Ashes (18 page)

“So do you want to go with me, Gaby?” Mama asked when the bacon operations had been successfully completed.

“What's the play?” I asked.

“
Gabriel Schilling's Flight
.”

“Never heard of it. What's it about?”

“It is a rather old-fashioned play about a so-so artist who's trying to escape his wife and his mistress and winds up drowning himself.”

“
Aachh
, sounds like such fun!” I said.

Papa laughed.

“We'll be sitting with Hessie and Baba, too.” Now that did sound like fun, and I could wear one of the dresses I bought with Baba last summer.

“All right, I'll go.”

“Good. It's silly to waste a perfectly good ticket.”

Karl was there that evening when I came out of my room dressed in my gray dress. Mama had lent me a pearl pin, which made it a bit fancier.

“You look lovely, Gaby!” Karl said. “That color becomes you. You look quite grown-up, in fact!”

It had been my observation that whenever someone commented on how “grown-up” I looked, it actually meant that I still looked rather like a child. But it's not that I didn't take part of his compliment seriously. I think Karl did really believe that I looked nice in my dress and that the color did became me. I was working very hard to try to forget that afternoon in the beer garden. Karl had never been anything but kind to me. Mama and Papa were always saying how courteous they found him, and they actually attributed Ulla's renewed academic vigor to Karl, whom they learned did quite well in his studies of mechanical engineering. “A serious student,” Papa said often in reference to him.

Uncle Hessie picked us up in his Mercedes—the big one. An evening at the National Theatre was indeed a dazzling affair. It was very different from going to the Palast Theater, which was rather dingy in comparison and hardly a palace at all. The lobby of the National Theatre glittered with a thousand twinkly lights from sparkling chandeliers. There was a grand central staircase with plush red carpeting and gilt ornamentation everywhere.

Much to my surprise, Professor Einstein and his wife were in Hessie's box with Mama and Baba and me, along with the British ambassador, Sir Horace Rumbold. I knew that Einstein was a music lover but I hadn't realized that he enjoyed theater. The British ambassador was talking with Einstein, asking him about his impending trip to Pasadena. And just as Papa had told me, Einstein said something about returning to Berlin in the spring to attend some meetings. My English had greatly improved since studying with Fräulein Mayer this term in school. She had a much better accent then my former teacher and I could understand much of what Einstein and Sir Horace Rumbold were saying. I heard Rumbold say that he felt that although it was a relief Hitler had lost the thirty-odd seats in the last election, he still felt that the greatest danger was the private armies—the SA and SS. “Just another way around Versailles,” Rumbold said. I heard this, but my eyes were fastened on the crowd swirling below and in the boxes near us.

The Quotation Empress was there with her stepson, Prince Auwi. “They put on a show of affection,” Baba whispered to Mama behind her program, which she was using like a fan. “But they loathe each other.” Both the empress and the prince wore the ceremonial sashes, hers across a vibrant pink dress, which I saw that Baba noted as a Schiaparelli with a question mark in the little notebook she always carried when she covered such occasions for the newspaper. I leaned over and asked if Schiaparelli was French.

“Italian by birth, but she lives in Paris. You know Hitler is now quite enchanted with Italy. Don't put it past you-know who”—she nodded toward the Empress—“to try and curry favor with him by any means. So I think she has decided to wear this new young Italian woman's design. Too bad she spoils it with that stupid ceremonial sash.” The empress's sash and her stepson's were royal blue, beribboned and bejeweled with at least a half kilo of symbols and crests, just to let everyone know who exactly they were, and to remind them that once there had been a monarchy. It seemed to me that the empress wanted to have her cake (the monarchy) and eat it too (Hitler and the Nazi Party).

“Look, Goebbels!” Baba whispered. “Can you see what his wife is wearing, Elske?”

“Not Schiaparelli,” Mama replied.

“Where? Where ?” I asked, poking Baba's arm. I was so afraid I was going to miss something.

“Over there in the mezzanine. He hasn't taken his seat yet.”

I saw him immediately. Joseph Goebbels, the man Papa said was the real power behind Hitler. I could tell from where I sat that he was quite odd-looking. He was standing up and shaking hands with several people who were greeting him enthusiastically. The first thing I noticed about him was not his size or stature, but how he used his hands when he was speaking. He was slashing the air almost violently, and yet he was smiling all the while. His smile cut across his narrow, dark face like the blade of a knife.

“Look, see the Countess von Oberland!” This was another socialite whose name I had read in Baba's column. Baba pointed discreetly with her program. “She has her arm around Magda Goebbels's waist. It is nauseating how people try to ingratiate themselves with her to get close to him.”

“She's very pretty, Frau Goebbels, isn't she?” I said.

“Yes indeed. She was married to a rich man named Günther Quandt. Shortly after they divorced, she met Goebbels. He is a ferocious womanizer. You see, you do not have to be movie-star handsome to get a woman if you have political power, or if you are close to it. There are already rumors of him with a half dozen other women.

“Watch him now,” Baba whispered. “He's going to take his seat.” He was hobbling down the aisle to his row in the mezzanine, all the while waving his arms wildly in greetings to people. Now and then I could see his hand flatten and slant upward in a Heil Hitler salute. His wife was as lovely and delicate as he was grotesque. She walked in mincing little steps behind him. It was like Mephistopheles and a fairy princess.

Then just before the house lights dimmed, as I followed the path of the Goebbelses to their seats, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face.

“Mama, it's Fräulein Hofstadt!”

“Where, dear?”

“Down there, mezzanine level in the row right behind the Goebbelses.” I could almost detect the scent of roses and narcissus.

