5
So finally Hedi is playing in her room, and Otto and the children are not yet back from school, and Inga has a few minutes’ peace; time in which to cook. The latkes are sizzling in the pan, all that grating has made her fingers ache, she hopes she has the proportions right, onion to potato and so forth. If there is one thing she hates in life, it is cooking, but it is one of those things that must be done, it cannot be avoided, maybe she will improve with practice. The important thing about latkes is that they are fried, oil being the symbol of Chanukah. Rabbinerin Regina explained: in 175 BC, the Greek king Antiochus IV, lord of Syria and successor to Alexander the Great, oppressed the Jews and sacked their temple; ah yes, there it is, the first latke, and it seems to have turned out fine, very nice in fact, oh dear, it’s fallen apart, let’s put it to one side and try another. But the Jewish rebels, led by Judah Makkabi, defeated the Greeks in combat and reconsecrated the Temple. Another failure, two crumbled latkes, maybe she will serve mashed latke, pretend it’s a delicacy, let’s try another, a little more oil. After the battle it emerged that the Temple’s stock of sacred oil had been vandalised by the Greeks and there was only one phial remaining, just enough to fuel the sacred candelabra for a single day; but miraculously it burned for an entire eight days, enough time for more to be pressed and prepared. Thus we kindle lights to commemorate the miracles, wonders, salvations and battles which God enacted for our forefathers, ah. Inga imagines Judah Makkabi to look like Rabbi Warschauer, the second rabbi at the Neue Synagogue, for despite his wispy beard and fine-boned face there is a hint of steel about him when he preaches from the pulpit. Mind you, even Rabbi Warschauer is no match for the synagogue ladies. Every week he demands that they leave the flamboyant hats and dresses at home when attending the synagogue, for it draws unwanted attention, but does anybody listen? That would be like requesting a flock of peacocks to fold their tails. Each week the rabbi peers up at the ladies’ gallery from the pulpit and shakes his head in despair, begging them once again to next time please wear more sombre apparel; he must know his words are falling upon deaf ears, but pleads again and again none the less: this isn’t like Inga at all, she actually feels tears welling in her eyes as she recalls it, the heroic Judah Makkabi and his band of Jewish warriors, refusing to submit. She hopes to hear from London soon, she hasn’t been in touch with the Kremers for years, but family is family, surely they will have compassion, which reminds her, where on earth are Rosa and Heinrich, it is getting late and they promised to be home in time for supper and candle-lighting, ah yes, the trout is ready now, and the vegetable stew, and the asparagus, Otto will be overjoyed with the asparagus, and Rosa could do with getting a bit fatter, not to mention Heinrich – where can they have got to?
—Rosa? Rosa, is that you?
—Yes, Mama, it is.
—Ah, thank goodness. You are late home this evening, I was worrying. Heinrich is not with you?
—No, he is with Jizchak. He said he would be back soon.
—Ah yes, Jizchak, of course. Would you mind helping me in the kitchen? I am cooking latkes, for Chanukah. I wish to have them ready by the time Papa returns.
—Yes, of course. Let me just wash my face.
—There are many deliveries to be made this evening, Rosa. Rosa?
Rosa wedges the bathroom door closed with a bucket of firewood. Amid the smell of boiling laundry she peels off her clothes, placing wet things on one side and dry on the other. It is so cramped in this bathroom, she cannot even stretch her arms out properly to remove her shirt. She sees herself blushing scarlet in the mirror even though there is nobody to see her, she feels stupid and ashamed. Her teeth are chattering, she must be colder than she thought, her skin is rough with goosebumps. She struggles out of her clammy knickers, places some firewood in the oven-heater and lights it, blowing and stoking until the flames take to the wood and begin to lick upwards; then she closes the little iron door and waits for the water to heat up, the tiles chilling her feet. She does not look in the mirror, she averts her eyes then reaches up and turns the glass on its chain so that it faces the wall; now she is truly alone, not even a reflection for company. She takes a little water from the tap and spreads it between her thighs to alleviate the discomfort, pressing her legs hard together, then picks up the waxen pebble of soap and rubs it between her hands as if for warmth – but what about Heinrich? She knows that he can fight, he protected her on several occasions at school – but what if they overcame him this time? What if more of them arrived and outnumbered him, what if he was badly beaten, what if his bones were broken? What about Jacob Ehrenfreund, who tore down a Hakenkreuz and was beaten so brutally that he had to be taken to a mental institution; or what about the Chaver from Leipzig who refused to trample a Torah at Bomsdorf and was shot? What if Heinrich, even as she awaits the warming of the water, lies dead on the icy Berlin pavement, blood and mucus mingling around his nose, fingers twisted and snapped …
—Rosa! Whatever is the matter with you? Are you all right in there?
