Liese frowned and caught Otto doing the same, although he hid his discomfort more quickly.
Bruckner was newly in post, but surely he knew how things were done? A tour of the accessories departments, tea in the Palm Court and then, and only then, into the office to sign the orders they would have discussed along the way. ‘A gentleman’s approach to business’ her father called it, based on relationships and civility. Every department store in Berlin ran its affairs the same way.
Above them, Herr Bruckner coughed. ‘I have other meetings.’
‘Then we must not delay you.’
Otto waved Liese up the stairs, beginning a commentary on October’s sudden cold snap as if nothing was out of place.
Bruckner took no notice, leading them to the tucked-away warren of offices behind the sales floors at a pace designed to discourage conversation. They were seated before Liese could unfasten her coat and no one appeared with a tea tray. Otto asked after Bruckner’s health and was again ignored.
Liese knew she was there, as always, to observe and not to involve herself in the meeting, but the man’s brusqueness was sailing close to an insult. She coughed and fixed on her best smile.
‘Goodness, you are in quite a hurry today, Herr Bruckner. Normally, as I’m sure you know, we visit the bag and shoe departments first to discuss the new season’s colours and shapes with the salesgirls. I hope we can still make the time to do that?’
Bruckner addressed Otto as if no one had spoken.
‘I am surprised to see you, Herr Wasserman. I made it clear in my letter that Hertie will not be buying from Haus Elfmann this year.’
‘What letter?’ Liese swung round to Otto, who also looked through her.
‘I received your communication, Herr Bruckner. But, I confess, I could make little sense of it. For one of our most valued customers to not stock our brand? There is surely some mistake? Our prêt-à-porter line has always been an integral part of…’
The pause, the stumble it implied, was short, but it was long enough for Bruckner’s face to tighten. For him to register, if he hadn’t already done so, that not only was Otto about to say the store’s old name, he had also used the French term to describe the ready-to-wear collection, not the German Konfektion the new rules demanded.
Otto recovered himself but could not entirely mask the tremor unsettling his voice. ‘… of Hertie’s offering. Your customers expect to find us here, Herr Bruckner. So I felt certain there was still a conversation to be had. I wondered if some adjustment on the price might correct matters?’
Bruckner straightened a pen that was already straight.
‘It’s always about money with your kind, isn’t it?’
Liese withdrew into her seat as Bruckner continued, the echo of the Olympic Stadium’s you people too strong in your kind.
‘There was no mistake, Herr Wasserman, not on my part. And, whatever the practice in the past, our customers do not expect to find your brand here. They expect to find outfits that are more appropriate. More German.’
His contempt tugged at Liese like a toothache. She willed Otto to speak. He sat hunched over as if he was winded, while Bruckner observed him through hooded eyes.
‘More German? What do you mean, Herr Bruckner? Dirndl skirts and puff-sleeved blouses?’ This time, Liese spoke so sharply, Bruckner was forced to look her way. ‘Surely not? I know you are new, but can you honestly see the women of Berlin dressing like peasants?’
It was rude. It was also stupid and it played, as Liese realised a moment too late, straight into Bruckner’s hands.
‘How nastily you use that word. As if modest people who work hard for their country are somehow beneath you. But, given who and what you are, why should your attitude surprise me?’
He reached for a sheaf of papers and began reading from the top one before Liese could think how to defend herself.
‘This is the report on your salon’s most recent offering. It does not make pleasant reading. Shamefully tight skirts, naked backs, necklines more suited to a brothel. Garish colours that do not suit German colouring. Designs unfit for decent women.’
Bruckner put the notes down and folded his hands.
‘A French collection, in other words. From a house that insults us by claiming to be German. A collection, Fraulein Elfmann, there is no room for here.’
‘Liese, please. Let me speak before you cause any more offence.’ Otto had finally pulled himself together.
He waved his hand to stop Liese’s response, but there was no need: she couldn’t think of a single word to fight back with.
‘Herr Bruckner, Fraulein Elfmann spoke out of turn and with uncalled-for rudeness, but I would ask your indulgence. She is young. She is loyal to her salon and to her family. Not a bad thing, I’m sure you’d agree.’
