After several exasperating attempts she’d finally reached Doro. Her Communist friend simply had to help her infiltrate the meeting. She looked forward to showing Ryan how two women could put one over on those same Nazis after Ryan got cold feet. She knew the close call the previous week had rattled his nerves and left him bruised, but she still bit her lip in frustration over the man. The political underground was no place for the lily-livered. Who knew, perhaps Ryan would still come to recognize his lost opportunity and screw up his courage.
What a story to wire home to her editor father! He would shit his pants when he read what she’d pulled off. Serves him right—so much for believing a woman should only report on society shindigs and gossip! But first, she had to get Doro onboard for the evening’s adventure. “It’ll be a simple in-and-out. You’ll be my extra eyes and ears; we slip in unnoticed and get the scoop. Afterwards we down a beer or two and laugh ourselves silly over the fascist idiots, and then I file the greatest story yet.”
She excused herself for a moment to shout at Brady: “Put a sock in it, Chuck! I’m trying to work here!” Her colleague swiveled away from her and extended a middle finger. She put a foot to his chair and sent him rolling into the narrow aisle. “Doro, trust me—it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“You lead a charmed life with all your risk-taking, Izz, but it sounds like we could both choke on this particular ‘piece of cake.’”
“Risk just adds to the fun, darling. Tell me—why’d you join the Bolshies if you can’t handle danger?” The silence on the line told Isabel she’d pushed too far.
Doro was determined to give women societal power equal to any man’s. Political muscle would be the first step toward changing stubborn attitudes. Isabel’s friend had flirted with joining the Social Democrats, but found most Sozis more talk than fight, their traditionalist members clinging to an old-fashioned attitude toward the woman’s role in their political struggle. The Reichsbanner troops of the SPD were the exception, but this paramilitary organization still didn’t want women fighting alongside them in street battles. Berlin’s Communists, however, welcomed anyone willing to fight for the proletariat, no matter the gender, and the Reds weren’t afraid to draw blood. Let the Nazis use violence and intimidation. Doro and her comrades would give tit for tat.
Isabel knew a change of tack was needed. She summoned her impossible-to-say-no-to voice: “Be a peach, Doro—it’s a lark you’ll never forget!”
Doro played along with the obvious manipulation. “So who told you about this meeting? They don’t advertise the closed ones.”
“Believe it or not, it was the detective investigating our run-in with these bastards. This guy seems as interested in keeping the peace as the Nazis are of messing it up. Says he wants me to spread the word on what Hitler’s boys are up to these days.”
Doro was clearly incredulous. “A Kripo inspector?”
“Struck me as a bit odd, too, but some bulls must bend to the left.” Chuck, now off the line, sat facing her and eavesdropping with a supercilious grin. She shoved him away again, her foot coming perilously close to his groin. “The cops can’t all be frigging fascists, can they?”
“What makes you think they won’t recognize us from the other night? You bruised a few balls with that wicked knee of yours, and even I managed to dent a head or two.”
Isabel chuckled. “Disguises, of course! It’s all handled. We’ll just blend into a large crowd and keep our heads down.”
“So where’s that dashing American of yours? Word is he gave as good as he got last week, so why not get him to go with you.”
“Honestly, Ryan’s a lot of things: charming as hell and plenty smart, and damned good in the sack, too, but the fellow needs more backbone to keep up with me.” Isabel sensed the depth of her own disappointment. “Let’s just say I’ve taught him all I can, but he’s not ready to get down and dirty for my kind of reporting.”
She and Ryan had done exciting work at street rallies and some of the city’s shadier dives, yet she doubted he could ever lose that Harvard Business self-image. Despite her coaching he remained a neophyte at all this. Enthusiastic, yes, but a dabbler. His reportage was more observational, hers confrontational, and timidity had no place in the gritty underworld of Berlin.
Doro’s reluctance was no surprise, though. Her watery-eyed boyfriend was still nursing a smashed ankle and a brutal gash at the throat. The Brownshirt’s knife had narrowly missed the jugular, but happily Jürgen’s larynx remained intact. Only that wooly beard had saved him during the memorable brawl and he would soon be on his feet again, preaching the manifesto on crutches.
