The Brushmaker's Daughter Read online

  I was, though I wasn’t going to say anything. Papa would have said that was rude. One had to wait to be asked. But, it had been many hours since I had eaten anything. I glanced over at Papa and then looked up at Hetti, nodding gratefully. She led us to a table in her dining room, already set with a linen tablecloth and white dishes.

  “Sit, sit!” she exclaimed. “I’ve prepared a little something for you.” With that, she disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later, carrying a platter heaped with steaming meatballs and potato dumplings. The smell was heavenly.

  My eyes widened. I hadn’t seen this amount of food in ages. There were strict rations on food in Berlin. For Jews like Papa and me, it had been impossible to get much of anything to eat. But I knew that even Christian people, like Hetti, had their food allowance restricted. Where had all this come from?

  “Otto helps me get food,” Hetti explained, as if reading my mind. “But I also have a few connections myself.” She winked when she said that.

  It all sounded so mysterious, and I had no idea what it meant. But in that moment, I didn’t care. There was enough food here for two families, maybe more than that! And I needed to eat.

  Papa hadn’t said a word since we had walked in. “Are you all right?” I asked, leaning toward him.

  That was when I noticed tears glistening in his eyes. “I’m so grateful,” he whispered. “Overwhelmed, really. It’s been so long since anyone has been kind to us.”

  I reached out and took Papa’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Hetti took a tissue from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re going to make me cry as well,” she said. “Don’t thank me. It’s Otto who is the real angel. Besides, I live alone now. My husband died some time ago, and we were never blessed with children. So, I’m also grateful for the company. Now, eat, eat,” she urged, “before it gets cold.” She smiled again. The lipstick smudge on her teeth was still there.

  I ate two helpings of the meatballs and then devoured two slices of apple strudel that appeared out of Hetti’s kitchen. I ate until there wasn’t room for another bite. My head was starting to feel as heavy as my stomach, and my eyes fluttered and drooped. I needed to sleep. And once again, Hetti came to my rescue.

  “Dear Mäuschen,” she said. “I think I need to get you to bed.”

  She led us down the hallway, stopping at the first open door and indicating that Papa would be sleeping in this bedroom. He walked inside, feeling his way from the bed to the dresser to the small window, and then nodded at me and Hetti.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch and you, Lillian, will take my bedroom, right next door to your father,” she said.

  Papa started to protest, but Hetti stopped him.

  “There will be no argument, Morris,” she said. “I’m not much of a sleeper, and the couch is perfectly fine for me.”

  Then Papa turned back to me, reaching out to pull me in for a tight hug. “Will you be all right?”

  I gulped. “I’ll be fine.”

  Hetti led me into her bedroom, said good-night, and closed the door behind her. I slumped down on the bed and looked around, suddenly longing for my own bedroom in my own home in Kreuzberg. I closed my eyes and thought of my four-poster bed and the eiderdown quilt in bright ocean blue, my favorite color. My shelf had sagged from the weight of the books that Papa had bought me, books like Hansel and Gretel, which I loved even though it was scary when the witch in the story kidnapped the brother and sister and wanted to eat them! I had read that book so many times that the printing inside had faded, and the hard cover had become soft and bendable.

  I imagined the dolls that had sat on my bed, each one in its own special place. When I opened my eyes, all of it was gone. I felt empty, even though I had just finished that big meal. How does that happen? I wondered. How can I feel so empty and so full at the same time? I knew I had to be grateful to be here with Papa, and I was! But it was hard when it felt as if everything in my life had been taken away from me.

  And that’s when I thought about Mama.

  She had died a year ago. She and Papa had worked in the textile shop together. Each day, she went with him to the shop, helping to open it in the morning, standing behind the cash register all day while Papa sold fabric to women who came in wanting to sew a new dress or new jacket. But then, Mama became ill with an infection in her lungs that got worse and worse until one day, she could no longer breathe at all.

