Hedi, in her bedroom, wails into the night. Rosa takes her in her arms and rocks her to and fro. In the sitting-room, Inga speaks.
—Otto, are you mad? Now what shall we do? She gets to her feet and stands in the middle of the room, her arms folded across her chest, clutching the scrap of paper.
—That was a trap, replies her husband. He struggles up from the sofa and crosses uncertainly to the drinks cabinet. Wilhelm Krützfeld has evil in his eyes, he says morbidly.
Inga turns off the electric lights, then crosses to the window and opens the curtains.
—Liebling, you see? A fire on the horizon.
—That is not a fire, grunts her husband dismissively.
—It is a fire. I am sure it is a fire.
Klein rolls his drink in his hand and taps his fingernails against his teeth. So? he says. A fire in the city of Berlin. This should make us worried?
—I have a bad feeling, Liebling, in my stomach. A bad feeling, like I’m going to be sick.
—Have a drink.
—That fire.
—Have a drink.
The door half opens. Heinrich slinks through like a stray cat and asks:
—Has he gone?
—Heinrich, get back to your room, says his father, still rolling his glass in his palm.
—Judah, Vater, call me Judah. That is my name now.
—Heinrich, I won’t tell you again.
Rosa pads into the room, her eyes darting anxiously from one person to another.
—Mama, what is going on? she says. Will somebody please tell me?
—It is nothing, Püppchen, Klein mutters. Just a misunderstanding with an acquaintance. Now go back to your room.
—But Judah is not in his room.
—He is just on his way, is he not, Heinrich?
—What shall we do, Liebling, what shall we do? says Inga. Vom Rath has died, it’s a disaster. Wilhelm said they will break down our door.
—Nonsense. I am perfectly capable of protecting my own family. Anyway it is dangerous outside, especially at night. We would stand more chance of getting attacked in the street.
—But what if he is right, says Inga, what if they have a list?
—We have locks on the door, do we not? her husband replies. Do you really think we would be safer walking the streets?
Inga unfolds her arms, clasps her fingers several times by her sides and strides from the room.
—Inga, where are you going? Klein goes after her, followed by Heinrich and Rosa. Where are you going? Are you losing your mind?
Inga enters Hedi’s room and plucks her from the bed. The rest of the family crowd in behind her as she gets Hedi dressed.
—But Mama, protests Hedi mildly, I don’t want to go out.
—Don’t argue, little madam. Get your gloves and coat this instant.
—Inga, this is absurd, says Klein.
—You should take a suitcase, Mama, suggests Heinrich. It will help you to blend in.
—Good idea. Would you please get me one from my room?
—You will do nothing of the sort, snaps Klein. Get back to your room, this instant. Heinrich?
—Where are you going, Mama? asks Rosa anxiously.
—Your mother is going nowhere, says Klein. Now get back to your room, both of you.
—Come now, Hedi, and put your scarf on too, says Inga, undeterred.
—Inga, you are not leaving this house. Nobody is leaving this house. I forbid it.
—Liebling, if you must commit suicide, don’t take us with you, says Inga. Now, we don’t have time. There – look. Another fire.
—That is not a fire.
—Of course it is a fire. Oh, thank you, Judah.
—Not at all. I filled it with a few woollens.
Inga takes Hedi’s arm in a firm grip and leads her through the laundry to the front door. Then she turns to her older children.
—Now Judah, Rosa, listen to me, she says. You must leave the apartment and go to the address written here, the Krützfelds’ house. There is a side entrance and a shed in the garden where you can hide. Take some warm clothes and remain there until morning. And do not show your face, or go near the house. Do you hear?
—Can they be trusted? says Heinrich, taking the scrap of paper.
—Just do it. Do you hear? snaps Inga. Liebling, I think you should accompany the children, now that you have refused Wilhelm’s first offer.
—I shall accompany nobody. This is farcical.
—I beg you. Please, for the sake of the children. For the sake of the children. Ah, Heinrich, try to take your father with you, please. Now I must go. God bless you all, and I shall see you here tomorrow. Come along now, Hedi, we are going to the railway station. Come along.