—Yes, Mama, I think the water is warm now.
—Why ever are you warming the water?
—I just need to wash my face. Is Heinrich back yet?
—No, darling, not yet.
6
Jizchak slips down the Stargarder Straße, eyes darting left and right, desperately looking for Heinrich; the night is clear and he finds himself counting the stars of Ursa Major, he learnt to recognise constellations from his father. The street is quiet, and not a soul can be seen, there is no sign of Heinrich anywhere, Jizchak considers calling out but thinks better of it. He walks on.
Then he stops walking. Halfway along the street a steel bin has been upended and lies on its side, rubbish has spread onto the pavement, the bin is rocking very slightly back and forth. Not far away, in the very centre of the street, a single, empty shoe lies with its sole tilted towards the night. Jizchak is about to shout Heinrich’s name, but stops himself.
Suddenly there is a noise. He stops, bird-like, listening, something wooden is collapsing, a fence perhaps, followed by cries of surprise and some shouts; the commotion seems to be coming from an alleyway across the street. He takes his hands out of his pockets and approaches the alleyway, sees Orion suspended overhead, automatically counts its stars. As he draws near he hears a confused, muffled noise of grunting, pounding, vomiting, gagging; then there is a long, gurgling, choking sound, a moan of agony and release.
Jizchak hurries into the darkness, aware of his own footsteps, and there, in a patch of moonlight, he sees Heinrich locked in a lumbering embrace with a larger man. Their movements are fatigued and heavy, drained by the fight, they seem to have lost even the strength to speak; they lurch from side to side, hunching against the walls, making slow attempts at strikes. For a moment Jizchak glimpses the white oval of the other man’s face, the eyes screwed shut, the mouth a black inverted moon. Jizchak does not know what to do but he knows he has to act; amazed at his own actions, he grabs the man by the collar and prises him away from Heinrich. The man looks up, half-moon widening. Jizchak, powered by adrenalin, swings his fist in an arc and strikes the white oval with surprising force; the head bounces and there is a dull clang as it hits an iron drainpipe; the moon snaps shut and spills blood, the man skids noiselessly to the floor. Heinrich recovers his balance and stamps on him with startling venom, once, twice, three times; Jizchak grabs him, pulls him away. The man lies still.
—Heinrich, don’t, you’ll kill him. You’ll kill him.
—You dreckige coward, shouts Heinrich at the prostrate figure, you puppy, you coward, we will murder you.
In a nearby window the curtains part; a woman’s slender hands lower the catch, and the curtains are drawn again.
Heinrich falls to his knees amongst the bins, and for the first time Jizchak notices another figure crumpled there in the shadows.
—Are you hurt? says Heinrich, out of breath.
—Not badly, comes the reply.
Jizchak walks
over; a teenager sits with his head in his hands, his face bloodied and swollen.
—You need a handkerchief, says Heinrich. Here, take this. What’s your name?
—Pfeifenkopf, sir.
—Sorry?
—Pfeifenkopf, sir. Pfeifenkopf. My name.
—Well, Pfeifenkopf, you’d better run along, if you don’t want any more trouble. You can run, can’t you?
—Yes, sir.
—Just get home as quickly as you can, yes? And Pfeifenkopf? Emigrate to Palestine, do you hear? Join the Makkabi Hatzair.
—Yes, sir, thank you.
