Child of the Light (8 page)

It wasn't until she turned her head slightly to return the piano player's smile that reality intruded. Until that moment she had been facing Sol, and though he knew he was hidden in the dark of the stairway, he had felt she was singing for him alone.

He looked around the cabaret. Twenty tables ringed the dance floor. Each was set with an ecru tablecloth and a spray of lilac. It was easy to see his mother's hand in the decorating, for while some of the flowers were white, most were that shade between pink and white that was her favorite. Fine crystal, silverware, and gold-rimmed china gleamed beneath chandeliers fit for the palace of the Kaiser. Waiters in black tie and tails moved among the guests, offering a fish course. Silver platters were laden with exquisitely poached salmon, filet of sole, and sturgeon embellished with olive-green capers; there was even beluga caviar, sprinkled with chopped eggs and served on tiny rounds of pumpernickel.

The guests were arrayed in diamonds and lace, taffeta and ostrich feathers. White tuxedos trimmed in magenta vied for attention with chiffon and brocade cut from patterns designed to conceal or reveal secrets of the flesh. Smoke from cigarettes in silver holders curled into the glow of the spotlight. Everyone eyed Miriam Rathenau with rapt attention.

Erich was no exception. He and his parents were seated at Walther Rathenau's table, but right now it was not the Foreign Minister who impressed him. Face alive with nervous energy and anticipation, eyes bright, Erich focused on Miriam Rathenau as if he also felt she were performing only for him.

"Wenn der weisse Flieder wieder."
Miriam paused and dropped her voice.
"Blüht,"
she ended softly.

She curtsied and listened to the applause.

With a few exceptions, it was what she had expected from an audience that measured its responses with care even after a virtuoso performance at the Berlin Opera. They were boring, the Germans, always controlled and disciplined--so unlike the Americans, with their wild enthusiasms and their appreciation for anything the least bit extraordinary.

Well, let them try to be neutral about this next number, she thought. She nodded to the piano player, who struck up a lively tune, his fingers springing across the keys.

Smiling, she flung aside her shawl and broke into a modified cancan, whirling, kicking--low at first, then higher--until her foot was above her head...repeating the routine until, with a suddenness calculated to send an ache through the groin of the shy-looking young man who had just crept into the room, the music ended and she dropped into a split.

The boy stared at her with his mouth open, as if she were a fairy princess and he the frog prince. The audience, less restrained, clapped louder; someone even called, "Brava!"

Resting easily in the split, Miriam touched one knee with her forehead, bent the other leg under her and used it to propel herself back onto her feet.

The boy seated at her Uncle Walther's table, apparently unable to contain himself, jumped to his feet and began clapping wildly.

Her uncle raised a black eyebrow in apparent amusement at the boy's excitement, and smiled at her. Easing his narrow shoulders against the back of the chair, he stroked his goatee, removed his cigar from his mouth, and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. Despite his obvious pride in his niece, he took the time to flick a stray piece of ash from the sleeve of his finely tailored evening suit and replaced the cigar in his mouth before applauding.

After curtsying a second time, Miriam threaded her way to her uncle's table. She was almost there when her grandmother held out a gloved hand and touched her arm.

"You have given me much pleasure, my child. You never knew your Uncle Walther's brother. He died when he was fourteen...a little younger than you are now. He had the same delicacy you have...the same way of holding his head--"

As if contact with her granddaughter's young body had made her feel young and beautiful again and she no longer needed to hide her wrinkles, the elderly woman removed her gloves. Her hands were heavy with diamonds. Miriam glanced at them and then back into her grandmother's eyes. They held a sadness that spoke of more than the death of her asthmatic second son.

Miriam smiled prettily and bent to hug her grandmother. "Thank you, Oma. What a wonderful way to welcome me home from the United States."

"The delight is all mine, Miriam. Now go and have fun. That young man at your table will burst if you don't get there soon."

The band had begun to play and couples were gravitating toward the dance floor as Miriam approached her uncle's table. The boy's mother said something to him and, with a sickly, silly grin, he bowed formally and pulled out a chair for Miriam.

Wondering how he had injured his hand, she started to sit. Her uncle half-rose expectantly and, knowing what he wanted, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she took her seat and smiled her thanks to the boy.

"I'm Erich Weisser." He beamed as he scooted his chair closer to hers.

"Hello, Erich Weisser." She looked toward the other boy. "And who's he? Your brother?"

"My best friend,
Spatz."

"Spatz?
What kind of name is that?"

Erich laughed nervously. "I call him 'Sparrow' because he's always feeding the darn things. His name's Solomon Freund. His sister Recha is the one over there at the table next to us, staring at you. Those are his parents next to her."

"Why aren't they sitting with us?" Miriam smiled across at the young girl named Recha, who appeared transfixed.

"There wasn't room for all of us at this table so our papas--" He hesitated.

"They did what?"

"Rolled dice for who'd get to sit here," Erich said.

Though Miriam tried not to laugh, she could not help herself. "Did you hear that, Uncle Walther? They--"

"Don't say anything. Please." Erich's face was red.

Miriam stopped. She really hadn't meant to embarrass the boy. It was just so typical--so German!

Stretching out her hand, she introduced herself to Erich's parents and exchanged a few pleasantries with them. That ought to make the boy feel better, she thought, not particularly taken by Herr and Frau Weisser. The woman looked nervous; the man, at best, uncomfortable. His nose was red, as if he had been drinking too much, and his eyes were hard. Clearly, they were not enjoying themselves.

She glanced sideways at the boy; he had his father's square jaw but, unlike either of his parents, he had light hair and was quite good looking.