  And then she died. I was eleven years old when that happened, and I remembered it as though it were yesterday.

  “Maybe, it’s best Mama isn’t here to see all these terrible changes,” Papa had said when a new decree was announced ordering that all Jews had to turn in their telephones and could no longer get ration cards for clothes.

  I hadn’t answered. I didn’t want to be here to see all these laws either. But I didn’t want Mama to die! And I couldn’t imagine that she had wanted to leave us like that. I wanted her with me now more than ever.

  I closed my eyes again and summoned up an image of her; lips as red as Hetti’s, almond-shaped eyes as blue as cornflowers, her hair piled high on her head. She had a way of twirling it around and around her finger until she could form a tight bun. Then, she would pin it to the top of her head with hairpins that disappeared into her bun like twigs into a bird’s nest. She used as many as she could, until she was satisfied that the bun wouldn’t move. I could have watched her twirl and pin her hair for hours.

  If Papa was all strength in my life, then Mama had been all heart. She cried at everything, even when I received a good grade in school, which never made any sense to me. Crying if I failed would have been more understandable!

  I choked back the tears that threatened to drown me whenever I thought of Mama. As much as I adored my father—he had been trying his hardest to be both mother and father to me—it wasn’t always enough. I wiped my eyes and sat up straighter. I couldn’t let myself get too sad or I wouldn’t be able to face whatever was coming in the days ahead. Finally, I pulled my small suitcase up onto the bed and opened it, rummaging through the few clothing items I had managed to bring. I hadn’t had much time to pack before running from our home in Kreuzberg. The warning from our neighbor that Nazi soldiers were patrolling from door to door in our neighborhood and arresting Jewish families had sent us scurrying into the streets with hardly any time to gather our things. I had hastily thrown a few skirts, sweaters, and blouses into the case with Papa pacing and begging me to hurry.

  “We need to go, now!” he had said. I could tell he was trying to keep the urgency out of his voice and failing miserably. And then, at the last minute, just before I had clicked the case shut, I had placed one of my dolls on top of my pile of clothes. I pulled her from the case and held her close to me now.

  I called the doll Schatzi, little treasure. It was what Mama had sometimes called me, as well. Schatzi’s face was made of shiny porcelain with eyes of glass. Her cheeks were painted pink, and she had real hair that lay in short blonde curls around her forehead and face. Mama had made the dress that she wore. It was blue gingham with a lacy smock on top.

  I ran my finger over the small dimple in her chin. “It’s just you and me now, Schatzi,” I said, burying my face in her hair and clutching her tightly.

  Finally, I climbed into bed and pulled my doll up close. I was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 4

  When I opened my eyes, sunlight was streaming into the room through the little window next to the bed. I sat up, stretched, and yawned, feeling so much more energized than the day before. I had needed that sleep more than I had thought. Papa, on the other hand, looked gaunt and his skin was gray. His eyes were ringed from lack of sleep. He muttered something to me about having too many worries on his mind. I didn’t ask any questions; I didn’t need to.

  Hetti was not there when Papa and I went into the dining room. I read Papa the note she had left, saying
she was at the market getting a few things that we might need. She had also left us a plate of soft rolls covered with a kitchen towel so they wouldn’t dry out. Coffee was simmering in a pot on the stove. Hetti’s note to us also added a warning at the end. “Please be careful going to the factory. The streets can be dangerous.”

  The feeling of a good night’s sleep faded away. Nothing had changed overnight, I realized. Everything was just as unsafe as it had been the day before. Papa and I ate quickly and silently. Then, we buttoned on our coats and left Hetti’s home to make our way to Herr Weidt’s factory.

  It felt good to be outside, breathing in the fresh air and letting the sun wash over me. Even though the sky was clear, there was a bite of cold in the air. I could see my breath when I exhaled. I tugged again on my jacket sleeves, and pulled my collar up to my neck. Then, I ducked my head, clutched Papa’s arm, and tried to keep up with his long strides as we walked the few blocks to Herr Weidt’s factory.

