She woke with a start in the middle of the night, and tiptoed out of the room without switching on the light so as not to rouse Julius. A strange feeling led her down to one of the shelves in the back room where the books not for sale were stored.
The shelf was piled high with books by the Russian poet Mayakovsky, the favorite of her brother Abraham, who had left Germany several years earlier for a Caribbean island. There too, with their worn spines, were the storybooks her father had once read to her at bedtime. She paused to consider which she would choose if she could save only one. It didn’t take her long: she would protect the French botanical album with its hand-painted illustrations of exotic plants and flowers that her father had brought back from a work trip to the colonies. Picking up the volume whose unique scent reminded her of her father, she observed how the pages were yellowing and how the ink on some of the drawings was fading. She could still recall the exact names of the plants in both Latin and French, because before she fell asleep her father used to speak of them as if they were souls abandoned in distant lands.
Opening a page at random, she paused to look at Chrysanthemum carinatum. She closed her eyes and could hear her father’s resonant voice describing that plant originally from Africa, tricolor, with yellow ligules at the base and flower heads so long they filled you with emotion.
She took the book back up to her bedroom and placed it under her pillow. Only when she had done so was she able to sleep peacefully.
The next morning, Julius woke her with a kiss on the cheek. The aroma of cedar and musk from his shaving cream brought back memories of their honeymoon in the Mediterranean. She hugged him to keep him with her, burying her head against his long, muscular neck, and whispering, “You were right. It’s going to be a girl. I dreamed it. And we’ll call her Viera.”
“Welcome, Viera Sternberg,” Julius replied, wrapping Amanda in his powerful arms.
A few minutes later, she ran to the window to wave goodbye and saw he was already at the street corner, surrounded by a gang of youngsters wearing swastika armbands.
But Amanda wasn’t worried. She knew that nothing intimidated Julius. No blow or shout, much less an insult. He looked back before turning the corner, and smiled up at her. That was enough. Amanda was ready now to sift through the shelves, having already chosen the book she would save from the bonfire.
When she went downstairs to open the front door to the Garden of Letters, Frau Strasser was already standing in the doorway like a brick wall. Amanda didn’t know if this impression resulted from the heavy suit she was wearing—a kind of belted military uniform that was the new fashion in a city where femininity and elegance were frowned upon—or because of her threatening demeanor. Frau Strasser was now part of an army of women pretending to be soldiers, although they had never actually been called to arms.
“I am not going to permit noxious books to be sold right under my nose,” she thundered. “You were lucky with all that rain, but your grace period is over.”
It was true. In May, Amanda’s store had survived the burning of more than twenty thousand books in Opernplatz, dragged like corpses on wheelbarrows by spellbound university students who imagined their futures would be made by feeding the biggest bonfire ever seen in Berlin.
That dark evening of May 10, 1933, they had all heard on the radio the speech that would seal the future of what until that moment had been their country: “The era of extreme Jewish intellectualism has come to an end, and the German revolution has again opened the way for the true essence of being German.”
How can a country survive without poets and thinkers? Amanda had wondered as she sat lost in thought next to Julius. The radio began broadcasting the youth anthem of the National Socialists boasting of a new era.
Although the rainy days of late spring had prevented them from continuing with their book burnings around the city, now they were ready to renew their efforts and Amanda’s collection would not be spared.
Frau Strasser was still standing on the threshold, but Amanda was not intimidated. She stroked her stomach, determined not to let this burly neighbor with her military fantasies ruin her happiness. I’m going to be a mother, she told herself under her breath, but Frau Strasser remained there, arms folded, defiant. Observing her more closely, Amanda thought that the only thing human about her were her eyes. Beyond her harsh exterior, it was evident from her garb that she was not one of the chosen ones: she merely represented the power of the masses, not that of the elite. An elite to which she doubtless paid homage with unfettered adoration and submission.
After holding Amanda’s gaze for a few moments, Frau Strasser strode off in silence. Amanda knew that the next time she appeared she would be escorted by members of the National Socialist youth. She was plotting something.
Amanda stood by the shelf in the store window ready to make her verdict, feeling like a mother casting her children into oblivion. The barbarians were destroying centuries of civilization, attacking reason in the name of a supposed ideal of order, for what they claimed was perfection. She was unable to hold back the tears as she recalled her father organizing books by subject, running his hands along their spines, blowing the dust off their tops. She summoned up the scents of ink and glue, of almond and vanilla, of the dry, cracked leather of the antique books. And she could hear her father describing how the paper crumbled, the volatile substances it gave off, about cellulose and lignin, acid hydrolysis.
She tried her best to avoid the names she had to confront. Why some and not others? She began with Zweig, went on to Freud, London, Hemingway, Lewis, Keller, Remarque, Hugo, Dostoevsky, Brecht, Dreiser, Werfel, Brod, Joyce, and Heine, her father’s favorite poet. She was unable to hold back the tears, as if they could save her from the misfortune of being her own pathetic censor. She began throwing books onto the floor, preparing them for the worst.
