“Look at this.” He let Berni hold the rubber stamp he said he’d cut himself, the eagle holding the circular swastika above the name of their district. “Just like the passport office.”
Anita burst through the door of her bedroom, Sonje on her heels. Anita had on a white lawn blouse and a tweed skirt. She grabbed a chair from the dining table and dragged it across the parlor floor. “Is this okay?” she asked Gerrit. “Or more light?” She got up and flung open the blackout curtains. They all blinked. Berni could see a woman on the telephone, trimming her toenails, in the apartment across the way. Birds chirped.
“Nice to see some signs of life,” Anita muttered.
Berni laughed. She felt weak-kneed and grateful. Here was Anita, not Otto, her old wig fitted to her head. She’d taken scissors to it, cut a blunt fringe, trimmed the ends to chin length: a red Cleopatra. “You look wonderful,” Berni said, breathless.
She did, and she didn’t. The wig looked artificial, stark; it couldn’t compare to her lost brown hair. Her makeup caked on patches of uneven skin, and her bruises had turned yellow, but her eyes shone like jet beads. She sat straight and tall, hands clasped on one knee. “Well?”
“Well?” Berni echoed, irritated at the way Sonje and Gerrit were looking at each other, as though they were the parents. “Take her photo.”
Gerrit hesitated, then lifted the camera and snapped off a few shots.
“Anita, please,” Sonje said softly. “We’ve discussed this. You know it’s the only way.”
“You just think your new friends won’t let their children go with a Transvestit,” Anita said, posing, her chin drawn to her shoulder. “So tell them I’m a woman. Nobody will know, will they, Gerrit dear?”
“What children?” asked Berni, looking from Sonje to Anita. She noticed now that Sonje had something in her hands, a white shirt.
Sonje crossed her arms. “Two of the women I’ve met through the agency are sending their children abroad with student visas. Apparently students don’t count against the U.S. immigration quotas. Anita can travel as their tutor.”
Berni was stunned. “Where will you go?” She almost asked if Sonje’s connection could get her a visa as well, but remembered she would have to ask for two.
Quietly, Sonje explained the plan for Anita’s escape: in three or four weeks, she and three Jewish children, two of whom were Herr Grotte’s nieces, would board a train bound for Liège and cross the border at Aachen. Later a ship would take them from the Hook of Holland to New York City.
“Anita,” Berni said, breathless, “you could be in New York before the year’s end!”
“Not me, I’m not allowed to go. But Otto is.”
Sonje twisted the garment in her hands. Berni could see now it was a man’s shirt. “Anita, please. It is for your safety. No one will believe Anita Bourbon is your real name.”
“Then call me something else. Anita Freytag. Anita Samstag! Anita Metzger, use Berni’s name. Whatever you want! I won’t be Otto just because it makes everyone else more comfortable, including the damned border patrol.”
Anita hid behind her hand, its knuckles bluish-red and scabbed. Gerrit looked down at his camera, pretending to fix something. Berni went to her and knelt down.
“New York City!” she whispered into the tuft of wig over Anita’s right ear, smelling dust motes and talcum powder. “Think of the adventures you’ll have, with no fear of the SA.”
Anita lifted her head. Charcoal drips ran from her eyes. “The laws there are even worse than ours. The blackmailers run rampant.” She swallowed. “Get me a tissue, please.”
After Anita dabbed off her makeup, she removed everything, unceremoniously, right in front of them. Averting her eyes, she pulled down her blouse, her movements robotic as a patient’s at the doctor’s office. The plain white shirt looked no more natural on her than a hospital gown.
Otto Schulz looked into the camera with a hollow, blank expression. Gerrit took three shots, then put his camera away. No one would meet one another’s eyes as Anita got dressed.
• • •
Time began to speed after this. October rushed toward November and the opening of Hansi’s latest secret play, a satire about the Nazis’ ban on Yom Kippur prayers. Berni took Anita’s place waiting tables downstairs for the opening performance. The actor playing Hitler foamed and frothed as the Jews onstage shut their eyes, reciting the words in their heads.
