Sirius trots on ahead, his ears drooping. When he reaches the tree, his tree, he doesn’t bark, but instead lies down thoughtfully.
“Is it a different dog?” asks Frau Zinke.
“Yes and no,” replies Liliencron.
Frau Zinke shakes her head in bewilderment.
*
The townhouse the Liliencrons live in is an imposing structure.
The entrance is framed by two columns, and the door is crowned with a frieze, modelled on the famous ceiling scene in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam.
The story goes that the building’s architect, a certain Manfred Buonarroti, was a descendent of Michelangelo who opened an architectural firm in Berlin in the mid 19th century. Liliencron researched the story, but was unable to find proof of the genealogical line from Michelangelo to Manfred. All he found was mention of a sculptor called Manfred Hosemann, from Leipzig, who once spent a month in Florence in 1821.
There is another unmissable reference to Michelangelo in the conservatory: a statue of David in miniature incorporated into a niche in the wall. “Ecce homo” is engraved beneath it.
For some time now, Liliencron has been contemplating replacing the David with a bust of his dog. The plan cheers him up. The inscription “Ecce homo” would of course remain, he thinks to himself.
By now a few weeks have passed, and Sirius has accepted his new identity. He has almost forgotten that he was once called Levi. So quickly.
“Presumably Hitler has also long forgotten that he was once called Schicklgruber,” says Liliencron.
Frau Zinke has certainly forgotten, in any case. She calls “Hello, Sirius!” when she sees the dog. And “Heil Hitler!” when she sees Herr Liliencron.
Life goes on nonetheless. Every morning, at ten o’clock on the dot, Professor Liliencron steps out of his house, followed by Sirius, and together they walk down Klamtstrasse.
When they get to the corner, the dog begins his ritual with the tree, and Liliencron reads his book.
The chocolate which was once a trick to lure the dog home is no longer necessary. Sirius knows the route now. He knows the whole neighbourhood.
Sometimes he even ventures out on his own.
He has discovered a hole in the garden fence, and he’s off. His first stop is Café Hoffmann on Clausewitzstrasse. He takes up position expectantly before the door, barks and wags his tail.
“Right then, let’s see if you’ve learnt any new tricks,” says Herr Hoffmann.
Sirius sits up and begs.
“What? That’s it?” Herr Hoffmann acts disappointed. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Sirius jumps into the air, somersaults – and lands on his front paws.
“Now that’s a lot better, isn’t it!” praises Herr Hoffmann, taking out a nut triangle.
Now it’s Sirius’ turn to express his disappointment. He droops his ears theatrically, acting as though he is about to slink away dejectedly.
“Okay then,” says Herr Hoffmann. “Two nut triangles.”
Sirius barks joyfully, grabs his reward and sets off on his way. He struts curiously down Kantstrasse. He isn’t quite bold enough to venture down the Ku’damm just yet.
“Good day to you, Sirius!” cries the bookseller Friedrich in greeting, raising his hat.
At Savignyplatz, Sirius lies down on a park bench in the sun and dozes. Later, he trots towards Fasanenstrasse, where two bin men are in the process of pushing two rattling dumpsters across the cobbles.
“Hey, we know him!” cries one as they catch sight of Sirius. “That Jew-dog belongs in with the rubbish!”
They take pleasure in frightening him with their wild facial expressions and threatening gesticulations.
Sirius is an intrepid dog. His shaggy fur, mottled white, brown and black, gives him a rebellious, belligerent air.
He looks like a dusty carpet that inspired the tricolour of some unknown land.
Perhaps it was No Man’s Land.
*
Berlin, the city of grey, stumbles towards summer like a prisoner finally released from his sad cell, praising God that he is able to see the blue sky again after so long. Hungry for sunshine. Greedy for exercise. Gasping for fresh air. Thirsty for beer.
On Father’s Day, grown men hoot as they set off into the countryside in their automobiles, grilling and fishing equipment in tow. Summer, at last!
