Erich was no exception. He and his parents were seated at Walther Rathenau's table, but right now it was not the Foreign Minister who impressed him. Face alive with nervous energy and anticipation, eyes bright, Erich focused on Miriam Rathenau as if he also felt she were performing only for him.
CHAPTER TEN
"Wenn der weisse Flieder wieder." Miriam paused and dropped her voice. "Blüht," she ended softly.
She curtsied and listened to the applause.
With a few exceptions, it was what she had expected from an audience that measured its responses with care even after a virtuoso performance at the Berlin Opera. They were boring, the Germans, always controlled and disciplined--so unlike the Americans, with their wild enthusiasms and their appreciation for anything the least bit extraordinary.
Well, let them try to be neutral about this next number, she thought. She nodded to the piano player, who struck up a lively tune, his fingers springing across the keys.
Smiling, she flung aside her shawl and broke into a modified cancan, whirling, kicking--low at first, then higher--until her foot was above her head...repeating the routine until, with a suddenness calculated to send an ache through the groin of the shy-looking young man who had just crept into the room, the music ended and she dropped into a split.
The boy stared at her with his mouth open, as if she were a fairy princess and he the frog prince. The audience, less restrained, clapped louder; someone even called, "Brava!"
Resting easily in the split, Miriam touched one knee with her forehead, bent the other leg under her and used it to propel herself back onto her feet.
The boy seated at her Uncle Walther's table, apparently unable to contain himself, jumped to his feet and began clapping wildly.
Her uncle raised a black eyebrow in apparent amusement at the boy's excitement, and smiled at her. Easing his narrow shoulders against the back of the chair, he stroked his goatee, removed his cigar from his mouth, and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. Despite his obvious pride in his niece, he took the time to flick a stray piece of ash from the sleeve of his finely tailored evening suit and replaced the cigar in his mouth before applauding.
After curtsying a second time, Miriam threaded her way to her uncle's table. She was almost there when her grandmother held out a gloved hand and touched her arm.
"You have given me much pleasure, my child. You never knew your Uncle Walther's brother. He died when he was fourteen...a little younger than you are now. He had the same delicacy you have...the same way of holding his head--"
As if contact with her granddaughter's young body had made her feel young and beautiful again and she no longer needed to hide her wrinkles, the elderly woman removed her gloves. Her hands were heavy with diamonds. Miriam glanced at them and then back into her grandmother's eyes. They held a sadness that spoke of more than the death of her asthmatic second son.
Miriam smiled prettily and bent to hug her grandmother. "Thank you, Oma. What a wonderful way to welcome me home from the United States."
"The delight is all mine, Miriam. Now go and have fun. That young man at your table will burst if you don't get there soon."
The band had begun to play and couples were gravitating toward the dance floor as Miriam approached her uncle's table. The boy's mother said something to him and, with a sickly, silly grin, he bowed formally and pulled out a chair for Miriam.
Wondering how he had injured his hand, she started to sit. Her uncle half-rose expectantly and, knowing what he wanted, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she took her seat and smiled her thanks to the boy.
"I'm Erich Weisser." He beamed as he scooted his chair closer to hers.
"Hello, Erich Weisser." She looked toward the other boy. "And who's he? Your brother?"
"My best friend, Spatz."
"Spatz? What kind of name is that?"
Erich laughed nervously. "I call him 'Sparrow' because he's always feeding the darn things. His name's Solomon Freund. His sister Recha is the one over there at the table next to us, staring at you. Those are his parents next to her."
"Why aren't they sitting with us?" Miriam smiled across at the young girl named Recha, who appeared transfixed.
"There wasn't room for all of us at this table so our papas--" He hesitated.
"They did what?"
"Rolled dice for who'd get to sit here," Erich said.
Though Miriam tried not to laugh, she could not help herself. "Did you hear that, Uncle Walther? They--"
"Don't say anything. Please." Erich's face was red.
Miriam stopped. She really hadn't meant to embarrass the boy. It was just so typical--so German!
