Sirius (3 page)

The fact that Rahel seems transformed in Benno’s presence doesn’t make matters any easier. She starts to flirt like a young girl. All Benno has to do is make some witty remark, and Rahel just melts.

But the biggest issue is this: Benno has joined the Nazi party.

Involuntarily, he assures them. That’s how things are in the movie business, he says: no Party membership, no work. But then there’s the fact that he recently had an article published in the
Volkischer Beobachter,
the NSDAP newspaper, entitled “The Aryan Art of Acting”. Did he really need to do that?

Carl expressed great doubt as to whether Fritsche should even be invited to the celebration.

“He’s Georg’s godfather!” said Rahel sternly. “Carl, don’t be so jealous.”

“He’s a Nazi!” Carl retorted.

To which Rahel replied: “He’s not a Nazi. He’s an actor. He’s playing the role of a Nazi so that he can continue being an actor. All of us are wearing masks nowadays. Even Sirius.”

Liliencron reluctantly gave in.

So there he sits at the table, Uncle Benno.

Father Liliencron lifts his glass. “My dear Georg Israel,” he says, beginning his speech.

Not a great start, thinks Rahel, flinching a little. But it’s correct; this is now her son’s official name, according to the guidelines of the Reich Minister for Internal Affairs. Jewish men have to add the forename Israel, and Jewish women the name Sara. But was this really the time and the place to use it?

Uncle Benno doesn’t bat an eyelash.

Carl goes on to give a witty speech, which pays tribute to Georg’s life so far, singling out defining moments and poignant anecdotes, and of course he is unable to resist making a sweeping diversion to the subject of plankton.

Carl turns to Rahel and recounts their wonderful love story once more. He pays tribute to Else. He recalls how the lovely Putti came into their lives, as a souvenir from their winter holiday in Arosa, where she made a lasting impression as the waitress in Hotel Kulm.

Tears of emotion stream down their faces, which moves the orator to include even Uncle Benno and commemorate their childhood friendship.

Benno uses both hands to sweep his quiff from his forehead. Then the speech draws to an end.

“And now to you, little Sirius!”

The dog is sitting on Else’s lap, and has been listening attentively the whole time.

“Sirius?” whispers Benno, shooting Else a questioning glance. The re-naming has so far escaped him.

“Yes, Sirius,” says Liliencron. “That’s his name now. We all have new names, so the dog does too. Everyone has a mask in these macabre times.”

Rahel smiles back meaningfully.

Liliencron had actually been planning to close with an observation that would serve as an emotive proclamation for the principles of Humanism. He wanted to glance at Sirius and say: We are not animals to be divided into races, we are people. What gives you so-called Aryans the right to take the lives of us Jews? We are Germans. Just like you.

But suddenly, he can’t find the words. He simply looks at Sirius and says:

“You are a
big dog
.”

Else is in love. Her crush is called Andreas Cohn, and he is one of her fellow students at the Hollaender Jewish Private School of Music. She plays the piano, he the violin.

They used to be in the same class at the Stern Conservatory, which three years ago was renamed and Aryanised as the
Conservatory of the Reich Capital of Berlin
. Numerous Jewish professors had to leave the school. After that, Kurt Hollaender founded his private music academy on Sybelstrasse.

Else and Andreas became closer while they were rehearsing Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s Violin Concerto, Opus 64, arranged for violin and piano.

Erich Oppenheimer, the piano teacher, said: “Fräulein Else, you have to play the first movement as though your heart has just caught fire. The second movement is when the heart hesitantly withdraws and ponders: does he feel the same way? The third movement is, finally, the fulfilment of that great love.”

If you look at it like this, Else is currently in the middle of the second movement of her first great love.

Andreas is a serious young man. His curly black hair and deep-set eyes give him a defiant air. He plays the violin with a smouldering, almost fear-inducing fervour. He braces his instrument, a Stainer, against his shoulder like a crossbow, as if he were a marksman about to fire the deciding arrow. A fighter. A daredevil.

Else, by contrast, seems like his guardian angel. She could almost have jumped straight out of a Raphael painting. Graceful, sweet and gentle.

They wait for each other after class. Until the corner of Mommsenstrasse, their journey home is the same, and sometimes they sit there on a bench for hours, because they cannot bear to be parted.

“What do you see when you close your eyes?” asks Else.

Andreas closes his eyes. “I see the Rhine. Imagine how small it is when it flows out of the Tomasee lake up in the mountains. A tiny little stream. In the Romansh language, the source of the Rhine is called
Lai da Tuma
. Tuma means ‘grave’.”

Else hangs onto his every word.

He opens his eyes again. “By the time the Rhine flows past us here, it’s already a vast, broad river.”

Andreas Cohn is from Basel. His grandfather, Arthur Cohn, was the first Rabbi of the Israelite congregation in Basel, where Theodor Herzl later founded the dream of a Jewish state in Palestine.

“Take me with you, to Lai da Tuma,” whispers Else. Andreas smiles. Then they kiss for the first time.

*

In the Liliencron household, Friday means soirée night. This week, the actor Erwin Kaltenberg has been invited. Along with Professor Weidenfels, the mathematician. Hans Fallada, the writer. Käthe Kollwitz, the artist. Arthur and Betty Fraenkel, the neighbours. And Else has invited Andreas along too.

“Be nice to him, Papa, okay?” she pleads.

“I’m sure we’ll get along wonderfully,” says Liliencron. “Assuming he has an interest in plankton, that is.”

The guests trickle in.

Weidenfels swiftly commits a faux pas when he engages Käthe Kollwitz in a conversation about dolls. He has confused her with Käthe Kruse, the famous doll-maker. Putti serves May wine to the guests.

Sirius barks at Kaltenbach, who says: “That beast is even more savage than Alfred Kerr.”

Rahel looks enchanting. She is wearing a cocktail dress made from midnight blue silk.

Andreas Cohn stands there reverently at the edge of the circle.

“I hear from my daughter that you like to play the violin,” says Father Liliencron.

“Yes,” he replies.

“The violin,” says Liliencron, miming a fiddling movement. “Is there still any future in that?”

“Yes,” answers Cohn.

“Interesting,” murmurs Liliencron. “I thought the jazz trumpet was the instrument of tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” says Cohn. “Who knows if we’ll even live to see it.”

“You think we might not?”

Cohn is about to give an answer that will offer an insight into his pessimistic worldview. But then Else approaches with a glass of May wine in her hand. She is already a little tipsy.

“What are you two talking about? Hopefully nothing too serious?”

“No, no,” Liliencron assures her. “We’re just chatting about the future.”

Else takes Andreas by the hand and leads him over to Putti.

“Putti!” she calls. “Here’s one of your countrymen.”

“
Grüezi
,” says Putti courteously.

The two Swiss expatriates exchange a few words in their native language, which makes them sound like ventriloquists who have come down with a cold.

Georg seeks out Andreas. “Else tells me you’re worried about us.”

Andreas nods. “Yes. I see dark times ahead for German Jews if things go on like this. And things
will
go on like this.”

Professor Weidenfels comes over. “I hear,” he says to Andreas, “that you have a famous name.”

“Well, I still have to live up to it,” says Andreas, exercising his modesty.

Weidenfels turns to Georg: “His father, Marcus Cohn, is the last white knight. I know many Jewish emigrants who owe their lives to him.”

Liliencron joins in the conversation. “There it is again, that word.
Emigration
. Are you another one of these Zionists, Herr Cohn?”

Andreas replies: “My grandfather founded Zionism, together with Theodor Herzl.”

Liliencron answers: “But we won’t let anyone drive us away. That’s exactly what Hitler wants. We’re Germans. We belong in Germany.”

He walks off dramatically.

“You see, Andreas, that’s what I mean,” says Georg. “To my father, Germany is still the country that gave him the golden Cothenius Medal. The home of Goethe. Of Beethoven’s symphonies.”

Liliencron clinks his glass with the cocktail stirrer. “Dear guests,” he calls, “our friend Hans Fallada will now read a chapter from his new novel
Iron Gustav
for our entertainment.”

*

Autumn has arrived. A thick blanket of cloud lies over the city, and it will soon shrug off the first snow.

The atmosphere in the Liliencron house is heavy-hearted. As if there were a premonition of imminent developments which will spell doom for the family.

Sirius has already picked up the scent.

The routes for his walks are still the same, but many familiar faces have disappeared. The cobbler Horowitz, who always chatted nicely with him, is no longer there. The Finkelstein coffee roasting house, where it used to smell so wonderful, has closed down.

Other old acquaintances seem distracted or nervous. Herr Hoffmann for example, who used to consider some good play-acting worth a nut triangle. Or two.

Sirius sits down in front of the cafe and wags his tail expectantly.

Herr Hoffmann raises his head only briefly. “You again? What do you want now?”

Sirius jumps into the air on all fours.

“Yes, yes,” murmurs Hoffmann absentmindedly. “Very nice.”

No nut triangle.

Part of Sirius’ repertoire is the number where he trots along on two legs and stretches his right paw out in a Hitler salute. He knows from experience that it goes down particularly well with humans in brown uniform. They return the greeting cheerfully and make quips like: “It looks like our Party has made quite an impression on the dog.”

But even that has changed now. A policeman stops Sirius and shouts at him: “Are you making fun of our Führer, you filthy mongrel?”

The reprimand is accompanied by a kick.

Everything is very strange. What’s going on? Georg must have been right when he said: “This is no longer our country.”

Sirius is contemplative as he sets off on his way home. He makes a quick detour to make sure his tree is still there.

The tree is still there.

*

The postman has no idea that today he is delivering a letter which will change the fate of the Liliencron family forever. Putti is on holiday, so the professor receives the post himself.

The delivery is from the Leopoldina
.
The envelope is embossed with the words
German National Academy of Sciences
.

Post from the Leopoldina is a rare occurrence. Liliencron opens the letter on the spot.

We are writing to inform you that non-Aryan academics are to be excluded from membership with immediate effect. Your teaching contract has been suspended. Salary and pension entitlements have also ceased.

With regards, Professor Dr Emil Abderhalden, President of the German National Academy of Sciences.

Liliencron tucks the letter into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls on his overcoat. He takes the dog collar and lead from the coat rack, which immediately prompts Sirius to rush over joyfully. Together, they set off to the Neuer See in the Tiergarten. They sit down on a park bench by the water.

The lake was immortalised thirty years ago in one of Lovis Corinth’s most beautiful paintings, on a gloomy day like today. Liliencron often comes here when he needs peace to think.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Sirius,” he says.

Sirius nestles up close to him.

“My existence. Do you understand? That
was
my existence.”

Sirius senses that his friend is in despair. Dogs can sense these things. They know what despair is, albeit generally in relation to more trivial causes.

Liliencron is angry with himself. Was he blind?

On Opernplatz, a mob burned books by Heinrich Heine whilst singing the Horst-Wessel song. “Everything non-German into the flames!” they roared.

Professor Heisig has been dismissed, as has Professor Bernstein. Fritz Mahler has emigrated. Georg is being subjected to constant beatings. Germany has become a barbaric land.

“All of it really happened, I know that! Why didn’t I want to acknowledge it? I was too proud. I convinced myself that the bearer of the golden Cothenius Medal didn’t need to be afraid of these barbarians.”

“But now I am afraid,” he admits quietly. “What will become of us?”

Liliencron buries his face in his hands.

Sirius feels drops of rain on his fur. He looks up and realises they are tears.

A man crying in despair is the saddest sight in the world.

Liliencron tries to pull himself together.

“Georg wanted to become a doctor,” he says. “But Sauerbruch isn’t even in contact with us anymore.”

He sobs.

“And Else. She has talent. She could be a wonderful pianist, don’t you think?”

Sirius nods.

“Where do we go from here?”

At moments like these, Sirius regrets the fact that he is not really a conversation partner. He just doesn’t have the words.

“Humans have been around for 160,000 years,” murmurs Liliencron. “And yet it only took Hitler five to destroy humanity.”

A duck swimming sedately on the lake is unimpressed. Ducks have been around for roughly 30 million years.

“I hate myself,” says Liliencron. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

*

The night follows. Sirius is torn abruptly from his sleep. He hears voices, sees flames. Is he dreaming?