Ashes Page 3

  Suddenly I caught a sharp, acrid smell. Tobacco smoke, but not a cigarette, not a pipe. I instantly knew what, or rather whom, I was smelling. I smiled and kept my eyes shut a second longer, so sure I was right.

  “Gaby?”

  “Herr Professor!”

  I opened my eyes just in time to see the ashes fall silently off the tip of Albert Einstein’s cigar. “Papa said you came back just two days ago, right?”

  Professor Einstein was both a colleague of Papa’s at the university and a neighbor who lived just down the street from us. Of late he had been making many trips to the United States. Most often he visited CalTech, the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, California, which was close to Los Angeles—and to Hollywood!

  “I did indeed.”

  I scuffed the toe of my shoe softly against the sidewalk and felt the creep of color rising in my face. “And did you see the stars?” I looked up smiling. This was our joke, the professor’s and mine. You see, near CalTech there is a huge telescope on top of a mountain.

  Professor Einstein tipped his head up toward the sky. “Let me think. I saw Alpheratz. . . . I saw Sirius. . . . I saw Charlie Chaplin. I saw Mary Pickford. . . .” I must have wrinkled my nose. “And what’s wrong with Mary Pickford? She’s a beauty!”

  “Did you see Joan Crawford?”

  “No, not this time. Maybe next.” He had removed the cigar from his mouth and now held it behind his back. His other arm was also behind his back. This was a favorite posture of the professor: his feet planted a half a meter apart, his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders rolled slightly forward and his face turned directly to me, looking with great intensity. But at the same time there was always something in Einstein’s eyes that seemed to gaze beyond you, as if he glimpsed past the range of ordinary people to a distant horizon that only a seer could perceive. “But I promise you, Gabriella, that if I meet her I shall collect her autograph for you.”

  “Thank you, Herr Professor. I think she is so beautiful.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and snorted softly. “Not my cup of tea, but chacun à son goût.”

  “That’s French, isn’t it? ‘To each his own taste’?”

  “Bien sûr, mademoiselle.” He smiled. His dark, slightly drooping eyes twinkled. “And when do you go to Caputh?”

  “Soon. As soon as school is out.” I couldn’t wait to go to our summer cottage on the lake near the small village of Caputh. The lake is formed by the Havel River that flows between Berlin and Potsdam to the south. Caputh is not even two hours from Berlin but it seems a world away with its fragrant pines and peacefulness. Papa always says Berlin is for working and Caputh is for dreaming. Einstein also dreamed in Caputh. His summer house was next door to ours.

  “And we shall have ourselves a sail?”

  “A race!” I replied.

  “You always win.” He cocked his head and attempted a look of regret.

  “That’s the idea!”

  He laughed heartily at this, then took his hands from behind his back, jammed the cigar in his teeth, and began to speak around it as he pinched my cheek. “Liebes Kind, dear child, tell your papa, I saw Hubble and we talked more about that Andromeda discovery he’d made.” He paused. “You see, the Lady in Chains . . .”

  “The Andromeda Galaxy?” Einstein was referring to the myth of the princess Andromeda, for whom the galaxy was named. The spiral arms of the galaxy were said to be the chains that held her as a sacrifice for some monster.

  “Yes. You know your Greek mythology, I see. Well, as I told your father, Hubble discovered awhile ago that she’s moving away from us.” He paused again. The ashes on the tip of his cigar were stacking up. “I was right about what that meant, there’s no way around it. The universe is expanding.”

  “Oh,” I replied. I was not going to contradict Einstein, but to me it felt as if the universe was not expanding. It felt as if it was contracting. Hitler, who had been born and lived most of his life in Austria, was now in Germany. The Brown Shirts that were his invention—beer hall brawlers protecting Nazi gatherings in Munich, busting up Communist meetings, desecrating synagogues—were now here in Berlin, in front of Rosa’s and my favorite movie theater! Nothing was receding, as the theory of an expanding universe suggested. It was all coming together in a most awful way.

