Page 3 of The Banned Books of Berlin

Berlin, June 1930

Ingrid died the next morning, with her husband beside her. Those left behind were felled by grief, each retreating into his or her own bubble of misery. The days passed in a blur. Freya distracted herself with practical tasks: deciding which of her mother’s clothes she could bear to give away and which she might remodel for herself, because fabric was expensive, after all, and her own wardrobe wasn’t extensive; receiving visitors who’d come to pay their respects; planning the catering for Ingrid’s funeral, held in the nearby Lutheran church, with cake and sandwiches in their apartment afterwards. The place was packed, with mourners overflowing on to the stairwell outside. Ingrid had been loved and respected, the recipient of many confidences which were never shared; she’d be sorely missed.

Freya’s head ached from the effort of absorbing so much sympathy. She was leaning against the kitchen door for a moment with her eyes closed when she felt the tray in her hands being taken from her – and there was Leon, his dark eyes concerned.

‘Let me help,’ he said. ‘You look exhausted.’

For the first time that day, Freya was in danger of breaking down. She drove her fingernails into her palms, knowing that if she started to cry, she might not stop, and that wouldn’t be a pretty sight. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, summoning a watery smile. ‘Thanks for coming, Leon.’

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘You know how much I loved your mother. She was always so good to me.’

Leon’s own mother was a scientist who worked long hours in a lab, so he was often at the Amsels’ apartment for meals and sometimes to stay the night. They all liked having him around: he was easy-going and funny, and Otto was more relaxed in his company. In fact, the whole family seemed to function better when Leon was there.

‘Sit down, have a drink and talk to me,’ he told Freya, filling one of the empty glasses with schnapps. ‘You can spare five minutes.’

Talking to Leon alone was a delicious torture. Freya was usually tongue-tied and awkward, afraid of revealing the feelings which must surely be written all over her face, yet at the same time, longing to confide in him when she had the chance – or at least, make an impression.

‘You won’t always feel like this,’ he said, passing her the glass and pulling out a chair opposite her at the table. ‘When my father died, I couldn’t bear to carry on at first. The simplest tasks seemed impossible and I couldn’t stop thinking about him, missing him so much it was hard to put one foot in front of the other. With time, though, the burden becomes a little easier to carry.’

Of course: Leon’s father had died suddenly of a heart attack a couple of years before. Freya took a sip of the fiery brandy. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea what you were going through.’ She hadn’t known what to say when Leon had reappeared in their home, pale and sad, so she’d left her mother to console him, telling herself she didn’t have the right.

He shrugged. ‘Hard to imagine until it happens to you.’ He covered her hand with his own, warm and comforting.

‘But I should have tried,’ Freya said, agonised. ‘You must have thought I didn’t care.’

Leon smiled. ‘Not for a minute. No one could ever accuse you of that, kleine Freya.’ She felt her cheeks grow hot and he added quickly, ‘I mean, you care so much about everything. Perhaps you should be easier on yourself. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. Now sit here for a while and let the world carry on without you.’

He got up, squeezing her shoulder as he left. Freya finished her schnapps, torn as usual between longing and despair. Would Leon always see her as nothing more than kleine Freya, Otto’s kid sister?

At the end of the evening, when the last mourners had finally gone home and Otto was bringing through countless cups and plates for Freya to wash, her father asked them to stop for a moment because he had something important to say. They sat at the living-room table, where he told them that life for the Amsels would be changing. There was no money left in the bank or under the bed: every last mark had been spent on drugs and doctors’ bills. Otto would have to work longer hours for the firm of architects which sponsored his training, and there could be no question of Freya going to college. She would have to carry on her mother’s business with the help of Elisabeth, who was fully trained now.

‘But I don’t like dressmaking,’ Freya blurted, horrified.

Ernst laughed mirthlessly. ‘What difference does that make? Do you think I like painting and decorating? We need to earn money somehow, all of us, or we shall end up on the streets. I’m sorry, but there it is.’ He couldn’t look at either of his children. ‘And Mutti always wanted you to carry on the business,’ he added.

But that wasn’t what Ingrid had wanted at all. Freya remembered what her mother had said, the night before she died: ‘You have to get away.’ She must have known her savings had gone and her daughter would be trapped.

Ernst cleared his throat. ‘We shall have to make the best of things – sink or swim together.’ He was humiliated, grey with exhaustion.

