by Jane Thynne
“Don’t you try to escape them?”
“I can give them the slip if I really want. I do my best to vary my route and avoid predictable journeys, but they always catch up eventually. If I lose them and I go into a café, the waiter will tip them off, and a few minutes later they’ll appear. Every few hours they have a changing of the guard, and it’s nothing like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, let me tell you. Just one shifty goon replaced by another. Remember those Expressionist movies? Fritz Lang and so on? All the skewed camera angles and looking around corners? That’s my life a lot of the time.”
Irene shivered. “Do you think it’s possible your letters could be intercepted by the authorities?”
“Of course! The censors read every word. All our letters are opened at the border. If you ask, they say they’re looking for currency smuggling. It’s no good complaining.”
Into Irene’s head came the face of Axel Hoffman. She felt again the piercing intimacy of that encounter at the opera house, the officer’s flint gray eyes fixed intently on her and the urgency in his voice. Be careful what you send by post. Confine your Christmas cards to “Season’s Greetings.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Martha continued. “All foreign embassies are tapped. People come here all the time wanting help to get out, so of course the security services watch us. I had a lover once who was chief of police and he put the fear of the devil into me. He said Berlin was a vast network of espionage, terror, sadism, and hate, from which no one could escape.”
The words hung ugly in the bathroom air, scented with talcum powder and body lotion.
“Anyhow. Truth is, what I wanted to tell you—and no one else knows this yet—but this is going to be our last party. Roosevelt has recalled my father. We’re leaving.”
“No!”
Irene felt a plummeting dismay. She was losing the one person in Berlin to whom she could talk freely.
Martha sniffed and drew a sleeve across her nose. Her voice was husky with emotion.
“I know. And part of me’s sorry. I love all the boxes at the opera, and the best seats at the games, and the gossip and the parties. But Daddy’s relieved. He can’t take much more of this. It gets to you eventually—having to look around corners and behind doors whenever you want to talk. Watching what you say on the telephone. Speaking in whispers.”
She inhaled despondently and stared down into the garden below, as if the shadow of a stray watcher might be curling behind the shrubs.
“It’s taken such a toll. If I’ve been with people in public who’ve talked carelessly, I spend sleepless nights wondering if they’ve been overheard or followed. I have terrible nightmares. My nerves are in shreds. My room’s on the second floor and I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined footsteps on the drive or thought a bursting tire was a gunshot.”
Irene folded her arms, keeping the dismay corseted tight inside. “So what do you plan to do? At home, I mean.”
“Oh, I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. I intend to write.”
“My sister has always wanted to write a novel. She’s a journalist right now. In Paris.”
“She’s in the right place.”
“For her perhaps.”
Martha leaned across and grasped Irene’s wrist tightly. “Listen to me, honey. You should leave too.”
“Ernst has my passport. He believes my place is beside him as his wife. He would never let me go.”
For a short while there was a silence between the two women, a silence weighted with more meaning than words could carry. Then Martha shrugged.
“Stay then. But staying doesn’t have to mean supporting them.”
“That’s how it looks.”
“Do you care that much, what people think of you?”
“Not really. I only care what Cordelia thinks. If I stay she will never forgive me.”
Softer, so softly that Irene could barely hear, Martha said, “Don’t ask if your sister would forgive you for staying. Ask if she would forgive you for leaving, when you could do something to help.”
Below them, a shaft of light from the opened terrace door spilled across the inky mass of the lawn. A torrent of laughter sounded, and a young male voice, slurred with drink, called, “Martha? Where are you hiding? I’m coming to find you.”
Martha tightened her grip on Irene’s wrist, so the crimson nails bit into the flesh. Her tone was intense, urgent. “Do you understand? Do you realize what I’m saying?”
How could Irene possibly help? She recalled what Martha had said before. That she had tried to help her friends in other ways. She still had no idea what those other ways might be.
“I’m not sure…”
“Look, Irene, the moment I’m back home I plan on telling the whole world exactly what I know. I’m writing a book about it all. I’m going to tell the truth about the Nazis, expose them for the monsters they are. But you’ll need to do the opposite. You need to stay quiet. To keep your self buried deep, so not even the person closest to you—not even Cordelia—knows what you really believe.”
“I already do. But I can’t bear lying to her. Apart from anything else, she can’t believe it. She’s very astute.”
Martha drowned her cigarette stub beneath the faucet. Her face was suddenly haggard.
“Of all people I despise in the world, the one I despise most is Joey Goebbels, so I hesitate to quote him, but he has this saying. People believe a big lie sooner than a little one. Lie big, Irene. Tell your sister how great your life is. Flaunt your contacts. Flirt with Robert Ley, or with Goebbels at one of those Propaganda Ministry cultural evenings, I’ve seen him giving you the eye. Talk to them about Wagner. Join the women’s bridge circles. Wait it out, until your opportunity comes.”
“What opportunity?”
“Who knows? And maybe it’ll never come, but if it does, you can make sure you’re ready for it.”
Irene had the sudden sensation of standing outside herself, watching from a distance. She heard the voice of Mr. Anthony Blunt, art critic of The Spectator magazine.
