Page 14 of The Banned Books of Berlin

Berlin, March 1932

Another strained Christmas without Ingrid had come and gone, and another interminable winter given way at last to an achingly beautiful spring. Germany teetered on the brink of change, though nobody could tell which way the political wind was blowing. In a March presidential election, Adolf Hitler and Ernst Thalmann, the Communist candidate, challenged the incumbent von Hindenburg. Hitler embarked on an ambitious propaganda campaign, using a private aeroplane to speak at rallies across the country, but von Hindenburg still managed to scrape a narrow victory. He lost support soon afterwards, however, and was forced to dissolve the Reichstag and call another election for July. Hitler had won a third of the vote and now had to be taken seriously as a politician.

The country seethed with discontent. Brawls broke out for the most trivial of reasons, or for no reason at all. People on the street hurried by with lowered eyes: looking at someone the wrong way could earn you a curse, a blow or a knife in the ribs. The violence reached such a pitch that in April, the Chancellor banned both the SA and SS from operating across Germany – much to the Nazis’ outrage. Herr Grube and Otto became even more obsessed with fighting and fitness, cheering themselves hoarse at boxing matches. Grube intensified his early-morning exercise regime, repelling Freya more thoroughly than ever with his grunts of exertion and sweat-soaked vest. He’d been promoted to assistant treasurer of the Nazi party in Berlin, and was always hurrying off to evening meetings and rallies at the weekend. He’d also started taking part in regular security patrols with the SA, wearing the brown uniform and carrying a baton and a pair of handcuffs, so that he could enjoy a taste of the power they wielded. And Joseph Goebbels, the district leader and Hitler’s propaganda chief, now greeted him by name – or so he claimed.

Freya avoided Grube as much as possible. She occasionally caught him staring at her but so far, her reserve (and stubborn refusal to stop smoking) had been enough to stop any advances he might make. Otto’s company was also a trial, with the memory of that awful day at the lake still fresh in her mind. She wondered whether she’d ever see Leon again; naturally, he hadn’t come to the apartment since then and his name was never mentioned. It was all Violet’s fault, Freya thought, and wished for the hundredth time the girl had stayed in England and not come here to turn their lives upside down.

The only thing to be said for Violet was that, true to her word, she had finally introduced Freya to the writer she’d mentioned: Wolfgang Berger. His novel, One Night in Berlin , the story of an encounter between a young actress and a wealthy businessman, had caused a stir on the literary scene when it appeared twelve years before. Freya found the book’s cynicism and lack of hope depressing, but Berger’s prose was certainly powerful. Yet he’d had nothing published since then and had earned a living lecturing at Friedrich Wilhelm University until he’d lost his job the year before. Freya suspected that might have been on account of the amount he drank, although the fact he was Jewish couldn’t have helped either. She never saw him completely sober: his morning coffee was always accompanied by a shot of schnapps and he became less coherent as the day wore on. He was an inspiring teacher in his more lucid moments, though, and paid her the compliment of taking her writing seriously.

She had been so nervous at their first meeting, in a café midway between the Zaubergarten and Berger’s apartment on the edge of the Schoneberg district. He was an imposing figure, tall and thin in a threadbare jacket with a hooked nose, a sweep of black hair greying at the temples and pockmarked skin. He was in his late forties, Freya estimated, and would have been utterly terrifying were it not for the occasional flash of humour in his dark, intense eyes, and the warmth of his smile. She had bought her typewriter by then and clutched a manuscript to her chest: her most accomplished story, polished several times over before being laboriously typed with two fingers.

Berger glanced at the first page. ‘Violet says you can write. We shall see about that. Now, tell me what you’re reading.’

Hesitantly, she mentioned Berlin Alexanderplatz by Alfred Doblin, which Leon had recommended to her when it first appeared three years before: the sprawling, meandering tale of a small-time thief trying to stay on the straight and narrow.

‘A good start, certainly,’ Berger had replied, ‘but hardly original. Anyone who claims to be an intellectual has a copy.’

Freya had no such pretensions but she’d been excited by the way Doblin immortalised her city in the language of the streets, with drinking songs, newspaper articles and biblical stories thrown in for good measure. He’d shown her that rules could be broken and prose didn’t have to be convoluted, and that the feelings of ordinary people (even what some might call the underclass) were just as worthy of attention as those of the elite.

