Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  “The Olympiastadion in Charlottenburg? Never. No, Taylor. This you do not understand from such a far distance as you lived. Never will I be escorting visitors there.”

  “I apologize. I had no idea…I think I still don’t understand.”

  “No. And it is not your fault. You see…or we see now, just as we thought, how Hitler’s tricks of propaganda are working—how your typical person in America and other countries would think how wonderful Germany must be from watching these Olympic Games, attracting an audience through newsreels to glorify our country—to show the guests, the participants, the people from around the world that Berlin is a sophisticated showplace—that Hitler has done so much for the country—that he is revered. But we will not be a party to propagating that illusion.”

  Emanuel paused to take a drink of wine, and then continued. “Always, when an Olympics is held, there is a cleanup of a city—a whitewashing of building facades. This is understandable—street sweepings of litter and of indigents who will suddenly find warm beds inside for the night. All of this is acceptable for a city wanting to put its best foot forward.”

  Inga and Sarah, positioned on either side of him as he sat at the head of the table, simultaneously each took one of his hands in theirs, and then Sarah continued speaking. “What my father is explaining now is that he would not allow us near the games or the grounds—to support the Olympics in any way. These feelings were the same throughout the Jewish community—none of my friends or their families would be counted in the numbers who supported the event…”

  “It was a sham,” Emanuel interrupted, and would have continued, but Inga abruptly stood to direct them to the front room for dessert and coffee. Taylor wanted to say that he couldn’t possibly eat more, but knew that would be impolite.

  The living room was a garden bouquet of yellow and green grandeur that took full advantage of the huge front Venetian windows streaming sunshine through tall plates of glass divided into fifteen individual panes and an elaborate half circle crown. The white molding theme continued with a wainscot boasting an intricate square sculptured detail running the perimeter of the room. There were three layers of crown molding at the ceiling, and an ornate white marble columned mantle surrounding the fireplace. Rectangular inlays on each section of the walls presented themselves as enormous frames, and sometimes outlined beautiful paintings or gilded mirrors.

  There were high-backed wing chairs with needlepoint pillows in the creams and greens with touches of orange. Two overstuffed sofas with thick golden fringe at the base faced each other, and in between were coordinating tufted ottomans on which heavy books of antiques and world maps rested, as if to discourage visitors from placing their feet on the light-toned fabric.

  The room bespoke a world where beauty and culture were valued, but the plush furnishings made it more welcoming than intimidating. Sarah sat first on one of the couches and motioned for Taylor to sit next to her. Inga took the nearby chair, but Emanuel seemed too preoccupied to sit. He placed his hands on the back frame of her seat. Although, perhaps, his wife would have liked to transition into a more agreeable topic for conversation, he took up where he left off.

  “Taylor, you will walk the streets during your stay, and of course, we all knew that I had no intention of depriving you of that activity, and you will see the beauty of Berlin, but also things that will shock you. What you saw in Paris will seem as nothing to you now. If we walk on Koernerstrasse, you will see store windows defiled with white paint, saying ‘Jude’ with the Star of David. That—you will have no trouble reading. But there will be signs that you will need translated also. When the National Socialists came in to power, immediately they began with their boycotts.

  “Hitler’s men—they stood in front of Michalski and Striemer Department store—right after he took over. They held placards—“Deutschen verteidigen Sie sich gegen jüdische Gräueltat Propaganda. Nur in Deutsch-Shops kaufen!—Germans defend yourselves against Jewish atrocity propaganda. Buy only at German shops!”

  Emanuel stopped talking and paced the room for a moment while the others watched, and then he went to the front window and looked out, as if being reenergized by the streaming sun.

  Then Inga stood and took Sarah’s hand, raising her from the couch. She led her toward a polished walnut piano angling from the far corner of the room, and together they played a classical duet.

