The only dark cloud hanging over our lives is Emma’s failure to question my Jewish fabrication. Odd that I should expect her to question my dishonesty when I could just as easily confess the truth. It was my lie after all. And there has been no shortage of sexually intimate moments for either of us to raise it in context.
But neither of us did. Instead I chose to carry the burden as a punishment for my sin - turning my back on my family and country - letting the unexpiated guilt spread like a virus, poisoning everything. Paradoxically I began to resent Emma for it, believing that she took perverse pleasure at my squirming whenever we were naked. At other times when my gloom lifted I reminded myself that neither is her father Jewish, so I am not that much of a contradiction after all.
But the levity didn’t last. I began to curse myself for the German I detested: mirthless and morose. Truth be told, I told a convenient lie. Given Emma’s light-hearted nature she probably passed it off as a silly one.
Nonetheless, once doubt sets in, life becomes complicated.
Jac and Beth returned from Rotterdam a month later than expected. Jac’s father’s health, routinely poor due to a lifetime of heavy smoking, had taken a turn for the worse, and he was now permanently confined to a hospital bed with no prognosis for a discharge. Beth confided to Emma one evening that he wasn’t expected to live long as there was nothing that the doctors could do for him. That being the case, they decided to relocate from Utrecht to Rotterdam and resume their studies there. They stayed with us for two weeks before packing up and departing.
I was curious to see how I’d get along with Emma’s close friends, before I became aware of their plans to leave. Beth was bubbly and easy to befriend, telling Emma that she had landed a catch in me: smart, talented and handsome to boot. Jac proved to be a more introverted character. I don’t know if it was his father’s condition or whether he just took an instant dislike to me - as had the group from the lunch hall - owing to my nationality, but whenever we were left alone we couldn’t get beyond a few awkward words before the conversation dried up. One evening he got up to play the piano. He attempted an étude by Chopin to complement the mood: rain outside, fire crackling inside. By the time he had trodden through the piece with heavy and blundering hands it was soaking inside and the piano looked good for firewood.
Both Emma and Beth applauded enthusiastically once he finished, despite wincing throughout while he was playing, and then hastily volunteered that I played the piano too.
“I am not very good. A bit rusty,” I demurred, hoping to avoid alienating Jac any further.
Emma cackled loudly. “Nonsense, that’s what you said the first time you played for me. Plus you have a steady engagement at Café Django.”
Jac immediately blanched and turned to me with a surly look. “You play at Django’s?”
I waved it off. “Background noise; dinner crowd. Nobody pays any attention.”
Jac nonetheless remained seated at the piano, unwilling to surrender the bench. Finally Beth spoke up. “Come on, Jac, let him play jazz. He is not classical like you.”
That haughty distinction got him off the piano. I stood up diffidently and sat down, appearing nervous and apprehensive. I decided to dissipate the tension that had unintentionally risen, settling on Tatum’s All the Things You Are; a wonderfully complex piece of piano composition, melodic and melancholy - perfect for an evening like this.
I played for almost twenty minutes, stretching the piece out, dextrously weaving in elements of Chopin without losing the jazz flavour. I wound it down softly, letting the final notes permeate the room and disappear behind the crackling fire.
Beth spoke first. “You are phe-no-me-nal. Emma said you were great. Why don’t you play professionally?”
Emma piped up. “Good, you ask him. Because I haven’t been able to persuade him to go beyond playing the piano at a café, which in my opinion is wasting his talent.”
I glanced over at Jac, hunched next to Beth, looking morose. “Playing music professionally is not the same as playing background: it requires constant rehearsing and coming up with new arrangements and material.”
“OK. Same question: why don’t you play professionally?”
“Maybe he is just not good enough. Stop nagging him,” Jac muttered peevishly, downing the last of his wine. “Anyway, I am off to bed.”
Two days later they were gone.
Emma apologised for his moodiness. I shrugged it off - whatever the reason, I didn’t care. I will probably never see him again.
I was more interested in meeting Emma’s parents, but did not push the subject other than casually asking if we ought to invite them over.