‘Of course, Vati,’ Otto said, clapping his father on the back. ‘You can rely on us.’

Freya nodded without speaking. There was no point making a scene, today of all days; she would think everything over and come up with a plan when her head was clearer. Yet this was a double blow: not only had she lost her mother, now her hopes for the future were shattered, too. She couldn’t blame her father for their financial predicament, but she would be making the greatest sacrifice and it stung that neither he nor Otto could acknowledge that. Although self-pity would get her nowhere, she allowed herself a moment to indulge.

The next few weeks were an ordeal. Every fibre of her being rebelled at the tedium of this new daily routine: appointments with customers for measuring and fitting, costing outfits, ordering fabric, endless cutting, shaping, seaming and hemming, as well as keeping Elisabeth up to the mark – not to mention cleaning and cooking at home. Was this to be her life from now on, or at least until she married and swapped her father and brother for a different man to care for? It wasn’t so much the loss of a teaching career she mourned, but those vital years to study, expand her mind and decide the kind of person she wanted to be. She did her best not to resent Otto, but it was hard to see him continuing much as before, apart from the fact he had to work longer hours at Meyer und Sohne and study in the evening. He still had time to go drinking with Leon, and for long hikes on a Sunday. Passing the mirror one day, Freya was shocked by the bitterness of her downturned mouth and the frown lines etched between her eyes. She looked at least ten years older than she was, a sour and disappointed creature. Ingrid would have been horrified.

As Freya sat at Ingrid’s worktable, using Ingrid’s scissors and tape measure, she found herself thinking more and more about this quiet, self-contained woman whom they had all taken so much for granted. Had she been disappointed with her lot? Had she ever wanted to travel, or write her own poetry, or live in a house with a garden, rather than a cramped apartment overlooking a noisy street? It was too late now for all the questions circling around Freya’s head. There had been a desperation in the way her mother had gripped her hand and urged her to get away. It was the last thing Freya had expected her to say. ‘I’ll try, Mutti,’ she promised silently. ‘It might take me a while, that’s all.’

Ingrid’s presence still hung over the apartment, as though she had just slipped out and might return at any moment. Maybe that was partly why Freya felt so trapped. Sometimes she would have to down tools and hurry downstairs to stand in the fresh air, or at least put her head out of the sitting-room window. In the evenings, she went for long walks through the city, no matter the weather – either escaping from her mother or searching for her, Freya wasn’t sure. She was lonely, with Otto shut in his bedroom or out with Leon, and Ernst off drinking somewhere. She’d lost touch with most of her school friends after staying on to take extra qualifications; by now they’d been settled in jobs for a couple of years and she didn’t know how to talk to them. Charlotta was a copy typist, Greta worked in a factory producing turbines, and Anne was married with a baby. Her assistant Elisabeth wasn’t much company, either. She was a year older than Freya and resented being told what to do or reprimanded for being late, which happened increasingly often. They’d never been close, and the fact Freya was now Elisabeth’s boss made for added tension.

Eventually Freya gave herself a good talking-to, since her mother wasn’t around to do it. Her father was right: pining for their old life was a waste of energy. She would have to play the game with the cards she’d been dealt. At least dressmaking didn’t occupy her mind completely, and she liked hearing about the lives of her clientele: bored wives, ambitious mothers, secretive mistresses, jealous sisters, frustrated daughters; all yearning for love, or freedom, or security, or money, or – like Freya herself – escape. Perhaps if she found some new clients, she could take on another girl to help with the endless sewing that she found so soul-destroying and concentrate on building up the business. After a couple of years, surely the pain of Ingrid’s death wouldn’t feel so raw and she’d have the energy and finances to make a change. Otto might have a girlfriend by then, and maybe Ernst would have found a widow who could run the household. Freya could pass her mother’s business on to someone else and move on.