Wolfgang Berger told her about another ground-breaking book that had just been published – Blood Brothers , by Ernst Haffner, about a gang of boys eking out a precarious living on the streets of Berlin – and about the novels of Irmgard Keun: Gilgi: One of Us and, newly released that month, The Artificial Silk Girl . ‘You absolutely must read Keun,’ he said. ‘She writes about female sexuality in a way no one has ever done before.’

After an hour of this, Freya’s head was spinning and her body fizzing, driven by a new sense of purpose. Writing was a craft like any other, Berger told her, and had to be practised rigorously. When she could take her eyes off his face, she scribbled notes surreptitiously in a small book held under the table because he wanted her to listen and think, rather than copy his words by rote. She’d been tentative about her work until now, hesitant to assume her stories would ever be read by anyone else, but she had always loved the process: that sense of shutting a door on the outside world and being alone with her thoughts. Hours would pass without her noticing as characters and places sprang to life under her pen, so vividly they seemed more real than the people around her. With these imaginary characters in her head, it hardly seemed to matter that she had so few friends; in solitude she felt her true self unfurl. Now Wolfgang Berger was telling her she was on the right path and giving her permission – even encouraging her – to follow it. For the first time since Ingrid had died, Freya felt a guiding hand on her shoulder. Only the thought she couldn’t share this marvellous news with her mother cast a fleeting shadow over her joy; Ingrid would have been so delighted by Berger’s interest in her daughter.

‘Can we meet again?’ she asked him, when her lunch hour was over and she’d surely bothered him long enough. ‘And may I pay you for your time?’

He didn’t want money, only for his glass to be regularly refilled and for her to listen attentively to what he said. They would meet next week at the same time and place to discuss her work, he told her, and Freya had rarely felt so happy.

‘How did you come to know Violet?’ she asked, gathering her things to leave. Wolfgang seemed an unlikely friend for the dancer.

‘I met her through a friend at the British Embassy,’ he replied, catching the waiter’s eye to order another drink. ‘Violet collects people like trophies. I’m never quite sure what she intends to do with them.’ He drained his glass. ‘Someone should write the story of her life – now that would make interesting reading.’

But Freya wanted to keep Violet at a distance. She hadn’t seen her and Leon together since coming across them in the café the previous September, and wasn’t sure whether they were still seeing each other. And then a couple of weeks before, Herr Goldstein had rushed down to the dressing room in the middle of the afternoon to say that Violet’s gentleman friend, Herr Fischer, had appeared at the club unexpectedly and was demanding to see her.

‘Apparently she told him she had a dress fitting this afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’ve made it clear she isn’t here but he won’t leave. Can you go upstairs and talk to him?’

Freya and Frau Brodsky exchanged glances. ‘I have an idea where Violet might be,’ Freya said, and Frau Brodsky replied that in that case, she had better fetch her, and be quick about it.

‘I’ll tell Fischer I sent her to the cobbler’s,’ she said. ‘He might swallow it.’

There was no telling whether Violet would be with Leon, but it was worth a try. Freya slipped out of the back of the club and ran through the streets until she saw a blue door on the corner of the parade of shops. A lad who was sweeping the street paused to lean on his broom and watch her. Freya beckoned him over, taking a handful of pfennigs from her pocket.

‘See that door over there?’ she asked, pointing it out. ‘I want you to bang on it until somebody answers. Say you have an urgent message for Fr?ulein Violet that you have to deliver in person, privately. If you’re alone, and only then, tell her that Herr Fischer is asking for her at the club. Got that?’

She made him repeat the message twice before she let him go. The boy rapped on the blue door several times before a window on the second floor was thrown up and Leon’s head emerged. Shortly after that, the blue door opened and the lad propped his broom against the wall before being ushered inside. Freya shrank back, waiting, until he left the building a few minutes later – followed shortly afterwards by Violet, pulling on a jacket with her cropped hair sticking up in tufts.

Wordlessly, Freya fell into step beside her, making Violet gasp and put a hand to her chest. ‘You! I wondered who was my guardian angel. How did you know where to find me?’ She was smiling, and didn’t seem at all embarrassed or guilty about having been discovered with her lover.

‘I saw you and Leon going in there once,’ Freya replied, setting off down the street. ‘You should be more careful. Just so you know, Frau Brodsky is going to say you’ve been to the shoe mender’s. And your shirt’s done up wrong, by the way.’

‘Well, thank you,’ Violet said, adjusting her clothing. ‘For being discreet, and for coming to get me today.’