The door-chime rang and a freckle-faced university student with rosy cheeks entered. His appearance looked so cheerful, it even made his crisp brown uniform seem friendly. Though she knew better, she nodded at him as if he were a frequent visitor, someone who spent hours browsing through book covers, illustrations, and texts.
“Where is the owner?” he asked, stressing each syllable as if to insist on his power and overcome the impression of his small stature.
Amanda remained coolheaded. Smiling, she explained that she was the only one there, that if he wanted to see a man he would have to wait for her husband.
“You have today to clear all that garbage from the shelves!” the young man barked, then left the store, slamming the door to intimidate her further, and saying under his breath “Filthy worms.”
What was the point of her selecting books if they had already made up their minds? The moment had come to allow her Garden of Letters to wither and die. There was nothing she could do: her bookstore would be abandoned to the mercy of the executioners.
The sun was at the zenith when she left the bookshelves behind, locked up the store, and made her way across a neighborhood that she already had trouble recognizing. Today is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, she thought. Summer is about to start.
As she walked along, she noticed her neighbors avoiding one another. Everyone seemed to be surreptitiously whispering and eavesdropping. The chaos of doubt was gripping the German capital: it was safer to listen, for speaking carried risks. From house to house, window to window, the news on the radio, those harangues in praise of purity, had become the city’s daily soundtrack: “Germany for the Germans.”
Am I not German, too? she wanted to ask.
Eventually she found herself in Fasanenstrasse. Realizing she was close to the synagogue, she crossed to the opposite side of the street. On the next corner, she was surprised to see dahlias outside a flower shop. She rejoiced in this shock of color amid the gray, drab city that had become devoid of life.
She went inside and asked for the flowers with the most blooms, deciding to take them to her husband’s office and surprise him
. The florist, a stooped woman with hands like claws, began to prepare the bouquet.
“I only want ones in different shades of pink,” Amanda interrupted her.
“They’re all the same. They’re red dahlias,” the florist grumbled. “What’s the matter with you? Are you blind? If you don’t like the way I’m doing this, you can do it yourself!”
After selecting a few French, Persian, and Mexican pink dahlias, Amanda quickly paid the florist and left the store. Cradling her bouquet, she left Sybelstrasse and walked down the busy Kurfürstendamm, and then went to Pariser Strasse, which would take her to Julius’s office. With every minute the colors of the dahlias became more intense. The vulnerable pink hues defended themselves from the hurtful atmosphere.
Although she was tempted to lose herself in the dahlias’ frail beauty or in the faces of the children she passed, Amanda was shaken back to reality by the realization that she and her husband were the only ones who hadn’t yet fled. Her cousins were in Poland. Her parents were dead, and so were his. What was left for them here?
She and Julius had friends in France: they could get secure safe passage and leave everything behind, starting afresh in Paris or some small town. Her husband even had patients who only needed to be asked in order to recommend them at the Office for Palestine on Meinekestrasse. But Julius felt he could not abandon his cardiac patients. Nowadays, they arrived for their appointments with a swastika in their lapel or on an armband. Julius turned a blind eye to these symbols that tormented Amanda so much.
“Nothing has changed,” he would tell her. “They’re still my patients. I see only their hearts, I don’t read their minds.”
When Amanda entered the office, Fräulein Zimmer looked up from behind the giant mahogany desk stacked with thick medical files. Her expression was far from welcoming, for she knew that whenever Amanda interrupted the doctor with one of her surprise visits, he would cancel his appointments or postpone those that weren’t urgent.
Amanda sat in the gloomy waiting room as close as possible to the office door, hoping it would open at any moment. First she heard voices and laughter; then out came a tall, gray-haired man in a dark brown suit with a swastika glinting in his lapel. As he entered the room, he noticed Amanda, who rose to her feet. He stared at her as though wondering why a beautiful young German woman would be in need of a heart consultation.
Whenever she felt she was being examined in this way, Amanda lowered her eyes, in a gesture that some might have interpreted as submission. Following behind this imposing man was a youngster in his image, with the same blunt features: widely spaced eyes, snub-nosed, thick eyebrows, and almost nonexistent lips. His suit hung so loose on him it was impossible to tell if there were muscles or merely bones beneath the huge shoulder pads. His eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, and his lips were a sickly purple.
When Julius saw her, he stepped past them, gave her a kiss, and put his arm around her.
“Your wife?” asked the stocky old man with an air of surprise. “She doesn’t seem . . .” His voice trailed off.
The younger man fixed his eyes on her with an expression that seemed to say, Why me, and not her? He belonged to a superior race; she was trying to hide behind an Aryan facade, but was obviously only an inferior, contemptible being. Why did he have to be the one, just when the nation most needed him, who had a heart so weak it could not even pump enough blood for him to breathe properly?
Father and son departed hastily, bidding goodbye to Fräulein Zimmer.
As soon as Amanda left the office on Julius’s arm, she felt invincible. The two of them were together; they needed nothing more. Julius gazed at her and she smiled. What would my life be without you? he thought. They made their way to Olivaer Platz in silence and sought refuge on a terrace overlooking the trees in the park, waiting for the sun to set. Julius ordered wine and something to eat.
“Today is the longest day of the year,” Amanda told him.
