Page 10 of The Banned Books of Berlin
Berlin, September 1931
Violet slept late the next morning, Freya was relieved to see. Since Hedwig the maid didn’t work on Sundays, she got up to put on a pot of coffee, lay the dining table and prepare for breakfast. Herr Grube was the first to emerge, materialising silently as usual and sliding into a chair with a nod in her direction. Freya had switched on the wireless and reports of the previous night’s violence on Ku’damm spilled into the quiet room.
‘Did you hear about this?’ Freya asked. ‘Otto and Leon were caught up in the trouble and Leon has a black eye.’
‘I did,’ Herr Grube replied, with an air of quiet satisfaction. ‘The rout is beginning.’
‘So you’re happy to live in a city where ordinary people going about their business are attacked while the police stand by?’
‘I shall be happy to live in a city free of Jews,’ Grube replied, pouring himself a cup of coffee. ‘The end justifies the means.’
Ernst joined him shortly afterwards, and Freya went off to the kitchen to cut bread, cook eggs and arrange slices of ham. Sunday breakfasts were as elaborate as funds allowed. She couldn’t bear to hear her father and Herr Grube glorying in the Jews having got their come-uppance, and could only pray they’d have exhausted the topic before Violet appeared. By the time she returned with laden plates, Otto and Leon were also sitting at the table, and the atmosphere had become distinctly chilly. The skin around Leon’s left eye was purple and shiny, like a ripe plum, and he still couldn’t open it.
‘Herr Amsel,’ he was saying, ‘I’ve always felt welcome in your home. You and your wife were unfailingly kind to me, and Otto has been my friend since our schooldays. There’s something you don’t know that I should share now: my grandfather was Jewish, though I haven’t been raised as a Jew. Does that change your opinion of me?’
A look of distaste spread over Ernst’s face. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply. ‘Of course.’
‘So you are a Jew after all,’ Otto said, staring at Leon. ‘I shouldn’t have defended you last night. Why have you never mentioned that before?’
He shrugged. ‘Because it hasn’t come up. Look, I’m still the same person you’ve known for years. Why would you turn against me just because the Nazis tell you to?’
‘I don’t need the Nazis to warn me not to trust a Jew,’ Ernst growled.
‘Herr Kohl,’ Grube said, leaning back in his chair, ‘if I were you, I would keep this information to yourself. I shall try to forget what you’ve said but others may not be so charitable. I’m afraid you are hopelessly na?ve.’
Freya slammed a plate of fried eggs on the table with such force that one of them slid greasily to the floor, and turned on her heel.
She found Violet sitting up in bed, reading the portfolio of stories she’d left on her bedside table.
‘Hey! That’s private,’ she said, making a lunge to grab the folder from Violet’s hands.
‘Why?’ Violet asked. ‘You write pretty well, actually. I really must introduce you to my friend Wolfgang, the novelist I mentioned. He’d be happy to give you some advice.’ She closed the folder, though, and laid it back on the table.
How was it possible to look ravishing first thing in the morning? Freya wondered sulkily. Violet’s creamy skin was flawless and her eyes were clear and bright, despite the previous night’s alcohol and cigarettes.
‘Well, well.’ Violet smiled at her. ‘ Kleine Freya, you are a dark horse.’
‘There’s coffee next door,’ Freya said, seething. ‘With eggs and ham. I’m afraid Herr Grube’s in evidence but you’ll have to put up with that.’
‘I’ll be interested to meet him,’ Violet said, getting out of bed and stripping off the nightshirt Freya had lent her. ‘He might know more about what happened last night. Do you have a hairbrush I could borrow, darling?’
Ernst had left the breakfast table but the other three were still there, finishing their breakfast in awkward silence. Herr Grube looked predictably disapproving when Freya introduced Violet. He and Otto had made plans to go hiking but when Violet announced she had it in mind to visit Lake Wannsee as it was such a beautiful day, Otto said that sounded a splendid idea.
‘With Freya, of course,’ Violet said, taking her arm. ‘She can be my chaperone. And Herr Kohl too, if he would like.’ She glanced at Leon almost shyly.
