And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  Susanna, lying on the concrete beside the garbage cans . . . the other man, not her husband, the man who was in prison now, entered her mind, and she tried to force him out but he kept returning in flashes that were like still photographs—flash, his hand over her mouth, flash, his struggle to get inside her, flash, the press of her head against the concrete, the taste of his blood as she bit the hand he pressed over her mouth and nose, as she struggled to breathe. And then she saw Alan, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t . . . the film stuck in the most awful spot, repeating itself even as Dan ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back and they discarded the last of their clothes and he pulled her close and she felt him all around her. Now they were on the bed, Dan’s hands in her hair, and she tried to push him away to protect herself even as she lost track of which was the past and which the present—until she opened her eyes to see, to create new, different footage to play within her mind.

  As she massaged her hands into his legs, his back, she felt free, no more ghosts, only Dan, and now he was inside her and she rose toward him and held him tight within her.

  Chapter 38

  A week later, in the evening, Susanna stood in the arched entry tunnel leading into a courtyard off Sophienstrasse. Dan was beside her. In this part of the former East Berlin, called the Mitte, many buildings were designed in a series of connecting courtyards, with shops, galleries, and cafés hidden from the street. The dank smell of the tunnel mixed with the scents of nature from the overgrown churchyard across the street.

  Dan and Susanna stared at a memorial plaque on the wall before them.

  RACHELE SIMMERMAN, 1914–1941. MAX SIMMERMAN, 1909–1941.

  These were the names of Berlin Jews who’d lived in this building.

  A group of tourists, three men and two women, their clothes stylish, entered the tunnel. Because of their offhand elegance, Susanna guessed they were French even before she heard them speaking. One of the men led the others into the courtyard, which was filled with outdoor tables served by the café on the far side.

  The French tourists didn’t stop to read the plaque.

  Two young men in tight black T-shirts, speaking German, came into the tunnel. They also headed toward the café without glancing at the plaque. According to Susanna’s guidebook, Berlin was the coolest city in the world. A cutting-edge contemporary ethos swirled around her, while she focused on the past.

  CHANA SIMMERMAN, 1936–1941.

  Dan examined a poster taped to the wall. “Apparently there’s an art opening in the second courtyard. Shall we take a look?”

  DEVORAH SIMMERMAN, 1883–1941.

  “You go ahead.” She felt she owed the dead more than glancing attention. “I’ll catch up.”

  He squeezed her hand and released it. She watched him walk across the first courtyard, past the café tables, through another tunnel, and into the second courtyard. How attractive he was. He seemed unaware of this aspect of himself and bewildered when first she’d pointed it out. She’d seen women turning to stare at him on the street. Most of these women were gray-haired and closer to elderly than middle-aged, but nonetheless, he deserved their admiration. She could still feel the imprint of his hands upon her, from their lovemaking this afternoon, before dinner. She could still sense the smell of him, despite the shower she took afterward.

  This evening they’d followed the routine of each evening of their week. Dinner in one of the courtyards of the Mitte, followed by a walk. The sun set after 9:30. The long days extended their explorations. He’d moved out of the home of his friends and into her hotel room. These past days, as they visited museums, tourist sites, and cafés, they’d created a kind of circle around themselves. She was dependent on him, on a surface level because he was fluent in German (although she was picking up phrases), and more deeply because each day she’d allowed herself to become more vulnerable to him, to care for him and to trust him more.

  JOSEF NAUMANN, 1912–1941.

  JOSEPHINA NAUMANN, 1938–1941.

  Josephina was only three years old. Who took her and the others away? Young men, Susanna imagined. Eighteen or nineteen years old, barking orders, carrying rifles, trying to act grown-up. What was going through their minds as they marched the families—the grandmother stumbling, the father clinging to his dignity, the child clutching her mother’s skirt—into the waiting trucks? She felt the fear of the families. She smelled the scents of cooking wafting down from other apartments, as life continued all around, neighbors going about their business, not daring to watch.

  Enough. She turned away from the names and their stark evocation of the past. She willed herself back to the present. She walked into the first courtyard, crowded with the glamorous standing in line for the café’s outdoor tables. She continued on, into the second courtyard.

  The gallery, with its factory-style windows and track lighting, was on the right side. Visitors filled the loftlike space. From the courtyard, she could observe the comings and goings inside, people holding wineglasses and circulating from one painting to the next, the short-haired woman at the desk reviewing paperwork with a couple who wore matching leather jackets despite the summer heat. The paintings, at least as much of them as she could see through the crowd, projected a brutality: faces rendered so large and close, the features were distorted.

  She didn’t see Dan. She closed her eyes, as if pressing a reset button. She looked again. Where was he?

  She spotted the man who’d raped her, laughing at a comment from his companion. He glanced out at the courtyard, saw her, and smiled.

  The world shifted away from her. She felt light-headed from the shock.

  It couldn’t be, the rational side of herself insisted: the man who attacked her was in prison, across the ocean.

  But that was him, the pudgy cheeks, the black polo shirt, this evening draped with a dark blazer.

  Her sense that she had control over her life—it was false. She was at the mercy of others.