—Now off you go. Run along.
Pfeifenkopf clutches Heinrich’s handkerchief to his face and hobbles off down the street, his shirt torn and dirty; he glances warily left and right, slips down an alleyway and disappears into the shadows.
Heinrich and Jizchak look at the man lying unconscious on the cobbles, his face dark with blood, cursed by his injuries, as if he might come alive with supernatural strength at any moment.
—Ach, I’m bleeding, says Heinrich suddenly.
In a daze they make their way back to the Prenzlauer Allee. Within minutes packs of men will be prowling the streets, hunting them. Heinrich is shaken, crazed with adrenalin, clenching and unclenching his fists. Jizchak, shaking all over, can only think of one thing: a woman’s pale hands stretching through the curtains, lowering the catch on the windows.
7
—Good evening Inga, sorry I’m late, says Klein.
—Liebling, you’re back, wonderful. Are you drunk?
—Of course not, of course not. I am awfully hungry though, ravenous. Something smells sublime in here. May I just … I don’t believe my eyes. Is that truly asparagus? But the season ended many months ago. And – tomatoes in the stew? Where on earth did we acquire all these Aryan vegetables? And trout?
—I found it in a box on the doorstep.
—Who sent it?
—There was no note but the address is written in Berta Krützfeld’s handwriting. Isn’t it good of them?
—I’m not sure good is the word, this is the first we’ve heard from them in over a year. But this food is absolutely divine, I’ll give you that. Real Aryan food, indeed! Such a feast calls for a real celebration. I must have a little glass of something, to lubricate the machinery so to speak. Are the children home from school?
—Everyone but Heinrich.
Klein pauses by the drinks cabinet.
—Where is he?
—With Jizchak, apparently. You’ll have to ask Rosa.
There are three soft taps on the bedroom door, and Rosa knows who it is at once. She places Gigi carefully on the desk, tells Hedi to keep an eye on her, opens the door and gives Papa a kiss. He enters the room in a cloud of pipe smoke, kisses the air above Hedi’s forehead, then sits down and takes her onto his knee. The room is dimly lit apart from a strong desk lamp which makes the desk as bright as an operating table; on the desk lies Gigi, a tube of Heinrich’s UHU and an assortment of tools and implements.
—Good evening, girls, what is going on here? Pfff, pfff.
—I am the dolly doctor, Papa. I am performing an operation on Gigi to make her all better.
—Let me have a little look, I am a surgeon after all … I say, that does look nasty. But I can see that Rosa is doing an excellent job. I think you may be a more skilled surgeon than myself, Püppchen.
—Thank you, Papa.
Klein lowers his voice and leans forward.
—Rosa, I wish to ask you a question and I want you to be honest with me. Is Heinrich in trouble?
—
—I thought as much. Rosa, you must tell me everything.
—It’s nothing, Papa. Jizchak is with him.
—What happened?
—It’s nothing, I mustn’t worry you, it’s nothing.
—Then tell me.
There is the sound of somebody hurrying into the apartment. Doors open and heads appear, Inga’s, Otto’s, Rosa’s. A figure stands in the hall, hunched awkwardly, smoothing his hair with his palms: Heinrich.
—Heinrich, says Rosa, you’re back!
—Yes, kleine Rosa, I’m back.
—Are you all right?
—Of course. I’ll just get ready for dinner, and then …
He disappears into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Rosa pauses for a moment, her eyes closed, weakening with relief; then she gathers her strength and walks through to the kitchen, followed by her father, leaving Hedi sitting on the bed with her mended doll.
—What is wrong with Rosa and Heinrich this evening, says Inga, they both have the most unhealthy attraction to the bathroom, like a pair of bluebottles.
—I’m sure nothing’s wrong, says her husband, it’s the weather. It’s perishing outside. I should like to have a nice warm wash myself.
He exchanges a glance with Rosa.
—Yes, says Rosa, Papa’s right. It’s freezing outside, really freezing.
