Lilac Girls (28 page)

A
ny spare time I had that December I spent chasing commuters at Grand Central Terminal, selling war bonds. Seemingly overnight, a 125-foot war-themed photo mural had sprung up on the station's eastern wall. Warships and fighter planes loomed over the sea of commuters, many of whom were in uniform themselves. The caption left no ambiguity as to the mission:
BUY DEFENSE BONDS AND STAMPS NOW!

One afternoon, one of the station's organists, Mary Lee Read of Denver, who volunteered to play each holiday season, launched into a rousing version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This brought the main concourse to a standstill, all commuters holding hands to their hearts as they stood to listen, causing legions of missed trains. The stationmaster asked Mary not to play that song again, and she became the only organist in New York ever barred from playing the United States national anthem.

Security at Grand Central was tight, since two German spies had been caught trying to sabotage the station, but a small corps of volunteers, including Mother and me, were allowed in to sell bonds. All agreed Mother had missed her calling, for she was quite the rainmaker. Woe to the weary traveler who refused to part with at least ten cents for a war stamp, for once in her thrall, they all ended up forcing additional funds on her, which she happily accepted.

There were large numbers of women commuting through the station then. With so many men at war, women joined the workforce in droves. Even Betty had a job typing reports at the armory. Not exactly Rosie the Riveter, but it was a big step for her.

Mother and I spent Christmas morning of 1943 at Saint Thomas Church, not far from Grand Central Terminal at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. We listened to Rector Brooks at his magnificent carved-oak lectern, resplendent in his Christmas finery, as he did his best to lift our spirits. The war weighed heavily on the congregation, mostly women and older men at that point. There were a few uniformed servicemen in the pews, but most had been deployed to Europe or the Pacific theater by then, including our elevator boy, Cuddy. Every one of us knew someone who'd been impacted by the war. I said a prayer for those aboard the French ship Roger had been forced to turn away the day before, thousands of Europe's displaced seeking asylum, still waiting off the coast.

I couldn't bear to count the months since I'd heard from Paul. Roger's best guess was that he was still at Natzweiler concentration camp. From what information I could gather, many French men had ended up there in the Vosges Mountains doing hard labor in extreme cold. Could anyone survive two years at such a place?

That year another development had surfaced, troubling and ominous. It was clear not only from the scanty reports we got from the Swiss Red Cross but also from New York and London papers that Hitler was moving ahead with his plan to annihilate Jews, Slavs, Gypsies, and any other people he considered
Untermenschen,
subhumans, in order to make room for his Lebensraum. Reports of gas vans at Chelmno, Poland, and mass exterminations had surfaced. Hitler even stated his plan openly in his ranting speeches, yet Roosevelt was slow to react and kept immigration at a bare minimum.

Saint Thomas was our life raft of hope. Kneeling there in that great church, the air perfumed with frankincense, the magnificent stone altarpiece behind the altar, I felt the world might just untangle itself after all. When I was a child, Father and I began memorizing all sixty saints and famous figures carved in stone there. Saint Polycarp. Saint Ignatius. Saint Cyprian. We'd made it to number forty-six, George Washington, when Father died, so I'd never learned the rest. Being there made me feel close to him, especially when the organist got all 1,551 of the organ's pipes playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” Father's favorite Christmas song. Just hearing the flush-cheeked choirboys sing of God's glory renewed one's sense of positivity.

As Rector Brooks told us of his plans to enlist in the military and join “the old Seventh Regiment” of New York as chaplain, I read the names cut into the wall of those who served in World War I. Twenty of those, their names painted in gold, gave their lives for their country. How many more would we lose to this second world war? Our parish had more than four hundred members in uniform, and we had already surpassed World War I in the number of those mortally wounded.

I'd snuck one of Paul's letters into my hymnal, a straggler that had arrived well after France had been invaded. I'd read and reread it so many times it had become thin as facial tissue. I read as Rector Brooks continued:

Thank you, my love, for the packets of Ovaltine. Believe me, this is a welcome change from the hot beverage Rena's father makes from ground acorns. Do not be alarmed if this letter is my last for a short while. Every newspaper is predicting an invasion soon. But in the meantime know that I miss you and you are not outside my thoughts for more than a few minutes and that is when I am asleep. Please keep us in your prayers and sleep soundly on your pink satin sheets, knowing we will be at H&H Automat soon, enjoying the air conditioning and the apple—

I felt someone's gaze and turned to find David Stockwell across the aisle from me one pew back. He stared openly at me. What was that on his face? Curiosity? A bit of sadness? I closed my hymnal as Sally Stockwell, who even in the chill of the great hall appeared to be perspiring in earnest, leaned forward and smiled in my direction. Betty leaned forward as well and rolled her eyes for my benefit, a commentary on Rector Brooks's lengthy sermon.