  The streets were busy with people rushing to work, pushing past Papa and me, and barely looking over to see who we might be. That was just fine, as far as I was concerned. I wanted to make myself small and invisible. Thankfully, there were no soldiers in sight. Once, I looked up, startled to realize where we were. I had not paid any attention the night before. All I had wanted was to get to Hetti’s house, eat, and sleep.

  Now, in the bright light of the day, I realized that we were in Mitte, a district of Berlin just north of Kreuzberg, not far from the textile shop where Papa had worked. The Neue Synagogue on Oranienburger Strasse was only a ten-minute walk away. I had only been there once when Papa took me to see what the grand synagogue looked like. It was now off-limits to Jews. This whole neighborhood had once flourished with Jewish shops, cafés, and businesses that now refused to served Jewish customers. The Nazis had closed all the Jewish establishments, and Germans had taken over the businesses for themselves.

  The Jewish Home for the Aged that stood on a corner just ahead of us was where elderly Jewish people were now being assembled and taken to the train station and sent to those terrible concentration camps. This home had once been a place for elderly Jewish people to live out their lives in peace. But now, it was a place that would cut Jewish lives short. I ducked my head again realizing with a heavy heart that the freedom I had once known was gone. Here, in the daylight, I felt more exposed than ever, and the walk for those few short blocks seemed endless.

  Across Rosenthaler Strasse and down the narrow laneway, Papa and I finally made it to the factory door. He knocked, and we waited for Herr Weidt to answer. He was as welcoming as he had been the night before. I still had so many questions running through my mind, questions that I hadn’t been able to ask Papa. How was my father going to learn to make brushes? What would I do here in the factory? And most importantly, how were we going to remain safe when it seemed that everyone was out to get us?

  The room with the brush machines was as busy as it had been the evening before. Workers were gathered in front of their small tables and were weaving and stringing brushes and brooms together. I wanted to meet some of these people. Herr Weidt had quickly introduced a few of them the day before. But, I was curious to know more. Who were they? And how had they gotten here? But, there was no chance of any conversation. Herr Weidt set to work training Papa.

  “These brushes are made from horsehair,” he explained, holding up a bundle that looked like thick, dark string. “First, you need to comb the hairs until all the knots are gone.”

  He showed Papa how to do that, pulling the hairs across those jutting nails, over and over. Once the horsehair was perfectly straight and knot-free, Herr Weidt showed Papa how to cut it to the right length for the brushes using the hacking machine, their hands doing the work. “Not too long and not too short,” he explained, running the tangle-free horsehair under the cutting machine.

  Finally, he showed Papa how to tie the hairs tightly together, and fix them onto the wooden bases with glue and wire, all by feeling rather than seeing. Herr Weidt stood back, holding up a brush with perfect even bristles, glued firmly and securely onto a small wooden paddle. Then, Papa walked up to the table. He was a smart student, and a quick learner. Within a short time, Herr Weidt stepped back and let Papa take over.

  “Yes,” he said, examining Papa’s work. “I think you’ve got it.”

  And then Herr Weidt turned to me. “And now, Lillian, would you like a job in the factory as well?”

  I nodded. “Oh, yes!” I had already realized that there were no young people my age who were working here. Everyone was a grown-up. “I’d really like to help.”

  “Good,” said Herr Weidt. “Your job will be to count the brushes and help package them for shipment. This is very important work,” he added. “You can read the orders that others can’t see.”

  He led me across the room to a long table that held about a half a dozen large boxes, piled on top of one another. Each box had an order form with the number and types of brushes that had been requested. I picked up one of the forms and silently read the order; thirty-six scrubbing brushes, twenty shoe brushes, twelve metal brushes, fifty toothbrushes. Herr Weidt told me that I would need to go to the workers and pick up their finished brushes according to what was being ordered on these forms. Then, I would fill the box with the specified products, seal it with tape, tie it with string, and move on to fill another one and another, until every request had been filled.

