Her Vati insists on her learning all the different steps it takes to run the factory, from making the white shirts that are their staple to the new business of undergarments — long underwear for men, vests and underpants for women. And Vati is watching from his corner office. Not only her. From his vantage point her father can see the women standing at the long table cutting out the thick layers of cotton fabric around cardboard patterns with sharp knives. He can see the row of sewing machines with their young women operators bent over the material. The women glance up frequently from their work, coquettishly tilting their heads toward him.
Frieda cannot bear them, the silly girls who are so taken with her handsome Vati, a Jew who won the Iron Cross when he pulled his commanding officer to safety during the Great War. A rare thing for a Jew, the Iron Cross. It helps with the customers in the store in the front. Though Eisenbaum’s faces Meinekestrasse, it is one store up from the corner at the Kurfürstendamm, the smartest thoroughfare in Berlin. Her brother, Wolfie, also rakish in his suit, serves the customers who come in to buy shirts and the latest style of undergarments, only a few feet away from Vati through that door with the round window that separates the store from the workroom. In this heat Vati wipes his brow with his handkerchief. Whenever he’s needed, he opens the door to the store and enters that other world where he rearranges his face and transforms himself into a salesman.
Frieda sighs. Would she rather wait on customers like her father and brother, smiling politely while the women try to decide between the different fashions of bloomers? Maybe then she might have time to study. There is seldom a steady stream of customers. And now with the inflation coming back again, people are not buying much. That is not a good thing, Frieda knows; less money for their family. And yet she is strangely detached from the means by which they make a living. She wishes she could look again at the chemistry book her class began just before she left. The part where it says that chemistry is primarily the science of the transformations of substances into other substances. Not only could two substances combine to form a new substance, but a substance could decompose into other substances. Like the marvel that transformed two atoms of hydrogen paired with one of oxygen to make water. In fact, other changes took place that seemed impossible and inexplicable. Coal could transform into diamonds! That is what she wants, what she desperately needs: for the substance of her life to change into something else that is impossible — happiness.
To her surprise the door to the store creaks open and Wolfie sticks his head in. He says something to Vati that she cannot hear. But she knows it is about her because they both turn to look at her before Vati disappears into the store.
Frieda immediately leaves her post.
“I’m not finished,” Greta says, pouting, as Frieda heads toward the round window in the door.
She stares through the glass in confusion. In the middle of the store stands Herr Doktor Kochmann, their family physician since she was a little girl. More than their doctor; their friend. And her confidant for some things that she cannot discuss with Vati. What can he possibly be doing here? Buying himself underwear? She wants to go say hello, but something holds her back. The doctor is portly in his tweed jacket and short grey beard, his hair scant. Beside him Vati looks quite fashionable, agile in a grey suit. He still has all his hair and sports a thick brown moustache.
Wolfie spots her through the window and strolls to the back. He winks at her and opens the door a crack so she can hear.
“Herr Doktor, it’s wonderful to see you! Are you buying your own shirts now, that you honour us with your presence?”
“Herr Eisenbaum, it’s always a pleasure. Such a bright store, and so well laid out. Wolfie is looking well. I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty, but I felt I should talk to you about Frederika. She says you have taken her out of school, and she is so bright, first in her class, she tells me. She has such a facility with information — medical information, you understand.”
“Herr Doktor, it is very kind of you to come, I am sure, but my first concern must be for the business. You must understand my position. The times are uncertain. I had to let two people go last month. Frederika is sixteen now. She must learn to work like all the other girls. If she were a boy ...”
“Herr Eisenbaum, she is not just any girl. She has understanding far beyond her years. She learns so quickly. A fine mind is a rare thing.”
“That is precisely why I want her to learn how to run the factory. She’s smart — you think I don’t know? I’m no fool, Herr Doktor. Even her older brother admits she’s smarter.” He glances back at Wolfie with a devilish smile, and Frieda ducks out of sight. “She will learn from the bottom up and one day she will take over the whole thing.”
“I hesitate to interfere. But to take such a student out of school so soon ...”
“But she’s a girl. She doesn’t need more schooling. She needs to learn the business. What is another year, more or less?”
“I am thinking of more than one year of school, Herr Eisenbaum. She has such a precocious intellect in one so young. Not only the intelligence, but the curiosity. I’ve given her some old medical books because she wants to learn, and she learns very quickly. She’s mentioned to me the desire to become a doctor.”
For once Vati is speechless. Frieda feels her heart swell with joy — that someone has so much faith in her. Also a pang of regret that Vati knows she has discussed her deepest desires with someone else, rather than with him. She wishes she could run into the store and beg Vati herself, but she knows that will do no good. He is a stubborn man who keeps his own counsel and rarely changes his mind about anything.
However, he defers to authority, in this case, the doctor, though Frieda knows it is only for form’s sake. Vati will not be rude.
“I will speak to my wife,” he says.
Herr Doktor Kochmann shakes Vati’s hand, bows slightly, then leaves.