At the end of the service, Rector Brooks left the altar and followed a sparse procession of choirboys and old men. As they made their way down the center aisle, it was clear their ranks had been decimated, since many had gone off to war, trading their scarlet cassocks and white surplices for military uniforms. Once they made it to the rear of the church and back to the sacristy, the congregation began filtering out.

Mother and I caught up with Betty, David, and Sally in the narthex of the church, the exquisite entryway with its lovely coffered ceiling. All three stood out in the crowd, Betty since she wore a suit of pure white under her Denmark mink coat; Sally since she was about to burst with twins, her crimson coat fighting a losing battle trying to cover her belly; and David because he was practically the only man in Manhattan not in a uniform. He claimed his job at the State Department was an equal sacrifice, but compared to going to war, long lunches at “21” didn't seem a hardship.

Mother and I reached the three as Sally fanned herself with a church program.

“Oh, hello, Caroline,” said Sally with a tremulous smile.

“Looks like we'll have two Christmas babies?” Mother said.

“Three,” Betty said. “Now it's triplets. Mother's having fits. She has to have three baby nurses lined up.” It wasn't enough that the Dionne quintuplets were on every billboard, reminding me of my own childlessness. Sally Stockwell had to be an overachiever as well.

I took David by the elbow. “Can I speak to you? Privately?”

David looked startled. Afraid I wanted to discuss our past? Despite my still-bruised feelings, I couldn't help but notice he seemed to be getting better looking with age.

“I hope he's not in trouble,” Betty said.

“I can spare a minute,” David said. “But we do need to get home. Cook has a roast on.”

I pulled David to a quieter corner, and he smiled. “If this is a last-minute bid for my affections, maybe church isn't—”

“Why won't you return my calls?” I said.

The war had not impeded David's ability to dress well—classic, but almost to the edge of fop, his necktie arched, the pockets of his camel-hair coat with perfectly swelled edges.

“When was the last time you did
me
a favor?”

“I just need you to call someone about—”

“Only Congress can loosen immigration quotas, Caroline. I told you.”

“You're in a powerful position, David.”

“To do what?”

“Roger had to turn down another boat this morning. Sailing from Le Havre. Half of them children. If you could just ask—”

“The country doesn't
want
more foreigners.”

“Foreigners? Half this country just got here a generation ago. How can you just let people die, David?”

David took my hand. “Look, C. I know Paul Rodierre is over there in a bad situation—”

I pulled my hand away. “It's not that. How can we just do
nothing
? It's appalling.”

Rector Brooks joined Mother, Betty, and Sally in the narthex. He waved his hand in a sign of the cross over Sally's belly, which only seemed to cause Sally to fan herself more.

“We're at
war,
Caroline. Winning it is the best thing we can do for those people.”

“That's a smoke screen and you know it. Seventy thousand Romanian Jews refused asylum here? The
St. Louis
turned away? How many innocents sent back to certain death?”

Rector Brooks turned to look at us, and David pulled me farther into the shadows.

“It's a slow process, Caroline. Every visa form must be perfectly vetted. Nazi spies might come here posing as refugees. It's in the best interests of the United States.”

“It's anti-Semitism, David. There was a time when you'd have done the right thing.”

“Brother dear,” Betty called.

David held up an index finger to her. “Let's admit what this is really all about. If you weren't pining away like a schoolgirl for your lost married boyfriend, you'd be back at the Junior League knitting socks for servicemen.”

“I'll forget you said that if you promise to at least try—”

“David,
now,
” Betty said.

“Okay, I'll ask.”

“I have your word?”

“
Yes,
for God's sake. Are you happy?”

“I am,” I said with a smile. For a moment, I thought I caught a flicker of sadness move across David's face. Regretting our breakup? It was hard to tell, for it retreated as quickly as it had come.

We turned to see Mother and Betty ease Sally down into a back pew. Rector Brooks watched like an anxious father as Mother dispatched choirboys in search of a basin. Sally's cries echoed about the church as Mother wadded her coat to cushion the poor thing's head.

“My God,” David said, stricken.