Stretching out her hand, she introduced herself to Erich's parents and exchanged a few pleasantries with them. That ought to make the boy feel better, she thought, not particularly taken by Herr and Frau Weisser. The woman looked nervous; the man, at best, uncomfortable. His nose was red, as if he had been drinking too much, and his eyes were hard. Clearly, they were not enjoying themselves.
She glanced sideways at the boy; he had his father's square jaw but, unlike either of his parents, he had light hair and was quite good looking.
She turned her attention back to the Freunds. Recha's mother was removing a lace handkerchief from her evening bag and handing it to the girl. While she blew her nose, her father tugged nervously at his shirt cuffs and glanced anxiously about the room as if he thought the blowing might be offensive. Sol's mother leaned over and whispered something in her husband's ear. His eyes flashed angrily behind his thick lenses as he turned toward the frog prince, who had finally stepped all the way into the room.
By now, the waiters had begun to ladle out the entrée of sauerbraten and dumplings, which her uncle had requested. It was plebeian fare, but he had declared himself tired of foreign foods after his recent journey across the Atlantic. Reluctantly, for she missed America, whose chefs ironically prided themselves on producing superb European cuisine, Miriam lifted her fork.
"Your friend looks lonely," she said. "Why not ask him to sit with us?"
"Later. " Erich spoke without conviction. "Right now he's got stage fright. His papa wants his little sparrow to entertain us."
Miriam looked from one boy to the other. How very different they seemed! She liked Erich's Aryan good looks but there was something about Sparrow--
What had Erich said the boy's real name was? Solomon. Solomon Freund...wise friend. He looked more like his nickname, a sparrow hoping for tidbits of congeniality, for someone to reach out a hand or offer a crust of conversation and draw him in among the crowd. Something about him reminded her of the boys in her ballet class--not homosexual, but sensitive. That appealed to her as well; he seemed forlorn as he stood gazing at the cello that stood like a sentinel amid the shadows in the corner of the room. By the looks of him, he would rather face a firing squad than perform in public, and seemed about to retreat down the stairs.
"I'm going to ask him to join us," she told Erich.
She got up and walked toward Solomon, but she was too late. His father had seen him and was holding up a hand in a gesture that warned Sol to stay where he was. Pushing himself from the table, he gave a peremptory bow to the guests near him and made his way toward his son. Smiling and nodding in greeting to several guests who glanced up curiously, he guided Sol through the doorway.
Miriam followed them. Herr Freund had left the door slightly ajar. She pushed at it gently, let herself through, and found herself standing in the shadows at the top of a flight of stairs. There appeared to be a storage room at the bottom of the steps, and she could hear voices.
She went down just far enough to be able to see Solomon and his father; they stood under a dangling naked light bulb.
"Sit down." Herr Freund gestured toward a wooden box next to a pair of ancient, discolored laundry sinks.
Sol did as he was told. The bare light swung to and fro as, scowling, his father stood over him.
"So, and where have you been?
" Jacob clicked open an engraved gold watchcase that hung from a chain across his waist. "You're such an important fellow that you need not show up on time for a party at which our Foreign Minister is present?"
Sol started to answer, apparently thought better of it, and sat with his eyes downcast.
Jacob put a foot on an adjacent box. "Poor Miriam Rathenau had to do an encore for which she was quite unprepared."
Unprepared! She controlled a giggle as Herr Freund wiped dust from his shoes with a handkerchief he took from his trouser pocket. The popular Reichsbanner handkerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstriped Shabbas suit was doubtless just for show, Miriam thought. The way Germans felt about their country, only a lout would soil a cloth that resembled the flag of the Fatherland.
"She looked prepared to me, Papa," Sol said in a low, weak voice. He reached for a rag on a packing crate and brushed the dust from his own shoes.
"Don't argue with me!" Jacob removed his glasses and, squinting angrily at Sol, wiped the lenses clean, refolded the handkerchief, and placed it back in his pocket. "She's a mature girl--too mature for her years--so she carried it off."
