Good-bye Marianne (3 page)

M
arianne looked through the living-room window. The first snow of winter was coming down in great blobs, and settling on the square yard that all the tenants shared. The neatly dug flower beds, the two chestnut trees, and the narrow bench were already covered with a thin white layer.

Marianne hoped last year’s skates would fit her, though the way things were going, she probably wouldn’t be allowed to skate on the river Spree this year. The list of forbidden activities was piling up like the compost heap by the back fence.

An apron hung stiffly on the line. One of the Misses Schmidt (Marianne always found it difficult to tell the old ladies apart) hurried out with a shawl over her head, to bring in the washing. The scrawny cat, Sweetie, who wasn’t in the least “sweet,” picked her way daintily after her mistress, wanting to be let in out of the cold.

Marianne heard the back door slam twice. You had to give it a good tug in damp weather to make it close. The Schmidt sisters were elderly, their hands were gnarled with arthritis, and they never managed to shut the door properly the first time. Sometimes her father carried groceries up the stairs for them. When Mrs. Schwartz wasn’t around, they’d be really friendly and stop to chat with her.

“Dear child, how was school today?”

Marianne would bob a curtsy – she knew the old ladies appreciated a well brought-up child.

The afternoon loomed endlessly. She turned away from the window and switched on the radio. Didn’t the network ever broadcast anything but marching tunes?

Marianne sprawled on the deep couch. The room was getting dark and it was only half past two. She hoped her mother hadn’t had any trouble getting to the meeting. The Rabbi’s house was right next to the synagogue, which had been burned in last week’s anti-Jewish demonstrations.

The Menorah gleamed on the mantelpiece. Hanukkah in four weeks, her favorite time of the year. She’d never forget that time two years ago in the synagogue when the Rabbi reminded the congregation that the festival was about more than gift giving, was more than a children’s holiday. “Thousands of years ago, at another time of persecution, a small group of Jews fought against overwhelming odds, for religious freedom. The Menorah tells the world our spirit will never die,” he had said. “Let Hanukkah be as important for us as Passover and Purim.”

Marianne hoped her grandparents would come from Düsseldorf as usual. They’d all miss Uncle Frank and Aunt Grethe though, and without Ruth she’d be the only child at the table. Nothing stayed the same.

What was she going to do this afternoon without school to go to? There’d be lots of afternoons like this now. Would she always feel this restless? Maybe she’d read – work her way through every book in the room. Just last month her father had finished putting up another shelf to hold all the books he kept bringing home. Mutti complained she couldn’t reach the top ones to dust. Soon they’d run out of wall space.

Marianne helped herself to a peppermint from the cut glass dish on the coffee table beside her. This wasn’t too bad. Right this minute her class was cleaning up after gym, the final class of the day. She could imagine Beate and Gertrude planning the first winter snowball fight and, of course, looking very innocent when a teacher walked by.

“I hope Miss Friedrich walks right into a snowball!” Marianne spoke aloud. When she was younger, she and her father had built a snowman in the yard with bits of coal for eyes and a long carrot nose. She’d wound a muffler round his neck, and cried when the snow melted.

Marianne’s first school photograph stood on the coffee table. She was holding a big paper cone packed with treats. The cone was almost as big as she was. Every child in the first class had one. Marianne remembered the feel of the shiny blue and silver paper, the stiff paper frill around the top, and the taste of the
first chocolate. It did sweeten school, and she had loved it from that first day.

Five years ago, 1933. It seemed so long ago. The same year the Nazis came to power. Her parents talked of a time before the Brown Shirts, before the red flags with their black swastikas were hung from every building, before the anti-Jewish slogans were scrawled on every wall –
JEWS NOT WANTED HERE.

She even remembered when school was different. Now kids refused to sit next to her, and she was hardly ever allowed to play with the others at recess. She felt humiliated having to ask permission to join them.

Every day there seemed to be another regulation that made life a bit harder for her. Instead of saying, “Good Morning” to the teachers, the class had to say
“Heil Hitler,”
and raise their right arms to salute the
Führer.
She never knew what to do about it. She hated to join in, but she’d be in trouble if she didn’t. Well, that was one problem she didn’t have to worry about anymore.

Her grandmother always said, “Look on the bright side.”

Marianne looked at the photograph of herself when she was six – hair cut in bangs straight across her forehead, a big bow stuck on top of her head. Why couldn’t she have naturally curly hair like her mother? No, she looked like her father – skinny, with straight brown hair. She wouldn’t mind having glasses like him – they’d make her look older!

The radio blared out the shrill voice, familiar to every man, woman and child in Germany: “One people, one country, one
Führer.”

’Thank goodness there’s only one of him.’ Marianne began goose-stepping around the room, her legs raised high in imitation of the military. She liked the way her navy blue skirt billowed out, and then fell back into tidy pleats.