Miss Capel, I suspect, has the capacity to surprise us.
“Anyhow. We’d better return to the fray.” Martha turned off the faucet and resumed her skittish demeanor, but as she reached the door she stopped and enfolded Irene in a fierce hug.
“Whatever else happens, before I go, promise me you’ll come horse riding again in the Tiergarten.”
Chapter Seventeen
Villa Weissmuller,
Am Grossen Wannsee,
Berlin
April 21, 1937
Dear Dee,
Why don’t we make a plan? Let’s not talk about politics at all. There’s so much more to life than voting and economics and laws. I do hate to quarrel with you, and we have so much else to discuss! Couldn’t we just focus on more cheerful matters?
First off, what do you think of this? Ernst has ordained that I must be painted. He wants a portrait of me—isn’t that killing? He’s left the choice of artist up to me and I’m taking forever to decide. I have absolutely no idea who to choose…
Number 2, Iranische Strasse was an imposing neoclassical stone building with a triangular pediment above the entrance carved with the words KRANKENHAUS DER JÜDISCHE GEMEINDE. The Hospital of the Jewish Community. The idea of a hospital solely for Jews was a strange one to Irene, yet she was learning not to be astonished at anything she found in Berlin anymore.
She passed through the stone arch to the lobby of the main administration building to find a melee of people: elderly men in long dark coats, fussing wives, pregnant women trailing truculent children, and assorted patients with crutches and wheelchairs, all trying to attract the attention of the staff on reception.
Lili Blum was standing beneath the clock as arranged, nervous and tense faced. She was even thinner than before; w
orry had etched stark lines in her face and the glint of amusement had vanished from her luminous eyes. The mass of brunette curls had been tamed to a savage bob, and the skinny frame was firmly buttoned into a work jacket of dull navy serge. Her composure was almost complete, apart from the unconscious plucking of a thumbnail that was already bitten to the quick.
“Frau Doktor Weissmuller! I got your note.”
Irene had retrieved the crumpled letter from Ernst’s wastepaper basket and memorized the address.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“I shouldn’t have written to your husband, but we were desperate. His new secretary informed me that Doktor Weissmuller was unable to help my brother. I ought to have been aware that associations between Jews and Party members is against the law.”
She reached out, then just as quickly dropped her hand. Instead, she led the way swiftly through the corridors, answering Irene’s questions in a tense whisper.
“How did you find this job?”
“I was lucky. I met a friend who was employed by the Jewish community, clearing out the houses of Jews who have been forced to relocate. She had heard of an opening here, as secretary to the administrator of the health department. We’re overwhelmed. Other places are refusing to treat Jews, so all the patients come to us. On top of that, there are so many more needing treatment now.”
“Why?”
Lili hesitated, glancing round. “To put it bluntly, Frau Doktor, they’re suffering more injuries. Assaults and so on. But we have far fewer doctors—no Jew is allowed to practice, so our patients may only be treated by ‘caregivers.’ ”
They passed a ward and Irene peered in. In contrast to the disorderly throng of the lobby, here all was spotless and orderly. Bright sun filtered through white blinds and each blanched pillowcase was topped with a wan face. A peaceful hush reigned, punctuated only by the faint clatter of a distant typewriter and the soft rattle of the trolley as the nurses progressed around the beds, eyes following them like metronomes.
At the end of the corridor Lili opened the door to a cloistered quad, with a gently splashing fountain at its center, and when she was certain they were entirely out of earshot, Irene asked, “How did your brother get in this situation? What did he do?”
“Nothing. Or rather, he crossed the street.”
“Just that?”
“The authorities have introduced new pedestrian regulations. They’ve set up a number of traps across the city to catch people who flout them. Any kind of infringement—if you cut across diagonally, or you cross at a yellow instead of waiting for it to turn green—you’ll be stopped.”
A sickening recognition dawned on Irene and the moment on the Kurfürstendamm flashed before her. The sausage-necked policeman with his blunt, meaty face, seizing the terrified young woman as she attempted to cross. Her anguished cry. There’s been a mistake!
“The idea is, the Aryan will be let go, but the Jew is arrested. It’s just another way they have of finding us guilty. Oskar was on Lothringer Strasse, near the Jewish cemetery. The fine’s anything from one Reichmark to two hundred and fifty. Aryans get fined one mark, Jews get the top fine. If they can’t pay, then it’s prison.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing at first. I was out of my mind with worry when Oskar didn’t come home. After one night, I went looking for him in the missing persons center. Then someone at the Jewish community building suggested I try police headquarters in Alexanderplatz. It’s a terrible place, Frau Doktor! I hope you never have to go there. The hall is hung with photographs of dead bodies—people who’ve drowned and so on. I waited for hours until a policeman explained that my brother had been found crossing the road in a diagonal direction, which was a violation of street traffic code eight hundred and something establishing the true community of all drivers and pedestrians.” She waved a hand in weak acknowledgment of this impenetrable legislation.
