I went over it again and again in my mind, retracing those last words, those last moments with Max, pushing myself to remember after that. But try as I might I still had no memory of getting to this field.
By the time I reached the church door, I was so thirsty and cold. And tired. My head ached, and something was terribly wrong. I knew it was. I just wasn’t sure what, and my body was heavy with dread and exhaustion.
Had the SA broken down the door then, taken me, brought me here? Had I hit my head? Is that why I could not remember? Was I injured? I put my hand to my head, my face, but everything felt normal. No bumps. No blood. No pain.
I opened the door to the church and walked inside. It was filled with wooden pews, all empty. A large stained-glass window in front was partially boarded up, as if it had shattered and not yet been repaired. “Hello,” I called out. “Is anyone here? Hello?”
No one answered back, and I was exhausted. It was much warmer inside the church, and I went to the closest pew, lay down on the hard wood bench, and hugged my violin tight to my chest. I would rest. Just for a little while. And maybe when I awoke, I would be back in the bookshop, back with Max.
“Are you all right, child?” A woman’s voice brought me out of sleep. I’d been dreaming of music, as I often did. Whatever I’d been practicing most of late, burned so deep into my mind, it almost haunted me in my dreams. I’d been dreaming Wagner. But no, that wasn’t right. I’d been practicing Mahler in the bookshop. My fingers twitched against the fingerboard of the violin, restless, wanting. The woman placed her hand on my shoulder, and I jumped, opened my eyes. The church. The field. Max? I shrank away from her. “It’s okay, you’re safe here. I’m not going to harm you,” the woman said gently. “I’m Sister Louisa.”
“Where am I?” I asked her.
“Menchen’s Dom, about twenty kilometers outside of Berlin.” So this was the church I would see from the train. They must’ve painted it recently, and I hadn’t noticed. Or had it always been brown? “And what brings you here, child?”
“I . . . I . . .” I wanted to answer her question. But I wasn’t sure how. “I need to get back into Gutenstat,” I told her. “Beissinger Buchhandlung. My . . . um . . .” I paused, remembering I couldn’t say the truth about Max and me out loud without fear. “I just need to . . . visit the shop.”
She shook her head and frowned. “That shop has been gone for many years, child. Since . . . before the war.”
“No, I was just there last night. Many years after the Great War ended.”
“The Great War?” She sat down next to me on the bench. “I don’t know what has happened to you,” she said. “And I am sorry for whatever it was, child . . . But you are safe now. All the camps have been liberated. Hitler is dead.”
I despised Hitler with every fiber of my being. He’d stolen my mother and the symphony from me, and relief coursed through my body, just hearing that he was dead. But why couldn’t I remember it happening? “If you could help me get to the train station nearby,” I said, “I could take the train back into Gutenstat.”
“The station was bombed,” Sister Louisa said, sadly. “We’re lucky to still be standing, with only minor damage remaining.” She glanced toward the boarded-up window. “Come, why don’t you let me get you some food and water, and we can go into Berlin, see a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I insisted.
But did I? My memory was blank, devoid of the moments that led me here. And then there were the events Sister Louisa insisted upon that I couldn’t recall: Hitler was dead; the train station had been bombed. She said that the bookshop wasn’t here any longer, though, and that couldn’t be right. I was just there.
“I just need to find Max,” I said, meekly. But if she was right, and something had happened to the bookshop, to Gutenstat, then where was Max?
I was not a religious person, and besides that a Jew, not a Catholic. But here in the cathedral I said a silent prayer to myself: Please, please, God. Let Max be okay.
Max, 1931
The next morning, Max went back to the Lyceum, even though he didn’t have another lecture scheduled until the following week. He went straight to the auditorium where he’d walked in on Hanna practicing yesterday. On the train he’d rehearsed in his head what he’d say to her should she be in there again. How her teacher was wrong, how her music was the most special thing he had ever heard, and how he had dreamed of it last night long after she’d left his shop.