The bars set up tables outside on the terraces. The people are clothed in the bare minimum of attire. The pavements become the stage of a vast, summery open-air theatre. At the weekends, everyone flocks to the Wannsee lido.
This is the unique spirit of Berlin. Even in the summer of 1938.
Out of necessity, the Liliencron family have weaned themselves off their longing for the great outdoors. Most aspects of public life are now forbidden for Jews, who have to make do with the pleasure provided by their own gardens. Now and then, Liliencron still takes his automobile out of the garage, his beloved Mercedes 170 V cabriolet, and invites the others to join him for a quick jaunt around Grunewald. But the resentful looks spoil their fun.
Georg passes his finals with flying colours. After the celebration at the Gymnasium, the whole family gathers around the large marble table out on the terrace.
Putti looks particularly fetching; for special occasions she exchanges her white cook’s apron for a dress, one that also happens to flaunt her impressive décolletage. Her little Swiss cheeks are glowing even after the first glass of champagne.
Benno Fritsche, Georg’s godfather, is practically part of the family. He is a well-known personality in Berlin. An actor at the Deutsches Theater, and star of the film Grindelhof, which has just started its run in cinemas. He plays, once again, a devastatingly handsome heartbreaker who has women throwing themselves at his feet.
Fritsche loves to make a grand entrance. Imitating the fanfare of a circus trumpet, he jumps over the low garden fence. He lives in the villa right next door, and they have been neighbours ever since the Liliencrons moved into their townhouse.
“As you can see, I wasn’t afraid to take the long way around!” he calls out in greeting.
Rahel puts on her most charming smile. The blush on Putti’s cheeks is reminiscent of the glow of the Alps in her homeland. Even Else seems spellbound.
Benno Fritsche is a delicate subject.
First of all, there’s his hair. When Benno contentedly brushes his blonde quiff back off his forehead with both hands, as he does frequently, it makes the balding Liliencron feel anxious.
The fact that Rahel seems transformed in Benno’s presence doesn’t make matters any easier. She starts to flirt like a young girl. All Benno has to do is make some witty remark, and Rahel just melts.
But the biggest issue is this: Benno has joined the Nazi party.
Involuntarily, he assures them. That’s how things are in the movie business, he says: no Party membership, no work. But then there’s the fact that he recently had an article published in the Volkischer Beobachter, the NSDAP newspaper, entitled “The Aryan Art of Acting”. Did he really need to do that?
Carl expressed great doubt as to whether Fritsche should even be invited to the celebration.
“He’s Georg’s godfather!” said Rahel sternly. “Carl, don’t be so jealous.”
“He’s a Nazi!” Carl retorted.
To which Rahel replied: “He’s not a Nazi. He’s an actor. He’s playing the role of a Nazi so that he can continue being an actor. All of us are wearing masks nowadays. Even Sirius.”
Liliencron reluctantly gave in.
So there he sits at the table, Uncle Benno.
Father Liliencron lifts his glass. “My dear Georg Israel,” he says, beginning his speech.
Not a great start, thinks Rahel, flinching a little. But it’s correct; this is now her son’s official name, according to the guidelines of the Reich Minister for Internal Affairs. Jewish men have to add the forename Israel, and Jewish women the name Sara. But was this really the t
ime and the place to use it?
Uncle Benno doesn’t bat an eyelash.
Carl goes on to give a witty speech, which pays tribute to Georg’s life so far, singling out defining moments and poignant anecdotes, and of course he is unable to resist making a sweeping diversion to the subject of plankton.
Carl turns to Rahel and recounts their wonderful love story once more. He pays tribute to Else. He recalls how the lovely Putti came into their lives, as a souvenir from their winter holiday in Arosa, where she made a lasting impression as the waitress in Hotel Kulm.
Tears of emotion stream down their faces, which moves the orator to include even Uncle Benno and commemorate their childhood friendship.
Benno uses both hands to sweep his quiff from his forehead. Then the speech draws to an end.
“And now to you, little Sirius!”
The dog is sitting on Else’s lap, and has been listening attentively the whole time.