  “If you don’t know what something is, just ask one of the workers,” Herr Weidt said. “I’m certain that you’ll catch on in no time.”

  I nodded and began to walk around the room picking up brushes and carrying them back to my station. I had no trouble picking out the toothbrushes and scrubbing brushes. I wasn’t sure about a couple of the other items.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stopping at the table of an older woman. “Can you please tell me what you’re making?”

  She looked up and in my direction. “Metal brushes,” she replied. “The bristles are metal instead of horsehair. They’re used for cleaning certain types of machinery.”

  I checked my order form and took a number of the finished ones to place in a box. Herr Weidt stood over me the whole time I was working. Even though he had said that he didn’t have much sight, somehow he seemed to know what I was putting into each and every box. He nodded his approval.

  “You’re as quick a learner as your father is,” he exclaimed. “I was right to bring both of you into my factory. I’m lucky to have you here.”

  Papa raised his head from the work he was doing at his desk. He had moved on from gluing brushes to cutting straw for brooms. “We’re the lucky ones,” Papa said. “We’re so grateful you’re allowing us to work here.”

  Herr Weidt clapped him on the back. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m doing what any decent citizen of this country should be doing. Besides,” he added, “making brushes requires a special touch. Feeling the brush is more important than seeing what you’re doing.”

  I was pretty sure that people who could see would also be able to make brushes! But, I was thankful that Herr Weidt had taken us in.

  Papa and I worked side by side all morning. The time passed quickly, and before I knew it, Herr Weidt was calling for all the workers to take a break.

  Finally! I thought. A chance to meet some of the other people. Papa and I sat together at a table in the back of the room, and pulled out the sandwiches that Hetti had also left for us. A young woman sat next to me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She looked up from the sandwich that she was eating. The crease in her forehead deepened as she stared at me, noticeably uncomfortable.

  “Who are you?” she asked, a bit of tightness in her voice.

  “I’m Lillian Frey. I’m here with my father. We arrived yesterday.”

  I could see some of the caution melt away from this woman. Her shoulders relaxed and she r
eached out her hand to shake mine.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m so used to being suspicious whenever a stranger speaks to me. Pleased to meet you, Lillian. I’m Anneliese Bernstein. I’m here with my sister.”

  Anneliese looked as if she was in her twenties. I could see that she wasn’t blind, and I was trying to figure out a way to ask her about that. I’d been told that Herr Weidt employed only blind people at his workshop. But just then, another young woman sat down next to Anneliese. I gasped when I saw the two of them next to one another.

  “You’re twins!” I blurted. The resemblance was startling, the same dark, curly hair framing big, green eyes and wide smiles with a deep dimple on each cheek.

  Anneliese grinned. “Identical in every way. This is my sister, Marianne.”

  “Well, not quite every way,” Marianne said, reaching out to shake my hand as well. “I’m the one of the two of us who is blind. I had an infection when I was a child that caused the nerves in my eyes to swell. We’re here because of me.”

  Anneliese explained that they had been here for six months. She had once worked as a dressmaker in Berlin. But eventually, that was no longer possible. “No one would bring their dresses to a Jew,” she explained, “even though I could shorten a hem or redesign a blouse better than most other dressmakers.” That was when she and her sister had sought refuge here, where Herr Weidt had trained both of them to make brushes.

  “He’s our angel,” Anneliese said.

  Marianne nodded and gestured around the table where other workers had stopped eating to listen in on our conversation. “Everyone will agree with me.”

  She went on to introduce several of the other workers. There was Willy Latter who had been blind since he was my age, after doctors had botched the eye surgery that was meant to correct a small problem. He had been working here for a year. Bernhard Bromberger became blind after an eye infection when he was a young man. Erna Haney was the woman I had asked about the metal brushes. She had been blind from birth and had arrived just about a week before Papa and me.