Rosh Hashanah 2009 - South African Jewish Board of Deputies

JEWISH AFFAIRS ROSH HASHANAH 2009SCARRED BY THE HOLOCAUST: A RHODESIANCHILDHOOD WITH HANS TRIXER AND OTHER RELATIVES*Dorothy KowenMy mother, the daughter of a rabbi in Germany,had escaped from Nazi Germany to Rhodesia andhad married a Lithuanian Jew.My mother and father did not communicate much,so the telephone became my mother’s intimate friend.She would speak ad nauseam to Minny, Sylvia orHilda about the latest bridge conventions and herchildren.One still Sunday evening, the night hung like adark blanket pierced by the brilliance of a roundAfrican moon. Suddenly, the shrill sound of thetelephone rent the air. I was relieved by the intrusioninto that too still night.My mother lifted the receiver.“Hello, hello, Thea! Is that you? How are you?Ach, this line is not very clear. Yes I’m fine. Salisburyis not Oldenberg – not as cultured, but I like it here.Tell me about yourself…”I had not heard mention of any Thea before. Ilistened to my mother’s voice from the adjoiningbathroom. There was something different about thiscall. Usually, my mother would habitually becomeso excited over a phone call that she would gush. Thefollowing morning, there would be light spittle in thetelephone cradle, a glistening testimony of theconversation of the previous night.But this time, her voice sounded tight, as thoughsomebody had put a fist around her throat. There wasa harsh tonality in her voice that I had never heardbefore.“Ja, Thea. So you have two sons… I have a sonand three daughters. We must speak again. Let mewrite down your number. OK, we must terminate…I mean end… this conversation – Thea, this call iscosting you too much. Auf wiedersehen. Thank youfor calling”.The phone crashed unceremoniously onto thecradle.“Mom, who was that?”“Never mind”, she said in her heavy Germanaccent.“No, I want to know. Was it somebody fromGermany?”“It’s better forgotten”.Dorothy Kowen is a teacher of French language andclassical literature and the author of a number offictional works, including Bobba’s little lies, A Giftof Gold (also translated into French and anthologizedin a French textbook) and Nyama’s Journey. Theabove article is an extract from The Rabbi’s Daughter,a novel in progress.“No, don’t tell me … let me guess. Was she atschool with you and then her parents stopped youvisiting because you were Jewish?”“No. Her parents were always warm andaccepting. She was my best friend... but I must cuther out. I must pretend Nazi Germany did notexist…You do understand, don’t you?”I did not.Then there was her cousin, Hans Trixer, amagician of international repute. When I was aboutfive or six, I thought he was so good looking anddistinguished. He had thinning grey hair and a broadtoothy smile, but his eyes – his eyes were sad anddistant, like the eyes in pictures by the old masters.I hated my birthday parties. I hated the smockeddresses and straw hats my mother made me wear. Idid not like the children who came to celebrate myparties. I thought birthdays were sad. I had not askedto be born, and now I was supposed to be happy.Uncle Hans did not enjoy my birthday partieseither. He also did not come willingly. He wasinvited as the magician.When he arrived in Rhodesia as a refugee fromNazi Germany, my Granny insisted that he performmagic tricks for the children at my parties. MyGranny, Annie de Haas, had been a rebbetzin inGermany. No one said ‘No’ to her.Rabbits popped out from Hans Trixer’s sleeves,cakes appeared out of burning newspaper. Wechildren watched the cakes, but he just watched theflames with a detached fascination. While he watchedthe flames, I watched him mesmerized. The childrenshrieked and clapped, egged on by my Granny.“How did you do it? How did you do that trick,Hans Trixer?” hollered one of the children, jumpinginto his arms. He disentangled himself with distastefrom the clinging child as though he were peeling offsome sticky brown toffee. Clearly he did not like her,nor any of the other children for that matter.Hans Trixer was not his real name. My mothertold me that when he was five years old, he was givena magic set, a gift she thought far too sophisticatedfor a child of that age. She thought his parents, Walterand Gerde, spoilt him. Walter Elsbach, of Dortmund,Germany, was my Granny’s brother. When he wasnot entertaining children at my parties, Hans ranKeayes Jewellers in Salisbury and made jewellery. Istill have some of the pieces he gave me.Years later, we learned his story. At the age offourteen, this spoilt only child had worked in thekitchens at Auschwitz. The Gestapo heard about histalents as a magician and forced him to perform34