In the evenings after dinner, Frieda’s mother usually sits at the window in the living room. She takes up this position every night, staring straight ahead. It isn’t that she’s drained from the day, because what does her day consist of? Walking across the street two or three times a week to the hairdresser, who will wash and wave her hair, manicure her nails. At least once a month ordering new clothes from the dressmaker, going for fittings. Irmgard, the maid, goes to the shops for groceries, and Frieda’s grandmother cooks the meals. Which leaves Mutti time to stroll languidly down the Kurfürstendamm to the exclusive shop where the sales clerks have saved her size in the latest coats from Paris. She can also get lost in oversized books like War and Peace.
No, she doesn’t stare out the window from fatigue, but to get away from them all. Especially Oma, who has had a hard life and never tires of reminding them of it. She and Opa came from Poland before the turn of the century. Once Opa found a job with a tailor, he brought his young wife in to do the fine finishing. They worked for many years before opening their own business, Oma working alongside her husband in the store.
Frieda doesn’t remember much of Opa. She was six when he died. Oma came to live with them then, a small, fierce woman whose opinions were unshakeable. She feels the same way about the business as Vati, that it eclipses all other considerations. Frieda will find no ally in her. Oma’s attention, at any rate, is taken up with Frieda’s older sister, Luise.
“Ernst,” she says to Vati, “you should’ve seen how Luise made the dough for the dumplings today. She stuffed them so carefully, every one is a little masterpiece, isn’t it, my liebling?”
Though Oma can be stern, her white hair pinned tightly, perfectly, to the back of her head in a chignon, she gazes with adoration at her middle grandchild. Luise chomps dreamily on one of the little masterpieces, pale blue eyes resting briefly on the faces of her father, her mother, Frieda, for affirmation.
When none arrives from her parents, Frieda says, “They’re delicious, Louie.”
Luise lets out a snorty laugh. “They’re delicious, Louie
,” she mimics.
“No, no,” says Oma. “Ladies do not laugh like that. Quietly, Luise, ladylike.” Oma is always immaculately turned out in a crisply starched white blouse and black wool skirt.
Luise’s face goes blank. She bites a piece of potato filling off her fork and chews with her mouth open. Periodically, Oma wipes the food off the girl’s lips with a napkin. She does this mechanically, as if it is the most natural thing in the world for a crust to form around the mouth of someone who is eating.
Frieda picks at her food, waiting for Vati to say something about Herr Doktor Kochmann.
Instead, he says to his mother, “Don’t you think she’s had enough? It won’t help if she gets fat.”
Every morning Oma braids Luise’s light brown hair into two braids over her ears, as if she is ten and not eighteen. As if Oma can stall time and, by sheer will, keep the chasm from widening between the child’s mind and the adult body.
“She’s not fat! Are you, Luise-mouse?”
Luise smiles serenely and pokes her fork into some chicken.
“One day some nice young man will come and sweep her off her feet,” says Oma.
Vati slams his hand down on the table. Everyone jumps. “Don’t be ridiculous! That will never happen. Look at her!”
Everyone turns to look at Luise, whose plump white cheeks fill with more chicken. She smiles, pleased with the attention, her mouth open chewing the food.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” says Oma. “She looks like me when I was young. Only she doesn’t have to work her fingers to the bone like I did. We came here for a better life and we found it.”
Vati squares his jaw, controlling his anger. “I know you mean well,” he says, “but I can’t have her hoping for something she’ll never have. She must face reality.”
“She will learn, Ernst. I will work with her. But I need time, since I have no help. I, for one, refuse to give up.” She looks pointedly at her daughter-in-law, who stares into the centre of the table as if the plates are dancing.
“No Jew in Berlin would marry a —” Vati begins.
“There are so many Jews coming now from the east,” Oma goes on. “There must be a nice young man among them. It would be a raise in stature for them to marry into a German family —”
“Ostjuden? Are you mad? They’re religious fanatics. Those Jews are our misfortune, with their caftans and forelocks. And their ridiculous superstitions. They don’t even speak German!”
“We were Ostjuden once,” Oma says. “You think it was easy when we came, that people welcomed us? You don’t remember how many times you came running home with bruises or a bloody nose. I didn’t make a fuss. I just pushed you back out. It was the only way to teach you.”
“So I became German. We became German. We made an effort to fit in. We learned the language. But these Ostjuden — they speak that gibberish, that jargon, and bring the air of the ghetto with them. Now the papers rail against all of us because the new Jews draw attention to themselves. Did you see what the papers are saying now? That Jews are unpatriotic. That we stayed home during the war. That we didn’t fight! Do people really believe them? It’s only been nine years since the war ended and they think they can convince people with lies like this!”
Luise shrinks back in her chair, her head lowered.
“Don’t be frightened, liebchen,” Oma says, stroking Luise’s head. “Vati is not angry with you.” She looks at the flushed face of her son. “Are you, Ernst?”
Vati picks up his napkin and wipes his moustache with great care, patting it from one end to the other.
Frieda is getting restless. She feels time running out. Mutti sits across the table facing her, but her eyes are blank. She could be thinking anything. She could be thinking nothing.
