The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  —How old is he now? Ten? Eleven?

  —Pfui, Berta! He is thirteen, you know that.

  —Ah yes, of course. How time flies. So. It is completely normal for boys of his age to have fights from time to time, is it not? says Berta, philosophically.

  —Yes. Yes, of course. I don’t know. It’s just … it must be difficult for him at school.

  —Why?

  —With our racial background.

  —Yes, of course. I can understand that, but don’t make it worse than it is, says Berta. The main thing is that he does well in his studies and becomes a fine, upstanding gentleman.

  —I agree, says Inga. I know it’s silly but I am afraid.

  —Have you considered sending him to one of those Jewish schools? suggests Berta. I think there is one on the Große Hamburger Straße, or somewhere in Mitte …

  —I don’t think so, Inga replies. The quality of the education will surely not be as fine as in his present school. And he is becoming quite a sportsman. I suspect that Jewish schools may neglect physical education.

  —I don’t see why that would be the case. I think it might be worth looking into. After all, you said yourself that he is not comfortable at the moment.

  —It’s not that, it’s just … but I am making a problem out of nothing, says Inga, passing her hand across her brow. It must be almost time for our play, is it not?

  —Indeed, says Berta. Let’s go. I cannot eat the rest of this Dobostorte. It tastes like leather, you know, she says, replacing the last crumb of cake daintily on her plate. Nothing can compare, Inga, to your homemade Dobostorte. Your cook is so very talented.

  —Why don’t you and Wilhelm come over for dinner one evening? says Inga. Otto hasn’t seen you for a while. I shall have Cook prepare you as much Dobostorte as you can eat. Are you available tomorrow?

  —I’m sorry, we have another engagement tomorrow. Now, we’re running late, says Berta hastily. Let’s head for the Volksbühne.

  —Very well. Shall we say Thursday?

  —Come along, we’ll miss the play, says Berta again. We still need to travel all the way to the Horst-Wessel-Platz.

  —Don’t you mean the Bülowplatz?

  —Yes, yes. The Chancellor has renamed it.

  —Well it is the Bülowplatz to me, says Inga sharply. Now where is that Fräulein? We haven’t paid yet.

  —Oh goodness, I completely forgot.

  Inga stubs her cigarette out in an ashtray, raising her hand and craning her neck to catch the attention of the Fräulein.

  —Heavens, where has she got to? she says, irritably. So then, Thursday evening is convenient for you? I will instruct Frau Schulz upon my return, and …

  —Inga. Please. Let me be honest with you. It is very kind, but … I must decline. We can’t come over to visit you for a few months or so, says Berta. Until things have died down.

  —Why ever not? says Inga.

  —Please don’t take it personally, my dear. It’s Wilhelm’s job, you see. With this new chancellor and the political climate, it is just not possible for high-ranking police officers to socialise with Jews.

  —Even Jews with whom you happen to be old friends?

  —Especially with Jews with whom we happen to be old friends.

  —I see.

  —I am sorry.

  —Of course.

  —Now don’t be like that, says Berta breezily. These are not our rules, you understand. First and foremost you are my best friend, and neither Wilhelm nor I give two hoots about the odd Jewish relative here or there.

  —Come now, Berta.

  —Oh, Inga, you’re not that Jewish. Look, what I’m trying to say is that we’re friends and that’s what matters, even if you happen not to have completely Aryan racial origins. But you must appreciate: we must act pragmatically in times like these. Only last year Wilhelm celebrated his twenty-fifth year in the police. He’s got a very high profile these days. His position would be in jeopardy.

  —And he still wishes to maintain his position, asks Inga, recalling her discussion with Otto over breakfast, given the current political climate?

  —What other job could he possibly do, after twenty-five years? says Berta. Come now, Inga. Wilhelm is a servant of the law, that’s all. If he were to resign, he would surely be replaced by a Nazi. Better for a compassionate man like Wilhelm to command the police for the Jewish locality than some boorish sausage-eating Nazi. Wouldn’t you say?

  —Of course, says Inga weakly. It’s just a shame, that’s all. I never thought politics would drive a wedge between us.

