Those Who Save Us (31 page)

46

AND AT SOME POINT TRUDY MUST SLEEP, FOR AS SHE LIES first on her back, then curled and flinching like a dog, she sees this:

She is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bakery, which has been turned into a refugee center of sorts. There are mountains of suitcases, carpetbags, and heaped coats; some of the latter have people rolled up in them, resting. Others sit nearby, rocking themselves or staring at the devastated walls or whispering to children with whom Trudy has been forbidden to play. Still more are in the kitchen with Anna, helping her boil bandages or dole out cups of water. Trudy isn’t frightened by the strangers or the odd sight of adults lying on the floor; the visitors lend the bakery a holiday feel. Even the dust they raise, which spins in the thin columns of light allowed by the boards over the window, seems to have a festive air.

Then the old bald schoolteacher snaps his fingers in front of Trudy’s face.

Pay attention, child, he commands. Repeat after me:
ein, zwei, drei.

Trudy wriggles, trying to find a comfortable position. The cement is damp and unkind to childish buttocks, and she has been sitting for a long time.

Ein, zwei, drei,
she says.

No, no, no.
Ein, zwei, drei. Vier, fünf, sechs.

Ein, zwei, drei, vier,
fünf,
sechs,
Trudy repeats. She looks expectantly at the old schoolteacher, waiting for praise. She wants to please this strange man.

But his lips purse in disgust.

You are not concentrating, he tells her. You had better learn to do it right, child. Otherwise—He rotates his head slowly to the left, and the scourged flesh, a raw and weeping pink that has sealed one of his eyes shut, comes into view like a ruined moon.

Do you want to end up like this? he asks. No? Then do it again, correctly this time.
Ein, zwei, drei, vier—

Trudy, her chest hitching in a prelude to tears, begins once again to recite the numerals. But the old schoolteacher is no longer listening. He scrambles to his feet, his blasted face blank. All around Trudy there is a kinetic movement and murmur as the other refugees do the same. For Saint Nikolaus has arrived. He stands at attention in the doorway, surveying the ragged bunch.

Trudy doesn’t jump up like the rest. Instead she backpedals on her rump, scrabbling her heels against the floor, trying to hide among the forest of legs as Saint Nikolaus strides into the bakery. She knows it is her he is looking for.

Up! up, he calls. March.

Obediently, their eyes on the feet, their refugees form a circle with Saint Nikolaus at its center. They parade past him as he claps and chants:

Backe, backe Kuchen!

der
Bäcker
hat gerufen.

Wer will guten Kuchen backen,
Der muss haben sieben Sachen:

Butter und Salz, Zucker und Schmalz . . .

Trudy finds herself walking along with the refugees. They plod past Saint Nikolaus in despairing rhythm, as dull and stolid as circus elephants. Then, suddenly, they are all gone and Trudy is marching alone. This does not surprise her: of course this lies well within the scope of Saint Nikolaus’s many and peculiar powers. He makes people disappear.

. . .
und Eier machen den Kuchen gel’
, he sings, tapping time with the toe of a gleaming boot.
Backe, backe Kuchen! der Bäcker hat gerufen.
Hup! Hup! Hup! Raise high the flags! Stand rank on rank together. Storm troopers march with quiet, steady tread—

I think that’s enough for one evening, Trudy hears her mother call. It’s past the child’s bedtime.

Trudy’s head swivels in her mother’s direction. Anna is standing behind the display case, rubbing her arms.

Saint Nikolaus ignores her.

No, not like that, he scolds Trudy. Here. Watch.

He goose-steps across the room, his boots thudding on the floor. He pivots and comes back toward Trudy. He is as tall as a tree; she tips her head up as he approaches and sees his worsted crotch, the muscles of his thighs pumping beneath the cloth.

Now you, he says, and begins to mark time again.

Raise high the knife!

Sharpen the blade to cut Jewish flesh.

Jewish blood will run in the gutters;

On every corner the Hitler flag will
flutter—

Horst, says Anna. I really don’t think—

Trudy looks in her mother’s direction. Anna is standing behind the display case, watching the scene with dark and sorrowful eyes.

Saint Nikolaus rounds on her.

WILL you be quiet! he roars. WILL you for once in your Godforsaken life just! shut! up!

