Home So Far Away Read online

  Praise for Home So Far Away

  “Klara’s voice is pitch-perfect, through wonderful dialogues and emotional reflections about belonging and gender in a nationally-bordered, male-dominated, and antisemitic fascist world. The diary form is a palette for Berlowitz’s meticulous historical research, creating rich and vivid landscapes in which Klara forges a “freedom both from a homeland that does not recognize me as a citizen – as its child – and freedom to choose a home that resonates for me.”

  —Rina Benmayor, Professor Emerita, CSU Monterey Bay; Genealogies of Sepharad Research Group

  “Captivating. On the eve of the Nazi rise to power, a German Jewish Communist finds the home she craves in Spain, where she becomes deeply involved in defending the Republic. Klara’s passion for life and freedom and the pungent sensual details create an immersive experience. The kind of diary Anne Frank might have written if she had survived to adulthood.”

  —Kate Raphael, author of Murder Under the Bridge, a Palestine mystery

  “Combining meticulous archival research with compelling literary creativity, Judith Berlowitz tells Klara’s story in the form of a diary, from her first visit to Sevilla before the war to her involvement as a nurse and translator during the conflict. Home So Far Away not only brings history to us on a deeply personal level; it also offers a vital lesson for today and tomorrow about the threats to democracy and the critical role that commitment –ethical and ideological—can play in its defense.”

  —Anthony L. Geist, University of Washington; Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives

  “Judith Berlowitz’s Home So Far Away is an absorbing tale: as her heroine Klara moves between a Germany where Jews are increasingly threatened, to Catholic Spain where Muslims & Jews once flourished, her Jewish identity becomes more central, just as it becomes more hidden. A fascinating historical adventure!”

  —Penny Rosenwasser, author of Hope into Practice

  “Home So Far Away is a tour de force of historical fiction. I walked in the shoes and saw through the eyes of the heroine, Klara, and for the first time, I felt the intensity of the struggle of the Spanish Civil War in my own bones —I lived the history through Klara’s words. I couldn’t leave the story behind, inspired by the strength and courage of those who fought for freedom at great expense and live on through our memory.”

  —Linda Joy Myers, President of National Association of Memoir Writers, author of Don’t Call Me Mother, Song of the Plains, and the forthcoming novel The Forger of Marseille

  “Set amid the travails of the Spanish Civil War, the Second Republic, and the Primo dictatorship before it, this book portrays one character’s place in Spain’s tumultuous early twentieth century. But it is more. Portraying a woman, who is a Jew, who is German, and who shuttles between Germany and Spain, Berlowitz also ruminates on one’s place in history and the impact that large historical events have on all of us.”

  —Joshua Goode, Associate Professor of History and Cultural Studies; Chair, Department of History Claremont Graduate University

  HOME SO FAR AWAY

  A Novel

  JUDITH BERLOWITZ

  SHE WRITES PRESS

  Copyright © 2022 Judith Berlowitz

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2022

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-375-9

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-376-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022901397

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This diary is a work of fiction. References to historical events, people, or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to names, characters, places, and events is purely coincidental.

  “Freiheit ist immer die freiheit des Andersdenkenden.”

  (Freedom is always the freedom of the one who thinks differently.)

  —Rosa Luxemburg

  “Die Heimat ist weit

  doch wir sind bereit:

  wir kämpfen und siegen für dich: Freiheit!”

  (The homeland is far away

  but we are ready:

  we’ll fight and win for thee, o Freedom!)

  —Gudrun Kabisch,

  refrain from the International Brigades’

  hymn of the Thälmann Battalion

  I

  BERLIN, Friday, 2 January 1925

  My mother’s usually soft voice trumpeted through the apartment, interrupting Gerda’s afternoon practice session, fortunately for me. I was beginning to wonder if my sister’s soprano range would ever allow her to reach the low “A” in the Mozart aria she is learning.

  “Klara! Gerda! A letter from Seville! From Onkel Julius!”

  I was getting ready to leave for a meeting, but a letter from Mama’s older brother is an important event in our home, so I gathered with everyone else at the kitchen table around steaming cups of tea as Mama read aloud from Onkel’s thick missive, slowly deciphering his archaic, cursive German kurrentschrift.

  What interested me most, of course, was the political intrigue: after a putsch in 1923, Spain now finds itself in the hands of General Miguel Primo de Rivera, right beside the king, who is referring to the dictator as his own Mussolini. And he evidently says that with pride! Onkel Julius does not offer his opinion, but it is possible that I will be able to hear it in person: Referring to the fact that Mama, Gerda, and I will all be having important birthdays this year (Gerda, thirty in April; Mama, sixty-five in August; and I, thirty-five in June), he insisted that we all come to Seville and spend a week—Holy Week, of all things—with him and his family.

