My Life Among the Apes (6 page)

THE RESTAURANT SARAH HAD chosen had carpets on the walls, shelves lined with bowls, vases of beaten copper. Middle Eastern music played softly. She was already at a table, reading a book. Her hair was tied back, she wore no makeup, and her face looked too thin. A striped scarf was wound around her neck. She looked up and smiled, closing the book as she rose, her face inscrutable to him, secretive. He walked towards the table and as they hugged he kissed her ear.

“Zeyde, you're actually here.”

“I can't quite believe it myself. I was never the sort to just pick up and get on a plane. But then of course I had to run the business ...”

He let the sentence die out, for he didn't want to talk in his usual way, boring the young people. He started again: “I had a very interesting afternoon. I saw the new memorial.”

“Do you want to look at the menu?” Perhaps she hadn't heard him. “Thank goodness for Turkish restaurants. If it wasn't for them I'd have to eat that heavy German food all the time. We can share some dishes, unless you'd rather order your own.”

“I put myself in your hands.”

The waiter arrived and Sarah ordered in German, hesitant but nevertheless impressive. Listening to the waiter answer, he realized that he had been hearing the language spoken all afternoon and that it had sounded not harsh or aggressive but pleasing to the ear. He had once been able to speak a simple Yiddish, but now, with his parents gone almost twenty years, he'd forgotten most of it.

“Do you want a beer?” Sarah said. “German beer really is spectacular.”

“Yes, I would,” he said, although he rarely drank. Nowadays young Jewish people seemed to like their liquor as much as everyone else. Over dinner, he gave a report of the family back home. She told him of difficulties getting a telephone and internet service, here where one expected such services to be quickly and efficiently provided. Mostly she talked about her work, how being in Berlin had changed her perspective; writing about Germany before, she said, had been like trying to describe a wolf without having actually seen one.

Why a wolf? he thought, eating from the delicious little mounds of food and sipping tentatively at the beer. He was thinking about having something sweet when Sarah said, “What time is it? I promised to meet a friend. I hope that's all right, Zeyde. There's a lecture we're supposed to go to.”

He decided not to ask about the “we.” “Of course. Don't worry, I'll make my way back to the hotel. We can get together tomorrow.”

“I'm not so sure about tomorrow. I have a lot to do.”

“Even an hour would be nice. I'm only here for a few days.”

“Sure. How about coffee in the afternoon? We can meet at my favourite café in Kreutzberg. I'll write down the corner. Say three o'clock?”

“Any time is good. I'm not on a schedule.”

ON ANY OF HIS TRIPS with Ida they would have taken a cab home, but the U-Bahn station was right at the corner. He walked onto the platform without passing any barriers and stood in front of the automatic ticket machine, trying to figure out what to punch when a woman in an imitation fur stepped up. There was no need to give the ticket to anyone or get it stamped, she said, but only to hold onto it in case an inspector, disguised as a businessman or a hippy, came through the train. He had to take the U7 line, changing to the U6 and getting off at Stadtmitte. The train he got into was modern and well-lit and he enjoyed the ride until two young men in studded leather jackets and black boots came into the car, each with a Dobermann pinscher on a chain. Were they neo-Nazis or some other sort of dangerous type? Would they notice the little Israeli pin in the lapel of his coat that he'd received for a charitable donation and never wore at home but had put on just before leaving for the airport? But they ignored him, and when his stop came he stood quickly up, pressed the illuminated button by the doors, and got off.

His heart beat fast as he walked to the hotel. Although he felt exhausted, he propped himself up in bed and tried to read
The Clown
. He managed two-and-a-half pages before putting it down and turning out the light. But the timechange kept him awake for a long time.

AT A NEWSSTAND IN HACKESCHER Markt he bought five postcard scenes of Berlin at the end of the war: buildings turned to rubble, smoke and flames rising. He couldn't imagine how people could live with such images of their past on constant display.

He began to walk, his guidebook concealed in the pocket of his cloth overcoat so that he would not look like a tourist. The Germans were a well-dressed people, but then they had grown rich after the war, with the help of America. He would have liked to start a conversation with an actual Berliner, but he had never been the sort of person who could speak to strangers, not like Ida.

