Page 23 of The Banned Books of Berlin
Berlin, May 1933
Freya clenched her fists, but the girl who stood before her didn’t seem inclined to fight; she merely stared back coldly. She had shoulder-length dark hair and wore khaki trousers with the hems rolled up around her ankles and a grey checked shirt. Grasping Freya’s arm, she pulled her down the corridor, muttering, ‘Don’t draw any more attention to yourself, if you can possibly manage that.’
They were followed by the person who’d bundled Freya into the law school: a young man who seemed somehow familiar. He was breathing hard, and revealed a head of ginger hair when he took off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
‘But what about …?’ Freya asked, glancing over her shoulder at the door into the square, where someone was presumably getting beaten up on her behalf.
The girl shook her head. ‘Josef can look after himself. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
Freya wasn’t in a position to argue. The three of them walked briskly along the hall into a wider passage, where knots of people hurried to and fro. She kept her eyes down, listening out for any alarm that might be raised, her heart still beating frantically. She had no idea where she was being taken or why she should have been rescued – if that was indeed what was happening – but her only option now was to do as she was told. They hurried along the main corridor until they’d reached the end, then ran up several flights of stairs on the left, the girl peering anxiously down the stairwell as they went. She took them through a door on the right and along a circuitous route of passages and internal steps, sometimes doubling back on themselves, until they were near the top of the building and approaching a landing with a door in the centre. They had passed fewer and fewer people along the way, and now they were quite alone. Glancing around to make sure, the girl walked up to the door and unlocked it with a key from her pocket. The lintel was so low that Freya had to duck as she was pushed through.
She found herself in a long, narrow attic in the eaves, its massive beams interlocking just above her head. The place was cold and dusty, and her eyes took a while to adjust to the shadows. What light there was filtered through knee-high windows set in the outer walls and chinks in the roof tiles. The floor was mostly boarded, with the occasional joist to stumble over. Freya followed the girl as she threaded her way to the left through crates, filing cabinets and random pieces of furniture until they had reached the corner of the building. The next section of the attic was less crowded with junk, although the sloping ceiling was lower, so they had to watch their step. A couple of armchairs were placed by a window halfway along, and someone levered themselves out of one as they approached. It was Leon.
‘You made it! Thank God,’ he said, embracing her briefly.
‘At some cost,’ muttered the girl in khaki trousers. ‘Do we know what’s happened to Josef?’
Leon turned to her. ‘They’ve given him a beating but they let him go. You know Josef, he’ll have spun them some story about getting the wrong end of the stick and protecting a damsel in distress. The main thing is, nobody seems to have seen where you went, or followed you either.’
‘What about the guards?’ the ginger-haired boy asked, and Freya suddenly realised where she’d seen him before: sitting on the bed in Leon’s room, that morning she’d rushed to the Kohls’ apartment.
‘They were too far away,’ Leon replied, ‘and focused on Josef. By the time they’d worked out what had happened, the pair of you were long gone.’
The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s a miracle we didn’t deserve.’ She turned to Freya. ‘What were you doing there in the first place? And why the hell did you run?’
Three pairs of eyes were fixed on her, waiting. Slowly, she drew the postcards out of her pocket and held them out. The red-headed boy whistled, and the girl clicked her tongue in irritation.
‘Come, Magda,’ Leon said. ‘We’re on the same side.’
‘Yes, but she’s putting us all at risk.’ The girl glared at Freya. ‘And now the brownshirts will be doubling security around the fire, so thanks for nothing.’
Freya glanced around the confined space. The attic had been set up for a prolonged stay: she noticed a mattress with a sleeping bag and pillow further along, some plates and mugs, a camping stove and a jerry can of water next to a crate of food supplies. A pair of binoculars lay beside the armchairs. ‘What are you planning?’ she asked.
Leon hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he replied, as she’d known he would. ‘But you mustn’t come here again. Do you understand? This is important.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Magda said, narrowing her black eyes at Freya. ‘Egon spotted you yesterday, too. Did you leave one of these cards in the library? The Gestapo were crawling all over the place.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Freya lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry if I interfered with whatever you’re trying to do, but since Leon wouldn’t tell me what that was, I couldn’t possibly have known.’ She’d had enough of being interrogated by this hostile creature who got to spend hours a day closeted with Leon – her Leon, who was determined to keep her in the dark. Yet her postcards seemed na?ve and foolish now, and dropping one by the bonfire, the idea of a lunatic.
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ Leon said. ‘You’ve been very brave, Freya. Now, if you can stay here until we’re sure the coast is clear, I’ll take you back downstairs.’
He was humouring her as though she were a child, which was worse than Magda’s animosity. Freya bit her tongue and, studiously ignoring the other girl, knelt by the window to look down on the square. Two guards were now stationed at the wooden pyre, which the next day would be lighting up the night sky as thousands of books burned. The Nazis were setting her world on fire and there was nothing she could do about it.