"Yes, Papa."
"It is rude to keep anyone waiting, you know that. But it is idiotic, Solomon Freund, to offend such as Walther Rathenau--and not just for business reasons."
"I know Herr Rathenau is an important man." Sol fidgeted, his head still lowered.
"Not merely an important man. An important Jew."
"You are an important Jew, Papa." Solomon looked up. "You won the Iron Cross, First Class."
"Ah, the Iron Cross!" Jacob chuckled sadly as he dusted off a box with his hand and sat down. "For that you would consider me another Rathenau? Look at me, Solomon." He turned his palms up in supplication. "I'm an ordinary Jew, forty-nine years old, a Berlin seller of tobacco. Hardly a Walther Rathenau."
Even at that distance, Miriam could sense that a sadness had displaced Herr Freund's wrath.
"One of every six German Jews fought in the Great War, Solomon. One out of six! That means almost every young male German Jew served the Fatherland."
He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had taken on the quality of a man immersed in memory.
"A third of us were decorated, another twelve thousand died. So I was not alone--or special. When we stood in formation to receive our medals, the names of the Gentile recipients were read alphabetically, then came the Jews. That's how it went in every platoon and company in the army. We Jews who had fought and lived, and we who had fought and died--all those to be decorated--we were all at the bottom of the lists." He put a trembling hand on Solomon's shoulder. "That is why the respect and friendship of a man like Walther Rathenau, himself a Jew, is so important--so your surname will never be at the bottom of a list."
"But isn't the Foreign Minister only half-Jewish?" Sol asked.
"There is no such thing," Jacob Freund said, looking directly at his son, "as being half-Jewish."
A long silence followed as Solomon stared into his father's eyes. He seemed unnerved by his father's sudden vulnerability. Miriam thought about her uncle, the only older man she really knew. He had always seemed to her to be larger than life despite his small stature. She realized it would unnerve her too, if she were forced to look into the face of his humanness.
"I think you understand what I have been trying to say," Solomon's father said quietly, standing up. "Let us go upstairs."
Quickly Miriam scooted back into the cabaret and waited near the door for father and son to re-enter. They did so together. Then Jacob moved ahead though the crowd.
Crossing the dance floor, he removed the cello from its mahogany case and placed it against a chair where it could easily be reached. He stood before the band and raised his hands for quiet. There seemed a calmness, a surety in his actions, as though he, and not her uncle, were the honored guest--as if this were his party.
"We of the Freund family are honored to be the friends and guests of Walther Rathenau, our esteemed Foreign Minister, of his esteemed mother, Mathilde, and his lovely and talented niece, Miriam." Jacob bowed slightly to each in turn. "In our house we like to listen to our two children perform together." He watched Sol take the cello bow from its case and snap the lid shut. "Recha sings and dances, and Solomon accompanies her. Our little Recha has become the darling, if I may say so, of the Berlin Singakademia."
Jacob waited for the brief round of applause to end. "Both of our children were to perform tonight in small repayment to you, Frau Rathenau," he bowed in Oma's direction, "for the wonderful companionship and dinner we have so enjoyed. Unfortunately, Recha has a cold. Therefore, Solomon will do a solo."
He looked at Sol, who bowed slightly and managed a weak smile.
"Solomon has not had quite the musical training Recha has enjoyed, but we should all remember that, in the world of music, unlike in business," Jacob nodded toward Friedrich Weisser, "or even in politics," a nod toward Rathenau, "the very act of performing is often at least as important as the product." Gesturing toward Sol, Jacob stepped aside. "So now, it is with great pride that I give you my son...."
Walking as if his knees had turned to liquid, Solomon clutched the neck of the cello and moved into the spotlight. He bowed to the audience.