He strolled along the River Spree, wide and pleasant, then turned into the small streets. He passed a marionette theatre, several German restaurants, an internet café. He came to a window with a few old carving tools displayed behind it and, peering through the doorway, saw a man in a leather apron working at a bench. On the wall hung violins, their varnish gleaming. A few were unfinished, the bare wood almost white. He'd never paid music the slightest attention but so charmed was he by the sight that he stepped inside.

The man said something in German without looking up and went on with his work, using a small gouging tool to shape the scroll on the end of a neck. Bernie saw piles of roughly cut tops and backs, smelled wood dust and varnish. The gouge hissed softly.

The man in the apron straightened up. He had a large, peanut-shaped face. There was sawdust stuck to his glasses.

“Do you speak English? You do beautiful work.”

“Thank you.”

“My grandson plays violin.”

“Ah, so.”

“Are they very expensive?”

“Not so, I think.”

The man turned and lifted one of his violins off the wall. He held it out for Bernie to take. It was surprisingly light, an egg shell, and looked both new and antique at the same time. He wondered how a person even judged a violin.

“This is very good wood. Spruce from Bosnia. The rest, maple from Switzerland. I polish it for many hours. No one else is doing this but me.”

“You mean that you are the only builder in Berlin?”

“No, no, there are others. I mean, no one else touches this one.”

“I see. How much is it?”

“Three thousand, five hundred Euros. With case and bow.”

In dollars that was perhaps five thousand. Of course he had no intention of actually buying it, but he continued to stand there with the instrument in his hand.

“I can sell for maybe a hundred Euros less.”

He told himself to give it back to the builder, but it remained in his hands.

WALKING THROUGH THE STREETS of Kreutzberg, he held tightly onto the handle of the violin case. Perhaps he would be mistaken for a musician, on his way to have a little coffee before a rehearsal at the Philharmonic. He felt giddy for having spent so much money so impulsively; foolish, certainly, but also triumphant. Music, after all, was the best thing that the Germans had given the world. Who knew, maybe the violin would change his grandson's life. An impulsive gesture could do that.

He fished in his pocket for the address that Sarah had given him, and when he couldn't find it, his heart had a panicky flutter. But no, there it was, lodged between the pages of the guidebook. He looked at the map, found that he was only a block away, hurried now, caught sight of the awning, the small wooden tables and café chairs stacked up. Inside it was crowded and humming with voices, clouded with cigarette smoke. There were music posters on the walls, and handbills at the counter. Nobody in the place looked older than twenty-five. He saw Sarah and moved between the tables towards her, holding up the violin case so as not to smack anyone with it. Only as he got closer did he see that she was sitting with a young man. Wire glasses, a loose sweater of indeterminate colour, with a scarf around his neck. They were speaking quietly. Sarah did not see him until he was by the table.

“Zeyde,” she said, getting up to hug him, more warmly than on their first encounter, although he wondered whether she was doing it for the benefit of the young man.

“I was worried that you would get lost. This is my friend Paul.”

The young man had risen and now took Bernie's hand. “I am glad to meet you. I hope you don't mind my coming.”

“Of course not. I like young people.” What a stupid thing to say. Was he a friend of Sarah's or a boyfriend?

He had some trouble manoeuvring the case under the table. Sarah said, “Is that a violin?”

“I bought it this afternoon. It's for Brent.”

“You bought a violin for Brent?”

“Don't you know that he's taking lessons?”

“May we see it?” Paul asked.

“Sure. Do you play?”

“In school I played the cello. My uncle is quite a good violinist. He plays in a string quartet in Potsdam.”

Bernie had brought the case up and laid it on his lap. He undid the latches and opened the top. Paul whistled softly. “It's very beautiful,” he said.

“Zeyde, Brent is
seven
years old. Aunt Maureen is forcing him to take lessons. He wants to play hockey. And it's full size — it's too big for him.”

Bernie shut the case and closed the latches. “He'll grow into it,” he said gruffly, pushing the case back under the table. The waiter came and he immediately ordered a tea. Sarah and Paul ordered beers. He said to Paul, “Were you born in Berlin?”

“No, in the country, a small village.”

“And both your parents were German?”