There was still no sign of Violet as the girls prepared for the evening’s performance, which left Freya feeling even more unsettled. She was afraid for Leon and bitterly regretted having made his life more dangerous. He had hugged her before they parted that morning, telling her to be careful, and she was left with an overwhelming dread that they might never see each other again. Before she went to bed, she unlocked the storeroom and spent some time sitting on the floor, browsing her books for comfort. The writers felt like friends and she would not abandon them. The American author Helen Keller had written an open letter to the Nazi students, published in The New York Times and reproduced in German newspapers that afternoon. ‘History has taught you nothing if you think you can kill ideas,’ it had begun, which would have made the perfect message to share on Freya’s postcards, were she to carry on distributing them. The shock of so nearly being caught had made her think twice about that.
She hadn’t been planning to attend the book burning in the first place, so Leon’s request – more of an order, really – that she should keep away from Opernplatz was easy to obey. Werner, Herr Goldstein’s assistant, had announced the night before that the Zaubergarten would be closed the following evening, in view of the celebrations. Celebrations? Freya was in no mood for a party. After a restless night, she spent a quiet morning mending and doing the laundry. She was distracting herself in the afternoon by hemming a new set of dirndls (the Nazis were keen on traditional dress) when she heard the front door open, followed by footsteps and voices on the floor above. This was alarming: the cleaner had left hours ago and, as far as she knew, she was alone in the club. Arming herself with a pair of scissors, she ran upstairs – to find Maxim Fischer and Walther Grube standing by the bar.
‘Herr Fischer, may I present Fr?ulein Amsel?’ Grube said, when they had exchanged salutes and Heil Hitlers. ‘She is the young lady I mentioned who lives on the premises.’
‘We know each other by sight,’ Fischer said smoothly, ‘though we’ve never been formally introduced.’ Freya shook his cold hand, her stomach churning. ‘You’ll be pleased to know the Zaubergarten will reopen in a few days’ time under new direction,’ he went on. ‘I shall be appointing a general manager shortly, but Herr Grube will be taking immediate control of the accounts and making an inventory, starting tomorrow. You must answer any questions he might have.’
‘Of course,’ Freya murmured, and Grube gave her one of his ghastly smiles, his eyes gleaming.
‘Herr Grube has vouched for you,’ Fischer went on, ‘so I’m sure you’ll work well together. You may continue in your current accommodation, at least for the time being. Goodbye for now, Fr?ulein Amsel. No doubt I shall see you again soon.’
Freya had been dismissed. She went back downstairs, her legs shaking, to sit over her work while straining to hear the murmur of conversation overhead. It had finally happened, then, the Aryanisation that Walther Grube had mentioned. She was glad Frau Brodsky wasn’t there to see it and that Franz Schwartz would soon be leaving, but what could have happened to Herr Goldstein? For a moment, she wished Violet were there, to tell her what was going on – if even Violet knew. Was this takeover the reason why she had to lie low? Or had her relationship with Maxim Fischer ended badly? So many questions which would never be answered.
Then suddenly a phrase of Fischer’s came back to her: ‘Herr Grube will be making an inventory, starting tomorrow,’ and her blood ran cold.
At that moment the front door slammed and she jumped up, weak with relief: they had gone. Before she could reach the storeroom, however, she heard the ominous sound of someone descending the stairs, and a few seconds later, Walther Grube appeared in the dressing room.
‘Remember what I told you, Fr?ulein Amsel?’ he said, walking towards her and pulling out a chair. ‘The Zaubergarten has been badly managed for months, if not years, but now we have a chance to put things right.’ He sat down, rubbing his hands as though about to start work there and then. ‘I’m glad to have been able to tell Herr Fischer that you’re a trustworthy employee.’
‘Thank you, Herr Grube,’ Freya said, twisting aside her knees under the table to avoid his. He was sitting uncomfortably close.
‘Please, call me Walther.’ He smiled. ‘We have known each other for a while, and now we shall be working together. You must be my eyes and ears on the ground, keep me informed of morale among the troops, so to speak. Will you do that?’
‘Of course – to the best of my ability.’ She could think of nothing worse than being Grube’s spy, but then the whole idea of working for Maxim Fischer and his new, no-doubt Nazi manager filled her with horror.
Grube looked around, smoothing his hands along his shiny-trousered legs. Half the dressing room was taken up with Freya’s work table and sewing machine, and the walls were now entirely covered with layers of costumes hanging from hooks. ‘So this is where the magic begins,’ he said. ‘It’s a little untidy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I’ve been rather busy since Frau Brodsky left,’ Freya told him, her resentment growing. ‘The two of us used to manage the wardrobe together, and now there’s just me.’