“How many Jews were in your company, Vati?” Frieda has heard it all before but encourages her father to talk. If he’s in a good mood, maybe he’ll bring up the subject of Herr Doktor Kochmann’s visit.
“Many, many Jews. They all fought bravely. Many died. We felt we had to prove we were proud Germans. You were born here, so there’s no question of your being German. We’ve risen far since I was your age.”
Dinner is almost over, and so far Vati has made no attempt to broach the question Frieda carries in her heart. She knows her mother is a fragile creature and must be approached with the utmost care. Once dinner is over she will retreat into herself and it will be impossible. Yet dinner is nearly over. The borscht is finished. The chicken. The time passes and Vati has not raised the subject of the visit. The maid has gone into the kitchen for the cooked fruit compote for their dessert.
Dinner is over. Frieda is crestfallen. Vati never intended to give her the chance. She watches her mother, desperation rising in her chest.
Mutti has taken up her position at the window. Frieda thinks she sits at the window so that it doesn’t look so odd, her staring into space. Because she never really looks at anything. She has wandered into some other world where no one can follow her. During dinner Vati gives her the pills and potions the doctors have prescribed over the years for her problem. What the problem is depends on the doctor. Hysteria, one says. A weak constitution, says another. The disappointment of producing a backward child. Most of the time she sits immobile as if lost in some labyrinth in her mind. Frieda wonders at this beautiful creature that is her mother, her thick dark hair loosely bound at the nape of her slender neck.
Frieda will not live her life like this. She will not. Her chest throbs, throbs with the injustice of it. Vati is Vati, but she has a right to her life.
The distant figure sits in the stuffed chair reading the paper. He’s following the preparations for the Olympics to take place in Amsterdam next year.
Frieda approaches as if through a tunnel. “Vati,” she says.
He doesn’t look up. “Look at this. A young Jewish girl is going to be on the fencing team. You realize this is our first Olympics since before the war? They wouldn’t let Germany come in ’24. And here’s that rabble-rouser, Hitler, at it again ...”
“Vati, I know Herr Doktor Kochmann came to see you today.” She glances at Mutti, who stares, mesmerized, out the window.
“It is of no concern to you,” Vati says, his eyes still on the paper.
“How can you say that? My whole life depends on it.” She is astonished at her own temerity.
Vati glances up, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Don’t be insolent. You have nothing to say in this regard. I need you in the store. That’s final.”
“You said you were going to speak to Mutti. You told Herr Doktor ...”
Vati flicks his newspaper to another page.
She runs to her mother, kneels before her. “Mutti, Herr Doktor Kochmann came to see Vati in the store today. He says I’m an exceptional student — he says that I should stay in school. I want to be a doctor. Mutti! Please help me. I want to stay in school. I want to go to university.”
Mutti blinks, but her eyes are lost somewhere else.
“You’re wasting your time, Frieda. If you weren’t so selfish you would understand I need you in the business. Wolfie will never run the place. He’s not as smart as you, not as serious. He’s out there now, somewhere with his women, drinking and gambling. Who will run the store when I can’t? Mutti? Luise? You’re the only one.”
“Greta’s a smart girl. Why don’t you train her? She’s part of the family.”
“She’s my niece, not my daughter.” A pause. “In my day I wouldn’t have dared argue with my parents.”
Frieda continues to kneel before her mother. “You haven’t asked Mutti. If Mutti says no, I won’t speak of it again.” What possesses her to make this offer? The most she can hope for is that Mutti will say nothing.
Vati frowns at her. “Why do you put me in this position? You know how it is with your Mutti.”
Vati stands to go. Then a small voice, muffled by years of silence, stretches into the air.
“Frieda is not like us.”
&nb
sp; Vati turns toward the beautiful woman in the chair, his mouth open with astonishment. Mutti looks up at him for a brief moment, her long neck arched, swanlike.
“Don’t keep her from life.” Then she turns back to the window and escapes once more into the tangle of her silence.
He takes her hand gently and brings it to his lips. “Karolina, my love.”
chapter three
Bizet’s Pearl Fisher duet washed over Rebecca at 7:00 a.m. Saturday. She lay there spellbound, transported by the rousing voices of two tenors issuing from the radio and filling the room — she didn’t know who they were, she didn’t care; she just loved the music. Until it stopped and she remembered.
Even after a year, every time she woke up alone in her queen-size bed an ache bloomed in her chest. During the week she was too rushed to think. But on weekends, when she had the luxury of lying still upon waking, languorous beneath the covers, the first thing that filtered into her consciousness was the empty space beside her. She ran her hand along the cool, vacant expanse of sheet. David. Red hair, impish smile. Warm hand in the small of her back. His face rose in the air like the morning, like the music. Go away, she thought. No point loving a dead man. Rolling over, she turned off the radio.
At least she had something to do today. No more time to think. She stumbled into the shower and let the steady hum of the water take her over. Mindlessly, she massaged the shampoo into her dark mass of hair, which had grown too long. She hated going to the hairdresser.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 60