Betty ran to David and pulled his arm. “Get over here. She's about to erupt. No time to get to St. Luke's.”

It seemed David would not be going home for Cook's roast after all.

C
hristmas of 1943 was an especially grim one for Zuzanna and me. With Matka and Luiza gone and my sister wasted almost to nothing, there was little reason to celebrate. There'd been not one letter or package from Papa in so long. Was he even alive?

We had off from
Appell
on Christmas afternoon, so the camp guards could have their celebration. Zuzanna lay next to me, so thin from dysentery one could see the sharp edge of her hip bone jut through the thin blanket as she slept. As a doctor she knew what was happening and tried to instruct me on how to make her well, but even when the girls in the kitchen snuck her salt and clean water, nothing worked. Though many of our fellow prisoners shared their own precious food with all of the Rabbits, without packages of our own from home, we had become living skeletons.

Zuzanna lay on her side, hands clasped under her chin, and I dozed next to her, my chest to her back, her breath my only happiness. The women in our block had voted to allow us to have a bottom bunk to ourselves in light of our situation as Rabbits. This was an extraordinary gesture, since some bunks hosted more than eight prisoners! The Russian women, many of them doctors and nurses captured on the battlefield, were especially kind to us and had organized the vote. As a Christmas gift, Anise had given us a louse-free scrap of a blanket she'd taken from the booty piles, and I'd wound it around Zuzanna's bare feet.

I watched a few Polish girls stuff some grass under a piece of cloth. This was a Christmas tradition we'd followed in Poland since we were young where fresh straw is put under a white tablecloth. After supper some maidens pull out blades of the straw from beneath the cloth to predict their future. A green piece predicts marriage, a withered one signifies waiting, a yellow one predicts the dreaded spinsterhood, and a very short one foreshadows an early grave. That day they all looked very short to me.

With Marzenka away for the moment, some Polish girls sang one of my favorite Christmas songs, “Zdrów b
ą
d
ź
Królu Anielski,” “As Fit for the King of Angels,” in low, hushed tones, since singing or speaking in any language except German was forbidden and could land one in the bunker.

The song took me back to Christmas Eve in Poland, our little tree covered with silver paper icicles and candles. Exchanging gifts with Nadia, always books. Dining on Matka's clear beetroot soup, hot fish, and sweets. And going to church on Christmas Day, our family there in the same pew as the Bakoskis. All of us crowding in with Pietrik and his gentle mother, like a dark-haired swan. She'd been a ballet dancer before she met Pietrik's father and always wore her hair gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Mr. Bakoski standing tall in his military uniform and Luiza in her new pink coat snuggling close to me. His family smiling as Pietrik pulled me close to share a prayer book. His scent of cloves and cinnamon from helping his mother bake that morning.

I spent more time in memories then—anything to escape that freezing block—but I could feel the hunger taking the place of any love I had. Most of the day I thought only of bread and ridding Zuzanna and me of our lice. Zuzanna had developed a rigorous delousing routine for us, since she was terrified of typhus. As a doctor, she knew too well the consequences of contracting the disease.

My thoughts were interrupted when the old electrician from Fürstenberg came to work on the wires in our block. He was a frequent visitor and one whose presence was much anticipated. He stepped into the block, stooped and white-haired, toting his canvas bag of tools and a wooden folding stool, the shoulders and sleeves of his tweed coat dark with wet patches. He shook the rain off his mustard-yellow hat and then did something he always did, something extraordinary.

He bowed to us.

Bowed! How long had it been since anyone else had done this for us? He then walked to the center of the room and opened his folding stool. On the way he glanced at Zuzanna, asleep next to me, and smiled. For some reason, he seemed especially fond of Zuzanna. She had that effect on people. Did she remind him of his own child? On a previous visit, he'd snuck her a sugar cube, wrapped in white paper, that we made last for days, waking up at night to take little licks of it. And once, he “accidentally” dropped a headache powder packet near her bunk.

Why, you ask, would starving girls be happy to see this German man? Because Herr Fenstermacher was no ordinary workman. He was a kind, cultured man with a voice like warm molasses. But this was not the best thing.

He sang for us. In French.

But not just any songs. His own songs, made up of the newspaper headlines of the day. Yes, we knew about some war events just by listening to the distant thud of bombs to our south. But Herr Fenstermacher brought us, at great risk to himself, a gift more precious than gold. News of
hope.
The name Fenstermacher means “window maker” in German, and he was our window to the world.

