—And how was school, kleine Rosa?
—It was fine, Jizchak.
His hand is still on her arm.
—What have you been studying of late?
—Biology.
Heinrich, now walking a little behind, is still buoyed by the memory of Shabbat, the day before yesterday, which he so very much enjoyed. Shabbat has become his highlight since he joined the Makkabi; every week there are activities, and singing, and dancing, and prayers, and good friends; he feels at home amongst the Chaverim and Chaverot, people who have something to really strive for, united by their yearning for a homeland. It was the first night of Chanukah, and they celebrated in the woods, hundreds of people came, they spent the day practising their Hebrew and learning about farming and Herzl; and in the evening Heinrich was given the honour of leading the prayers to conclude the sabbath. The group gathered in a big circle in a clearing under the stars and sang together a hymn, the prophet Elijah, the returning Elijah, may he soon come back to us, and as they were singing, swaying as one body, Heinrich stepped shakily forwards, took the brimming goblet of wine in his right hand, the cool liquid spilling like tears over his fingers, and began the prayers, falteringly, in Hebrew – behold, God is my salvation, I shall trust and not fear, my God is my might and my praise, you can draw water with joy from the springs of salvation – and more wine was dripping from his fingers, and more, and then he lifted the box of spices, said the prayer and inhaled the fragrance to soothe the soul as the sabbath departs, then the spices were passed round the Chaverim and Chaverot, still standing in a circle round Heinrich in the moonlight; finally he plunged the plaited candle sizzling into the pool of wine and everybody cried, shavua tov! a good week! and shook hands with one another, particularly with Heinrich who had led them in prayer, his hand was pumped so much it hurt, shaking hands with the left hand which comes from the heart. Then there was Horra dancing round the camp fire, great spinning circles, round and round, one circle this way, one circle the other way, and songs about Jerusalem and hope, showers of orange sparks cascading upwards from the bonfire in the centre, singing and clapping intoxicated, deeply and joyfully into the night.
—Truly, your Hebrew has improved, Heinrich. I was most impressed at your Havdalah reading last Shabbat.
—Thank you, Ewo, but I think it’s because I have such a good teacher.
—What a charmer, no? But thank you.
They continue along the wide pavement of the Prenzlauer Allee, Rosa’s bicycle gently ticking, the lamp-posts pooling light at intervals. A commuter tram struggles past, its antenna fizzing on the overhead wire; through its windows Rosa sees a forest of arms suspended from the overhead straps, surging back and forth. The conductor stretches a grey-mittened hand to reaffix the green cloth curtaining the lower half of the door, and for a moment catches Rosa’s eye – then the tram is obscured by a cluster of Christmas trees for sale. Something flies through the air and lands sizzling at her feet. She looks up; the driver of a beer van is hanging out of his window, looking at Rosa strangely, blowing the last traces of cigarette smoke from his nose. There is a sound of jingling as he pulls away, bottles tinkling and jumping in their cases behind him.
They walk on in silence. As they cross the Stargarder Straße, Heinrich suddenly comes to a standstill, his head poised as if catching a scent.
—Heinrich, says Jizchak, come on.
Heinrich gestures for him to be quiet. A sound can be heard, a noise that doesn’t belong. He listens. From the bustle of the street two voices gradually distinguish themselves – an undulating, high-pitched cry and a lower one. Then they are gone and the bustle continues.
—Did you hear that? he whispers.
—What? asks Jizchak curtly.
—Someone’s in trouble. A Jew.
—Your mind is playing tricks. Come on, Heinrich.
Heinrich turns away and, as if hypnotised, begins to walk down the Stargarder Straße.
—You’re hearing things, says Jizchak. Come on. We must keep moving.
Without a word, Heinrich sleepwalks into the darkness, and as he does so a high-pitched scream can be heard above the noise of the traffic.
—Heinrich, calls Rosa, come back!
She props her bicycle against the wall and begins to follow her brother, but Jizchak grabs her by the arm.
—You must get back on your bicycle and ride all the way home, he says. Rosa? Do you hear me?
—Jizchak, let me go. He is my brother. We can’t leave him.
