Child of the Light (38 page)

Jacob caught her in his arms and held her close. "It might not be quite so easy at the border," he said. "Remember--none of what you're carrying is as valuable as life itself."

She patted her coat. The lining hid a false pocket which held the family jewels. She had been instructed to use them for her mother's needs, and for bribes if necessary. In the coat were her great grandmother's pearl brooch, her mother's diamond rings, her grandmother's tourmaline that she considered her own.

"The tourmaline goes last, Papa."

"Maybe nothing will have to go." Jacob put his arm around his wife's shoulders and kissed her. The train hooted.
"Mutti
is in your hands, and she is our most precious jewel," he said softly.

"I don't understand why I have to go all the way to Amsterdam to have my hair cut and dyed," Ella Freund whispered. "You are sending us away, Jacob. Why are you sending us away?"

"Papa and Sol will come to Amsterdam in a week or so," Miriam said. "Me, too." She tried to look cheerful as she helped Sol's mother on board. Not that Ella would notice, she thought, fighting tears. The rational, practical person who had been the strength of her family had been displaced by a stranger...an elderly, pathetic victim of the times.

"Promise you'll come?" Ella Freund leaned precariously from the top step.

"Promise," Jacob Freund answered.

"No tears, now," Recha said, her eyes brimming.

"No tears," Sol said.

Miriam's head was against his shoulder and she held tightly to his hand in an effort to control her emotions. The engineer sent a last steam blast echoing through the station, and the train began to move. Miriam and Sol walked alongside the cars, together with other people likewise in motion, offering good-byes and good wishes.

"Be happy," Miriam called. "Remember, life's a passing dream, not---"

"Not a dress rehearsal!" Recha said.

Within seconds, all that remained were those left behind and a series of disembodied arms and hands waving as the train chugged away. Miriam and Sol watched until it was lost in the collage of Berlin buildings, while Jacob stared across the track as if the train were still there. He seemed startled when Solomon put an arm across his shoulders to steer him from the depot.

Back at the apartment, Jacob wandered into the library while Miriam went into the kitchen to make coffee. The place was strewn with possessions left over from the heat of packing. After she and Sol sat quietly together for a while, they set about folding and putting away the clothes. Among a heap of Recha's lingerie they discovered a packet of family photographs. The top one was a picture of Sol beside his cello.

Were we ever really that young? Miriam wondered, watching him snap the packet shut and remembering again the party at the cabaret--the night she had first seen Solomon.

When everything had been tidied up, she and Sol went to the library to return the photographs to the safe. They had reached the archway before either of them saw Sol's father.

Jacob Freund sat in his rocker. His Iron Cross dangled from his hand and he stared at the wall. He wore his
tallis
and
yalmulke.
Both the prayer shawl and skullcap looked sadly out of place.

"Papa?" Sol sounded like a little boy.

Jacob curled his fingers around the medal and, putting it in his vest pocket, took out his gold watch and held it up for Solomon to see. "I've prayed for your mother and sister's safe journey. The time for prayer is over. Be a good boy and get my spare glasses from the accessories box in the shop cellar. I'm so blind without them I cannot even see the hour hand! The whole world is a blur."

He smiled but there was something dark about his face, as though his skin were underlain with shadow.

"I'm on my way, Papa."

"On second thought, let the three of us go together."

Miriam took Jacob's one arm and Sol the other. They helped him make his way slowly out of the building and across the street. A bit of glass fell from the broken door as Sol opened it and turned on the lights.

A cold calm lay inside; even the air seemed brittle.

They let go of Jacob and he walked around the shop, moving as if through a house unused for decades and filled with memories that could shatter like crystal if anything were disturbed. The cash register lay on its side like a wounded animal. He stooped, but did not touch it.

"Stay with your papa," Miriam told Solomon. "I know where to find his glasses."