“Sirius?” whispers Benno, shooting Else a questioning glance. The re-naming has so far escaped him.
“Yes, Sirius,” says Liliencron. “That’s his name now. We all have new names, so the dog does too. Everyone has a mask in these macabre times.”
Rahel smiles back meaningfully.
Liliencron had actually been planning to close with an observation that would serve as an emotive proclamation for the principles of Humanism. He wanted to glance at Sirius and say: We are not animals to be divided into races, we are people. What gives you so-called Aryans the right to take the lives of us Jews? We are Germans. Just like you.
But suddenly, he can’t find the words. He simply looks at Sirius and says:
“You are a big dog.”
Else is in love. Her crush is called Andreas Cohn, and he is one of her fellow students at the Hollaender Jewish Private School of Music. She plays the piano, he the violin.
They used to be in the same class at the Stern Conservatory, which three years ago was renamed and Aryanised as the Conservatory of the Reich Capital of Berlin. Numerous Jewish professors had to leave the school. After that, Kurt Hollaender founded his private music academy on Sybelstrasse.
Else and Andreas became closer while they were rehearsing Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s Violin Concerto, Opus 64, arranged for violin and piano.
Erich Oppenheimer, the piano teacher, said: “Fräulein Else, you have to play the first movement as though your heart has just caught fire. The second movement is when the heart hesitantly withdraws and ponders: does he feel the same way? The third movement is, finally, the fulfilment of that great love.”
If you look at it like this, Else is currently in the middle of the second movement of her first great love.
Andreas is a serious young man. His curly black hair and deep-set eyes give him a defiant air. He plays the violin with a smouldering, almost fear-inducing fervour. He braces his instrument, a Stainer, against his shoulder like a crossbow, as if he were a marksman about to fire the deciding arrow. A fighter. A daredevil.
Else, by contrast, seems like his guardian angel. She could almost have jumped straight out of a Raphael painting. Graceful, sweet and gentle.
They wait for each other after class. Until the corner of Mommsenstrasse, their journey home is the same, and sometimes they sit there on a bench for hours, because they cannot bear to be parted.
“What do you see when you close your eyes?” asks Else.
Andreas closes his eyes. “I see the Rhine. Imagine how small it is when it flows out of the Tomasee lake up in the mountains. A tiny little stream. In the Romansh language, the source of the Rhine is called Lai da Tuma. Tuma means ‘grave’.”
Else hangs onto his every word.
He opens his eyes again. “By the time the Rhine flows past us here, it’s already a vast, broad river.”
Andreas Cohn is from Basel. His grandfather, Arthur Cohn, was the first Rabbi of the Israelite congregation in Basel, where Theodor Herzl later founded the dream of a Jewish state in Palestine.
“Take me with you, to Lai da Tuma,” whispers Else. Andreas smiles. Then they kiss for the first time.
*
In the Liliencron household, Friday means soirée night. This week, the actor Erwin Kaltenberg has been invited. Along with Professor Weidenfels, the mathematician. Hans Fallada, the writer. Käthe Kollwitz, the artist. Arthur and Betty Fraenkel, the neighbours. And Else has invited Andreas along too.
“Be nice to him, Papa, okay?” she pleads.
“I’m sure we’ll get along wonderfully,” says Liliencron. “Assuming he has an interest in plankton, that is.”
The guests trickle in.
Weidenfels swiftly commits a faux pas when he engages Käthe Kollwitz in a conversation about dolls. He has confused her with Käthe Kruse, the famous doll-maker. Putti serves May wine to the guests.
Sirius barks at Kaltenbach, who says: “That beast is even more savage than Alfred Kerr.”
Rahel looks enchanting. She is wearing a cocktail dress made from midnight blue silk.
Andreas Cohn stands there reverently at the edge of the circle.
“I hear from my daughter that you like to play the violin,” says Father Liliencron.
“Yes,” he replies.
“The violin,” says Liliencron, miming a fiddling movement. “Is there still any future in that?”
“Yes,” answers Cohn.
