Two
Two
F rom my window seat, sitting in a nest of comfortable cushions, I keep watch on Fritzschestrasse.
With luck, Walter might appear, hands shoved in his short-trouser pockets, scuffing his shoes, looking for Karl.
But the road stays resolutely empty. Through the branches of the cherry tree, I see an old couple emerge from one of the elegant white town houses across the street.
They have a shaggy-haired black dog with them.
His tongue lolls from his mouth, giving the impression he’s smiling.
In the flat, we had no room for a dog, but Mutti can’t say that anymore. I go in search of her.
Bertha is in the kitchen, wiping floury hands on her apron. “Your mother has a headache,” she explains. “She went to lie down.”
“How can anyone want to go to bed in the middle of the day?”
“I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Bertha sniffs, kneading a mound of dough. “Anything I can help you with?”
“We should get a dog. A big house like this needs one.”
“I see. Well, that can wait until your mother gets up. Besides, she might not want a dog.” She stops kneading and pounds the dough on the board. The muscles of her forearms flex beneath her mottled skin.
“Shall I wake her, do you think?”
“No, Fr?ulein Herta. I don’t think.”
I sigh and wander out onto the street. The old couple are shuffling across the road in the distance. I catch up with them.
“Good morning. May I stroke your dog? My name is Hetty. I live in the big house across the street from you.”
The old man is dressed in a brown day suit and tie with a Homburg hat perched neatly on his head. The woman, tiny and frail, in a thin coat despite the warmth of the day, flickers her eyes at her husband.
He clears his throat and says quietly to her, “She’s just a child, Ruth.” He turns to me. “Of course. His name is Flocke, and I am Herr Goldschmidt.”
Flocke wags his tail so hard that his body snakes and twists.
“Aren’t you friendly?” Crouching down, I giggle as he jumps his two front paws on my knees and tries to lick my ears.
“Perhaps I could take him to the park for you?” I look up at the Goldschmidts. They really are very old and Flocke can’t ever have a proper run. “I’m good with dogs. I shan’t lose him or anything.” I stand and look responsible.
Frau Goldschmidt answers this time. “You can’t take the dog.” Her tone is hard and sour, as though she has just swallowed lemon pips. “I won’t allow it, after what happened.”
I take a step backward. Perhaps she doesn’t like children.
“Come on now, Ruth. There’s no need for that. Let’s go.” Herr Goldschmidt tugs on his wife’s arm, but she doesn’t move and her dark eyes narrow into snake-slits.
“Your father”—she sounds like she’s hissing the words—“forced them out. Those trumped-up charges. The campaign in that paper of his. It was criminal... all lies and falsehoods...”
“Ruth! Please!” Herr Goldschmidt shakes her arm, but she is unstoppable, trembling and spitting her words at me.
“The Druckers were good people. Successful. But that creates jealousy, doesn’t it? Envy from lesser folk. And now there he sits, like a lord, in his stolen house...”
“ Ruth !” Herr Goldschmidt’s voice is high and sharp. He turns back to me. “I’m sorry for my wife’s words, she’s not herself today...”
But by now I’m certain the old woman is a witch and I’m running hard and fast away from them, before she can spray me with poisonous spit. I don’t stop until I’m safely inside my iron gate, my heart thudding like racehorse hooves in my chest.
A car is parked outside in the street, and I find a young woman standing in the hallway wrapped like a fat bockwurst in a tight brown suit.
She has chubby cheeks, a snub nose, and the thickest lips I’ve ever seen.
Her hair is the color of a paper bag, plaited and so fiercely wrapped around the top of her head that the skin above her ears is taut and red. She gives me a surprised look.
“Hello,” she says in a kind voice. “I’m Fr?ulein Müller. And you must be Herta?”
Vati, big as a bear and smart in his stiff Schutzstaffel uniform, appears from the study. He hands a couple of thin document folders to Fr?ulein Müller.
“Hello, Schnuffel. I’m afraid I must leave you for a couple of days. I have to go to Berlin, on SS business.” He hugs me, pressing my head into his chest. The hard buckle on his leather chest strap digs into my cheek. “Where’s your mother? Hélène, Hélène !” His voice reverberates in his chest.
“Franz?” Mutti, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a floaty dress, evidently recovered from her headache, glides in from the back garden, a bunch of flowers in one hand, scissors in the other. Karl trails in behind her. “What are you doing home so early?” Mutti asks in surprise.
“Ah, there you are. Hélène, this is Hilda Müller, my new secretary.” The young woman smiles and nods at Mutti.
“Listen, I have to travel to Berlin. It’s urgent—more trouble with the Communists.
” He sighs. “But I must also finish my weekly editorial for the Leipziger this afternoon so the copy is ready for tonight’s deadline.
Fr?ulein Müller will accompany me to organize that.
” He stops suddenly and rubs his hands over his face, kneading his eyes with the tips of his fingers.
Poor Vati is exhausted with his two jobs.
“Will you stay with Oma Annamaria?” Karl asks.
“Not if I can help it,” Vati replies swiftly.
“What I meant to say,” he adds, “was I shall visit my mother if I have the time, but I’m likely to be far too busy.
” He turns to Mutti. “I’ll telephone this evening,” he says, taking her hands and kissing her on the cheek.
“Good-bye, Schnuffel,” he says to me. “Be good for your mother.”
“Yes, Vati.” I look up to his face, framed by slicked-back, fair hair. I search his pale eyes for affection and hope he sees only goodness in mine. But he is already looking at his watch.
“We must go.” He turns to Karl. “I’m leaving you in charge, young man. Take care of your sister and mother.”
We stand at the front door and watch Vati and Fr?ulein Müller climb into the waiting sleek black car. The woman’s skirt is so tight it scrunches up around her thighs as she gets in. Her behind is large and round and she waddles like a goose.
“Mutti,” I say, once they have gone, “the Goldschmidts, who live across the road, told me Vati stole this house. But how can you steal a house?”
Mutti whirls around and stares at me. “They said what? Why were you talking to them?”
“They’ve got a little dog. I just wanted to stroke it. Can I have a dog now we live here?”
“You mustn’t talk to such people.”
“I only wanted to pet the dog.”
“But they are Jews , Hetty.”
The word sends a shiver down my back. How was I to know? Karl wrinkles his nose and says, “Dirty pigs, Jews.”
“They have nothing better to do than spread evil lies,” Mutti says, her voice firm.
I watch her put the flowers in a vase and fill it with water.
“That is what these people do. It’s very important you don’t speak with them again.
These are difficult times. That’s why Vati does all this work for the SS as well as running the newspaper.
They must protect Hitler and ban all the parties who seek to oppose him.
Pick your friends carefully, Hetty. Stick only with good Germans, like us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mutti.”
I follow her back outside, not wanting to be on my own.
I look around the bushes and flowers at the edge of the garden.
Everything looks calm and friendly, but I can feel the evil hovering outside the safety of our iron railings, and I shudder.
I imagine a great big guard dog, patrolling the garden.
Just the idea of it makes me feel safer.