Annette Gendler

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2017

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-170-6

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-171-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016953728

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Cover design © Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com

  Cover photo © Tilo Rausch

  Formatting by Stacey Aaronson

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of two individuals.

  For my children

  Und so ist in unserem Leben, wann immer wir darüber nachsinnen, alles da, alles vorhanden, was einmal war, und alles Künftige lagert wie Same oder Knospe ebenso in uns.

  And so everything in our life, whenever we think about it, is there, is available, all that has been before, and all that will be, lies, like bud or seed, in us.

  —Emil Karl Berndt, the author’s grandfather

  CONTENTS

  First Thought

  Fait Accompli

  First Date

  Sholem Aleichem

  Mea Culpa

  Heading Off

  Spain

  The Talk

  Israel

  Behind Walls

  Surberg

  Sanatorium Brey

  Verjudet

  Crematorium

  In the Stairwell

  A Quarter and a Half

  Unwanted Relations

  The Flying Dutchman

  This Is What It Means

  Sheet of Ice

  Fait Accompli II

  Jumping Over the Shadow

  Proposal

  The Rabbi

  Wedding Day

  Conversion

  Christmas

  Gefilte Fish

  Haselnusstorte

  A German Jew Like You

  The Pintele Yid

  A Visit with the Past

  Briosne

  Sh’ma

  Epilogue

  FIRST THOUGHT

  THE LAST THING ON MY MIND THAT DAY IN APRIL 1985 was meeting the man of my life. Three weeks before, my father had died from a sudden heart attack.

  “It will take your mind off things,” my friend Michael had said on the phone the day before, inviting me to his birthday party at his parents’ home on the outskirts of Munich. “A few friends are coming over for coffee and cake in the afternoon. It might be good for you to be among people.”

  I arrived late because I had to go to the hospital to visit my grandmother, who was recovering from surgery that had been scheduled long before my father, her son, had died. Michael greeted me in the hallway of the old villa with a kiss on each cheek. I hesitated on the threshold between living room and terrace, surveying the scene of chatting guests. Two groups had formed around a few marble café tables. The only empty chair was next to a guy with thick, curly black hair wearing a pink polo shirt. I sat down next to him.

  My seat neighbor paid no attention to me. He sat sideways, his back turned toward me, one arm propped on the back of his chair, in conversation with two guys. I made small talk with Michael’s girlfriend across the table but halfway overheard my neighbor’s group discussing Middle Eastern politics. I had started studying political science that winter and was interested in understanding more about the Lebanon War raging at the time, so when I caught the term “Libanonkrieg,” I listened, seeking a way to chime in.

  “Establishing a security zone—I mean, staying in Lebanon—is a bit over-the-top,” said one of them, addressing the guy next to me.

  “Really?” he answered. “You think defending your own country is over-the-top? When you have terrorists coming over the border, wreaking havoc? What do you think the Germans would do if there were constantly terrorists coming over the French border to kill Germans? You think they would sit idly by and ask the UN for help?”

  “I don’t think you can compare that.”

  “Why should the French–German border be any different than the Israeli–Lebanese one?” the guy next to me countered.

  “Well, you as a Jew just see it all differently,” said the other guy.

  “Aha, and you as a German don’t?”

  This was getting interesting.

  “You guys are getting off topic,” I said, leaning in over my neighbor’s back. “It’s not just two countries battling each other. It’s partly Iran’s support of the Shiites in Lebanon that made the situation so explosive.”

  Three heads swiveled.

  I relaxed into my chair, smiled, and said, “Hi, I’m Annette, a friend of Michael’s from university.”

  “I’m Harry,” my neighbor in the pink polo shirt said, extending a warm, solid hand, “a friend of Michael’s from high school. And you are exactly right—it’s not just two countries battling each other.”

  Soon he was leaning back, shoulders squared, hands in his pants pockets, in that cool posture of friendly anticipation that men like to assume, and I was laughing with the group. One of the other guys, another university friend of Michael’s, was majoring in political science; he made the intellectual arguments. Harry responded with facts and passion. He clearly knew a lot about Israel and its surrounding countries. The third guy was another high school friend who looked mainly puzzled but seemed to know Harry better, because he had made that “you as a Jew” remark.

  The day Harry and I (center) met in April 1985

  Michael hovered about, handing out slices of Gugelhupf and Apfelkuchen, pouring coffee and tea, all served in dainty china. It was a dignified gathering, the right kind of civilized affair to distract me from the weight in my heart, the grief I still forgot now and then—such as right after waking, when for a few seconds life was blank and possibly okay, until I remembered that my dad was dead.

  But that afternoon at Michael’s, life flowed easily. For a few hours, the heaviness lifted and I was just a girl hanging out. When the cool evening air set in, we moved indoors. There was champagne, bubbling in flutes that we clanged together, toasting Michael and his quarter century of life.

