Oppenheimer, on the other hand, had encouraged Lisa to cultivate her own circle of friends in the last few years, as he did not want her to rely on him too much. He could not rule out that he would be fetched by the Gestapo at some point. Too many Jews in mixed marriages had been killed for anyone to rely on being protected by their Aryan partner.
When Oppenheimer finally picked up his coat and hat, ready to leave, he hesitated. Eventually, he took the small vial out of the inside pocket of his coat.
“Here, take it,” Oppenheimer said and pressed one of his Pervitin pills into Lisa’s hand.
Lisa hesitated. “But you need them…”
“I’ve got enough for a while,” Oppenheimer lied and embraced her. He was unwilling to let her go again, but he had to leave.
* * *
Before Oppenheimer dared to go through the front door of the building, he, too, took a Pervitin pill. As he didn’t have any water, he chewed it and swallowed. When he wasn’t worrying about Lisa, he barely felt anything else. Too much had happened in the last few months. Death was part of everyday life. One could barely even influence his own fate. But he knew that in just under half an hour, the effect of the methamphetamine drug would set in, and then nothing could affect him anymore. One pill gave him the necessary energy to make it through the day. Given that after several months of regular consumption the effect slowly began to weaken, Oppenheimer should have increased the dosage, but because of his supply shortage, he only permitted himself one pill per day.
Thus strengthened, he stepped out into the street. The smell of burning assailed his nose. The light was hazy, the sky overcast in sulfur yellow. Although it was only two in the afternoon, night seemed to have fallen prematurely in the east as black smoke clouds enshrouded the city center. Oppenheimer briefly considered whether it made sense to take the tram or the subway to get to Hilde. But then he rejected the thought. The departure times would probably be all muddled after today’s attacks. He needed just under two hours to get to Hilde’s house on foot, so he strolled across the Hansa Bridge toward the Victory Column as if he were taking a Sunday morning walk.
As a rule, passersby were rarely unfriendly when they caught a glimpse of his Star of David. Sometimes they even nodded understandingly. But you had to be on your guard when faced with children or overzealous Nazis. The Gestapo had been strangely quiet in the last few months, seemingly ignoring the Jews who’d remained in the city. Although that was probably due to the fact that the Gestapo had more important problems to deal with ever since the Allied air raids, Oppenheimer found it impossible to trust the calm.
Previously, the Gestapo had clamped down with an iron hand. Oppenheimer had not been spared either. Nearly two years ago, one of the Gestapo’s so-called Dogcatchers had stopped him in the subway and taken him in to check his papers. At the time, Oppenheimer had resolved not to play along anymore, an act of defiance. Like many others, he could have traipsed to the Reich Office of Genealogy, laden with old photographs, family documents, and other papers, to somehow show that the family resemblance was not particularly strong. If you were a so-called cuckoo child—or even better yet, adopted—you could hope to be classified as half or quarter Jew. Oppenheimer, however, had not even considered this, but instead sought a way to surreptitiously get rid of his Star of David.
As he was now drawing nearer to the Victory Column, the time had come for him to enact his very personal Aryanization process.
He turned left at Großer Stern. Albert Speer, in his function as the inspector general of buildings for construction, had had the Bismarck memorial moved here together with its enormous column. Poured in bronze, the first German Reich chancellor stood on his podium of red granite, set back from the roundabout, flanked by the statues of his highest-ranking military officers Roon and Moltke. Each of these generals had been given his own alcove, separated from the surrounding park by a low stone wall. Today, Oppenheimer selected the memorial of Count Albrecht von Roon.
After having made sure that no one was watching, he began walking slowly around the podium, looking up toward the count, whose rigid visage with the demonic eyebrows and the pointed beard would have been reminiscent of a second-rate actor in the role of Mephistopheles had he not been wearing a splendid uniform, with his helmet held casually at his hip. The back of the podium was wide enough to hide behind. With a resolute tug, Oppenheimer removed the Star of David, which was sewn on only perfunctorily, and put it in his inside pocket. In Berlin, many wearers of the star did this because they knew they were protected by the anonymity of the big city.
