Ashes Page 8

  “Milchstrasse . . . Milchstrasse . . . Warum, warum . . . die kleine milchstrasse?” The little Milky Way had been chopped off. I felt a bit bad then because in Papa’s mind these were not the braids of some little folk doll that celebrated the sunflower festival in September, they were braids of starlight. But in the end they were my braids, and I figured I could do with them as I pleased, and if that meant cutting them off, I would. Papa did keep them, however. He folded them into thin layers of tissue paper, and Mama stuck them into a dresser drawer where they kept their freshly pressed handkerchiefs.

  And for the rest of that summer it seemed like at least once a day each of my parents would run their fingers through my bangs or the hair on the back of my head where the braids had been, trying to hold on to what was once there—the gold that was now just stubble.

  chapter 13

  I love this white and slender body, These limbs that answer Love’s caresses, Passionate eyes, and forehead covered With heavy waves of thick, black tresses.

  -Heinrich Heine,

  translated by Louis Untermeyer

  “A personal request,” I said when we sat down at the table the night before Ulla and Karl arrived.

  “What might that be?” Papa asked as he put some cauliflower, which I hated, on my plate.

  “Can we not talk about my hair when Ulla and Karl come this weekend?”

  “Of course,” Mama said. “What makes you think that would be a topic of conversation?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I don’t know. Just don’t bring it up, OK? Because with Karl coming and all, I just think there are more interesting topics of conversation, that’s all.” The election was one topic. However, I didn’t say so.

  The Reichstag had been dissolved just before we left for Caputh, and new elections were coming. Would Hitler and the Nazi Party gain seats? That was all anyone was talking about on the streets of Caputh.

  But Mama and Papa did not say much about the election or the happenings in Berlin. In the last two days, my braids’ amputation seemed to command more attention. Was this a kind of denial on their part? Let’s not talk about Hitler. Let’s talk about Gaby’s hair instead. I think it’s grown a little bit. Don’t you think so, Otto? And oh yes, too bad about Hitler. So maybe he will gain a few seats in the coming election, but wasn’t he just a passing fancy?

  No, they did not really say all that. They just refused to talk about Hitler at all.

  “Mäusi, your hair!” Ulla exclaimed. I had run out the back door as soon as I heard the car drive up. Of course I should have known that no one would have to say anything about my hair. It would be the first thing Ulla would notice.

  “What did you do?”

  “What does it look like I did?” I exclaimed.

  Karl laughed hard at this. It made me like him. I had only met him once or twice when he came to the apartment to pick up Ulla, and he would only stay a minute or two. Karl had blond hair, nearly as blond as mine, but his eyes were a very dark gray. It was odd but they seemed opaque, maybe overcast like a sky with weather moving in. But he had a nice mouth and he laughed a lot, and he had a quick dimple that animated his face.

  Although Ulla’s hair was exactly the same as always, she looked in some way changed to me. I wasn’t sure what it was. She carried herself differently. There was a languorous motion to everything she did, as if she was beyond getting too excited, beyond rushing. It was almost as if she had arrived at some milestone and was deeply confident, satisfied with herself. And it wasn’t simply that she had indeed passed the examination she had flunked earlier. This went far beyond achieving a high mark—although she had done rather spectacularly and earned a 14 out of 15.

  “Guess what, Gaby?” Karl asked.

  “What?” I was pleased that he had directed a question to me right away.

  “When we drove through the center of town, we saw that the movie Emil and the Detectives is playing.”

  “It is? I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen it.”

  “Let’s go!” Karl said.

  “Oh, Mama, can I?” Mama had just come around from the garden and to greet them. Her face was streaked with dirt.

  “Sure, you can go.” She laughed. “Pardon my filthy appearance, Karl. I’ve been pulling weeds. They grow so fast once midsummer approaches.”

  “There’s a matinee tomorrow afternoon. We checked. I told Karl how much you loved the book,” said Ulla.

  Emil and the Detectives was one of my favorite books ever. The movie had come out last year but I had missed it in Berlin because I had measles. It’s about a young boy, Emil Tischbein, who is robbed when he falls asleep on a train. Through very clever means, he and his friends manage to catch the robber.

  By dinnertime Mama was cleaned up and in one of her prettiest summer dresses and Papa had put a cornflower in the buttonhole of his lapel. I wore a pair of trousers that I thought looked sort of like something Joan Crawford would wear, and had done what I could with my hair, which was not much. I was hoping the dinner might distract from any comments on my appearance. I had for the first time all summer caught not one but two silver bass.

  Hertha brought in the platter with my extraordinary catch all decked out with parsley and thinly sliced lemon.

  “Silver bass, how delightful,” Ulla remarked. “Delightful”—what kind of a word is that? Before she would have exclaimed, “Silver bass! Wundervoll, fantastic!” But now she seemed beyond such embellishments that marked unbridled enthusiasm. Instead she showed just this modest, cool note of appreciation. It irritated me a little bit. She knew how hard silver bass were to catch.

  But at least there was no conversation about my braid-less condition. At one point I thought we were veering a bit close, so I quickly changed the subject.

