The battle lines are drawn.
I pull a sheet from the pad in front of me and start writing.
Dear Brigitte,
I was pleased to get your letter, but less so once I started to read it.
Emma was sitting next to me and I read it out loud.
I know that the comments you make are not made with malice, but with a certain flippancy that nevertheless can cause offence. This was a case in point. Emma and I have been living together as a couple for two years. Once I graduate we intend to build a life together. I know that is something that you want for yourself, and I hope that you will find it one day. I know that, as my dear sister, you mean the best for us and will love and accept Emma as my wife.
Our parents are old-fashioned and their ideas are sometimes antiquated, and they don’t understand the things that we do and think. But I know that you understand me and we have always had a strong bond as brother and sister.
One day the political climate in Germany will change. And I intend to come and visit with Emma and hopefully as a couple.
I expect you to welcome us as one.
Before I left you cleverly explained my decision to study in Utrecht to our parents and helped us avoid a squabble.
Please exercise your diplomatic gift again.
Love from Emma and Friedrich
We both sign it.
I don’t get any studies done that afternoon or evening. Instead we go out to dinner and come home late, lie in the bath together and then make passionate love. The next morning I wake up early, shower and go out to mail the letter.
Except I never do. I tear it up and place it in a rubbish bin a block away from where we live.
I just do not have the heart to force the issue, with the political climate in Germany being what it is. I am counting on Hitler and the Nazis being dispatched from power and history soon and Germany restored to sanity. And when that happens Emma and I will simply travel to Bremen together as a couple.
I don’t return home right away. I stroll around for a while, pondering my actions. Here I am, besmirching Hitler as nothing more than a crass opportunist. Am I any better? Granted, I am not advocating disenfranchisement or persecution. But is that only because there is no angle to them that benefits me? I came here to escape the upheavals in Germany, the poisonous and appalling political climate, the lack of opportunity and jobs. I have been welcomed into a loving and caring family. But I won’t fight for the woman I love. Why?
I had presumed to bridge Bremen and Utrecht, but as this last encounter proves, I haven’t. First I did not want my parents to visit, owing to their pedestrian, middle-class views; now, I don’t want to rankle my family because of the Jewish issue. I am a coward, that’s basically it. There’s no better way to characterise my action in not mailing the letter. What is my next step? Abandon Utrecht and return to Bremen now that Germany is on the rise? What if Germany experiences another downfall? Return to Utrecht?
I head back home to find Emma preparing an early dinner.
“How did it go?”
“Fine.”
“You were gone for a while.”
“I mailed the letter outside the post office, rather than from a box. Safer and quicker.”
I get a reassuring smile.
I hope that we don’t have an intimate evening; my demeanour would crack under my lies and cowardly behaviour. After dinner I insist that I have to have certain texts read by Monday, which only leaves me with tonight. Emma doesn’t object and reclines on the sofa with a book.
I stack up a number of medical textbooks as a shield and start writing a letter to Martin Keller in Bologna. He wrote to me while I was still in Bremen, and I kept his address. Of my three former housemates, he is the one I would consider to be a close friend. Perhaps it’s because his family are of the same station as my own, while Franz’s and Johann’s are of the upper crust: banking and academic. The Kellers have done well, though, and own a large granary, as a result of which they are independently wealthy.
I describe my situation as candidly as I can without ascribing any judgement to my behaviour. I go on to explain my predicament and being pushed to make a choice, and ask his advice.
Two weeks later a reply arrives. Fortunately I get the mail before Emma comes home from her job at the university, otherwise she would want to know what Martin has to say; she knows about him from my stories about Leipzig.
Dear Freddie,
It was quite a thrill to get your letter - almost made me forgo my evening capers, but not quite!
I nearly gave up on ever hearing from you, it’s been so long. But surprise, surprise, there you were, and writing from Utrecht, no less. Not that I was too surprised about that; I knew that that was where you were headed, but I thought that you would have had enough of Holland and gone on to Münster, and maybe, even better, decided to come to Bologna.