As he stepped out from behind the memorial, no one would have paid any attention to the middle-aged man. Oppenheimer was perfectly disguised without the star. No one would have suspected that he had an identification card with a capital J for Jew on it and that for several years now he had been forced to use the additional first name Israel. Any passerby would have sworn that Richard Israel Oppenheimer could be nothing other than a true Aryan.
Oppenheimer’s relationship to the Jewish faith had been ambivalent since his early youth. Although his parents had not attached great importance to religion, he celebrated his bar mitzvah when he was thirteen as a matter of course. Oppenheimer enjoyed the ceremony in the synagogue, during which Jewish boys take on the religious “obligations of being a man” and become full members of the community, and he enjoyed the fact that he was allowed to read from the Torah in front of the entire community even more. But when, in the months leading up to this, he had to learn the mitzvoth, God’s 613 “positive and negative commandments,” he rebelled. Maybe he couldn’t see the purpose of some of these commandments, maybe adherence to the mitzvoth was just too inconvenient—Oppenheimer couldn’t really explain it afterward. In any case, his doubts became skepticism, which later turned into an aversion against all types of religion. Oppenheimer was a born skeptic who had seen too much to still believe in the existence of a God.
When he reached Potsdamer Platz, he saw where today’s bombing had caused the most damage. An impenetrable smoke cloud had formed parallel to Saarlandstraße, and he deduced that Wilhelmstraße was probably the worst hit.
Women were heading toward the fires from the high-rise bunker at the Anhalter Bahnhof train station. Wearing head scarves and with spades on their shoulders, they marched in pairs in a long row. Oppenheimer was able to make out blue labels with the word East stitched in white on their clothes—they were forced laborers from the East.
About three weeks ago, around the date of Hitler’s birthday, which was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance in Germany as usual, the fear of Berlin’s citizens had reached its zenith. As instructed by the propaganda ministry, countless red swastika flags hung from the windows. Some jokers had even decorated the piles of rubble in the street with paper flags. But no one saw them rustling in the wind, as the streets were long empty. Those able to afford it had squeezed into the overcrowded trains to escape the much-feared air raids. However, it turned out that the strategists in the Royal Air Force headquarters didn’t give much thought to trifles as the führer’s birthday. A birthday gift in the form of several tons of explosives failed to materialize, and so, against all expectations, the day had passed calmly.
The big hit had happened last Saturday.
As Oppenheimer crossed the hall of the Anhalter Bahnhof, he saw the significant progress that the clearing operations had achieved since then. You could hardly tell that during the air raid a driverless express train with burning carriages had borne down on the terminal at full speed. The train had hurtled into the station like a flaming missile, rammed through the buffer stop, and plowed up the platform alongside the tracks. But the remains of the train had already been removed and the gaping hole in the paving covered with new stones.
Oppenheimer had to force his way through a cluster of people at the exit to Möckernstraße. Beneath the stone arches, surrounded by the few possessions they had been able to save from their destroyed homes during the last air rai
d, stood those who had been bombed out. Children mute with shock, countless suitcases and bags, in between an old man in a rocking chair—a panoply of private catastrophes.
“Retaliation had to come.” The old man’s voice was full of apocalyptic ardor. “It was obvious that the English wouldn’t stand for Coventry.”
“Just leave it, Father,” his daughter silenced him and looked around surreptitiously for denunciators. Just to be sure, she added, “Everyone knows that the English started the bombing.”
A passerby wearing a gray felt hat tried to enter the station. “Please, everyone! People still have to get through! Thank you.”
“Just wait until our robot planes begin their attacks,” a twelve-year-old said, the circular insignia of the Hitler Youth proudly displayed on his chest. “They’ll get their dues when we hit back.”
“I hope our wonder weapon is ready soon,” said another boy with the same insignia. “It’s about time we showed those bastards.”
“Stop talking rubbish,” the old man sputtered. “You saw what happened. These terror bombers are flying in broad daylight. In daylight! How are we meant to oppose them?”
“Our fighters couldn’t get up there because of the clouds,” one of the squirts explained expertly.
Once again, the old man wanted to say something when his daughter pushed him firmly back down onto his rocking chair. “Be quiet now!” She looked toward the boys as if she wanted to excuse the old man’s utterances. But he wasn’t having any of it.
“They can’t harm me anymore. Everything’s gone! Everything!”
That was the last Oppenheimer heard of the discussion. There were enough people who harbored a grudge against Hitler. Hilde had told him that there was increasing bewilderment overseas about the fact that the bombings had not roused any resistance in the German people. They complained, but that was it.
* * *
Hildegard von Strachwitz owned a large house on the edge of Berlin-Schöneberg. Her uncle, an officer of the Imperial German Navy, had had it built at the turn of the century. With no children of her own, Hildegard became his sole heiress, as she had cared for him with great devotion during his last few years and was his only remaining relative not scared off by the old man’s increasing eccentricity. The fact that she was a doctor and had a good deal of experience with difficult characters had probably come in useful. Of times prior to that, Oppenheimer only knew that Hilde had been married. But the marriage had not gone well and had been annulled after a few years, after which she had taken on her maiden name again.
Next to the impressive mansion, there were two smaller buildings on Hilde’s property, subsequently built by her uncle: a garage and a separate house for the chauffeur. Since Hilde needed neither a chauffeur nor a car, she had turned that house into her doctor’s surgery. But as the National Socialists thought she had more than enough space at her disposal, over the last few months, families had been billeted to live in the main house after their houses had been bombed out. Without further ado, she had packed her belongings and had moved into the doctor’s surgery.
Oppenheimer was relieved to see that Hilde’s property had survived today’s attack unscathed. As usual, he turned into the small side street, where he could enter via the small back gate. He had often wondered where Hilde found the courage to meet him alone. After all, they risked being tried for racial defilement if it came to light that Oppenheimer was a Jew. But Hilde rarely paid any heed to the National Socialist rulers’ regulations.
As Oppenheimer headed to Hilde’s surgery, a woman staggered toward him, probably in her early thirties. She had just about reached him when she stumbled and clung onto his arm.
“Oops!” she cried cheerfully. “Those steps weren’t here earlier.”
As far as Oppenheimer could tell, there weren’t any steps now either.
“Sweet Jesus! Don’t say you got it from me, but that stuff the doctor lady has is much better than any liquor.”
Following this statement, she swayed toward the pavement. Oppenheimer was too surprised to consider helping her. Instead, he pressed the doorbell.
The door opened immediately, and Hilde stood before him. She didn’t normally go out at this time, but as usual, she wore subtle makeup and her hair was immaculately styled into waves. Her figure was growing increasingly plump with age, but she was able to hide this to some extent with her choice of smart clothes, and her graceful appearance continued to be untouched by the passage of time. Every inch of Hilde showed the observer that this was a woman of the world. Although she had experienced a great deal in her life, her eyes widened at the sight of Oppenheimer.
“Bloody hell, you look like something the cat spat out!” she exclaimed.
3
SUNDAY, MAY 7, 1944
To say that Hilde swore like a trooper would be an understatement. In fact, her verbal diatribes were similar to those of a burly sailor. Oppenheimer grew nervous. The seriousness of his situation had suddenly caught up with him. “I might not be able to come by in the near future.”
Hilde paused briefly, then she pulled him inside. “Come, take off your coat first.”
Feeling despondent, Oppenheimer entered the small treatment room. He hung his coat and jacket on the stand and followed Hilde through another door into her cave-like dwelling. Almost every free inch of surface in the private section of the chauffeur’s flat was used to store countless books, which made it feel smaller. Even the windowsills were overflowing with papers.