She dreamed of a room of her own where she could live on her own terms: meeting interesting people, wearing unconventional clothes and eating only bread and cheese, or fried sausages from that stall under the U-Bahn that shook when the trains roared by. She would write – short stories or newspaper articles, perhaps even plays – and take a part-time job to get by. For the time being, she would work as a seamstress, but at some point in the future she was determined to express herself with words, rather than lengths of cloth. Despite Freya’s best intentions, however, the business was steadily declining. Ingrid’s former clients were drifting away, no doubt missing her mother’s touch, and she found it hard to replace them. She wasn’t a natural saleswoman, being reluctant to sing her own praises, and her taste was different from that of these matronly women; they were tightly corseted and liked to be upholstered in frills, swags and ruffles, whereas the fashion now was for loose, simple clothes to reveal a slender figure. They also wanted a confidante who understood their lives and would listen to their troubles. Freya and Elisabeth were part of a different generation. Why, they could hardly remember the war! And most important of all was the fact that times were getting harder by the day; people didn’t have the money to pay for food and rent, let alone splash out on new clothes. Soup kitchens had sprung up across Berlin and the streets were full of people hungry for work as well as food.

Freya had never paid much attention to the family finances but she came to realise that her mother’s business had been keeping them all afloat. Now the income from Mode von Ingrid had halved and she was having to make drastic economies in the household budget; they could only afford meat once a week and lived mostly off potato dumplings and rye bread. Ernst spent hours going through her accounts, seeing where she might save a few pfennigs and urging her to put up prices. She wanted to tell him he might have been more usefully employed finding work himself, but he was still her father, and she didn’t want to hurt his pride. Matters came to a head one day when Elisabeth informed Freya as she was collecting her wages that she wouldn’t be turning up the following week. She’d managed to find a job in the hat factory at Spittelmarkt, in the heart of the city.

‘You could have given me some notice,’ Freya said, although her first reaction had been one of relief. The joy of not having to listen to Elisabeth sighing and snivelling (she had a perpetual cold in winter and trouble with her sinuses in summer) was almost worth the pain of having to finish their outstanding orders by herself. That wouldn’t take long, though. She had to face the uncomfortable truth: there wasn’t enough new business coming in to justify two employees. Elisabeth had jumped before she was pushed, and who could blame her.

‘Sorry, Mutti,’ Freya said, during one of those one-sided conversations she was always having with her mother. ‘Looks like you were right: I’m not a born dressmaker.’

After a sleepless night, pondering her options, she got up early the next day. Walking always helped her think, and the glimmer of an idea was already taking shape in her mind. Summer was long since over and it was a cold, raw day. The massive trees in Tiergarten park were leafless, and there were opaque patches of ice on the river that ran through it. Plunging her hands in her coat pockets, Freya headed deeper into the city, letting her legs take her wherever they chose. She ended up in the vibrant Schoneberg district, home to scores of clubs and bars but deserted at this time of the morning, except for a couple of women in furs and long evening gowns that trailed on the pavement, arm in arm with a champagne bottle tucked between them.

Shivering, Freya was rubbing her arms for warmth when her eye was suddenly caught by a flash of colour: a billboard poster showing a line of dancing girls kicking up their legs amid a froth of vivid tulle. ‘Forget your cares at the Zaubergarten!’ read the caption. Freya stared at the image for several minutes, transfixed, as the thoughts she’d been trying to pin down wove themselves into a plan. It was as though her mother had been leading her to this very spot. The main door to the building was locked but Freya banged on it anyway and after a few minutes was rewarded by signs of movement inside. A very old man in a cloth cap unbolted the door, opened it a crack and asked her what she wanted.

‘I’m early for an appointment with the wardrobe mistress,’ she replied, her teeth chattering. ‘Will you let me wait inside?’

The old man squinted at her doubtfully.

‘Please? It’s freezing out here.’ Freya smiled as winsomely as she could manage. Not saying a word, he opened the door wider and motioned her to come in with a jerk of his head.

She walked into a small foyer, carpeted in threadbare crimson with a crystal chandelier in the centre which looked as though it could do with dusting. A zinc-topped bar stood at one side, complete with a line of stools, and beyond that was a circular dance floor. The caretaker led her across it, and Freya caught a glimpse of a curtained stage in the next room, with a piano directly beneath and ten or fifteen round tables dotted about in front. The harsh light of day revealed every cigarette burn on the carpet, every chip out of the Bakelite table tops and every crack in the windowpanes, but she could imagine how the place would look when the curtains were drawn, the lights dimmed and the Zaubergarten girls sashayed onstage.

The caretaker opened a side door on to a narrow, winding staircase. ‘You can wait down there,’ he said, and shuffled off.

