Shadows of Berlin полностью

The Grosse Hamburger Strasse

November 1943. After four years, the weight of the war is depressing daily life in Berlin. Ersatz tobacco and greasy margarines are commonplace, as are meat shortages and leather shortages, while chemical substitutes of every ilk abound. Long lines lead to short tempers. Everyone’s patching and mending and re-­mending, and everyone smells stale. The newsreels and headlines are still shrill about ultimate victory, but even the Propaganda Ministry cannot fully camouflage the truth. Hamburg has been incinerated by the British Royal Air Force. And while huge flak towers have been erected around Berlin, bristling with antiaircraft guns, the city remains a regular target for bombers.

In the darkened cinema mezzanine, Angelika listens to a fanfare of trumpets. An iron eagle perched on a wreathed hooked cross is silhouetted by a sunburst as the newsreel title unspools: “Die Deutsche Wochenschau.” Angelika gazes up at the images and listens to the newsreel’s narrator’s bombastic tone. On the screen, at least, the Wehrmacht advances! Victory is still inevitable even in defeat.

She is bundled up against the cold in clothes that are ill fitting and patched. Ten years before, modeling for Lavinia, she’d been dressed in silks from the finest designers. She walked Berlin in the most fashionable shoes. Tuition had been paid for her classes at a well-­known fashion school. She thought she was finally free of the scrimping life. The miserly life of the Barn Quarter. Counting pennies, counting buttons. But then everything was stolen from her, step by step, year by year, until she had nothing left but her looks. Nothing but the green of her eyes and the flame of her hair.

Now she is scrounging her clothing from street markets and rubbish bins because at least these clothes do not include “the yellow ornament” as her father calls it. The Judenstern. She had tried to design stylish cloaks and dresses that could absorb the star into their color combinations, that could truly transform the badge into an ornament of fashion. But ration coupons for material were beyond her grasp. And then? Deportation orders had arrived for her and for her mother. Her mamme was frightened. She didn’t want to go underground, she wanted to obey the authorities, she wanted to report as commanded, but Angelika’s father had refused to allow this. Tatte did not believe the propaganda. At least Angelika can be grateful to him for that. Jewish resettlement camps with work, but also food and warm clothing? What Nazi potentate would invest in that? Think! What was more likely? There were already terrible stories circulating of mass executions and special camps for gassing. No, they would not report. He had stashed away a bit of money. They must go into hiding, Tatte insisted.

Now, up in the mezzanine of a cinema, Angelika’s mother is sunk in beside her daughter. She is also bundled in frayed clothes. Mamme was once a stunning beauty, as she likes to remind anyone who will listen. She could have married a banker’s son. Oh yes. He was interested, and he was a smart man too. He would have seen it all coming. She’s sure of this. Now she could have been living in safety and comfort in Cuba or perhaps South America, in a big house with servants, but instead she picked love like a fool. Her looks are all gone now. Worn away. She looks half-­starved and exhausted. There is something jittery, high-­strung, and childlike about her. With an edgy whisper, she clutches her daughter’s arm. “Something must have happened.”

Nothing is said.

“He should have been here by now.”

Still, no words spoken by her daughter.

“Something must have happened. Gelika. Are you listening to me?”

Nothing.

“I said, ‘Are you listening to me?’”

“I heard what you said, Mamme,” Angelika tells her. “Please be quiet.”

Silence between them. Then, “Where has he gotten to?”

“Mamme, please. He’s coming. Just stay calm.” Angelika returns to gazing at the newsreel, but her mother is clearly not comforted.

“Something must have happened.”

But then there he is, thank God for that, if there is a God to thank. Angelika’s father is squeezing into the chair beside her mother. He is still a handsome man, Tatte, with a silvering beard, though poorly barbered. His face is terribly careworn and his eyes heavy like lead. He wears a hat that’s lost its shape and an oversized coat, and he grips a kraft-paper envelope, pressing it tightly against him.

Her mother gushes with raw relief. “Oh, blessed is the name, Tatte, you’re here. But you’re so late.”

“It took time, Mamme,” he says. “It’s not a simple business.”

“Well, never mind,” his wife says dismissively. “At least we can be thankful now it’s over.”

“Not quite.”

His words take a moment to sink in.