  “How is your job? Are you making lots of money?” I asked Ulla.

  “Some,” she answered.

  “Well, there are the tips,” Karl said. Ulla shot him a warning glance.

  “Tips?” Papa said suspiciously. “Since when do book-keepers get tips.”

  “When they find an accounting error. I prefer to call it a bonus,” Ulla said brightly.

  “What was the error?” Mama asked.

  “It was regarding the delivery of the cigarettes and cigars that the Chameleon sells. The vendor had been shorting us.”

  “Good for you,” Papa said. “Always pays to be vigilant.”

  “I should have thought to bring Professor Einstein some of the cigars. I think they are the kind he smokes, and I’m sure they would have included them in my bonus.”

  “Professor Einstein is here in Caputh? Goodness!” Karl said. He was clearly impressed, none of this nonchalant “delightful” business. There were true exclamation marks in his voice.

  “For now, at least,” Papa said. I was surprised by Papa’s answer. Professor Einstein always spent the entire summer in Caputh. Just like we did.

  “Otto, whatever do you mean that he is here ‘for now, at least’?” Mama asked. “Oh, is this the thing with Princeton?”

  “What’s Princeton?” I asked.

  “A university in the United States,” Papa replied.

  “And you said, Otto, that this Flexner fellow came all the way here to Caputh to visit Albert? He’s with this Princeton school?” Mama asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Princeton is near New York, right?” Mama asked.

  “Yes. I think it will suit him—if he goes. They have founded a new institute,” Papa said.

  “What kind of institute? Like the Kaiser Wilhelm?” I asked.

  “Not exactly like the Kaiser Wilhelm.”

  “Do they want him to go there for good, forever?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” Papa said. He appeared uncomfortable discussing this.

  “Oh, they’ll probably pay a great deal to get the famous Professor Einstein, I would think,” Karl said.

  “I don’t think it would matter to Einstein, nor would it matter to you, Otto. You p
hysicists are all alike.” Mama laughed as she spoke. She turned to Karl. “They are not necessarily practical. They don’t concern themselves with money. Einstein will just be out there in the woods, thinking. He won’t need much.”

  If he went, he would be away, I thought. Far away. It sounded romantic to me. Just the word “Princeton”—like some little kingdom in the wild. I sort of wished Papa could go there, and that he would take me, too. But CalTech might be more exciting. Closer to Hollywood.

  After dinner Karl, Ulla, Papa, and I played croquet—Papa and Ulla against Karl and me. Karl and I won. Then, as it became darker, Papa brought out the scope and gave Karl a tour of the heavens. After the star tour, Papa yawned and announced that he was turning in. He gave me a look that seemed to say I should go to bed too, and then suggested that Ulla and Karl might want to take a walk. The message was more than clear. I was being sent to bed so the young lovers could have a moment to themselves. So I went up to the bedroom that Ulla and I shared. Karl was to sleep in the guest bedroom. It would be nice to wake up in the morning and not see the bed all flat with its covers undisturbed, but lumpy, the summer quilt rising and falling slightly with the rhythms of Ulla’s breathing.

  But when I woke up once during the night, I saw that the bed was as flat as ever. I couldn’t fall back to sleep, and I’m not sure how long I lay there in the dark. Finally I heard Ulla and Karl’s footfalls on the steps. When Ulla came into the bedroom, I could smell something—the lake. I knew without seeing her that she was all wet.

  “Ulla! You went swimming?”

  “You’re not asleep?”

  “I was, but then I woke up a short time ago. But you went swimming, didn’t you?

  “Yes, it’s so hot tonight.”

  I turned on the reading light by my bed for a moment. Her hair was soaking, but her clothes seemed dry. “What did you wear to swim in?”

  “Oh, I went in my twinset,” she said casually. A twinset was a camisole and undershorts. “I’m going into the bathroom to change right now.” She went to the closet and got her robe and pajamas. When she came back from the bathroom, she crawled into bed.

  “So what do you think of Karl?” Ulla asked.

  “He’s nice. Very nice.”

  “He’s wonderful.” She sighed into the night.

  “Are you in love?”

  “I think so,” she said, a little chuckle in her voice.

  It wasn’t long before I heard her soft, even breathing. She was sound asleep, but not me. I still couldn’t sleep. I had to get up to go to the bathroom. When I got there, I saw Ulla’s twinset spread out on the towel rack. It had dripped and made a small puddle on the floor. My first thought was how could it be wet enough to make a puddle but not soak the blouse or skirt she had been wearing? I forgot about peeing and picked up the camisole from the rack. For some reason I held it up to my nose and gave it a good sniff. It didn’t smell like lake water at all. The lake had a distinct odor, perhaps from the algae or the water lilies that clogged one end of it. As I listened to the soft plip of the water drops on the tile floor—plip . . . plip . . . plip—the truth dropped into my mind.

  Ulla didn’t wear these swimming. She swam naked! She swam naked with Karl!

  Tap water! She’d soaked her underwear in the sink when she realized I was still awake, and the swimming in her twinset story wouldn’t work if the twinset wasn’t wet.