I had to read your letter twice in order to grasp the essence of what advice you were seeking from me.
Look, I am not one to beat about the bush; you have got yourself into a tight spot. You and Emma in Bremen is not a good idea. But you need to return at some point to make peace with your parents and sister. You only have the one family, like them or hate them!
The problem with going home is that Mr Adolf is thirsting for war. People our age will be drafted and thrown into some crazy war with the Bolsheviks. It is Der Führer’s obsession, not mine or yours. And quite frankly I am enjoying life too much to end up crippled or dead on some battlefront for the cuckoo corporal.
But here is the thing: if you graduate in Utrecht and return to Germany, you can get yourself assigned to an elite unit, like the SS, as a medic. You will see no action and stay in Germany. A relative of mine told me that they will even pay your debts if you have any, plus you get a top salary to start. They are plainly desperate for qualified anything - the majority of them are just street thugs.
I am not in the same boat as you, so I am staying put in Bologna. Mr Adolf can keep his money; I have got plenty of my own.
Advice? If I were you, I would take that offer. There is nothing to stop you from leaving after a year or two of service, after which you return to Utrecht debt free, and you’ve made peace with the folks in Bremen. Everyone is happy.
If you decide to go home and then return to Utrecht, do make a side trip to Bologna. I would love to see you. And I have got some bellisime Italian women who are keen to a more you.
Incidentally, I forgot to ask, how are your studies in Dutch coming along? If you are still there and in your third year, you must be doing all right. Italian is not that hard; I learned a lot from pillow talk.
Your friend always,
Martin
I feel better already for reading Martin’s letter. Some part of me wishes I had gone with him to Bologna. I miss him. For one thing, he makes me laugh. He is irreverent, while I am overly serious; while I tend to worry, he takes life one day at a time; where I treat relationships as serious affairs, he sees them as one-night stands. In a way Bologna is perfect for him; he has the Italian joie de vivre and penchant for taking life easy. Martin can afford to slack off and end up back home in the family business, without ever becoming a doctor. I can’t. If I don’t graduate I’ll end up being a male nurse and supplementing my income playing jazz. Hardly better off than my father.
It’s not that I begrudge Martin his good fortune, though in some ways I envy him for not having had to run after his mother with his father’s pay packet to buy groceries before inflation ate up the currency. It’s just that I can’t afford to be him.
The year progresses uneventfully with no news from home. I don’t expect any, but I am constantly on the lookout for a letter nonetheless, in the event that Brigitte or my parents decide to write. But my parents are angry and disappointed and Brigitte has had her say; there is nothing more to add, save for the fact that I have never replied to her letter.
If a wayward letter does arrive and Emma notices it, and it mentions not hear
ing from me since the last letter from Brigitte, I could always lie and say that my letter must have been intercepted or lost. Once you get on the path of lying it gets easier to find your way. I see my prevarication as none too wicked, more an act of self-preservation. I have a little over a year to graduate, and I don’t need to rock the boat. I am thinking more seriously about discharging my tuition, both Leipzig and Utrecht, courtesy of the SS. It is an incentive to return and make peace with my parents. Paying them back for four years of Leipzig will go a long way towards achieving that goal. Plus, if I take a job in Germany, that will help heal any feelings of betrayal and disappointment.
The idea of working for the SS makes me feel wretched in every way: it is a stab in the back to my adopted family, the Bergens; it is the ultimate betrayal of Emma; it flies in the face of every value I have ever espoused. It is, after all, the reason I am in Utrecht.
So it is a grave dilemma. I need to make amends back home and I need to keep a path to Utrecht open. So whom do I betray? That is not a question that I can pose to anyone, not even Martin. It is my own inner battle between my sense of self-preservation and appeasing both the Bergens and the Beckers. Except the two are irreconcilable. But if I were to write down the advantages and disadvantages of each, returning to Germany would stack up more favourably. And, like Martin says, I don’t need to serve but the two years - if I can stand it that long - and then return to Utrecht. If war breaks out in the interim, well, as they say, my goose is cooked. I will need to desert and flee to Utrecht.