Hedi, sitting on her bed, looks at Gigi’s porcelain face, at the dark crack from the crown to the jaw passing through the broken left eye, encrusted with icicles of UHU. She puts her pudgy finger at her crown and traces a line down her own face, then pushes at her eye; the harder she pushes the wilder the patterns become. She watches galaxies of red and black dust exploding on the inside of her eyelids, then a series of red and green flashes, then a never-ending procession of cubes rushing towards her; she releases her finger and opens her eyes, slowly the black clouds part until she can see clearly again. That is what Gigi sees, because Gigi has a bad eye, and Hedi wants a bad eye too, and Gigi is a Jude because she is bad, and she has a bad head because Christine Bauer threw her out of the window and that is what happens when you are a Jude, and Christine Bauer has a unicorn, and Bärbel Koch says that Herr Hitler is going to finish the Juden, Hedi saw a picture of Herr, and he looked all white, and Hedi wants a rabbit, and a horse, and she likes Papa’s moustache better than Herr’s moustache, a lot, and wonders if Herr will throw Gigi out of the window? Yes, and Bärbel Koch will help throw her out and Christine Bauer will laugh and laugh because she will be so happy, and Hedi knows Christine Bauer will be so happy because she pinches her, and so does Bärbel Koch, and so does Netti Huber and Edith Weber and Ida Lehmann, and when she is finished Frau Fuchs will be happy too, because she laughs when Hedi is pinched, and she won’t let her have a bandage and she will make her stand in the corner, and when she is five she wants a bicycle like Rosa and she wants to meet Santa Claus and she will ask him for a bicycle like Rosa’s and a cloud.
Heinrich is standing in his bedroom in front of the mirror, examining a graze on his shoulder, when his father knocks. He pulls his shirt on to conceal his bruises and opens the door; his father enters in a cloud of pipe smoke.
—Good evening, Vater.
—Good evening, Heinrich. May I come in? Pfff, pfff.
—Of course.
—Now I understand you have been in another fight this evening.
—Ach, Rosa.
—No, not Rosa. Vater knows everything. Now, I have brought you this. You should carry it under your arm on your way to school and back. Don’t let Mutter see it.
—Der Stürmer? Honestly, Vater, I would rather … I do not even wish to touch it.
—Heinrich, be practical. It’s only a newspaper, and it could help you avoid a lot of trouble.
—I will not hide like a rabbit.
—Heinrich, you are fifteen years old. I am nearing forty, and I am your Vater. You will carry a copy of Der Stürmer, it is necessary for your own protection. You may place a Jewish newspaper inside it if you wish, that is up to you.
—I will never carry it. I will stand and fight.
—Keep your voice down, your mother will hear. Look, Jews need to know when to keep quiet and when to fight. We have only had civic equality in Deutschland for sixty-five years, before that we suffered abuse for centuries. But it has always got better. It won’t last.
—I c
annot be patient, I will not. This is no way to live. While I have breath I will stand and fight. I have nothing to lose, none of us do.
—Heinrich, the legislation of the Nürnberger Gesetze makes the Jewish position final. Things may not be pleasant, but they cannot very well get worse. We have survived for generations in such circumstances, and we will survive many more generations to come. One day, when you are older, you will see that I am right. We must think in the long term.
—I will not be here in the long term. I am going to Palestine.
—Palestine, eh? Well in the meantime, you will carry Der Stürmer. Is that understood?
—Ach, says Heinrich, accepting the newspaper.
—Excellent. And do not breathe a word to Mutter, yes? Now put it away, it must be time for candle-lighting.
The family stand to behold the spectacle of Inga lighting the menorah, slowly, with dignity, singing the prayers and lighting one, two, three candles for the third day of Chanukah, and the yellow light casts flickering shadows over her face, which bears an expression that is rather intent for an atheist; Otto holds Hedi quietly in his arms and Rosa and Heinrich stand together, watching the small candelabra with its little swaying flames. There is something rather melancholy about them, so tiny, surrounded by so much darkness.
—Blessed are you, the Lord our God, King of the universe, who wrought miracles for our forefathers at this time of year.
The English German Girl Page 6