The Chemist's Shop

  The Chemist’s Shop

  By Richard Brumer

  The Chemist’s Shop

  Copyright © 2015 by Richard Brumer.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: June 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-178-2

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-178-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For my wife

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out...

  Because I was not a Socialist.

  Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out...

  Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

  Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out...

  Because I was not a Jew.

  Then they came for me...and there was no one left to speak for me.

  —Martin Niemoller, Protestant pastor

  Chapter 1

  Szentendre, a small village near Budapest

  -April 1944

  Miklos Rosen stared out his bedroom window, hypnotized by the large fluffy snowflakes floating down under the bright street lamp. He focused on one of them, following it as it drifted downward to rest with those that had already fallen. He never lost his sense of wonder. The snow would be gone by morning with the onset of the sun and warm spring air, but winter was giving one last shout before its demise.

  Ilona lay in bed, her head pressed against the pillow, and watched her husband. Miklos knew she thought he was a dreamer. Their three young daughters were asleep in their rooms, already tucked in with kisses and hugs. Ilona closed her eyes and sighed. She seemed content.

  At thirty-four, Miklos felt blessed to have Ilona and their three lovely daughters as his family. The youngest was Eva, age five. Their identical twins, Roza and Magda, were eight.

  The Easter and Passover holy days had recently passed and, although the Rosen’s were Jewish, they shared some of the spring festivities with their Christian neighbors. The children loved the egg hunts with their friends and getting their baskets filled with goodies. Family and friendships were valued above all else.

  “Miklos, come to bed. My feet are cold,” Ilona called.

  He stepped away from the window, abandoning his wandering thoughts as he slid under the thick feather comforter and snuggled up to her. She was so beautiful. In all their years of marriage, it seemed she hadn’t changed a bit. Her fair skin, jet-black curls, and sparkling brown eyes had first attracted him, but it was her tender, inner feelings that made him love her.

  Ilona’s eyes fluttered open. Miklos heard a soft moan hum through her lips as she turned and stretched her arm around his neck to draw him closer. His heart raced in anticipation of the passion that would follow. They held each other’s hands in front of their lips, gazing at each other as they kissed the gold bands that encircled their fingers.

  Short kisses followed as Miklos moved his hand under her nightgown and along her slender body to feel her breasts. She trembled beneath him.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I could never live without you.”

  He felt her tender kisses on his eyelids...so soft, so light.

  “I love you too, Ilona. So much.”

  Miklos remained motionless as her moist lips traced his face with soft kisses. He pulled her closer until he felt her heart beating against his chest.

  A hard tapping on the bedroom door broke the moment.

  “Apa, Anya. Papa, Mama,” a young girl cried.

  Ilona rushed to open the door. Little Magda stood there with her face crinkled up, wet with tears. Ilona knelt on the bedroom floor, rocked the child in her arms, and kissed her tears away.

  “Shh, shh, little sweetheart. You’re with Mama now.”

  “Anya, Roza hit me and called me a bad word,” she said, sobbing and pulling on her mother’s white night dress.

  A minute later, her twin sister, Roza, dashed into the room and shouted, “Anya, Magda is telling a lie. I knew she was going to wake you. She’s mean and always lies. I never used a bad word.”

  “Shh, be quiet. Don’t wake Eva,” Ilona whispered as she took them to her bedside. “Did you hit her, Roza?”

  “Nem, nem, Anya,” Roza shouted.

  “She’s lying,” Magda yelled. “She hit me on my arm.”

  “Girls, girls, I love you both. Roza, just tell me if you hit Magda.”

  “Well,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident, and I only touched her arm with my little finger.”

  “Apologize to your sister,” Ilona said, then kissed each girl on the forehead. “If you did say a bad word, Roza, don’t use it again.”

  Roza took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, and frowned as she stood in front of Magda. Then she put her hands on her hips, looked at the ceiling, shrugged, and said in a low whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  Magda cried out, “Mama, can we sleep with you and Papa?”

  Roza chimed in, “Please, please.”

  Miklos and Ilona exchanged a glance, sighed, and nodded as the girls climbed in and nestled under the warm blanket.

  ***

  Miklos was the first to wake the next morning. He looked at Ilona and the girls sleeping peacefully, a stark contrast to the violence going on in most of Europe. His little girls knew nothing of it. They lived in the world of fairy tales, only aware of the pleasures of childhood and the love they felt for each other in their country home. The young girls awakened to the chirps of birds and the sweet fragrance of their flower garden, which were much more peaceful and pleasant than the noise and odors of the city.