  Spain! Just saying the word, my breathing accelerates. Southern sunlight! Odors I have never experienced! Sounds I have yet to hear! Papa, of course, will need to stay here in Berlin, since that time of year represents major profits, and his customers will be flocking to buy their Easter outfits. And Artur and Gina cannot leave their psychology clinic or their home, especially with little Ellen just three and baby Renate not yet two years old. Liese will probably come, if she can be convinced to leave Heinzl and little Günthi with Moritz. Liese is a rarity among us: a true hausfrau and a devotee of the proverbial three K’s (kinder, küche, kirche, the designated domain of the woman—with her children, in the kitchen, and at church).

  Onkel was born in Kassel and settled in Spain long ago, before I was born, as the representative of the very successful Brunner Mond chemical business. I think that he and his family are all Roman Catholics. So why is he still inviting us?

  When we took down the calendar to determine the dates of Holy Week and our travel possibilities, Mama gasped, “Gottenyu! The first night of Passover is April eighth, right in the middle of the so-called Holy Week! So how can we go then?” She sighed, dropping the calendar as if it had just burned her fingers. “We certainly will not be able to make a Seder in Catholic Spain. And will they even know from matzot?”

  Seder is dear to me as well. Communist that I am, this feast of liberation, of opening the door to others, is the best reason to be a Jew. “But when will we have such an opportunity to see the sights of Seville and to visit our uncle again, Mama?” I
asked.

  Gerda nodded her head, her tangled dark masses of curls a quivering cloud. “Yes, Mama, we may be able to make our own little private Seder.”

  My sister, taking my side! Rare and wonderful!

  Mama took a few moments for another sip of tea, then set her cup delicately in its saucer and declared, “Well, all right, let’s talk to Liese and write to Julius. Papa will be fine on his own here, with Birgit taking over.”

  With this settled, I dashed off to my meeting. I arrived very late, but as it broke up, I crossed the room to where Comrade D. had just separated herself from two people I did not know. She has spent time in Spain, and I think she is half Spanish herself. Her eyes, secret pools of dark water, and the animated way in which her body moves as she speaks are qualities alien to most Germans.

  I asked Comrade D. about the status of the Party in Spain, and she informed me that it is now outlawed but that individual leftist groups may be allowed, if they qualify by turning in their records to the government. She also mentioned local left-wing hubs scattered throughout Spanish cities, collectively called La Casa del Pueblo.

  “So,” she affirmed, briefly grasping my arm, “I have the address of the office in Sevilla, on the Alameda de Hércules. I will look for it and give it to you at next week’s meeting.”

  Something more to look forward to with this trip besides family and maybe a bit of Yiddishkeit: political intrigue. And the dark and dismal streets of Berlin left behind, at least for a couple of weeks. And now that I have pressed its first pages into service, I shall definitely take along this tagebuch, just purchased from Benedict Lachmann’s bookshop on Bayerischer Platz, to record my experiences abroad.

  BERLIN, Monday, 12 January 1925

  To prepare for our journey, Gerda and I have enrolled in a Spanish class at the Berlitz language school. Liese is busy at home, and Mama claims that she is too old to learn a new language. Yes, we will only be spending a little over a week in Seville, but we two younger sisters—for different reasons—like to be able to communicate with the people who live in the countries we visit.

  No German is spoken in our class, but we somehow respond and are learning. We are very impressed with el método, by no means the way we learned French or English, and Señor Valenzuela makes learning enjoyable with his gestures, pictures, and even songs. He is most impressed with Gerda’s voice, and the other students turn their heads to listen to her when we sing.

  I love making these new sounds, doing new things with my mouth and with my whole face, new feelings in my whole body.

  BERLIN, Tuesday, 31 March 1925

  German election results have been tabulated. The German People’s Party did not receive an absolute majority, so the election must be repeated at the end of April, according to the Weimar Constitution. The city is already covered with posters and handbills. Trucks roll through the streets, loaded with men and flags and broadcasting loud rhetoric along with their noxious fumes.

  Hindenburg is receiving the support of many right-leaning groups, all in opposition to our fragile Weimar democracy. Opposing him will be the Social Democratic Party and the Centre Party. Both of these parties are committed to the Republic but don’t seem to be able to overcome their differences in order to unite—a dismaying prospect.

  I am feeling rather uneasy about Thälmann’s role in the campaign. As Party chair, he has proposed ideas that I just don’t think would be appropriate for Germany and that may not even be the best thing for Russia. I am reminded of the Italian expression “più papista del papa” and I dare say that Thälmann may be more Stalinist than Stalin.

  The campaign will go on for nearly two weeks, but we will be in Spain. I am looking forward to the experience of a new culture, even as I wonder how we will be able to observe a Jewish holiday in the midst of the holiest time of the Christian calendar. I also wonder about Onkel Julius’s feelings about living under a dictatorship. For us, being in Spain just might be a preparation for things to come in Germany. I now have the address of a Party office in Seville and just hope to be able to make contact there.

