Under the Stars by Rachel Prizant Kotok

May 1939

In the heart of Berlin, our family created and cultivated a magnificent bookstore—Wunderbar. Green and gold glazed tiles adorned the Art Deco exterior. Famous clientele such as Pablo Picasso, Josephine Baker, Sigmund Freud, Greta Garbo, Sir Charles Spencer Chaplin, and Hannah Arendt crossed borders to spend time in our shop. Some exuberant patrons described Wunderbar as a divine pilgrimage.

Hearing my name always gave me a rush. “Esther, how did you manage to obtain the rights for this rare translation? Did you acquire contemporary and antiquarian books simultaneously, Esther?” I was proud to be the book buyer—I loved books of all genres. At night, I often dreamed of stacks of books twirling around the room or watching invisible ink turning to golden letters of a line of poetry.

Inside the store, I hung large, avant-garde paintings on turquoise, emerald, and golden walls. For our twentieth anniversary of Wunderbar, Pablo lent us a beautiful gift. He insisted upon hanging the painting Reading at a Table for three months. Those three months were the busiest ever; everyone wanted to examine Picasso’s canvas.

After many years, my spouse Dovid became famous as the most erudite bookseller in Berlin. His knowledge knew no bounds. Albert and Dovid had coffee together every Tuesday; it was their sacred ritual. We missed our dear friend Einstein terribly when he left Berlin as a refugee. As Hitler ascended to power, we fused ourselves to Wunderbar with tenacity.

On a whim, I bought a portable Gramophone Model 102. What a lovely design; the fine quality of sound was stupendous. Music floated throughout the store. I amassed a collection of records, and I played them all of the time.

Last year in November, youth zombies stormed Wunderbar, they bashed in the front windows. The sound of glass made me shriek with horror. Pubescent boys and adolescents in their brown shirts ransacked the shelves and torched our books in a pyre outside the building. They called it Kristallnacht, Night of Broken Glass. Dovid and I shattered into a thousand shards. It was the night that broke my heart.

During the last six months, we were surveilled and harassed every day. Together, we boarded up Wunderbar.

Dovid spent three days to contend with all of our remaining assets. I spent countless hours to procure the detailed documents for two visas. I cried as I packed our bags to escape to Cuba. In our last night in bed, Dovid whispered with urgency, “We must leave tomorrow.”  

When Dovid returned from the bakery with my favorite rugelach, stormtroopers seized him. From the third-floor window, I opened the window and shouted to stop attacking him. Dovid’s last words were in Yiddish. “Esther! I’ll find you in Havana, my love.”

I fled to the train station. Stupefied, I sat alone on a bench, waiting to board the train. All I had was a packed bag, one visa, a second-class steamship ticket, hidden jewelry, and banknotes. Several trains later, I arrived in Cherbourg, France.

***

The SS Flandre was a stunning ship. In my second-class cabin, I mourned and wore my funereal black dress—alone. I slid into an ebony void for five days, half-hoping to die. In a desperate continuous loop, I wondered if Dovid was alive. This was torture; I broke down again and again. Eventually, I pulled myself together. I had to survive this weeklong crossing.

I needed some modicum of companionship to feel human. On the deck, I wore dark glasses, listening to the sounds of several languages onboard. The only people who smiled were the two teenage sisters. Did they lose their entire family, like mine?

***

On day six, I compelled myself to speak.

“Pardon me, I’m Esther. May I please join you for dinner?” The sisters nodded and welcomed me to the table.

At first, we sat in silence. Sara initiated a respectful, banal conversation: where are you from, what kind of music do you like, do you enjoy reading novels, have you traveled beyond the European continent before? I answered Sara’s many questions while her sister Ida fidgeted with her fingers obsessively. Her fragility stoked the embers of my grief. Ida’s eyes were ringed with darkness. I didn’t want to know what kind of violence had hurt her.

***

The sun blazed a perfect yolk. On the deck, we three sat together. Drenched in the azure sky, Sara traced the transatlantic route from Cherbourg to Havana on Ida’s dress. The stain of vomit at the hem of her yellow dress had crusted into a map of Cuba. Sara pointed to Ida’s dress, “The SS Flandre will arrive in Havana—here.”

