Though she hadn’t known Rainer well, she felt his absence everywhere in the weeks to come—huge gaps where his body had once displaced the air, gaps that had a sadness stored in them. Soon, it was like that for everyone in Burgdorf: if you walked into one of those gaps, sadness would pack itself around your body, invoking other long-forgotten sorrows—the death of a loved one, say, or the loss of something you’d dared believe was yours forever—making your body expand with that sorrow until it filled the gap that the fat boy had vacated. You tried to bypass those gaps as they sighed to you with the yearning of a restless ghost, but more often than not you’d be drawn in despite your caution.
That sadness spread throughout Burgdorf like a malady, exacerbating old ailments, tinging even the political speeches and parades with a grainy melancholy that settled upon everyone like sand, muffling the Horst Wessel song, “Wenn das Judenblut vom Messer spritzt…”—“When the Jew blood spurts from the knife”—slowing down the once so enthusiastic marchers, whose legs no longer kicked up as high as they used to in the practiced goosestep, but were slightly out of pace with one another as though the gears of a finely tuned mechanism had gone awry.
It was only then that the police distributed Rainer Bilder’s picture and description to departments in other towns and cities. The boy’s parents placed ads in the paper, offering rewards for information about their dear son’s whereabouts. In church, Herr Pastor Beier shortened his prayers for the Vaterland and beseeched God and St. Antonius—patron saint of travelers and lost things—for Rainer’s safe return. People would find themselves glancing from their windows, scanning the end of the street for the familiar bulk of the boy.
One afternoon a stiffness spread low in Trudi’s back, making it impossible for her to bend or walk up the stairs. Her father called Frau Doktor Rosen, who recommended bed rest and warm applications.
“Don’t even use a pillow,” she said. “Lie flat. Completely flat.”
She helped Leo to carry Trudi up the stairs and settled her in her bed, a rubber bottle filled with hot water beneath her back. There Trudi stayed while the women in the neighborhood brought her meals and gossip and advice. They told her about a cousin, say, or a grandfather who’d suffered from a sore back, and they clucked their tongues as they fluffed up her feather comforter and helped her with the bedpan. No one had heard from Rainer, they said.
Trudi read two of her father’s hidden books, by Alfred Döblin and Lion Feuchtwanger. As long as she didn’t move, she was without pain, but whenever she tried to sit up, her back tightened up on her. It made her feel old, older than her father, who limped up the stairs, the outline of the steel disk in his knee showing through the material of his trousers, older than Frau Blau, who came to her bedside, the scent of floor wax on her hands, carrying a tray with pigeon stew, potato soup, and Christmas Stollen.
Sitting on the edge of Trudi’s bed, knitting egg warmers to match the tea warmer she was going to send to Stefan and Helene in America, she’d tell Trudi about those of her friends who were invalids and had to depend on their grown children for care. “… not that they aren’t lucky to have family to live with, but it’s difficult when you can’t be useful.… Then you don’t have the right to make your wishes known.”
“I’m sure I’ll be out of bed long before I’m an old woman.”
“It’s no joke, girl. And if you’re having troubles like that already, who knows what it’ll be like when you’re my age.… Since it’s not likely that you’ll—” She stopped herself.
“That I’ll what?”
“Nothing.” Frau Blau dusted the top of the night table with a corner of her apron. “Nothing.”
“Marry?” Trudi demanded. “Have children?”
“Now who would say anything like that?”
“Look at me—” Trudi raised herself on her elbows and stared at the old woman. “Look at me. I’m no longer a child. I—I’ve been kissed.”
“You’re always making up stories.” Frau Blau began to pack up her knitting. “Better rest.”
“It’s not a story,” Trudi called after her.