But today there was a young male pianist playing onstage, no Hanna in sight. Max waited for him to stop playing and when he finished, Max walked up to the stage and asked him if he knew of Hanna Ginsberg.
“I do,” the young man said, gathering up his sheet music. He was about Max’s age, but very thin, too thin. Always the storyteller, Max imagined he didn’t have enough to eat, that he had only his piano to sustain him these days, as so many people were struggling. Max was lucky that his father had left him a healthy nest egg, or he would not be able to keep the bookshop—or himself—afloat.
“Do you know where to find her?” Max asked him.
The thin pianist frowned. “And why would I tell you?”
“I’m . . . She came to my shop yesterday and I have a book she was looking for.” It was only half a lie, since Hanna had come to his shop yesterday. Max held up the book in his hand as proof, though it was the book he himself had been reading on the train, poems by Erich Kästner.
“She’s not at school today,” the thin pianist finally said. “She’s with her mother. At the apartments just south of here on Maulbeerstrasse. I’m not sure of the exact address. Do you know them?”
Max thanked him and set off. He knew, but only vaguely, that the area where he was going was a small Jewish community. He’d walked by it when he’d gotten off the train this morning, a cluster of buildings on a street lined with mulberry trees, between the station and the Lyceum. But as he walked closer to them again now, he realized there were many, many apartments in these buildings—maybe a hundred or so, and that he had no way to know which one was Hanna’s.
He leaned against one of the four brick three-story buildings and sighed. He couldn’t knock on every single door. People would think he was a madman. Maybe he was a madman? Chasing after this girl he didn’t even know, and all because her violin had enchanted him yesterday?
Then he heard the faintest sound. Music? Hanna’s violin. The muted notes came from the building across from where he was standing, out a half-open second-floor window, but it was unmistakably her.
He followed the music: across the courtyard, up a flight of stairs, to the door just under the open window where the sounds of her violin floated out, louder and brighter as Max got closer. He knocked on her door; the music stopped abruptly, midnote. As the door began to open, Max realized he had no idea what he was going to say.
“You?” Hanna said. She held her violin and bow in one hand and put the other hand to her hip. She frowned, clearly annoyed. “Are you following me?”
“I just wanted to . . . I thought maybe we could . . .” Max stammered, and he felt his cheeks burning. He sounded like an idiot. He was used to feeling confident, well-spoken. In the shop he spoke to patrons and recommended books with ease. But Hanna was beautiful, consumed by her music, and so determined. It intimidated him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your practicing,” he finally said. “I was just . . . in the area.”
Hanna stepped outside onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “Listen, you can’t be here.” She spoke in a hushed tone. “My mother isn’t feeling well. I can’t have any visitors right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He thought of his own mother, who had wasted away to practically just skin and bones after months in bed. Until one morning, when she was gone.
“I don’t need your pity.” Hanna crossed her arms in front of her chest, violin and all, as if it were a part of her, a natural extension of her body.
“How about my friendship?” Max off
ered.
Hanna smiled wryly. “I have friends.”
Max had friends too. He and Johann still grabbed an ale together on Saturday nights after he closed the shop. Johann was married now, and his Elsa was expecting their first child, so Max and Johann saw each other less frequently than they had when they were in school, but still, they met every single Saturday night to catch up, if not a weeknight or two as well. Before his father died there was Etta. But she’d given up on him once he’d devoted more and more time to the shop after his father’s death, and he realized that he hadn’t missed her all that much, which made him think maybe he hadn’t loved her at all. Hanna was the first person who’d piqued his interest since. “We could go get a coffee?” Max persisted. “So we wouldn’t disturb your mother.”
Hanna frowned and leaned against the door. “I have to focus on my music right now. And I have to take care of my mother. I don’t have time for anything else. And I don’t need anything else,” she added. “Or anyone.”
“That sounds terribly lonely,” Max said.