  Miklos sat at the edge of his bed, alone with his thoughts. He was aware that anti-Semitism had been prevalent in Hungary for many years, and, since his country had allied with Nazi Germany, he felt the inevitable was near. The Nazis and Hungarian authorities were brutal. He had listened to shortwave radio reports of the killings and conscription of people in villages and farms in countries throughout Europe, where the Holocaust was in full force.

  His family meant everything to him. He had to protect them but didn’t know how. Ilona depended upon him to keep her and their daughters safe, and he felt guilty for being powerless.

  Miklos was glad that, for now, his family was
unharmed, but he believed they would be safer in their Budapest apartment, where they had lived when he taught at the university. He was thankful he had a home to go to in the capital. The Jewish community in Budapest was secure, but he knew it would not last. The oppressive anti-Semitic laws made the lives of the Jews difficult, and, although his neighbors seemed to be out of harm’s way, the Hungarian authorities recruited them to clean up debris and dig graves for the dead after air raids. They did whatever was necessary to appease the authorities and stay alive.

  Moving to Budapest might buy us time, but why? Are Budapest Jews privileged? Is what’s happening an illusion? Soon, no Jew will be safe anywhere in Hungary. How could the world allow this?

  Miklos’s sense of security evaporated when German troops occupied Hungary. Everything happened so quickly, there was no time for Hungarians to organize any significant form of resistance. There was talk that Jews were being forced into a ghetto and kept under guard behind a high fence and a stone wall. Thus far, the Rosen’s had not been arrested or disturbed, but Miklos had already been relieved of his position at the university, where he was a pharmacology professor. His crime was being a Jew. His parents were among those who were missing and his inquiries went unanswered. Germans occupied Ilona’s family vineyard and forced her parents to accommodate them under threat of arrest.

  Miklos knew that time would not be on their side and he tried to keep Ilona optimistic. It was no longer safe to stay in Hungary, and he made plans to move back to their home in Budapest in a few days. He was fortunate that his family had their apartment in the capital, but the idea that they would be part of the few Jews left in Budapest made him uneasy.

  Maybe the fact that I was once a prestigious professor will protect us. The Germans are part of a high culture and always showed respect for those in the world of academia.

  Many of their neighbors and friends in the countryside had mysteriously disappeared, including Miklos’ best friend, Laszlo Radnóti, a poet, and János Schwarz, a historian and author. The village streets were barren except for the ominous presence of Nazi troops marching on cobblestone. Times had changed drastically. He thought it could be a matter of weeks before they, too, would be arrested.

  Miklos had to take his mind to another place to escape his thoughts and find serenity. He created an illusion that everything would be all right in the end and his family would live, but the truth was that it was a dangerous time, and they were in an unsafe place. He could not afford to daydream.

  We are safe now, but I can’t anticipate what is to come, just like unexpected snowfall on a spring night. But I fear Jews are as fragile as snowflakes and will soon disappear. Maybe Budapest is not safe either. Once we are there, I will arrange for us to leave Hungary and go far away...to America.

  He smiled at that idea.

  ***

  Miklos and Ilona protected their daughters from worry and harm so they could live in their sweet world of innocence. He was delighted to see his girls play dress-up as they danced around the house, like little ballerinas, to the music of Swan Lake. Little Eva was the best dancer of them all.

  “Go, go, Eva,” he shouted and clapped with his hands over his head.

  She turned and spun, like a prima ballerina, the star of the show. She had her own graceful style and expressed her emotions with her small, delicate hands, dancing and turning, with her arms arched above her. In his mind’s eye, Miklos saw her grown-up, in her ballet costume, on point and on stage.

  The twins skipped and danced until they were breathless. They were all dressed up and fancy, painted with their mother’s makeup and wearing colorful outfits sewn together by Ilona from scraps of material. Roza and Magda had their own sense of grace. They lived in the moment, their moment, as they twirled their young bodies, attempted pirouettes, and leaped into the air.

  Ilona turned toward Miklos and whispered in his ear, “When the girls are finished dancing, remind me to tell you something.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “No, it’s a surprise for the whole family.”

  Magda’s excited cries interrupted them. “Look at me, look at me!” She skipped barefoot along the hardwood floor, spinning, turning and bowing to her audience.

  “Wonderful!” Miklos shouted as he clapped in rhythm to the music.

  “Look at me too,” Roza yelled as she jumped up and down on the sofa.

  Then little Eva caught her breath and performed her solo. “Look at me, Papa. I’m the swan queen.”