He always started the same way: He stepped upon his stool and fiddled with the bare lightbulb and sang:
“Recueillir près, les filles, et vous entendrez tout ce qui se passe dans le monde.”
Gather near, girls, and you will hear all that is happening in the world.

That Christmas Day he sang of American troops landing on European soil; of Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill meeting in Tehran; and of the British Royal Air Force successfully bombing Berlin. So that was who'd been flying overhead! I pictured handsome, young English pilots in their planes causing the air-raid siren to sound, sending Binz and her
Aufseherinnen
into panic. Did those pilots even know we were down here waiting to be freed?

Those who knew French whispered translations to the rest. You can't know how happy we were to get this gift. The electrician ended with a pretty “Merry Christmas to you, dear ladies. May God help us all soon.”

He gathered his tool bag and settled his hat back on his head. Tears pricked at my eyes. Would he catch a chill in this weather? We'd been forgotten by everyone. Did he know he was our only ally? He walked by our bunk and tipped his hat to me.
Please take care,
I thought.
You are our only friend.

I was happy Zuzanna slept through it all. One day of rest not having to stand in the sleet for hours as Binz and her guards counted us would help her recover. It wasn't until Herr Fenstermacher was out the door and on his way that I saw what he'd left at the foot of our bunk.

The most beautiful pair of hand-knitted socks!

I reached for them and could not believe the softness. I stroked my cheek with them. They felt like Psina's downy underfeathers. And the color! The palest blue, like an early summer sky. I slid them down under Zuzanna's chin, between her clasped hands and her chest. A Christmas miracle.

No sooner had Herr Fenstermacher left than the door to the block opened and Marzenka trudged in, stomping the mud off her boots. How we envied her boots, since bare feet in oversized wooden clogs in the middle of winter is a torture unto itself.

Marzenka carried an armful of packages. My chest thumped at the sight of them. It was too much to ask for, a package for us on Christmas after waiting so long.

She walked about the block, called out names, and tossed packages and letters into some bunks. How strange, I thought, that we were allowed parcels, being political prisoners and all. But lucky for us, Commandant Suhren was practical. A prisoner's family sending her food and clothing saved the camp money. It meant fewer funds were necessary to keep a worker alive.

By the time Marzenka made it to our bunk, she only held two more parcels.

Please let one be ours.

She slowed as she approached our bunk. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a rare crack of a smile. Even she had become sympathetic to the Rabbits.

Marzenka lobbed a parcel onto our straw mattress, and it landed with a thump. I sat up and snatched it. I was a little dizzy and held the box wrapped in brown paper for a few moments, letting it all sink in. A package. Little splotches of rain had spotted the brown paper, giving it an animal-skin look, and the rain smudged the ink of the return address, but it was from the Lublin Postal Center.

Papa.

Had he somehow cracked the code and ironed the letter? Should I wake Zuzanna so we could open it together? The package was already half-open, having been rifled through by the censors, so I went ahead and pulled off the brown paper. I was left with an old candy tin, cold to the touch. I popped off the lid, and the smell of stale chocolate came up to meet me. Oh,
chocolate.
I'd forgotten about chocolate. Even stale chocolate made my mouth water.

In the tin were three cloth-wrapped bundles. I unwrapped the first to reveal what was left of a poppy-seed cake. More than half! Ordinarily the censors would take a whole cake. Were they being generous since it was Christmas? I tasted a crumb and thanked God for creating the poppy flower, then wrapped it back up with haste, for I would save it for Zuzanna. Polish cake would be good medicine for her.

The next bundle I unwrapped was a tube of toothpaste. I almost laughed. Our toothbrushes were long gone, but how wonderful it was to see something so familiar from home. I twisted off the cap and breathed in the cool peppermint. I tucked it under our mattress. With proper bartering, such a treasure would trade for a week's worth of extra bread.

The last bundle was small and wrapped in Matka's little white kitchen towel, the one she'd cross-stitched with two kissing birds. Just seeing that sent me into choking sobs that delayed my progress, but I finally loosened the little bundle, hands shaking so hard I could barely untie the knot. Once the towel fell open and lay in my lap, all I could do was stare at the contents.

It was a spool of red thread.

“Joy” is an overused word, but that was what I felt there that day, knowing Papa had understood my secret letter. It was all I could do to keep from standing in the middle of the room and calling out with happiness. Instead, I kissed the little wooden spool and slipped it into my sleeping sister's clasped hands.

That was the best Christmas in my life, for I knew we were no longer alone.