“I would rather they dropped in impromptu and I introduced you as a housemate, than bring you to their house. It would have a different connotation, if you take my meaning.”
Maybe my suspicions were right.
A week later her parents did drop by on an unexpected visit. Edgar van Bergen stood taller than me with a mane of grey hair, a pointed chin, a narrow face, a slender physique and piercing grey eyes. He bore an air of seriousness and dourness about him that was intimidating. Emma’s mother, Tessa, on the other hand, stood considerably shorter with sandy-blonde hair and a strikingly beautiful face and blue eyes. Her demeanour also contrasted with that of her husband. She had a buoyant personality, reminiscent of Beth’s, and a nervous disposition that I found annoying and amusing at the same time: she would constantly interrupt during conversation or jump up and walk around the house, checking on cleanliness, crockery and groceries. Edgar, I found out, was a solicitor in a partnership with three other lawyers in Utrecht. He was quick to point out it was the leading civil litigation firm in the city. Tessa worked for a publisher translating German novels into Dutch, and occasionally worked on educational textbooks.
Initially they appeared comfortable in my presence, particularly as I graduated pre-med in Tessa’s home town, Leipzig. The atmosphere cooled once they found out that Emma and I were living alone together.
Tessa, who was in the kitchen inspecting the cupboards, hastily returned to the living room. “What? What happened to Jac and Beth? I thought they were happy here.” She had barely sat down before she began breathlessly firing off questions.
“Yes, Mum, they were. But Jac’s father is in hospital, dying. So they decided to spend time in Rotterdam with his family.”
“Have you advertised for someone else?” Edgar enquired in a gravelly voice.
“No need. Friedrich and I are managing very well.” Emma gave me a loving look.
They could not fail to notice.
I excused myself, saying that I had to go to the bathroom, to give them time to assimilate to the change in their daughter’s status. I was barely halfway up the stairs when the conversation reverted to Dutch - unbeknown to the Bergens, I was already fairly conversant in the language, thanks to Emma.
“You are living here alone with him?” Tessa exclaimed in an alarmed tone.
“Yes.”
“Since when?” Edgar.
“Since some time ago,” Emma replied warily.
“And you didn’t think to tell us? What do you know about this boy? What do his parents do? Where are they from?” The barrage of questions continued unabated from Tessa, not giving her daughter a chance to respond.
Emma remained unfazed, though. “Why don’t you ask him when he comes back down?”
I had only gone as far as the landing, but pretended to use the bathroom, then casually made my way downstairs.
As soon as Tessa saw me reappear she cleared her throat. Edgar leaned back and Tessa crossed her legs, trying to appear casual, but their stony-faced expressions revealed their concern and disapproval.
“Emma tells me that you are managing alone by yourselves. May I ask what you do?” Edgar questioned me rather sternly.
I sat down next to Emma on the couch and looked over at both parents, who were sitting in armchairs on either side of us. “I am studying to be a doctor
and I work two nights a week at Café Django.”
“What? As a waiter?” Edgar practically scoffed at the idea.
“No. I play the piano.”
The atmosphere went up a notch.
“Well, then, play something for us.”
No sense in repeating the rusty routine; these people were concerned about their daughter being taken advantage of by an unscrupulous student, and a German to boot. Time to ease the tension with Bach. I had never played anything classical in this house, so this was a first for both Emma and her parents.
I approached the piano confidently, raised and propped the lid, pushed the bench back slightly, adjusted my posture, pumped the pedals and launched into a profoundly intimate piece, perfect for a late afternoon. I played the first two movements of the French Suite No. 1: Allemande and Courante.
As the final notes faded in the room, the patter of the rain on the windows returned. I stood up and joined Emma on the couch. She was beaming with pride.
For the first time since he’d walked in, Edgar had a rictus of a smile on his face. He removed his black-framed glasses, pretended to clean them with his tie, then turned to me. “Don’t tell me you are playing Bach at Café Django?”
“No. That would put the patrons to sleep.”