Marianne switched off the radio and ran into her bedroom, the one place that had always calmed her. She loved her little room, especially since she and her mother had redecorated it for her last birthday. It held all the things she loved most: her teddy bear, skinny from so much hugging; the scratched oak desk that used to belong to Grandfather; and the bookshelf her father had made specially for her, along which marched a parade of glass animals that only she was allowed to dust.

The wallpaper was a very pale yellow, cream almost. It was covered with sprigs of tiny rosebuds, each one with a dark green leaf. Her mother had found a green silky material that exactly matched, and made a new cover for her eiderdown to replace the babyish pink one she’d had for years.

Marianne looked out of the window; it was still snowing. The people who lived in the house on the other side of the lane had their kitchen lights on. When she went on errands, they never said hello anymore – lots of their neighbors looked away when they passed by now.

Marianne drew her muslin curtains, and then opened her sock drawer. That’s where she kept her money box. Today was a perfect time to buy her mother’s birthday present. Mutti’s birthday was only three weeks away and Marianne longed to give her something really special.

She kept her allowance (when she didn’t spend it) in an empty cigar box that she’d wheedled out of her grandfather. Opa and Vati loved their Sunday Coronas. She lifted the lid and breathed in the rich “party” smell of the tobacco that still lingered in the box. Her mother and grandmother always made a big fuss of opening windows to get rid of the blue haze of the cigar smoke.

Marianne counted her money. She had seven marks. She’d been saving for a bike to ride to school, so she had much more than last year.

Marianne buttoned her new winter coat, put on a scarf and beret, and remembered the spare front-door key hanging on the hook behind the kitchen door. She locked the door and ran downstairs.

M
arianne stood on the front steps and stuck out her warm tongue to capture the snowflakes. The sensation of melting snow was almost as good as eating ice cream. Marianne turned around slowly, her face up to the wintry skies. She stopped when she noticed the curtains of Number One twitch, and became aware of a face partly hidden by the muslin folds. Staring. Eyes. Berlin was full of eyes. Everyone was watching everyone else.

The street was quiet at this time in the afternoon. She was debating whether to take a streetcar to save time, when she saw a group of young men in Hitler Youth uniform handing out pamphlets. One grabbed her arm.

“Heil Hitler.
Here, sweetheart, take this home to your parents.” He pushed the pamphlet into her gloved hand. She didn’t dare throw it away, but walked on. A voice shouted after her, “Say ‘Heil Hitler’ next time.” Marianne heard them laughing, and the same voice said, “No respect, these kids.”

What would they have done if they’d known she was a Jew? Marianne shuddered, remembering Inge Bauer. She still had a bruise under her chin. She pulled her scarf up around her face.

Marianne turned down a side street. “I won’t run, I won’t.”

Her mother always said, “If I had a magic wand, I’d use it to make you invisible. Meanwhile, whatever happens, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Marianne forced herself to continue her walk. She passed
Fraülein
Marks’s ladies’ and children’s wear. The door was boarded up and a big sign on the glass said,
KEEP OUR STREETS JEW FREE
.

Marianne, hurrying past, slipped on the icy cobblestones. Trying to break her fall, she landed on her right knee. There was a hole in her woolen stocking, and she’d skinned her knee. It hurt.

The pamphlet she’d been holding lay face up in the snow. The headline glared at her:

Underneath was a cartoon of an old man wearing a yarmulke – the skullcap that orthodox Jewish men wore. The cartoon showed a face with a huge hooked nose and sidelocks.

Marianne was used to propaganda, to the ugly slogans she’d seen ever since she had learned to read, but she felt sick for a moment. It was a feeling she was getting used to. Was this what
Hitler wanted, to make kids feel they were hated and not wanted by anyone?

Marianne walked on. When she reached Taubenstrasse she heard footsteps behind her. Was she imagining that she was being followed, or were the Hitler Youth out to teach her a lesson? She knew they needed no excuse to twist an arm, or worse if you weren’t one of them, and they were everywhere.

Marianne walked on for a few paces, listening. Then she stopped abruptly and looked into the window of a small leather-goods store. The footsteps stopped. Marianne walked more quickly. Her knee was bleeding; she could feel the drops trickling down her leg. There was a marketplace at the end of the street. There’d be lots of people there.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and a voice said, “Don’t be scared, it’s only me.” The sound of the motor-horn echoed in the quiet afternoon. Marianne whirled round. Ernest grinned at her. “I followed your tracks in the snow – watched you out of the window too. You’re a fast walker. Did you hurt yourself just now?”

“I grazed my knee. It’s bleeding a bit. You are cheeky following me. Why didn’t you say something?” Marianne wasn’t going to let this country boy do as he liked in
her
city.

“Don’t be mad. I’ve got to practise tracking suspects if I’m going to be a detective. Now, hold out your leg. Go on – I’ve got my first-aid badge.”