He was gabbling, fawning. Liese couldn’t meet his eye.
‘As for our last showing – if there are dresses that fit those descriptions, descriptions which, I must say, pain me, please understand these are not the garments you would receive. Our shows always include pieces custom-made for clients whose lives demand a little more, shall we say, glamour? If you have specific requirements, then, please, list them. Whatever you want can be done.’
‘Good.’
For the first time since they had entered his office, Bruckner smiled. Liese wished that he hadn’t.
‘I do have one requirement, Herr Wasserman: get Haus Elfmann endorsed by Adefa. Do that and it is business as usual.’
Otto slumped so completely, Liese thought he would slide off his chair.
‘You know that’s impossible.’
‘Then we are finished here.’
Bruckner rose and walked to the door. Liese stared from one man to the other, caught off guard by the meeting’s, and Otto’s, collapse.
‘Why are you doing this? Goebbels praised the collection. His wife ordered at least a dozen pieces.’
Bruckner shrugged as Otto stuttered. ‘And yet it was Reich Minister Goebbels who wrote this report. What his wife does is no business of mine. I appraised you of our position; you chose to ignore it. And now I have more important matters waiting.’
He opened the door, his foot lightly tapping.
Otto clambered up, lumbering like a man twice his age. Liese followed at his heels, with no idea what had happened except that they, and the salon, had been thoroughly insulted.
They sloped back down the busy corridor. No one smiled; no one greeted them. Liese was known to almost everyone they passed and yet no one would look at her.
At the top of the staircase, whose steps now looked steep rather than sweeping, she pulled Otto to a halt.
‘I don’t understand what that was. Bruckner cancelled our contract and said dreadful things, and you let him. You didn’t try to persuade him to change his mind. And what is Adefa? Why did you fall apart when he mentioned it?’
Otto gazed out over the bustling counters. ‘What exactly could I persuade him to change his mind to? That report hardly left me with a negotiating position. And he was right: he had told me his intention; I chose not to believe it. Apparently, there are things even I can’t fix. As for Adefa, you know what it is: the regulatory body for the clothing industry. The Party’s vehicle for ensuring German fashion is German.’
‘But that’s been set up for ages. It’s never been an issue before.’
When Otto turned towards her, his face was so shapeless, Liese wanted to cry.
‘You’re right: Adefa isn’t new, but it has changed. You just can’t hear it. The D doesn’t stand for Deutsch anymore but Deutsch-Arischer. Aryan. Pure blood. No Jews. We’ve created this industry and made it great and now they’re removing us, wiping us out as if our contribution meant nothing.’
Liese’s stomach knotted: his words could have been Michael’s.
‘But Goebbels came. He smiled the whole time.’
Now when she said it, she heard the child’s voice.
Otto started down the stairs, shuffling
where he once strode. ‘And then look what he did.’
After the store’s soft interior, the noise on the pavement came as a shock. Liese stepped too slowly into the bustle and was jostled. Her hat was pulled off by a passing umbrella, her chocolate curls sent tumbling. A group of boys milling on the corner started to point and laugh.
‘Get in the car.’ Otto wrenched the door open.
The gang began waving, whistling and catcalling, aiming blue-tinged comments at Liese simply because she was dark-haired, not blonde.
Otto followed her in, his fists bunched, his face puce. The car accelerated past the shouting. The boys’ faces were a blur, but their swastika-emblazoned armbands stood out.
Liese crouched on the seat and tried to focus on the threat to the salon. The Hertie order was one of their biggest, the ready-to-wear collection the business’s backbone. If Hertie could cancel so easily, if the other stores followed…
She rounded on Otto, rattling with questions. All she managed to ask was: ‘What now?’
He didn’t reply.
The journey back to Hausvogteiplatz and the salon nestled beneath the square’s sunburst-shaped clock passed in a series of images that tied Liese in knots.
