“You can tell so much about a person by his hands, his work, his rung in society. No wonder gypsies can tell your fortune from your hands. Here now, let me see the lines of your palms and I will tell your fortune.”
Harrington maintained a respectful silence as Lucia turned his hands over and traced the lines of the palms with her well-manicured fingernails.
“Now, let’s see. You will have a very long life.” She slipped into German. “There is soon to be a great and beautiful and fantastic love affair, one you will never, ever forget.” He understood “love affair,” but the rest of what she said was lost. “And you will become a famous architect,” she said in English, smiling charmingly.
He felt something soft touch his leg, which he thought was Lucia’s thigh. It was almost imperceptible. Unsure of himself, but somehow excited about just where all of this was going, he responded by placing his hand on top of hers, squeezing. Then came the soft movement under the table once more. He instinctively moved his hand beneath the checkered tablecloth, only to burst out into roaring laughter.
“My God, it’s a dog!” he yelled. “Lucia, I have to apologize,” he said. “What is a dog doing here?”
“Everyone brings their dog to this café,” she said, not without a smile. “Not so in America?”
“Not in America. It is against the law.” The small schnauzer returned to a nearby table, to his mistress, a tall, elegant, elderly woman.
“Fritz, come here! You naughty boy!” she began to scold him, affectionately.
“And you don’t have to apologize, Bill. I like when you squeeze my hand.”
The owner of the café, Jan Goldberg, dressed in a dark suit, approached their table, bending his body slightly to speak.
“It is always an honor to have a beautiful woman here.” He took Lucia’s pretty hand and kissed it, then gave Bill a friendly but incisive look.
“Jan, this is Bill Harrington, an American.”
“Sir, welcome. A friend of one of the best families in Danzig is more than welcome here. And where is the famous industrialist?”
“In Berlin, where else?”
“Not getting into much trouble, I hope. These are rapidly changing times, n’est-ce pas?”
Jan Goldberg was obviously more than just keeper of an inn. He had arrived in Danzig before 1917, along with many other Jewish intellectuals. A pogrom against the Jews – another one, but especially violent – had wracked Russia, while many Jews fled from Poland to escape being drafted to fight against the Bolsheviks. Jan was a writer; now he was a Zionist, too. He bought a small café, making it a place where the intelligentsia could comfortably meet, drinking tea and reciting their works through the day. Soon the bare tables were replaced by elegant settings, the walls bedecked by fine works of art, and violinists played romantic scores. At night it was quite a different matter. A black combo from New York played hot jazz, and the patrons, still mostly intellectuals, also included some anarchists and revolutionaries, unemployed artists and cocaine sellers. Danzig was also a stopover for poor immigrants such as Jews from Russia and Polish shtetls on their way to America and Palestine with the help of Jewish-American money.
Jan was also a money-changer and the head of the young Jewish organization called the Judenbund, or freedom fighters. They met once a week in the high school gymnasium, which was still allowed in the Free State of Danzig. They were few in number, but they knew exactly what Adolf Hitler was up to. In three years they would plan the assassination of Hess, Himmler, Goering, and Hitler himself.
“He likes you a lot,” Bill said somewhat disconcertedly, after Goldberg had left the table.
“A little jealous over an older woman?” Lucia teased him.
“You are not so much older than I, I think,” Bill said a bit defensively.
Lucia’s eyes were sparkling now, dazzling jewels. Everything that needed to be said was written on her face.
There was a certain magic that engulfed them now. They were on fire. The waiter came by with more Pernod.
Just as they were about to drink again five tall young men, perhaps no older than sixteen, entered the café. They were dressed in brown dilapidated uniforms and carried small round frayed straw baskets. They wore bright Nazi armbands, and approached each table requesting money. Oscar and Jan Goldberg sternly looked on and dropped some groschens into one of the baskets. When they came to Lucia’s and Bill’s table, the Brown-shirts gave them a long hard look. Bill reached into his pocket and threw coins into one of the baskets. They then moved to the center of the café, and the youngest of the group, who looked to be not all that much older than Jonas, said, “We thank you for the disabled, homeless war veterans of Germany,” and he began to sing in a sweet voice: “We are the youth of Germany, and tomorrow, tomorrow, is our future for the world.”
