The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —Goodness gracious, Heinrich, what on earth happened to you? says Inga, alarmed.

  —It’s nothing, Mutter, just a graze. I took a tumble playing handball and—

  —Where were you last night? says Klein. You came in awfully late. You gave your mother and me cause for concern.

  —I was just visiting Klaus, Vater …

  —Fighting again, says Klein.

  —Of course not, Vater. Just playing handball. Are there no Schrippen this morning?

  —No, this morning there are Schillerlocken. You won, of course.

  —I did my best.

  —Liebling, you should not encourage him, says Inga.

  —I was referring to the handball, says Klein.

  —Ah, says Inga, come on.

  Klein glances at the grandfather clock and gets to his feet, taking a final gulp of tea.

  —I must go, he says, time waits for no man. I will be a little late this evening, dear, I am meeting the publisher from the Jüdische Verlag, I have to submit to him the manuscript. Those green herrings were perfect this morning, Frau Schulz. Goodbye everyone, goodbye.

  —Can you teach me to ride my bicycle after school, Papa? says Rosa, and Papa promises that he will and leaves the room. Already his thoughts are with his work, and it is a relief when, after a smooth journey, he arrives a few kilometres north, in the district of Wedding, where his beloved Rudolf-Virchow Hospital is located.

  2

  This week Klein has an extremely full schedule; there are several patients still in the hospital whom he operated on last week, and more operations scheduled over the coming days. And he senses that his position is increasingly under pressure; he must fight to keep his job, prove himself, demonstrate that he is first and foremost a German and a doctor and an accomplished surgeon, and not Jewish in the sense that the Ostjuden are Jewish, indeed, far from it, far from it.

  On a normal day his first task would be to complete a round of his patients in the wards, striding with squeaking soles over the shiny green floors, stethoscope bobbing, pausing to read a chart, or take a pulse, or enquire after a particular patient’s bowel movements overnight. This is his favourite part of the job, at these times he recalls just why he trained as a doctor – the patients rely on him, and he is confident of his ability to help, and this puts a power in his voice, a certainty in his stride, and as he strokes his fingers across his natty moustache and peers at them with his sharp, clever eyes, their poor heads sunken in the pillows like potatoes, he can see that his mere presence is bringing comfort. His patients have become accustomed to these morning rounds; it brings stability to their day knowing that their doctor will be there every morning with his imposing gait, cheery belly-laughs, fingertip knowledge. But this morning, as he enters the wards, they are being visited already by a younger doctor with circular wire-rimmed spectacles and a wave of blond hair swept back across his head. Klein approaches and politely enquires what is happening here – the man introduces himself as Dr Möller, informs Klein that the head physician, the Chefarzt, wishes to see him and turns his back.

  Unnerved, Klein makes his way to the head physician’s office, takes a seat in the uncomfortable wooden chair and waits nervously, telling himself that he has nothing to hide; and then the Chefarzt himself enters, does not offer him a drink, does not enquire after his family, sits down and begins his speech: in the hospital we are attempting to create an Aryan atmosphere, but you are not being sacked of course, after all you saw action as a Frontkämpfer during the war, we are just changing your position in the hospital, for the good of the patients you understand, who will be best treated by a Volksgenosse, a national comrade, and at all times the well-being of the patients must be foremost in our minds. The sun pricks on the Chefarzt’s lapel, on a small golden Hakenkreuz pin; he never used to wear it, or not in Klein’s presence at least. The Chefarzt, reiterating his point, says that sadly Klein is ein Deutscher aber ein Jude. Klein nods, mouth opening and closing drily, and, most uncharacteristically, cannot think of a thing to say. He clears his throat once or twice and strokes his moustache, trying to muster his sense of authority, trying to get his bearings; but still no words come, so he backs out of the office and closes the door behind him.