“Interesting,” murmurs Liliencron. “I thought the jazz trumpet was the instrument of tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” says Cohn. “Who knows if we’ll even live to see it.”
“You think we might not?”
Cohn is about to give an answer that will offer an insight into his pessimistic worldview. But then Else approaches with a glass of May wine in her hand. She is already a little tipsy.
“What are you two talking about? Hopefully nothing too serious?”
“No, no,” Liliencron assures her. “We’re just chatting about the future.”
Else takes Andreas by the hand and leads him over to Putti.
“Putti!” she calls. “Here’s one of your countrymen.”
“Grüezi,” says Putti courteously.
The two Swiss expatriates exchange a few words in their native language, which makes them sound like ventriloquists who have come down with a cold.
Georg seeks out Andreas. “Else tells me you’re worried about us.”
Andreas nods. “Yes. I see dark times ahead for German Jews if things go on like this. And things will go on like this.”
Professor Weidenfels comes over. “I hear,” he says to Andreas, “that you have a famous name.”
“Well, I still have to live up to it,” says Andreas, exercising his modesty.
Weidenfels turns to Georg: “His father, Marcus Cohn, is the last white knight. I know many Jewish emigrants who owe their lives to him.”
Liliencron joins in the conversation. “There it is again, that word. Emigration. Are you another one of these Zionists, Herr Cohn?”
Andreas replies: “My grandfather founded Zionism, together with Theodor Herzl.”
Liliencron answers: “But we won’t let anyone drive us away. That’s exactly what Hitler wants. We’re Germans. We belong in Germany.”
He walks off dramatically.
“You see, Andreas, that’s what I mean,” says Georg. “To my father, Germany is still the country that gave him the golden Cothenius Medal. The home of Goethe. Of Beethoven’s symphonies.”
Liliencron clinks his glass with the cocktail stirrer. “Dear guests,” he calls, “our friend Hans Fallada will now read a chapter from his new novel Iron Gustav for our entertainment.”
*
Autumn has arrived. A thick blanket of cloud lies over the city, and it will soon shrug off the first snow.
The atmosphere in the Liliencron house is heavy-hearted. As if there were a premonition of imminent developments which will spell doom for the family.
Sirius has already picked up the scent.
The routes fo
r his walks are still the same, but many familiar faces have disappeared. The cobbler Horowitz, who always chatted nicely with him, is no longer there. The Finkelstein coffee roasting house, where it used to smell so wonderful, has closed down.
Other old acquaintances seem distracted or nervous. Herr Hoffmann for example, who used to consider some good play-acting worth a nut triangle. Or two.
Sirius sits down in front of the cafe and wags his tail expectantly.
Herr Hoffmann raises his head only briefly. “You again? What do you want now?”
Sirius jumps into the air on all fours.
“Yes, yes,” murmurs Hoffmann absentmindedly. “Very nice.”
No nut triangle.
Part of Sirius’ repertoire is the number where he trots along on two legs and stretches his right paw out in a Hitler salute. He knows from experience that it goes down particularly well with humans in brown uniform. They return the greeting cheerfully and make quips like: “It looks like our Party has made quite an impression on the dog.”
But even that has changed now. A policeman stops Sirius and shouts at him: “Are you making fun of our Führer, you filthy mongrel?”
The reprimand is accompanied by a kick.
Everything is very strange. What’s going on? Georg must have been right when he said: “This is no longer our country.”
Sirius is contemplative as he sets off on his way home. He makes a quick detour to make sure his tree is still there.
The tree is still there.
*
The postman has no idea that today he is delivering a letter which will change the fate of the Liliencron family forever. Putti is on holiday, so the professor receives the post himself.
The delivery is from the Leopoldina. The envelope is embossed with the words German National Academy of Sciences.
Post from the Leopoldina is a rare occurrence. Liliencron opens the letter on the spot.
We are writing to inform you that non-Aryan academics are to be excluded from membership with immediate effect. Your teaching contract has been suspended. Salary and pension entitlements have also ceased.
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