The patrons sat silently.
“Who are they?” Bill whispered.
“They call themselves Brownshirts. They are fascists, and some people say they are very dangerous.”
“Why does the owner let them in?
“This is the Free State of Danzig. The National Socialist Party, the Nazi party, is allowed to exist, along with a host of others. The Brownshirts represent the Nazi party.”
As soon as the youths left, the violins played “Mack the Knife” and the café once again became filled with the sound of afternoon chatter, but for Lucia and Bill, the mood was ruined.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lucia said. “Come home with me and I will make you my favorite dish, Russian eggs and champagne. Thursday the help is off, and the house belongs to us,” she whispered seductively. Bill’s heart was alive in anticipation and he could almost feel its beat. He fingered the Prince’s friendship ring which he had stopped wearing some time ago though kept wrapped in a handkerchief in his pants pocket, not sure why he had done so but perhaps too tipsy now to give it more thought.
When they arrived at Langfuhr, at the Kruger’s home, all the lights were out except for some upstairs, including those in Fräulein’s quarters. Astor met them at the hall, jumping on Lucia and growling at Bill.
“Shame on you, Astor. Bill is our good friend. He’s not used to you yet, Bill. It means you must come to be with us more often,” Lucia told him, the American’s face glowing from the Pernod.
She took the dog to the kitchen and returned with two Romanoff flutes and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, 1920.
“Let’s sit in my private study. No one is allowed in except scholars and lovers,” she teased.
“I am both of those,” he said, emboldened both by the drink and willful desire. He could feel that this rendezvous would end, yes, in the loss of his virginity, finally.
“You must sit on my swooning couch. Take your shoes off while I take a peek at Jonas to see if all is well.”
It was a small colorful room lined with books. A large gilt desk stood by the window and a carved ivory mantel over the fireplace was crowded with miniature works of art and colored gems. Dozens of large amber gems collected from the beaches of Danzig caught his eyes. Bill held an amber stone in his hand and sat down on the Victorian fainting couch. In front of the couch was a small table with a glorious collection of Romanov eggs. If he knew the value of each of those beautiful pieces of art he would hardly have been so casual in handling them.
Jonas was not in his bed. Lucia softly made her way to the very end of the long hall, past guest bedrooms and Jonas’ playroom to the Fräulein’s apartment where she found him napping, his small body languidly stretched over his governess, who was also, apparently, in a deep sleep.
Bill removed his shoes, stretched out on the sofa, and sipped his champagne, his eyes studying the room, especially because it was Lucia’s: small Lalique and Meissen figurines; first editions of Verlaine, Baudelaire, and Pushkin; and paintings by Klimt all lining the walls along with photographs of Jonas in his gym suit and sailor’s outfit. There were also pictures of Brand on his horse and another with a tennis racket. He spotted a small plate wi
th the inscription “Casino, Sopot 1928.” To be asked into this lovely space, so feminine and private, stirred Bill mightily.
Lucia returned now wearing an Oriental kimono and sat next to him. “I am so much more comfortable,” she sighed. “Don’t look so surprised at my outfit. We went to Shanghai last year on one of those wild trips that Brand likes to take. It was the longest, hardest trip of my life and the most exciting one. We were at sea for almost a month.”
“You look beautiful, Lucia,” Bill said. At that moment he was not interested in hearing about her travels, but moved closer to her staring into her eyes, those beautiful sparkling eyes. But just then he wondered about the Prince, who also had brown sparkling eyes, and whose look excited him, too.
No, it was not the same thing, dammit. Still, he worried that Lucia must feel his mixed confused feelings. What would she think? Focus, man, focus! Bill told himself as he looked back at the paintings on the wall. His eyes fell on a small George Stubbs, of a horse about to be mounted by a tall man dressed in equestrian clothing and polished riding boots. He blinked. Fortunately, Bill got a reprieve as Lucia started to ramble on.
