THE WHITE HOUSE
By O’neil Sharma
Text Copyright © 2017 O’neil Sharma
All rights Reserved
Cover Art by Valeria Witzke
Many thanks to all the friends, colleagues and loved ones who have continued to support me with kind words, advice, encouragement and the occasional kicks in the butt that I needed. Without you, nothing good happens.
CHAPTER ONE
Berlin, Charlottenburg, June 1987.
It wasn’t easy to kill yourself. He’d already tried. Twice. Life pulled him back. Even in a place like this, life pulled.
He’d been crying for the last ten minutes. A build up of pressure behind the eyes that would persist until he started work. There were never tears anymore. No salt to taste, no cooling from the evaporation and no tickling from the cheeks as the tears flowed. All external signs of his emotional state had been eradicated, perhaps forever. The pressure was a left over from his days as a human being.
For the first time in months Saul was alone. Not that he minded. It was usually so busy he couldn’t think and that was good: the last thing he wanted to do was think. None of the others spent too much time thinking anymore. Some of them prayed, some of them organised but most of them drank. Saul had given up on the former soon after his arrival and he was surprised that something that had always been part of his life; something that gave him meaning and purpose before and genuinely helped in those difficult years could be so easily given up: It had never been part of him. When he watched them praying now he observed as if he were an anthropologist, studying some jungle tribe going through a bizarre ritual.
At sixteen he was already an accomplished drinker, smoker and organiser. He was a leader. Men far beyond his years had respect for him and would come to him when in need; even they had started to call him The Professor. Of course, it started as a joke: sarcasm. Someone had heard him switch from German to French and then to English in one shift and by the end of it he had become The Professor.
During debates, people wanted to listen to what he had to say. Even the Greeks would listen and they were most belligerent men he had met. The benefits of an expensive education. His father had been right after all.
Today he was sober. Had been for three days now. Up until a few hours ago things had been slower than usual. However, a new shipment - a new fully laden shipment had arrived. A good two thousand Saul had guessed. That would mean there would be some organising to do. At last.
So he stood and enjoyed the isolation while he could, letting the silence invade him. He was surprised by its very existence, as he could not remember it ever being quiet. The silence took on a near physical form: he could feel it emanating from the unremarkable concrete walls, floors and ceiling; it enveloped him, entered him and used his body as a base from which it travelled on to conquer the environment.
Soon they would tell him to open the door and go to work. He leaned back and rested against the heavy steel door, his hands making physical contact with the material. Smooth and Warm. Remembering what made it warm, he removed his hands and put them in the pockets of his ill-fitting jacket and glanced down the well-lit corridor of this factory. A tiny puddle had gathered on the concrete floor under the hosepipe that was curled against the far wall. He would need to look at that. Nothing could be out of place, nothing could be suspect. Everything that could be done to make the whole process seem routine, boring and innocent was done. It appealed to their logic. It appealed to their hope. Hope was always the last to die. The only thing they should smell was the disinfectant that his nose was past detecting.
The shipment was to feel at ease. Of course they were going to be upset after what they had been through, he had been through that too, so he understood. Many were in tears and some wanted to fight. But they never did. Not in front of their wives and children. Not when they were naked. He thought it ridiculous that man should feel cowed in his natural state.
What shield do clothes give us?
His job was to calm, reassure, placate and get them moving as quickly as possible and without a fuss; he was good at his job. The ruse was indeed perfect and they and their bosses were happy. The numbers were good and that was all they cared about.
Saul removed his hand from his pocket and tapped a French cigarette out of its carton: Gitanes. He could smoke freely now that he knew fresh supplies were at hand. Frankly speaking he preferred German cigarettes but these days you took what you could get. The strong smoke filled his lungs and he felt light-headed.
Felt?
No, he registered a light-headed state. He processed the chemicals as they entered his blood stream via his lungs. The chemicals caused some imbalance in his brain and produced a sensation of intoxication.
Feelings were out, analysis was in. He had read about robots and even seen one in the film Metropolis and soon after arriving here he had decided to become one. His colleagues, whether they knew it or not, had also become robots. Maybe that was what they wanted? When all this was over and he was dead maybe robots would be all that was left of the world. What would robots do with the planet? If you could not love or laugh or enjoy music what would you do? Maybe the cows would take over. He was glad he would soon be dead.
He took a deep drag and let the smoke stream out from between his lips. Not far away he could hear the sounds of his colleagues as they collected the clothes. He could smell the fresh bread baking in the ovens.
Fresh Bread!?
Who was baking bread? That was not allowed. When they found out there would be trouble for them all. Who would be so selfish? David, probably. No not David, he was dead already. His death had been discussed and analysed in every detail and still no conclusions were forthcoming. Still, David had managed to do what none of them could.
Now the sounds came. How was he expected to concentrate if people kept talking to him? Saul turned to face the interrupter. The corridor was empty and yet the voice persisted. Was it coming from-? That was impossible. Nothing came from there except-.
