“Actually, from Switzerland the money could be transferred to any bank in the world, wherever we decide to settle,” Sara remarked to her mother as they packed the belongings they planned to take along to the flat they had rented in Friedenau, a few blocks from the Kuckhoffs’ place. Valuable artworks and family heirlooms not included in the sale had already been carefully wrapped, crated, and loaded onto a truck Natan had borrowed from a friend. Earlier that day, Sara’s father and Natan had driven everything to Schloss Federle for safekeeping. They could have returned by nightfall, but they had decided to stay a few days to work on the hiding place and take inventory of their supplies.
That was November 8.
When the pogrom erupted, Sara’s father and Natan could not risk driving back to Berlin, even though they were frantic with worry when their phone calls home did not go through. On the morning of November 10, when the SA swept through the city arresting Jews and the inevitable pounding on their own front door came, Sara’s mother ordered her to run upstairs and hide.
“What about you?” Sara asked as her mother began pulling open kitchen drawers and closing them, searching for something.
“Go,” her mother ordered, snatching up an apron and cap their former housekeeper had left behind. Her voice was iron. Sara turned and fled.
Crouching on the floor of the closet in Amalie’s old room, Sara heard her mother open the front door and calmly greet the officers. Even when they demanded to see Natan, her manner remained briskly efficient as she replied that he was not there.
“He is a convicted criminal,” one officer said. “We have his release papers identifying this as his permanent residence. His parole has been revoked. Bring him to us at once.”
“As I said, I cannot.”
“This is the home of his father, the Jew banker Jakob Weitz,” said another officer, his voice hoarse as if he had been shouting for hours.
“Officers, you are mistaken,” Sara’s mother replied, feigning puzzlement. “This is the home of the Austrian businessman, Herr Ernst Wagner. He bought this house from Herr Weitz last month.”
“Jakob Weitz! Natan Weitz!” the hoarse man called into the far reaches of the house. “Present yourselves immediately or we cannot guarantee the safety of anyone in this house.”
“Goodness,” Sara’s mother exclaimed. “If you’re going to make threats, just come in and look around. While you’re in the study, please take note of the papers on the desk. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. The Wagners own this house now. Herr Weitz and his son are not here.”
When Sara heard boots crossing the foyer floor, she inched back into the depths of the closet and held perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. While the men strode through the house, her mother pleaded for them to be careful. “My mistress is very particular,” she said, begging the officers to mind this piece of furniture or that one, thus warning Sara where the men were.
They must have found the paperwork on the desk, for they abruptly called off the search. With no apologies for disturbing the household, they ordered Sara’s mother to call the Gestapo immediately if the Weitzes should return. The front door slammed, the house fell silent, but Sara waited ten minutes more before she left the closet and crept downstairs.
She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table clad in the housekeeper’s cap and apron, her head in her hands, her shoulders trembling as she wept without making a sound. Choking back sobs, Sara ran to her, knelt beside her chair, and embraced her.
“I was terrified,” her mother confessed.
“You were brave. So very brave.”
“They thought I was the housekeeper.”
“Yes, I know. You fooled them.”
“I was the fool. How stupid of me. What if they had asked my name, or for proof of my identity? What if they had found my passport? It was in the top desk drawer, right below the papers I told them to examine. What if they had bothered to ask the neighbors who lives here?”
“They didn’t. Your ruse worked. We’re safe.” Suddenly Sara felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her. “Next time I’ll be a housemaid and you be the cook.”
“May there never be a next time,” said her mother fervently. “It was only their impatience that spared us. They’re cruel, but they aren’t stupid. If they come to search again, they’ll be more thorough.”
Sara knew her family had to be long gone before then.