“This is my special room,” she said. “Here is where I can sit quietly, read, write letters. I love to write letters to my friends. I am going to write a letter to you. And one day, when you go back to America and have forgotten all about me, then you will get a letter from Danzig.”
“I don’t think I will ever forget you or Danzig,” Bill said, meaning it. And suddenly, it was clear to him, the whole messy incoherence of it. “Perhaps I will never return to Ohio.”
“That will be good, but then I will write you anyway. I know you want to spend some time with Walter Gropius in Weimar, at the Bauhaus. I heard he is moving the Bauhaus to Dessau to establish the International Style. You see, the Beaux Arts has taught me a little something about architecture.”
She moved closer to him and very suddenly kissed him gently on his lips. Her kimono opened and her full breasts were exposed to him.
Clumsily he touched them and her sighs rang in his ears, deep womanly sounds of arousal. Lucia reached for him, gently rubbing him through his wool trousers. But she was surprised to find that he did not respond, and when his pursed lips failed to open to her mouth either, she gracefully retreated, closed her kimono and tried to hide her disappointment and said no more.
“I guess I am just nervous that your husband will come marching in, or Jonas,” Bill said with a pained voice.
Lucia understood.
Fräulein Marlow was a sneak and voyeur. She had feigned sleep, and when Lucia left her room she silently crept down the stairs and stood breathlessly behind the closed doors, listening while peeking through the keyhole. The hallway was bathed in darkness – the scene inside Lucia’s study reminded her of a snow globe, small and glittery and utterly ridiculous. She smiled to herself and thought of Brand. How stupid men are. If only he could see his wife now. Oscar Wilde had something to say, she once read, about marriage killing a woman’s passion. He was wrong. It simmers slowly. These Krugers were volcanic.
She quietly tiptoed away, exhilarated by her knowledge. Another secret to be stored away for the future.
Bill, the good-looking American stud, just didn’t like women.
Chapter Five
JONAS LIKED THE CHANGE. His governess was not always scolding him now. He no longer had to drink a lukewarm glass of milk with slimy skin floating on top. She had Cook prepare things he liked most – soft-boiled eggs and chocolate pudding at dinner, when they ate alone. When they went to Oliver Forest with Astor, and Jonas ran ahead disappearing in the brush, she strolled patiently, not yelling at him to return. They collected baskets of walnuts from the ground, and then in the evening she threaded them on long pieces of string and made necklaces. When the first snow arrived, they put a harness around Astor’s neck and attached him to the sled that pulled the giggling boy through the beautiful forest near their home.
After supper, Fräulein Marlow removed her stiff white blouse and black skirt and placed a housecoat over her naked body. No longer did Jonas resist going to bed. She warmed the feather bed covers by the radiator in his bedroom, and after his mother and father came to say good night, he knew that Fräulein would come in to tell him a story. He could hardly wait. Astor was allowed to stay in his room, and as soon as his parents left, the dog jumped on the bed, snuggling against Jonas’ feet. Jonas had once been afraid of the dark, but no longer. A sliver of light crept under the rolling doors as he waited. Soon the governess would enter his room. He liked the subtle spiced scent of her perfume. It reminded him of warm cinnamon muffins. He waited, humming to himself the two stanzas of “Horst Wessel,” the Nazi anthem. Fräulein told him the song was written by a young student killed by the Communists in Berlin in 1930. So saddened were the Germans that the original poem became the Nazi anthem.
The child closed his eyes blissfully and smiled as he heard the Fräulein tiptoe into the room.
“Jonas is fast asleep, but now I am going to wake him to tell a story.” She bent down, encouraging her robe to open, her full breasts touching his face as she hugged him and kissed his forehead. Acting surprised, he opened his eyes and broke out into a big grin. He sat up and placed his legs up against his body.
“Before I begin the story, I want to ask you, are you my little boy?”
“Yes,” Jonas answered.
“And do you love Fräulein?”
“Yes.”