—Nobody is leaving him. I will go after him. Rosa, hurry now. Edith, take her.
—But Heinrich—
—Don’t worry about Heinrich. I will look after him, I promise. Quickly now, off you go. Rosa, trust me. Run along now. Off you go. Edith, take her. I said go.
Reluctantly Rosa allows Edith to lead her back to her bicycle. She looks over her shoulder; Jizchak has pulled his collar around his ears and is disappearing into the shadows after Heinrich. She tries to run back, but Edith’s firm hand presses her towards the bicycle.
—Come on, my dear, she says, Jizchak will look after him. Everything will be all right. We need to get you home.
Against her instincts Rosa finds herself mounting the bicycle on trembling feet. Edith climbs onto the handlebars, and Rosa pedals away, wobbling slightly until she picks up speed.
—Not too fast, Rosa, I fear I shall take a tumble.
—Just hold on, Edith, hold tight.
—You’re drawing attention to us by riding so fast. I’m not even sure that bicycles are permitted for Jews any more. Please slow down.
Rosa makes an effort to slow the bicycle and glances around her. Heads are turning all along the pavement.
—Shall I stop?
—No, carry on, says Edith. Just not too fast. Try to appear jolly, as if we are having fun. It is Christmas, after all, is it not? And we are nearly at the Grellstraße.
—I want to go back to Heinrich.
—We can’t risk losing you both. Keep your eyes front.
3
Several hours earlier: the door swings open, throwing a triangular shadow against the grey corridor wall with its hairline cracks and peeling paint. At first nobody from the apartment emerges, then there is a scuffling sound, and a slight moan, and then Inga appears, carrying Hedi in her arms – at the age of four Hedi is a little old, really, to be carried, but otherwise it will take forever to leave the apartment, and the night draws in so early these days, they only have an hour or so of sunlight left in which to visit the park. Inga checks she has the keys and pulls the door awkwardly to. She is tired – she has been working all morning, washing shirts, hanging them to dry in the bedroom, ironing, folding, packaging, addressing the packages so that they are ready for Rosa to deliver. And now she must spend some time with Hedi, who has been quiet and sullen all morning. Inga has tried to make the most of her own ageing wardrobe, her hat is pinned to the side, and she wears an old mink stole smelling faintly of onions which she holds to her nose as she passes the communal latrine on the landing. Her coat hangs loosely from its shoulder pads, and above the collar her face is gaunt. With another moan she lifts her daughter once more and clomps asymmetrically down the stairs, eventually emerging into the weak light on the pavement, where she sets Hedi on her feet, takes her hand in tautly gloved fingers and walks slowly in the direction of the park. She pauses by a postbox, slides a letter from her pocket and holds it poised in the rectangular mouth; Mr and Mrs Kremer, 15 Paget Road, Stamford Hill, London; Otto’s cousins, a begging letter. Inga draws a breath, lets the letter fall and continues, with Hedi, on her way. Otto does not know about this letter, he refuses to discuss emigration even for a moment. It was just the same in ’23, Inga was knitting to make ends meet and she pleaded with him to try his hand at the markets, for although the country was in poverty there was wealth to be had in shares, if one was canny enough one could make one’s fortune, boys of sixteen were becoming rich beyond their wildest dreams while their parents ha
nged themselves in their attics. But Otto refused, pride prevented him; a Prussian Frontkämpfer does not profit from speculation, he said. Looking back she can understand him better, his steely high-mindedness, his refusal to accept that the stuff of nightmares was already in motion, every day, around him. So now the struggle is similar: when she thrusts her arm into a sack of dirty linen, submerging to the shoulder, she is thinking of survival, just survival, the survival of her family, nothing nobler than that. And Otto? Well, Otto.
From a window somewhere drifts tinny march music, and despite herself Inga glances around to make sure that a mob is not heading in this direction. The sky is perfectly white and the air is strangely still as they walk. Hedi is in a quiet mood again; Inga is beginning to wonder about this girl, it cannot be natural that she barely says a word, and she seems tired all the time, withdrawn. She must mention it again to Otto, though he will probably scold her for fussing about nothing. She must try to keep her engaged.