Hanna rolled her eyes at him. “If I’m ever in need of a book, I’ll be sure to come to your shop,” she said. “But I have to get back to practicing.” She walked back inside and slammed the door before Max could protest. And he stood there for a few moments, his mouth hanging open, as the sounds of the violin began again. The music was mesmerizing, and it haunted him the whole train ride back to Hauptstrasse.
That afternoon, the bookshop was quiet, as it had been often lately. Max had regular patrons that his father and he had had for years. Some people would always find money for books, and he also sometimes dealt in trade, taking back their old books in good condition in exchange for deep discounts on shiny new ones. But new customers had become more and more scarce as the economy worsened in Germany. The emergency spending cuts and tax hikes in the past year had left more and more people unemployed. Unemployed people did not buy books. Max was less worried about the money and more about the quiet. It was boring to sit alone in the shop waiting for patrons who came only infrequently. There were only so many hours he could spend sitting behind the counter reading by himself.
The only visitor to the shop today, just after five, was Johann, stopping in after work. Johann said he was coming by to pick up books for Elsa, who was growing larger and more uncomfortable by the week. But Max knew Johann was also checking up on him, as he had been making a point to do since his father had passed.
“Slow day?” Johann said, walking up to the counter now. He was dressed in a full suit, the tie loosened around the neck after a presumably long and busy day himself. Sometimes Max envied him, all the things he was doing. And then he had Elsa, and the baby who would soon be here too. Max had known Johann practically his whole life, and Elsa almost that long. He and Johann had gone to grade school together, and Johann had spent many afternoons in the bookshop with him after school, the two of them poring over stories. Johann’s father had died when he was very young, and sometimes it had felt like Max’s father was both of their fathers, like Max and Johann were something akin to brothers. Later, in secondary school, Johann fell in love with Elsa, and then Elsa became Max’s friend too. Of course, now they were adults, and he didn’t see them nearly as often. Johann was in school to become a lawyer and he worked part-time at a law firm in the city, trying to get his foot in the door for when school was over. And Max had . . . the shop.
“They’re all slow nowadays,” Max finally answered him.
He had a pile of new books, waiting behind the counter for Johann to take to Elsa. Pulp romances, Elsa’s favorite, and he handed them across to Johann. “Thanks,” Johann said. “Els will be happy to have these.”
“Hey, Jo,” Max called after him as he was walking out with the books. Johann stopped walking and turned back. Carrying the large pile of books, he looked weighed down, tired. “I’m trying to remember . . . How did you first get Elsa to notice you?”
“You mean aside from my unabashed good looks and impressive wit?”
“Yes.” Max rolled his eyes. Johann was quite shy and somewhat plain looking, though he did have a good sense of humor. “Aside from all that.”
“Your father . . . Didn’t I ever tell you this?” Max shook his head. “I told him that I really liked this girl and she wouldn’t give me the time of day. He gave me a book to give her. Said that was the way to any woman’s heart worth having.” Johann smiled a little at the memory, and Max smiled, too, picturing his father standing here, saying those words to Johann, choosing exactly the right book for Elsa. “I’ll see you on Saturday,” Johann said, walking out of the shop.
“Give my love to Elsa,” Max called after him, and then he started searching the shelves, looking for the perfect book.
Hanna, 1946
“Dissociative memory loss,” Herr Doctor pronounced, shining a round white light into my eyes. I was momentarily blinded, and I blinked. He turned the light off and took a step back. “You have no signs of injury. Your pupils are functioning normally. No head trauma.”
Dissociative memory loss? “What does that mean?” I asked him.
Herr Doctor was an elderly man, nearly feeble in appearance. He sat down in the chair across from the metal examining table and removed the stethoscope from around his neck. He had spoken to me in kind tones, had gentle hands as he’d examined me, and I liked him well enough, though I’d never met him before this morning. Doctor Wein, the doctor in Berlin who had taken care of my mother up until her last few months, was no longer here.
