Shadows of Berlin полностью

When Rashka is returned to her mother, they have been moved to a different room. The Unterkunft Zimmer it’s called. The room of accommodation, where Feter Fritz sleeps with the rest of the Jewish lager workers. “The gnä’ Fräulein says I must work, Eema,” she whispers to her mother on the straw mattress they share.

“Yes, Rokhl,” her mother answers.

“That I must be her ‘student.’”

“Yes, Rokhl,” her mother says again. Her face gray. Her voice leaden.

“But I don’t know what that means, Eema.”

“It means that you are saving our lives, tsigele,” her mother answers. “No matter what she asks of you—­no matter how terrible it might feel—­you must obey her. Do you understand that, child? You must obey her.”

26.

The Good Hour

The inevitable telephone call comes to pass. Feter, restrained. Not exactly apologetic but checking his tendencies toward embellishment and hyperbole. His subtle chutzpah curbed. He speaks of the future of art. At least the future of art where Rachel’s work is concerned. He has an ace or two up his sleeve. Still a few contacts that might surprise her. With her talent and his kop for art business?

“So am I the only one who sees the possibilities?” he wonders. She cannot help but relax into his tenderly optimistic trap.

At home, her husband is not very thrilled to hear about any such possibility as doing business with her uncle. “So he’ll take like a commission?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ten percent?” His voice raises. “Fifteen percent?”

“I don’t know, Aaron. We didn’t discuss it.”

“No? Well, why not? I mean, let’s face it—­your uncle…” he says but doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“He says we’d have a contract.” Which is true. This was the agreement when they spoke over the phone. Everything aboveboard. Everything in writing. That was the price of Feter’s ticket back into Rachel’s life. “That he’d have a lawyer draw it up so there’d be no confusion.”

“Yeah, well. Whose lawyer? That’s my question. One of those shysters downtown who specialize in chasing ambulances?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Rachel tells him.

“It means, honey, that we gotta be careful is all. I know, Fritz is your family, but we just gotta be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And we will be. As it’s said, we’ll take one step before the next.”

“Yeah,” Aaron replies. “Is that what is said? Also one step at a time, that is said too, and you wanna know what else? Don’t stick your head in the lion’s mouth. This is also said.”

“Are you upset,” she asks, “because you don’t trust Feter? Or are you upset by the idea that I might actually have some kind of career?”

“Career?” Aaron repeats the word. “What are you talking about, career?”

“That Feter Fritz might actually find a gallery willing to take me on. Willing to show my work.”

Aaron frowns. “Honey,” he says. Trying not to sound smug as he explains the facts. But not trying very hard. “What artwork? What have you got? Not much as far as I can see. You got a bunch of little sketches. And you got a big, empty canvas without a spot of paint on it. That’s all.”

Rachel stares. She would like to hate him at this moment. She would like to, but how can she? He’s only speaking the truth.

Daylight. She wakes to the sound of clanking. To bumping and banging. She shakes sleep from her mind and dons her pink chenille robe, following the noise out of the bedroom, where she discovers her husband seated at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, smoking a cigarette. “Ah, the lady of the house emerges,” he says but in a loaded tone, as if he’s talking to someone else and not her. Kneeling on the linoleum by the kitchen sink with a toolbox is? The German.

Rachel stops. Wraps her robe tightly across her chest.

“Mr. Bauer here came by to replace the trap in the sink,” her husband informs her. “Apparently he’s had a hard time catching anyone at home. So lucky I was up early.”

“Good morning. Missus Perlman,” the Boche says, as if he’s as innocent as any dumb animal.

She frowns, feeling her heart thump. Her first instinct is to retreat to the bedroom and lock the door. But “Good morning,” she mumbles in return. Pushing through the panic, she circles around her husband to an empty chair.

“I made coffee,” Aaron says, nodding toward the stainless-­steel percolator.

“You made coffee?”

“Somehow, I managed.” Then he confesses. “Actually, it’s only the instant stuff. I just stuck it in the percolator and poured in the water.”

Rachel swallows. Blinks at her distorted reflection in the percolator’s shiny stainless-­steel skin.

“So Mr. Bauer here was telling me about how he came to America, honey,” her husband enlightens her. Obviously he is trying to prove a point. Trying to teach her a lesson. “He comes from… What was the name of the town again, Mr. Bauer?”

“I come from Rengschburch in Bayerich, Mr. Perlman,” the German declares. “I think in America it is called Regensburg. In Bavaria.”

“And you said you immigrated here when? In forty-­seven? Is that right?”