There is no time for tears, embraces, goodbyes. The door closes and Inga and Hedi are gone. Klein drains his glass and crosses to the drinks cabinet. He pours himself a measure of Schnaps, spilling a little as he does so, the lip of the bottle clattering against the glass. Heinrich and Rosa sit at the kitchen table, Rosa tapping it compulsively, Heinrich pounding his chin with his fingers.
—I say, says Heinrich, is your old bicycle still downstairs?
—I suppose so.
—Stop laughing, this is serious.
—I am not laughing, says Rosa, I am just nervous.
—You must take it and ride to that address, as Mama said, and sleep in the shed for the night, says Heinrich. I will get some food for you to take.
—I can’t. Bicycles are verboten. If I am caught it will be terrible.
—You will not get caught. Just pull your hat down, avoid Jewish areas and stick to the back streets. And if anything happens, ride as fast as you can.
—And what about you?
—I will take Papa and go a different route. We will meet you there. It is better if you go by yourself, you will attract less attention.
—I’m not sure I can still ride a bicycle.
—What nonsense, of course you can, says Heinrich, showing her a smile. When you get to the house, hide the bicycle in the bushes and settle down in the shed. Now hurry along and put some warm clothes on. I will get you some food. The sooner you go, the safer it will be.
—Mama said we should go together. I do not want you to fight, Judah.
—Who said anything about fighting? Papa and I will leave a few minutes after you and make our way directly to the house.
—Another fire.
—No, that’s the same one. Go on, hurry up.
Rosa takes the scrap of paper and places it carefully in her pocket. Then she goes to her room and puts on two jumpers, for it is cold outside; she catches sight of herself in the mirror and stops for a moment. Her face is taut and her eyes are dry and dark, like chestnuts. She looks older, somehow, so much older, who would believe she is only fifteen, look at her, haggard, that is the word, and now she is to ride off in the middle of the night on a verboten bicycle. She pulls on her hat and winds her scarf several times round her neck, then goes back through to the kitchen where Heinrich is packing some food into a canvas bag. Opposite him sits their father, sipping from another glass of Schnaps and trying to smooth his hair; his collar is undone and hanging down his shirt.
—So you are leaving me as well, Püppchen? he says.
—I think it is for the best that we go separately, says Rosa unconvincingly. Better to be safe. But I will see you there.
—There is nothing to worry about. Can you hear anything? Attackers? Crowds? Sirens? Anything? No reason to flee like rabbits.
—What about the fires, Papa? says Rosa.
—Heinrich, you should go with her. It is not safe for a girl on her own, girls cannot fight, eh?
—Papa, I will be fine, retorts Rosa, a little too strongly. I will have my bicycle. If anything happens I will just ride away.
—If only it were that simple! exclaims her father in sudden despair.
—Rosa, says Heinrich, there is no time to waste. I will look after Papa. Take this, it’s only br
ead and cheese but it will keep your strength up. Good, you are warmly dressed. You must go.
—Very well.
Rosa embraces Heinrich, holding him tight, she feels like crying, only her eyes are dry as chestnuts; she wishes more than anything that he was coming with her, and suddenly she hates her father for being so weak. Then she tells herself now is not the time for such thoughts, and she turns to her papa and embraces him as well; the Schnaps is warm on his breath. Then she turns and walks backwards out of the door, allowing it to click shut in front of her face.
3
Outside in the corridor it is very cold, and Rosa can smell the communal latrine. She stops for a moment, carefully listens: nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all, just the occasional car trundling by, the occasional voice from a neighbouring apartment, the occasional whisper of a draught round her ankles. It is hard to imagine that anything will happen tonight; why should it? She decides to return to the apartment, she puts her hand on the handle, but then something makes her stop; she turns and makes her way down the stairs, and as she reaches the bottom her legs feel weak. Suddenly she feels the urge to escape, to run, to put as much distance between herself and this apartment as possible. She is short of breath already, and the ride has not even begun.