We all managed a polite laugh, which quickly subsided.
“So, Friedrich, what does your father do?” Tessa was now relaxed in my presence again.
“He works for Benz in Bremen. Engineer.”
“Mother?”
“Hausfrau.”
“Very good.” Edgar looked at his watch, then addressed us: “Why don’t we take you both out to dinner? A proper restaurant.”
I never thought that I would have much use for my years of practising the piano. I certainly never considered myself all that talented. Regardless, that gift had paved the way for me on a number of occasions since I had arrived in Utrecht.
Emma and I went upstairs to change. From the top of the landing I could hear Edgar tell his wife that I was a very talented pianist, obviously from a very good family.
We were barely inside our combined room when Emma pulled me to her and gave me a deep and passionate kiss. “They love you.”
“I am relieved. When they first found out about our living arrangement, I thought I would be asked to leave.”
I took out the clothes I wear to Django’s - a pressed dark blue shirt and a pair of cream-coloured pants. I have an elegant camel-hair blazer that I purchased to match, and pulled on a pair of black half-boots and added a dash of cologne. Smart turnout. Emma put on an elegant black dress adorned with a string of pearls, draped a coat over her arm and gave me an approving nod.
When we returned downstairs her parents sized us up and, by their silence, gave their approval.
They took us to a restaurant that, judging by the menu prices, would blow our combined weekly budget. If not monthly, if I include the wine list. My family never dined this expensively, so I felt slightly uneasy in the company of these wealthy and prominent people. From the moment we walked in a number of patrons greeted Edgar and Tessa on the way to our table as we were ushered obsequiously by the maître d’.
No sooner were we seated than a group of smartly dressed men and women to our right waved to Emma’s parents. They excused themselves and walked over to talk to them.
“That’s the Vice Chancellor and his wife; and the guy next to him is the Mayor, with his current girlfriend,” Emma leaned over to whisper to me while stealthily sliding her hand alongside my crotch.
I playfully pushed her hand away. “They might notice.”
“Relax. I don’t care about this place or those people. I find them boring.”
The dinner went pleasantly, particularly as other diners constantly interrupted, so the focus was not on us. Towards the end I was curious to see what the bill would be for this outing. But the maître d’ never brought a bill over. Edgar merely motioned with a wave of his hand and the maître d’ nodded acquiescently. No doubt the firm had an account here.
Back in Bremen we don’t even run a tab with the local grocer. Partly because of inflation - the morning’s tab doubles by the afternoon - but also due to the high rate of bankruptcy; no business can afford to run a debt ledger: they would go broke.
Very little was said on the way back; we were all sated and pleasantly tired. As I disembarked from the car, Edgar leaned over to me from the driver’s side. “Look after Emma. She is very dear to us.”
Mildly tipsy, I took the liberty of placing my hand over his arm. “She is very dear to me too.”
He merely nodded his head, but before pulling up the window added, “If you have any problems at the university, let me know.”
I immediately wondered whether he meant administratively, or whether Emma mentioned the incidents in the lunch hall and library.
We stood for a moment by the front door and watched their gleaming black car glide away into the dark and wet night. I couldn’t help but notice the tri-pointed star on the grille’s apex: Mercedes-Benz.
That night we made love with total abandon. I sensed that her parents’ approval of me was a tacit factor in blessing our relationship. Needless to say, I felt relieved and pleased, but at the same time wary of what my fate would have been if they had disapproved. Sometimes the line that separates our fortune from our failure is thin and cuts both ways.
Since meeting Emma’s parents and witnessing their social status I have been fretting about the imminent meeting between them and my parents over Christmas. Ironically a fortnight before mine are due to arrive I receive a letter from them. My heart starts pounding as I slit open the envelope. Happily Emma isn’t around to witness my trepidation. As I hurriedly read the first paragraph my heart rate drops to normal and I fall back with relief on the kitchen chair. They aren’t coming after all. Due to the increased production at the plant my father isn’t able to get the time off. Despite my immediate sense of relief at this visit being forestalled, I am also dismayed: the cloud surrounding this issue will continue to hover over me till the summer, when they might be able to come.
Throughout the year my studies progress well. I follow the lectures in Dutch but take notes in German. Although my Dutch speech is halting in some instances I nonetheless make myself clearly understood. Other than the initial hostile encounters in the lunchroom and library, I have not met with any further display of animosity. My fellow students, who comprise other nationalities besides Dutch, befriend me openly and I have even made two close friends: a Frenchman and a Belgian; Jean-Paul and Bruno. To my delight when we study together they defer constantly to my notes and interpretations; they don’t have the benefit of an Emma in their court.
We are now regularly invited to visit her parents on Friday night for dinner. It is inherently a Jewish tradition, but none of the ritual is performed: the blessing of the wine and bread, lighting the candles or saying a prayer. It is mutually agreed between Edgar and Tessa that they will not bring religious rites into their lives other than the perfunctory Friday-night meal and the celebration of Christmas with the tree, gifts and lunch. Christ is never mentioned.
I complete the year with excellent grades in all subjects. I am thinking of suggesting to Emma that we travel to Bremen to meet my parents. But I am conscious of the increasingly strident anti-Semitic rhetoric and, more alarmingly, the sporadic acts of harassment and violence against Jews in Germany. I don’t for a moment believe that there is any threat to Emma. She is Dutch and half Jewish. But her awareness of her ancestry will make her presence in Germany very uncomfortable for her. I don’t even know what my parents’ reaction will be to her being half Jewish. We don’t know anyone Jewish in Bremen, half or otherwise.
With the coming of the New Year, 1936, Germany is sweeping all this darkness away. As a precursor to the hosting of the Olympic Games the country is putting on a new and resplendent face to the world. The virulent rhetoric is wound down; the vituperative posters are stripped off the walls and
the welcome mat is laid out for all peoples.
This I learn from Johann Ziegler, whom I have written to in order to test the waters. His latest letter, which arrived just at the close of the first semester of my second year, radiated with hope. His family, who felt threatened, denigrated and harassed, are now treated as equals. The pace of persecution has abated. But despite their relief at this turn of events, Johann’s father believes that the hiatus is temporary. Once the Olympic participants and public have left Berlin, the persecution will resume with greater gusto.
In anticipation of this return of anti-Semitism, Johann’s father has applied for a teaching post in Canada and been accepted to a university in Montreal. They are leaving, while they are still allowed to leave and take their possessions and assets. Other Jewish families are opting to stay, believing that Hitler and his minions have only exploited the anti-Semitism frenzy for as long as it served their political ends. Now that Hitler is firmly in power, Germany is resurgent and the Olympics are being held in Berlin, there is a very real chance that the future will be free of any harassment of non-Aryans or those opposed to the political creed - communists, socialists and such - or those thought of as morally degenerate (homosexuals) or socially inferior (Jews and Gypsies). In short, the Nazi vernacular basket is ‘Untermensch’, or ‘subhuman’.
I don’t share my correspondence with Emma. I read it and write back to Johann in secret. When I finish reading his last letter I mull it over. I agree with Johann’s father. Hitler is an opportunist. He is keen to present a clean and vibrant Germany to the world, not a nation that torments ethnicities that the Nazi party targets as ‘enemies of the people’. He also basks in pageantry and thrives on idolatry, and once the Olympic torch leaves Berlin he will need a new momentum to stir the masses. Anti-Semitism is a popular rabble-rouser, and so is flexing Germany’s muscles to annex territories for resources to power the country’s military might. Plus there is the ever-rankling humiliation of Germany by the British and French in World War I that needs to be avenged. Hitler the opportunist is certain to exploit this in order to galvanise the masses to war. This I have suspected from the outset and now, more than ever, I believe that it is his ultimate goal. Whatever fire he is able to ignite to achieve that aim, he will: anti-Semitism, revenge, annexation of territories lost in World War I.
THE MADNESS LOCKER Page 8