Then he spins and deals Trudy a backhanded blow to the face. She reels to the floor, her ears ringing. She doesn’t feel the impact of his hand. Her right cheek is numb from forehead to chin.

Saint Nikolaus’s shining boots pass a few centimeters from her nose. Trudy hears him yelling something unintelligible overhead and hears Anna’s answering cry. She tries to move, but the cement beneath her exerts a pull stronger than gravity.

You’re a disgrace, I’ve had it with the pair of you, Saint Niko-laus is screaming. Puling, whining, ungrateful! I’ve half a mind not to come back at all.

And then the strangest thing happens: the ceiling must open up, or perhaps the sky, for treasures rain down, forks and watches and rings and brooches. They shower around Trudy in a crashing, clanging cacophony. Not a one touches her, however, for Anna is there, crouched over her, shielding Trudy in her arms.

Yet terrified as she is, Trudy struggles to squirm free of her mother’s protective embrace. The press of Anna’s flesh turns her stomach, as does her smell. For Anna doesn’t smell like herself, sharp like celery beneath flour and honest sweat. She smells of bacon fat, of fish starting to go off. She smells like Saint Niko-laus. She smells like the man.

47

RAINER COMES TO THE DOOR MORE QUICKLY THAN ONE might expect, considering that it is nearly three in the morning. Trudy, however, is not surprised; she knows that he, like she, is prone to insomnia. He is as fully clothed as a man can be at this hour without being actually dressed, in pajamas and robe and his monogrammed slippers. He is even wearing his bifocals, as though he has been expecting just such an intrusion. The only signs that Trudy has disturbed him are his hair, which stands up in a cock’s comb at the crown, and a somewhat wild look about the eyes, and Trudy realizes belatedly that, given his past, Rainer will be even more alarmed than most by a pounding on the door in the middle of the night.

Why, Trudy, he says.

He lowers his chin to peer at her over his glasses, as if to confirm that she is truly there, then slides them off and slips them into a pocket of his robe. In his other hand is a paperback, a John Le Carré thriller.

My God, he says. What has happened to your face?

Trudy shakes her head.

It’s nothing.

It does not look like nothing, Rainer says, frowning. You really should have some ice on those bruises. Who has done this to you? What is wrong?

His concern makes Trudy shy. She digs her toe into the weave of the welcome mat.

I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, she mumbles.

Don’t be stupid. Come in. Whatever has happened, you can tell me just as well inside.

When Trudy doesn’t move, staring at her boots, Rainer takes her by the arm.

You are letting all the heat out, he tells her.

He walks Trudy into the living room and indicates that she should sit on the couch. But Trudy remains on her feet. She is panting a little, from the cold and her rush over here and the fear of what she has come to say.

And the only way to say it is to say it. Rainer is waiting, watching her. Trudy puts an icy hand on her breastbone.

I’m not who you think I am, she says rapidly. I’m not just an ordinary German. I’m the daughter of a Nazi officer. An SS officer. There. Now you know.

Rainer looks down at the book he is still holding.

I’ve never told that to anyone, says Trudy. Not even my ex-husband knew. And—

She buries her face in her hands.

I’m so ashamed, she cries. So ashamed. My entire life I’ve felt so— stained.

Rainer says nothing, but after a long moment Trudy feels him grasp her shoulder. He steers her to a chair.

Stay there, he says.

He disappears down the hall. Trudy leans back, drained. The armchair, though cold, emits a comfortingly masculine smell, of chilled leather and polish and a whiff of Rainer’s citrus aftershave.

Rainer returns with a tea set on a tray. He sets it on an end table and switches on a floor lamp. The shadows leap and retreat a few yards, leaving a small ring of buttery light.

Rainer taps Trudy’s knee and passes her a cup and two aspirin.

Take those, he says. They should reduce the swelling somewhat.

Trudy complies, washing down the caplets with a mouthful of Darjeeling that burns, not only because it is hot but because Rainer has put in it, along with honey and lemon, something much stronger. The alcohol has no taste, but Trudy can feel it searing a path through her throat and into her gullet. She coughs and starts to lower the cup.

All of it, Rainer commands.

Trudy braves another swallow and sits up a bit straighter.

What
is
that? she asks. Schnapps?

Rainer makes a twirling come-on gesture. When Trudy has drained her tea, he reaches over with the pot and refills it, then pours one for himself. But instead of drinking it, he sits with his feet firmly planted on the rug, turning the cup this way and that, frowning at it.