  —Oh really, says Berta, it’s hardly a wedge. We can still see each other, yes? We can go to the theatre and go shopping and go for strolls in the Tiergarten as we always do. Wilhelm can be a boring old goat anyway, especially on social occasions. We can have more fun by ourselves, girls together. Now let me pay the bill and let’s go to the theatre and say no more about it. Fräulein? Fräulein!

  As Inga pulls on her gloves, hugs her mink collar high against her cheekbones and steps onto the hard pavement of the Alexanderplatz, her mind wanders, and turns to dark things. Snap out of it, Inga, you are letting your silly imagination run away with you, just look at Berta’s lovely lilac hat, and the play will certainly be fabulous. We are fighters, Otto and I, no strangers to hard knocks. We have been through difficult times, ten years ago I was selling socks and jumpers to make ends meet, but now I have three healthy children and a wonderful home, and we have food in our bellies and money in the bank, and this bitter winter will give way to spring soon enough.

  5

  The Tiergarten is all but deserted. Klein’s favourite gold wristwatch glints greenish yellow in the glow from the lamps which are embedded in the elms that line the park; he raises it, checks the time, curses breathlessly to himself as he jogs along. It is unbearably cold and gloomy out here, but Klein is a man who understands the importance of keeping promises to one’s children. Rosa’s bicycle is big for her, but he reassures her that this is a good thing, it means it will be of use for many years to come, and mein Gott it certainly cost enough; it is a solid German bicycle, stocky, heavy, black in colour, its tyres plump and deeply grooved, brakes on the front as well as the back, three gears to choose from and the air of a proper workhorse. Rosa looks somewhat incongruous atop the machine, gripping tightly the ridged handlebars as Klein steadies the beast by holding the saddle springs, jogging along in his rakish spats, looking for the right time to let go; Rosa is a flash of colour, a jockey on a powerful thoroughbred, clad in her favourite polka dot frock that sweeps out in two arcs on either side of the crossbar and billows in the air behind; and from Rosa’s collar peeps a crumpled piece of newspaper, which was Klein’s idea; he is of the opinion that a layer of newspaper against the skin offers a great amount of insulation to the wearer, even if it is rather crackly and leaves a mirror image of the headlines across the body once removed; so long as you spread the newspaper over your whole chest before putting on your outer garments, you are guaranteed not to catch any form of cold, guaranteed. Even so, Klein was not happy about Rosa removing her coat given the temperature, but his daughter absolutely insisted, claimed she couldn’t ride the bicycle properly with her coat on, and the exercise would keep her warm, and it’s not really that cold anyhow, and she is wearing a great deal of newspaper, and please Papa please, and Klein beseeched her to be sensible, she would catch her death of cold, and in the end they arrived at a compromise: so her coat is off, hanging over Klein’s arm as he hurries after the bicycle like a beggar, but her blue felt hat, scarf and mittens are still firmly on – Klein, strict as he is with Heinrich, always finds himself compromising with his Püppchen whenever she asserts herself. And Rosa is secretly glad of the mittens at least, for she can feel the chill on her knuckles even through the weave of the wool.

  —Don’t let go, Papa, I think I almost have it, but don’t let go, I will crash if you do; shall I go between the trees or around them? Papa? Papa?

  Rosa
takes her eyes from the path before her and glances over her shoulder to see her papa shrinking in the distance, and she screams a scream of excitement, she is riding all by herself, and she must have been for some time because Papa is far away, so now she must focus, the rotation of the pedals is powering her along, and how will she stop if she needs to stop, that is the question, she doesn’t think she can stop, so focus, keep upright as Papa told her, and make sure she doesn’t hit a tree, and she is really riding, all by herself, but she needs the lavatory.

  She picks up pace down the hill, blown by the icy wind, the sensation is stunning, being in control of your direction, your destiny, with the power of speed beneath you, exhilarating; suddenly she loses control, can no longer direct the heavy hurtling machine, has to hold on tight and hope for the best, and then the bicycle slows and she is master once more, and she pedals again to see how fast it will go, and then loses control again, closes her eyes tight until the speed falls away; she tilts her body to the side and the bicycle curves to the left, sailing like a ship. Now she can see her father again, standing under the incandescent lamp lighting a cigarette, watch me Papa, watch me; she pedals harder to reach him and hopes that he will be able to stop the bicycle when she arrives, because she jolly well can’t stop and if Papa wasn’t there she would be sitting atop the bicycle all night, all day, doing figure-of-eights, infinity signs, forever.

