A silence falls over the city again and Rosa can hear herself breathing. She turns in her saddle and can see no sign of pursuit, and the crowd can no longer be heard; she has left them behind, she is safe, for the moment. She slows the bicycle to a regular speed and tries to calm her racing heart. This part of the city seems so foreign, nothing is familiar, but at least there are no crowds here, the streets are deserted, even quieter than usual. She must concentrate, that was a stupid mistake, could have been the end. She must keep calm, keep riding, clear her head, think rationally, nobody can see that she is Jewish if she rides her bicycle as normal, at a normal pace, and keeps her head up, acts cheerful, she is normal, a normal German girl. The road beneath the wheels slips by like a conveyor belt, the tyres thrum and the cogs and chain clank drily in the darkness; perhaps she is not moving at all, perhaps the world is moving around her. Just keep going, keep going, everything will be all right if she keeps riding as normal, there is nothing to give her away.
Suddenly, without warning, the pedals freeze solid and the bicycle loses momentum. Rosa brings her whole weight to bear upon the pedals but they do not budge. There is nothing for it. She guides the bicycle into an alcove, dismounts on trembling feet. In the corner she crouches and peers at the cogs and the chain, biting her lip; the alcove smells of urine and is gritty with grime underfoot. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes strain against the dark: the chain has come off the central cog and is wedged impossibly tightly against the frame. Rosa presses it with her foot but it cannot be shifted. The smell of urine lingers bitterly in her nostrils. She pushes her hat up to her hairline, leaving a webbed indentation across her forehead.
A voice comes from the street, a woman’s:
—Excuse me? Fräulein? Are you all right?
Rosa stiffens, half turns towards the pavement, pulling her hat swiftly back down.
—Yes, fine, thank you, she replies. Just a little bicycle trouble. I can fix it myself.
—Are you not in need of help? I know a little about bicycles. I have three brothers and they are obsessed with them.
—You are most kind but I can manage. I am fine. Please. Rosa forces a weak smile and looks briefly up. The woman on the pavement is unremarkable, of average height, hair drawn back in a propeller bow beneath a beret; she is wrapped in a coat with a high collar and her hands are deep in her pockets. There is something about her …
—Good Lord, it couldn’t be, could it? Klein? Rosa Klein?
—I …
—My, how you have grown. How you have grown! But do you not recognise me?
—Frau Schulz?
—Yes, your old Frau Schulz, your old, faithful maid. Kleine Rosa! I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl. How old are you now, eighteen?
—Fifteen.
—My, my, fifteen, fifteen! What a coincidence, what fun.
A gust of freezing wind blows into the alcove, and Frau Schulz draws her collar higher around her cheeks.
—It is awfully cold, she continues. What are you doing in this part of town all by yourself?
—Nothing.
—Nothing?
—Just riding my bicycle.
—Your bicycle, I see. You should be careful, Rosa. Jews are forbidden to ride bicycles, were you not aware? I believe that a reward would be due to whoever hands you in to the Gestapo.
Rosa tries to swallow, her throat a metal tube, dry and unyielding.
—I was not aware that bicycles were verboten, she says.
—It is not safe for a Jew to be in the street, you know. Tonight.
—I … was unaware of any danger.
—Unaware! What do you think that noise is? Haven’t you been listening to the wireless? I don’t know where I would be without my Volksempfänger. Well, thank goodness we bumped into each other. This is a happy coincidence, would you not agree?
—Yes, Frau Schulz, indeed. Now I think I should get on my way.
—Your bicycle is broken.
—It is not a serious fault. The chain has come off, that’s all.
—That is easy to fix. Here, let me.
Within seconds Frau Schulz has upended the bicycle and is fiddling with the chain, her hands protected from the grease by a handkerchief.
—It’s a little neglected, isn’t it, she says. Hasn’t been oiled, that’s why. The maid braces herself against the wall and prises the chain free. Ah: there. Good as new.
—Thank you so much, says Rosa. Now I must go.
The maid lifts the bicycle onto its tyres but does not let go of the handlebars.
—I am concerned for you, Rosa, she says. You shouldn’t be outside tonight by yourself, especially on an Aryan bicycle.