  The professor walked on, a trail of fine ashes drifting down from the cigar.

  chapter 7

  The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds with a greater insight and a more humane wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We had to recognize that our generation was more to be trusted than theirs . . . The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke into pieces.

  - Erich Maria Remarque,

  All Quiet on the Western Front

  Most of the apartment houses on our street were gray and severe like caricatures of the strictest schoolteachers. They stood ramrod straight, but in spring their poker faces were softened a bit by window boxes that spilled with frills of bright flowers. Our building was not gray. It was the color of butter, and an immense patch of ivy spread across the front. If I looked at the ivy a certain way it reminded me of Peter Pan. Well, not Peter himself, but his shadow. Nana the dog caught his shadow when he leaped out the window to escape from the Darling family’s children’s bedroom. This patch of ivy that sprawled across the façade of our building was shaped exactly like a boy who is about to take flight. And our street number is 14, the same address as the Darling family’s house, except of course the fictional family lived in London, England, and not in Berlin. There I can tell you the similarities ended. There was no dog that functioned as a nanny to take care of the children at 14 Haberlandstrasse. We had only a grim Hausmeister, the building superintendent and concierge named Herr Himmel, who lived in the basement. A sour fellow, he greeted all tenants no matter what time of day or night they arrived with a severe gaze. He kept track obsessively of every individual’s comings and goings. I had no idea when or if he ever slept. There was something very predatory about his appearance. His head reminded me of an anvil—a flat top, concave sides that met in a long narrow vertical ridge in the middle with his eyes crowded close to the wedge of his nose, and a tiny little mouth pursed beneath the nose. The word Himmel means heaven, but he was certainly the most perfectly misnamed man on Earth, so Ulla and I called him Herr Hölle, or “Mr. Hell,” behind his back.

  “You are late from school, Fräulein, and so few books you carry. I suppose you are starting your vacation early. Your sister certainly has. Do you know what time she got in last night?”

  “No, Herr Himmel,” I said, and rushed by.

  “Two o’clock in the morning,” he called after me. “I don’t know why parents tolerate this. Too liberal,” he muttered to my back as I headed for the lift, gritting my teeth.

  I let myself into the apartment, and instead of music, which I usually heard in the late afternoon, I heard voices. Mama’s piano student must have canceled. Instead Baba was there. Baba was Mama’s best friend from their Vienna schooldays.

  “So, Elske, what am I to do? He was at the princess’s party. First high-society event he’s attended. People beg to get their names in the column. I have to mention him. He’s news, but he’s so loathsome!” I heard Baba say.

  “Do just that. Mention him. Don’t flatter him. Hah! Der Führer, they call him. The leader. But he’ll be gone in six months.” Then their voices dropped and they must have said something slightly risqué, for Mama exclaimed, “Naughty, Baba!” and Baba burst out giggling. When Mama got together with Baba, just the two of them, they definitely became less inhibited.

  “Mama!” I called from the hall just to warn them.

  “Schatzi! Treasure,” Baba cried out as I came into the music parlor, where she and Mama were taking tea.

  “Sit down, have some tea.” Baba patted the place next to her on the sofa.

  Baba was
two years older than Mama. They had met in Vienna, where they both grew up. Despite what seemed to me like a big age difference, they had become fast friends. Baba reminded me of a pastry confection. Her hair, which she had styled daily, was like a puffy, golden meringue. Her skin was soft, and her cheeks were sprinkled with cinnamon-colored freckles that she covered up with powder at night when she went out to report on all the parties she attended. Going to parties was her job. She was the social columnist for the Berlin newspaper the Vossische Zeitung. My parents said that it was now the only newspaper worth reading. The others, they said, were just Nazi bullhorns.

  “Where have you been?” Mama asked.

  “Rosa and I went to the zoo.” I plopped down in a chair and reached for one of the teacakes. The little cake was called Schnecke for it curled about like a seashell and had pale pink frosting. But actually it reminded me of Baba’s ears, especially as there were little sugar pearls dotting it and Baba was wearing pearl earrings that day.

  “Go wash your hands, Gaby,” Mama ordered. “You’ve been to the zoo, for heaven’s sake.”

  “It’s not the zoo that is dirty,” I muttered. Mama and Baba exchanged glances.

  “Now, what do you mean by that, Liebling?” I was Mama’s “darling,” Einstein’s “dear child,” and Baba’s “treasure.” I was Papa’s kleine Zaubermaus—little magic mouse. He would call me that as he patted my braids and whisper, “kleine Milchstrasse.” I would sometimes remind him that mice did not have braids.

  I was thinking about the Brown Shirts, specifically the one with the insect eyes who had called Rosa a little vamp. My expression must have betrayed my thoughts. Maybe it was because Baba was a reporter, but she was very perceptive. She immediately jumped to her feet. Her gray eyes looked frightened.

  “You saw them, didn’t you? The SA They’re all over town this week.”

  I was reluctant to say anything about Rosa’s and my experience, so I just looked down at my hands. I didn’t want to acknowledge what had happened. It was so creepy. He was so slimy.

  “But I don’t understand it,” Mama said. “Yes, I’ve seen them, too. They were officially banned in the emergency decree. What was it, six weeks ago? Hindenburg issued it.”

  “Phut!” A blast of contempt shot out from Baba’s perfectly lipsticked mouth. “The Old Gentleman, he can hardly find his way to the toilet. Mark my words, he will lift that ban in a matter of weeks, maybe even days!”

  Then Mama scratched her head and said in a low, dim voice, “Otto said they would come back stronger than ever if they were banned.”

  “The Old Gentleman” was the name that some people called President Hindenburg. It was a term that expressed a sense of affection mingled with despair. He had been our national hero, Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, a Prussian soldier called back into action at the advanced age of sixty-six when the Great War broke out. In 1914, early in the Great War, he had won a glorious victory at the Battle of Tannenburg against the Russians, and soon became supreme commander of the German forces. He was elected the second president of the new Weimar Republic of Germany following that war after the monarchy was dismantled and the kaiser, or emperor, Wilhelm had fled. Now over eighty-four years old, von Hindenburg had been forced by the circle closest to him to run for reelection as president against Hitler.

  “But I just don’t understand, Baba. The Old Gentleman won, just a month ago.” Mama sounded almost whiny, like a child disappointed about not getting some promised treat.

  “He’s putty in their hands. Watch. He’ll appoint that Schwein , pig, von Papen,” she flashed a quick look at me. “Pardon my language, Schatzi.”

  The door of the entry foyer opened and slammed shut with a ferocious bang. We all jumped. It was Papa. We could hear him muttering and then a “Goddamn!”

  “Otto!” Mama squeaked as if she had been pinched.

  I could tell Papa hadn’t known we were all sitting in the music parlor. He stood there, his right arm hanging loose as always, but it seemed now that even his right leg was about to collapse. In his left hand he held his briefcase.

  “You’re back early,” was all Mama could say.

  “Yes, pardon my outburst.” He bowed stiffly to Baba and then to me and Mama.

  “What happened?” Mama asked. Papa closed his eyes and shook his head as if trying to erase a terrible image. Mama ran to his side. She looked at me. “Gaby, pour Papa a little Schnaps.”

  “This is beyond Schnaps,” he groaned, and sat down on the piano bench. He opened the piano cover and played a few notes with his left hand, mournful notes that seemed suspended in the air like fragments of a tattered sheet of music. He stared out the window.

  He looked at Mama again. “I told you, Elske, they would come back twice as strong as soon as they were banned.” He shut his eyes tight and continued speaking. “They came into my lecture today.”

  Baba, Mama, and I looked at one another. He did not need to tell us who. We knew. It was the Brown Shirts “Goldman was guest lecturing,” Mama said.

  “Yes.” Papa nodded.