Under the stairs she struggles with a moth-eaten sheet until her old bicycle is revealed in a cloud of dust. Then she manoeuvres it from under the stairs. The saddle is mildewed and there is a black layer of grime on the handlebars, but apart from that the bicycle seems quite serviceable. Remarkably enough, the tyres are as hard now as they were three years ago, how different things were then, how different. She wheels the bicycle to the doorway, gathers her skirt and mounts it. Then, slightly wobbly at first but with growing confidence, she rides across the courtyard, pushes her way through the wooden doors – the street is deserted – looks left and right and, heart thumping, raises her body to a stand and brings her entire weight to bear upon the pedals, which are a little stiff. They start to rotate, then faster, and as she picks up speed she lowers herself to the saddle and takes a rest from pedalling, allowing the bicycle to carry her along in the old way, the way it used to.
As Rosa rides, her breath creates little double clouds which stream off on either side and disappear in the gloom behind. The street, everything about it, she knows in detail: the cobbles sunken in tar, the iron railings which she would be tapping were she walking, the walls of faceted sandstone blocks with regular stepped entrances; yes, even by night this is familiar, even on such a night as this, even, indeed, from this height, for Rosa is elevated to an unusual degree on the bicycle, and even at this unusual pace. Nothing is particularly out of the ordinary about Berlin tonight, she thinks as she turns, uncertainly, onto the Prenzlauer Allee – when you haven’t ridden for a while straight lines aren’t a problem but corners can be somewhat tricky. Groups of people are milling about the streets – packs of SA men in their coffee-coloured shirts and caps, clusters of office workers in sombre overcoats – yes, nothing out of the ordinary at all, surely this evening will become one of those family stories that are laughed about in years to come. But she keeps riding, does not turn back, speeds up, pedals harder. A tram draws alongside, lit from inside like a lantern, its antennae buzzing on the overhead wire, it is empty apart from the conductor, slouching in his uniform and stifling a yawn, and, on the back seat, a man in a derby hat scratching his back with a rolled-up newspaper; it passes and the street is hers once again.
The shops are all closed, their wares lit against black backgrounds behind highly polished Kristallglas. Rosa sees her reflection in these windows, in this glass, flicking in and out of view between cars, pedestrians, tram stops, advertising pillars, charting smooth lines across black-slabbed roads in the centre of a wide street scene. Far off, behind the buzz and groan of the traffic, marching music can be heard – Rosa steers her bicycle carefully across the tramlines and turns onto the Sredzkistraße, away from the sound of the music until it is no longer audible. A van rattles by carrying a group of SA men smoking cigarettes, they are singing loudly a Nazi song and banging on the side of the van: Wenn’s Judenblut vom Messer spritzt, dann geht’s nochmal so gut, when Jewish blood springs from the knife then things are twice as well. Rosa turns onto the Rykestraße and pedals down it, picking up as much speed as she can, rattling on the cobbles, recalling Heinrich’s advice to keep away from main roads, seek out the shadows, avoid busy areas and those frequented by Jews. She can feel her breasts jerking uncomfortably and reduces her speed, pressing gently on the brake, the back brake, not the front brake, that much she can remember at least. The streetlights are dim here, all the windows are curtained, thin pencil-lines of light appearing in the gaps between them; this area is more deserted than the rest, the houses have a strange sense of being barricaded.
Suddenly there is a great deal of noise. Rosa sees a cloud of sand falling into the road and bouncing on the cobbles like salt. Not sand, broken glass. In the next second a dark bundle lands heavily on the cobbles with a curious skidding crunch: a tailor’s dummy, Rosa thinks, like the one Mama uses. She clamps her fingers on the brakes and veers the handlebars to the side; the bicycle lurches across the road, then wobbles and rights itself. A cacophony of shouts and screams breaks out and Rosa looks back over her shoulder; in the diminishing distance she can see two men in black uniforms, their faces cast into shadow by the peaks of their SS hats, walking over to the dummy and rolling it to the kerb – it comes to rest, a white forearm protruding upwards and arcing onto the pavement. Rosa stands on the pedals, turning them as fast as she can.
Without warning, all around her, doors open, and neighbours emerge, hurrying into the street, men still chewing with their napkins round their necks, women buttoning their coats, children holding toys scurrying behind; at the same time more people appear from other parts of the city, trotting round corners, groups of three, five, twenty, jostling and laughing and craning their necks, in hats and caps and scarves. Everywhere are schoolboys, many carrying bricks, some with planks and hammers, and one, for some reason, a broom; then there are SA men, big and broad and pink-faced, most with their brown shirts neat and pressed, but some untidy, untucked; then scores of others, following keenly, the sort of people you would see in the bank, or the library, or the post office, men with collars turned up, women with fashionable hats and gloves, mothers lifting children high above the crowds to give them a better view. People mill about, breathing into their hands and rubbing them for warmth, many smiling broadly, nudging and giggling as if sharing a secret. Rosa is forced to slow down and dismount. She wheels her bicycle through the swelling crowd, trying to keep to the shadows as inconspicuously as possible, while further down the street more breaking glass can be heard, and cheers and laughter, and a woman weeping, and piercing screams, and shouts, and laughter, and the clatter of bricks against walls.
Rosa’s hands are numb and she feels as if she is floating, as if the world is pulsating in time with her thumping heart; the crowd is pressing in on her, she tries to catch her breath but cannot, she knows from experience that walking against the flow will give her away, so she allows herself to be carried by the current, tries to smile like the others, appear as if she too is enjoying herself. The screams get louder, from many throats now, unseen in the buildings, and the sound of shattering glass, and male shouts, and doors splintering under heavy blows; then an orange light is thrown into the darkness, Rosa looks up and sees flames darting from a triangular roof, in the centre of which is a stone Star of David – of course, she is in the Rykestraße, she has ridden to the very steps of a synagogue, why didn’t she think, she must have been sleeping, straight to a synagogue, how stupid! There are more screams, and the smoke rises, and a cheer goes up from the crowd, together with a brief chant of ‘Raus mit den Juden’, which develops into ‘Raus, raus, raus, Juden raus’. Everyone is jostling to get a better view, and Rosa jostles as well, looking for a means of escape. Then, seeing her chance, she threads throug
h the crowd and turns down an alleyway, wheeling her bicycle casually, forcing herself to walk as if she is a normal German girl.
A young woman steps out in front of her, arms folded. Rosa stops, catches her eye, starts, looks away, steers round her, tries to walk on; but now she fears that there will be trouble, for in that brief moment when their eyes met Rosa recognised Klara Neumann, from her old school, unmistakably, looking almost the same as all those years ago, if slightly plumper and taller; and it is likely that Klara has also recognised her. Suddenly she feels as if she is itching, her whole body is itching, and she can’t help but glance over her shoulder. Klara is gazing after her, her face bleached orange on one side from the flames, and she has not unfolded her arms. For a moment Rosa considers stopping, acting as if she has bumped into an old acquaintance in a café, just a normal German girl. But then Klara opens her eyes wide and, her arms still folded tightly across her stomach, lets out a piercing shriek:
—A Jew, a Jew! A Jew, a Jew! Throw her on the fire! Throw her on the fire! Let her burn!
Rosa recoils in alarm and almost overbalances, but manages to mount the bicycle and starts to pedal away. It takes an age for the bicycle to get moving, it seems so heavy, she heaves against the pedals, and still Klara shrieks, unremittingly, without pausing for breath, her arms folded tight across her stomach, a Jew, a Jew, a dirty Jew, throw her on the flames, and Rosa strains at the pedals, and there are shouts behind her, something smashes to her left; there is the sound of pounding feet, and she looks over her shoulder to see the silhouette of a man giving chase, flames illuminating the cobbles behind him. She swerves, almost loses control, then lowers her head and rides as fast as she can. The man is still in pursuit; suddenly he is alongside, jacket and tie whipping out behind. She glances over and sees his face white against the darkness, wide eyes and wide grin, and she pedals some more and he clutches her sleeve, pulling the handlebars out of alignment; the bicycle swerves again, he tips his head back and spits in her face, she screams and the bicycle veers away, out of his grasp; it weaves and almost upends, but Rosa rights it, and the man falls behind. He makes a last-ditch attempt to catch her, takes a final grab at the saddle, his fingers grip the bicycle but then break away; he slows down, Rosa speeds up, the gap between them widens: Judensau! Judensau! Something hits her on the shoulder, she gasps but pedals on, faster and faster, veering around corners, not knowing where she is going, away from the crowds, away from the noise and the flames, into the darkness, the night.
The English German Girl Page 8