But then the theater went completely dark and the curtain came up on the first act of what had to be the most boring play ever written. During intermission I was determined to seek out Fräulein Hofstadt. Mama came with me.

“Gaby!” my teacher cried out. And as always, never rushing, she effortlessly glided toward me. She looked breath-taking in a pale, rose-colored velvet gown embroidered with beaded crystals. She wore long, silvery opera gloves. Velvet became her. If one could have a signature fabric, this was Fräulein Hofstadt's. Velvet epitomized her sleek, soft beauty. Every head turned to look at her, and I felt quite special that she was making a fuss over me.

“And of course Frau Schramm, the mother of this extraordinary young lady, and how fine she looks. My goodness, I love your dress, Gaby.” I had loved it too until that moment when, standing next to Fräulein Hofstadt, I felt as dull as a pigeon. I was very happy to see that she was with an elderly man whom she introduced as her uncle. He was not especially attractive. His collar was a bit frayed. He was not “well barbered,” as my mother would say. I spotted hair growing out of his ears, and his beard was ill kempt. I would have been crushed if she had been with a handsome man of her own age. It would have seemed so unfaithful to the memory of her soldier boyfriend. I had told Rosa what Ulla had told me about the rumored fiancé, and we were both convinced that she was still mourning him and would for the rest of her life. Baba came up to us and we introduced her. I noticed Baba's nose twitch as she took in the scent of roses and narcissus. I was sure it was some new stylish perfume, but Baba didn't seem to like it.

Fräulein Hofstadt seemed rather impressed that the celebrated social columnist was our friend. This gave me a little thrill of excitement. The lights began to blink signaling us to return to our seats. Fräulein Hofstadt gave my hand a little squeeze. “See you in class.” I couldn't wait to tell Rosa about all this.

 

 

You won't believe the story I have to tell
, I wrote on a piece of paper.
Meet me in the corner of the schoolyard by the linden tree at second break
. I passed her the note during Latin.

Rosa had missed the first half of the school day. She had had to stay with her grandmother, who had been feeling dizzy that morning due to her heart problems, until her mother could come back from an important morning meeting at the university. I was practically having a heart attack myself, bursting with the events of the previous evening at the theater. I kept waiting and waiting. But she only showed up toward the end of the school day.

Rosa's eyes widened as she read the note. She began to scribble something on it but then stopped as our Latin teacher, Fräulein Gompers, ambled down the aisle toward her.

“Now, I want you all to check your translation of that Cicero passage. It's a very short passage. Then pass it to your neighbor and you will check each other's work.” Fräulein Gompers liked us to learn from one another. She believed in what she called collaborative learning. “See if perhaps your neighbor had a better or less graceful way of translating a word or a sentence. You be the judge.”

Rosa and I looked at each other. Just before she passed me her Cicero paragraph she wrote in pencil in the margin,
Quid est haec fabula? Dic!

I read the margin note, which of course had nothing to do with Cicero but asked in Latin, “What is this story? Do tell!”

“How clever!” I whispered. She was a much better Latin student than I was, and there was no way I could even give the slightest hint in Latin as to the details of the story. All I could write back was
Expecta secessum
. “Wait until break.” Finally break came.

“I thought you'd never get here!” I was practically dancing with excitement.

“Well, what is it?”

“I saw Fräulein Hofstadt last night at the National Theatre. She was beautiful, gorgeous. A vision.”

“Was she with a man?” Rosa asked.

“An old man!”

“Old man—that's so sad.”

“No, not a boyfriend, she introduced him as her uncle.”

“Oh, thank heavens. I hate to think of her fiancé's bones rotting away in a battlefield and her, well you know, with another man.”

“Yes, I'm sure she'll grieve forever.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Of course. That's the best part. Baba was with us and Fräulein Hofstadt was so impressed that we knew Baba. I could see that she hoped that Baba might mention her in her social column.”

“Will she?”

“I'm not sure. I got a feeling somehow that maybe Baba didn't approve of her in some way.”

“Really? How could anyone not approve of Fräulein Hofstadt?”

I shook my head in wonder. “I don't know.”

 

 

On November seventeeth, the very day after I told Rosa this story, an odd chain of events seemed to begin, and it was as if we, Berlin, Germany, and soon all of Europe were launched on an inexorable course. The first event in the chain was the resignation of Chancellor Franz von Papen. Then members of his cabinet had to resign, too. That was the way it worked. Baba said it was Schleicher, whom she also called “the king-maker,” who “unmade” Papen. He was a crafty behind-the-scenes political operator, but Baba liked him well enough. She was very close with Scheicher's wife. So she got a lot of information. The day Papen resigned, Baba was at our house for dinner. She was full of news and optimism now that the “fool” Papen was out. We were all at the table. Hertha had made sauerbraten. It was so tender you didn't need a knife to cut it. I was scraping off the vegetables and putting them to the side. I didn't like it when food touched. Meat and vegetables should be separate, in my opinion. I could feel Ulla looking at me slightly critically.

“I'm not so sure this is good, Baba,” Papa said in answer to Baba's remarks.

“Let me just say this before we get to Papen,” Baba said, looking up at Hertha who was passing the platter. “Hertha, this is the best sauerbraten ever! It's so tender. So sweet. No sugar, right?”

“Never sugar, madame. Beet juice, apples. It's the same recipe made by the chef at the Kaiserhof Hotel.” It was as if the air in the dining room froze. The Kaiserhof! Hitler's favorite hotel in Berlin. Unofficial Nazi headquarters. Mama coughed nervously. Baba looked as if she might choke on her sauerbraten. I stole at look at Hertha. Her face was as placid as a lake, as expressionless as a potato. When she finished serving, she carried the plate out of the dining room, but the tension lingered.