All the Jewish doctors are gone, Sister Louisa said, in such a broad and sweeping and matter-of-fact way that for a moment it had taken my breath away. Gone where? I’d asked. If Hitler was dead, it seemed Jewish doctors could’ve started practicing again? Jews should be allowed health care again, too? But she’d pursed her lips together and suggested we go to Doctor Martin, who she said was a friend to the church.
Now, Herr Doctor sat across from me and frowned. “I believe you have experienced a grave trauma.”
“But you just said, no head trauma.”
“Not a physical trauma. A trauma to the mind . . . to the psyche.” He stared at me and folded his thin arms in front of his chest. “You are Jewish.” He was stating the obvious, not asking a question, but I nodded anyway. “But you are only a little underweight. In fairly good general health. You probably weren’t in a camp for any length of time.”
I remembered what Sister had said, that all the camps had been liberated. I wanted to ask what she meant by that exactly, but if I did, I was certain Herr Doctor would be even more convinced I had lost my mind.
“Perhaps you were in hiding?” Herr Doctor speculated.
I shook my head. “I was in Beissinger Buchhandlung in Gutenstat with my . . . with Max Beissinger. I was practicing my violin—I have a big audition coming up in Holland—and Max was reading behind the counter.”
“And what year was that?” Herr Doctor asked.
What year? He must mean what day. “It was Thursday, I think,” I said. “Yes, it was definitely Thursday because I used to have my lessons with Herr Fruchtenwalder on Thursdays, and since I was no longer having lessons I had extra practice time that day.”
“But what year?” Herr Doctor asked, calmly.
“Nineteen thirty-six,” I told him.
“And do you know what year it is now, Hanna?”
“Nineteen thirty-six?” I said meekly, though I felt less sure than I had been just a moment earlier.
He shook his head sadly. “It’s nineteen forty-six, Hanna. You have lost ten years. Your mind is blocking them out. I suspect something terrible might have happened to you in that time, and you have gone back to your last happy memory. That night in the bookshop. You were happy, yes?”
Max had gently put his hands on my shoulders, just before I began to practice. His lips had brushed against my ear and he’d whispered that he loved me. It had been a good night—we’d just had supper together; we were no longer fighting. I
was happy and in love.
But how did a person lose ten years? Time wasn’t a misplaced piece of sheet music or the glasses Max wore to read that he was forever losing track of. “Will I ever get it back?” I asked Herr Doctor, terrified of his answer, but leaning closer to wait for it.
Herr Doctor considered my question for a moment. “It’s hard to say,” he finally said. “Maybe . . . maybe not.” Herr Doctor pointed to the violin that I still held in my hands. I’d refused to let Sister take it from me in the car. It was the one thing I had left; the one thing that was still real and mine, and I would not let it go, not even for a moment. “Do you remember how to play?” he asked.
I didn’t have a bow. (I wasn’t sure what happened to it?) But it hadn’t occurred to me before now that this could even be a possibility, that I wouldn’t remember how to play? No. “I . . . I think so?” I stammered. “I’d need a bow.” But I moved my left hand against the violin’s fingerboard, fingering through the beginning of the Mahler. “Yes,” I said. My memory of the piece was as perfect and as clear as could be, as if it really had only been hours, not years, since I’d been practicing in the bookshop.
“Well, that is a very good sign,” Herr Doctor said. “A very good sign indeed.” He held up his hands. “But the mind is a curious thing. You may recover that time, or you may not.” He stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “But you are very lucky, Hanna. A Jew alive and so healthy in Berlin these days . . . it is a very rare thing.”
I was silent as Sister Louisa drove us back to the cathedral, taking in the landscape of Berlin and the outskirts. Nothing was the same as it was in my mind. Whole blocks of the city, and buildings, were missing. As we got back to Gutenstat, I noticed that the apartments where I’d once lived on Maulbeerstrasse with Julia and Mamele before she died were no longer there. All that remained was the lower half of building drei, the roof completely gone as if a great storm had swept in and taken it all away.
In Another Time Page 2