  As he makes his squeaking way back to his own office, trembling and pale, he is aware of Dr Möller’s upright figure striding towards him, white coat whipping against the metal legs of the beds, clipboard perched jauntily against his hip, his circular lenses white in the light, and the two men ignore one another, icily; Klein, his moustache bristling, holds his head higher as Dr Möller’s stony visage glides past his ear like a ship. Then he is back in the privacy of his office – he shuts the door heavily and stands there for a moment clenching his hands to his temples. Suddenly, with rapid movements, he crosses to his desk and pulls out one of the drawers. It shoots from its socket and tumbles onto the floor, spilling neatly piled papers and stationery across the carpet. He kicks the papers into the air, falls to his knees, picks up a handful of pencils and begins to break them into halves, and quarters, and eighths, it doesn’t take long before not a single pencil remains intact. Then he sweeps the debris back into the drawer, crams the papers into the wastepaper basket, pours himself a shot of Schnaps and throws it down his throat; finally he collapses into his chair and gazes at the ceiling, massaging his forehead. Gradually his agitation settles and he tries to marshal his thoughts. This is not something that he cannot endure. He did not survive the war, battle to the very pinnacle of his profession, just to be discouraged by the prevailing idiocy of the times. He will lie low, bide his time until it passes. He gets to his feet, removes his white coat and hangs it on the peg, loops his stethoscope into a ball and pushes it into the pocket. Then he sits at his desk again, spreading his long fingers on the green-topped surface and staring at them in silence, his white coat hanging on the back of the door like a ghost. From the window, street sounds break the quietude: motorcars backfiring, trams jolting, shouts, laughs, barks, conversations, snatches of music, and if Klein were to get to his feet and look out of the window he would behold Hakenkreuz after Hakenkreuz, as far as the eye can see. But he does not; he remains sitting at his desk in silence, staring at his hands. Somebody has put a pile of paperwork, three fists in height, on the desk of the obliging Herr Doktor Klein, who will have lots of spare time now that his schedule has been cleared of patients. And of course, your salary will be altered in line with your new position, it is only a token alteration, a small reduction, you do understand, Herr Klein, we must keep in mind at all times that this is for the good of the hospital, for the good of the patients, and the well-being of our patients should be our foremost concern, should it not?

  There is an urgent knock at the door and Klein calls his permission to enter; a white-coated figure rushes in and closes the door hastily behind him.

  —Herr Doktor Klein. May I have a word?

  —Of course, Doktor Fehr, take a seat.

  —I see you are not wearing your white coat and stethoscope?

  —It seems there is no need at the moment.

  —They have taken your patients away?

  —For the moment, yes.

  —Me too.

  Oskar Fehr removes his spectacles and places a thumb and finger on his eyelids. He is a senior doctor, an ophthalmologist, a surgeon even, not as accomplished as Herr Doktor Otto Klein but distinguished none the less; normally he is industrious of activity, deliberate of movement and intense of disposition, yet this morning he is in a state of distress.

  —Because of our racial origin, he says, a little pointlessly.

  —I would suppose so, Klein replies.

  —This can’t do. This can’t do. These are our careers, Doktor Klein. We are Germans. They have cut your pay?

  —A little.

  —Me too. Those Hurensöhne.

  —Doktor Fehr, calm yourself. You still have your private practice. Would you like a glass of Schnaps?

  —Not for me. I cannot drink
in the morning, you know that. Yes, my private practice, I still have that. Would you care to join me for lunch, Herr Doktor?

  —Yes, that would be grand. Shall we say half past twelve?

  —I have a mountain of paperwork to do. An absolute mountain. Do you think this state of affairs will be permanent? My wife is talking of emigration.

  —Doktor Fehr, it will not do to panic. I’m sure this madness will blow over. Haven’t you read Artur Landsberger? Almost fifty per cent of doctors in Berlin are of Jewish origin. They can’t do without us.

  —Yes, yes, of course, you’re absolutely correct. I suppose this represents the worst of it.

  —Let’s hope so, says Klein, smoothing his collar.

  —It’s not unbearable, of course, says Fehr. It’s just the humiliation of it. Such a humiliation.

  —Just focus on the bigger picture, replies Klein. This will all be over before long.

  —Yes, you are absolutely correct. Very well. I shall make a start on that paperwork.

  —That sounds like a good idea.

  —Goodbye, Doktor Klein.