I almost chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Arriving in Utrecht dressed in an SS uniform. The confrontation in the lunchroom would be mild in comparison.
Edgar, good to his word, arranged for me to play at La Scala. The schedule is less gruelling; I play two noontime sets and one dinner. As promised, the pay is far better and the crowd more appreciative, judging by the tips that will help me disburse some of my Utrecht tuition. The noon sessions are over the weekend. In a bizarre sort of way I am grateful to get away from Emma. I feel like I reek of lies and it’s best that we don’t spend too much intimate time together. I apologise for leaving the house at eleven and returning at six on both days.
As I wrestle with my dilemma, I decide that the smoothest path for me is not to betray either. I don’t need to tell Emma that I am joining the SS. I merely have to say that I am going home to visit. I know she won’t want to come. By the time I leave Utrecht I will have been gone from Bremen for four years. If I spend just two years away from Emma and the Bergens it will countervail the time I spent away from Bremen. I will write and stay in touch - if I can.
So my mind is made up. In the autumn of 1938 I will make the excuse that I need to visit Bremen for Christmas.
Emma has asked once or twice about a reply from Brigitte. But then she forgot about it. She appears to have reconciled herself to the fact that until attitudes change in Germany she may never get to meet my family.
We spend Christmas 1937 with the Bergens. Edgar and Tessa treat us to a holiday in Amsterdam and I get to meet Emma’s brother, who is married and lives in London. Jan van Bergen does not bear the same striking looks as his sister. He stands as tall as his father, with intense, dark eyes and a chubby, pasty face. His light brown hair is already receding at the relatively young age of thirty-one. His wife Romy is pretty in a homely sort of way, with a cheerful manner and a tendency, like her motherin-law, to persistently ask questions until she gets the answer she wants. But that is not her least attractive quality; rather, it is her bluntness that makes Tessa appear discreet by comparison.
Jan is the commercial attaché at the Dutch Embassy in London, while Romy manages an art gallery just off Piccadilly Circus, on Shaftesbury Avenue. Emma reveals to me confidentially that Romy’s family is originally Dutch Afrikaner, and extremely wealthy, something to do with diamonds and South African mines. I suspect that running an art gallery in London is a way for her to keep busy whilst Jan manages trade relations between Amsterdam and London, rather than a means to keep a roof over their heads.
We meet at a fashionable hotel for lunch.
As soon as we sit down, Romy turns to me. “So Emma tells me that you are from Bremen. German, right?”
I nod politely. What else can I say?
“I hope you are not like those crazy people that we hear about on the news?”
Even Tessa is embarrassed. “Romy! Please. We want to have a nice, quiet lunch.”
Romy is astounded. “What? I asked him a reasonable question. What is your name, Friedrich? Listen, Friedrich, you know that Tessa is Jewish, right?”
Immediately I see Edgar and Jan cringe at the implication. If Jan is an experienced diplomat, it would appear that none of his skills have washed off on his wife.
I don’t answer the last question. I notice, though, that Emma, seated diagonally from me, is giggling, and twirling her index finger to indicate to me that Romy is nuts.
I remain quiet. But that doesn’t faze Romy in the least.
“So, Friedrich, how do you propose to introduce Emma to your family?”
I surreptitiously glance over at Emma. She shakes her head vigorously. I am assuming that the answer will be embarrassing for everyone at the table. We - that is, Emma’s parents and I -have been keeping a lid on this topic to avoid having to discuss a subject that is fraught with difficulty. Obviously her parents are firmly opposed to Emma travelling to Germany, her marital status notwithstanding. I don’t perceive a problem. Despite the letter from Brigitte and the oblique warning from Martin, I still remember Germany, and more specifically Bremen, as I left it in 1934. I refuse to believe that anyone, least of all my family, will act inimically towards Emma.
