Sirius (2 page)

*

Back when the Liliencrons were on the lookout for a suitable dog, the dachshund Kuno von Schwertberg – Kurwenal for short – was making headlines.

He belonged to Mathilde Freiin von Freytag-Loringhoven, an exponent of New Comparative Psychology
in Weimar.

Kurwenal was able to read and converse. He expressed himself by barking the exact number of times to correspond with the consecutively numbered alphabet.

The famous animal psychologist William McKenzie made the journey especially from Genoa and held his business card under the dog’s nose. Kurwenal read it and then barked: “Magnzi” and “Gnoa.” He was following the phonetic alphabet, of course.

McKenzie set off on his journey home, enthralled.

Two British researchers visited Kurwenal and surprised him by asking what they were wearing on their heads. Kurwenal promptly answered: “Fancy hats.”

It wasn’t long before a delegation of the National Socialist Animal Protection Association took an interest in the brilliant dachshund, although admittedly with sinister ulterior motives. If speaking and thinking animals existed, then humans – like Jews, gypsies and Poles – could be speaking and thinking animals too. In other words,
Untermenschen
, sub-humans.

All of this brought a plan to Isidor Reich’s mind.

Isidor Reich was a young, up-and-coming zoologist, who no longer wanted to stand by and watch New Comparative Psychology risk ending up in the hands of the National Socialists. He came up with the idea of a “Jewish Kurwenal”. And that was how he began breeding fox terriers in Berlin’s Grunewald district.

His dogs’ pedigree wasn’t made up of pompous aristocratic titles like Kuno von Schwertberg, but Jewish forenames, in alphabetical order, accompanied by the litter number and breeding name
Reich
.

The first Reich consisted of five puppies, named Ariel, Benjamin, Chajm, David and Esther. Reich selected the dog that seemed the most eager to learn, Benjamin, and subjected him to obsessive schooling from that moment on.

From early in the morning until late at night, the dog sat at the typewriter and obediently typed out with his paw the letters Reich called out to him. After a year had passed, Benjamin was capable of transcribing a report dictated to him without any problems whatsoever.

Meanwhile, the second Reich had been whelped. Gidon, Hadassah, Irit and Jakob. This time, Jakob was the most gifted. He was without a doubt Benjamin’s son, and that’s why it was no great surprise – or perhaps it was, when you really think about it – that Jakob had writing in his blood. At the age of six months, he composed his first and very own poem.

cad a baf

bdd af dff

art ad

abd ad arrli

bed a ccat

The verse was published in
Animal Souls
, the journal of New Comparative Psychology. It was a triumph.

Then the third Reich came into the world: Levi, Mirjam, Natan, Oz and Ruth.

But that was the end already. One morning, the Gestapo broke down the door, and Isidor Reich was arrested and deported. All the dogs were shot dead.

All apart from one. Little Levi.

He made his way to safety just in the nick of time. A neighbour found the trembling bundle of fur at the furthermost end of the kitchen, where presumably he had been mistaken for a pillow.

The only survivor of the third Reich. Back then, Levi had no idea that what he had escaped was only the beginning of the hell to come.

*

Professor Liliencron never reads the newspapers. Not under normal circumstances, that is. His curiosity is predominantly piqued by living things which are 3.5 billion years old. And they are rarely mentioned in the newspapers, so as far as he was concerned it wasn’t worth reading them.

Today, though, he is reading the papers.

He sits at the breakfast table. Still in his dressing gown. His walk with Levi, at ten o’clock on the dot, has been waived today. Instead, Putti took the dog out and fetched the freshly baked rolls.

Rahel trembles as she pours the coffee. She knows her husband only reads the papers when bad forebodings make it absolutely necessary.

“News!” says Father Liliencron. “Interesting news. And I’m afraid it concerns us.”

“What is it?” asked Else.

He reads out loud: “The second decree for the implementation of the Law of 17 August 1938 regarding the alteration of surnames and forenames.”

He imitates the officious tone of a reading before a court of law.

“Paragraph 1. Jews are only permitted to bear such forenames as are listed in the guidelines set out by the Reich Minister of the Interior.”

He slams his fist down thunderously on the table.

“Anyone who deliberately disobeys this order will be sentenced to up to six months imprisonment.”

