In Another Time

by Jillian Cantor

  Feinstein walked out of the shop and surveyed the damage. Gutenstat was a safe place, and aside from the occasional theft or teenage prank, they had no crime to speak of like there was in Berlin. Max was too flummoxed for a moment to speak.

  “Are you all right?” Max asked when he recovered. “Is anybody hurt?”

  Feinstein shook his head. He held the brick up in his hand so Max could see. Someone had written on it, in black ink, unmenschlich. Subhuman. The message was quite clear. Whoever had thrown the brick didn’t like that Feinstein and his family were Jewish. “Damn Nazis,” Feinstein said. “Can you believe these little pishers?”

  He sounded angry, and he had every right to be. Max recalled a flash of Herr Feinstein as he’d seen him in the future: terrified, sick over something awful that had happened to his wife. He felt overwhelmingly sad for his next-door neighbor. Herr Feinstein had been friends with his father since Max was a little boy, and they’d always exchanged bread for books a few times a month. Max had been doing the same, since his father’s death. “Have you ever thought of leaving?” Max asked him. “You and Frau Feinstein, packing up and going somewhere else in Europe?”

  Herr Feinstein looked down at his worn black boots, then back up at Max. “I’ve been running this shop for thirty-three years,” he said, his voice unwavering. “If they think one little brick is going to drive me out . . .”

  It was more than one little brick. They both knew it was. But Max held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll get rid of it. And I’ll get a broom, help you clean up this mess.”

  They boarded up the window and Herr Feinstein replaced the glass at the end of the month. But that didn’t change anything. And as news of the brick spread through Gutenstat, Feinstein’s shop grew nearly as empty as Max’s in the weeks that followed.

  Then came the news that Hindenburg had appointed Hitler as Reichskanzler, and Adolf Hitler was now officially the chancellor of Germany. The morning paper on the first day of February proclaimed that Nazis were celebrating in the streets. “Machtergreifung”—the headline read. “Seizure of Power.” Though Max did not witness any such celebrations in Gutenstat. In fact, Hauptstrasse was empty, even more quiet than it had been.

  Immediately after the so-called celebration, Hitler banned political demonstrations, and so it at least appeared that his seizure of power had gone off unprotested in Germany, that everyone supported him and what his party believed in. All the shops on Hauptstrasse were ordered to hang the Nazi flag bearing the horrible broken cross, and all the shopkeepers, Max included, obliged. Not because they wanted to, but because they were afraid not to.

  “It’s so ugly,” Hanna whispered to him in bed late one night. “I hate seeing the stupid flag when I walk in your front door. I want to burn it.”

  Max kissed her head, pushed back her hair. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said. Though he knew even as he said it that it was a lie. It meant everything.

  On Sunday, a small group of riots erupted in Berlin, and they heard on the radio that many people were injured; one person was even killed. But then at least they knew that the entire country hadn’t gone insane. Flags outside or no, there were still many people who did not agree with Hitler, or the Nazis, even if they were mostly afraid to speak up.

  “Unbelievable,” Johann said, shaking his head, when Max met up with him on the following Saturday evening for an ale. “None of the lawyers like it.” Johann had finally gotten his degree and had been hired on as a lawyer at a firm in the city. He shrugged. “I mean, it’s disgusting to think this man and the people he stands with have power in our country.”

  Max agreed with everything Johann was saying, but Johann’s worry sounded distant, on principle. “I’m very worried for Hanna,” Max said, taking a swig of his ale.

  “You want some legal advice?” Johann said. “You should marry her.”

  “Legal advice?” Max laughed. There was nothing he’d like more than to marry Hanna, but since that night when they’d almost ended everything, he hadn’t brought this desire up again. Things were good between them now, and he’d rather have Hanna like he did now than not at all.

  “No, I mean it,” Johann said. “If things get much worse . . . she’d be better off as your wife, legally speaking. Married to a Christian man, with a Christian man’s last name.”

  Max finished off the last of his ale and stood, clapping Johann on the shoulder. “Next week I’ll have to cancel,” he reminded him. “Speaking of marriage . . . it’s Hanna’s sister’s wedding.”