She had never been downstairs alone. It seemed to yawn open as she drew aside the curtain and started down. The flooring that once had separated the basement and cellar had been removed decades if not centuries ago. In the small weak light, the storeroom seemed narrow and abnormally deep.

She descended softly, the wood quietly creaking. Reaching the bottom stairs, she stretched to the shelving rather than take the final step, and felt through the accessories box until she located the glasses. Her forehead was damp as she started backward up the stairs.

Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Even Sol doesn't hear voices down here anymore. Still, she found herself listening for the wail of an infant and for a woman crying,
"Oh God, let me die!"

A steady drip-drip-drip resounded through the cellar, drawing her attention toward the sewer. Her throat tightened and her hands shook violently. A cold sweat seized her as she watched cellar-seep as dark as blood serpentine toward the grate.

She lurched up the stairs and tore aside the curtain that separated her from the shop.

A skinny figure stood there, motionless.

"Papa?"

Jacob's face held the solemnity of
Yiskor,
the prayers for the dead that Jews repeated every
Shabbas
in synagogue. "So much to be done. We must have the shop running smoothly by the time Friedrich returns." Jacob took his glasses from her.

"Why don't we all go to Amsterdam. There are other shops--in countries where we need not fear for our lives."

"This time the Nazi rabble came in the night," Jacob replied. "Until now, that has been their way. Soon they will expose themselves in the daylight. Then we will know the beginning of the end is upon us. We must be here, awaiting them with our eyes open."

"But
why,
Herr Freund? Why must we stay here? I don't understand. We Jews can't win--"

"We are Germans first, Miriam," Herr Freund said quietly. "If we run away, they will never learn that."

He moved slowly toward Solomon, clasped his son's hand as if to shake it and put his other hand on Sol's shoulder.

"Every day for twenty-three years we have served this city," Jacob said. "Tomorrow shall be no different."

August 1936

Wondering why anyone would object to taking a ferry across the Havel to Pfaueninsel--Peacock Island--Erich ambled across the pontoon bridge the Wehrmacht had erected for the convenience of Dr. Goebbels' guests.

Achilles tugged at her harness, a firm chest brace such as a blind man might wear. Erich kept her heeled at his side. He felt proud of himself and of the dog, despite her advanced years. Her coat was dull, her ears sagged, and her canines were yellow and crooked, but she was after all over ninety in human years. She was hard of hearing, and every now and then he had to repeat a command which in earlier years would have brought instant obedience. Still, for an old dog she was in superb shape and capable of inflicting enormous damage--sow-bellied or not. Most of the time she was alert and carried herself well. Not as well as Taurus, of course. Nor could she handle his mental commands as easily. Sometimes the messages were obeyed; sometimes not. He knew he should have brought Taurus tonight, but Achilles was his only hope for a connection to Miriam, and to their shared memories of the island.

They had come to the island together once--she sixteen, her head filled with fairy tales, he determined to be her hero. She had played princess to his Prince Charming as they flirted in the Garden of Palms, danced to the music of King Wilhelm's organ, kissed next to a wooden cabinet that one of the court designers had whimsically shaped like a bamboo hut.

Remembering that day, and hoping she would too, he had slipped her name to someone on the entertainment committee. She had refused to see him since the disturbance at Ananas where she was now waiting tables--she who used to be the stellar attraction. The only time he saw her was during his brief visits to his parents. He went to catch a glimpse of Miri.

Tonight, she would surely talk to him. He would introduce her to Leni Riefenstahl. They had much in common. Both in the arts, both started out as dancers. Leni was making two documentaries about the Olympic Games. Maybe she would use Miri.

He stopped himself. He was dreaming. A woman who said publicly that when the Führer arrived, the rays of the sun crossed the Hitler sky, would hardly employ a Jewess. She was more likely to put a gorilla to work. Her film,
The Eternal Forest
, for example.
 
About survival of the fittest, it starred ancient Gauls born to worship forest gods and die where wild boar roamed. They clothed themselves in animal skins, drank mead from a ram's horn.