I am going to tell you a little story, he says, and then pauses.

Trudy waits. This is the first time she has been here without music in the background, and without it the house is deeply, sadly quiet. There is a
whummmm
and a rush of air from the floor vents as the furnace kicks on.

As if prompted by this, Rainer sighs and takes a sip of tea.

In November 1938, he says, when I was seven years old, my father was arrested. I do not know why. This happened during
Kristallnacht,
the Night of Broken Glass, so it is entirely possible that there was no reason. Perhaps he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. What I do know is that he was deported to Buchenwald, like many of the other unfortunates who were rounded up, and held as an enemy of the state. My mother received a notice to this effect. She clung to the hope, as did many in similar circumstances, that my father would soon return. And indeed some prisoners were released, though not in quite the same condition as they were going in. My father was not one of them. In 1940 my mother received another notice, this one stating that he had died of typhus and that there was no need for her to make funeral arrangements, for the body was highly contagious and had been disposed of by the state.

By this point, of course, anybody with any common sense could tell which way things were going for the Jews, so my mother decided that we, my younger brother Hansi and I, should go into hiding. She sat us down and explained to us that we would become U-boats, Jews living on Aryan papers, and that we would pretend to be the orphaned nephews of a Christian lady who lived near the Kurfürstendamm. This was in the heart of Berlin, so we would be big-city boys for a while; we should act like little men and not be afraid. She did her best to make this sound like an adventure and I, being nine at the time and fond of cloak-and-dagger stories, found it indeed an exciting prospect, particularly as Mutti assured us the situation would be only temporary.

The reality, of course, was quite different. My mother, for whatever reason, was not able to stay with us. She had to work to pay our benefactress, and perhaps she had to live in workers’ lodgings in another sector of the city; I do not know. In any case, one morning in 1940 Hansi and I were taken from the house in the Grünewald where we had been born and brought to the apartment of Frau Potz, an elderly retired schoolmarm whom we had to call Auntie. There my mother left us, with tearful promises to visit as soon as she was able. I will leave you to imagine how difficult this parting was. I did not cry, mindful of Mutti’s admonition to be a model for my brother, but Hansi, who was four, sobbed and clung to her legs. Nonetheless, she took her leave of us, and Frau Potz tried to comfort us as best she could. As she knew children only through teaching them, however, having had none of her own, she was not very affectionate; she did not hug or kiss us as we were accustomed to, and Hansi and I had to draw whatever solace we could from one another.

I must grant that we were always well provided for. In addition to whatever money my mother could contribute, Frau Potz was a widow from the Great War and received a hefty pension, and the flat was, in retrospect, quite luxurious. But I saw it with a child’s eye, and much of our surroundings frightened me in the illogical way children are often frightened. I retain the impression of big chilly rooms and highly waxed floors on which we were forbidden to run. The furniture was heavy and dark and upholstered with unwelcoming material such as horsehair, and everything smelled of mothballs, and there was a clock in the hallway presided over by a yellow-eyed mechanical owl that would flap its wings and hoot when the hour was struck. Things such as this gave me nightmares.

Nor was there any respite from the flat, for Hansi and I were no longer allowed to attend school nor even walk in the Tier-garten. Berlin at that time was rife with Jew-catchers, venal people who made it their business to ferret out the remaining Jews and turn them over to the Gestapo for a monetary reward, or extra rations, or travel stamps on their
Ausweis,
their passport. So Frau Potz would not take the risk of allowing us to leave the flat. We read our lessons to her in the mornings, and in the afternoons, when she went out to stand in the interminable lines for food, Hansi and I were left to our own devices. We were forbidden to run or sing or talk or make any noise whatsoever; we were not permitted even to look out the windows. We were meant to sit quietly with our books and drawing paper until she returned.

Naturally, this was an impossibility for two active little boys who missed their garden in the Grünewald and had once had their own ponies, and naturally, as soon as Frau Potz left on her errands, we disobeyed her. The moment I heard the descent of the lift, I would drag one of the hideous horsehair chairs to the window and help Hansi climb up beside me so we could watch the street. And there was always something of interest to see: the flat fronted directly onto the Ku’damm, which is the main shopping avenue in Berlin, and I remember ladies wearing everything from the latest fashions to
Zellwolle
coats and wooden shoes that made a noise like horses’ hooves; there were boys my age running and jumping onto the streetcars like monkeys until the conductors chased them off; there were Brownshirts and soldiers with rifles; always some commotion. We were terrified of the soldiers, of course, and would duck whenever one of them glanced in our direction, but I must confess I was also fascinated by their gleaming guns and boots, and sometimes, until Frau Potz returned, I would run about the flat with a broomstick shooting imaginary invaders.