  “Have a good time. Think about what I said, though, okay? I’m being completely serious, Max.”

  Max knew that he was, and he promised him he would take it to heart.

  Hanna was already waiting for him in front of his shop when he got back. Sundown was early this time of year and he’d lingered a little too long with Johann. He didn’t like the idea of Hanna waiting out on the dark street, all alone, and made a mental note that he would give her a key so that she could let herself in from now on if she needed to. Feinstein’s glass window was fixed, but the police hadn’t caught the person who’d thrown the brick. Max didn’t think they’d tried very hard.

  He unlocked the door, and Hanna entered in front of him, lighting the coal stove so she could warm herself. She shivered a little, and Max wrapped his arms around her, trying to warm her himself. He thought about what Johann had said, but he bit his tongue. Johann may be right, but it wasn’t the time or the place or the way to ask her right now. Besides, he wanted to marry her because he loved her, and the next time he asked—and he would ask again—he wanted it to be special. Instead he asked her about Julia’s wedding.

  “Well, it’s all going on as planned, if that’s what you mean,” Hanna said. “Julia and Friedrich aren’t going to let some stupid man and his stupid horrible ideas stop them from getting married at the Adlon.” Having a Jewish wedding at one of the fanciest hotels in Berlin felt almost ridiculously dangerous now, and Max was glad to have been invited, as he would’ve been worried sick about Hanna being there without him.

  “And what about us?” Max said softly, kissing her shoulder. “What if you auditioned for an orchestra in Paris or Rome instead and we moved away from Berlin entirely?”

  She laughed. “It’s not that simple, silly. I’m only getting this audition because the principal is about to retire and because Herr Fruchtenwalder knows the maestro and he’ll put in a good word for me.”

  “But surely Herr Fruchtenwalder must know someone, somewhere else,” Max said.

  “He doesn’t,” Hanna said. “And besides, even if he did, I wouldn’t go. Mamele is too sick to move anywhere, and I would never leave her.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. If his mother were still alive, if she were sick, he would never want to leave her, either, no matter what was going on in Germany or what it might mean for his future. And the fact that Hanna loved her mother so much only made him love her more.

  But no matter Johann’s legal advice or what Max wanted, he also knew deep down that Hanna would never agree to marry him while her mother was still alive.

  Hanna, 1948

  I told myself I would leave London, audition elsewhere, but so far it was proving impossible. I’d written letters to the maestros of ten different orchestras, in ten different cities in Europe, and had yet to receive even one reply. Never mind having the money saved up to leave London and start over somewhere else. If I couldn’t even get an audition, then what would it matter? Stuart said that some orchestras weren’t even functioning fully yet after the war, that recovery had been quite slow all through Europe, and he was sure that was why I was having trouble. And maybe he was right.

  It was strange, but now that I barely met with Henry any longer, I kept forgetting about the war. It was still obvious everywhere you walked in London, so many damaged buildings, and there were still the food shortages and rations, so that most of what we ate was for sustenance, not for taste, without enough sugar or
eggs. Even clothing was still rationed, so the few dresses I had were old ones of Julia’s. But I couldn’t remember any of the war, so all this became my normal. In my mind it was almost as if it had never happened, as if London had always been broken this way. Food had always tasted bland. And every time someone else brought the war up, it shocked me all over again.

  “Guess what, Tante?” Moritz said at supper one Wednesday night in June. I hadn’t been paying attention to the table conversation, my mind already in Stuart’s apartment, thinking about the music we would play through together later tonight. It was only Julia and me and the boys tonight. Friedrich was working late, as he had been doing more and more lately.

  “Mmm, what?” I murmured. I took a bite of my biscuit, and it tasted stale, though I supposed I was lucky to have one at all. That’s what Julia told the boys, that we were the lucky ones, with enough money to live so nicely these days.

  “Did you know the Olympics are coming to London next month? The first games since I was born. Mummy says we can go!”