“I don’t know if I’m up for it either, Isabel. Shouldn’t you invite a few others to join in?”
“Only room for the two of us tonight, friend.” Isabel had no intention of taking another “no” for an answer. Time was short and she’d made some newsroom boasts she intended to back up. Come hell or high water, she was going to be there and needed someone to watch her back. “Any bigger numbers and we wouldn’t get past the door. These Brownshirts think a woman’s only place is in the home, ready to spread her legs for Fatherland and Führer. Tonight we’re going to show how strong women take action.”
Doro sighed. “Okay, so spill it—what’s this grand plan of yours and how does my going help the cause?”
Isabel exhaled, her friend hooked at last. “Details later, but you’ll love it! Just the two of us tonight, agreed?”
She heard the surrender in Doro’s voice: “Fine. Who can ever say no to you? Where and when?”
Isabel glanced at the clock on the far wall. “It’s a quarter past noon now. Meet me at two at the Marquardt Café, Parisergasse 2. We’ll grab a bite, then see if Toni is out of bed.”
“Toni?”
“Just be there. The Marquardt, and don’t be late.” She dropped the phone in its cradle, just in case Doro was tempted to change her mind. What a story to wire home tomorrow!
A working-class upbringing in difficult times made some people openly envious of those better off, others bitter or all-out angry. It had made Doro compassionate. From an early age she committed herself to improving the lives of the underpaid and overworked. Many of her friends had turned complacent in the face of economic suppression, but the plight of her long-suffering proletarian parents was painful to watch. Mistreated on a daily basis by a machine shop foreman who ignored overtime and deducted expenses for the slightest infraction, her father had weakened physically and mentally month by month, year by year. He now looked and acted twice his age. Her mother helped feed the four siblings by taking in laundry and sewing. Eventually she had become a skilled dressmaker, but as often as not, the wealthy patrons found some nit to pick in her custom-fitted orders—anything to justify ruthlessly reducing the promised payment.
For two years Doro had lined up at the soup kitchens, trading places every few hours with her mother, hoping to get enough to feed the family. She witnessed the squalor of homeless encampments and wondered how long before her family lost its modest apartment to the greedy landlord. Finally, at eighteen and working alongside her mother sewing for the oppressor and oppressed alike, she knew she must take a political stand. The Communist Party had welcomed her with open arms, as had the sweet if verbose Jürgen.
While she knew her own borough well enough, the rest of Berlin remained a mystery. The vast wheel of boulevards stretched out to places she would likely never visit. Arrogant, well-to-do exploiters claimed the center of the city or the wooded lake land to the west of the city, many keeping luxurious villas and townhomes she glimpsed only from tram or bus. Meanwhile, the poor drudges she knew so well occupied the neglected outer neighborhoods of the metropolis or piled, one family upon the other, in squalid tenements at the edges of the bustling commercial centers.
No stranger to the eccentricities Berlin had to offer, she had only second-hand knowledge of their salacious diversity. The city’s red light districts were rumored to be decadent corrupters of boys and
girls alike. On the outskirts of such “pockets of sin,” dance clubs and cabarets satisfied the most extreme tastes. Newsstands displayed lurid rags promoting every sexual variation and perversion, and, once darkness fell, the pitchmen descended into the streets hawking raunchy booklets, while street girls and rent boys displayed their most personal wares to both goal-oriented and naive tourist alike.
Nevertheless, Doro was ill-prepared as she trailed Isabel up the staircase to the second landing in a narrow apartment block off Nollendorfplatz in Berlin West. Isabel had remained tight-lipped about her “plan,” offered only a frustrating “wait and see.” Now, with lunch behind them, she rapped lightly at a door and awaited a response. Then tried again.
Toni opened at last. Smiling sleepily, she had clearly dragged herself from bed in response to their arrival. The slim-hipped young woman towered over Doro. Barely hidden beneath a carmine day robe, her well-muscled arms and legs suggested an athlete, and the weary eyes implied a schedule that kept her up until the earliest morning hours. Her oiled black hair was cut short and she wore no makeup. A cigarette holder pinched between thumb and forefinger jutted upward, the mannerism of a young aristocrat awakening from a bender. Only the surge of nipples beneath the thin wrap betrayed her biological gender.