“But that’s just so…”
Petty? Vicious? Brutal? Insane? Was there any appropriate word to express all that Irene had seen in the months since she arrived in Berlin? The feeling that had been building until it was impossible to ignore. Hatred was a word that translated into so many different languages—you saw it in the genteel cards at the fronts of theaters and hair salons, JEWS ARE REQUESTED TO REFRAIN FROM ENTRY, and the slips that dropped out of restaurant menus into your lap, JEWS ARE NOT WELCOME IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT. In the badly spelled graffiti and the soft lies of Joseph Goebbels. In the made-up words like Rassenschande, racial pollution, and the abstract legalistics of Ernst and his lawyer friends who framed regulations no one knew about and nobody could escape.
“It was late. I was exhausted. I didn’t know what to do, so I mentioned I had worked for your husband. I shouldn’t have, I know, Frau Doktor, but I was desperate. And it worked. They let Oskar go provided he can pay the fine within a week.” Lili’s lips compressed, as if it were possible through sheer force of will to contain the anxiety within. “But even if we manage that, it won’t stop them. They’ll go after him again.”
“Why should they?”
“A few years ago, before all this…” Lili gave a narrow shrug to signify all that had happened since 1933—the brutality, the arrests, the laws that had reduced her family to the ranks of aliens in their own country—“Oskar was a protégé of Max Liebermann. You’ve heard of him?”
“Of course. The painter. He owned a villa near our home.”
The artist, according to Robert Ley at the Christmas party, who was responsible for waging aesthetic war against the German spirit.
“When Liebermann died last year, his death was not reported anywhere, and the mourners at his funeral were shadowed by the Gestapo. Oskar, of course, could not be stopped from attending. No one can tell my brother what to do! He’s his own worst enemy. So even before this, Oskar’s name was already on file, and when he got out of the Alex, I warned him he needed to lie low.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s staying with a friend. It’s one room in the Scheunenviertel. But if they want to find him, they will.”
Lili passed a hand across her brow. “The problem is, we only have days to go and my pay’s not enough for me to settle his fine.”
“You don’t need to. I’m going to pay it.”
“No.” Lili was clenching and unclenching her fists. “I can’t let you do that.”
“How else will you raise the money? Would you really prefer that Oskar goes to prison?”
“We’ll find it. We’ll sell something. It was not your husband’s money I was asking for, but his legal expertise.”
Irene touched the other woman’s thin wrist.
“Please. I want to pay it. And believe me, Lili, you won’t be in my debt. That’s why I came here. I have a favor to ask in return.”
* * *
—
ONCE IRENE HAD EXPLAINED, they left the courtyard and entered another building, following a corridor of shining parquet up a flight of stairs, until Lili pushed a handle and led the way into a room. The space was sunny and smelled reassuringly clean and bookish, with a desk and medical cabinet on one side and on the other a metal sink. In the center of the room stood a black leather banquette, rigged with a curtain patterned with bright yellow flowers. At the desk, a woman of around seventy in a nurse’s uniform, her sleek white hair bundled under a cap, looked up from a stack of papers in surprise. She had a gentle face, written with lines, and the eyes sparkled with acute intelligence. As Irene hesitated on the threshold, Lili proceeded to conduct a murmured conversation, then turned.
“Krankenschwester Beckmann is happy to help you, but she’s taking a great risk, as I’m sure you know. It’s expressly forbidden for the Jewish hospital to treat non-Jews. And what’s more there’s a directive from the Reich Central Agency for the Struggle Against Homosexuality and Abortion that expr
essly forbids contraception for valuable women.”
“Valuable?”
“Aryans. You must be aware the government is keen to raise the birth rate at all costs. Any woman found to have had a miscarriage is visited by police to ensure that she has not undergone abortion. Even discussing birth control is against the law.”
Irene knew that. Everyone did. Only a couple of nights ago she had caught a speech from Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy, on the radio: Germany needs strong, healthy offspring. A German girl is honored by bearing illegitimate children. One of the regime’s first moves had been to close birth control advice centers and institute tax and work incentives for women to have more children. Condoms were not actually outlawed—there was still the importance of preventing disease—but how could Irene possibly ask Ernst to use one?
So it would have to be this.
“There is an exception,” said the nurse, who had been listening impassively. “According to Adolf Hitler, contraception and abortion are encouraged for Jews. ‘The more the better’ is I think what he said.”
“Obviously, I’ll pay.” Irene reached for her bag. “Whatever it costs.”
“Nurse Beckmann won’t take your money. She asks only that you keep your visit confidential. For your sake as well as hers. I’ll be in the corridor.”
With another anxious glance, Lili left. The nurse waited for the latch to click shut before she rose and moved with calm deliberation over to the sink, washing her hands in warm water, then drying them, finger by finger, as though still weighing the significance of her actions. Then she opened the medical cabinet above the sink and removed from a stack a white cardboard box with the logo MENSINGA.
“Are you familiar with this form of contraception?”
“I’m not really. Or any contraception, I’m afraid.”
“It is quite simple. We just have to get it right and you will have no more worries. What’s more, if you put it in place before intimacy, your husband never need know. That’s important, I think?”