“Just as much as Muttie and Daddy?”
He nodded. Yes, he did. His governess never left him at night, preferring the company of grown-ups to his. His parents rarely took him to Stefan’s Park, or out for lemon ices.
“And will you always keep our little secrets forever, all the things we do together like grownup people?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good, then come and give me a big hug, and you can lay your head right here if you want to.” She placed his head on her naked breast, his lips near her nipple. She closed her eyes and sighed.
“Tonight I am going to tell you the story of a boy called Jonas, who lived in a very big house.”
“Like me,” Jonas said in a small voice. The Fräulein’s breast against his cheek was so smooth and warm. “And does the boy live with a dog called Astor?” he continued. Hearing his name, the dog raised his head from the edge of the bed and licked Jonas’ feet.
“And the dog called you-know-what. One day he wore his brown uniform, and he received a present, a little knife in a leather sheath. He walked down the aisle at the meeting house and there he met the great man, the leader, who shook his hand, and said, ‘Soon I am going to make you a leader, a captain of the boys, and you will lead them in a march, and your mother and father will be proud of you.’ And then everyone clapped, and we decided to change your name from Jonas Kruger to Jonas the Great Captain, because Kruger was not a good name to have for such a great leader.”
“Great Captain Jonas,” he repeated to himself. “And then what happened?”
“Tomorrow I will tell you what happened, but now you have to go to sleep. You have to grow strong and healthy to do all those things.”
She pulled the down quilt over his body and kissed him on the cheek. After the governess left the room he could still smell her perfume on the sheets. He fell asleep dreaming of being a famous soldier, his Fräulein at his side.
When Brand returned from Berlin he was reluctant to tell Lucia what he had witnessed. Although the newspapers were filled with descriptions of the rioting in the streets of Berlin against the Communist Party, the brutal beatings were omitted. The bread lines were growing longer, and people were so poor that they were living on the streets, in shacks, begging for food. The American Hoover Commission and other relief agencies had failed miserably. Suffering and want was everywhere.
“I am happy to return,” Brand told Lucia. “Things are very horrible in Germany.”
“They must get their factories going, and with Kruger coal
, of course,” Lucia answered. But she was not interested in hearing Brand’s story of Berlin. She had been waiting a long time to discuss Jonas with him.
“You have been away so much you probably haven’t had a chance to notice, but your son seems different now. I don’t know exactly what it is, but he seems far off, preoccupied. He is no longer loving. He doesn’t want to go to the Maccabee Club, and he absolutely detests the Hebrew lessons with the Rabbi,” Lucia said, referring to religious instruction that would culminate a few years hence in the child’s Bar Mitzvah. “He mimics the Rabbi and makes terrible fun of him. His disrespect is alarming. Also, he won’t let go of his governess.”
“You are imaging it, Lucia. He looked and acted fine with me. The Rabbi is always complaining. What young boy enjoys Hebrew lessons, an archaic language that is only used at the Holidays?”
“I think we should get rid of her, Brand. I have a woman’s intuition that something is very wrong.”
“She is a terrific governess. Look, Jonas is like a little prince. He is so well mannered. . . .”
“Exactly, and he acts like a grown-up instead of a young boy.”
“He will start gymnasium before long,” Brand said, referring to the boy’s academy Jonas would be attending the following fall. “It will be good for him to be with other boys beside those isolated here in Langfuhr. You’ll see. It will be fine.”
That night Brand was sitting on his son’s bed, reflecting on Lucia’s observations. True, the Fräulein was somewhat mysterious, and he and Lucia had very little idea of how the pair spent their days together. Then again, Jonas was a happy child and wasn’t it mystery that made her so exciting in the first place? He slowly shook his head. My son has good taste at least, thinking it had been a while since he had last shared the lovely Fräulein’s bed. And surely she would not harm the child – my child, he thought. Jonas stirred and opened his eyes.
“I hope you will like these trains. I bought them in Berlin and they come from America. They are called Lionel trains. On Saturday we will set them up together.”
Twilight in Danzig Page 7