‘Discipline and order, that’s what you need.’ Grube got to his feet and wandered about, arranging shoes in pairs, tidying hairpins into pots and replacing the lids on jars. What was he after?
‘Forgive me, Herr Grube,’ Freya began (she still couldn’t call him Walther), ‘but I need to finish these dresses today. May we have a proper discussion tomorrow? Unless you have any urgent questions, that is.’
She caught a flicker of anger in his eyes. ‘I should like to see your room,’ he said abruptly. ‘I need to assess its value and suitability.’
Freya’s stomach lurched. She stood, keeping hold of the scissors in her apron pocket. ‘Of course. It’s just through here.’
They walked through the dressing room to the door at the back, which Freya opened before standing aside. Grube entered and looked about, hands clasped behind his back. Her room was such a pathetically barren cell that Freya felt oddly ashamed. Her bed was neatly made, thank goodness, her clothes put away in the chest and her typewriter in its case. Her notebook, as always, was hidden between the mattress and the bed frame, and her typescript lay safely in her top drawer. A copy of The Count of Monte Cristo sat on the nightstand, which was innocuous enough. The books she loved most lay hidden in the trunk next door.
‘And where does this lead?’ Grube asked, approaching the storeroom door and trying the handle.
‘To a store cupboard, for props and suchlike,’ Freya replied.
‘Well, we can investigate tomorrow,’ Grube said. He stood there, making no move to leave, and then he sat on the bed and patted the mattress beside him. ‘Come closer, Freya. You are always so reserved. Why don’t we get to know each other better?’
Sickened, Freya shrank back, clutching the scissors more tightly. She’d sensed all along that this was what he’d been leading up to, and nothing on earth would make her enter that room. ‘No,’ she blurted. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’ Grube repeated, dropping the false smile. ‘That’s a shame. I’m quite offended, given all the trouble I’ve taken on your behalf.’
And suddenly he was looming in front of her, seizing her wrist and twisting it back so the scissors she was holding clattered to the floor. She screamed as he threw her down on the bed, kicked out and tried to punch him with her free arm. It was hopeless: he was far too strong and determined.
‘You think you’re so much better than everyone else,’ he snarled, his face inches from hers, ‘when you’re nothing but a common dressmaker. You aren’t even pretty!’
Drops of his saliva landed on her cheek and his breath was stale. She jabbed her fingers in his eyes, and as he drew back, roaring, she made a desperate attempt to wriggle out from underneath his body. She’d managed to get both legs off the bed before he grabbed her hair, drew back her head and slapped her across the face with such force that her ears rang.
‘Little tart,’ he growled, wrenching at the belt of his jacket with one hand as he held her by the throat with the other. ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, Miss High and Mighty.’
She wrenched at his fingers, screaming – and then suddenly, extraordinarily, their pressure eased, and Grube was rearing up to look through the open door. She couldn’t see what had made him let go of her, but she heard footsteps running towards them, and a man shouting, ‘Stop! I have a gun! I’ve called the police!’
Grube flung her down and got off the bed, breathing hard. Adjusting his clothing, he walked out of the room, pushing past whoever had come to save her.
It was Franz Schwartz. ‘My God, Freya!’ he cried, picking her up. ‘Are you all right? Who was that man? Did he …?’
Freya couldn’t speak for a moment. She shook her head, massaging her neck, and eventually croaked, ‘No, but he was about to. Thank you, Franz.’
He held her tight, rubbing her back and murmuring words of comfort. When she’d recovered a little, she asked, ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d already gone.’
‘I came to say goodbye,’ he replied. ‘We leave tomorrow. Freya, do you know the man who attacked you? Is there any chance he could come back? You can’t stay here a minute longer.’
‘You’re right,’ she said – although where could she go? Well, she would have to think about that later.
‘I didn’t really call the police, although maybe I should have,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to telephone now?’
Freya shook her head. ‘What good would that do? Grube’s a Nazi, he can act as he pleases.’
Franz actually did have a gun, unlikely as that seemed. He passed it to her and said, ‘Then you must have this. I can’t take it out of the country so you’d be doing me a favour.’
Patiently, he showed her how to hold the pistol in both hands and aim, how the safety catch worked, and how to load and empty the bullets. ‘I can’t imagine ever using it,’ she told Franz. ‘But thank you anyway.’
‘Look after yourself, dear girl,’ he said, hugging her. ‘And come to California as soon as you can. Stay with a friend tonight. Grant and I will be at Rupert’s since we’re all off first thing tomorrow, or I’d invite you over to ours.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Freya promised, with more assurance than she felt.
She and Franz went upstairs together to make sure Grube had gone. Franz poured them each a brandy from the bar which they drank standing up, and then he left, and she was alone. She closed her eyes for a moment, driving her fingernails into her palms. Later, there would be time to think about what Grube had done to her. For now, she had a more urgent problem to solve, and if she panicked, all was lost.