“Yes.”

“And your grandparents? They were here, in the thirties, the forties?”

He hadn't meant to sound quite so aggressive; perhaps he was annoyed at Sarah for her skepticism about the violin. Paul said, “Perhaps you are asking if they were in the war. My maternal grandfather was in the navy. He helped to sink two British ships. My paternal grandfather was in the infantry. He was shot by a Russian soldier and lost his leg.”

“Is that what you're asking, Zeyde?”

“The service is very slow here,” Bernie said.

Their drinks came. Sarah looked angry, although he'd hardly done anything wrong. He could hear Ida's sighing voice:
Well, are you happy with your performance this evening? Do you think it makes you look clever?
The only one who didn't seem out of sorts was Paul, who asked Bernie about what he had seen and done in Berlin. He felt a sudden gratitude to the young man.

“Such a nice violin,” Paul said, as Bernie was counting out money for the bill. “Maybe you will learn to play it.”

“It's a little late for that,” Bernie said. “Arthritis. Besides, I don't know a thing about music. I never had the ear for it.”

They got up. Sarah said, almost reluctantly, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I'm going to that concentration camp north of Berlin.” Paul said, “I don't think Jews should visit the camps. I think only Germans should go.”

“Zeyde, maybe it's not a good idea.”

“I was almost fifteen years old when I first heard about them. We saw pictures in the newspapers.”

“I offer to go with you,” Paul said.

“Paul, stop it.”

“Stop what? If your grandfather wants to go to Sachsenhausen, perhaps it's better I go with him. It's confusing to get there. Very tiring by the time you leave. I will come, Bernie.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“Well, I'm definitely not doing this,” Sarah said.

“I didn't mean to cause an argument.”

“There is no argument. What time shall I come to the hotel?”

“Nine o'clock suits me.”

“Okay, good.”

Outside, they stood in the light cast by the café. Bernie took a breath, wondering what to say to ease the grim expression on Sarah's face. But all he managed was “It isn't polluted, not like Paris. There isn't nearly as much traffic.”

They walked him to the U-Bahn. On the train, he wasn't sitting long, the violin in his lap, before his eyes began to close. He snored, woke himself, and blinked at the other passengers, who were not the same as when he had closed his eyes. The train was just pulling out of a station whose name he did not recognize. He must have passed his stop. He stood up, his legs feeling weak, and, clutching the violin case, waited by the doors. It took several minutes to arrive at the next station, where he impatiently pushed the button for the doors to open.

The platform was deserted; even the sandwich kiosk was closed. He walked to the iron stairs and climbed to the entrance, but there were no officials here either. He felt his confidence seep away and didn't trust himself to get back on a train and return the way he had come. Instead, he would look for a taxi. Here the night was gloomy, the station surrounded by trees in full leaf and, more distant, office buildings. A few cars went by, but no taxis. He was trying to decide whether he had any choice but to risk the U-bahn again when something smacked him hard from behind, propelling the violin case from his hands as he fell forward. Sharp pains stabbed his hands and knees and he could only stay where he was, trying to catch his breath.

People leaned towards him, their faces close, speaking German.

“I'm all right. I can get up now.”

“English?” a woman said. She took his arm as he rose. “Teenage girls. They are now as bad as the boys. They stole your violin.”

His first thought was that he wouldn't tell Sarah.

HE AND PAUL TOOK A long train ride and then walked from the station through what looked like suburban streets. New houses with satellite dishes and painted garden elves had been built right up against the walls of the camp. He spent six hours inside, peering into the barracks, the prison yard, the infirmary, the pit for mass executions, the remains of the crematorium. In almost every building an enormous amount of information was displayed on large panels that could be pushed aside like leaves in a giant book: historical timelines, biographies of inmates, reproduced documents, far more than he could read in a dozen visits. No horror was softened, no cruelty excused. There had been no children and families here, thank God, but instead political dissidents, Jewish radicals, captured Soviet soldiers. He read about a German arrested and brought to the camp for being a homosexual. There was a photograph of him from before the war, a man with short hair happily posing in a dress and high heels in front of a doorway. Bernie found himself almost unable to look away from it, perhaps because it seemed so ordinary and comforting.