Life was going well for them. They were soon to be parents, and his medical practice was growing. Although the year had turned ominous with the rise of National Socialism, they had no thought of leaving behind everything they had built up. Why flee and start all over again? Julius thought. Where to?
They set out for home before having coffee, just as the sun was setting. Amanda’s steps slowed as they drew near, as if she was reluctant to arrive. Let’s take longer, let’s stay here, stop, she wanted to say. Julius fell in step with her silently, sensing what was troubling his wife. Gangs of youths were running in all directions in the encroaching gloom; no soldiers or police were anywhere to be seen.
Turning the corner, they spotted a disturbance outside the Garden of Letters. From afar, they could see Frau Strasser surrounded by neighbors and curious onlookers. Students came hurtling toward them pushing wheelbarrows overflowing with books. They were singing some kind of anthem, but Amanda couldn’t catch the words.
She saw her favorite customer, Fräulein Hilde Krahmer, running toward her.
“Hilde!” she cried out when she was a few feet away, her voice cracking. Julius squeezed his wife’s hand hard, as though begging her not to let fear engulf her.
The young woman, with cropped chestnut hair and a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, rushed up to them.
“They smashed the door in and took away all the books,” Hilde shouted.
All of them. Amanda’s only hope was that her most precious volume, the one that woke her from her dreams to go and save it, was still under her pillow. Hilde was still talking nervously, obviously distraught.
“I thought that after the big bonfire in May, the students would have calmed down, but instead . . . What has become of us, Amanda?”
When Amanda saw the orange glow emerge from behind Hilde, she knew this was the sign. A part of her life was going to perish in the flames together with those books.
As the three of them approached the Garden of Letters, they saw Frau Strasser standing outside with what looked like a hoe in her hand. She seemed pleased at having fulfilled her mission.
There were only a few young people watching the blaze. They were the sole onlookers; no one else seemed interested. Amanda wanted to scream, but instead she closed her eyes as she breathed in the smoky air, picturing all the leather, the paper, the glue succumbing to the heat of the fire. Tears streamed down Hilde’s cheeks and Julius’s eyes bore a dark gleam of sadness. Amanda’s face, however, was now frozen in a strange smile.
“They’re only burning paper. The books are still here,” she said, raising her first finger to her temple, all her anguish captured in a gesture. “If they really want them to disappear, they will have to burn all of us,” she declared. “Do they think they can incinerate everything I learned from my father? They can never do that, Hilde. My father’s voice will always be with me . . .”
She was unable to continue.
“There are still some good Germans left,” Hilde said, trying to console her.
“I’m German too. This is my country, no matter what they say.”
“A poet predicted this a century ago: ‘Where they burn books, they will also end up burning people.’ The chancellor has hypnotized everyone, especially the young people, who act on impulse.”
In her dreams, Amanda had already seen the bonfire. The flames reached right up to the clouds; the pile of books was higher than any building in Opernplatz. In the real world, it was no more than twenty or so students emboldened by their swastikas and the National Socialist youth anthem, taking revenge on a handful of books. There would be others, she knew. This was just the beginning.
There was nothing more they could do. As she said good night and hugged Hilde, Amanda sensed that a long, close friendship would unite them. Together they would recite phrases from their favorite authors in secret, and in doing so, keep them alive. She took Julius’s hand as they climbed the stairs to their apartment. They had survived the bonfire, at least this time, and Amanda had the satisfaction of
having saved at least one book from the flames. It would remain with her until the day of her death.
“Let’s count the days until winter,” she murmured as they climbed the stairs back to their apartment. “When our daughter will be born.”
“But it’s only June, my darling,” Julius pointed out serenely. “We’ve a long way to go.”
3
Viera Sternberg was born one cold morning in January 1934. She arrived at the dawn of a new year, with the first rays of sunshine struggling to pierce the thick Berlin clouds, heavy with snow and icy rain.
Winter was Amanda’s favorite season. During the months when the days were short, the calm of rainy evenings soothed her troubled mind. She took refuge in watching over her tiny daughter, who soon began following Amanda with her eyes when she heard her voice.
Amanda often read to the baby in French or Latin, from the botanical album she had saved from the bonfire. Viera would fall asleep lulled by languages that little by little became familiar sounds to her.
“Your grandfather adored Bourbon roses. You had to start them off in February, covered in dead leaves. He preferred roses that could withstand low temperatures, the strongest ones like Souvenir de la Malmaison and Madame Pierre Oger—they also had softer thorns.”
And as she breastfed her, Amanda would quote from the album, sometimes improvising comments about the flowers the way her father had done when he read to her as a child.
Ever since that summer solstice night, Amanda’s eyes wore a permanently doleful look. She struggled to smile as she breastfed a daughter who would grow up without books. She couldn’t help gazing at her with pity. Why bring a child into such a hostile world? she repeated to herself without feeling guilty that her daughter would suffer for her mistake and the hatred of others. In her waking hours, she waited anxiously for night, so that time would go by more quickly, but in her dreams she saw a desolate future in which she was just another book, destined for the bonfire. One day she too would die in agony amid the flames.
The Daughter's Tale Page 2