A strange but fascinating woman. Erich wondered what Leni would choose to film tonight. This party was slated to be quite a bash. Everyone from Hess to the Duke of Hamilton was coming. Solomon would say: "And how many Jews?"

He had to admit, he missed Solomon's directness. It was getting dangerous to be seen around a Jew, but that would change. Soon. There would be no more mistakes like the one that had nearly killed his father; there would be no more beatings. The Games had seen to that. Only yesterday, he had spent the day taking down
Juden Unerwünscht
--Jews unwanted--signs. For all their racism, some signs were humorous. Like the one, combining official warning with someone's painted scrawl, that he had put in the trunk of the Rathenau limousine, which he was now driving:

SHARP CURVE, DRIVE CAREFULLY

Jews Drive 200

Just a memento. Even Solomon would understand, surely. No matter what Solomon said, those signs would never go up again. Not after what Hitler and his cronies told the foreign press. The press would report that the rumors were nonsense, that the charming and brilliant Adolph Hitler was Germany's savior, that sometimes the Berlin sky was hazy with skywriting proclaiming peace and good will. "Germany's Golden Age," they announced, led by an "astute, gracious, energetic leader."

Thus heralded, Hitler and his people would dare not go back to what they had been. Thank God.

Erich walked slowly across the bridge, strolling so that he did not over-eager to investigate the fashionable women and the men in serge suits and uniforms who sauntered on the other side. He did not wish to appear unused to mingling with such an assembly. The guest list was varied enough to have pleased even the eclectic fantasies of King Friedrich Wilhelm II, who had designed the island as a playground for his mistress, the Countess Lichtenau.

Doubtless, the king would have been delighted to find his
Lustschloss
--Pleasure Palace--filled with foreign dignitaries and members of the old nobility. His "Swiss cottage" in the park, among the tulip trees and Weymouth pines he had imported from the United States, was a fitting setting for drink and discussions between foreign diplomats and generals. The "dairy" and "guest house" were perfect for assignations, as was the Greek temple that stood among Lebanon cedars whose girths measured two-and-a-half meters? What better place for Olympic athletes to live out their fantasies?

He stepped off the bridge and onto the island. Thousands of muted yellow lights shaped like tiny flames adorned the trees. Dancing girls carrying flaming torches lit the footpaths; dressed as pages, they guided the guests to their evening of enchantment. Their full-sleeved satin shirts, tight black pants, and powdered wigs were a touch of genius, combining the theme of the Olympics with the aura of aristocracy.

Erich scanned their faces, looking for Miriam. The island's muster of peacocks, so protected by the law that even pocketing a fallen pinfeather was forbidden, preened around three outdoor dance arenas. Couples waltzed and tangoed, applauding each tune with white-gloved hands and applauding again when, as if rehearsed, the peacocks spread their feathers and screeched. Refreshment pavilions offered lobster, pheasant, and caviar. Waiters in red and black tuxedos trimmed in gold poured streams of champagne. For those with more plebeian tastes, there were cauldrons of hot beer soup.

He took a glass of champagne and sipped it. Fascinated by the people, he failed to see Goebbels approaching.

"Toasting the Reich, Herr Rittmeister?"

He must have looked guilty, because Goebbels' thin face broke into the smile of a man who had scored a minor victory over someone he disliked. Erich's unit was guarding Nazi headquarters; he had no specific responsibilities on the island. Technically, though, he was still on duty and should not have been drinking.

Before Erich could think of an appropriate response, Magda Goebbels drew her husband away to watch the brewing of the potent punch known colloquially as "Warsaw Death."

Thank you, Magda, Erich thought, watching them walk away. They were one of the least attractive couples he had ever seen: Goebbels with his limp; she, a head taller, with a prominent nose and chin. Her appearance belied the suggestion that she had once been an actress of beauty, much like the women her Josef consorted with on the nights he was not pretending fanatical devotion to her and to their family.