Page 9 of The Banned Books of Berlin
Berlin, August 1931
Freya came to know the English girl, Violet, a little better over the course of that summer. Violet had been changing into her own clothes one evening after the show was over and torn a ruffle off the hem of her gown; she’d waited, lounging in her underwear, while Freya stitched it up for her. She was completely at ease with her body, like the other girls; naked or clothed made little difference to them. Swinging her legs over the arm of the chair, she drank champagne and chatted while Freya stitched.
‘You must have a drink, too,’ she insisted, pouring a glass. ‘Poor little Freya, always missing out on the fun.’
Violet was usually on a high when she came off stage: sparkling and effervescent, looking around for an audience she could carry on captivating. That night, she had been in a gentler, more thoughtful mood, as keen to listen as she was to speak. In response to her questions, Freya found herself talking about life with her father and brother, and the loathsome Herr Grube. Violet let her ramble on, her chin propped on one hand and her lovely eyes fixed on Freya’s face. Everyone else had gone home, the dressing room felt cosy and intimate, and Freya went into more detail than she’d intended. When she confided her ambition to earn a living from writing rather than sewing, Violet told her she had a friend who was a novelist and teacher, and Freya must definitely meet him: she would arrange an introduction at the first opportunity.
‘And how about you?’ Freya asked, a little shyly, aware of having held the floor for too long. ‘What brought you to Berlin?’
‘Goodness, I can hardly remember.’ Violet topped up her glass and lit a cigarette, sending a casual smoke ring drifting into the air. ‘Actually, I can. You’ve told me your secret; now I’ll tell you mine. I want to be a movie actress so this is the obvious place to come – apart from Hollywood, that is. The film industry’s positively booming in Germany. The cleverest directors in Europe are here, if only one could get at them, and brilliant screenwriters and cinematographers, too. You must have heard of the Babelsberg film studio, surely?’
‘And you speak German like a native,’ Freya said, wanting to sound encouraging. ‘Where did you learn the language?’
‘I spent a lot of time here as a child,’ Violet said. ‘My father’s sister married a German and lives here with her family. I see them occasionally, though they’re too busy sucking up to Hitler in Munich to have much time for me.’
‘And have you had any auditions?’
‘Not yet, but things may be changing. I’ve met a very interesting man with an address book full of contacts who thinks he might be able to help. I’m having dinner with him tonight, actually.’ Violet stubbed out her cigarette. ‘How’s the dress coming along?’
‘Almost there. Give me another five minutes.’
‘Thank you, Freya. What a darling you are.’ Violet kicked a bare leg up to the ceiling and linked hands behind her thigh, pulling it towards her body. ‘I think we’re going to be terrific friends, don’t you? The actress and the writer. One day we’ll make a movie together and become famous, and we won’t tell anyone where we met.’
Freya had sailed home on a cloud of happiness that wasn’t merely down to the wine. The next day, Violet had hugged her and said again how grateful she was, and that the dinner had been a success. She had been distracted, though, and hurried away at the end of the performance without saying goodbye to anyone. The invitation to meet Violet’s writer friend never came, and there were no further late-night chats over champagne in the dressing room. Freya couldn’t help feeling disappointed, because she was lonely and the thought of a friend, however unlikely, was appealing. The English girl, she decided, was simply in the habit of charming everyone she came across; it was a reflex action, like flicking a switch, and shouldn’t have been taken seriously. She probably hadn’t even been listening when Freya was pouring out her heart. She’d have been thinking about dinner with her influential acquaintance, a much more interesting prospect.
Freya soon met this man, as he began bringing Violet to the Zaubergarten or occasionally taking her home at the end of the night. His name was Maxim Fischer: a short, dark-haired man in his forties with heavy-lidded eyes and an undershot jaw that gave him a pugnacious air, like a bad-tempered English bulldog. It was clear from the proprietorial way he treated Violet that they had a personal relationship, and rumours were soon swirling around the dressing room that he was paying for her apartment near the swanky Kurfürstendamm boulevard, not far from the Zaubergarten but a million miles away in terms of prestige. Freya was inclined to believe it as she couldn’t see any reason beyond ambition for Violet to have been with Maxim, who was neither handsome, funny nor charming. Still, Freya couldn’t blame her for that. She had ambitions of her own, and who was to say how far she might have to go to achieve them.
Freya had thought her brother would never set foot in the Zaubergarten, but Leon must have persuaded him. One sultry evening in September, she saw the two of them take a table near the front of the stage, settling down with a bottle of champagne. Violet happened to be starring as a particularly risqué Queen of Sheba, so perhaps it wasn’t the best time to convince Otto of the club’s respectability. Freya watched him from her viewpoint at the side of the stage, his gaze fixed on Violet’s slender yet voluptuous body, and wondered whether any of the club’s magic had entered his soul. Leon was clearly entranced, his eyes shining in the glow of candlelight and a smile on his slightly parted lips. His expression sent a hot pang of jealousy tinged with alarm shooting through Freya’s heart. Violet would eat him for breakfast.