  For the next few days, Taylor followed Emanuel through the routines of his workday. With his mentor’s permission, he was taking notes as they made the rounds of his two plants. Taylor observed him working hands-on with employees in the boots factory, Emanuel even getting grease on his fingertips, as he helped to make an adjustment on a hole punching machine. Taylor watched as he recalculated the pressure on another piece of equipment that was overheating by fractions of a degree. And then Taylor accompanied him to various scheduled and impromptu meetings with other businessmen.

  Naturally, when Emanuel conversed with colleagues and workers, Taylor’s understanding was compromised by a language barrier. And though Emanuel was a capable interpreter, his English was wrapped in such a thick German accent that Taylor had to concentrate intently to recognize when he transitioned into it. Eventually, even Emanuel was aware of Taylor’s difficulty following him, and so he reminded himself to say Taylor’s name first when he began speaking in English.

  “I’m so impressed by your father’s knowledge of every aspect of the industry,” Taylor told Sarah the third evening, as they stood alone in the dining room waiting to be seated when her parents would enter. “I want to be like him. I mean, don’t misunderstand me—I am in awe of my own father’s business acumen and I feel incredibly lucky to be taking my place in a great business. But I think sometimes my father relies too heavily on managers in each area.”

  Sarah smiled up at him proudly. “Well, you are right about my father. Perhaps you have already seen the diploma in his office, his engineering degree from Munich University?”

  “No, I didn’t see it, but that’s what I mean—I’m impressed—but not surprised from what I saw, how he conducted himself. I mean, my degree is in the liberal arts, as was my father’s, but if I were an engineer, as well—imagine the respect that would generate. Well—I know I don’t have that kind of science mind—but you should know I am impressed.”

  “And you should know that makes me like you even more.” Sarah paused for a second, hesitating to offer her next remark. “Then you probably will find this fact even more impressive. My father knows Albert Einstein well.”

  It took a second to register with Taylor. “You’re kidding,” he said. “I know who Einstein is—the Nobel Prize winner—the wild hair—that is remarkable. He’s always in the news. The theory of relativity. He’s something of a celebrity.”

  “Actually, Mama and Papa dined with him on several occasions. Papa had attended some of his lectures at The University of Zurich and then they made a closer, more personal connection when he was a research assistant for him on a technical project.”

  “Your father must be incredibly smart to even be able to converse with Einstein,” Taylor said, just as Emanuel and Inga entered the dining room. Turning to him, Taylor continued, “Sir, please tell me about your conversations with Einstein.”

  “I must be honest,” Emanuel answered, with a slight laugh, “conversing with Einstein? I’m not so sure about that. You won’t believe this, but some people even slept in his lectures; they were not so easy to follow. He noticed me because I was listening so intently, I think. But understanding?…I just used to give him patronizing nods. Wait, let me ask Inga.” And now he turned to his wife. “Inga, did we ever understand Albert Einstein and his theories?”

  “For me,” she said, “I was lost after hello.”

  “There, you see, and my wife is the one with the high IQ.”

  After dinner, Taylor told Sarah, “I just love your parents. Honestly, I feel so comfortable with them. And they have such a respect for each other. That is what I wa
nt in my marriage.”

  While Taylor had thought he would have had to struggle to continue the pretense that he had had come to Germany to broaden his international business exposure and was eager to spend his days by Herr Emanuel Berger’s side, in reality, he did value the time spent with him. But as the weekend approached, he was excited to finally concentrate on his true Berlin interest, the heavenly Miss Sarah Berger.

  Finally, it was Sarah’s turn to escort Taylor around the city. Like any guide introducing a group to Berlin, Sarah brought him first to the main boulevard, Unter den Linden, and they began their tour in front of the historic Brandenburg Gate. Suddenly, however, it seemed as if Sarah had been drained of her youthful enthusiasm and she just stood and shook her head as Emanuel had on their first day back.