He withdrew the cigarette. French cigarettes: he should have known! And then with a growing sense of panic he noticed his hand. The smooth tight skin had vanished. Arthritic knuckles, deep wrinkles crisscrossed like slashes on an ice rink, loose skin, bulging veins and a wedding ring!
Who did these worker’s hands belong to? The pain was also there. His knees hurt. A lifetime of standing for a living had taken its toll. His knees complained with every step and according to his granddaughter, he walked funny.
‘Saul’ the voice said. ‘Are you okay?’
And like that he was back.
CHAPTER 2
Like that he was back.
He had time travelled again, at least that was what he called it. So real it was like being there. Of course he had not gone anywhere. He knew that now but not in the moment. Sometimes he went back, sometimes it came forward, sometimes he was sixteen and sometimes he was sixty and occasionally he watched himself like he was watching a film: All of it indistinguishable from reality and all of it becoming increasingly worrying.
Saul Cohen, dressed in his whites stood in the kitchen of his bakery smoking a cigarette. The voice belonged to one of his employees. A friendly young man with blond hair, ice-blue eyes and skin peppered with acne scars.
‘Everything okay, Saul?’ Timo asked nervously. Timo, also dressed in whites and carrying a tray of steaming hot bread rolls was not even aware his boss smoked and now to find him smoking one of his Gitanes in the kitchen was more than he could handle. How many laws was he breaking? And what was that stupid look on the old man’s face?
Saul’s eyes slowly pulled focus. It was like he just now entered the room as a presence. Coming back was never easy, never clean. Traces
of his travels were persistently trying to stay in the present: like the cigarette. Except this time it was not a memory. How had he got it? Did he bring it back with him? Saul stared at the wafting manifestation of his past; trying to unravel the mystery when Timo put the tray of rolls down and approached him. He removed the cigarette from his boss’s hands and said:
‘I didn’t know you-‘
‘Who’s been smoking in here!’ boomed Hannah cutting him off. This was not a question. She could see Timo with a gaping tunnel for a mouth, cigarette in hand. She steamed towards him, her heels pounding the tiles filling the small kitchen with an unbearable ceramic din, a blur of expensive shoulder pads and Chanel. Saul stood one metre sixty-five, his wife was a good head shorter than him and Timo; the product of a hearty German diet towered over them both and yet Saul was always impressed by the quantity of power Hannah could project out of her frame. This was not a result of the power dressing she had recently adopted from the American soaps; it was something she had cultivated over the last ten years. Where it came from and why, Saul had no idea but he suspected it had to do with the children not needing her as much as they had done.
She had never worked outside the home and as there was less to do she had become lost and unsure of her function in life. Hannah compensated by asserting control back into the lives of the children. She fought for influence where none was needed and reasserted control in areas she had long since given over to them: When are you coming home? Shall I make you something to eat? I don’t like him. Why don't you study in Berlin and live at home? Why don’t you settle down?
The result was simple: all out revolt. Even Aaron; barely a teenager at the time, was in danger of losing his fabled status as the youngest child and only son. Saul found himself fighting a losing battle trying to put the two factions together. Finally he had asked her to come and manage the bakery and after a month of persuasion she had agreed. All that spare energy was now expended on nurturing her new baby: Schlossbäckerei (Palace Bakery) had grown into the most successful artisan bakery on Savignyplatz. They had a real wood-fired oven, a walk-in freezer, two machines for mixing dough, stainless steel work surfaces, Timo to help Saul in the kitchen and Anja who floated between the kitchen and shop front depending on how busy things were. Saul often wondered how he had managed without Hannah running things and when he was honest with himself it was clear that he had not; he could maintain the business but not grow it, she had a natural flair for marketing, presentation, administration and she was on first name terms with all the regulars. He just baked. It was almost irrelevant to him if customers bought or not. It was not that he was rude but what is there to sell about bread and now cake? It had to be well presented for sure but after that it mostly came down to hunger and proximity. Did they really want to walk the two hundred metres to the next store?
Saul had learned quickly to read the forecast of an impending storm and batten down the hatches. It started around her mouth, a tension so strong it would cause the lower jaw to shift to the left. The lips became tight and drawn into a frown. The most devastating item in her arsenal was her eyes; she could summon enough energy in that glare to push a man backwards and that is precisely what Timo did right now: he took a step back.
Saul tried to catch her eye, but it was too late, she was on a mission.
‘Do you know what would happen if a customer smelt that? Or worse still a health inspector?’
‘But-‘ was all Timo could manage. She had spun around to accuse Saul.
‘Why didn’t you stop him?’
Saul, the guilty child, looked back at her.
‘Well?’
Saul released a jet of smoke from his mouth and finished it off with an apologetic smile.
Hannah, incredulous, gaped goldfish like at Saul. Timo, looking between them for a hope of an end to the standoff tried to make a joke but nothing came out. Anja saved him from having to think further. Her floral notes burst into the kitchen via the back door and defused the situation. She hung her bag on a coat hook and slipped her jean jacket off, catching her mousey blonde hair on a button. She winced and pulled it free. Noticing that she had everyone’s attention she made her excuse.