Otto and Leon came to find Freya after the show – although she quickly realised she wasn’t the one they really wanted to see.
‘Can you let us in?’ Otto asked, craning over his sister’s head when she opened the dressing-room door in answer to his knock. ‘We want to pay homage to the Queen.’ He was smiling, much to Freya’s relief.
‘We’ll behave ourselves, we promise,’ Leon added, leaning against the door frame.
‘Go away,’ she hissed. ‘You’re not meant to be here.’ Luckily it was a Friday night so Frau Brodsky wasn’t there: she always celebrated Shabat at home, leaving Freya in charge of the dressing room.
‘Oh, let them in,’ Angelika said, opening the door wider on her way out, wearing a feather boa and a cloud of perfume. ‘They look like nice boys. And when the cat’s away …’
The two Sophies were arguing over a broken heel on a pair of shoes one had loaned the other, Gisela was buttoning up the back of Perle’s dress while Perle held her hair scooped out of the way, and Violet was rolling on her stockings, her skirt bunched around her waist, one leg propped up on a chair and a cigarette clenched between her teeth.
‘Your Majesty,’ Otto declared, threading his way towards her and bowing so low that he almost toppled over, ‘we’ve come to swear our allegiance.’
Freya hurried to introduce him, cringing a little inside. Her brother was flushed, his bow tie askew and his blond hair dark with sweat, slurring his speech. He looked like a boor, the type of man girls would avoid and bouncers would keep an eye on.
Violet let him kiss her hand, glancing at Freya with wry amusement. ‘Freya’s told me all about her dashing brother,’ she told him. ‘What a pleasure to meet you at last.’
‘And this is our friend, Leon Kohl,’ Freya added, as Leon joined them.
Violet reached out to shake his hand with her usual laconic smile, but her expression changed as she looked at him, her hand resting in his. The two of them stood there, gazing at each other as though they’d already met and were trying to work out when and where.
‘Will you join us for a drink, my lady?’ Otto interrupted, with a clumsy attempt at gallantry.
Violet turned to him, dropping Leon’s hand. ‘I’m sorry?’ And then, collecting herself, ‘I would have loved to, but I’m meeting a friend tonight. Perhaps another time?’
She didn’t look at Leon again as she slipped on her shoes and wished them all good night, but she was clearly intensely aware of him, as he was of her. Something had passed between them and Freya felt with a sinking heart that it could only lead to trouble. Surely Leon had more sense than to fall for a girl like Violet? Before Maxim, there had been a succession of different men calling for her at the club and none of them had lasted more than a couple of weeks. Leon was clever and sensitive, and she would break his heart.
Otto looked pale at breakfast the next morning and his eyes were bloodshot. ‘You may carry on working at the Zaubergarten,’ he said to Freya, clearing his throat, ‘but that part of Schoneberg is a rough area. I shall meet you after work whenever I can and walk you home at night.’
‘Thank you,’ Freya said. If they had been alone, she might have retorted that she didn’t need his permission, and that clearly her safety wasn’t the first thing on his mind. Herr Grube glanced at them both but made no comment.
‘It was lovely to meet your brother,’ Violet told Freya later that day. ‘And his friend. Have they known each other long?’
‘Since school,’ Freya replied, as briefly as she could. ‘Frau Kohl was a great friend of our mother’s.’
Violet looked as though she were about to ask another question, but Freya was already turning away. She had no intention of acting as a go-between.
The evening’s performance was about halfway through when Freya became aware of a disturbance among the audience: a ripple of consternation, muttered conversation growing louder and chairs being scraped back in hurried departure. The two gentlemen at the piano were finishing their last number and the Zaubergarten girls were waiting to go on when Herr Schwartz lowered the velvet curtain, to catcalls from those still unaware anything was amiss. The owner, Herr Goldstein, stepped in front of it, rubbing his hands awkwardly.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I’m afraid trouble’s brewing. There are reports of rioting on Kurfürstendamm. We shall be closing early as a precaution and suggest you make your way home avoiding the area.’
In the wings, Freya tugged at Herr Schwartz’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s those Nazi brutes,’ he told her, ‘hundreds of them. Apparently they’re beating up anyone on Ku’damm who looks Jewish.’
The dancers crowded around him, demanding more details. He shrugged. ‘That’s all I know. Go and see for yourselves if you want to find out more. Except for the two Sophies, unless you have a death wish.’ Dark-haired, dark-eyed and olive-skinned, those girls would be obvious targets. Perle was Jewish too, but no one would have guessed that from her colouring.