“We need space!” he screeched, grasping at air, wrenching it down. “Lebensraum! We Germans have been unfairly crowded from the space you hoard inside your minds!”
“I have to say,” Hansi whispered the following afternoon as he slid next to Berni to put a mug under the tap. “I’m grateful the race laws don’t apply to us.”
“How can you say that?” Cold foam ran over Berni’s hand as she watched the group of idiots at her table, young SS officers, huff their hot breath on spoons and stick them to their noses. One of the men, a big-skulled blond, caught her eye and pointed to his empty glass. She twisted her face into a smile and held up a finger: one minute! “I’d think you’d have sympathy for Jewish-German couples,” she murmured to Hansi. “Given your situation.”
“Child, Paragraph One-seventy-five has been on the books all my life.” Hansi filled a second glass with porter. “I’m no stranger to discrimination by law. I have sympathy for people in mixed marriages. But am I glad my affliction isn’t something visible in my bloodline? Yes.”
“Whatever you say.” Two mugs in each hand, Berni crossed the floor to the long table at the center of the dining room. The tail of a blue and white Bavarian flag brushed her hair as she lowered the beers onto the table. She wanted to rip it from its flagpole.
“Smile,” the young SS man said, taking his mug from her. “They can’t be so heavy, can they, Fräulein?”
“She looks sturdy enough to me,” one of the girls added.
Berni stood still for a moment. Slowly, she pulled her lips back from her teeth.
All at the table erupted in laughter, averting their eyes. Spoons clattered from noses. “Ach, Fräulein!” they cried. “Put them away, put them away!”
“That’s it,” Berni murmured to Hansi behind the bar. She scratched at the lace around her neck. “I’m taking a smoke break.”
Outside the sky had turned purple, two strips of pale blue and gold behind the roofs across the street. Winter was coming. Her fingers were clammy against her lips. Ash fell on her gingham skirt; she let it stay there a moment, burning a round hole in the fabric. A cough seized her. She bent over, her hips against the back wall of the building.
“With lungs that sound like that, perhaps you should think of giving up cigarettes,” said a soft, deep voice. A man in a long wool overcoat and felt hat stood a few feet away from her.
“I didn’t know it was a crime to smoke, Herr Nazi. My Ahnenpass is inside.”
“I’m not a Nazi. I’m sorry, I’ve been rude.” He removed his hat. “My name is Herr Petersen. I’m friends with Herr Grotte. I have, er—documents? For your friend Sonje. She thought it would be best if I brought them to you, rather than to her flat.”
Quickly Berni put out her cigarette. “Herr Petersen, I’m sorry. I’m the one who’s been rude. It’s been a bad day.”
“Not at all.” He held out a newspaper. It took her a minute to figure out he intended for her to take it. “It’s inside.” Berni took it between both hands, as though it were fragile. Anita’s visa. She thanked God, then remembered to thank Herr Petersen as well.
“Wait!” she cried. He’d replaced his hat and tipped it to her, signaling his departure. “Please, Herr Petersen, I’m hoping you can help me. How can I get a visa for myself?” It was all she needed to plan her departure with Grete. Her passport had arrived, finally; when she’d gone to pick it up at the office, the line of applicants snaked around the block.
“It can be difficult.” The man’s voice was so smooth and gentle, she wanted to fall asleep to it. “Borders are closing
, particularly to Jews. Are you Jewish, my dear?” When she shook her head, he nodded. “You can afford to wait a little longer, then. Why not apply to work in Czechoslovakia, or England?”
She shook her head. “I have to go as soon as possible.”
“Then your cough might come in handy, Fräulein. There are tour groups that visit curative places. I can give you the name of a doctor who might be able to write a note.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Her cough! Health sojourns! Why hadn’t she thought of it herself? She wanted to kiss him, right in the middle of his fluffy circle of hair.
After he’d written the name and address of the doctor on the inside of the newspaper, she clutched it to her chest. It might as well have been made of gold leaf. “Thank you.”