‘I did it for Leon, not you,’ Freya replied, not caring how rude she sounded. ‘He deserves better than this.’

‘And can I trust you to keep quiet?’ Violet asked. ‘For his sake, if not mine?’

‘Of course,’ Freya replied.

They made their way quickly back to the club without another word, and she stood aside to watch Violet saunter through the front door as though she hadn’t a care in the world, preparing to be surprised at the sight of Maxim. She was overwhelmed by the urge to let Leon know how Violet was deceiving him, but her mother’s words rang in her ear: never betray a confidence or stoop to gossip. You have no idea what’s happening in somebody else’s life, so don’t meddle in their affairs. For all Freya knew, Violet might have already told Leon about her involvement with Fischer. And what exactly was that involvement, anyway? Freya assumed Maxim Fischer and Violet were lovers but she didn’t know for sure. It would look as though she were motivated by jealousy – and maybe she was. For the moment, she would hold her tongue.

And so for now, Freya and Violet were quits: Freya had repaid Violet for bringing Wolfgang Berger into her life and transforming it out of all recognition. Apart from educating her, Berger welcomed her into the circle of writers and artists who gathered in Schoneberg’s various bars, drinking, gossiping and arguing until the early hours. She was wary at first, wondering what ulterior motive he might have, but it turned out he wanted nothing from her but a willingness to learn and dedication to her craft. He was intensely sociable and liked nothing better than being in the centre of a crowd, holding forth with a drink in his hand, or sitting back to watch connections firing between people who would never have met if not for him. Especially the young, he told her once: they had an energy that inspired him.

He was a hard taskmaster, nonetheless. Freya’s heart sank the next week when he handed back her pages, covered in scribbled notes with whole sections crossed out.

‘Don’t look so downcast,’ he said, laughing at her expression. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time if you didn’t have talent.’

Reading through his comments, Freya saw he’d pinpointed the dramatic focus of her story and suggested ways she could increase its impact, while paring back inessential details that only diluted the tension.

‘See here?’ he said, pointing to a paragraph she’d struggled over for hours. ‘You’re over-explaining everything, telling the reader what to think. Leave some space for people to make up their own minds. Ambiguity can be interesting, you know. Paint a picture as vividly as you can but don’t analyse it to death.’

Freya had started reading Irmgard Keun by then and saw immediately what Berger meant. She stayed up till the early hours that night, rewriting her story, and finally fell asleep with a pen in her hand and an ink blot soaking into the blanket. Even though she was still living at home, sleeping in her childhood bedroom, it felt as though a new, exciting life was within reach. She might not have found love, but she had art. She borrowed the books Berger recommended from the library or bought them, if funds allowed and the waiting list was too long, from a Jewish bookseller in Charlottenburg. She had to discipline herself, or all her money would be spent on books and – far less essential – bar and café bills. Her escape fund was growing, but slowly. It would be another year at least before she could afford to strike out on her own.

That Saturday, Wolfgang – as he told her to call him – invited her to meet some of his artistic friends in a nearby bar after she’d finished work. She was the youngest by several years but that didn’t seem to matter, especially after a few drinks. Wolfgang introduced her as an exciting new literary voice and she almost believed him, though she was too shy to say much and spent most of the time glancing around, listening to conversations that became increasingly raucous. The bar was full of bohemian types – women wearing slouchy trousers, like she was, or satin slip dresses and long fringed scarves; men with long hair in waistcoats and shirtsleeves, gesticulating with cigarettes or playing chess – and she was in the thick of it, at the most interesting table of all. She sat between a tiny, exquisite photographer known as Maus – whose tilted nose and round, bright eyes were indeed a little mouse-like – and Rupert, an English writer with brown hair slicked back off his forehead, horn-rimmed spectacles and a world-weary expression. Maus was putting together pictures for an exhibition in the autumn and wanted Rupert’s help with titles, and perhaps a short verse to accompany each section.

‘But this is your artistic vision, darling, not mine,’ he drawled. ‘Your eye is too soft and feminine. If you’d photographed a few handsome boys, I might feel more inspired.’ He nodded towards Freya and added, ‘Why not ask Wolfi’s latest protégée to come up with something?’

‘I should love to see your work,’ Freya said. ‘It sounds fascinating.’