  Klein sucks on his cigarette and pulls his scarf tighter, watching his daughter gliding around the park like a bird of paradise. He is feeling rather more Jewish than usual today, he reflects. Ever since the conversation with the Chefarzt he has been feeling like a lowly Betteljude, as if he should be speaking only Judendeutsch, dressing all in black and eating nothing but boiled fish. So he has formulated a speech which he will have on hand to deliver to the Chefarzt as soon as the opportunity presents itself: Herr Hoffmann, can you point to a single instance in my career when my professional conduct has been anything less than impeccable? As you rightly assert, we must consider the well-being of the patients first and foremost; and, I can assure you, cardiac patients would rather be treated by a renowned, experienced surgeon, albeit of Semitic origin, than by a more junior doctor of Aryan descent. That is what he may say, given the opportunity. He was too dumbfounded to articulate his reaction earlier, but he will not let that happen again.

  Klein’s day was spent on paperwork, which was intensely frustrating, but after work he was cheered by his meeting with the publisher – what an honour to contribute to his book, indeed, what an honour to be included in it! For several weeks, late into the night, Klein has been working on his entries for Siegmund Kaznelson’s project, a vast, meticulously detailed encyclopaedia of prominent German Jews and their achievements over the past two centuries, entitled The Jews in German Culture; Klein has been requested to compile the medical component of the book, and to this task he has applied himself wholeheartedly, with great energy and dedication. He took particular care over composing his own entry, reworking line by line, word by word, oscillating between bashfulness and self-aggrandisement until he settled upon: Dr Dr Otto Klein (1896–), surgeon and physician of Berlin, awarded the Iron Cross 2nd Klasse for bravery at Arras in April 1917, holder of a doctorate in medicine and another in chemistry. For the latter he studied in Munich under the Nobel Prize winner Richard Willstätter, author of the introduction to this volume. Yes, the blend of bald fact and modesty reads very well, thinks Klein to himself, and it was good to mention the Iron Cross; he counted the number of words in Willstätter’s own entry, deducted five and took that for his own quota; this, he felt, displayed a certain humility, as everyone is aware of the long-standing feud between them, and even today Klein loathes his old mentor, the way he pontificates about plant pigments and chemical enzymes through his ostentatious bushy moustache; but at times like these, Klein understands, friends are more valuable than enemies, particularly the great and the good, and particularly when they live in Switzerland, as does Willstätter, who emigrated in protest against Germany’s treatment of her Jews.

  Rosa wobbles a little and rights herself, and Klein calls out to her some advice: practise using the brakes! Left for front, right for back, and never use the left one alone! There, she is getting the hang of it.

  When they met earlier that evening, the publisher Kaznelson was scruffier than Klein remembered. His wiry dark hair was dishevelled, there was a shimmer of bristles upon his chin and he was smoking incessantly. Klein had been looking forward to their appointment, after a day like today a good old chat with a well-educated man about Kultur would be a welcome panacea for this dreckige Betteljude who has spent the day tarnishing the hospital with his unwanted presence. They met in a cramped beer shop on the Rosenthaler Straße near Wertheim’s department store, just down from Fabish & Co – a far cry from the Romanisches Café, but conveniently located for both of them. Together they sipped light beer from glass mugs, and Klein snacked on a small plate of meat – Kaznelson declined, being subject to the kosher code – and they conversed for an hour or so, overshadowed by a sky-blue ‘Löwenbräu’ sign with the winking lion and tankard of beer, puffing on Kaznelson’s flat, gold-tipped, Egyptian cigarettes. Kaznelson displayed a publisher’s passion for his new book, said it was taking shape very nicely indeed, this encyclopaedia of prominent Jews is just what is needed to combat worrying trends; Klein responded by pointing out that this very beer shop was near the site of the ancient Rosenthaler Gate, through which Moses Mendelssohn entered Berlin in 1743, subject to a Jewish tax at the rate of Polish cattle, yet in a few short years he had become the most respected intellectual in the country. So the two men traded ideas for a while, the conversation drifting towards the subject of the avant-garde, the beer lightening their heads.