Herr Petersen smiled again and walked away, disappearing into the crowd gathered on the other side of the road, waiting for a trolley. Berni floated back into the bar, wrapped the paper inside a sweater, and pushed it to the back of her cubby.
“Good, you’re still among us!” Hansi whispered when she returned to the bar. “Who the hell was that? He asked for you by name. I never like it when anyone does that.”
“Oh, no one. Plainclothes SS. He asked some routine questions.”
“My God.” Hansi put his hand to his heart. “I hope you didn’t tell him anything.”
• • •
Berni and Sonje did all they could to keep Anita indoors until November 18, her departure date. Sonje bought her magazines full of pictures, recipes, diagrams for homemade faux-flower hats; she found board games, decks of cards, cosmetics samples. She sent Berni to the delicatessen for Anita’s favorites: French raspberry jam, whole-leaf Darjeeling.
On Monday at noon, just before Berni left for work, Sonje burst into the apartment with a paper bag under one arm and a manila envelope in her hand, breathing heavily, her cheekbones splotched pink. “Take this,” she said to Berni, who finished tying her boots in a hurry.
The bag held a heavy bottle, which Berni set on the table with a thunk. “What’s wrong?”
Sonje’s fingers shook as she untied the scarf over her hair, the fabric beaded with rain. “A man in a belted leather coat is loitering on Pfrommerstraße. Don’t look out the window. Thank God he didn’t ask what was in this.” She held up the envelope. “From Gerrit. Anita’s passport.”
The edges of Berni’s vision blurred with fear. “What do the Gestapo want with her?”
Sonje touched the outer corners of her eyes, looked at her fingers. “They probably keep an eye on former prisoners. Wake her, will you? Tell her we have something to celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?”
Berni and Sonje swung around to see Anita, dressed in boots and purple harem trousers. In place of the wig she wore a silk turban. Berni wondered how much she’d heard, or if she’d been able to see the man and Sonje interact. Her room faced the street.
“Here, darling!” Sonje’s smile stretched wide, like a rubber band. She pulled a bottle of apricot brandy out of the paper bag and indicated Berni should pour, which she did, generously.
“I have something for you,” Sonje said, lacing her arm through Anita’s. She opened the envelope and spilled a small booklet onto the table. The cover bore a splay-winged eagle and the words Deutsches Reich—Reisepass above a series of perforated numbers. “Gerrit did splendid work, nicht? Take a peek inside.”
Anita paused, then opened it to the first page. Berni slid one of the snifters through her fingers and looked over her shoulder. There was Anita, swastika stamps over her chin and the upper left corner of her wig. Gerrit had used one of the photos of Anita dressed as herself, the red hair rendered medium-gray, the stiff little collar of her blouse tucked inside her string of beads. Berni could tell by the way Sonje’s breastbone went up and down, the way she kept dabbing the tops of her cheeks, that she’d told Gerrit to do this.
“And look!” Berni cried. “Metzger!” The name Gerrit had used was Anita Maria Metzger. “We are truly sisters now.”
Sonje tucked Anita’s turban behind her ear. “What do you think? You can go to New York and still be yourself.”
Anita stayed very still, staring at the photograph, holding the passport open with two long fingers. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible. “This means something to me.”
“Be sure you’re very careful,” said Sonje in a hurry. “At the border, on the train, hand them your passports as a group, with the rest of the people in your car. If you’re lucky they’ll just count them and count your heads . . .”
Berni held on to every word, but she couldn’t tell if Anita was listening or not. After a while Anita put down her glass and scratched her calf with the other foot, nodding absently.
• • •
Late that evening, Berni heard a knock on her doorframe. When she looked up she expected Sonje, but the pointy knee that pushed the curtain aside belonged to Anita. She wore a shower cap and had washed away her makeup. “I have a present for you.”
She came over and lay down on the pallet. Berni made room in a hurry. It had been a long time since they’d lain together. “Ready?” Anita asked, and handed her The Prussian Housewife’s Handbook. Berni read the title twice, then a third time, mystified. She looked at Anita through the corner of her eye. Both of them burst out laughing.