Just when she became afraid that she would always be stiff and immobile, the heaviness in her back vanished for one entire hour. The following day it lifted for nearly three hours, and by the end of a week, it was gone completely and she was able to resume her walks. She found that the pockets of sadness left by Rainer Bilder had begun to deflate during her illness, and even if she happened to step into one of them, her sorrow was only fleeting.
nine
1934
RAINER BILDER WAS QUICKLY FORGOTTEN WHEN GÜNTHER STOSICK’S ten-year-old son took the lyrics “Für die Fahne wollen wir sterben…”—“For the flag we want to die …”—to a dreadful conclusion. A bookish and obedient boy, who had learned to play chess at the age of two—a year younger even than his father—Bruno Stosick had won his first trophy in a tournament before he’d been old enough to attend school. By the time he was eight, he’d already beaten every one of the men in the club.
No one questioned that the boy was destined to become one of Europe’s great chess champions, and the town showed its pride by granting him the kind of respect reserved for adults. Yet, his parents treated him like the child he was, and when Bruno entered the Hitler-Jugend the week after his tenth birthday, he did so secretly, knowing his parents had nothing but contempt for the Nazis. He was called a Pimpf and had to prove himself by running sixty meters in twelve seconds, jumping 2.75 meters, and memorizing the promise of eternal duty, love, and loyalty to the Führer and the flag: “Ich verspreche in der Hitler-Jugend allzeit meine Pflicht in Liebe und Treue zum Führer und unserer Fahne.”
For Bruno this meant an escape from the narrow life of his childhood—from books and chessboards and polite family dinners—an initiation into something grown-up and significant. Infatuated with the mysterious force of the songs and drums and flags, the future chess champion of Europe would climb from his window at night to attend meetings and march in parades. Upon his return he—who’d never cleaned one single item of his clothing—would brush off his uniform, wrap it lovingly into a clean towel, and hide it behind the potato bin in the cellar.
While two of his classmates, who were reluctant to join the Hitler-Jugend, were assigned extra multiplication tables and an essay titled “Why I Love My Vaterland” Bruno learned how to build a magnificent Lagerfeuer—bonfire—by the Rhein where, eyes blazing along with the flames, he recited the promise he had memorized alone in his room.
Bruno was in love—fervently and irreversibly—in love with Adolf Hitler and his youth group leaders and the other boys; and, like many great and tragic lovers in history, Bruno would not survive the separation from his love. When his parents found out that he’d joined, they not only pulled him out of the Hitler-Jugend despite threats from his leaders, but also supervised every moment of his day, walking him to school as though he were a little boy, picking him up, letting him leave the house only when one of them was with him.
When Bruno hanged himself in the birch wardrobe, where his father kept the club’s chess sets and ledgers of games dating back four generations, he wore his uniform and, on his collar, a pin with the emblem of the red, white, and black flag to which he had sworn eternal love, as if to validate the song “Für die Fahne wollen wir sterben…”
The morning after his son’s death, Herr Stosick felt an unfamiliar draft against his scalp when he awoke, and as he brought his hand to his head, he touched bare skin.
His wife stared at him. “Günther,” she whispered and pointed to his pillow, which looked as though it had become a nest of brown caterpillars.
As Günther Stosick picked up a tuft of his thick hair, he let himself hope for one moment, one deranged moment, that he could strike a trade with God—his son for his hair—because, certainly, to lose both at once was too much for any man to bear.
• • •
At the boy’s funeral, Ingrid leaned down to Trudi and whispered that, whi
le she couldn’t see dying for a flag, she could certainly imagine dying for her faith. “It would be a privilege,” she sighed, her eyes taking on a faraway look of ecstasy as though she could see herself being tortured for Jesus.
“Maybe for Bruno that was his faith,” Trudi said.
“You know there can only be one faith.”
Trudi shook her head, impatient with her friend’s intolerance. Hands folded, she stood between her father and Ingrid in the crowd of mourners—most of them Protestants—that encircled the narrow grave which had been hacked into the frozen ground. The cemetery felt more like the home of the dead in winter than any other time of the year: without the distraction of all the flowers and blooming shrubs, the headstones were stark and far more noticeable; it even smelled more like a cemetery, with that odor of damp earth and rotting leaves.