Ida wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t quite glimmer like an emerald sanctuary on this map.” Sara cocked her head on one side and the same for Ida on the other side. The teenagers smirked at each other and laughed together.

They invited me to sing into the ship’s stern. Ida told me that this was their favorite pastime. She gestured to follow as they made their way to the stern.

“Que mentiroso!” the sisters crooned into the wake, Yiddish tongues fraying every syllable. They sang half a dozen songs in Spanish, mostly in harmony. Their passionate singing voices were enchanting. I asked them how they knew Spanish words.

“Papa loved Cuban music. He took us to see an all-female Cuban band when we were girls,” Sara said.

“We bought an Anacaona record in Hamburg. We have it here,” Ida said.

How curious! I was charmed by the sisters. They lifted my spirits.

“After the concert, Ida studied the clarinet. She is a marvel,” Sara said, eyes shining at her sister. “She had the first chair in the conservatory orchestra before—”

Sara’s words trailed off like rising steam escaping the ship’s funnel. Sara embraced Ida’s slight frame tightly.

The three of us stood by the railing for over an hour, mesmerized by the foamy wake. I could feel the heat rising in the air.

“I see land!” I yelled, pointing to the hazy silhouette. With my new life, I would learn Spanish and cleanse the horror with Caribbean breezes and dream-colored fruit. Hope surged like cresting waves. One-hundred and four refugees aboard the SS Flandre would mask the dehumanization with riotous bougainvillea blossoms.

Sara grabbed Ida’s hand upon sighting the harbor. Ida clenched Sara’s hand in return.

***

The man with the black mustache barked at one-hundred-and-four passengers. “Your landing visas have been revoked by the Cuban government.” Translators conveyed this news to shocked passengers. “No one is permitted to disembark.”

Pandemonium erupted. People spat curses in Yiddish, Czech, and German, shaking fists at the cloudless sky.

“We paid for our visas!” the people thundered.

“We paid in blood,” Ida murmured to the humid air. In the bay, suicide watch boats circled the vessel like sharks.

***

America extinguished Lady Liberty’s torch. Several subsequent rejections ensued. Two weeks had passed and still no Mexican port would take us. Nazi propaganda inspired fear effectively; we were the parasitic vermin of the Aryan Empire.

“Would you please pass the mop handle, Esther?” Sara asked. I obliged. She beat the salty crust off her good dress, the pale pink silk with the long peplum and three-quarter sleeves. When I met her eyes, we sighed in tandem as we retrieved the saltwater-starched dresses from the line. The bloated sculptures swayed gently as if inhabited by phantom dancers.

“My skin is scraped raw after wearing this dress only a few hours,” Ida said. She lifted her skirt to reveal scarlet abrasions. Discussing dresses, skin maladies, and water rationing was all we could do. An increasing futility pervaded when we ranted about Social Darwinism, fascism, and the cruel governments that denied our disembarkation.

We did not speak of what bruised us under our skin: the possibility that no refuge existed, only floating refugees.

***

We had finished blessing the candles, wine, and khallah for the Sabbath meal when the captain arrived at the dining room to make an announcement. He took off his officer’s cap and held it over his heart with solemn portent.

“My esteemed passengers, I regret to inform you that we have exhausted all possible ports of entry. The SS Flandre will return to France, due to arrive in six days.”

Visions of refuge combusted inside me. Hope lay strewn in ashes. Would I ever see Dovid again?

I inhaled deeply. I kept breathing.

Ida stood abruptly. Her chair screeched the floorboards.

“Nishmat Kol Chai, t’vareich et shimcha Adonai Eloheinu — Breath of all life, the soul of every living being blesses your name.” Ida’s recitation of an ancient Hebrew prayer reverberated throughout the space. “I will not go silently. Tonight we will sing, play music, and dance on this ship. We will celebrate life while we have it.”

In Exodus, it is written that the great mystery revealed its name with four vowels that cannot be vocalized. This unpronounceable name can only be rendered as breath.

A collective exhalation resounded.

Ida and Sara led the passengers onto the deck, singing in harmony under the stars.

Rachel Prizant Kotok

Image: Old bookshop stuffed with books on shelves from pixabay.com