  Later, as guests took their leave, Harry and Michael argued in the hallway about who would drive me home.

  Harry said, “You’ve had three glasses of champagne. You’re too tipsy. I’ll drive her home.”

  “But she lives way out. It’s not on your way, and I didn’t have that much to drink. I’m fine. Really.”

  “No, you’ve had something to drink, and I didn’t. I’ll take her home.”

  I stood by, amused, not caring one way or the other. In the end, Harry won.

  He drove a VW Golf. His brother’s car, he said, because his own had exhaust problems, and he didn’t trust it to drive any distances. Did I mind if he smoked? I didn’t. My last boyfriend had chain-smoked Camels without filters. Harry smoked Marlboros. He opened the sunroof to suck out the smoke. I gave him directions, and we rode through the silent suburbs and then down into the black valley of the Isar River, over the bridge, and up on the other side, along the swerving curves and through the dark, towering trees, up to where the chemical factory puffed in Großhesselohe, an
d on along the busier state route, which, if you continued on it, would take you to the foot of the Alps.

  It was comfortable in that car with the sunroof’s hum and the orange glimmer of Harry’s cigarette traveling to and fro. Once in a while, he held the cigarette up to the slit for the wind to nip off the ash. He drove well, on the fast side, but safe. The car had automatic transmission. No manly shifting of gears or howling of the engine, just a smooth ride. He reclined as far as the seat would go, his left foot propped up. His white socks in black moccasins shone in the dark.

  It was about a twenty-minute drive from Michael’s to my parents’ house, and I talked most of the time. I told Harry that my father had just died, that it was a huge shock to all of us, that my grandmother was in the hospital after hip-replacement surgery, and that really, this was not the time for me to meet someone. Why did I say that? He hadn’t made any overtures; he had only insisted on driving me home, but in my experience guys who took the trouble of driving you home wanted something.

  He kept me talking with comments like “that must have been difficult” and “how is she doing?” I told him that Oma, with her new hip, was now able to push her walker down the hall from her hospital room to the staircase, battling the pain both from the screws in her bones and from the loss of my father. I told him that I had flown back from Los Angeles upon receiving the news of my father’s death. He had collapsed at a dinner party. Two doctors had been at the table and immediately performed CPR, to no avail. He had been fifty-one years old.

  “You never expect to get that kind of call,” I said. “I mean, you imagine it when you’re trying to be melodramatic, but you don’t expect it to happen. I was actually annoyed when my friend came and said I had to go back to the apartment where I was supposed to be staying because my mom had called and would call again in ten minutes. I had been putting on my sneakers to go for a walk on the beach in Santa Barbara, to watch the sun set over the Pacific. And my mom calls! But then I realize, Wait a minute, it’s six in the evening in California; that means it’s three in the morning for her in Germany. My mother never calls me when I’m traveling, so something must have happened. I started worrying. Those ten minutes waiting for her call were the worst. But I didn’t even imagine it would be my dad.”

  My voice croaked, so I glanced out the side window. The dark kept sweeping by. I felt tears well up. Harry was silent.

  He snipped off ash into the airstream above us. Then he said, “Why were you in America?”

  I swallowed. “Oh, well, I’m American. I mean, half-American. My dad is—was—German, but my mother is American, and I was born there but grew up here. I’m majoring in American Studies, and it’s been almost seven years since I was in the States, and I very much wanted to go again. I planned that trip for years, saved for it. It was going to be this grand tour, six weeks.”

  I smoothed out my skirt. “I would have been in New York now. I’ve never been to New York. I mean, I was there as a little kid, but I don’t remember that. Have you been?”

  “Yep, several times,” he answered. He took a long last drag of his cigarette, then ground it into the ashtray.

  “That flight back from LA,” I said, “was so wobbly. I was sitting there thinking how I would complain to my dad about the turbulence, because that was the kind of thing I’d tell him. He could look up at the sky and tell what type of plane was flying by. But then it dawned on me that I’d never tell my dad anything anymore.”

  I paused and stared at the empty road ahead of us. Then I said, “Death is such an odd thing. How can somebody just be gone like this?”

  “The last time you saw him, was it on good terms?” Harry asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, thankfully. My parents were going on a business trip, and I was having a party for St. Patrick’s Day, and I was getting annoyed with them because they were taking so long to leave. But I told myself not to mouth off, because I was going on my trip the next day and I wouldn’t see them for six weeks. So I held my tongue. Thank God I did, because it was the last time I saw him. I still see his Mercedes disappearing down the driveway.”

  “You’re lucky, then. The last time I saw my grandfather, I was mad at him about something stupid.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have known.”

  “Yes, but still . . . This is your driveway?” he asked, as he pulled into the gravel road I had indicated.

  “Yes, thanks so much. You can stop here.”