  And when they bade one another farewell Kaznelson shook Klein warmly by the hand and disappeared down the narrow Sophienstraße, Klein’s manuscript stuffed under his greatcoat, turning his head away from the graffiti scrawled on the wall; and Klein looked left and right and sneaked back into the beer shop for a swift glass of cognac before remembering Rosa’s bicycle lesson and, rubbery-legged, catching the tram home.

  6

  —Frau Schulz, that was the doorbell. I shall take over with Hedi. Thank you.

  As the sound of the doorbell fades and Frau Schulz goes to open it, Inga finishes fixing the safety pin in Hedi’s nappy, pulls her little dress straight and sets her upright. With a squeal of delight, Hedi immediately makes a run for the hall. Inga gets up wearily, scoops up her daughter and places her amongst her toys; with a burble Hedi gets to her feet and totters towards the hall again. Inga sits her down amongst the toys once more and waves Gigi in the air. The doll catches Hedi’s attention and she makes a clumsy grab for the big china head, and the distraction tactic has worked again, for the moment.

  The windows are rectangles of black in the warm yellow light. Inga stretches to ease the stiffness in her back, draws the curtains and glances at her watch. The days are certainly showing no sign of lengthening, she thinks, and already she feels as if it has been winter for ever. She crosses to the fireplace and stokes it gingerly with the poker; this is the servants’ job, stoking the fire, look, now she has soot on her hands. The matinée was not a performance of exceptional quality and she spent most of the play reeling from the revelation that Wilhelm and Berta Krützfeld no longer think it fit to set foot inside the abode of Otto and Inga Klein, who are now classified as artfremd – inappropriate – on account of their racial origin. But now she is thinking of it again, and she had promised herself not to do so; truly it will do not a bit of good to dwell on it any longer.

  —Madame?

  —Frau Schulz?

  —There is a Frau Werner waiting for Madame in the drawing room.

  —Frau who did you say?

  —Frau Werner, madame.

  —I am acquainted with a Frau Werner?

  —Her son Rudi is a classmate of Heinrich, madame.

  —Very well. Please sit here
with Hedi and I shall come at once. Ensure she does not become over-exuberant again, remember how long it took you to calm her last time.

  —Very good, madame.

  Inga crosses to the gilt-edged mirror and adjusts her hair, then pinches her cheeks and smooths her collar. She draws herself up, aligning her posture, then lights a cigarette and walks deliberately through to the drawing room. As she passes the grandfather clock it chimes the hour, giving her a slight fright, what is wrong with her this evening; and as the sound of the hour fades she pushes open the heavy door and enters. In the centre of the rug stands a tall, well-dressed woman with wispy hair and very pale skin, still wearing a pair of leather gloves. On her lapel glints a little golden pin, and Inga’s heart quickens. Beside her slouches a plump lad of Heinrich’s age, with an unruly shock of ginger hair, staring glumly at the carpet. The boy is flushed and nervous, and the chandelier above throws a dappled light upon them.

  —Ah, you must be Frau Klein.

  —Frau Werner, I take it?

  —Indeed, and my son Rudi. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, and my apologies for appearing at such a very late hour.

  —Please, the clock has only just struck eight. Ah yes, I remember you from parents’ evening. Can I offer you a cigarette? Some soda water? Cognac perhaps?

  —A little soda water would be fine.

  —And for you, Rudi?

  —Rudi will not drink anything, thank you, Frau Klein.

  —Very well.

  Inga spurts some water from the siphon into a glass and hands it to her uninvited guest. As she does so, she glances at the woman’s lapel pin: a little brooch in the shape of a rose. Relieved but not completely at ease, Inga twists her lighted cigarette into a holder and holds it at a sophisticated angle.

  —Please, take a seat, she says.

  —We were hoping to address both you and your son together. Would this be possible?