In any case, the afternoon street-watching became a ritual, and so it was that one winter day in 1942 while we were standing at the window, Hansi and I saw our mother across the street. She was shuffling forward in a long line of Jews, some wearing the yellow Star and some not. She was not. But she had obviously been caught and her papers declared invalid, for she was being herded with the rest toward the train station.

It was the first time we had seen her in two years.

And Hansi, then only six, became quite agitated. Mutti, he shouted, pointing; there’s Mutti! And he slid off the armchair and raced from the flat.

I followed him, taking the stairs instead of the lift, which was old and slow. But by the time I reached the building’s exit, Hansi was already running across the street. Cars screeched to a halt; everyone on the sidewalk turned to look. Mutti, he was shouting, Mutti! And he ran alongside her as she walked, tugging on her dress—she was not wearing a coat despite the cold—and holding his arms out to be picked up and held.

And at first my mother pretended not to hear. She swatted at his hands and kept walking, facing straight ahead. But this of course had no effect, so eventually she stopped and said to Hansi, Go inside, little boy. You’ll catch your death of cold.

Mutti, said Hansi again, and threw his arms around her, burrowing his face into her stomach. I stood and watched from the doorway as my mother looked about in desperation, whispering to Hansi and trying to disengage him. But she had no luck in doing so, and she was holding up the line of deportees, and one of the soldiers came over, a big fat fellow in a greatcoat, and said to her, Is this your child?

No, my mother said, no, he is not mine, and she finally succeeded in thrusting Hansi away from her and started walking again.

But he trotted next to her, wailing, Mutti, look at me, Mutti, pick me up! until the soldier pulled him away. He took my mother’s arm, too, and turned her to face my brother.

He certainly seems to know you, this soldier said. Are you sure he’s not yours?

Yes, yes, said my mother, trying to smile, although by this point she was weeping as well. He must have confused me with somebody else.

The soldier appeared to consider this. He stood with his legs far apart and—this I will never forget—digging in his mouth with one finger as if there were some food lodged there.

Then he said, I understand. These matters of mistaken identity happen all the time, especially among Jews. Well, then, if he is not yours, you won’t mind if I do this—And he unholstered his Luger and shot Hansi in the head.

Of course there was screaming, my mother loudest of all, and people scattered to try and get away from my brother’s body, which was lying in the street with a pool of blood spreading from it, and my mother on her knees beside him. But I, I . . .

Rainer looks at his cup of tea, then sets it on the floor.

I just stood and watched. I stood while the soldier kicked my mother and then while he pulled her to the feet by the hair and dragged her off, and I stood there while the Jews started walking again and the rest of the people on the street went about their business as though nothing had happened, with my brother’s little body in the gutter with the horse dung and old newspapers. I stood there, you understand, not just because of the shock and disbelief of what I had seen, but because I knew for the first time in my life what it means to be so ashamed that you wish to die.

For I had had ample time to stop Hansi from running from the flat. And even afterward, I could have gone into the street and coaxed him away from our mother. He worshiped me; he would have listened to me. But I did nothing, and I had made a conscious decision to do nothing while all this was happening. Because I was angry with my mother. I was angry that she had broken her promise and had not come to visit us and had abandoned us to Frau Potz. So I deliberately did nothing and in this way caused both of their deaths . . .

Rainer bows his head. He sits that way for a moment, staring at the carpet. Then he turns to Trudy.

So you see, he says softly, we are all ashamed in one way or another. Who among us is not stained by the past?

Without waiting for a response, he stands. Trudy stares at his slippers, wiping her tears with the back of a wrist. Then she looks up at Rainer. His face is in shadow, but his eyes shine like mercury. The silence hums between them, tensile with understanding.

Rainer holds out his hands.

Come, he says.

Trudy puts her hands in his and he pulls her to her feet. Then the two of them, joined this way and by mutual and unspoken accord, go up the stairs to his bedroom and shut the door behind them.