  He walked me to the door. The house was quiet; my mother and sister had already retired. We stood in the open door for a while, talking. He was a bit taller than I, and he smelled good, a faint woodsy scent.

  He said, “I will call you in three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “That will give you some time. I can get your number from Michael.”

  “There’s no need for that,” I said. I disappeared into the kitchen, tore a note from my mom’s paper cube, wrote down my number, and handed it to him, feeling somewhat generous.

  “Okay, in three weeks, then,” he said. “Good night.”

  He wandered down the driveway. I did not expect to hear from him again. How many men, after all, call when they say they will?

  I went up to my room. The white light of the street lamp filtered through the blinds, drawing diagonal lines on the wall above my bed. As I slipped out of my clothes, a thought flitted through my mind: Ich kann doch keinen Juden heiraten. But surely I cannot marry a Jew.

  Why would I think this about someone I had just met, with whom I’d had a pleasant conversation and an agreeable drive home but not a heart-throbbing encounter? Was I, one month shy of my twenty-second birthday, simply in the mode of examining every man I met as potential husband material? Was it just that?

  His being Jewish had not been a topic that afternoon, but it had been evident from our discussion of Middle Eastern politics. I didn’t know what being Jewish really meant, aside from the skeletons of the Holocaust and not believing in Jesus. I did, however, know the story of my great-aunt Resi, who had been married to a Jew before World War II. It was a memory not my own, a story that was not mine, but one that nevertheless shaped my thoughts.

  FAIT ACCOMPLI I

  MY GREAT-AUNT RESI MET HER HUSBAND, GUIDO, the same way I met Harry: over café tables and political discussions, soon after her father had died. She was about to turn twenty-eight in September 1922, yet her brother Karl (my grandfather), three years her senior, was still her main companion. Brother and sister had spent the summer at the Baltic seaside resort of Dierhagen. Both were schoolteachers, unmarried, and lived with their widowed mother in an apartment on Tuchplatz in Reichenberg, the German-speaking capital of northern Bohemia, northeast of Prague.

  On their way home from Dierhagen, Karl had to spend a few days inspecting his school district’s summer camps on another Baltic island. Resi announced she wasn’t coming along but would return to Reichenberg via Berlin. Unbeknownst to him, she had arranged to meet Guido in Berlin.

  The evening Karl returned home, his mother met him by the door, wide-eyed. Her hand trembled. Before he could ask what the matter was, she said, “Karlo, Resi hat sich verlobt.” Resi got engaged.

  My grandfather Karl and his sister Resi on vacation in Dierhagen on the Baltic Sea, 1921

  He stared at her, not quite taking in what she had said.

  “Wie bitte?” Pardon me?

  “Last night, Guido Knina came and asked for her hand. Oh, I did not know what to do, with you being gone! It was all arranged between them.”

  In his memoirs, written much later in life, my grandfather insists that he had had no idea. Resi had never mentioned anything about a growing attachment to Knina during their vacation. Had he been blind? What did she want with Knina? He was much too old for her. Early forties.

  Karl knew she had met him when she tagged along to the party get-togethers at the Café Post. He and Guido were fellow members o
f the Social Democratic Party, both serving on the city council. On Sunday mornings, party members met at the Café Post. They would sit there in their three-piece suits and drink coffee and smoke, read the papers and debate. Ever the sociable type, Resi had chatted with Knina like she had with the other guys. Was she acting in haste, afraid she’d end up an old maid? Had she cast about for a suitable partner? Was there any real affection? He’d never detected any romance between them. Previously she’d shared with him any soft feelings she’d had for someone, but nothing serious ever seemed to materialize.

  He put down his suitcase, took off his hat. His mother stood by, wringing her hands. She was waiting for an answer.

  “I didn’t know this,” he said, wiping his hand over his short mustache.

  This was a dumb thing to say because of course his mother knew that. Resi had arranged it so he would not be home when Knina came to ask for her hand. That was obvious.

  He pressed his lips together, trying to contain his fury, but his mother saw it.

  She said, “She’s not here—gone out with him, I suppose. Come, I saved some dinner for you. You must be tired.”

  She bustled off into the kitchen. She was less tense now because he was home. He would deal with it. But how to deal with this? His sister was a grown woman. She must know what she was doing. He entered the Stube, their living and dining room, and sat down at the table. His mother served him cold herring and potato salad.

  “Iss, mein Junge, iss.” Eat, my boy, eat.

  He sat in silence, picking at his food. His mother busied herself in the kitchen. Maybe Resi hadn’t shared this with him because it was serious. Maybe she didn’t want to have to deal with his objections, his emotional upset. Maybe that was why she had gone home early and why she wasn’t home now. Was he sure he wasn’t just a jealous brother? Hadn’t he been attuned to her wants and needs as her protector, her gallant companion? How much of his upset was due to the fact that now he clearly wasn’t her confidant anymore, maybe never had been?