  No, her rational side said as she continued to stare into the gallery: the man who’d attacked her was nothing like the guy chatting near the front desk.

  But Dan had left her. That part was true. She was alone, even though she still felt the imprint of his hands upon her body. She was in Germany, a country where she wasn’t wanted. Where men shouted halt on the street. Where people like her were murdered. She would be taken away, like Rachele Simmerman. Fear twisted at her insides. She felt faint. She made her way to the gallery steps. She sat down. The brick walls of the courtyard were covered with holes . . . from bullets sprayed by a machine gun. What should she do, where should she go, now that these past days of companionship had turned to nothing? She should have foreseen how quickly Dan would disappear.

  “Decided you didn’t want to see the exhibit?” Dan sat down on the steps beside her.

  Him? Really? She felt disconnected from her perceptions.

  He pushed her hair over her shoulder as if nothing were wrong. Then he must have realized. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” What could she say—I looked for you, and you were gone. I saw the man who attacked me. “I’m tired.” She couldn’t say, I panicked when I didn’t see you. I thought you’d left me. She would sound like a child. Her phone was in her handbag, she could have called or texted him, but fear had overtaken her.

  “It’s an interesting show, I suppose. The crowd seemed excited about it. Not my kind of thing, though. Another room beyond this one, filled with more of the same. What you see through the windows gives a pretty fair idea of everything.” He cupped his hand over her knee.

  “It’s not my kind of thing, either.” She tried to sound normal.

  “Nine forty-five, and still light.”

  The long June days of northern Europe, the sky clear, a sliver of moon above them.

  “Yes.” She felt pivoted between past and present, bullet holes and art galleries, the cries of those pushed into trucks mingling with laughter and clinking wineglasses.

  “We’ll get you back
to the hotel.” He shifted his hand and rubbed her calf as if to put strength into it for the walk. “Get you to bed early.” Taking her hands, he stood and drew her up toward him, embracing her. “We’ve seen a lot today, don’t you think? We deserve to go to bed early.”

  He pulled her close, and she pressed her face against his shoulder.

  Chapter 39

  LEIPZIGERSTRASSE 3

  BERLIN, PRUSSIA

  1851

  Paul Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, age thirty-nine, stood beside the closed piano in his sister Fanny’s study. On dozens of occasions, he’d stood here and listened to her play.

  Not today. Today the room was musty, the windows shuttered. He turned and contemplated the job he faced: taking the room apart and disposing of the contents . . . the piano, the desk. The bookcases, with their well-read volumes. Fanny’s music library, the scores organized with her idiosyncratic precision. The watercolors by their brother, Felix. Hensel’s paintings and drawings. Paul opened a window to bring fresh air into the room.

  Fanny was four years dead. She’d died six months short of her forty-second birthday. Like their mother, she’d succumbed to a stroke. Felix died roughly five and a half months later. He was thirty-eight. He’d never recovered from Fanny’s passing.

  They’d both died at the apex of their lives. So much more, they might have accomplished. Fanny especially. At least she’d lived to see some of her compositions published.

  Paul felt as if he were committing a sacrilege by dismantling this room. For twenty-six years, Leipzigerstrasse 3 had been his family’s home. Now his parents were dead. Fanny and Felix were dead. And he, Paul Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, the perpetual younger brother—he was alive, to deal with what remained of better days.

  In a perfect world, the house would have stayed intact until Hensel died, or longer, someday providing a home for Sebastian and his family. But this was not a perfect world. Hensel no longer had the ability to maintain the house. Or himself. In the years since Fanny’s death, grief had overpowered Hensel. He’d stopped painting. Unfinished commissions filled his studio. His drinking was uncontrolled. His gambling debts mounted. Hensel wasn’t capable even of maintaining a household suitable for his son. Sebastian lived now with his aunt, Paul’s sister Rebecka, and her family.

  Paul had delayed as long as he could. Now the house and its beloved garden must be sold. The Prussian government had approached Paul with an offer. After recent political upheavals, the government was looking for a suitable building to use as the upper house of the newly formed parliament. Much to Paul’s surprise, his family home, center of memory, had been deemed suitable to serve as the nation’s parliament.

  The glittering Mendelssohn-Bartholdys. Here was what their musical studies and achievements and childhood games in the enchanted garden had come to: brother Paul, the banker, cleaning up after the dead.

  The door opened.

  “Brother-in-law, you’re early.” Wilhelm Hensel shambled into the room. Eleven in the morning wasn’t early, by Paul’s standards. Hensel still wore his dressing gown. Clearly he hadn’t shaved or bathed in many days. “It’s bright, eh?” Hensel looked out the window and squinted. The sky was gray. Hensel reeked of whiskey. He sat down heavily on a delicate, ornate chair. He was red-faced. Bloated. “Take anything you like. Take everything. What am I going to do with any of it?”

  Inwardly, Paul grimaced at his brother-in-law’s condition. He remembered Hensel filled with good humor and high spirits. “We’ll donate the music manuscripts to the Sing-Akademie, or to the Royal Library,” Paul said, wanting confirmation.

  “Whatever you believe is best.” Hensel’s voice caught. He turned away and covered his face.

  Was he weeping? Paul approached him. Put a hand on his shoulder. Hensel waved him off.

  “Leave me be.”

  “As you wish.” Paul stepped away. He wanted Hensel to say, I’ll help, we’ll do this together. Paul wanted a conversation, an acknowledgment of their shared memories, and their grief. Hensel had been a loyal husband to Fanny. Paul respected Hensel’s talents as an artist. Because of Hensel’s dazzling portraits, the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy family was forever spritely and charming; Fanny was a glorious muse, Lea was lovely and welcoming, Abraham was handsome, learned, supportive.

  “I’ll begin now,” Paul said.

  “As you wish.” Hensel sighed and slouched. “I’m happy to assist.” Hensel did not rise from his chair.

  I mustn’t leave jewelry here, Paul realized. Most likely Hensel was already selling off Fanny’s jewelry piece by piece to pay for his drinking and gambling. Paul had an obligation to Sebastian, to preserve what was left of his inheritance.

  Taking apart the house was a grave duty. Organizing this room alone would take weeks. After he’d gone through the desk to find any financial records, after he removed the most important music manuscripts, and found his sister’s jewelry in her dressing room, he’d turn the task over to Albertine, his wife. She could deal with the rest of the house, the silver and the china, the books, furniture, and musical instruments. She could hire a suitable firm to help her.

  And Albertine would have to deal with Hensel, and with the drawings and paintings stacked in his atelier. She’d help him find a new home. Obviously the man had lost all initiative.

  Paul had no patience with lost initiative. Paul had never had a moment in his adult life when he could allow himself to be lost, in this or any other way.

  Recently, Paul had noticed a shift within himself. He was barely thirty-nine years old, but already he felt his shoulders rounding despite his efforts to stand straight, and his eyes losing their sharp focus when he tried to read. Fanny, dead before her forty-second birthday. Felix, dead at thirty-eight. How long did Paul have left?

  On the desk was Fanny’s inventory of her family’s collection of music. It was extensive. Someone, he or Albertine or a solicitor, would have to go through and check if the listing bore any relationship to the materials that were, in fact, here.

  Paul opened the desk drawer. The smell of his sister surrounded him, powdery and soft. Her letter opener. Her pens. Her fine stationery. How many times she’d written to him on that stationery. Invitations. Requests for funds.

  Paul thought, I was the steady brother, the designated bearer of responsibility, the one required to join the family bank to keep the family fortune going. To provide the money so that everyone else could do as they wished. I was the one who had to be at work in the morning, so that Fanny could have a silver-handled letter opener. So that Felix could travel Europe in style as a composer and conductor.

  And I’m the one who’s here to clean up after the others. He was younger than Felix and Fanny, but now he felt far older.

  He’d experienced some accomplishments as a banker, that was true. He’d made commercial contacts with Russia and thereby expanded the bank’s reach and success, contributing to the prosperity of Prussia itself as trade routes opened to the east. He’d even learned Russian. He traveled frequently to St. Petersburg.

  Alas, their father would not have viewed these activities favorably. Not compared with being hailed as the greatest composer of the age, the equal of (if not greater even than) Mozart—or so said Goethe about young Felix. Their father had determined that he, Paul, the younger son, would be the one to work for the family bank. And then their father had denigrated him for being a banker. Procurator Paul, Abraham had called him, after the financial officers of the Roman Empire. The apparent jest had certainly never sounded like a compliment.

  Paul closed the desk drawer. He couldn’t take up his time with ladies’ stationery. Albertine would know what to do with it.

  Paul opened the first cabinet. He found the instrumental and vocal materials for the family’s Sunday concerts, all well-organized and labeled . . . the music of J. S. Bach, C. P. E. Bach, of Haydn, Beethoven, Felix Mendelssohn, and many others. He found Lea’s copy of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier I, a treasured gift, Lea had once told him, from his now-ancien
t great-aunt, Sara Levy.

  He went to the next cabinet. Here he found autographs of his sister’s compositions—dozens and dozens of them, in clean copies. In the next cabinet, he found musical sketches in his sister’s writing, along with her composing scores, many unfinished or in the process of being revised. Among these, he saw a manuscript on which Fanny had written, Keep in the private cabinet, although it wasn’t especially concealed. Was this the private cabinet, even though it appeared identical to the others? Paul didn’t know and he wouldn’t call attention to the question by rousing Hensel to ask him.

  Fanny had never shared with Paul her personal thoughts or feelings. She’d reserved those for Felix.

  Paul looked through the manuscript marked Keep in the private cabinet. He saw the signature. Old Bach himself. Paul still played the cello, when he wasn’t occupied with running the bank and making certain everyone in his extended family had a rainproof roof to live beneath and an advanced education provided by private tutors. Paul could read music, hear it, even, in his mind. He could have been a professional musician, if he’d been the eldest instead of the youngest.

  Paul made out the manuscript’s words, horrendous by any standard. Where had Fanny found this? Who could he ask?

  He glanced at the copy of The Well-Tempered Clavier I. He hadn’t visited Tante Levy in years. Paul felt a pang. He’d been remiss in his familial duty. Lea would have expected more from him.