Berni traced the book jacket, imagining Anita at the bookstore, thinking one day she might need a manual, that she might be a wife. “Does it teach you how to prepare sausage?”
“Oh, yes, sausage. The German delicacy. You have to handle it with love.” Anita lay back so that Berni could put her arms around her and kiss her on the forehead. They stayed that way for quite a while, listening to motorcars shear puddles out on the street. Berni wondered why more people didn’t choose this, friends instead of husband and wife.
“Won’t you sleep with me, like old times?” she asked, her voice thick. She’d begun to doze. Anita nodded, her shower cap tickling Berni’s skin. She went to retrieve her pillow. As soon as the lights were out, Berni felt awake again. “You’re so lucky,” she said after a while, to hide how much she knew she’d miss her.
“I keep thinking of the things I must do for the last time. Eat a frankfurter with hot mustard at Fritz’s. Talk you out of seeing whatever silly man you have in your life.”
“I have no silly man in my life.”
“Good. I’ll tell you ahead of time: the next one you meet, get rid of him.”
“You, too.” Berni took Anita’s hand and held it until Anita began to snore. Berni found herself drifting as well, her thoughts becoming thin. A few shallow dreams skimmed past her, like gauze drifting over her face.
In the morning, when Berni woke, she was alone. In the hallway she found Anita’s bedroom door open and Sonje standing before the dresser. Anita’s cosmetics case, crocodile pumps, and leather boots were missing, and she had taken about a third of the cash from inside one of the quilts.
Berni was afraid to speak; speaking would make it real. Finally she had to ask if there’d been any note, and Sonje handed her a small card.
My darlings,
You have tried and tried to help me, and all I have been is a burden: a little worm, dangling on the hook, bringing the Gestapo jaws snapping at our apartment. There, I can see him now, leaning against the side wall of Lenye’s across the street.
I cannot stay. I cannot go to America, either; we’ve all known it was a long shot, too long, and my best chance at this point is to hide. I cannot hide with you.
I’ve left a little token of my gratitude for your love and friendship. You’ll find it on the bust in my bed chamber, just waiting for one of you to try on. Sonje, I suggest you be the one to carry the mantle, use the passport, the visa. Don’t let her be stubborn, Berni; too much has gone into this plan for ungrateful me to put it all to waste.
With love,
Anita
Berni wiped her eye. “What does she mean?” But she already knew. The wig,
her precious, shining wig—made of real human hair from the Orient, she always claimed—sat on its dummy on her vanity.
Sonje’s voice shook. “She means for one of us to go in her place.” Berni noticed then that she held the ersatz passport in her trembling hand. “The damned fool!”
Berni, 1935
“Hello? Hello? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Sonje would not give up easily. Berni sat in the orange chair beside the window, watching sleet bounce off the black wrought-iron balcony, as Sonje called nightclubs.
“It’s the damned Olympics,” Sonje said, pacing, tangling herself in the telephone’s long cord. “Naturally it’s given her false hope. Good God, how long can they keep me holding?”
False hope. Because of the upcoming Berlin Olympics, the Nazis had relaxed. Some Juden unerwünscht signs had been taken down. Sonje called this disingenuous, yet in the same breath she insisted she could outlast the Nazis.
“Have you considered,” Berni said now, choosing her words carefully, “honoring Anita’s request? The children need a chaperone, don’t they?” She hoped Sonje would. If she went to America, then Berni could emigrate with Grete without guilt, secure in the knowledge that Sonje was safe.
Sonje held up a finger. “No?” she said into the phone. “Well, telephone if she turns up.” She slammed the receiver down, then immediately picked it up and began turning the dial. “Anita will be the one to use the passport, when she comes to her senses. And I could never leave with her missing. Hello? Operator?” She asked to be connected to the Bar Motz in Prenzlauer Berg. “I’d sooner offer the visa to you,” she whispered to Berni.
“Me?” Berni busied herself taking the ashtray to the garbage. Had Grete been someone else, she could have told Sonje there was already a plan in motion. “I couldn’t.”
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