Ernest took a handkerchief out of his pocket and folded it into a narrow bandage. Marianne held onto the wall for support,
and raised her knee. Ernest knelt in the snow and bound up her leg most professionally. He finished by tying the bandage with a reef knot.

“Thanks, that feels better. I knew I was being followed. I never guessed it was you, though. I have to buy a birthday present for my mother – you can come if you like,” said Marianne.

“Shopping!” Ernest groaned. “That’s all you women ever do. But I can smell something cooking, and I’m starved. Let’s go.”

Taubenstrasse led into a small square. Market stalls were set up, and a mixture of the most delicious smells filled the snowy air: hot chestnuts, gingerbread, fresh-baked rolls, oranges and vats of sauerkraut.

Ernest went straight to a sausage stall. A woman wearing a shawl over a man’s overcoat topped by a huge white apron turned fat sausages on an open grill. They sizzled over the fire. The woman stamped her feet in her heavy work boots.

“Who’s next?”

“We are. Two
weisswurst
, please,” said Ernest. “Is that what you’d like, with mustard?” Ernest looked at Marianne. She hesitated for just a minute. She’d never eaten one before. She felt as if
she
were the tourist in Berlin, not Ernest.

“Please,” she nodded.

The woman speared two sausages, spread them thickly with mustard, and put one in each of two crisp, white rolls. She gave Marianne the first one. “Good appetite,” she said.

Ernest had grandly refused to let Marianne pay. She took a bite. Juice dribbled down her chin; mustard dripped from Ernest’s.
They ignored the mess, looked at each other and laughed. No one took any notice.

Afternoon shoppers hurried to finish making their purchases before dark.

“What we need now…” said Marianne.

“…is gingerbread,” finished Ernest, eyeing a stall piled high with honey cakes, chocolate pretzels, gingerbread mice with sugar whiskers, and gingerbread houses, dolls and animals.

“My treat, but don’t take all afternoon,” said Marianne. “I still have to get my mother’s present.”

Ernest chose a gingerbread soldier with a chocolate sword, and Marianne said, “I’ll have a tree, please.” She handed over twenty pfennigs for their purchases, and began to nibble her way round the outline of the triangles edged with white icing.

One year she had passed Mrs. Schwartz’s door, and had been allowed to peek at her Christmas tree. She’d never forgotten the fresh smell of the pine, and the bright ornaments hanging from every bough. The warmth of the candle flames, flickering in their holders on the branches, was the most magical thing she’d ever seen. Somehow, eating gingerbread in this peaceful square had reminded her of that.

Ernest, his mouth full, said, “This is absolutely the best gingerbread in the world, and I’m an expert, because my grandmother works in a bakery in Freibourg.”

They walked round till they came to a stall selling carved walking sticks, wooden whistles, ornaments and toys. Marianne looked for something that would appeal to her mother.

“My sister, Anna, wants a doll from Berlin. Your advice will be gratefully accepted,” said Ernest, trying out a walking stick whose handle was carved in the shape of an eagle. Marianne realised that Ernest was embarrassed to be seen looking at toys. She thought it was really nice of him to think of his sister.

“How old is Anna?”

“Nearly six. She’s the baby in the family, so of course she’s spoiled. She might like this.” He pulled the strings of a ferocious-looking jumping jack.

Marianne picked up a small jointed doll with real braided hair, the golden ends tied in red bows to match the doll’s skirt and the braiding on the black bodice. Her blue eyes and spiky eyelashes were carefully painted; her wooden face had a sprinkling of freckles, rosy cheeks and a mouth that looked surprised.

“Your little sister would like this. Look at the embroidery on the sleeves – it’s perfect,” said Marianne.

“You’re right,” said Ernest.

The doll cost three marks. While it was being wrapped, Marianne noticed a careful arrangement of music boxes. She particularly admired one which had a delicate carving of flowers on each corner of the polished wooden lid. The stall owner turned the key, and Marianne hummed along with the familiar tune. It was a lullaby her mother used to sing to Marianne when she was little, to comfort her when she awoke in the dark:

The man asked Marianne, “Do you like Brahm’s ‘Cradle Song,’ Miss?”

“Yes. My mother taught it to me. She would love this music box,” said Marianne. “Is it very expensive?”

“It costs four marks, young lady. It is my own carving.”

Marianne gave him a five-mark note and said, “Thank you very much. It’s a beautiful box – all your things are beautiful.” The man wrapped the box, handed Marianne the change and said, “I’m glad my work will find a good home. Come back again.”

The street lamps came on. A man trundled a wooden cart over the cobblestones. On it was a gramophone. The man turned the handle. A Wagner march filled the air. Ernest went over to him, and put a coin in a tin cup standing on the trolley.

“He says he’s a war veteran – he’s only got one leg,” he said to Marianne.

The snow started to gently fall again.

“Let’s go home,” said Marianne, and they turned to leave. As they reached the edge of the square where the row of apartment houses stood, a scream of tires disturbed the winter afternoon.