  —See you at lunch time.

  The door closes smartly, Fehr’s footsteps squeak away and all is still once more. That’s the habit of an officer, thinks Klein, to keep a level head and inspire others with confidence, regardless of the fact that one may be falling apart oneself.

  3

  As Rosa sits in her classroom next to her best friend Frieda Fischer, the teacher’s voice washing around her, she thinks about how she went out this morning, by herself, for the first time, reliving each detail proudly. Usually she goes with Mama to buy the groceries, and when it comes to buying bread Mama prefers to shop not in the upmarket Konditorei, but in the Jewish quarter, the Scheunenviertel, which is some distance from their apartment, but Mama says it is worth the journey to support the impoverished Ostjuden. Not that Mama cares about God as such, pfui, she is an atheist, and Rosa has heard her declare it many times to anyone who will listen, and even some who won’t, that is the sort of person Mama is; as she always says, I am someone who is more impressed by Goethe than by God, more enamoured of Bildung than of the Bible, more Mozart than Moses, and always will be. Nevertheless she wishes to support the Jews in some small way, even the Ostjuden, who, with their hunched backs and their papery skin, and their inability to understand proper German Hochdeutsch, appear like people from another age, different from the respectable reformist types who frequent the Spandauer Viertel.

  But Rosa loves the Scheunenviertel. She loves wandering through the teeming streets with that strange mix of feelings, carrying her little shopping basket daintily by her side, holding Mama’s hand, placing each square heel clip-clop in front of the other; and she always feels inexplicably warm, as in the thermal springs in Wiesbaden where the family spend their Christmases, only the Scheunenviertel warmth comes from a geyser hidden deep within.

  Now Rosa is no longer in the classroom, she is in the Scheunenviertel, holding Mama’s hand, tingling as she gazes up at the ribbed golden dome of the Neue Synagogue, resplendent against the blue ribbons of sky, looking more like a sultan’s palace than a Jewish house of worship, whose three thousand seats are all filled, every one of them, on the High Holy Days; Mama says that she set foot inside the synagogue once herself, though not for religious reasons, no, she was attending a benefit concert for the Youth and Welfare Office, for Mama is an opera enthusiast as well as an atheist; Hermann Jadlowker, the renowned Kammersänger, was performing, supported by Albert Einstein on first violin. Mama has long been a fan of Einstein, both his physics and his music, and of course his dashing hangdog eyes, those deep sorcerer’s orbs that gave a racing pulse to every woman in Europe, before, that is, he emigrated to America.

  So Rosa and Mama, walking on, pass the Rabbiner-Seminar on the Artilleriestraße, where the black-hatted orthodox rabbis, behind closed doors, learn and debate and sing and dance in great chaotic rings, you can hear them, glimpse them through the windows; and on the Große Hamburger Straße they pass the Jewish schools, busy with fresh-faced, red-cheeked young boys and girls learning Hebrew and Bible studies and German and mathematics; and they pass the Israelite Hospital on the Elsässer Straße, where everything is run in accordance with Talmudic law, and smells of chemicals that make you feel a little faint; and finally the Alter Jüdischer Friedhof, with its sombre, dignified rows of gravestones, some newer, some older, some overgrown, some with dates as ancient as 1672. Rosa knows how to find the grave of Herr Mendelssohn, Papa takes her to see it once in a while, deep in the farthest corner of the cemetery, all overgrown with ivy, you have to pull the leaves away to see the name, barely visible, there it is – Moses Mendelssohn – all the more mysterious as the slab has, through the ages, been all but worn away. They place pebbles on the grave, according to tradition, and back away in silence. Papa knows the location of this gravestone because he knows everything, because he is a Frontkämpfer, and has been awarded medals, has an Iron Cross 2nd Klasse, and he fought at Arras in 1917, and lived to tell the tale, lived to show his daughter this most remarkable grave, and she, in time, will show it to her own children, or that’s what Papa says at least; and she would be able to find the grave now all by herself, if she wanted to, probably, only she wouldn’t, because it’s ghostly there in the Friedhof.