—So Hedi, was Kindergarten nice today?
—
—Look, Hedi, a duck.
—
—Duck, Hedi, duck. Quak.
—Duck.
—Yes, Hedi, very good. Duck. Duck, duck, duck, quak, quak, quak.
—
—I am sure there are many, many ducks in the park. I say, what on earth has happened to Gigi’s head?
—My dolly.
—Yes, I know, just let me see …
—My dolly, my Gigi.
—Her poor little head is cracked. And her eye is all pushed in.
—My dolly!
—But this is frightful. How did this happen, Hedi?
—Go away, naughty Mama.
—Pfui, now that is no way to speak to your mother, little miss. Say sorry.
—Naughty Mama.
—If you say that one more time we shan’t stay in the park, we shall go straight home. Is that understood? Is that understood?
—
—Now come along.
As if there was not enough to worry about already. Oh, it is cold, at least Hedi is snug in her coat. But she refuses to smile, or talk, or be a child at all, really. Herr Schwab’s shirt needs to be washed a second time, that beetroot stain just hasn’t come out—
—Hedi, put that down, we don’t pick up sticks, you should know that by now, we don’t know where they’ve been.
—
—Now you may run about on the grass with Gigi, and Mama will sit down for a while. But do not stray out of my sight, do you hear?
There she goes, walking away like an old lady, and just four years old. Ah, the worry, with every child there is a worry, hundreds of worries in fact. And now where to sit? This question is a loaded one thanks to Heinrich and his newfound Zionist zeal. Heinrich, you imp, you have made everything into a political issue, even the question of where to sit – do we or do we not use the Judenbänke? Discuss. Heinrich argues that we should ignore those Jewish seats, we have our values, we have the beauty of nature, such seats are nothing to us; and yet where else to sit? On the Aryan benches? On the grass? It’s all very well for Heinrich, he is young and fit, he can sit on the grass with no problem at all, not so for a lady, especially with a four-year-old. Surely it makes no difference, the park is all but deserted anyway, too cold for most people. It is perishing, indeed. All right, Heinrich, you win – on the grass. On the cold, frosty grass. Ah.
Inga gathers her stole around her ears, a solitary speck in the centre of the park, the white domed sky keeping a vigil overhead. She watches Hedi playing – no, not playing, if she were to play it would be wonderful, she would be the happiest mother in the world to see her little daughter play like other children. Hugging her arms around herself, Inga sings softly the Chanukah prayers she has been practising: thus we kindle lights to commemorate the miracles, wonders, salvations and battles which God performed for our forefathers. When Otto returns tonight from work they will light the menorah, it is the third night of the first Chanukah of their life, a substitute for Christmas this year. Inga has been studying the festival with Rabbinerin Regina Jonas at the Neue Synagogue, which she has begun to attend regularly; it may be some distance away from the Kleins’ apartment but in Inga’s opinion it is well worth the trip, it was love at first sight back in 1930 when she visited for the Einstein concert, the building is so very beautiful, with its intricate baroque masonry and opulent dome, and they organise fascinating lectures and events for Jews like Inga, Jewesses rather, who know next to nothing about Judaism. And the community is so welcoming, particularly Rabbinerin Regina, Inga warmed to her immediately, loved the idea of a female rabbi, for – as Regina put it – why should the men have all the fun? From the beginning Regina took Inga under her wing and became a real pillar of strength, what with Otto’s job situation, and the apartment situation, and the Frau Schulz situation, the list just goes on and on. Inga was an atheist to start with, still is in a way, but that does not preclude ritual and culture, there is no point in allowing scepticism to shackle one, to stifle new experiences. The synagogue is a welcome dimension to life in these dark days, it helps her to feel that she is not alone, that others are sharing her burden; one gets so accustomed to feeling like an outsider, being part of a group again is intoxicating.