Freya descended cautiously, feeling her way, down to a corridor with doors on either side. They were all locked, except for one door at the end which stood ajar. Pushing it fully open, she found herself in a large, low-ceilinged dressing room, even shabbier than the theatre upstairs. Cobwebs clung to the cracked walls, and the various pots and potions among overflowing ashtrays on the dressing tables were coated with dust. The place smelt of face powder, grease paint and musty clothes. Endless pairs of stockings were draped over a makeshift washing line stretching across the room, and there were costumes hanging from hooks across the wall and ranged along a wheeled rack. Freya wandered about, trying lipsticks on the back of her hand and dabbing her cheeks with rouge. She sat on a stool for a while, gazing around, and then had a furtive rummage through a heap of clothes on the floor: black-and-white Pierrot outfits with ruffles around the neck, lying muddled together with the laced corsets and dirndls of traditional peasant dress, and some strange, oversized romper suits in blue and pink seersucker. It must have been a mending pile, since every garment had a trailing ruffle or hem, missing buttons or a torn seam.

The sound of voices raised in a furious argument made her straighten quickly before the door was flung open and two people burst into the room: a stout, dark-haired woman in an astrakhan coat, and a younger man of thirty or so, wearing a black opera cloak lined with crimson silk.

‘All I’m asking for,’ he was saying, ‘is a modicum of—’

‘Ha!’ the woman declared, pulling off a glove. She was about to continue when the sight of Freya pulled her up short. ‘And who the hell are you?’

‘My name is Fr?ulein Amsel,’ Freya replied, wondering whether to hold out a hand or curtsey, and settling instead for an awkward nod of her head. ‘The doorman said I could wait in here till you came.’

‘What for?’ the young man asked, looking her up and down. ‘Are you planning to attack us? I warn you, we’ll put up a fight.’

‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but I’ve come to offer my services,’ Freya said. ‘I’m a dressmaker, you see, and I’ve always wanted to work in the theatre.’

‘Have you indeed?’ the woman said drily. ‘And has this passion suddenly become so overwhelming that you’ve had to rush here first thing on a Friday morning and share it with us?’

The young man sniggered, prompting her to glare at him.

‘Something like that.’ Freya drew herself up. ‘My circumstances have changed, and now seems the right time for a new direction.’

‘Well, you’ve had a wasted journey,’ the woman replied, pulling off her other glove as she gazed coolly at Freya.

‘Yes, Frau Brodsky has a positive army of helpers beavering away behind the scenes,’ the young man declared, ‘and yet she still finds it impossible to fulfil a simple order for nine sailor suits by the end of the month.’

Frau Brodsky tore off her hat and threw it at him. ‘Because I’d been told Rhinemaidens, Herr Schwartz, as you very well know,’ she cried, her husky voice rising. ‘We’d already started work! You’re constantly changing your mind, and who pays the price? I do!’

Herr Schwartz skipped nimbly out of range with a swirl of his cloak. ‘You are a simple woman with no understanding of the creative soul,’ he said. ‘Fr?ulein Amsel, wouldn’t you prefer to work for an artistic director? I shall need an assistant in my new role.’

‘You?’ Frau Brodsky shot him a look of withering contempt. ‘All you do is spout airy-fairy nonsense and scribble childish drawings. What help do you need with that? Someone to carry the pencil and paper?’

‘Perhaps I could assist you both,’ Freya suggested, trying to sound professional. ‘I’m skilled in all aspects of tailoring, from design to hand-finishing. And maybe I could improve channels of communication.’

‘Excellent,’ said Herr Schwartz. ‘You can become my right-hand woman. I shall have a word with the owner immediately.’

‘You will not.’ Frau Brodsky was quivering with rage. ‘And even if you do, it won’t get you anywhere because he’ll never agree. If this young woman is to work for anyone, it will be me. Now get out of this room before I lose my temper completely.’

‘Leave your card with the doorman, Fr?ulein Amsel,’ Herr Schwartz called from the safety of the doorway. ‘I shall be in touch on Monday.’

Frau Brodsky let out a roar and cast around for a suitable missile, seizing a nearby tap shoe, which bounced off the closing door as Herr Schwartz retreated. ‘Idiot,’ she muttered when he’d gone, smoothing her hair. ‘Calls himself artistic director but the owner’s only taken him on out of pity.’