‘Sorry, they blocked Ku’damm for the president’. On their continued silence she felt the need to elaborate. ‘You know, Reagan?’
Saul almost winced at the weakness of the excuse; the president was not due until tomorrow.
‘And did they block Ku’damm yesterday as well?’ said Hannah and not waiting for an answer she turned back to Saul.
‘I want to see you tonight’. Hannah did an about face and strode out of the kitchen, rallying the troops as she went: ‘We open in five, let’s get the shelves full!’ The door swinging behind her.
Saul and Timo held a look for a moment and then burst out laughing, Anja joined in despite not getting the joke. She made busy with the tray of rolls Timo had put down earlier.
‘Maybe you should stay at my place tonight?’ offered Timo with a grin.
‘Sorry, I just wanted to try. I should have asked you first’ said Saul.
Timo opened the oven door and stood back for a second to let the heat wave fade. When it was safe he removed a tray of loaves and put his nose to them. Saul hated it when he did that but it was a habit Timo could not break. Saul knew they were done just by looking at them. Timo tapped on one to hear the sweet hollow sound of success.
‘Yeah, you look like a novice,’ he said sarcastically and then added, ‘What’s your experiment?’
Saul turned to his station, the base of his cake still bare.
‘Mango and coconut cheesecake with a ginger biscuit base’.
‘Coconut and mango?’
‘Great for the summer, trust me.’
This is what Saul brought to the business: creativity. Nothing gave him more pleasure than the experiment that was baking. He had pretty much left the bread to Timo (despite his sniffing and tapping he was an excellent baker) and carved out a niche for himself making cakes. The Germans had their own favourites of course - Streuselkuchen, Windbeutel, Dominosteine and Pfannkuchen (a jam donut called a Berliner in every other part of the country except in Berlin. He could not hear the famous JFK speech anymore without thinking: “I am a doughnut”) and these were his standards. However, to these standards he had added an international element with American cheesecakes, British carrot cake, scones, Austrian strudel and even hot cross buns for Easter; for which he suffered no end of annual jibes from Hannah. He made no attempt to Germanise these creations as was popular convention in other stores and had consequently become the baker of choice for tourists and homesick expats. He had high hopes for mango and coconut becoming a new summer standard.
Saul’s eyes wandered to the newspaper that lay folded on his station. The headline read:
FUNERAL OF PROMINENT JEWISH BUSINESSMAN TODAY.
Below the caption was a black and white photograph of the deceased, Mark Ramek, looking imposing with his jet-black hair and dark suit. The man’s eyes transfixed Saul; it was hard to imagine them lifeless. Mark had always been so strong, able to lift a man with his pitchfork-
Saul clamped down the escaped thought.
‘You gonna bake it?’ enquired Timo.
Saul swept the paper onto the waste and shook his head.
‘Refrigerate it’.
#
Hannah worked the counter serving the regulars and taking time to gossip and catch up with local news. This was something that Saul found impossible: when he spoke he liked to think it meant something and that was why he was valued council. Sales people spoke all the time and in the past he had bought things just to shut them up. These days he walked out on them. He liked to make, but selling what he made seemed base and forced. Hannah could do it in a way he never could: by being genuine. The customers liked her and she was interested in their lives. Once he told her it was simply one of the differences between men and women: men never gossip. She had replied, ‘Me
n gossip for fun, women gossip for truth; but you Saul are a watcher’.
‘That’s four eighty-five, Petra,’ said Hannah.
The woman handed over the money.
‘So how will you cope?’
‘She’s at Kindergarten during the day. Saul finishes early anyway and she’ll keep him out of trouble.’
‘I forgot I need some cake, what’s fresh?’
‘Mango and coconut cheesecake,’ said Saul entering the shop front with his latest creation. As much as Saul liked the smell of the kitchen, it was the smell of the shop front that he loved. To him, the raw yeasty scent of the kitchen was like exposing the brick work on a building. The shop front however, smelled sweet and when no one was looking he would stand at his favourite place (the corner behind the counter) and inhale the magic.
‘Mango and coconut?’ Petra was not convinced. She was Black Forest Gateaux all the way.
‘Trust me. If you don’t like it, you don’t pay for it.’
Hannah shot Saul a look.
‘In that case, I’ll have four slices please,’ beamed Petra.
Saul reached under the counter and grabbed a flat piece of card with pre-made folds. He started to assemble the take-away box. Hannah took a step closer to him.
‘I trust they are nicotine free?’
‘Sarcasm free too,’ said Saul and he could not resist giving her a quick kiss on the lips. He knew this would annoy her enough to leave him alone. She was never one for public shows of affection. She explained many times that it made her feel vulnerable and the only place for that was at home with him. As much as he loved her, he still took a sick pleasure from irritating her.
Just then the front door opened and pandemonium in the shape of a cute six-year-old girl burst into the shop. Before the door had time to close she had sprinted past all the customers, her hair streaming behind her, ducked under the counter and jumped on Saul.
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