Rosa moves to take the handlebars, but Frau Schulz does not release her grasp.
—Where are you going, asks the maid, surely not home?
—Nowhere.
—Come now, kleine Rosa. I know you haven’t seen me for many years, but I cared for you as a child. You can trust me.
—Please let me have my bicycle. I need to go.
—Do not be in such a hurry, my dear. This bicycle may be the death of you. Where are you going?
—Please give me my bicycle.
—Rosa Klein, I can see you have lost none of your stubbornness. Why so suspicious? I’d have thought you could trust me. Many of my neighbours were Jews. I only want to help.
Rosa looks intently at Frau Schulz, trying to read the expression in her eyes, but it is dim in the alcove and her face, sunk in its collar, is cast in shadow. Rosa twists her fingers uneasily on the handlebars, unsure of what to do, undecided. Frau Schulz is probably harmless. Rosa is still shaken by the incident on the Rykestraße, perhaps she is being too suspicious. It is the general condition of life as a Jew at the moment that makes for suspicion of everyone, even of childhood maids. Frau Schulz, noting Rosa’s silence, speaks again.
—Believe me, she says, if I had wanted to turn you and your bicycle in to the Gestapo, I could have done so by now. Now tell me where you are going and I will give you back your bicycle.
—I’m sorry, Frau Schulz. I just want it back.
The maid lowers her voice to a tender purr.
—Kleine Rosa. It was most painful for me when I was forced out of your family, for economic reasons, as your Vater so eloquently put it at the time. I gave the best years of my life to you. I have never had any children of my own. And now you don’t trust me.
Rosa’s conscience is activated, automatically, like a bicycle that can be ridden by anybody, regardless of their intention. Words flash unbidden into her mind: ungrateful, suspicious, cynical, joyless, unfair, that is what she is, how she is acting, Frau Schulz is only trying to help, this is no way to treat her. Fighting her instincts, Rosa forces herself to smile; but her mouth is dry and no words will come. Frau Schulz speaks again in even more gentle tones.
—I will ask you one final time. Then I will give up and leave you to your own devices, alone on a night like this. Are you going to trust me? Or humiliate me further?
—Frau Schulz, please, I must apologise. At times like these Jews are predisposed to suspicion …
—Naturally, I quite understand. Very good. Now where are you going?
—West, to the suburbs.
—Where exactly?
—I have the address written down. I am seeking refuge with a friend of the family.
—Let me see that piece of paper. Ah, I know the area well. I happen to live nearby. Another coincidence. Come now, let us go.
Frau Schulz returns the scrap of paper to Rosa, adjusts her beret and pushes the bicycle into the street.
—It is dangerous for Jews to ride bicycles tonight, kleine Rosa, she says. I shall wheel it for you and we will walk together. Nobody would mistake me for a Jew.
—I don’t want to inconvenience you. I can easily go alone.
—Not at all. It isn’t more than a few miles. It is the least I can do, I am going that way myself. Come now, enough silliness.
&nb
sp; The maid pushes the bicycle briskly away, and Rosa hurries to catch up with her, glancing over her shoulder; then they fall into step.
—Is this really the best route, Frau Schulz?
—Of course, of course. Where is your family living now? I assume no longer in that lovely apartment by the Tiergarten.
—In Prenzlauer Berg.
—The Arbeiterviertel? Really? That must be … quite a change for you.
—One gets used to things.
—Of course. I have some friends in the Arbeiterviertel. What is the name of your street?
—The Beeskower Straße.
—Ah so, I know it well. My friends live in that area exactly. What apartment and block?
—Block three, fifty-three.
—A good number, fifty-three, a good number.
Goodness, what about her family? Rosa has been so preoccupied with Frau Schulz that she hasn’t spared them a thought. A bitter guilt rises in her stomach, and she clenches her fists in her pockets.
4
Never thought I would be glad Hedi is so withdrawn, thinks Inga; tonight, for once, her disposition is a blessing, she attracts no attention at all, and there are enough people on the concourse for us to remain anonymous. It isn’t too cold either, especially bundled up like this.