  For the rest of the night, that was all I thought about—Ulla and Karl swimming naked in the lake, their white bodies slipping through the bronze-colored water. The pale gold sunfish slipping between their legs, the tendrils of water lilies lacing through their hair, entwining their torsos.

  Ulla was a living Heinrich Heine poem.

  chapter 14

  The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that’s what an army is-a mob; they don’t fight with courage that’s born in them, but with courage that’s borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob without any man at the head of it is beneath pitifulness.

  -Mark Twain,

  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

  Dear Rosa,

  So much to tell! I just got back from the movie Emil and the Detectives. It was good, I think. Could hardly concentrate because I went with Ulla and Karl. And guess what? They’ve done it! Not in the movie theater. They were just holding hands during the movie, but I couldn’t help thinking about what I had figured out the night before. You see, Ulla said that she went swimming with Karl. Which she did. But through my exceptional skills of detection—Emil has nothing on me!—I discovered that they had gone swimming naked. I figured it out, or rather I sniffed it out, just by the scent of tap water in her twinset.

  She had soaked her underwear so I would believe that she hadn’t gone swimming naked. She thought she could fool me. But hey, I didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon. They weren’t trying out for the 1936 Olympics out there in the lake! I know that swimming naked together doesn’t just mean swimming naked. They were doing more. They were doing it!

  I can’t wait to see you. I’m coming back to Berlin for an eye doctor appointment and to get my hair fixed. That’s another long story. Too long to tell now.

  Love,

  Gaby

  There was something else that was not too long to tell but too complicated, even more complicated than swimming naked together. But I didn’t know how to explain it to Rosa.

  The weather had been perfect and after the movie it seemed too early to go home. Karl suggested that we go to the Birkenwald, the Birch Grove. It was a beer garden. And now in the first week in July, the peak of summer season, the garden was packed with holiday merrymakers. Karl ordered a lager for himself and one for Ulla, and a lemonade for me. And then he ordered the special wurst plate that had three different kinds of sausage, including my favorite, the Bierschinken with chunks of ham and chestnuts. It was a perfect lazy summer afternoon. Easygoing, everyone cheerful in the beer garden as if no one had a care in the world. Karl offered me a taste of his beer, which Ulla scolded him for but in a teasing way.

  “Ulla,” Karl said, “she’s almost a young lady. I bet your parents give her Glühwein at Christmas.”

  “They give me butter grog. It’s even better than Glühwein . Not so sweet.” I thought maybe that made me seem more sophisticated.

  “Of course.” Karl laughed. The dimple flashed. But his eyes never changed. “And even stronger with a shot of rum.”

  At this moment I was very happy. I looked around. The people were all rosy, some a bit sunburned. Everyone was talking and laughing. A fresh breeze from the lake stirred the birches, their pale green leaves filtering the sun to cast an embroidery of golden light on the tables.

  The waitress had just delivered our platter of sausage when I heard a very pure voice rising from the burble of talk and laughter. It was a singing voice as clear and liquid as the lake. A hush fell upon the crowd as the voice grew stronger, more beautiful, and sang with increasing passion.

  Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,

  wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall:

  Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein,

  wer will des Stromes Hüter sein?

  A call roars like thunderbolt,

  like clashing swords and splashing waves:

  To the Rhine, the Rhine, to the German Rhine,

  who wants to be the stream’s guardian?

  It was coming from behind us, and everyone turned around to see who was singing. Others began to stand up and join in on the refrain.

  Lieb’ Vaterland, magst ruhig sein,

  Fest steht und true die Wacht am Rhein!

  Dear Fatherland, put your mind at rest,

  Solid and staunch stands the watch on the Rhine.

  Mama had told me that the song “The Watch on the Rhine” was an old patriotic anthem popular during the Franco-Prussian War more than sixty years ago and also during the Great War. The lyrics called for Germans to rush to defend the Rhine against France, to ensure that no enemy set foot
on the shores of the river. It had become very popular again lately. The Nazis had brought it back. They sang it at their rallies, and it was on the radio frequently. In the new history textbooks we used last year there was even a piece about the composer and why he wrote it. The Nazis were not thinking of the Franco-Prussian War, but of the Great War and the Treaty of Versailles that had cheated Germans out of their land, their money, and their honor.

  The young singer’s voice sailed out above the noise of the crowd.

  I had to scramble up onto the bench so I could see who the voice belonged to. The singer was now standing on a bench too, so he could be heard and seen above the crowd. I finally spotted him, a young man, his hair almost as blond as mine. He could be my brother . . . I thought, except . . . My eyes traveled down from his chiseled face. There was a Nazi armband on his sleeve. I looked around, and everyone was singing now. Their faces had changed, no longer reflections of blithe summer, but glazed with expressions of mindless rapture. I looked down at Karl, who had encircled Ulla’s shoulders with one arm and my waist with the other. His face, too, was glazed as he sang and at last his storm-sealed eyes sparkled. And Ulla? She was not tall enough to see the singer’s armband, but she tipped her head back just far enough to look up and see Karl’s handsome face, and then she began to sing softly as well.

  chapter 15

  Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton.