Karl gave him a compassionate smile, hugged him, and patted him clumsily on the back. The brothers searched for something to say. Finally Karl said, “I’ve got to go to the factory. You going to be all right?”
“I’ll be all right.”
Gerhard stood in the entryway watching his brother’s shadow vanish behind the frosted windowpane. He was exhausted. The night before had been one of those nights when he’d woken up wondering whether he’d slept at all. He kicked off his slippers and lay down on the bed. He could feel a headache smoldering just below the surface of his skull that made his eye sockets ache. He closed his eyes.
He’d long since stopped asking questions about how life worked. After Laura died, his and Emma’s life had centered on why and how, and when Emma got sick, his head had been filled to the brim with why and when. If life had taught him anything, it was that those kinds of questions were futile. One had to just accept the way things were, regardless of how unjust it felt. He simply had to continue to think rationally. Otherwise he’d crack.
A familiar feeling overwhelmed him. He’d never said it out loud—it wasn’t the sort of thing one admitted—but he was lonely. He missed Emma terribly. Loss was a ruthless, merciless feeling; he’d been able to live with it whenever they’d been separated for short periods because release was in sight, a joy that wiped all the pain from his memory. But when his longing wasn’t relieved, it grew into a knot that filled his chest until he was close to bursting. No matter which path he followed in his mind, he came upon Emma. The laughing Emma wearing a swimsuit at the beach, the dancing Emma at their wedding, the naked Emma lying outstretched on the bed, and Emma the corpse with her untidy clumps of hair and unrecognizable face.
Over time he had developed a fear, a fear of his own thoughts, which he’d tried to flee by no longer reflecting on anything. He couldn’t stop thinking entirely, but he chose to focus on just a few areas: his lectures and his books. He tried to repress all the thoughts that brought him pain. It was, at its core, contradictory: a university professor who’d stopped thinking. Part of his job was to think, to leave no stone unturned. How could he suddenly fear his own thoughts, fear what images his head chose to show him? He had always viewed himself as a thinker, and so had others, but if he no longer was, then what was he? He knew perfectly well that it was all an illusion—of course he’d never stopped thinking—but if he repeated it to himself often enough, maybe his brain would finally begin to cooperate and bar all those unwanted thoughts.
He heard Jakob’s and Rachel’s small feet running through the rooms in the apartment above, and he opened his eyes. He liked those two, but since they were Jews, he never said that aloud, of course. People in the building no longer associated with them, and he’d noticed that he was the only one who said hello. The Grünspan family—father Aaron, mother Hannah, and children Samuel, Esther, Jakob, and Rachel—had been lucky to be out of town during the terror of Kristallnacht, but Aaron’s clockmaker workshop had been nearly obliterated. It was said that more than thirty thousand Jews had been arrested that night, and the concentration camps at Buchenwald, Dachau, and Sachsenhausen now teemed with people. Germans joked that there wasn’t enough room in the camps for all the long noses. Rumors circulated that another concentration camp would be built soon. Although no one considered that unusual anymore, this one would be located near a former brickworks in Neuengamme, only fifteen miles from Hamburg’s center.
Although he felt terrible for the Jews, his countrymen derived a certain sense of security from knowing that the Jews were the ones being subjected to the clampdown. But it seemed that Germans also treated Germans badly—he himself was now living proof of that.
Hamburg, Germany, February 15, 1939
Gerhard biked through the white, ivy-covered gateway. The main entrance—with its high, majestic columns, flagstone mosaics, and well-groomed grounds—made up the university’s presentable half, but on the other side, ivy reigned. Founded in 1919, the university was located in the Rotherbaum district close to downtown. The large lecture hall was housed in a beautiful, square building with a towering dome. The roof of the hall was shaped like a woman’s breast and covered in verdigris, just like those in Fritz Klimsch’s statues.
Gerhard had begun to study mathematics here at the age of nineteen. The science faculty, which included mathematics faculty, was housed in the west wing along with the medical faculty. Gerhard’s office was on the second floor.
The office that came with his professorship had once belonged to one of algebra’s masters, Emil Artin. Artin, however, had been forced to leave because his Russian wife, Natascha, was half Jewish. The last he’d heard about him was that the family had boarded a steamship bound for the United States. When Gerhard heard about Emil’s unfortunate circumstances, he hadn’t rejoiced, but he did feel a kind of intoxication. He knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for him. When Gerhard was offered Emil’s position, he pretended that he felt bad about accepting the job, but in a secret moment he thanked Natascha’s parents for bringing her into the world. When people asked him about it, he made a sad face, shrugged his shoulders, and said glumly that one man’s death is another’s bread. His conscience demanded that he write Emil a letter. He was delighted and relieved when he got a reply at the beginning of 1938. Emil had accepted a good position at a university in the United States. Gerhard felt happy for him—but mostly for himself.
He arrived at his office early this morning. The space lived up to the prevailing image of a professor’s office. Two of the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with mahogany shelves filled with books. Although some books stood upright and others lay flat, they were all arranged in a system that allowed him to find whatever he was looking for, and he knew exactly what he’d find in each of his books and on which page. Stacks of papers and opened volumes rested on his mahogany desk. He liked his heavy writing desk a great deal, especially the soft rattle the brass handles made when he opened or closed the deep drawers.
Behind him hung a map of the world as it appeared in Galileo’s day. He admired Galileo, regarded him as a colleague; he’d been a professor of mathematics, after all, at the University of Padua. Whereas other professors and lecturers had photos of their wives and children on their desks, Gerhard had no personal objects, not even a picture of Emma. Those who knew the story didn’t ask him about her, and he dodged questions from those who didn’t.
This morning he was scheduled to hold a lecture on the beauty of algebra. He’d spent much of the night preparing the lecture, and now he wanted to scan his notes one last time. It was to be a memorable lecture that included rising tension, a climax, and denouement. He’d worked it out like a piece of theater. He hoped that his students would be drawn to algebra in the same way he’d been hypnotized by the world of numbers as a student. He wanted to challenge the view that algebra was constricted by rules and enable them to see the beauty in the abstractions concealed behind the rules.
When he opened his door, he nearly knocked the young adjunct Ralf Cullman to the ground. Cullman had been at the university for a year, but the two men hadn’t ever really spoken. Gerhard had noticed the adjunct; his odd appearance—a high forehead that seemed to rise interminably, a narrow mouth with thin, almost invisible lips, clear blue eyes behind round glasses, and red hair parted down the middle—made him impossible to overlook.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Strangl. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Of course.” Gerhard sat at his desk while Cullman took a seat opposite him. The adjunct seemed nervous, so Gerhard offered him a cigarette, which he politely declined. “How can I help you?”
The narrow mouth smiled vaguely, and it seemed to take great effort—an effort he clearly would have preferred not to make. “I have enormous respect for your work.”
“Thank you.”
“And I consider you a very sensible man.”
Gerhard wondered where this conversation was headed and what Cullman even knew about him and his wor
k. He sucked on his cigarette as his eyes automatically gravitated toward the man’s high forehead.
“I’m honored, Cullman, but to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Cullman’s eyes flickered before they settled on some object on Gerhard’s desk. “It’s hard for me to say this, but I believe you are the right person.”
Gerhard leaned toward the adjunct and smiled broadly in an effort to help the man relax. His curiosity was piqued, but he didn’t want to press him.
“You see,” Cullman said hesitantly, “some of us in the faculty are of a different political bent, if you understand what I mean?” He regarded Gerhard with an apologetic expression.
“You’ll have to explain.” Gerhard tamped out his cigarette.
“We meet regularly to debate how we can improve the political situation in Germany.” He looked directly at Gerhard now. “We believe there is a need for, well, let’s call them changes, if things are going to get better.”
“And where do I fit in the picture?”
“We believe that you share our views. We would like to invite you to participate in our secret meetings. I hope you won’t turn us down, but if you do, I hope you will be discreet and not expose our activities.”
He studied the adjunct. Either he was courageous, Gerhard thought, or he was foolish. “Who are the others?”
“I can’t tell you that you until you’ve given us your assurance.”
Gerhard gave him an understanding smile and slowly removed another cigarette from his pack. “I can’t give you my assurance, but I will consider your invitation.”
He had no intention of getting involved in anything so dangerous, and yet he was curious to learn more, so he didn’t wish to categorically reject Cullman’s invitation.
“We meet every Thursday evening at nine o’clock in the university library, if you are interested.” Cullman stood and offered his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“That’s quite all right. I will consider your offer.”
After Cullman left his office, Gerhard sat staring out the large window. A few minutes later he watched the adjunct stroll across campus and continue down Edmund-Siemers-Allee. The redheaded man glanced over his shoulder several times, as if he was being followed or could feel Gerhard observing him. Then he vanished from sight. During the conversation it had struck Gerhard that something was amiss. No one in today’s Germany would express such a dangerous suggestion so explicitly. But what was he to do? One thing was certain: he wouldn’t go to that meeting in the library on Thursday. But what would actually happen if he showed up? There was no reason to follow this train of thought, however, because he knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t dare. But he was curious who the others were. No, he couldn’t do it. But should I report this to the Gestapo? Should I call Kögl immediately and tell him what I just heard? Then I would put Cullman and the others in jeopardy. My sympathies are with them, but how could they actually know that? How can Cullman be so sure that I won’t tell the police? What the hell just happened?
He shook his head, disconsolate. It was a terrible situation to be thrust into, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. What should he do? He considered his options and decided that he would pretend it had never happened. He would pretend Ralf Cullman had never entered his office, that he had never sat in that chair. Bad things might just go away on their own if you ignored them. He wished their conversation could simply be deleted from history, never to be thought of again.
The pleasure he’d felt anticipating his lecture was gone now, but it returned once he stood in the lecture hall.
“Good morning.” Gerhard glanced around at the students in attendance. His voice always trembled slightly whenever he began a lecture. He didn’t love the prospect of speaking in front of large groups, but he was rarely nervous; still, his voice always made it appear as though he were.
“Today I would like to tell you all about the wonders of algebra,” he said with a smile.
Hamburg, Germany, April 14, 1939
From his window Gerhard gazed toward St. Michael’s Church. The sun had tinted the morning sky with a pink brushstroke. Like a migratory bird that had been away on a journey, the sun had finally returned, he thought.
It was Friday, and he was planning to take one of his increasingly rare days off. He felt guilty about it, but he needed to rest his mind. The development phase for his next book had lasted an inefficiently long time, and even though he felt the core idea was leading him in the right direction, he was having trouble getting the actual writing under way. He would have to begin eventually, just not today.
In the kitchen he placed a zinc washbowl in the sink, filled it with water, and washed his face. He heard a knock on his door. Not expecting to find anyone on the landing, he took his time drying his face with the towel that hung from his shoulder before he went to open the door in pants and an undershirt. The upstairs neighbors’ two youngest, Jakob and Rachel, were often bored, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to rap on his door only to run away. Those two had had far too much time on their hands in the last year since all Jewish children had been forbidden to attend school. He always played along; he couldn’t yell at those curly-haired kids when they looked at him with their big eyes.
On his way out of the kitchen, it occurred to him that Weinhardt had perhaps misunderstood their agreement. Theodore Weinhardt was supposed to stop by for coffee that afternoon, but Gerhard knew him well enough by now to know that sometimes his memory betrayed him. Gerhard enjoyed the old man’s company. They shared the same interests; Theodore was a learned man, and he said things Gerhard didn’t dare to. And he felt that speaking to Weinhardt made him smarter. In truth, the old man was probably the closest thing he had to a good friend. Theodore and his wife lived in a small apartment. When he visited them, he’d seen only the entranceway, living room, and tiny kitchen, but he got the feeling that their bedroom was just as cramped as the other rooms. The furnishings were old-fashioned but cozy. When Theodore had opened the door and smiled with his nearly toothless mouth, a pleasant aroma of coffee and something indefinable greeted him. Once inside, he discovered Mrs. Weinhardt’s passion for orchids. There were orchids everywhere, making the living room look like a tropical forest. The air was heavy and moist, but the older couple didn’t seem to notice. Mrs. Weinhardt, whose first name was Greta, was a buxom woman with a big heart and a talent for baking cookies. Every time Theodore made some sarcastic remark in his high-backed recliner, she’d smile at him. Gerhard’s impression of her was much different from what the shrewd Theodore had described. But again, that was part of Theodore’s charm: you never knew if he meant what he said.
Gerhard opened the door. Ulrich Grabel and Siegfried Schauer stood on the landing. “Come with us.” Their tone was sharp.
“Let me finish getting dressed. One moment,” Gerhard said, surprised.
“Hurry up, we don’t have all day,” Schauer responded gruffly.
Gerhard quickly closed the door behind him, and they descended the stairs. Mrs. Zimmermann always responded to the slightest sound on the stairwell, and the curious blabbermouth came out of her first-floor apartment to the stairwell; she had apparently realized that if she wasn’t the building superintendent’s wife, then she was nothing, and so she continued playing the part, despite the fact that her husband’s health no longer allowed him to fulfill his duties. Broom raised, she stood now at the bottom of the stairwell, ready to give Rachel and Jakob another tongue-lashing. She hated those two children and the disruption they caused among the otherwise decent folk, as she called the residents of Jakobstrasse number 7.
They climbed into the black Mercedes. Gerhard had worked for the Gestapo for five months. Work probably wasn’t the right word, since he’d made no attempt to find out anything useful for them. Kögl had described the university as a breeding ground for troublemakers and political dissenters, but Gerhard wouldn’t betray his colleagues or the students. He just didn’t have it in him. He’
d reported to Kögl once, but that was only to tell him he had nothing to report—and that when it came right down to it, he didn’t know anything about troublemakers and political dissenters at the university. His lack of information had garnered him a head shake from the detective superintendent, and now Gerhard stood to be reprimanded by this little man once more. There was Ralf Cullman and his little group, of course, but if Gerhard didn’t mention them, no one in the Gestapo would ever know about them. Besides, there was something strange about Cullman, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. They hadn’t spoken since, and that amazed Gerhard as much as the man’s peculiar inquiry in his office.
They drove to headquarters in silence, and he was ushered into Kögl’s office, which was empty. Only now did he notice the family photo on the detective superintendent’s desk. Kögl was surrounded by his wife and son and two daughters, and they looked happy. Kögl himself even looked amiable enough standing there with a smile on his face. Gerhard turned and saw some kind of war medal in the shape of a cross hanging on the wall. He was surprised that anyone still cared about such things, that there could be prestige in a war they’d lost.
The door opened, and Kögl and a man in an SS uniform marched in. There was something comical about the sight of the squat Kögl and the towering SS officer together. On the right side of the latter’s jacket collar were two SS symbols—symbols of power—and on the left side was the badge that identified his rank, a captain.
The detective superintendent sat down, and the other man stood behind him, his arms behind his back. He was nearly six feet five, Gerhard guessed, and his penetrating eyes made Gerhard nervous, so he concentrated on Kögl instead. Gerhard noticed that the policeman’s hair didn’t quite cover the crown of his head this time either. He felt sorry for Kögl: every morning he tried combing his hair over his head, and he never succeeded. Over time, he’d have less and less hair, never more. It was a battle he could only lose, and yet he kept fighting the good fight.
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