  SEVILLE, Thursday, 2 April 1925

  We finally arrived yesterday, after a long and exhausting journey. Liese’s boys are staying at home with Ermengarde, their housekeeper, and of course Moritz. Heinz has just turned fourteen and is thinking seriously about studying medicine but must be reminded to stick to his studies. Little Günther (called “Putzi”) is just four and is already trying to emulate anything his brother does. Luckily, Moritz knows how to be patient with his two boys.

  Crossing the border into Spain at Cerbère was a rather enormous undertaking since the track gauges are of different sizes. We traveled across lovely, cultivated fields and past tiny towns to Andalusia, where I was almost hypnotized by the endless vistas of silvery olive trees. Just letting my eyes float across that expanse brought great peace to my mind.

  At our final stop, an oriental palace rose up before us: the train station at the Plaza de Armas. An exotic welcome to Seville!

  Onkel Julius met us alone at the station. Mama recognized him at once and began to sob, murmuring, “He is exactly like our father, Israël. The same neat goatee! The same graceful moustache!” She recoiled a bit, though, at the vigorous hugs he gave us all, kissing us noisily on both cheeks and calling out our names—“Ida! Klara! Elisabeth! Gerda!”

  The porter loaded our valises into the boot of a spectacular Hispano-Suiza H6. In German squeezed out with much effort, Onkel explained proudly that the vehicle’s engine was based on wartime aircraft engines. He also told us that France had bought up many shares of the company and so had acquired a great deal of control over design and production, putting many locals out of work. I was tempted to comment that if companies like this one were collectivized, the gap between workers and owners would be eliminated, but I held my tongue.

  “I am going to take you on a circular route,” began Onkel Julius (or “Tío Julio,” as he asked us to call him). “I want to enter our street, probably the most castiza—echt, typical—street in Seville, Calle San Luis, by the most elegant way: through the Gate of La Macarena.”

  We were driving along the street called Torneo, separated from the train tracks by a low-lying wall that lent itself to political graffiti as well as posters and amateur works of art. On the other side of the street from the wall were large warehouses storing goods that had been imported or were about to be exported.

  “You will occasionally be able to glimpse our river through the spaces in the muro, the wall,” continued Tío. “Our river, the Guadalquivir, the big wadi—the only large navigable river in Spain. And that is the Arabic word. The Romans called it the Betis.”

  As he slowed down, I was able to make out some graffiti on the wall. I read one line aloud: “Estibadores: Ni un paso atrás.” I tapped Tío’s shoulder: “What does it mean?”

  “Estibadores,” he said—“Workers of the docks—dock workers—Not one step back! These workers are very often de huelga—on strike.”

  “Ah, bravo!” I exclaimed and then fell silent, not certain of the impression I was making on him and sensing some disapproval from Mama and my sisters. I concentrated on peering out of the auto, and as I did, I noticed that the people of Seville are quite attractive, especially the women. They look more like us than does the typical German. I also saw beautiful posters announcing the springtime Holy Week and Feria (Fair) events all over the city.

  After a pause, Tío haltingly broached a subject that seemed to cause him some discomfort. His German was even more difficult to understand than before as he said, “Now, dear sister and nieces, I must ask of you a grand favor. In my family, only my beloved wife, María Dolores, knows about my—our—ascendencia—our origins. None of our children know anything about this. We live in Spain as Catholics, and we belong to the parish of San Cipriano. I pray you that you not mention the word Jew to my children. This is not a thing that I want to associate with my family, sobre todo—especially—during this Holy Week. I hope
you know what I mean and that you can understand my … circumstance.”

  None of us spoke a word for what felt like several minutes. Though we are not super-pious, what Papa would call frum, this was the first time any of us had been asked to actually deny our heritage. We sat silently, each of us in her own thoughts, and I considered the fact that we would be attempting to observe Passover next week. Then I decided to bargain a bit.

  “All right, Tío,” I finally offered, reaching again for his shoulder. “We won’t tell anyone that we are Jewish—as long as you don’t tell anyone that I’m a Communist!”

  We all laughed a little, and with that, the ice was broken somewhat. Tío sighed and patted Mama’s hand.

  By then we had turned right onto Calle Resolana.

  “This street is filled with sunlight, and that is how it received its name,” Tío explained. “You will not recognize it when La Macarena shows herself next week.”

  “Julius, do you know the history of every street in Seville?” asked Mama in a somewhat chiding tone.

  Tío’s response was to launch into an eloquent description of the street on which the family home is located: “Calle San Luis has also been called Calle Real, or Royal Street, for a good reason. This street was the nerve center, the Cardo Maximus, of Roman times, as well as during the times of the Moros,” he explained. “We are about to pass through the Gate of La Macarena, where kings and queens entered Sevilla.”

  As we emerged into the hub of the city, I suddenly felt sheltered within the embrace of the ancient wall.

  “We are just passing by the Parroquia—Parish—of San Gil,” Tío continued. “This is a very old church, probably built over a destroyed mezquita—mosque—at the time of the Reconquista, during the reign of Alfonso the Tenth, called El Sabio—The Wise. The church is built in the gótico-mudéjar style, that is, a mixture of Gothic and Mudéjar.”