They sit for ten minutes on one bench and then move to another, sporadically around the concourse, meandering occasionally out of the station and back again, onto the steps and round the clock tower, back into the station, avoiding the ticket office, and around the concourse once again. The departures board ripples in great yellow waves and flicks up platform numbers and destinations, making Inga feel sick, must be bad for the eyes or something, and she has this nausea inside her anyway, sick all the way to the bones. There is a hubbub of voices, everything as normal, nothing unusual, apart from the fact that there are few Jews about, fewer than usual, Inga and Hedi may be the only ones in fact; my God, she thinks, Wilhelm’s idea seems to be working, my God, it seems to be working. Please, my God, preserve us, protect us, shelter us all from harm, Rosa and Heinrich too, and Otto of course, in your mercy and compassion keep us all safe.
Inga hopes Rosa and Heinrich are safely at the Krützfelds’ and she hopes Otto went with them. Surely he did, Heinrich will have found a way to get him out of the apartment, he is a shrewd boy, and devoted to his father, by now they will be safe, she hopes, hopes against hope, really, for hope is all one has left at times like these, hope. Hedi, are your hands cold? Do you need to go to the bathroom? Very good, so well behaved. Inga could never have done this with Heinrich at this age, or Rosa come to think of it. Hedi is so compliant, Inga is grateful for that, a blessing. There, on the other side of the concourse – a pair of SS men, striding purposefully at a diagonal, don’t look, Hedi, don’t look, must fix your scarf, there, and your gloves, there, wait: now carry on, another nervous circuit. Inga is feeling sick from her own heartbeats, she wonders if that’s a medical condition. Get out of here, those images, like a madwoman, she can’t stop these pictures of the family, dead; begone, foul thoughts, begone. The time – that cannot be correct, God the clock is crawling, eight hours to go at least, more probably, how can it be humanly possible to keep this up for ten hours? And Hedi is looking tired already, this is madness, as Otto said, madness, madness. And the rest of the family, what could be befalling them even now as Inga strolls around the concourse in blessed anonymity? Yet it is quiet here, nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps Wilhelm was wrong, panicking, or over-reacting, there may very well be nothing to worry about in the first place. However will this end, O Lord, however will it all end?
Above the high-roofed railway station clouds are beginning to collect in the darkness, overlapping and merging like a soapy sea, blocking the star-peppered clarity of the sky above. Beneath the cloud line streetlamps thread about the contours of the city, twinkling in their thousands around Berlin; the railway station glows dully in the dark.
There is a commotion on the edge of the concourse. A drunken man in a frayed cloth cap is paying unwanted attention to a woman with a suitcase who is leading a child by the hand. The woman is hurrying away, trying to shrug the man off while retaining her composure, but he will not be deterred. He is accusing her of being a Jew, bellowing, Jude Jude Jude, measuring her nose with clumsy fingers. Her hat almost falls off. Her little daughter is pulled about like a toy on a string. The SS men outside the ticket office laugh uproariously, the comedy, the entertainment. The woman slips from the station and disappears down the steps, the night closes behind her, and the drunken man, a little dizzy, slumps on a bench. A chuckling SS officer strides over, clicks his heels, claps the man on the shoulder and offers him a Reichsmark note.
5
They walk on in silence for a long time, the maid wheeling the bicycle a little in front, Rosa following behind. She does not recognise the area, can only follow Frau Schulz obediently round corner after corner, down street after anonymous street. Frau Schulz certainly seems to know where she is going; Rosa is sure that without her help she would be hopelessly lost by now.
The night deepens and they proceed into the outer suburbs where the streets are increasingly deserted, less well lit. The sound of crowds can be heard again, maybe a few blocks away, maybe further, and a gang of schoolboys runs past them, laughing, carrying fistfuls of watches. From time to time Frau Schulz disappears in the darkness, and Rosa has to hurry to catch up; she feels giddy, bites the inside of her cheek to keep alert. There is a red glow above some buildings further ahead.
—Frau Schulz. Look up there.
—What do you want?
—There, a little further along.
—There? Oh, the watchmaker’s must be burning. Or the furniture shop, perhaps, on the Kastanienallee. The German people are teaching the Jews a lesson. We must avoid that area at all costs. Come, let’s go this way.