The noise wakes Levi. He was slumbering contentedly on his dog blanket under the table. Normally he is awoken gently from his dreams, perhaps by the scent of a slice of cheese being proffered to him, in order that he feel like a fully-fledged member of the breakfast gathering. But today is not a normal day.

Has he done something wrong? Is the commotion about
him
? He articulates his uncertainty with a low whimper.

“Does the law apply to dogs too?” asked Else. “Does Levi need to change his forename?”

‘It wouldn’t surprise me one bit!” responds Father Liliencron bitterly, putting on his gold-rimmed reading glasses. “Let’s read the small print.”

The family looks at him expectantly.

“Terrible,” he murmurs. “We need to start watching our backs.”

“Start?” asks Georg sarcastically. “I’ve been watching mine for a long time now.”

“I know,” nods Liliencron, “I know. But unfortunately we can’t pick and choose the times we live in.”

“Well, you did,” retorts Georg. “You live in the past.”

Rahel interrupts: “Leave your father be, Georg.”

Levi clears his throat, drawing attention to himself.

Liliencron leans down towards him. “You don’t understand any of this. Or do you?”

Levi sits up and sways his head wistfully back and forth in rhythm with the hand stroking him.

“It’s too dangerous out there if you have a Jewish name,” Liliencron explains to his dog.

He lays the newspaper aside and gets up.

“That’s why, as of this moment, you will no longer be called Levi!” he declares. Levi furrows his brow.

“We’ll find a beautiful new name for you,” says Liliencron. “Then you can give the Aryans the runaround.”

He closes his eyes and thinks. Big Dog. The constellation pops into his mind. The evening on the terrace. His dog has grown pretty big by now, hasn’t he?

“Sirius!” The name suddenly bursts out of him.

He stares into the startled faces of his family.

“Sirius!” he repeats ceremoniously. “From this moment on, you will be called Sirius.”

Levi feels flattered. Big Dog. But at the same time he feels the responsibility weighing down on both himself and the star – of being a glimmer of light in the darkness. Dogs called Rusty have an easier ride of it.

“Sirius, come on!”

Liliencron grabs the lead, and together they leave the house.

The passers-by can’t believe their eyes. The professor, still in his dressing gown and at a much later hour than usual, is walking absent-mindedly along the street. And he’s calling his dog “Sirius”.

“Sirius, let’s go!”

Frau Zinke, the wife of the caretaker from the neighbouring building, who sometimes makes conversation with the professor on his morning walks, asks: “Isn’t that Levi?”

Liliencron answers: “No, that’s our Sirius.”

Sirius trots on ahead, his ears drooping. When he reaches the tree, his tree, he doesn’t bark, but instead lies down thoughtfully.

“Is it a different dog?” asks Frau Zinke.

“Yes and no,” replies Liliencron.

Frau Zinke shakes her head in bewilderment.

*

The townhouse the Liliencrons live in is an imposing structure.

The entrance is framed by two columns, and the door is crowned with a frieze, modelled on the famous ceiling scene in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s
The Creation of Adam
.

The story goes that the building’s architect, a certain Manfred Buonarroti, was a descendent of Michelangelo who opened an architectural firm in Berlin in the mid 19th century. Liliencron researched the story, but was unable to find proof of the genealogical line from Michelangelo to Manfred. All he found was mention of a sculptor called Manfred Hosemann, from Leipzig, who once spent a month in Florence in 1821.

There is another unmissable reference to Michelangelo in the conservatory: a statue of David in miniature incorporated into a niche in the wall. “Ecce homo” is engraved beneath it.

For some time now, Liliencron has been contemplating replacing the David with a bust of his dog. The plan cheers him up. The inscription “Ecce homo” would of course remain, he thinks to himself.

By now a few weeks have passed, and Sirius has accepted his new identity. He has almost forgotten that he was once called Levi. So quickly.

“Presumably Hitler has also long forgotten that he was once called Schicklgruber,” says Liliencron.

Frau Zinke has certainly forgotten, in any case. She calls “Hello, Sirius!” when she sees the dog. And “Heil Hitler!” when she sees Herr Liliencron.

Life goes on nonetheless. Every morning, at ten o’clock on the dot, Professor Liliencron steps out of his house, followed by Sirius, and together they walk down Klamtstrasse.