Maus was experimenting with solarisation, a technique whereby negatives were exposed to light before they were fully developed, so that some features were burned out while others leapt into stark relief, outlined in black. Next to her sat Elke, a graceful dancer with a loose chignon of dark hair and the serene expression of a Madonna, and beside her a journalist, Gunther, who was telling Wolfgang about the stormtrooper parade at Hitler’s mountain retreat, Berchtesgaden, which he’d just covered for his newspaper.

‘It was hypnotic: a river of uniforms like a great brown snake, with the jackboots pounding out a beat and the crowd half mad with cheering. Even a glimpse of their leader sends them into a frenzy – you’d think he were the Messiah. God knows what will happen if the Nazis win more seats in July.’

The ban on the SA and the SS had recently been lifted, thanks to a deal between Hitler and an ambitious army general, von Schleicher, who wanted power for himself – just in time for the Nazis to stand as a legitimate party at the upcoming election.

Freya leaned forward to catch Gunther’s attention. ‘Our lodger’s a keen Nazi. He’s assistant treasurer for the Berlin branch and knows Goebbels well – or so he says.’

‘Does he indeed?’ Gunther immediately bombarded her with quick-fire questions before adding, unnecessarily, ‘I’d like to get the inside story on Herr Goebbels. He’s a writer, too, don’t you know? And a journalist.’

‘I do.’ Freya shuddered. Walther Grube subscribed to The Attack , the Berlin newspaper founded and edited by Goebbels, and left copies lying around the sitting room. She had once made the mistake of flicking through its pages, finding it full of Nazi propaganda and anti-Semitic hatred.

‘Do you think your lodger would be willing to talk to me?’ Gunther asked.

‘Maybe.’ But Freya wouldn’t like to ask Grube; she couldn’t bear the man knowing that she had told someone about him, that his existence had made any impression on her at all. Too late, she regretted ever having mentioned him. Luckily she was spared from going into more detail by the sight of Violet walking into the bar, dressed in crimson silk pyjamas with a white orchid in her buttonhole.

‘Well, hello again,’ she said to Freya, as it was only an hour since they’d been together at the Zaubergarten. ‘Fancy running into you here. Just a quick visit, I can’t stay long.’ They’d been keeping each other at arm’s length since Herr Fischer’s surprise visit, and Violet would have been no keener to see Freya than the other way around.

She went around the table, kissing everyone on both cheeks and squeezing in beside Rupert. ‘So, what do you think of our little wardrobe mistress?’ she asked Wolfgang, fitting a cigarette into an ivory holder. ‘Was I right to send her your way?’ She gave Freya a tight smile.

‘I’m not a parcel,’ Freya replied sulkily, aware she should have been thanking Violet for the introduction but finding the words stuck in her throat.

‘Quite right. You are a true original,’ Wolfgang said, raising his glass to her.

Violet turned away and began an animated conversation with Rupert in English while finishing off his gin. She stayed for another twenty minutes or so, flirting with Wolfgang, teasing Maus and quizzing Gunther about Berchtesgaden before leaving in another flurry of kisses.

‘Off to break a few more hearts,’ Rupert said, while Maus and Elke exchanged significant looks.

‘Violet’s on a mission and I can’t work out what it is,’ Gunther commented, staring after her. ‘There’s more going on in her lovely head than one might imagine.’

‘She likes to make people adore her and they generally oblige,’ Maus said. ‘Perhaps that’s why she wants to be an actress.’

‘Yet I gather Herr Fischer heard of an opening in America and she wasn’t interested,’ Gunther told them. ‘She chose to stay in Berlin.’

‘Do you think she’s in love with him?’ Elke asked, widening her large brown eyes, whereupon everyone burst out laughing.

‘Violet, in love? Hardly,’ Rupert said. ‘If you ask me, she’s waiting to see whether Hitler will get into power and smooth her path. I know her family in England and they’re all terrific Fascists – they’re bound to have connections.’

Freya’s jealousy of Violet – for she had to admit that’s how she felt – was turning to something nearer dislike. Admittedly, she’d never heard Violet railing against Jews or praising Hitler, but no doubt she’d be happy to make use of the Nazi leader if she got the chance.

Maus dug Freya in the ribs. ‘I bet Violet’s a nightmare to work with. Come on, spill the beans.’

But Freya merely laughed and shook her head. Her emotions where Violet was concerned were too complicated and intense to share with people she didn’t know well; or in fact, almost anyone at all. Gunther lit a cigarette and looked at her through a cloud of smoke, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her to speak. She met his gaze, keeping her mouth shut.