The watchmaker, Rosa thinks, the furniture shop, the Kastanienallee. As she follows the maid in silence she sinks into a somnambulant daze, regarding the streets, the buildings, blankly. The cold soaks into the deepest recesses of her being, bringing with it a smothering numbness. She loses track of time, looking down at her feet and biting the insides of her cheeks.
—It is getting late, Rosa. Are you tired?
—A little.
—I am tired too. I live only a few minutes from here. Why don’t we go to my apartment, sleep there for a few hours and continue on our way when rested? You will be safe at my house, at least for a while.
—I would rather carry on, says Rosa weakly.
—Rather carry on? What about me? I have given up my evening to ensure your safety.
—I did not ask you to do so. I did not need a guide.
—You say that now that we are out of the city. But I kept you away from the mobs and the burning synagogues. Without me you would certainly have been caught. And you are not safe yet, kleine Rosa. Not safe at all.
—You’re right. I am grateful, says Rosa.
—I have even lost money, you know, says Frau Schulz. I was on my way to work when I met you. And now I may lose my job.
—You never told me that.
—Of course I didn’t. I am not looking for recognition or reward. I am only being a good Christian. You are like my own child, you know. All I ask is for a little rest, a little sleep. Nothing more.
—I’m sorry. If you are tired, you should rest.
—Very well, we will rest, if that’s how you feel. My apartment is on the next street.
They walk a little farther until they come to a park. On the corner is a turn-of-the-century apartment block, typical of the area, with a half-pyramid of stairs leading to a door flanked by iron handrails and blank-eyed lions. Frau Schulz carries the bicycle up the steps without the slightest difficulty, unlocks the door and leads Rosa inside, their footsteps echoing conspicuously in the night-time stairwell. Inside, the building is an example of shabby splendour, adorned with plaster mouldings, mirrors and a highly polished b
anister. The wallpaper is missing in patches and has been darkened over decades as if by smoke; the carpet is faded and thin in the middle, and worn strips of brass line the edges of the stairs. The muffled noise of the crowds is just audible, swelling and surging like the sound of the sea. Frau Schulz removes her beret and ushers Rosa up the stairs in front of her, hands spread out to touch the banisters on both sides. Rosa finds herself being shepherded into a neat gas-lit apartment that smells weakly of wood smoke. The door opens on a sitting room containing a table, two chairs arranged symmetrically, a sofa covered with a burgundy blanket, a fireplace, a wardrobe, a dressing table – that burgundy blanket, Rosa recognises it from years ago, it used to lie on Mama’s armchair in her bedroom, how strange that it ended up in Frau Schulz’s apartment, perhaps it was hers to begin with, or maybe Mama gave it to her when she left, who knows. And there is a doorway hung with a curtain of multicoloured beads, through which can be seen glimpses of a cramped kitchen cluttered with pots; another door, ajar, leads into a darkened bedroom.
—Can I offer you some tea?
—No thank you.
—Very well. Make yourself comfortable in the bed. I will wake you when it is time to set off again, says Frau Schulz maternally.
—But it wasn’t me who wanted to rest. It was you.
—Yes of course, the maid says lightly. But first I must oil your bicycle, it is in a terrible state. And I have to light the fire. It is cold in here, don’t you think?
Rosa takes off her hat and scarf, feeling, for a moment, like an eight-year-old again, under Frau Schulz’s orders, only without the higher authority of her parents to appeal to; go to bed, you must be up for school tomorrow morning, very well, she will go to bed. She walks tiredly into the bedroom, is pleasantly surprised by the comfortable-looking bed with its patchwork quilt and fat cotton pillows. Wearily she drops her hat and coat upon a rocking chair in the corner, draws the curtains on the night, lights a stubby candle on the bedside table; with the curtains lying softly against one another, the noise of the crowds is diminished to a whisper. Without removing her clothes, she climbs gingerly into the bed. The sheets make a pleasant rustling sound, they smell of her childhood, perhaps it’s Frau Schulz’s soap; she stretches and snuggles into the pillow, for she is, in the end, rather tired, her body begins to relax and despite herself she falls into a doze, the butter-coloured candlelight softening her features, go to bed, very well, go to sleep.
The English German Girl Page 9