‘I shall not come to Lake Wannsee,’ Grube announced. ‘It will be horribly crowded.’
‘What a shame,’ Violet murmured. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ And despite her irritation, Freya had to bite her lip not to laugh.
After she had cleared the breakfast plates, Freya put together a picnic of some leftover potato salad and sausage, Otto and Leon packed beer, towels and a rug, and the four of them caught the small suburban train to the lake, an hour’s journey south-west of the city. Leon wore a pair of dark glasses to hide his eye and, apart from his bruised hand, there was little to remind them of the previous night’s violence. There were fewer people about than usual and those they passed looked more sombre than usual, although Freya might have been imagining that. She felt guilty setting off on a jaunt, but she had no idea where Frau Brodsky lived and so they could only wait until Monday for news.
In other circumstances, the outing should have been glorious. The sun shone out of a bright blue sky and she was spending the day with Leon – who hardly seemed to notice she was there. It was strange, being with Violet in the fresh air rather than the dark, smoky confines of the Zaubergarten, and Freya felt self-conscious – even though she knew she’d only been invited along to make up numbers, and nobody was paying her much attention. Violet kept up a stream of chatter about nothing in particular, deffusing a growing tension between the two boys. Leon was quiet and when he did speak, Otto took issue with whatever he said. There was no chance they’d be able to discuss the previous night’s attack without arguing so, by tacit agreement, the subject wasn’t raised. To increase Otto’s jealousy, Leon spoke English with Violet and did it well. He had an ear for languages and his mother was a great Anglophile.
Herr Grube was right: the wide beach along the lakeshore was packed with bathers, lying on towels or lounging in deckchairs. Fathers had taken off their ties, rolled up their shirt sleeves and trouser legs and dug their bare feet into the sand as they read newspapers. Mothers dozed under sun umbrellas, supervised picnics or tucked up their skirts and paddled in the water, keeping an anxious eye on their children. Rowdy gangs of teenage boys played football, despite the lack of space, showing off for the benefit of any girls who might be watching.
‘Dear Lord, they’re everywhere,’ Violet groaned, shading her eyes with her hand as she scanned the view.
Freya followed her gaze to see an encampment not far away, marked out by a swastika flag fluttering at each corner and packed with tanned, bare-chested young men drinking beer, wrestling, throwing quoits, shouting and singing. There were swastika badges on their swimming trunks, too. Instinctively, she turned to look at Otto.
‘So?’ he asked, glaring back at her.
They headed in the other direction to find a spot large enough to unroll the rug. As soon as they were settled, Violet peeled off her red polka-dot dress with professional ease, revealing the knitted bathing costume of Ingrid’s she’d borrowed – although their mother had never made it look so alluring – and called over her shoulder that she was going for a dip. Stripping off his clothes and shoes, Otto hurried to catch up.
‘Don’t feel you have to stay,’ Freya told Leon. ‘I’m happy by myself.’
‘But I should like to,’ Leon said, smiling as he passed her a beer.
They sat companionably together, gazing at the sparkling water thronged with swimmers. Violet had waded out to mid-thigh and was standing there, occasionally scooping up handfuls of glittering droplets, while Otto swam in showy circles around her. Now and then she glanced back at the shore; to see whether Leon was watching, Freya guessed.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Leon asked her. ‘You look very serious.’
‘You don’t really think people are going to vote for Hitler, do you?’ she replied. ‘Can’t they see what he’s like?’
‘They’re poor and unhappy,’ Leon replied, ‘and Hitler gives them someone to blame. “It’s all the fault of the Jews and the Communists,” he says, and they’re only too willing to believe him. Look at those Nazis, having the time of their lives. They can indulge their most savage instincts and feel justified because they’re fighting for the sake of a greater Germany. But how can a country hope to be great when it’s founded on hatred and fear?’
Freya gnawed her lip. ‘Don’t tell anyone else your grandfather was Jewish.’
‘I probably won’t.’ Leon sighed. ‘And so the secrecy begins. Maybe Grube’s right and trying to reason with your father was hopelessly na?ve.’