  “I said maybe we can go,” Julia said. “If the tickets aren’t too expensive.”

  If there was anything Julia cared less about than music, it was athletic competitions, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing. In 1936 the Olympics were in Berlin. But even if Moritz had been alive, he wouldn’t have been able to go, as a Jew, of course. Max’s friends Johann and Elsa had gotten tickets from Johann’s law firm, and Max and I had watched Emilia and Grace while they went. For a second, the memory swept me up: Max kissing my cheek, just near my ear, as we sat on the couch in Johann and Elsa’s small house, having just put the kids to bed. We’d talked about how maybe we would have two little girls of our own one day. How we could take them to the Olympics the next time they came to Germany, when everything went back to normal, the way it used to be. I had still firmly believed it would, that someone would stop Hitler before it got any worse.

  “I’ll take them,” I said to Julia now. “If the tickets aren’t too expensive and you want to buy them. I wouldn’t mind going myself.” Julia shrugged to say, Suit yourself. She’d left Berlin before 1936, so she didn’t remember like I did what it was like not to be allowed to go.

  “Thank you, Tante.” Moritz squeezed my arm and even Lev smiled enthusiastically.

  I was still feeling pretty good about my nephews’ excitement as I got off the tube and walked toward Stuart’s flat. And at first I didn’t notice that he looked upset when he opened the door to let me in.

  “Have you heard about the Olympics?” I asked Stuart, sitting down, taking out my violin. It was a silly question. Of course he had. You couldn’t walk down the street without hearing someone talking about it. But Stuart didn’t answer, and he didn’t sit down next to me either. That’s when I looked up and saw his face. He was very pale. “Are you all right?” I asked him. “Is it your mother?”

  He shook his head, sat down next to me, and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he held up his left hand, slowly extended his fingers, but his ring finger stayed bent and didn’t move at all. “It’s frozen like that,” he said. “I haven’t been able to move it all day. I had to leave rehearsal.”

  “Did you go to see a doctor?” I asked.

  Stuart shook his head. “I hate doctors.”

  He still held his hand in the air. I rested my violin in its case and took his hand in mine. I stroked his palm gently, ran my forefinger over his bent finger. “Does it hurt?” I asked, wondering if he injured it somehow.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt at all. I just can’t make it move.” Panic rose in his voice, and his hand tensed up in mine. I kneaded his palm softly with my fingers until his hand relaxed again. But his ring finger stayed bent.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. “You overused it this week. Practiced too hard. Injured it a little.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  I was no doctor, and nothing like this had ever happened to me, no matter how hard or long I’d practiced. My fingers swelled or ached sometimes; I iced them, had soaked them in a hot tub of water warmed over the coal stove in Max’s shop. But never something like this. “I do think so,” I said, trying to reassure him. I could feel his alarm, a clamminess on his skin, and see the pallor on his face. “But I do think it also couldn’t hurt to see a doctor. You could come into the hospital tomorrow morning and I could get my brother-in-law to set you up with someone good.” I didn’t actually know if Friedrich would do this for me or not, but I was pretty sure Henry Childs would.

  Stuart wouldn’t meet my eyes. “The violin is everything to me,” he said. “Who would I be if I couldn’t play?”

  I understood Stuart so completely in that moment; I ached for him, a physical pang in my chest. “I promise you that’s not going to happen,” I said, though I had no right to promise him any such thing.

  He looked up, smiled a half smile. He put his good hand on my arm. “Will you sit with me for a little while, even though I can’t play tonight?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You’re the only one who understands,” he said softly, moving his hand from my arm, to my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “The only one,” he repeated.

  It wasn’t until he leaned his face in, until his lips were almost on mine that I realized what he was doing. I heard myself gasp a little, and then his lips touched mine, softly, slowly. I knew that I should pull away, but for a moment, I didn’t. I kissed him back. He felt nothing like Max. Kissing Stuart was like eating a slice of Black Forest cake, sweet and rich and satisfying. But kissing Max was like dancing too close to the fire. Max . . . oh God, Max. What was I doing?