After a time the light begins to falter and evening begins to tinge the white sky. Inga struggles stiffly to her feet, gathers her chilly daughter to her and walks the deserted streets in the direction of home. She does not try to engage Hedi in conversation, is content instead with the deafness of the streets. They walk cold across the flagstoned courtyard and climb the stairs, footsteps echoing several times, looking forward to the relative warmth of home. As Inga raises her key to the latch, her feet brush against a parcel on the doorstep; she looks down, sees a sizeable cardboard box bound with string. Her gloved fingers drift to her mouth and trace around her lips. She swings the door open and, uncertainly, lifts the box inside.
4
—Here we are, Rosa. You’re home.
—Do you think my brother—
—Don’t worry about your brother. Jizchak will make sure—
—But Jizchak doesn’t know how to fight.
—He’s clever, he doesn’t need to. Go on, now. Go inside. Heinrich will be back soon, I promise.
Reluctantly Rosa waves a brief goodbye to Edith, opens the narrow wooden door to her apartment block, stows her bicycle and walks across the courtyard, her footsteps echoing on the cracked flagstones. Light glows from snugly curtained windows in the tenements, and the smell of cooking fattens the air. Edith is right, surely she is right, Rosa is panicking unnecessarily, Heinrich will be fine, between him and Jizchak they can surely deal with anything. Suddenly, from the other side of the courtyard comes the sound of jolly voices – she raises her eyes and sees a group of lads approaching, jingling cylindrical tins, collecting for Winterhilfe; her heart quickens. They are wearing the brown uniforms of the Hitlerjugend.
They haven’t seen her yet; Rosa glances swiftly left and right, then slips through a doorway and crouches in the stairwell, in the shadows, out of sight, watching. Such camaraderie they exhibit, these Nazi boys, such confidence; there is a hierarchy in their world and they are at its zenith, with their clean red armbands and neatly combed hair, and pins and badges and epaulettes, their patent boots striking the flagstones defiantly like the beats of a tightly skinned drum. They glow, these boys, there’s something about them, like gods almost, like angels.
The group marches past the entrance to the stairwell, a band of boisterous voices and tucked-in shirts, filled with the Christmas spirit; first two pass, then one more, then another two – but the last one pauses in front of the stairwell, his breath clouding round his head. The voices of his companions begin to recede yet he stands there unmoving, a shadow falling across his face; as if made of stone, he turns his head to face the stairwell, then his shoulders, then his whole body; he takes a step towards the entrance, then another, then a third, and now he is covered
in shadow. Rosa shrinks back against the wall, clutching her arms around her legs, crouching, finding the darkest place she can, like an insect. He takes another two steps forward and is obscured from view by the stairs. All is still. Rosa strains her ears but can hear only a door closing several floors above, the muffled voice of a child, footsteps in the distance, the sound of water through pipes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing else.
There – a sound from behind the stairs. Rosa’s breath is short and gasping, she feels light-headed, she is panting almost, like an animal almost, like a small scared mammal. No noise again, perhaps it is safe. And then two patent boots appear, and the shadows slide off brown-uniformed shoulders as the boy steps quietly into view, a trail of cloud streaming gently from his nose. Rosa cannot help but glance up to his marble face and look into his unblinking eyes; he holds in front of him a collection tin, adorned with a Hakenkreuz and a sprig of holly. He takes a step closer and Rosa slides herself as tightly as she can into the corner, there is no way she can escape, and she cannot make a sound, her throat has clamped shut. He looks at Rosa unblinking, at her face, into her eyes, expressionless, and his hands hover around his belt. A distant conversation can still be heard, the water in the pipes can still be heard, another door closes, another child speaks. Rosa hears the sound of trickling liquid; her legs go warm, then icy cold. The boy looks at her, unblinking, motionless, noiseless; then, very slowly, his legs, then his shoulders, then his head turns away from her, the two lamps of his eyes breaking from hers and sweeping towards the courtyard, and he disappears from view once more behind the stairs; then she sees him strolling casually into the courtyard, calling to his friends to wait, and she listens as his footsteps fade and disappear. For a long while she waits, crouching, her breath slowly becoming regular, the feeling returning to her face. Finally she pushes herself to her feet, takes off her shoes and creeps up the stairs to her family’s apartment, frozen-legged, exhausted and ashamed.
The English German Girl Page 5