Freya was seized by sudden dread and it took her a few seconds to work out exactly why. Frau Brodsky! That day was Jewish New Year and she had the evening off to celebrate; she might easily have been at one of the synagogues in the area. ‘Please God, Rosa isn’t caught up in it,’ she said. ‘Should we go and check?’
Schwartz snorted with derision. ‘Sounds like it’s chaos out there – you’ll have no chance of finding her. It’s every man for himself.’ And with that, he walked off as quickly as possible without actually running.
Herr Goldstein appeared to calm everyone down. ‘As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine,’ he told them. ‘Once the club is cleared, I shall escort everyone to safety.’
‘Thanks, but we’ll be better off without you,’ Perle muttered.
The other dancers evidently thought the same: one by one, they were slipping away to change and make their own way home. The bar staff and doorman were already boarding up the club’s windows as Freya left. In the teeming street, people were rushing in every direction and cars roared past with their engines straining, while an armoured police car lumbered through the dark like a vast scarab beetle. The racket grew louder as she skirted around the Kurfürstendamm boulevard, a few streets away: breaking glass, the blast of car horns, the clanging bell of an ambulance or police car. A woman with blood streaming down her face hammered on a nearby door, which opened briefly to receive her before slamming shut, bolts grating back into place.
Ahead of Freya, someone crossing the street turned to glance behind and Freya recognised Violet, her hair whipping across her face. Instead of avoiding the trouble, though, she seemed to be making straight for it – turning left towards Ku’damm rather than right to head away from it. Maybe she was concerned for Frau Brodsky, too? Freya watched the resolute figure hurrying forward and, on an impulse, followed. She could be just as brave; they would rescue Frau Brodsky together. Violet walked quickly and Freya was soon out of breath, attempting to keep up. Only now did she remember that Violet lived near the boulevard.
Catching up at last, Freya laid a hand on Violet’s arm. The English girl whirled around, her eyes wide. ‘Are you trying to get home?’ Freya shouted above the hubbub. ‘You’ll never make it!’
The scene before them was chaotic: people were running in all directions, trying to escape the men in brown uniforms armed with truncheons, knives and clubs. Tables and chairs were overturned in front of the fashionable cafés on each side of the street while, above the shouts of abuse and terrified screams, a deafening voice yelled encouragement. An open-topped Jeep was driving slowly up and down Kurfürstendamm, carrying a man who urged the attackers on through a megaphone. ‘Death to the filthy Jews!’ he cried. ‘Purge our beloved country of their stain.’ Men and women in their weekend finery were being dragged from the crowd, hands over their heads in a futile attempt to protect themselves. Freya turned away, sickened, as a middle-aged matron in a flower-trimmed hat was beaten at the knees and fell to the ground, curling into a ball while three Nazis kicked her with all their strength, faces contorted in fury.
‘This is hopeless.’ Freya pulled Violet away. ‘You’d better come with me.’
Violet nodded and the girls broke into a run, retracing their steps. When they were a safe distance away, near the entrance to Tiergarten, Freya paused to catch her breath, bent double with her hands on her knees.
‘Was that Hitler in the Jeep?’ she asked, when she could speak. ‘I couldn’t see his face.’
Violet shook her head. ‘He’ll only come to Berlin on sufferance – thinks the place is decadent. From a quick look, I’d say it was von Helldorff. He’s head of the Berlin SA.’ She was surprisingly well-informed.
‘You’d better stay with me tonight,’ Freya said. ‘Is there anyone waiting for you at home?’
‘Luckily not,’ Violet replied, brushing down her coat. ‘Thank you, darling. What a kind offer.’
Freya glanced back towards Ku’damm. ‘I’m so afraid for Frau Brodsky. Do you know which synagogue she attends?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Violet replied, putting her arm through Freya’s. ‘But don’t you worry about our Rosa, she has a nose for trouble. The best thing we can do is look after ourselves.’
By the time they’d reached the straight, wide avenue that ran through the centre of the park, the only sign of trouble was the number of police cars and trucks crammed with stormtroopers hurtling past. All the same, they walked quickly with their heads down. When at last the apartment building came into view, Freya broke into a run, dragging Violet with her.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ Otto said, as she and Violet burst through the door. ‘We were about to come looking for you.’
Leon was there too, holding a cloth to the side of his face.
‘You remember Fr?ulein Violet?’ Freya told them. ‘She’s going to be staying here tonight.’
Otto straightened his back. ‘It will be an honour. Fr?ulein, you can have my bed and I’ll take the sofa.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Violet said. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor in Freya’s room, if she’ll have me. But are you hurt, Herr Kohl?’ And there it was again, that flash of connection between them as she met Leon’s gaze and held it.