  Frieda Fischer nudges Rosa – the eyes of the class are upon her, and Klara Neumann is openly smirking. Falteringly Rosa tries to decipher the equation on the blackboard, kicking herself for having been lost in such an elaborate daydream. After a slight pause, however, she is able to answer the teacher’s question correctly. The snickering dies down, the lesson drones on, and outside the window a flock of sparrows whirls in the sky like poppy seeds. She must be sure not to lose her concentration, her marks in mathematics have been good, only she has to try harder than other people because she is not good at mathematics naturally, as Heinrich is, maybe she can get him to help with her homework again this evening, if he’s not at handball practice. She can’t wait for school to finish, to go home and ride her bicycle with Papa; perhaps she will manage to ride by herself tonight, without Papa holding her! Then she will cycle to school in the morning and home again in the evening, she will be the only one in the class to have a bicycle, and everyone will want to have a turn, the whole class, the whole school even, and then we will see what Klara Neumann has to say, whether she asks to ride it too or sits in the playground alone.

  Rosa turns from the window and looks across the classroom at Klara Neumann, who catches her eye, and for once the other girl is the first to look away. Already Rosa is feeling empowered by the bicycle nestling under its sheet at home in the stairwell, a trusty steed awaiting the return of its mistress. Yes, Klara, she may be eine Jüdin but she is the one with a bicycle. Rosa turns the page of her textbook and furrows her brow, enough daydreaming, she must concentrate or she will get into trouble, yet a shimmering excitement is building in her tummy, and she simply can’t wait to get home.

  4

  The sun climbs in the sky above Berlin, masked by a white blanket of cloud. Sizzling incandescent lamps gleam in hundreds of polished shop windows where wax figures pose in suits, overcoats, skirts, shoes. A blotchy-aproned man wearing a leather hood strides across the pavement, a yellowing carcass moist and heavy on his shoulder, heading for a butcher’s red shop. A postman crouches at a bright blue postbox, positions his sack and pulls the lever, netting a cascade of letters. A tram takes a curve a little too fast – the bright-buttoned conductor leans out over the stern and jiggles a cord until the pole is back on the overhead wire. A white-capped baker’s boy glides by on a tricycle, dusted with flour like an angel; a woman in a fur coat waits to cross the road, cradling a dog in her arms.

  In one of the Konditoreien on the Alexanderplatz sits Inga Klein, opposite her old friend Berta Krützfeld. The tea scalds Inga’s tongue but she doesn’t show it, instead she replaces the cup upon the saucer and smiles across the table at Berta, reproaching herself inwar
dly for being so stupid as to take a sip of tea immediately after it was poured. They are sitting in window seats, enjoying some light refreshments before the matinée performance at the Volksbühne. Inga takes a bite of Dobostorte to muffle the sting of the burn on her tongue and gazes out at the teeming crowd of grey-trilbied men, fur-muffled women, peacock policemen and surly street vendors, all pink-faced and hunched against the cold. But inside it is warm. Light piano music bubbles in the background like an Alpine brook, mingling with the clink and chink of porcelain and the polite joviality of conversation. Inga’s eyes focus on her friend across the table. Berta is wearing a darling lilac hat, and Inga is mildly jealous; as if reading her mind, Berta removes the hat and places it on the chair beside her, ah, just look at the way she is eating that Dobostorte, I don’t know how Berta can possibly maintain her figure.

  —What a lovely brooch you are wearing, Inga. Is that emerald?

  —It is, yes. It was a birthday present from Otto.

  —Oh, he is a dear, is he not? says Berta, taking a sip of tea. And how are the children?

  —Yes, all right. How are Walter and Artur?

  —Both fine. Inga, you seem somewhat distracted. Are you ill?

  A narrow red rectangle is visible at the top of the Konditorei window, rippling in the wind outside. Berta places her cigarette holder between her painted lips and blows a thin line of smoke towards the ceiling. Inga takes a sip of tea and studies the steam as it curls soothingly upwards; then she too lights a cigarette.

  —I am a little worried about Heinrich, she says. He returned awfully late last night, with a graze on his forehead. He has been getting into fights.