While they were inside Hertie, the afternoon had eased into twilight, the street lamps lit and casting a yellow-tinged glow. Normally, their light fell like a blanket, blurring and softening. Today, the lamps loomed like spotlights, their stare as harsh and unblinking as Herr Bruckner’s.
Liese tried not to look at the passing streets, but it was as if Bruckner’s cruel dismissal had torn a veil away. Corners suddenly sprouted gangs whose chests puffed with swastikas. Newspaper kiosks bloomed with Der Stürmer’s black-bearded monsters. Splashes of paint reshaped themselves into stars etched onto vulnerably thin windows. Her eyes stretched and ached. Pure Blood, no Jews whirled round her head like a storm brewing.
‘You have to sell!’
Otto was barely inside Paul’s office before he began shouting.
‘I’ve warned you for months the day was coming. Well, it’s here. If you keep on waiting, I promise you: they’ll come in and take it.’
Liese tried to follow him inside, but Otto waved her furiously back. She caught the door as he slammed it, keeping it open with her toe, and pressed into the shadows in time to hear her father snort with laughter.
‘Dear God, man. Have you joined Michael on the barricades? “They’ll come in and take it” – can you hear yourself?’ Glasses clinked; liquid poured. ‘Here, have a drink. Unless that’s the problem and you’ve already been indulging. Hertie’s new chap must be quite a character if this is how he rattles you. What did he do, screw you down on the price? Don’t tell me The Fixer is slipping.’
‘He cancelled our contract.’
Liese waited for a silence, or a shocked exclamation and a torrent of questions. Instead, Paul dismissed Bruckner, and Otto with him, as if he flicked away a fly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re their biggest-selling supplier. Besides, he doesn’t have the authority.’
To Otto’s credit, he kept his temper.
‘Goebbels does. He gave the order to terminate our business. Our collection is apparently too French, designed for whores, not German matrons. And, no, I don’t want to hear how charming the Minister was at the show in September. I was there. And I was there today. We’re done. They want us out.’
‘Not this nonsense again. Hitler’s vendetta against the Jews.’
Liese closed her eyes and willed him not to say it.
‘I’ve told you: you and me, and our families, we’re different; we’re not the target.’
There it was: the same thoughtless line she’d trotted out to Michael, the line she’d been clinging to until today. Liese forced herself to focus on what Otto was saying.
‘Different? How can you still go on parroting that? I never thought I’d say this, but you’re turning into your father. Is that what you want? To be so buried in the business that you’re blind past the end of your nose? He neglected you, and he neglected your mother. He never noticed she was sick until it was too late. Don’t raise your hands at me – you know it’s true. All the money and the big house and the status he clawed his way up to, and where is he now? Hidden away, eaten up with guilt for the pain Minnie died in. Are you going to go down the same road? So wrapped up in Haus Elfmann and your ego that you forget to look up at the world? That you forget about your wife and your daughter? Liese is already banned from her school. What’s coming for her next? What’s coming for Margarethe?’
Paul exploded.
Liese heard the roar but not the words. She was too busy trying to work out which of Otto’s sentences to grab hold of first. Banned? She knew that needed unpicking, but the nonsense that was guilt was chiming too loud. Grandpa Nathan wasn’t guilty; he was crippled with grief. And what was neglected? How could he have neglected Minnie when she was the centre of his life? Not that he’d ever admit it, not in public anyway – and there it was, clinging to the tail of Liese’s recollection: not the words but the little pause Minnie would leave at the end, which Grandpa never filled. Like he never took her side when the rows broke out, in the way Paul always championed Margarethe.
Inside the office, her father was still shouting.
‘You’ve no right to accuse me of being like him. As if I would ever do anything that endangered my wife!’
And now it was Liese waiting in the gap to hear how much Paul valued her; to hear the lengths he would go to in order to protect his only child.
Nothing came.
He neglected you.
Liese folded her hands to stop them from shaking as Otto’s words crashed back. Couldn’t the same be said of her father? Paul wasn’t as cut off as Grandpa Nathan; Margarethe mattered to him as much as the business, possibly more. But did she? If she wasn’t his heir, would he see her at all?