Turning to Leon, Freya realised there was blood on the cloth pressed against his cheek, and his knuckles were bruised and dirty.
‘My pride as much as anything,’ he replied, taking away the towel to show them an eye swollen almost shut. ‘A couple of the brownshirts convinced themselves I was a Jew, but luckily Otto managed to talk our way out of trouble.’
Otto looked complacent. ‘I told you joining the party would come in handy one day.’
The two of them had been drinking in a bar near Ku’damm when the commotion had begun, they explained, so they’d headed in the direction of the noise to find out what was happening.
‘A mistake, in retrospect,’ Leon said drily.
‘And where were the police?’ Violet asked.
‘We saw a few but they were outnumbered about twenty to one, so in the end they gave up and retreated.’ Leon shook his head. ‘The Nazis have never gone this far before. They must believe they’re untouchable, and tonight will have proved it.’
Freya glanced at Otto, but he said nothing. ‘Where’s Herr Grube?’ she asked.
‘Out,’ Otto replied briefly. ‘Vati’s off somewhere, too, but I doubt he’ll have got involved.’
Freya jumped up suddenly, seized the tablecloth and draped it over the portrait of Hitler that gazed so ominously down on them.
Otto stood up too. ‘You can’t do that. Take it off.’
‘Grube should never have put up that picture without asking us first,’ Freya snapped. ‘Herr Hitler’s a brute. I bet he’s behind what happened tonight, even if he wasn’t actually there.’
Otto tore down the tablecloth and stuffed it under his arm, glaring at her. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you talk like that again. Can’t you see the risk you’re running?’
‘This is my home,’ Freya said. ‘I’ll say what I like!’
‘Then you’re a damn fool,’ Otto growled.
Leon raised his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘Come, we’re all shocked and tired. Let’s calm down, have a drink and talk things over in the morning.’
‘Good idea,’ Violet said, producing a packet of cigarettes from her bag.
Otto took four glasses from the dresser without speaking, his jaw set, and Leon uncorked a bottle of schnapps. The four of them chinked glasses but nobody could think of an appropriate toast so they merely drank ‘to Germany’, whatever that meant, the air fraught with tension and resentment on Otto and Freya’s side, and a fascination so obvious one could taste it on Violet and Leon’s.
Freya’s rage subsided a little, though she was still too angry to make polite conversation. How could her brother boast about being a member of the Nazi party tonight of all nights? And why should they all be expected to kowtow to Walther Grube? She should have objected as soon as that portrait appeared, but their lodger’s worship of the odd little man who ranted and raved in a thick Austrian accent had seemed almost comical at first.
‘There are tough times ahead,’ Violet said later, as she and Freya settled down for the night. ‘Not just for the Jews but for people like us: anyone who wants to think for themselves and live as they please.’
Freya was flattered to be included in that group, although now she couldn’t help wishing Violet were spending the night somewhere else. She wouldn’t have issued the invitation so readily if she’d known Leon would be at the apartment. Ashamed of such an unworthy thought, she dismissed it from her mind and asked quickly, ‘Will you go back to England?’
‘God, no.’ Violet flexed her calloused dancer’s feet, disconcertingly close to Freya’s face as they lay top to toe in the narrow bed. ‘There’s nothing for me at home but marriage to some dreary creature and years of boredom, pushing out a suitable number of babies. I am most definitely not the maternal type. None of the Framley-Chambers women are.’
‘Don’t you miss your family, though?’
‘Not really. My darling mama spends most of the year in South Africa and Papa has no use for girls.’
They were silent for a while.
‘How can you bear to live like this?’ Violet asked suddenly.
Freya didn’t know how to reply. She assumed Violet was referring to the Hitler portrait and Otto’s rebuke, yet maybe she had something else in mind. ‘It’s been manageable so far,’ she said eventually. ‘Anyway, nothing’s perfect. I could ask you the same question.’
‘ Touché. ’ Violet laughed, apparently not at all offended. ‘I suppose we all have to make compromises of one kind or another. But seriously, you don’t have to spend your whole life skivvying for men. You can decide what you want and go after it.’
It took Freya a while to get to sleep – some time after Violet, to judge from the slow, steady breathing at the other end of the mattress. She was still tortured by an image of Rosa Brodsky under a hail of blows from a stormtrooper’s baton, and this particular worry expanded into a general concern about the future. Violet’s question had shaken her. She could just about afford a cheap room in some down-at-heel area and her father and brother would have to manage with the help of their maid, so what was holding her back? She had lived her entire life in this apartment and her mother’s presence was still strong in every room; if she moved out, she’d be losing Ingrid all over again. Yet sooner or later, she’d have to accept that her mother had gone, and she would always carry memories of Ingrid in her heart. Maybe the time had finally come to make a break for freedom.