Isabel gave her a friendly peck on each cheek. “You’re such a love, Toni. Especially on such short notice.”
“Always glad to see you, Izz.” Toni’s smile revealed perfect, even teeth.
Isabel put an arm around her friend’s waist and squeezed. “It really couldn’t wait, you see.” She introduced Doro and the two shook hands.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Toni said, setting aside her cigarette and running fingers through her slick hair to restore its masculine styling.
The two guests took seats at the only table. Their hostess produced three delicate teacups from the cupboard above the sink. She wiped the dishware with a towel and checked the spoons for spots before setting one beside each saucer. A canister of sugar and a beige ceramic teapot completed the setting. “I’m afraid these don’t get much use,” Toni said “My schedule doesn’t allow for much entertaining or housekeeping.” She pried the lid from a tin of Darjeeling. “A gift from an English admirer,” she said, filling a tea ball.
The flat was tastefully decorated with a velour sofa in rich purple flanked by mahogany side tables, a brass standing lamp, and a leather fauteil. A credenza below one window held a porcelain vase of dried flowers. A bathroom and a clothes closet flanked either side of the short hallway leading to the sole bedroom. Isabel already knew that any feminine apparel took second station to the varied menswear in the closet. A well-cut black tuxedo hung at the bedroom door and a top hat rested haphazardly on the back of the couch.
Doro’s curiosity got the best of her. “Isabel says you’re an entertainer?”
“I’m not sure how entertaining—” she flashed Doro a smile as she placed the kettle on the gas ring and lit a match, “but it’s what I do.” She joined them at the table, reversing her chair to straddle it, her arms resting on the back.
Doro was intrigued by this first personal encounter with a world she only knew from rumor and innuendo. “Is your work nearby?”
“Not far. The Toppkeller,” she made a vague gesture to the north, “in the Schwerinstrasse. You’ve heard of it?”
“No, not really.” Doro noted a studied gruffness to the woman’s voice, something compellingly masculine. For a woman, she made a most attractive man, though clearly not the Jürgen type. For the moment Doro was simply mystified. “Sounds like fun. A nightclub?”
“Of sorts…a gathering place for the like-minded.” She smiled sweetly. “I emcee most evenings.”
“Sounds charming,” Doro knew nothing more to add.
Isabel interrupted, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “So, is everything ready?”
“As requested, Izzy.” Toni rose to fetch an armload of clothing from the alcove shelf. “Two common laborers, a bit down on their luck, right. Though I thought you told me it would be you and some man.”
“He couldn’t make it,” Isabel said, sounding a bit peeved, “but happily Doro here came to my rescue.”
Doro turned to Isabel with raised brows. “Come on—no more delays, Izzy, out with it now—just what’s in store for us?”
“You and I are about to become men!” Isabel ignored Doro’s look of astonishment as she pushed aside the tea service and sorted the used men’s clothing into two piles. “How’d you get these, Toni? Not quite up to your professional standard, I must say.”
“My uncle owns a used-clothing business, and items do occasionally go missing, you know,” Toni shrugged in feigned concern, “at least temporarily. We can alter as needed. I have pins and such. Just return it all tomorrow and we’re fine.” She disappeared into the bedroom.
Isabel had already abandoned her shoes. Now she checked out the brown trousers. They would be baggy but work with suspenders. “Come on, Doro. Off with the old, on with the new.”
“I’m not so sure about this, Izzy.” She hesitated. “The two of us as men?”
“It’s our only ticket in, my friend. No women at these meetings. But when my story appears, the world will know that women were up to the task.”
Toni returned with a lacquered tray of grooming implements. “First things first, ‘gentlemen.’ She studied Doro’s stylishly short haircut with an approving nod. “All you’ll need, my dear, is a good slick of pomade and a tight body wrap and you’ll be convincing enough, though you are a bit on the small side. But as for you, Izz, that fabulous hair of yours must go.”