When they get to the corner, the dog begins his ritual with the tree, and Liliencron reads his book.

The chocolate which was once a trick to lure the dog home is no longer necessary. Sirius knows the route now. He knows the whole neighbourhood.

Sometimes he even ventures out on his own.

He has discovered a hole in the garden fence, and he’s off. His first stop is Café Hoffmann on Clausewitzstrasse. He takes up position expectantly before the door, barks and wags his tail.

“Right then, let’s see if you’ve learnt any new tricks,” says Herr Hoffmann.

Sirius sits up and begs.

“What? That’s it?” Herr Hoffmann acts disappointed. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Sirius jumps into the air, somersaults – and lands on his front paws.

“Now that’s a lot better, isn’t it!” praises Herr Hoffmann, taking out a nut triangle.

Now it’s Sirius’ turn to express his disappointment. He droops his ears theatrically, acting as though he is about to slink away dejectedly.

“Okay then,” says Herr Hoffmann. “Two nut triangles.”

Sirius barks joyfully, grabs his reward and sets off on his way. He struts curiously down Kantstrasse. He isn’t quite bold enough to venture down the Ku’damm just yet.

“Good day to you, Sirius!” cries the bookseller Friedrich in greeting, raising his hat.

At Savignyplatz, Sirius lies down on a park bench in the sun and dozes. Later, he trots towards Fasanenstrasse, where two bin men are in the process of pushing two rattling dumpsters across the cobbles.

“Hey, we know him!” cries one as they catch sight of Sirius. “That Jew-dog belongs in with the rubbish!”

They take pleasure in frightening him with their wild facial expressions and threatening gesticulations.

Sirius is an intrepid dog. His shaggy fur, mottled white, brown and black, gives him a rebellious, belligerent air.

He looks like a dusty carpet that inspired the tricolour of some unknown land.

Perhaps it was No Man’s Land.

*

Berlin, the city of grey, stumbles towards summer like a prisoner finally released from his sad cell, praising God that he is able to see the blue sky again after so long. Hungry for sunshine. Greedy for exercise. Gasping for fresh air. Thirsty for beer.

On Father’s Day, grown men hoot as they set off into the countryside in their automobiles, grilling and fishing equipment in tow. Summer, at last!

The bars set up tables outside on the terraces. The people are clothed in the bare minimum of attire. The pavements become the stage of a vast, summery open-air theatre. At the weekends, everyone flocks to the Wannsee lido.

This is the unique spirit of Berlin. Even in the summer of 1938.

Out of necessity, the Liliencron family have weaned themselves off their longing for the great outdoors. Most aspects of public life are now forbidden for Jews, who have to make do with the pleasure provided by their own gardens. Now and then, Liliencron still takes his automobile out of the garage, his beloved Mercedes 170 V cabriolet, and invites the others to join him for a quick jaunt around Grunewald. But the resentful looks spoil their fun.

Georg passes his finals with flying colours. After the celebration at the Gymnasium, the whole family gathers around the large marble table out on the terrace.

Putti looks particularly fetching; for special occasions she exchanges her white cook’s apron for a dress, one that also happens to flaunt her impressive décolletage. Her little Swiss cheeks are glowing even after the first glass of champagne.

Benno Fritsche, Georg’s godfather, is practically part of the family. He is a well-known personality in Berlin. An actor at the Deutsches Theater, and star of the film
Grindelhof
, which has just started its run in cinemas. He plays, once again, a devastatingly handsome heartbreaker who has women throwing themselves at his feet.

Fritsche loves to make a grand entrance. Imitating the fanfare of a circus trumpet, he jumps over the low garden fence. He lives in the villa right next door, and they have been neighbours ever since the Liliencrons moved into their townhouse.

“As you can see, I wasn’t afraid to take the long way around!” he calls out in greeting.

Rahel puts on her most charming smile. The blush on Putti’s cheeks is reminiscent of the glow of the Alps in her homeland. Even Else seems spellbound.

Benno Fritsche is a delicate subject.

First of all, there’s his hair. When Benno contentedly brushes his blonde quiff back off his forehead with both hands, as he does frequently, it makes the balding Liliencron feel anxious.