It was by no means just specialized medical literature that piled up here. Any National Socialist with even a partial knowledge of literature would probably have a heart attack in Hilde’s flat, given that the majority of her collection consisted of books that for some years had been considered un-German. Kurt Tucholsky’s works could be found next to Erich Maria Remarque’s novels, Karl Marx’s tractates stood alongside Albert Einstein’s scientific works, Kafka met Hemingway, Kästner stood in intimate companionship next to Maxim Gorky—all books that National Socialist students had thrown into the flames of the pyre on the Opernplatz just a few years ago.
Incensed by the audacity of the book burning, Hilde had immediately begun to collect so-called corrosive literature. And she didn’t do things by halves. Hilde wanted to set an example, wanted to store the outlawed literature for future generations and preserve the thoughts that had flowed in printer’s ink so that in the future, the authors would once again be able to speak to the reader from the pages of these books. Oppenheimer almost felt as if the many books along the walls formed some sort of ideological palisade that shielded Hilde’s soul against the madness raging out there. In any case, the works of these ostracized authors had found their place of refuge in this small flat, and Hilde was their patron saint.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hilde said and reached for a magazine lying on a chair. “I’m tidying up.”
“Because of your visitor earlier?”
“You met the brainless creature? Gosh, I didn’t let that old Nazi cow in here.”
Hilde placed the magazine on a pile and went into the kitchen. Oppenheimer sat somewhat lost in the oversized armchair. The silence that entered as soon as Hilde left the room felt oppressive to him. So he half-heartedly tried to make conversation.
“Not very nice to call someone that,” he said.
“Oh, come on, that blunderbuss was from the National Socialist Women’s League,” she replied. “Now tell me, what do you think of a woman who calls her children Adolf, Joseph, and Hermann? In precisely that order.”
“Good German names.”
Hilde appeared in the doorway. Although the chances of being overheard by her neighbors were infinitely small, she whispered, “Yes, they’re the names of good German assholes. Brainlessness really is the nicest thing one can ascribe to her.”
Oppenheimer knew that Hilde sometimes liked to make things easy for herself. “I know a Jew called Adolf,” he tried to draw her out. “He was in the army for years. No idea what became of h
im. Maybe he had to change his first name.”
“That doesn’t happen to be a certain corporal who now occupies the Reich Chancellery?”
Oppenheimer waved her off. It was pointless. He didn’t know how she did it, but Hilde always seemed to be two steps ahead of him.
“What did she want from you?”
Hilde came back with a glass and a pack of cigarettes. “That was the best bit. She had been instructed to scour the neighborhood and convince all women without a job to take on voluntary labor in community service. As if I didn’t have anything better to do. A lot has to happen before I break my back for the Nazis. Instead of discussing that with her, I got the silly cow drunk in the treatment room. The way she was putting them away, she’s unlikely to remember anything by morning.”
Oppenheimer scrutinized the half-empty bottle that Hilde had brought with her. “What a waste of schnapps,” Oppenheimer said without much enthusiasm.
“Well, I think you need it more than she did.” She filled the glass and pushed it toward him. Oppenheimer stared at the liquid as if wondering whether it was well disposed toward him.
“I distilled it myself. You won’t find any better,” Hilde persuaded him. “Come on, one for Mummy…”
Oppenheimer finally overcame his revulsion and swallowed the contents of the glass in one gulp. His eyes involuntarily narrowed to watery slits as Hilde’s schnapps etched down his throat.
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Why do you always have to make such a fuss? Well, at least the boozer from earlier appreciated my stuff.” She handed Oppenheimer two cigarettes. “I’d better give these to you straightaway. Here.”
He took them gratefully. She usually gave him a couple every Sunday as a parting gift. Oppenheimer dug around in his jacket for his cigarette holder. While he inserted the cigarette and lit it, Hilde scrutinized him.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 3