Chapter One
Monday, April 17, 1933
Robert Brewster was waiting around the train station in
Voorburg-on-Hudson for a box of books he'd ordered for his
sister Lily's next birthday. A week ago, he'd sneaked away
to New York City with a list the comely town librarian had
given him. Miss Philomena Exley knew Lily's reading habits
and favorite authors. He'd been told that two of the
author choices she'd enjoyed had new books coming out the
end of the week if he'd care to wait for just one package
to be shipped by train to Voorburg.
Since he was doing this much earlier than necessary, which
was not the way he normally treated birthdays, Robert
didn't mind. Mostly, he frantically picked up some silly
trinket at the last minute, and offered to pay Lily's way
to a talkie. But getting to speak at length with Miss
Exley was a rare treat.
Since there was no longer a post office in Voorburg
because it burned down years ago, the incoming mail and
packages were in bags at the train station and the
residents had to rummage through the bags to fish out what
they'd received.
There was a porter who hung around the station, helping
with luggage and living on the tips, which must have been
meager in these hard times. Edwin McBride had been at the
Bonus March and heard Jack Summer, the editor of the
Voorburg Times, talk about Voorburg. It had sounded like a
nice town so he'd settled there. "A box for you, Mr.
Brewster," McBride said. "Really heavy."
Robert tipped him fifty cents, which was probably more
than McBride normally made in a week, and set the box down
on a bench, to figure out where to hide it from Lily. As
he was doing so, a familiar Voorburg resident stepped off
the last car, which was for passengers. She was Sara
Smithson, a young widow who had inherited a lot of rental
property from her husband. She looked exhausted as she
gestured for Mr. McBride to help her with her enormous
suitcase, then a large trunk. The trunk was followed by an
older man, who needed help down the steep steps.
Robert approached her. "May I help you and this
gentleman?"
"Oh, Mr. Brewster, how nice of you. It's been such a long
hard trip."
"From where?" Robert asked, not that it was any of his
business.
She didn't mind telling him. "Clear from Berlin, Germany."
She pushed back her hair, which was straggling loose from
under her hat.
"I went to fetch my grandfather." She put her hand on the
old man's arm and glanced at Robert. "This nice man, Mr.
Brewster, is going to help us with our belongings."
The old man took Robert's hand, and introduced
himself. "Schneidermeister Kurtz."
"Grandpa, say it in English," Mrs. Smithson said with a
hint of irritation. "I've told you not many people here
know German."
He patted his granddaughter's arm and with a smile,
said, "Yes, you have, sweeting. I'm Master Tailor Kurtz.
My granddaughter came to rescue me from the Nazis." Robert
was surprised at how well the old man spoke English. Only
the faintest hint of German accent.
"Are you Jewish, then?" Robert asked.
"No, Catholic," he said. "But once I went with a friend to
a Communist meeting. We all had to sign our names and
addresses in a ledger so we'd get a notice of the time and
place of the next meeting. The Nazis hate Communists as
much as Jews. I feared someone would turn me in if they
found the ledger."
It took both Robert and McBride to thrust Mr. Kurtz's
trunk and Mrs. Smithson's big suitcase into the back of
Robert's butter-yellow Duesenberg.
"What a fine car this is," Mr. Kurtz said. "You must be
very wealthy to have one."
"Grandpa! That's rude," Mrs. Smithson said.
"I don't mind at all," Robert said. "I inherited it from a
great-uncle I didn't even remember. My sister and I are as
poor as everyone else in town. Mrs. Smithson, where am I
taking you and your grandfather?"
"I live next door to Miss Jurgen. Do you know her house?"
"I do. My sister Lily takes sewing lessons from her."
"I know. I take lessons at the same time she does. But
it's not sewing. It's graphing patterns for embroidery and
needlepoint. But we need to drop off Grandpa's trunk
first."
"Where?"
"That little empty shop across from the courthouse that
used to be a bookstore before the tenant and his family
took off for California. My late husband owned it."
Robert pulled up in front of the building and said, "We're
going to have to have some help with this trunk. Your
grandfather can't endanger his hands or back trying to
carry it. It's very heavy. I'll go and see if the
newspaper editor, Jack Summer, can help me."
"I hate putting so many people to all this trouble."
"It's no trouble at all. And you can do me a favor. Hide
this box of books in your house until my sister's
birthday, if you would."
"Small payment for all you've done," she said, fishing in
her handbag for the keys to the building.
Robert and Jack were back in minutes. "How can a trunk be
so darned heavy?" Jack asked.
"Mr. Kurtz is a tailor," Robert explained. "A Master
Tailor, in fact. He must have his sewing machine and all
his shears, scissors, and threads in it. Probably lots of
fabrics as well."
They were both out of breath by the time they'd hoisted it
up the two steps to the shop. They could hear voices from
the floor above, where there were probably living
quarters.
"In English, Grandpa," came Mrs. Smithson's voice.
"But you know German, too."
"Not very well, Grandpa, and I don't speak it anymore. You
shouldn't either. German speakers aren't very well liked
in America these days."