  I abruptly pulled back, dropped Stuart’s hand, put my hand to my lips. “I can’t,” I said. Stuart tilted his head to the side, confused. It wasn’t his fault. I’d never told him about my past, never told him about Max. “There’s someone else. I’m in love with someone else,” I said.

  Stuart’s mouth dropped open, surprised. “I’m so very sorry,” he said. And for a second I thought he meant he was sorry that I had someone else. And then I realized he meant he was sorry that he kissed me. I didn’t want him to be. I stood up, hastily packed up my violin. “I have to go,” I said.

  “Hanna, wait,” he called after me. His voice sounded so forlorn, and oh, his poor bent finger, and I’d promised I’d sit with him. But I felt sick. I’d kissed him. I’d wanted to kiss him. It was a betrayal to Max, and to myself, and I was angry, and at the same time I wanted to kiss him again.

  “Just come find me at the hospital tomorrow morning,” I called as I ran out. “I’m on the third floor.”

  I couldn’t breathe until I reached the street, and even then I was sweating, breathing hard as if I’d just been running for miles and miles.

  Max, 1933

  On the evening of Julia’s wedding, Max took the train the hour into Berlin. He was meeting Hanna and her family there at the Adlon, as Hanna said they needed to be at the hotel early to get dressed and set up. It had been a while since he’d been into the city. He expected it to look different, to feel different somehow, now that Hitler was chancellor. It had been only two weeks since riots erupted on a Sunday and many Jews were injured—a Communist was even killed. But when Max stepped off the train, the city was as it always had been—busy. Well-dressed men and women sat inside glass-windowed cafés enjoying Saturday night dates; the streets were crowded with cars and taxicabs, the sidewalks with people bundled in coats, talking, laughing even. Everything appeared oddly the same; everything felt shockingly normal, except for the Nazi flags hanging up in the storefronts.

  He crossed through the Brandenburg Gate, onto Unter den Linden. The Adlon, up ahead, was aglow and bustling; the cigar peddler out front had a line of men waiting to buy a Saturday night treat. The hotel itself had been named for Kaiser Adlon who had been such a monarchist that he didn’t believe any cars would ever cross here but his and thus didn’t look when crossing the street. That resulted in him being hit by a
car in this exact spot, twice, a few years apart, the second time killing him. But the hotel, and his name, lived on right here. And even though Germany had changed, the politics had changed, Berlin had changed, it all looked just exactly the same as it always had.

  Max looked both ways before crossing the street, always remembering the cautionary tale his father had told him about Kaiser Adlon whenever he stood in this exact spot, and then walked inside the hotel.

  Hanna was waiting for him inside the sweeping lobby. He noticed her before she saw him, and he stopped for a moment just to look at her. She was stunning. Even more than usual. She wore a lilac dress, and her hair down, which she hardly ever did, the curls like waterfalls over her shoulders. She turned, saw him, and her face lit up into a smile. God, she was beautiful. “Max, over here.” She waved, and he walked toward her, swept her up in a hug. She laughed as her feet lifted off the ground, and he went in to kiss her cheek. “Don’t mess up my makeup,” she said, pulling back just as his lips were about to touch her skin. “Julia will kill me.”

  He’d never heard Hanna mention her makeup before, but he didn’t want Julia to get mad, so he reluctantly let her go, kissing her only gently on the hand instead. After the riots, he’d wanted to reserve a room at the hotel for them to stay the night, not liking the idea of Hanna out in Berlin, making her way back to the train and home in Gutenstat so late after the wedding. But Hanna had said no, that someone would have to make sure her mother got home safely. And besides, she said, Mamele would have a fit if I were staying in a hotel room with you, and there’d be no fibbing about that one.

  “Come on!” Hanna grabbed his arm. “Come get a seat in the drawing room for the ceremony. I have to go back and walk out with Julia.” She squeezed his hand and ushered him through a door to a room with a sign that said ginsberg/weiner wedding. “I’ll find you after the ceremony,” she said, touching his arm lightly, and then she disappeared to rejoin Julia.