  She twirled her young body around until she was dizzy, but continued to dazzle her audience. At the end of her dance, her black curls were wet with perspiration and she bowed to everyone as they applauded. Her eyes widened and sparkled when Miklos presented her with a red rose he had taken from Ilona’s birthday bouquet.

  “Oh, Papa, thank you!” she said, taking in the delicate scent of the rose.

  “You’re welcome, Eva. Every ballerina should have flowers when she takes her bows at the end of her performance.”

  Miklos squeezed his wife’s hand. “Did you ever think that when our girls were born, they would provide us with so much entertainment?”

  “Never,” Ilona said with tears of delight. “We were given a gift, a wonderful present,” she said, her dark brown eyes glistening.

  “We’re blessed,” he said with a deep sigh, but his thoughts were troubled.

  “Will we be all right, Miklos?” Ilona asked. “I’m worried about the girls. They’re so young, just babies.”

  “Everything will go well. I was a professor. The Nazis will show respect and find some use for me. We will be safe, Ilona. I promise you.”

  Little Eva was out of breath. She sat on the couch, her chest heaving in and out, but Roza and Magda continued to dance with the little energy they had left. They loved each other in a special way, as twins do, but had distinctive personalities. Magda was a bit of a complainer, but good-natured. At the dinner table, she would scrutinize the food carefully and either eat it or give it a “yuck.” Her dream was to be a singer, and she constantly hummed and whistled her tunes.

  Roza was the resident introvert. She read books and loved to write poetry. She was sensitive, like her mother.

  Miklos thought that when his girls grew up, they would be a gift to the artistic world. They had so much ahead of them and were lucky to be at the beginning of their lives.

  The dancing and music continued. Everything will work out all right. He and Ilona continued to be an enthusiastic audience. They clapped and sang through their daughters’ performances.

  Until…

  The sound of marching boots and loud banging on the door brought the festivities to a halt.

  Chapter 2

  Post World War II

  Miklos survived the concentration camp in Auschwitz and felt there was no reason for him to remain in Hungary. The Nazis had taken everyone he loved and Soviet communism dominated Hungary’s post-war government, thus trading one oppressive political system for another.

  In 1946, he immigrated to the United States, anglicized his name to Michael Ross to sound more American, and worked to perfect his spoken English. He did what was necessary to familiarize himself with the American educational process and secure teaching credentials. Eventually, he accepted a post as a professor of pharmacology and pharmacy at a private university near Oneonta, New York. He bought a house from the estate of an elderly former policeman who had passed away. The officer had no family and the house was sold “as is,” including the furnishings and the officer’s personal belongings.

  It was a comfortable house set far enough away from neighbors to afford privacy. The detached two-car garage was impressive with a built-in workbench along the back wall, a deep sink, and an assortment of manual and electric tools, neatly hung on a wall. An exhaust fan circulated hot air to the outside, and a duct, connected to the house furnace, provided heat when needed. The right wall was bare except for several exposed pipes leading back to the sink. There was also a shelf hold
ing a cardboard box filled with miscellaneous items.

  Professor Ross taught at the university for twenty years. He was only sixty, and, in anticipation of leaving the world of academia, he opened a community pharmacy called The Chemist’s Shop in January 1970. He hired Dan Berman, his former student and now an experienced licensed pharmacist, to manage and operate the store. There was a need for an independent pharmacy in the area, one that provided compounding services and personal attention, and it wasn’t long before the shop had many customers passing through its doors. In April, after his retirement from the university, Michael joined Dan at The Chemist’s Shop.

  ***

  The Rosen’s homes in Budapest and the countryside had been damaged beyond repair and their contents confiscated either by the Nazis or the Red Army. As a result, the only pictures Michael had of his wife and daughters were in his mind. At Auschwitz, he remembered his little girls skipping and playing with the other children as they made their way to the gas chamber, thinking they were going to a playground for fun and games. Tears came to his eyes when he imagined little Eva carrying what was left of her red rose.

  Even after all these years, Michael could never get his last glimpse of his girls out of his mind. He had been upset because the twins, who were rarely apart, were separated in the initial lineup at Auschwitz. It was an ironic twist of fate that enabled them to elude Dr. Mengele’s depraved, horrific experiments on twins to improve the Aryan race. Michael tried to find solace with thoughts that his girls’ deaths were quick and painless.

  ***

  Still in his pajamas, Michael turned on the TV. Sesame Street splashed on the screen in glorious color. He watched the Cookie Monster puppet as it ranted, “Me want cookie, me eat cookie.” He imagined his young daughters sitting next to him, spellbound by the big eyes of the blue-furred monster.