Isabel shook loose her shoulder-length tresses. “It’s all yours, darling—no sacrifice too great for a story.” She took to the chair and Toni draped a bedsheet around her shoulders. Scissors made quick work of the longer locks before Toni reached for hand clippers and styled a bob cut. Warming the hair grease between her hands, she sculpted the hair back from Isabel’s forehead and admired her handiwork. “As for the makeup and mascara—for your purposes away it goes.” She unscrewed a jar of cold cream.
Doro stared in amazement at the gradual transformation. In the dim light of the apartment her friend could now pass for a young, somewhat effeminate male. With luck, tonight’s meeting would be poorly lit. She found herself excited by the masquerade despite her understandable fears. That close call of the previous week had nearly killed Jürgen, but she had to admit that she and Isabel were looking totally different than their appearance at the brawl.
Twenty-five minutes later the job was complete. “All right, the two of you, take a look at what we’ve got.” Toni handed them a mirror, her grin contagious.
“Good Lord!” Isabel turned her face from side to side, admiring her reflection. “You’ve outdone yourself!”
“All in a day’s work, but don’t forget your voices. Izz, yours is naturally husky—”
“It’s all those cigarettes.” Doro gave her friend a scolding look.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working, so keep it up. You’d make a fortune at Toppkeller. As for you, Doro, you are a bit high-pitched. So listen—here’s what all my girls do: first off, hum deeply to yourself. Just part your lips slightly and lower your chin to your chest. Add a bit of the nasal, and keep it low in the throat.” Both women practiced the humming. “Excellent, now breathe deeply.” They inhaled. “No, no—” she placed a hand on Isabel’s lower ribcage, “from the diaphragm, not so high in the chest. Just keep that deep hum in your voice while speaking.” They made several attempts until Toni pronounced herself satisfied. “Don’t worry—cinching in your tits helps force the air lower. And for God’s sake, relax those throats.”
Doro gave it several more tries. Her voice came out a bit scratchy. “I’m not sure I can do this.” She turned to Isabel. “Maybe Toni should go instead?”
Toni jumped in: “Thanks but no thanks, my friends. I’ve enough problems with those goons without sticking my neck out.” She reached fo
r her lighter. “I never look for trouble.” A curtain of smoke enveloped her. “Trouble looks for me.” She inhaled again, deeply. “You’ll both be fine. Worst case, claim a sore throat. Everybody’s sick right now anyway, what with the miserable weather.”
Toni had them strip down to panties, and Doro was glad to have worn her only really nice pair. “What lovely titties all around,” Toni observed, “really a shame to hide them away!” She shook out the old bedsheet, then used her foot to gather the hair clippings on the linoleum and scoot them under the table. “I’ll get around to that later.” She tore long strips from the cloth and bound their breasts, securing the wraps with safety pins. Finally they donned the rest of the costumes, ultimately exchanging waistcoats for a better fit. Doro’s trousers were far too long, requiring needle and thread to hastily baste the cuffs.
Toni brought out several pairs of scuffed men’s shoes. She lined them up on the floor beside the table. “For comedy skits at the club. The fit usually stinks, but their worn condition is de rigueur for what you’re pretending to be.” A bit of trial and error and they arrived at a decision.
“Okay, you two, now show me what you’ve got.” Arms linked, Doro and Isabel strolled toward the bedroom and then back to the table, all the while doubling over with laughter. Toni gave them a critical eye and finally nodded her approval. “Do keep in mind how men walk—very full of themselves. Otherwise, they’ll take you for Bubis. Our butch sisters aren’t the usual Brownshirt cup of tea,” she took another drag on her cigarette, “though a few of Hitler’s boys do fall for them from time to time.” Toni suggested the gray fedora for Isabel. Doro preferred a worker’s billed cap, a tighter fit.
“So what’s next?” Doro looked at Isabel imploringly, hoping this would all turn out to be another of her jokes. She took the last sip of her tea.
“We take in a picture show in these duds, then grab a meal in public before the big event. Our dress rehearsal, so to speak.”
Echoes of Silence Page 11