Trudi shivered. The waste of it, she thought, the waste of a country that would incite children to die for it. She thought of all the things Bruno Stosick would never do—ride a motorcycle or kiss a girl or learn a profession.… How she ached for the boy’s parents, who stood alone as if the town held them responsible for their son’s death. After the coffin had disappeared into the hole, she followed her father to where they stood. Frau Stosick’s face was hidden behind the black veil that draped from her hat, and she kept her black gloves on, but Herr Stosick’s hands were bare and feverish, and he held both of Trudi’s hands until she felt his anguish seep through her skin.
When she left the cemetery with Ingrid, who tried to talk with her, she barely listened and gave brief, distracted answers.
“Klaus Malter …” Ingrid was saying, “he asked me to go dancing with him.”
Trudi felt a sudden jolt of hate. How could Ingrid betray her like that? “I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” she said, keeping her face impassive.
“But I’m not going.”
Trudi stared up at her. “Why not?”
“Because—I liked it better when the three of us did things together.”
“Is that what you told him?”
“Yes.”
“And he—what did he say?”
“I—” Ingrid’s eyelashes fluttered as if she were winking. “I don’t remember.”
“You have to remember.”
“I don’t. I really don’t.” Ingrid looked miserable, already burdened—Trudi saw—by this lie she’d have to carry to her next confession.
But Trudi felt light and warm. Reaching up, she looped one hand through Ingrid’s angled arm. She hadn’t thought she’d ever have a best friend again. Not after Eva. Or Georg. But Ingrid had proven herself because only a best friend would rather be with you than be half of a romantic couple. “Let’s go to Düsseldorf,” she said impulsively, “see a movie.”
“Not after the funeral. It doesn’t feel right.”
“I know. Still—it’ll be good to think of something else.”
“I don’t have enough money with me.”
“I’ll buy your ticket.” Trudi knew she was being pushy, but she didn’t want to go home, where she’d only be thinking about Bruno.
“I still have to do my midday prayers,” Ingrid said.
How Trudi resented all those hours that Ingrid spent on her prayers each day—hundreds of Hail Marys and Our Fathers for the dead as well as those living their sins, one entire rosary for the conversion of one pagan baby of God’s choice, another rosary for her family. In addition, Ingrid did three rosaries a day on the mysteries: the first, meditating on the joyful mysteries; the second, meditating on the sorrowful mysteries; and the third, meditating on the glorious mysteries of the life of Christ. The leather cover of her prayer book was so worn it felt like silk.
“Can’t you do your prayers tonight when we get back?” Trudi suggested.
Ingrid hesitated.
“Or you could do them on the streetcar. I’ll be real quiet.”
As the blue-and-white streetcar rumbled toward the city, they sat so close on the wooden slat seats that Trudi could feel the stays of her friend’s corset. Ingrid submerged both hands in her leather bag, where she kept her rosary. Her eyes were half closed, and her lips moved ever so slightly as her fingers slid across the beads.
From the empty seat across from them, Trudi picked up a leaflet with a caricature of Adolf Hitler—the open mouth and mustache taking up most of the face. Instead of pupils, he had Hakenkreuze in his eyes, and a procession of tiny uniformed people goose-stepped from his mouth and dribbled down the front of his jacket like vomit.
Trudi held the sketch out for Ingrid to see, but Ingrid was praying. Ever since she had started her studies at the university, she’d added an extra sorrowful rosary on Fridays to commemorate the day of Christ’s death; even if she was in class, she’d pray at three in the afternoon—the hour the pharmacy was closed because Herr Neumaier hauled his French Jesus around the church square.
A hand snatched the sheet of paper from Trudi’s hand. “Where did you get this?” The Schaffner—conductor—had lots of hair but hardly any chin. When Trudi pointed to the seat across from her, he grabbed the other leaflets. “Did you put them there?” His breath smelled of stale tobacco.
“No.”
“Then who—”
“I didn’t see.” She curved her back, making herself look even smaller than she was.
