will worry. Every minute you are away, I will worry.”
“I’ll write and visit as often as I can.”
“I will still worry.”
“But Mama, you always worry. About everything.”
“That is true. But I cannot help my nature.”
“And I can’t help mine.”
Most Jews lived in the section of Hamburg called “Neustadt,” or New City, after they had been ordered to move from “Altstadt,” the old city. Hamburg was a city intersected by two rivers — the Elbe and the Alster. It wasn’t an easy city to walk, either, because of its many canals and bridges.
The duke’s summer house was on the outskirts of the city, in a section Johanna had never been to before. Several times, she lost her way and had to ask for directions.
Dusk was falling as Johanna approached the brick mansion. Its wooden shutters were already closed against the coming night. Grey clouds scudded in a leaden sky. A cold wind was blowing the leaves off the beech and chestnut trees. Johanna shivered at the thought of the coming winter. And because of what lay ahead.
She remembered what Frau Taubman had said at the interview about not speaking to the babies. She’d pushed the thought away in her excitement about the job, but now the reality of what she had promised struck her like a blow. She sighed. I must go forward, she thought. I’ve gone too far to back out now.
A narrow, four-wheeled wagon stood in front of the cast-iron gate set in the fence surrounding the building. The driver leaned out of the wagon and tugged on the bell. Johanna imagined the sound echoing in all the rooms and corridors of the house.
“Hello there, girl.” The driver peered at Johanna from under his battered cap. “What’s going on here?” He eyed the building. “They told me to make a delivery. Couldn’t wait ’till morning, they said. Said if I did this job, it’d be regular like.”
“This is a new orphanage,” Johanna said.
“An orphanage, you say?” The man rolled his eyes. “Still don’t know what the hurry was.” He scratched his head. White flakes of dandruff landed on his coat. “Why’d the duke go into the baby business?”
Johanna shrugged. “Perhaps he has a kind heart.”
“Maybe.” The man lowered his voice. “But they say his pocketbook comes before his heart.” The man paused. “You work here?”
Johanna nodded.
“I’ll be seeing you around then. Daniel is my name.”
“My name is Johanna.”
“Nice to meet you, fraulein,” said Daniel, tipping his cap.
At that moment, Frau Taubman arrived at the gate. “There you are at last. You are late.” She opened the gate and gestured Daniel inside. He glanced back at Johanna, shook the reins, and drove the wagon along the road to the back of the house.
“You too, girl,” said Frau Taubman. “What took you so long?”
“I —”
“Come along now,” Frau Taubman said. The clanging of the iron gate made Johanna’s heart sink. What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. She followed Frau Taubman along the path and through a heavy wooden door.
They passed through a large foyer where an enormous painting of the duke hung. Bare spaces on the walls indicated places where other paintings had been removed. A richly carved pillar supported the ceiling, painted with religious scenes. Johanna had never been in such a grand room before.
A large-boned, rather plain girl of about sixteen approached them. “Monica, this is Johanna, one of the new girls,” Frau Taubman said. Monica stared at Johanna but didn’t answer. “Johanna will start work in the morning. Show her to her room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Johanna followed Monica up two flights of stairs. “Do you come from Hamburg?” Johanna asked.
“None of your business,” Monica snapped. “I’m here to earn money. Not to make friends.”
At the top of the stairs was a narrow hall with doors on either side. Monica opened the third door on the right. “This is your room.”
The walls were covered with faded black and white striped wallpaper, which looked like the bars of a prison. A worn eiderdown quilt lay on the narrow bed. A small chest, table, and chair completed the furnishings.
“There’s a chamber pot under the bed,” Monica said. “The housemaid will empty it every morning. You must keep the room tidy.”
“I will. I —”
“We start at 6:00 a.m., when we relieve the night girls. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.” Monica turned her back on Johanna and left the room.
Johanna began to take her meagre possessions out of her bag — clothes, handkerchiefs, toiletries. Just when she thought the bag was empty, her fingers grazed something else. At the bottom of the bag, she found Mama’s lace kerchief, the one she wore when she lit the Sabbath candles on Friday evening. A note was attached to the kerchief, in Mama’s childish script:
My dear daughter Johanna,
May you find light and luck in your new life.
Be a good Jewish daughter. Keep the commandments.
Stay warm and dry.
Always keep a handkerchief in your pocket.
With a heart full of love,
Mama
For a moment, Johanna held the kerchief against her cheek. She could smell the faint scent of Mama’s soap. She was suddenly overcome with homesickness. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one she got when she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. She desperately wanted to escape this strange place and rush back home.
Johanna gently placed the kerchief back into her bag. I dare not light the Sabbath candles. If someone finds out I’m Jewish, I’ll be fired. She shivered. Even worse, I might have to leave Hamburg forever because I pretended to be a Christian. Then a thought struck her, like a blow to her stomach. I am doing exactly what Grandfather Samuel did. I am hiding my Jewish identity in order to survive.
She gazed out the window as she ate the bread and cheese she had brought with her. The spires and domes of the nearby churches — St. Michaelis, St. Jacobi, St. Petri, St. Nicolai, and more — towered above houses and shops stretching away from the harbour on the banks of the Elbe River.
Johanna tried to shake off her feeling of uneasiness. It was strange being alone in this room, in a bed she didn’t have to share with Mama, in a room all her own. For a long time, she had trouble falling asleep.
—