Liese spread her hands out again, stared at the veins tracing across them. Were blood ties that could prove dangerous, and the bricks of a fashion house, all that bound her to this thing she called family? She was still pushing at that thought as Otto’s voice replaced Paul’s.
‘Then prove it. Take me seriously this time and sell.’
His anger had slipped under a weariness that sounded like it pulled from his bones.
‘I know how successful we are, how valuable we still seem to be. But that won’t last, for all your hoping. This isn’t 1933: one day of boycotting Jewish shops and a pile of shattered windows while the Party showed who was boss. This is the start of a purge and it’s controlled, it’s organised. Go to Hertie and you’ll smell it. Hertie. How I hate that name. The Tietz brothers were trampled over so fast, they didn’t see the takeover coming. What more proof do you want than that? It’s like a fire spreading from building to building. Do you know what the driver told me today – and isn’t that a warning, that we get our news now from drivers? – Georg Wertheim can’t set foot in his own stores: if he tries, he’ll be arrested. They swapped the board out under his nose and no one can argue because, according to the new logic, as a Jew he had no right to be there in the first place. That’s the new reality, Paul; that’s our new world. Jews don’t get to be anything anymore, except Jews.’
Liese was beginning to understand where Michael got his passion from: if she closed her eyes, it could have been either of them in the office shouting.
‘And they’re good at this, don’t forget that. They know how to turn the truth on its head and make their stories stick.’
Suddenly, Otto laughed. The sound was so filled with bitterness, so unlike his usual rich bellow, Liese flinched.
‘The truth of how we became the kings of German fashion has all been washed away. It doesn’t matter now that clothing was the one trade we were allowed to work in, or that we learned our skills from the bottom up, grubbing a living restitching the dirty rags good Germans wouldn’t touch. That’s not the story anymore. Jews made it to the top because we stole; because we�
�re swindlers and cheats. So now they’re going to take it all out of our hands and let good Germans prosper. Another year and we’ll be gone – from the department stores, the tailoring houses, the fabric suppliers and the fashion houses. They’ll disinherit us properly – make no mistake about that. They’ll invent a law to legitimise our destruction. And they won’t stop. Not until the German fashion industry is cleaned up and pure.’
His voice suddenly dropped so low, Liese had to crane to hear it.
‘Paul, I’m begging you. If you sell now, we could leave. We could start again somewhere else. Paris or London. Or America: they’re crying out there for designers. Wherever you want, I can fix it, like you’ve always trusted me to do. But sell. If you don’t, one morning very soon, that choice will be gone.’
Sell.
The word broke through the emotions fighting for space in Liese’s head. She so wanted Otto to be wrong, for ‘we’re different’ to be right, except Bruckner’s contempt had cracked that lie open. But to sell, to leave Berlin, not to be Haus Elfmann anymore. The salon was the one thing that gave them a shape; her role there was the one thing that gave her a future beyond the too narrow path of marriage and motherhood her social position expected. Liese couldn’t remember a day that wasn’t governed by the needs of the business; she didn’t want to. To sell was unthinkable. To sell was impossible. And yet… To have it all taken. To be designated as one of the twisted creatures in Der Stürmer. To be banned from every part of her life. To be reclassified like that was as impossible to imagine as not being Haus Elfmann. Except that it wasn’t.
Liese gripped the doorjamb as the world shifted round her. Michael’s words swirled back: there’s no such thing as this kind or that. She closed her eyes as tight as a child wishing for Christmas and willed her father to hear the world changing.
‘No.’
Paul’s answer was too quick, too easy. It pushed Liese through the door and into the office. Neither man noticed her; they were too busy squaring up.
‘Things are difficult, I’ll grant you that, but I refuse to believe we’ll fall victim to this hysterical nonsense. Hitler will calm down; we just need to be loyal and wait out his excesses. You’ve had a difficult meeting and your nerve has gone, or maybe the strain of Michael’s behaviour is starting to tell on you. Perhaps you need a holiday.’
What Only We Know: A heart-wrenching and unforgettable World War 2 historical novel Page 5
