Berlin: A Novel (67 page)

He knew who to blame next year, too. 'Joe Louis's Jewish promoter, of course. He put a horseshoe in the black's left boxing glove. Otherwise our Max Schmeling would never have been knocked out, he'd be world champion now.'

If Jutta had been asked what event she remembered most vividly from the last years before the war, she would immediately have said the German Book Trade Association ball in the summer of 1939. Jochen had hired tie and tails from Koedel in Kantstrasse and looked fabulous. Her own long, white evening dress was a dream.

Jutta's boss had invited the young couple. She and her ash-blonde girlfriend went entirely in black. They created quite a sensation, and several gentlemen showed an interest in them, but Diana Gerold and Anja Schmitt had eyes only for each other. All we need is for them to dance together,' Jochen said mockingly.

'You're getting more narrow-minded all the time,' she exclaimed. Injured, he was about to say something, but the orchestra started to play. Jutta clapped her hands, delighted. 'The Lambeth Walk - the latest thing from London. Isabel showed me how you do it.' She led her husband on to the dance floor. Jochen soon got the hang of the simple steps - somewhere between the Tiller Girls and a Prussian military march - and enjoyed the dance. Suddenly he was the carefree young man she loved again.

Then Kurt Widmann and his band played a hot foxtrot. 'Oh, wow, wonderful jazz, or degenerate Negro music to you!' cried Jutta exuberantly. To Jochen's relief, her words were drowned out by the percussion. Some things were better left unsaid.

Frau Gerold bought them each a ticket for the sweepstake. Drinking sparkling wine and eating lobster mayonnaise, they waited in suspense for the draw. Diana Gerold laughed till she cried. She had won a book by Beumelburg. Jochen won a Waterman fountain pen.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the main prize. A red fox fur donated by Kaiser Furriers. If you please . . . Nadja Horn!' The popular actress, laughing, put her hand in the tub and told the announcer the number of the ticket she had drawn. He spoke in a theatrical voice: And the big prize, ladies and gentlemen, please listen carefully now, the big prize goes to number 1481. I repeat: one - four - eight - one. Who has the winning number 1481?'

'I do,' said Jutta, barely audibly. She let her arm droop feebly.

Jochen kept cool. He took the ticket from her hand. 'You're right. I think you have to go up there now.'

It was like a dream. Past the applauding guests, up the four steps to the platform, the announcer kissing her hand, the actress congratulating her as she helped her into the coat with sisterly feeling, more applause. They were delighted at her table. 'I think I know someone who'll be looking forward to colder weather,' Diana Gerold teased her.

Jutta hugged her. 'Thank you, Frau Gerold, thank you for your wonderful present.'

They went home, happy and slightly tipsy. Jochen helped Jutta up the few steps to their apartment door. When he came into the bedroom she was lying naked on the fox fur on the floor. They made love as passionately as they had back in the Mitropa railway car, and didn't find their way to bed until early on Sunday morning.

Jutta went home at twelve-thirty to make lunch. Frau Gerold stayed in the bookshop, lunching on a little fruit. 'See you tomorrow; she told her assistant.

Jochen called at two. They had just got a telephone. 'Don't wait for me for lunch. Someone from the air-raid defence league is coming to check that the school building's fireproof. As the youngest member of staff it's my pleasure - I don't think - to show the gentleman round.'

She sat under the sun umbrella on the balcony with a plate of risotto. The window boxes of begonias shielded her from prying eyes. After lunch she allowed herself a Juno. She didn't inhale, but blew the smoke into the air. The packet of twenty would last her a whole year. Feeling relaxed, she dozed in the sun until Herr Schnorr, who was hard of hearing, turned his radio to full volume. The lunchtime concert from Reich Radio, conducted by Otto Dobrindt, rang out pitilessly from the open window. No one dared complain. Herr Schnorr was a long-standing Party member, an 'Old Campaigner'. It was said that he had almost entirely ruined his hearing in street fighting against the Communists. Jutta closed the balcony door. She'd talk to Jochen about the noise. They didn't have to put up with that kind of thing, even from someone like Schnorr.