“Well, I have suggested that we visit. But they” - I sweep my hand around the table to take in Emma and her parents - “feel that now would not be a prudent time to go.”
Romy is jeering, realising she has opened up a painful subject. “Prudent time to go? I would say not! Emma will be arrested. And so will you for consorting with a Jewess. Don’t you see that?”
I have foolishly fallen into the trap that this wily woman has set for me. I stare at the ground. Not unexpectedly, I have lost my appetite. Thankfully a waiter approaches, and we all turn our attention to him, to divert the conversation to something ordinary.
As soon as he leaves the table with our orders the focus is back on me. I feel like a blowtorch has been turned on me.
“May I ask, what is your last name?” Romy is back on the warpath.
“Becker,” Emma replies for me.
“Becker? Hmm. Do you have any Jews in your family?”
I shake my head meekly.
“Do you know any Jews in Germany?”
I shake my head again.
No one is throwing me a lifeline. I start to feel like Romy is asking the awkward questions that Emma’s parents meant to ask, but out of deference to Emma and me, refrained from doing so. The difference is that Edgar and Tessa want answers out of concern for their daughter, whereas Romy is interrogating me out of sadistic pleasure.
“So, Herr Becker, what is your stance on this issue, the Nazi Party going after the Jews in Germany?”
I clear my throat and look up humbly. “The reason I came to Utrecht in the first place is that I am opposed to the Nazis. Does that answer your question?”
“Maybe, maybe. But that doesn’t quite answer it. Who knows why you came to Utrecht? But the reality is that you are here now and living with a Jewess. That is officially a crime where you come from. Would you have made the same choice in Germany is what I am asking?”
Romy is eyeing me sternly. But so are Edgar and Tessa. Emma’s face is averted from me. No succour there.
I have no answer for that.
“So, Friedrich, if that is a crime in Germany, how do you propose to introduce Emma to your parents?”
I have no answer for that either. I remain quiet. Romy looks over at Emma and reverts to Dutch. I can understand fully what she is
saying. Halfway through their discussion, Tessa alerts Romy to the fact that I am conversant in Dutch.
“Well, I haven’t said anything rude or untrue. I am telling Emma that she needs to think of her future. There is no place for her in Germany, or with your family. So the truth is, if you decide to leave tomorrow - nostalgia, whatever - Emma is stuck.”
"The waiter has since brought our entrées. I haven’t touched mine. I feel totally humiliated.
Romy is not done yet. “Have you made plans? Marriage? Children?” She is looking from me to Emma for an answer.
My self-esteem is battered, but I feel that I need to answer. “Yes, we have made plans once I graduate,” I reply weakly.
“And when will that be?”
“This coming year.”
“Well, congratulations. So you become a doctor. And then?”
Finally someone puts a stop to my humiliation, but it is not Emma’s parents, nor Emma herself, but Romy’s husband, Jan. “Romy, I think you have said enough. Can’t you see that you have totally disgraced the man?”
Romy bares her teeth and stares over at me. “Oh, come on, Germans are tough, look at how they are bullying everyone. Isn’t that right, Friedrich?”
My sense of propriety is forcing me to stay and take the battering, but my self-respect is telling me that I ought to stand up, thank Emma’s parents for lunch and leave the table. I am not going to eat, anyway. I look across at Emma to get a sign, an inkling of whether she feels the same. To my devastation her eyes are fixed on me, but the warmth and love that are normally there have been replaced by a look of hardness and suspicion.
I deserve that. Despite Romy’s gruelling questions, I should have stood up better for us.
I reach for my glass of beer and take a sip. The others recover from the onslaught and start eating their meals. The conversation turns to mundane topics. I notice that Emma is nibbling at her entrée. I leave mine untouched.
The waiter clears the entrées and asks whether I would like something else. I merely shake my head. The same routine is repeated for the mains and dessert. No one seems to be disturbed by the fact that I am not eating.
THE MADNESS LOCKER Page 10