She took off her coat and draped it over a chair. Beneath it, she wore a black crêpe-de-chine frock with a white lace jabot at the throat, and a mass of gold jewellery. She always wore black, Freya was soon to learn. Her thick hair was cut in a simple bob that followed the line of her cheek, with a streak of pure white at the front. She looked like a plump-breasted, beady-eyed magpie. Gazing at Freya, she took a cigarette out of a mother-of-pearl case and lit it, her bracelets jangling.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What are you waiting for? Off you go.’

‘But I thought you said I could work for you?’ Freya replied, disconcerted.

‘No I didn’t. I said if you were to work for anyone, it would be me – that’s not the same thing at all. There are hundreds of people looking for jobs at the moment. Why should I employ some girl who’s wandered in off the street, even if I had the opportunity? I don’t know the first thing about you.’

‘My mother was a dressmaker for years. Have you heard of Mode von Ingrid?’ Frau Brodsky shook her head, drawing on the cigarette. ‘Well, she died a few months ago,’ Freya continued. ‘I’ve been carrying on the business but her clients are leaving. I need to earn some money and it’s true, I do love the theatre. I could make myself useful, Frau Brodsky. You wouldn’t have to pay so much for piece workers and I could suggest other economies. I’d sooner work for you than Herr Schwartz.’

‘Of course you would. The man’s an imbecile.’

‘All the same, if he’s prepared to offer me a job, I couldn’t turn it down,’ Freya replied. ‘Although I can see how annoying that might be for you. I mean, you clearly have far more on your plate.’

‘Herr Goldstein would never give that fool an assistant,’ Frau Brodsky declared, though with less certainty than before.

‘He might find it hard to refuse,’ Freya said. ‘I imagine Herr Schwartz can be quite persuasive.’

Frau Brodsky stubbed out her cigarette in an empty face-cream pot, narrowing her eyes.

‘I’d be so much more useful here, though,’ Freya went on. ‘Why don’t I show you what I can do? I could spend a couple of hours tackling your mending.’ She nodded towards the pile of clothes in the corner. ‘No obligation. You wouldn’t have to pay me if you weren’t satisfied.’

‘Mending? That’s a bit of a comedown for a bona fide dressmaker, isn’t it?’ Frau Brodsky remarked. ‘If you are what you claim.’

‘Well, I doubt you’ll let me loose on anything more demanding,’ Freya replied.

Frau Brodsky put her head on one side and looked at Freya for a long moment. ‘Come with me,’ she said, apparently reaching a decision. ‘Let’s see what you’re really made of.’

She walked through the dressing room to a door at the far end which opened on to a smaller workroom, furnished with a sewing machine on a large table, an ironing board and iron, a chest of drawers and a couple of dressmaker’s forms. Rolls of fabric and pattern-cutting paper were stacked along the wall, and a window high above let in some light.

‘Our costumes are made up elsewhere,’ she told Freya, ‘but this is where we design them. Why don’t you put together a sailor suit for me? Doesn’t have to be finished: a toile will do. You can look at Herr Schwartz’s sketch, for what that’s worth, or draw your own.’ She nodded towards sheets of paper on the table. ‘Now, what will you need? Here’s paper and calico,’ she said, selecting rolls of the squared paper and cream-coloured fabric, ‘and scissors – my own, so treat them with respect.’ Taking a pair from the top drawer of the chest, she continued, ‘And pins, needle and thread, tape measure, pencil and dressmaker’s chalk,’ placing each item beside the sewing machine as she spoke. ‘I’ve called your bluff. Show me what you can do, Fr?ulein Amsel. I’ll be right outside, so don’t think of running off with anything.’

Freya was initially daunted. Herr Schwartz’s drawing was little help: the figure he’d sketched was completely out of proportion so she had no idea where the waist was meant to be, whether darts should shape the bust or which trims might be appropriate. There was no suggestion of a hat, either, which she’d have thought was essential for a sailor – even one on stage at the Zaubergarten. Flipping the paper over, she began to draw on the other side, hearing her mother’s voice in her ear: line down the centre of the body for balance, divide into nine equal sections, neck half the length of the head, legs four times the length of the head. Once she had the proportions right, she could start to design the outfit: a fitted bodice with short cap sleeves and a sailor’s shawl collar attached to a short, flared skirt, with contrasting satin ribbon for a belt at the waist and stripes around the hem. She also sketched a jaunty nautical cap with an anchor on the front to be cut from gold card. Then, taking a deep breath, she unrolled lengths of paper and calico, picked up her scissors and got to work.