She turned her attention back to the Freunds. Recha's mother was removing a lace handkerchief from her evening bag and handing it to the girl. While she blew her nose, her father tugged nervously at his shirt cuffs and glanced anxiously about the room as if he thought the blowing might be offensive. Sol's mother leaned over and whispered something in her husband's ear. His eyes flashed angrily behind his thick lenses as he turned toward the frog prince, who had finally stepped all the way into the room.

By now, the waiters had begun to ladle out the entrée of sauerbraten and dumplings, which her uncle had requested. It was plebeian fare, but he had declared himself tired of foreign foods after his recent journey across the Atlantic. Reluctantly, for she missed America, whose chefs ironically prided themselves on producing superb European cuisine, Miriam lifted her fork.

"Your friend looks lonely," she said. "Why not ask him to sit with us?"

"Later. " Erich spoke without conviction. "Right now he's got stage fright. His papa wants his little sparrow to entertain us."

Miriam looked from one boy to the other. How very different they seemed! She liked Erich's Aryan good looks but there was something about Sparrow--

What had Erich said the boy's real name was? Solomon. Solomon Freund...wise friend.
 
He looked more like his nickname, a sparrow hoping for tidbits of congeniality, for someone to reach out a hand or offer a crust of conversation and draw him in among the crowd. Something about him reminded her of the boys in her ballet class--not homosexual, but sensitive. That appealed to her as well; he seemed forlorn as he stood gazing at the cello that stood like a sentinel amid the shadows in the corner of the room. By the looks of him, he would rather face a firing squad than perform in public, and seemed about to retreat down the stairs.

"I'm going to ask him to join us," she told Erich.

She got up and walked toward Solomon, but she was too late. His father had seen him and was holding up a hand in a gesture that warned Sol to stay where he was. Pushing himself from the table, he gave a peremptory bow to the guests near him and made his way toward his son. Smiling and nodding in greeting to several guests who glanced up curiously, he guided Sol through the doorway.

Miriam followed them. Herr Freund had left the door slightly ajar. She pushed at it gently, let herself through, and found herself standing in the shadows at the top of a flight of stairs. There appeared to be a storage room at the bottom of the steps, and she could hear voices.

She went down just far enough to be able to see Solomon and his father; they stood under a dangling naked light bulb.

"Sit down." Herr Freund gestured toward a wooden box next to a pair of ancient, discolored laundry sinks.

Sol did as he was told. The bare light swung to and fro as, scowling, his father stood over him.

"So, and where have you been?" Jacob clicked open an engraved gold watchcase that hung from a chain across his waist. "You're such an important fellow that you need not show up on time for a party at which our Foreign Minister is present?"

Sol started to answer, apparently thought better of it, and sat with his eyes downcast.

Jacob put a foot on an adjacent box. "Poor Miriam Rathenau had to do an encore for which she was quite unprepared."

Unprepared! She controlled a giggle as Herr Freund wiped dust from his shoes with a handkerchief he took from his trouser pocket. The popular Reichsbanner handkerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstriped
Shabbas
suit was doubtless just for show, Miriam thought. The way Germans felt about their country, only a lout would soil a cloth that resembled the flag of the Fatherland.

"She looked prepared to me, Papa," Sol said in a low, weak voice. He reached for a rag on a packing crate and brushed the dust from his own shoes.

"Don't argue with me!" Jacob removed his glasses and, squinting angrily at Sol, wiped the lenses clean, refolded the handkerchief, and placed it back in his pocket. "She's a mature girl--too mature for her years--so she carried it off."

"Yes, Papa."

"It is rude to keep anyone waiting, you know that. But it is idiotic, Solomon Freund, to offend such as Walther Rathenau--and not just for business reasons."

"I know Herr Rathenau is an important man." Sol fidgeted, his head still lowered.

"Not merely an important man. An important Jew."

"You are an important Jew, Papa." Solomon looked up. "You won the Iron Cross, First Class."

"Ah, the Iron Cross!" Jacob chuckled sadly as he dusted off a box with his hand and sat down. "For that you would consider me another Rathenau?
 
Look at me, Solomon."
 
He turned his palms up in supplication. "I'm an ordinary Jew, forty-nine years old, a Berlin seller of tobacco. Hardly a Walther Rathenau."

Even at that distance, Miriam could sense that a sadness had displaced Herr Freund's wrath.

"One of every six German Jews fought in the Great War, Solomon. One out of six! That means almost every young male German Jew served the Fatherland."

He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had taken on the quality of a man immersed in memory.

"A third of us were decorated, another twelve thousand died. So I was not alone--or special. When we stood in formation to receive our medals, the names of the Gentile recipients were read alphabetically, then came the Jews. That's how it went in every platoon and company in the army. We Jews who had fought and lived, and we who had fought and died--all those to be decorated--we were all at the bottom of the lists." He put a trembling hand on Solomon's shoulder. "That is why the respect and friendship of a man like Walther Rathenau, himself a Jew, is so important--so your surname will never be at the bottom of a list."

"But isn't the Foreign Minister only half-Jewish?" Sol asked.

"There is no such thing," Jacob Freund said, looking directly at his son, "as being half-Jewish."

A long silence followed as Solomon stared into his father's eyes. He seemed unnerved by his father's sudden vulnerability.
 
Miriam thought about her uncle, the only older man she really knew. He had always seemed to her to be larger than life despite his small stature. She realized it would unnerve her too, if she were forced to look into the face of his humanness.

"I think you understand what I have been trying to say," Solomon's father said quietly, standing up. "Let us go upstairs."

Quickly Miriam scooted back into the cabaret and waited near the door for father and son to re-enter. They did so together. Then Jacob moved ahead though the crowd.

Crossing the dance floor, he removed the cello from its mahogany case and placed it against a chair where it could easily be reached. He stood before the band and raised his hands for quiet. There seemed a calmness, a surety in his actions, as though he, and not her uncle, were the honored guest--as if this were his party.