“You didn’t see anyone?”
“They were already there.”
“Do you know you can get arrested for reading those?” His voice had the tone adults liked to use with small children.
Trudi’s feet dangled high above the floor. “If I get arrested, I’ll have to tell.… That I found them here. In your streetcar.”
Grumbling something to himself, the Schaffner stuffed the pages into his uniform jacket. She handed him the money for the tickets, and even the clicking of the coin changer that hung on his chest didn’t distract Ingrid from her prayers.
“Don’t do that again,” he said and walked away.
She leaned her head against the back of the seat, her face and neck sweaty. As the streetcar crossed the Oberkassel bridge, the sound of the wheels on the tracks grew tinny, singing careful careful careful.… On the other side of the bridge were far more cars than in the streets of Burgdorf, as if the wealth of the city began right there. Newspaper boys hawked their papers at the stop, yelling out headlines, and two women with fur coats got onto the streetcar.
Outside the movie theater, posters inside a wide glass frame announced coming attractions. Before the film started, the weekly news show—Wochenschau—depicted rows of trim uniformed men, Hitler giving a new speech, athletes achieving incredible feats. Ingrid’s brother, Holger, was a well-known athlete, who’d won dozens of trophies as a member of Emil Hesping’s gymnasts’ club, but a month earlier he’d been summoned—“invited” was the word his proud father used when he’d told people about it in his bicycle shop—to join the sports club of the SA.
“It’s an honor for our entire family,” he’d told Trudi when she’d arrived to pick Ingrid up for a visit to Frau Simon’s millinery shop.
She dodged his wide, oil-stained hands as usual when he tried to stroke her hair.
“Now our Holger can really pursue his athletic career,” he called after her as she ran up the stairs to the apartment above the bicycle shop.
She was glad he was busy selling a tire pump to Herr Weskopp when she left with Ingrid, but his eyes touched both of them, and his voice stopped them by the door.
“What’s that you’re wearing, girl?”
Ingrid’s hand smoothed down her skirt.
“I want my daughter to wear a decent skirt.” His fingers rubbed the fabric by her thigh.
“It is a decent skirt,” she wailed.
He’d laughed and turned back to his customer while Trudi had grasped Ingrid’s wrist and pulled her from the bicycle shop.
On the big screen, a runner broke through the finishing line, face naked with ecstasy, arms flying out as if he were about to leave the
earth. Then Adolf Hitler was shaking people’s hands. You could tell by their faces how proud and delighted they were to be near him. Trudi couldn’t look at Herr Hitler without remembering the leaflet and all those people marching from his mouth. But here in the theater his stern features were in the right proportion and ordered around the square mustache—so unlike the stripped face of the runner. His hand filled the entire screen, again and again, grasped by other hands. Trudi thought of the pharmacist shaking the Führer’s hand. Der Scbweiss unseres Führers—the sweat of our Führer.
The film was about to start: it was about the love between a blond forest warden and the blond daughter of a doctor. They finally got married despite the attempts of a Jewish banker to steal the young woman’s affection. Not that he ever had a chance—considering how all the others would pinch their nostrils to avoid his terrible smell.
Trudi found it unbearable to keep looking at the movie. It was frightening to see how people felt justified to discriminate, how that attitude of superiority was drilled into ten-year-old children like Bruno Stosick. More than once she’d overheard comments on streetcars or in restaurants about Jews smelling bad. Though not directed at specific Jews, who’d sit stiffly, their arms tight against their sides, the remarks were always loud enough for everyone to hear. Some people would laugh, but most would pretend not to hear. Including herself. It was terrible, that uninvolvement, and she wished she knew what to do about it without getting hurt. But she’d seen people shunned or beaten because they’d come to the defense of Jews. Once, she’d witnessed a group of schoolboys push a woman from a moving streetcar when she reprimanded them for taunting a gray-haired Jewish man. As they shoved her toward the door, they shouted that she was ignorant, that it was a scientific fact that Jews smelled, that they’d learned about it in school.