Having sold their furniture to friends, their house to strangers, in the late spring of 1933 Fritz and Hannah boarded the SS Bremen for Bremerhaven, at the same time that John having been called to Alexandria, and it being half term, took his family with him to Egypt. After their boat docked, John left them to enjoy Cairo while he continued on.
Learning to know and understand Turkey and now Egypt very nearly made having to leave America worthwhile. Even when missing many of the modern conveniences, Egypt so mesmerized one’s imagination that after a while when such happened to appear, Jane resented their intrusion. Automobiles really had no business on roads that camels trod. For her the Industrial Age had no place in this overwhelming, somehow indestructible glory of pharaohs and their omnipotent deities. In this awesome land of constantly moving sand, its aura of permanence so quixotic, every dawn was a wonder, every twilight a yearning for repetitive tomorrows. When the hot winds blew Jane could smell the Sahara, Jane, who had never thought of Egypt as conjuring romantic visions was surprised that such profound magnificence could make one feel so human.
John Jr. just seventeen graduated from the Sixth Form and now looked forward to returning to Italy to join the black shirts of his hero. Worried for his son, John made immediate arrangements to send him back to Michigan to live with Celestina, while attending university. Many heated arguments later—too angry to even say good-bye, John Jr. left Turkey, hating his father. Billy, who thought that going home, all grown up alone on a big ship was the ultimate prize for being an A student, buried his nose in his schoolbooks determined he too could achieve such a gift.
Billy, as he would be known until true maturity required the disengagement of the y, was becoming an interesting boy. A jigsaw puzzle of many parts garnered from heredity as well as the kaleidoscope that life had spread before him, he encompassed the tenderness of Michael, the idealism and artistic courage of his father, the innate perception and profound respect of all beauty of his Italian heritage, the patrician discipline of his mother which made him already by the age of fourteen an intriguing, complex character.
It was already September when a letter arrived from Fritz bearing a German stamp.
Dearest Friends,
Well, we are here. The fields are still full of fat cows—the mountaintops are full of snow—the air is so clean—so sharp sometimes it hurts to breathe it. We are grateful to have made the long journey in safety and good health. Hannah’s sister, Anna and her husband have been most welcoming—kind to let us stay here in their home until we find a place and our so many belongings coming over by cargo ship arrive. Remember Heinz-Hermann—Anna’s boy, the one who stayed with us before the war? He is here, is now an important member of the Schutzstaffel—in English that is “Protection Squad” but here it’s just known by initials, S.S. His father, the butcher is of course very proud—his mother too, I think, though Anna hasn’t said much about it.
When she thinks I am not looking Hannah cries. Bavaria is not Highland Park—but then Highland Park was not Bavaria either. I am sure that once my Hannah has a home again and her own kitchen—everything will be fine.
Here is the address where we are now. Anna’s husband prefers that I give you the address of his butcher shop downstairs and that any letter for us is addressed ‘in care of’ Herr Wolfgang Streicher.
Ever your old friend,
Fritz
PS. Hannah says she is writing to your Vifey herself.
When an assembly plant for the Fordson Tractor was deemed finally possible in Rumania, John wanting to spare Jane the misery of returning, arranged to live and work in Bucharest, leaving her and Billy to the comfort of their accustomed life in Constantinople, arriving in the capital just in time for the widespread anti-Jewish riots that no one had expected. Newly loving him, for Jane these would be the lonely years, waiting for John’s infrequent returns, a repetitive discipline.
Hannah’s letters as always in German were frequent.
8 Juni 1934
Gro?n?bach
Bei Dachau
Dearest Ninnie,
Now it is here so pretty. Cornflowers and daisies all mixed up—like a flower carpet …
Little bits of gossip followed, some description of who and what she was beginning to know, get reacquainted with—then there were moments when Jane felt her need for a real friend—one that could be trusted to whom Hannah could confide,
… Heinz-Hermann, he visits often—in his smart uniform and he makes speeches—said that the Jews are a race not a religion group and that because they are ones that lost the war they must be punished. But I don’t know what kind of punishment. So I worry a little if his mother, my sister Anna, is going maybe to be punished. You think so? I asked Fritz but he said it is all just politics and anyway her husband is a good Prussian so why worry. And us—we are good American United States citizens. But still I don’t understand why they burned books. Did you hear? Even our Mr. Jack London and that nice young Ernest Hemingway that Agnes likes so much, they burned. Why? They didn’t do anything wrong—they just write special and they are good Americans also.
I better stop. Heinz will be home soon and I think he doesn’t like me to write letters. Last week I think he tried to steam open a letter Fritz wrote to Zoltan—but I am not sure. But now because he snoops I pretend I go for a walk down the hill and then I send this from the post office in the little grocery store in the village.
Oh, quick—we found a little house not too far from here—with a small garden to grow vegetables and maybe even flowers. It has a tree for shade and real plumbing inside. Anna’s husband says maybe they won’t let Fritz buy it because he has a Jew for a wife, me, but Fritz said that is just ridiculous—good American dollars are still the best money in the whole world—so, maybe by Thanksgiving we will be in our own home again. This year I will have to make just a chicken or maybe a fine goose to celebrate and use preiselberren (like little red currents in case you do not know what those are) for our cranberries—but—the thankfulness will be as it always was for our special Thanksgivings back home in the good old days.
I send as always and forever to the boys many hugs and kisses, and warm loving thoughts to you, dear Vifey and your John. Soon—maybe soon we will be together again and then we can talk a blue streak.
Your friend,
Hannah
P.S. I have not heard from Ebbely, have you?
On one rare occasion when John was back Jane seized the opportunity to voice a growing concern. “I am worried—it’s been months now since Hannah’s last letter. It’s not like her—and you haven’t heard from Fritz either.”
“I know.” Reluctant to pursue the subject, John turned the page of his British newspaper. Jane put down her darning.
“John? What is it? Do you know something?” After years of marriage she knew whenever he evaded something.
“Leave it, Ninnie.” He spoke Italian, which made his order even more commanding.