  “There it is, the Brandenburg Gate, the most famous entry to our city from 1791. We came as schoolchildren to learn the story. It was designed to be like the entrance to the Acropolis in Athens. When I was younger, we would look at these gates to the city, and that was how we learned about architecture—the massive Doric columns. And our eyes would be drawn to the Quadriga of Victory at the top—the beautiful bronze horse-drawn chariot, with Victoria, the goddess of victory at the reins.” As she spoke, Taylor remained behind her, with his hands resting at the tops of her shoulders, intensifying the shared point of view, the experience of sight and emotion as she narrated. He had an idea what she was going to say next. “But now our eyes are drawn to those red Nazi banners—we don’t see the classical beauty— we see the hideous black swastika in its white circle. My father said it; Hitler defiles everything. He changes our future and he tarnishes our past. From so far below, you cannot even understand the intricacies of the design or even the dimensions of the sculpture. Napoleon came through in the early 1800s, claimed the Quadriga as a prize, and took it back to Paris with his victory.”

  “And this is a copy now?”

  “No, Germany recaptured it, and then that Prussian symbol, the Iron Cross, was added. But now, I’d rather Napoleon kept it. Instead, people flock here to see it and it is one more chance for the Nazis to shine.”

  They continued a walking tour for the rest of the day. On the boulevards, he saw the preponderance of the Nazi flags, the posters, the military presence, but she chose now to point out only her favorite shops and galleries, and he chose to treasure each minute by her side, holding tightly on to her hand or putting his arm around her small waist. When she led him through the parks and fountains of the Tiergarten, they were able to be lost in the beauty of the surroundings and they stopped twice in the brief period to enjoy the delicacies of the cafés.

  That evening, when her parents entered the room for dinner, Sarah and Taylor were each standing behind their own chairs, and then they all sat down together as if on cue.

  Sarah’s mother held a familiar envelope. “Taylor Woodmere,” she said, as she handed it to him.

  “Again?” he questioned.

  “Yes, Taylor,” Inga began with a sympathetic look, “I have not opened it, but my guess is that your father is once more cabling for you to return to your Chicago.”

  Sarah looked up incredulously. “What is this about? You are being called home? Your father is telling you to leave? You didn’t say anything about that.” She stood and moved quickly to his chair.

  Taylor was reading the cable, his forehead showing the contemplative wrinkling that indicates mental calculations.

  “I am to board the Queen Mary for its next western sailing. We have three days left together and then I will have to leave.”

  Overnight, Sarah had devised a plan to maximize their time together and presented it to him at breakfast the next morning. “We will take the train to Potsdam for a day trip. My aunt and uncle have a country estate nearby and my mother has said that if they will come to meet us for lunch, she will allow me to go. I’d love to take you to Munich—to show you the Bavarian Alps—but we’d spend too much time on the train and not enough walking around. Potsdam is the perfect distance to be able to experience the countryside.”

  And just after dawn the next morning, they were boarding the train. “Here—you sit by the window, Taylor. I want you to enjoy the view,” she said as they were negotiating their seats. But after the train departed the station, Taylor wedged his light jacket at the top of his seat bordering the window and used it as a pillow to lean on while he looked only at her.

  “Taylor, you are incorrigible. You are to look out the window and enjoy my countryside.” Eventually, she coaxed him to take the aisle seat. If he must only look at her, at least the scenery would now be in the background.

  “Sarah, do you know the story Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?” he finally asked after studying her in silence. “It’s by an Englishman, Lewis Carroll. Not one of your Grimm’s Fairy Tales, but maybe you know it. It may also be called Through the Looking Glass.”

  “Well, yes, I do know it—it was a favorite of my tutor—I actually learned much English from reading it.”

  “Good then—because I’ve been trying to decide who you remind me of—and that is it.” He was excited to share this revelation with her.

  “Oh—you mean the Cheshire Cat—yes, I do have a snarly, sinister look.”

  “Of course, you know I do not mean the cat—or the Queen of Hearts for that matter—although you are the queen of mine. No—Alice herself—You are Alice in Wonderland come to life.”

