Shadows of Berlin полностью

Rachel smiles grimly. “Me? I was only a burden. She needed someone to share her love of art. To share her love of herself, really. To hold the mirror for her genius. But I could not do that. A child was a constant distraction. She made that very clear to me. And my uncle? His admiration was too tainted by his commercial interests. Selling Eema’s genius by the pound, you know? Like a commodity. No, my mother was lonely. Very lonely. Until…”

The doctor waits patiently. Until?

“Until,” says Rachel, “her muse appeared.”

She returns home in a drizzle. The stairwell is stuffy with the dampness of the day as she plods upward. Opening the door to their apartment, she is met by the sight of her husband stuffed into the gossip bench, talking again to his sister. Rachel listens and notes how, as usual, Aaron’s tone has changed now that his wife has intruded. He is more public in his summation, wrapping things up. “Okay, okay, yeah. So anyhow, like I said. I just wanted to say, ya know, that I was sorry that things didn’t work out for you and Tyrell, and I’m sorry for being a jerk to the guy.”

He’s looking at Rachel as if to say: See? I’m not a complete putz. “And look. I know he gave you the dough to pay me back for the bond, but why don’t you just hold on to it?” Suddenly Mr. Generosity. “I dunno, pay your rent on time. Go buy a couple cheesecakes at Lindy’s or something. Give one to Ma next time she drops by. She’s gotta close her mouth at least to eat.” And then, “Look, I gotta go,” he declares next. “Rachel just came home.” Then, with a quick “’Kay, bye,” he clamps the phone’s receiver firmly into the cradle. “That was Naomi,” he announces.

“Yes,” says Rachel. “It sounds like she’s doing better.”

He shrugs. “I guess. I mean, yeah. She sounded pretty good. And you know how she is. One of these guys dumps her, she falls apart, but then in a couple days, she’s off to the races again.”

Rachel nods blankly. She feels detached from this conversation. “So now you’re sorry for being a putz? Now that you can afford to be?”

Aaron scrunches up his expression. “Huh?”

Shaking her coat, she hangs it on the hall tree and steps out of her shoes. “Now that they’ve broken apart, and you no longer must worry about the race of future nieces and nephews. Now you can afford to apologize. That’s all I’m saying.”

“So.” Her husband frowns. “Let me get this straight. First, I’m a putz who should apologize, and then when I do, I’m still a putz because it was too easy.”

Rachel crosses to the refrigerator and pops it open. “Yep.”

“So what you’re really saying is the husband can’t catch a fuckin’ break.”

She removes the last Ballantine and shuts the refrigerator door with a clunk. “We’re out of beer,” she announces. “You should go see your sweetheart at the liquor store.”

***

Rashka has been separated from her mother, deposited into a bland little room by a large SS man and left there seated in a chair. It is a harshly lit place with an old oak table at the center. On the wall? A framed photograph, not of the leader of the German Volk but of the SS-­Reichsführer, Heinrich Himmler. A soft, puffy schoolmaster’s face with pince-­nez glasses. She is staring at the face when the door opens and the red-­haired Fräulein sweeps in. Rashka stands as she’s been trained to do when an adult enters the room, which seems to amuse the woman. She smiles as she occupies a chair like a throne and ignites a cigarette.

“You’re so grown up, aren’t you, Bissel? When last we saw each other, you were still a little brat. But look how you’ve blossomed. A little more meat on your bones and you might be attractive in a sprightly way.”

Rashka does not know how to react to this. But the woman does not wait for a reaction. “Sit,” she instructs. “Your momma and I have had a little talk.”

Rashka sits obediently and waits.

“I’ve decided to take you on, Bissel,” the woman tells her. “To take you on as my student,” she says. “Isn’t that good news?”

But Rashka is confused. A student? She swallows. “Pardon me, gnä’ Fräulein?”

This response seems to aggravate the woman. “You didn’t expect a free ride, did you?” she demands to know. “You’re not here on a holiday, Bissel. You must earn your keep like anyone else. Like me. Like your uncle. Even Herr Kommandant Dirkweiler. Even he must work, so I hope you didn’t expect to be treated differently.”

Rashka swallows. “No, gnä’ Fräulein.”

“Good,” the woman tells her, seemingly mollified. She expels smoke and inhales it smoothly back through her nostrils. “Because otherwise, I’ll have you and your mother transported east,” she explains. “But you’re a good little goat, aren’t you? Isn’t that what your momma calls you, Bissel? Her little goat? Yes. I can see that you are. You’ll do your best for us all.”