Little Didi Muller rang the bell at four. He came for coaching every Thursday. 'Oh, goodness, I entirely forgot you. My husband is late today. Do you want to wait?' Didi didn't answer. He seemed upset. 'What's the matter, Didi? Aren't you feeling well? Go into the kitchen and I'll make you a peppermint tea.'

The boy obediently went ahead of her. She saw blood on the seat of his trousers. 'My God, Didi, did you hurt yourself?' The twelve-year-old shook his head. 'Don't you want to tell me what happened? Have you been fighting with the other boys? No, what am I saying? I know you've been having coaching with Herr Drechsel.' Didi sobbed. Jutta stroked his hair. 'What happened? You can tell me. I won't tell anyone else, word of honour.'

The boy was rigid as a board. Only after a good deal more encouragement did he relax slightly. Hesitantly, he said, 'He told me to take my trousers down.'

Jutta was shocked. She wouldn't have expected Drechsel to resort to the cane. It was taboo, particularly among the younger masters. And to cane the boy until he bled was barbaric. She got some disinfectant and cotton wool out of the bathroom cupboard. The boy bent his head. 'Don't want to. I want to go home.' Something told her that it was better to let him go.

That evening she told Jochen what had happened. He dismissed it. 'Drechsel doesn't beat the boys, I could swear to that.'

"'He told me to take my trousers down." That's what Didi said. He didn't pluck those words out of thin air.'

'I'll ask Drechsel what happened.'

He brought it up at lunch next day. 'I knew it would be perfectly innocent. Drechsel was just as worried as you. so he told Didi to take his trousers down. Not a trace of blood. The boy had been eating too many sour cherries. They colour the stools red. He'd dirtied his pants.'

A suspicion crept into her mind that this explanation wasn't right. The cherry season was over, and she had never heard of them having that effect.

She met Dr Ohlsen on Saturday in her parents' bar, where he was drinking a beer. 'Hello, Jutta, we hardly ever see you these days.'

'You know I've been married two years. We live in Zehlendorf.'

'Is having babies forbidden there?' the old family doctor teased her. 'Or do you need medical instructions?'

'Neither. Can I ask you something, doctor?'

'Go on.'

She told him about the discoloration of the stools.

'It can happen if someone eats too much beetroot. Out of the question with cherries,' was the medical reply. So Drechsel was lying. In her mind's eye, she saw childish buttocks criss-crossed with bloody weals.

Outside, brakes squealed. A truck drew up, its engine idling. There were loud shouts, and then police officers brought four people out of the house opposite. SA men in brown uniforms lifted the father, mother and two little daughters up on the open flatbed of the truck, which was already crowded with a great many men, women and children. 'They're taking the Jews away all over Berlin,' someone said. 'It's Ki penick's turn today.' The truck slowly moved off again, the valves of its diesel engine ringing.

My God, the professor, though Jutta in dismay. She ran as if the devil were after her. She knew all the short cuts in the neighbourhood, but she was still too late. Professor Georg Raab was already standing in the truck, clutching a small case. A single to Jerusalem!' mocked the fat-necked man in front of her.

The professor's wife Mascha, apologizing courteously, forced her way through the onlookers. Her tall figure in its simple, tweed suit, her distinguished face and velvety, dark eyes, the hair caught in a knot at her neck all made her stand out from the naive, gaping crowd. An SA man barred her way.

'Let me by, please. I'm going with my husband,' Jutta heard her calm voice.

'Hey, ever here the likes of this? Here's one actually volunteering to go!' shouted the SA man.

'My husband is a diabetic. It's his blood sugar. He needs my help.'

'Don't you fret, we'll give him blood sugar!' The SA lout looked around for applause. His companions roared with laughter.

A police officer moved in front of Mascha Raab to protect her. Jutta knew him. He was from the local station, and quite often came to the Red Eagle for a beer. 'Sorry, Frau Raab, they don't take half Jews,' he said regretfully. He seemed unaware of the absurdity of his remark. He made a path for her back to the gate and steered her carefully through. Igor greeted her in the front garden, wagging his tail. She absently tickled him behind the ears, her gaze directed over the heads of the crowd and at her husband.

Jutta stood wedged in the throng. 'Where are the people going, Mama?' one little boy asked. 'To Palestine,' his mother told him. 'It's always sunny there, and oranges grow on the trees.'

'That brown riff-raff, they want hanging,' muttered the man behind them. 'Hush, be quiet, Egon,' his wife warned.

Jutta shook off her paralysis. She worked her way forward, climbed on the truck, flung her arms round the little man with his wreath of grey hair and kissed him on the cheek. 'Hey, let's take the Jew's whore along!' shouted one of the SA men angrily.

The Kopenick policeman lifted her down. You come down to the station with me!' he shouted harshly, grabbing Jutta's arm. Are you crazy?' he whispered. He let her go at the next corner. 'Those SA bandits aren't from around here, and I never saw a thing. You go home, quick.'

There were loud celebrations in the bar. The local football team had beaten Adlershof. She went round behind the counter to help her father. 'They've taken Professor Raab away.' she shouted to him through the noise.

'It was three-nil,' he shouted back with enthusiasm.

Rainer and Isabel Jordan came to visit one Sunday morning in August 1939. They would have created a sensation even without their open Mercedes with its long, long radiator and chrome-plated compressor pipes, Isabel longlegged in a sporty foal-skin coat, her dark-blonde hair tousled from the breeze, Rainer in his smart, fluffy, teddy-bear coat. Their car brought people crowding into the usually peaceful Wilskistrasse. The four friends watched with mischievous pleasure from the living-room window.

Jutta looked at Rainer's profile: his rounded chin thrust slightly forward, his full lips, the strong eyebrows over the straight nose. He had hardly changed at all, was still youthful, if not as carefree as on the day they'd first met. His physical proximity set off that old tingling below her navel.

'Rather nouveau riche.' she teased.

He grinned. 'The fruits of hard labour. I'm working away, day and night. Right now I'm working for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, haggling with the Propaganda Ministry over every Hollywood film that doesn't fit with our sound German national feeling, Shirley Temple excepted. A Swiss watch or a gold tiepin for the head of the relevant ministry department works miracles, along with a couple of cuts in the movie for form's sake. I get paid pretty well by MGM, of course. I'm legal adviser on rights to Tobis Films. And then there are the divorces. You'd be amazed how many would sooner part with their Jewish wives than their movie careers. Riihmann's in a particular hurry. On the other hand, I'm also creating a legal precedent for a wonderful union. Hoppe and Griindgens are supplying each other with male and female playmates, all under cover of their wedding rings.'

'I don't remember you as being quite so cynical,' Jutta marvelled.

'Pure self-defence. Is there a beer anywhere around here?'

'Sure, in the kitchen.' Jochen took his arm.

Isabel stayed in the living room with Jutta. 'How's life with you two?'

'I think Jochen's happy. He throws himself into his work body and soul, he's a born teacher.'

'I can hardly believe I ever wanted to be one too. Sorry, I didn't mean to sound stuck-up. How about you, Jutta?'

'I have Frau Gerold and the bookshop.

'What about your marriage?'

'In bed, you mean? Well, it's kind of OK there. Reliable.'

You fancy a change?'

'Yes, I guess so. But I'm not really on the lookout for an opportunity. Too lazy, too cowardly - probably both.'

Isabel nodded understandingly. 'We sometimes ask a nice couple round to our place.'

'Heavens, Jochen would never go along with that.' Jutta offered Isabel a Juno, but it was refused. She laughed dryly. 'The most erotic thing he can imagine is a Volkswagen. I guess he has that in common with our beloved Fuhrer. Except that I don't suppose the Fuhrer has to stick savings stamps in a book. Jochen is financing his by giving pupils extra coaching. And about coaching, by the way - Drechsel does some coaching too. He beats the boys. He drew blood from little Didi Muller, though of course he denied it when Jochen asked him.'