‘Grube said something about the Zaubergarten being Aryanised,’ Freya told him. ‘Do you really think the Nazis could take Herr Goldstein’s business away from him?’
‘I can’t believe that would happen,’ Leon replied. ‘We still have the rule of law in this country, thank God.’ Freya couldn’t see his expression behind the dark glasses, but his voice was firm and reassuring.
They lapsed into silence again. Eventually she said, ‘I have a couple of stories ready to show you, but I’d like to type them up first. I’ve seen a second-hand typewriter for sale and …’
She could tell Leon wasn’t listening and her voice petered out. His eyes were fixed on Violet, walking towards them with her hair lifting off her forehead in the breeze and the wet costume clinging to her extraordinary body. Tossing away his cigarette, he picked up a towel and hurried to meet her. She let him put the towel around her shoulders, gazed up into his face and said something that made him laugh. Freya felt as though a skewer had pierced her heart. She looked quickly away, resting her head on her knees so that her hair fell over them in a warm, soft curtain. What a fool she’d been! How could she ever have thought Leon would be interested in her when girls like Violet existed in the world? She was angry and ashamed of herself. At least, thank God, she’d never told him how she felt.
Otto had joined them, shaking water from his ears like an overenthusiastic, clumsy dog. Yet his swagger lacked conviction and Freya felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of his crestfallen face as she passed him a towel. Had she been so obvious, mooning over Leon? The sting of humiliation smarted all over again.
‘Don’t you want a swim?’ Violet asked, but Freya shook her head. The sun had gone behind a cloud and a chilly wind ruffled the lake’s surface. They ate and drank, smoked and talked – or mainly, listened as Violet told them stories about her family: her older brother who was due to inherit their huge country house but would rather have led a carefree bachelor life in London; her two sisters, one of whom was already married with two children she didn’t seem to like, the other of whom was an artist living in Paris; her younger brother, who was a wanderer and currently walking through Spain.
‘And here are you in Berlin,’ Leon observed. ‘Why did you come to this country?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Violet said airily, brushing sand off her dress and getting to her feet. ‘Now, I fancy an ice. Anyone else?’ A boat selling ice cream was moored in the shallows, a little way further down the beach.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Leon jumped up too and they walked off, so fast that Otto had no chance of following. He watched them go, tossing a pebble from one hand to the other with a face like thunder. Freya pretended to concentrate on reading her book but she was constantly aware of his glowering presence, the tension building until she felt the sky might crack. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother practise press-ups and squats till his face turned red and his chest gleamed with sweat. Then, knotting a towel around his waist, he lit a cigarette and paced up and down while he smoked it, peering towards the ice-cream boat.
‘What can be taking them so long?’ he muttered finally, throwing away the stub and setting off in the same direction.
‘Wait for me,’ Freya cried, closing her book and struggling to her feet in the vain hope she might be able to smooth things over. She had to break into a run to catch up with Otto, who paid her no attention whatsoever, striding ahead with his eyes fixed on the shoreline.
There was no sign of Leon or Violet in the queue for ices standing knee-deep in the shallows. Gazing around, Freya suddenly caught sight of a scrap of red spotted material fluttering in the breeze by the trunk of a willow tree close to the water’s edge. Otto had noticed it too. Clenching his fists, he stormed up the slope to investigate while Freya ran behind, dreading the sight that might greet them. Leon was standing with his back against the tree trunk and Violet in his arms, and they were kissing passionately, hungrily, in just the way Freya had dreamed Leon might one day kiss her. Oh, but they made a handsome couple.
With a roar, Otto launched himself forward and tore them apart, seizing Leon by his shirt and punching him furiously in a volley of blows. ‘You swine!’ he roared. ‘Taking advantage of our guest!’ This was such a ridiculous accusation that Freya was almost tempted to laugh, although the expression on Otto’s face and the ferocity of his attack were shocking.
Leon put up his fists in an attempt to shield himself but didn’t fight back. ‘Come on, you coward!’ Otto spat, dancing around him. ‘Too much of a pansy to stick up for yourself?’
Violet grabbed Otto’s arm and held on to it. ‘Stop that,’ she commanded. ‘No one’s taking advantage – this was my idea as much as his.’
Otto broke free of her grip, glaring at her contemptuously and wiping his hand on the towel as though it were contaminated.
Freya scrambled to join them. ‘Please, Otto,’ she implored, taking his other arm. ‘Leon is our friend.’
Breathing heavily, Otto’s eyes focused and he gradually came back to himself. ‘Not anymore,’ he said. ‘He’s a filthy Jew and blood will out.’
He aimed one last kick at Leon, then spat on the ground and walked away – with as much dignity as someone wearing only a knotted beach towel could muster. Leon gave a shaky, awkward laugh. He was ashen, a trickle of blood running from his nose.
Violet took a handkerchief from her handbag and passed it to him. ‘Twice in one weekend? You’re not having much luck.’
‘Sorry you had to witness that,’ he replied, feeling his jaw and wincing. ‘And Freya too, of course.’ He couldn’t bring himself to look at either of them.
Without a word, Freya turned to follow her brother back along the beach.
It was only a kiss, Freya told herself. Violet probably kissed people all the time and thought nothing of it. When she bumped into her at the Zaubergarten a few days later, Violet merely thanked her airily for coming to the rescue on Saturday and said she’d had a lovely time. Maybe that would be that, Freya thought, and could only hope she was right. Yet a couple of weeks later, she was returning from a lunchtime trip to the fabric warehouse at Spittelmarkt when she saw a familiar figure in a café near the Zaubergarten, cropped hair curling into the nape of her neck and her back to the window. Leon sat opposite, gazing at his companion with a rapt expression. Freya shrank back before she could be spotted, lowering her head, but the pair had been too engrossed in each other to notice anyone else. She took shelter in a nearby doorway and risked another look – in time to watch Violet reach out and cup Leon’s cheek with her palm, and see him take her hand and press it against his mouth. Anyone could have walked by and seen them, as she had done. What if Maxim Fischer had been passing?
As Freya watched, horrified, she saw Leon stand up and hand Violet her wrap before the pair of them left the restaurant. They walked quickly along the pavement without speaking, their bodies almost touching, while Freya followed at a safe distance behind. They traversed the length of one street, turned left into another and then took a right turn into an alley that led to a parade of shops. Stopping at a blue door on the corner, Leon took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it, standing back to allow Violet to pass while glancing beyond her to check they were unobserved. Luckily, Freya was far enough away to escape detection. She immediately dropped to one knee to tie a shoelace, and by the time she straightened up, the blue door was closing. Numbly, she turned and retraced her steps.
Freya found it hard to concentrate for the rest of the day. The dancers were having their rehearsal for the Rhinemaiden number that afternoon, in front of the owner and Herr Schwartz as well as Frau Brodsky and Freya. Violet arrived late, tearing off her clothes and slipping into her costume so hurriedly that Frau Brodsky growled at her to take more care. Freya helped adjust the gauzy panels of blue and green silk that so alluringly failed to cover Violet’s flawless skin. She was breathing quickly, her bosom heaving; it was a warm day and her body was covered in a faint sheen of perspiration. She smelt of cigarette smoke, and wine, and sex. Freya retied a ribbon on her alabaster shoulder with clumsy fingers and let a wave of sadness wash over her – yearning, as she so often did, for her mother. She had loved Leon for so long and never given up hope that one day, when she was a little older, perhaps, he might come to love her in return. Now that door had closed. Even if he and Violet only had a brief affair, Violet’s ghost would constantly be hovering in the background. Freya would always be second best, a consolation prize, if the idea of her as a girlfriend ever crossed his mind at all.
She told herself to be sensible. What was the point in wishing Leon felt differently? Maybe he would bring out the best in Violet, and maybe their initial attraction would deepen into something lasting and worthwhile. Remembering the expression on his face as he gazed at Violet in the café, Freya tried to be glad he was happy. Yet she could not shake off the strongest sense of foreboding. She felt in her bones that this relationship was bound to end badly.