  She gave no response and only bowed her head with the smirk of the Cheshire.

  “You’ve heard this before, I am thinking,” Taylor said.

  “Well, truthfully, my tutor often called me Alice after he introduced me to the book, and if we were to run into him today even, he’d yell across the street—‘Hello, Alice! How are you doing?’—although he would most likely say it in German.”

  He smiled at the image and then began playing with her hair. “It’s a good thing you did not know me when you were younger. You would have had on some sort of Bavarian uniform for school and I would have delighted in pulling your pigtails. I can picture them—tightly braided like Heidi.”

  “You’re ridiculous—that’s not how we dressed,” she laughed. “We did not look provincial, except on a day like today for a picnic in the country. No, we were sophisticated—blazers and dark pleated skirts, leggings, white collared shirts—like English preparatory schoolchildren. Well, I would have ignored you anyway,” she insisted. And with that she turned from him and looked out the window for a few moments and then settled back into the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder.

  As with longtime friends, the silences in conversation that mark the normal rhythms of casual discourse did not need to be filled with nervous banter. Instead, the two would begin with just short glances—one pair of eyes searching out and then magnetizing to the other— the connection resulting in the lowering of the chin, the involuntary raising of the shoulders, and the closed-lipped smile that Leonardo da Vinci immortalized with his Mona Lisa.

  There is always a moment with true lovers when everything from that time on will be indelibly recorded in memory as “before” or “after.” It is an instantaneous insight, a perception, an acknowledgement of the ending of one era, the beginning of another. Sometimes this awareness happens in tandem, with the electricity generated from a first look, a first touch, a first kiss. But more often, one partner will sense it, causing the other to feel it in turn. The young lovers will suddenly, separately, and silently acknowledge that previously they were floundering, unsure, measuring time slowly with the completion of tasks, looking forward to subsequent events, checking days off as experiences sought or obstacles conquered with no thought for living in the moment, for taking in the sensory details of the substance of everyday life.

  Then, suddenly, there is an emotional maturity with the realization that life is a journey and not a destination, and that they want to enjoy the ride together. And for Sarah and Taylor that moment occurred on the train to Potsdam. Their ey
es met and held, and independently and wordlessly, they reaffirmed their desire to be forever connected. Caught by the ebullient glow of Sarah’s face, Taylor stroked her hair, twirling a section with his fingers and bringing the strands to his nose, to breathe in her fragrance. Sarah raised her own hand and began to play with the untamed strands from his casually groomed locks, unaware that few women were able to resist that same impulse. Once, twice, she repeated the gesture, and when she finally pulled away, embarrassed, he pulled her back to him. He laced his fingers through the thickness of her full blond hair, and kissed her with an assertive passion that made her glance around, selfconsciously. But then Taylor simply and gently closed her eyelids with his fingers and continued with the kiss accompanied by progressively less innocent caresses. And when she pulled away once more, even he understood that their intimacy was approaching a level inappropriate to the setting and he too began to straighten and smooth his garments and to more demurely reposition their seating.

  An older couple, situated with a purposeful distance between each other, he awkwardly leafing through the oversized pages of a newspaper, she slowly working with yarn, obviously struggling with dropped rows of knits and purls, kept turning in their direction. The elderly woman, glancing from time to time over the rims of her reading glasses, offered a sweet smile to the younger couple, perhaps thankful for a glimpse back into her own fond memories of a youthful romance. The man, however, sour faced and intermittently scratching his bearded cheek or pulling at the graying hairs protruding from his ears, emitted only disgusting groans every now and then, as if Sarah and Taylor were in some way poisoning his territory.

  Finally, Taylor was regaining his composure and modulating his breathing. “Quick,” he said. “No thinking— first things that come into your head. Favorite things.”

  “God, this is too hard.” She didn’t even question his motives, simply understood that they needed to begin conversing or they would certainly be drawn, once more, to their embraces.