  Max Goldman was a physicist from Berne, Switzerland. Papa had invited him to the university to give a series of lectures to his graduate students and any others who wished to attend. “Jewish physics.” Papa whispered the two words, then muttered, “Such nonsense. You know these people dare call themselves scientists, and yet they reject the greatest breakthrough in modern physics because it was Einstein—a Jew—who figured it out! Goldman was describing how his work had been influenced by Einstein’s and . . . aachh!” Papa threw up his hands in disgust.

  “Yes, I know,” Mama said softly, shaking her head. She paused. “But what did they do? Did they stop the lecture?”

  “No, but they tried to take down every student’s name as they were leaving the lecture. It was impossible, of course, for there were just too many of them. And one more thing.” Papa looked up from the keyboard.

  Mama’s mouth moved, but the word did not immediately come out. “What?” She finally said.

  “One of my students arrived at the lecture with a bloody bandage on his hand.”

  “What had happened?” Baba asked slowly.

  “Well,” Papa said, running his left hand down the keyboard. There was a rippling of notes across the air. “It seems that this afternoon there was a matinee showing of All Quiet on the Western Front at the Palast on the Kufürstendamm. A number of SA were in attendance, and as soon as the houselights went down, the SA began shouting anti-Semitic slogans, throwing tomatoes at the screen, and then a few enterprising Brown Shirts released dozens of rats in the theater.”

  “The dwarf!” Baba raised a hand to her flushed cheek.

  “Indeed, Herr Goebbels. It has his handwriting all over it. With Hitler’s blessing, he is becoming the arbiter of all things cultural, all things Aryan, and of true German spirit. You can bet that All Quiet on the Western Front is considered un-German by these thugs,” Papa said.

  Baba sighed.

  “Who’s Goebbels?” I asked. The name sounded slightly familiar.

  “Joseph Goebbels.” It was the closest Baba had ever come to snarling as she said his name. “Leader of the Nazi Party propaganda unit. An expert in crafting and spreading lies. An artist, one might say, of distortion and falsehoods. Last night he was at the reception I attended. He was going on and on about the antiwar, unpatriotic tone of the film.” She shook her head. “It’s like I said, Elske. The Old Gentleman is crumbling.”

  “Oh, he already has. I heard it. Von Papen is to be chancellor. It will be announced tomorrow. It is a fait accompli,” Papa said.

  “Who’s Papen?” I asked.

  Papa sighed. “A member of the Reichstag, very conservative. He opposed the ban on the SA. Now he’ll be sure and lift it if he is chancellor. It’s all politics. Poor old Hindenburg, trying to please everybody and winding up pleasing no one, really.”

  “No wonder these Brown Shirts, these animals, are all over the place. They’re just waitin
g in the wings for Papen to get the nod,” Mama said. She grabbed my hand and held it tight. But her eyes, which were now growing shiny with tears, were looking at her friend.

  “Baba, be careful.”

  Baba flicked her hand as if she were shooing a fly. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Elske. Why, last night would you believe that when I was at that reception, I commented to that idiot Hans Thomsen—you know the fellow in the foreign office—I said, ‘Your Führer must have a cold.’ And he asked why. And I said, ‘There he stands, ten feet from me and they say he can smell a Jew ten miles away. His nose must be out of order tonight.’ They all laughed.”

  “Baba, don’t be foolish! We are not laughing,” Papa said sternly.

  chapter 8

  “That is not the truth. You do not want to be alone-you’re afraid of being alone- I know you’re afraid. I know you. You were desperate, just now, if I go away you’ll be more desperate than ever. Say I am to stay with you . . . say it.”

  Grusinskaya looked into the Baron’s eyes and began to speak in a feverish voice. “I shall dance and you’ll be with me and then-listen-After that you will come with me to Lake Como, I have a villa there. The sun will be shining. I will take a vacation-six weeks-eight weeks. We’ll be happy and lazy. And then you will go with me to South America- oh!”

  -Vicki Baum, People at a Hotel