Feeling a mixture of empathy and amusement, Miriam waited for the first note. When it came, she was relieved to find herself not entirely unimpressed. His playing was tenuous, but the emotion was there, the caring which, for her, shifted technique to secondary importance. She closed her eyes and let the sweet strains of Haydn flow around her. When it was over, she opened her eyes and applauded loudly. She would introduce herself to Solomon and tell him that he was not nearly as poor a performer as he seemed to think.
She rose and walked toward him, but was not quick enough. Apparently terrified that he might be required to give an encore, he bowed and fled the room. Disappointed, Miriam headed back to her table.
"I really enjoyed that," she said to Erich, who had once again jumped up to pull out her chair. "Please ask him to come back."
"He won't."
Erich sat down. He had a strange expression on his face, like a swimmer on the verge of diving into icy water.
"He'd come back if...if...you asked him," the boy said. "We could go for a walk...maybe...until he calms down...and then look for him together--"
"I'm starving. I have to eat something first or I'll faint right into your arms in the street," Miriam said, teasing. She wondered if Erich always stammered like that when he felt embarrassed. Or perhaps it was only when he did not feel in control of a situation, she thought. She had met men like that--grown men who had wanted her and were embarrassed by feeling that way about a fifteen-year-old.
"L-later? All right."
Seeing his crestfallen expression, Miriam relented. She took a slice of dark pumpernickel from a silver basket and bit into it hungrily. "Don't they feed the entertainers in Germany, Uncle Walther?" She motioned at the bare tablecloth in front of her.
"My profound apologies, Fraülein Rathenau," Erich's mother said. "I will rectify the situation immediately. You were--"
"Don't take me seriously, Frau...Weisser." At the last moment, she remembered the woman's name. "This will do just fine, thank you--as long as you save me some of those nonpareils they're serving with dessert. I crave them."
She took a second slice of bread and stood up.
"Let's take that walk, Erich."
Her uncle looked at Erich. "How old are you, son?"
"Fif--" Erich looked at his parents. "Thirteen, sir." He blushed.
"Just once around the block." The Foreign Minister barely suppressed a smile.
Miriam smiled openly at him. "Just once around the block. Promise!"
Erich led the way up the metal stairs, which gave Miriam a chance to see his outfit from the rear and to hope that he had not chosen it himself. Must have been his parents, she decided, wondering why she sometimes disliked people so intensely on first sight. She d
id not know Herr or Frau Weisser, yet something about them made her uncomfortable: the mother, obsequious and angry; the father arrogant, yet betrayed by a weakness around the mouth.
As soon as they were in the street, Miriam felt better. No matter how many German aristocrats she met, how many celebrities, she never felt quite comfortable being herself. They had a way of watching and judging, as if they measured everything anyone did on a scale of one-to-ten--one if you were Jewish, ten if you were an Aryan Berliner; anything else had to be earned, if that were even possible!
"Did they feed you, Konnie?" she called to her uncle's driver, who was lounging against their limousine, smoking a cigarette.
"Ja, Fraülein Rathenau. Thank you for inquiring." He quickly crushed the cigarette underfoot and stood up straight.
"Relax." Miriam waved her hand. "We're not leaving yet."
A few of her grandmother's guests, taking the air at the top of the steps, looked in her direction. Several other people craned their necks, trying to see into the cabaret. They glanced at her and at the limousine and, whispering and pointing, moved on. At the corner of the street, surrounded by a dozen locals, a barrel-organ man was grinding away.
Miriam stood for a moment and listened. Then she executed a few dancing steps and grabbed Erich's hand. "Listen. He's playing 'Glowworm'. I never get enough of that song."
She lifted Erich's hand so that she could see it more clearly in the lamplight.
"Kiss it better!" she said. Impulsively, she kissed the red scars. "Tell me about it one day?"
Before he could answer, she let go and danced in the direction of the music.
"Glühwürmchen, Glühwürmchen, glimm're--"
She stopped abruptly. She had not realized she was singing aloud. People were staring at her--not that she cared, but it was not exactly smart to draw attention to herself like that, at night, in the middle of the street.
Child of the Light Page 6