Out of Such Darkness

by Robert Ronsson

  Real people from my time there. What else will you find?

  Jay decides to learn more about the Burford Lakes author.

  Chapter 22

  Wolf had suffered a bad headache when we were in Savignyplatz and now he was in my room. I gave him a drink of water and Frau Guttchen fussed in and out with remedies, pulling the shutters to on the eccentric windows and generally making a fuss. Finally I had to ask her to leave us alone so the poor boy could settle.

  “This is so much painful for me, Cammie.”

  I dabbed at his forehead with the damp cloth Frau Guttchen had left behind. “I’m sorry, dear boy. As soon as you feel up to it I’ll see you home.”

  “This is what I am talking about. I must not stay here. I must to be at home.”

  “Why? Whatever is wrong?”

  My parents have already left for our holiday house on Ruegen Island. I am meant to join them tomorrow. I haven’t even packaged my clothings yet.”

  “It’s not midday, Wolf. You have time.”

  “When I have one of the headaches I must to lie down for hours. I am on my own in the house. The staffs went first to open up the house in Lauterbach. I have to do it at my own person.” He looked up at me his blue-eyes flooded with tears, his bottom lip quivering.

  I knelt alongside the chaise-long and gathered him into a hug. “You don’t have to be on your own. Let me help you, Wolf. I can see you home and help you pack. If you are well enough we can have supper in Charlottenburg and you’ll be ready to leave for your holiday in the morning. Does that sound good?”

  Wolf gripped my hand in his and held it to his chest. “Would you? Would you, Cammie? Would you do this thing for me? You are so good for me.”

  He seemed to brighten up immediately and threw off the blanket Frau Guttchen had placed over his legs. “Then let us go there, to my home, now.”

  We sat side by side on the tram and I was aware of the pressure of his thigh against mine. It was as if Wolf was teasing me. We chatted in English about the scene as we passed along the centre of Hardenbergstrasse with Wolf pointing out the university buildings where his father had hoped he would be studying before they opted for him to have a military career.

  “What made him change his mind?” I said.

  “My father joined in the Nazi Party in 1929. It was not in those years a national organisation. My father had paid large monies in as gifts.”

  “It looks as if he backed the right horse.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He chose to support the right group.”

  “Well, yes. He is sure that the Fuhrer is the right man to lead Germany out of troubles. He sees my future in the party leadership at some time and says I must serve my time in the front-line of action, in the politics on the streets. This is why I will join the SA. Then, when it is right, I will leave and work directly in the party.”

  “Will you miss not going to University?” I had to speak over the screeching of the tram as it crossed points turning left onto Berlinerstrasse.

  “The future of Germany is not in the hands of the intelligentials. The future of Germany is from the strength of the people.” He lowered his voice even though I doubted whether the other passengers would understand him. “The country was made weak by a conspiracy of Jews and intelligentials,” he laughed, “and intelligent Jews. We must not let this happen again.”

  We left the tram at the Charlottenburg Rathaus and crossed to Spreestrasse. We slowed after a few yards. Ahead of us a gang of Brownshirts was loitering at the end of one of the roads on the right tapping their thighs with wooden clubs. We crossed to the left hand side and walked on keeping abreast, not touching, our eyes fixed ahead. As we drew alongside the Brownshirts I glanced down the opening. Another group was at the far end of the short street effectively sealing it off.

  “Gruenstrasse synagogue.” Wolf was whispering out of the side of his mouth. “The Jews have to show their papers if they attend. Many in this area have already fled. Our house, my father bought a few years ago very cheaply from fleeing Jews. It is good for all Germany that they are leaving.”

  We turned into Kanalstrasse and there was the Koehler’s imposing house. I was excited by the knowledge that it was empty – that when we went inside this mansion we would be alone. I couldn’t remember when we had been truly alone. Even when I was giving Wolf lessons in my room, Frau Guttchen threatened to bustle in at any time.

  Wolf unlocked the door and held it open for me. I stopped in the hall. It was on two floors and a stairway extended up ahead of us to a landing which went round on three sides. The colours were all muted creams and beiges with plasterwork frills like icing punctuating the cornices and door arches. There was an electric chandelier.

  “Are you sure everybody has left?” I said and my voice echoed as if to make the question redundant.

  “The staffs went early in the week and my parents left yesterday. I stayed on the extra day because of my lesson with you, Cammie.”

  “You could have cancelled.”

  “I did not want to. But since last year I have been going to Lauterbach on my own. Come! My room is upstairs.” He took my hand.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Cammie.” He touched his brow. “My head – I need your help.”

  “So it is still hurting you?”

  He spun round like a dancer and then ran up the stairway. He turned back at the top. “No, Cammie. Look at me! I am completely better now we are in my home. Come on!”

  I followed him to the landing and he led me to a room on the right. He opened the door. He had a double-sized bed with a thick chintz cover. Theatrical buttoned cushions rested against the headboard. There was a bow-fronted mahogany wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers. It was a young squire’s room in a country house. The only incongruous item in the room was a small leather valise on a folding stand by the dressing table.

  He opened the lid. It was almost full. “Ah! Koelisch has done the packaging for me. I only have to put in a few of my personal items.”

  “But you were worried about your packing. Where is everything?”

  “Of course, it has gone already in a … big box?”

  “A trunk – a steamer trunk.” I said it absent-mindedly. What was this all about? Today, I was seeing a side of Wolf that I did not find attractive. The easy way he talked about the eviction of Jews and their treatment at the synagogue. The milord act he was putting on for me in this nouveau riche mansion.

  Wolf stood by one of the two windows in the far wall. “Come and look, Cammie.”

  I joined him and he linked my arm with his. This was evidently the back of the house. There was a small courtyard and beyond it a single floored stable-block which, I assumed, had been converted to take a motor car. Over the tiled roof of the low building we could see into Gruenstrasse. The synagogue was facing us with its Star of David in plasterwork around a circular window. The double doors were shut and the words: ‘Juden Rauf’ had been daubed across them with white paint.

  I shook my head wondering what to say when Wolf turned in towards me and, at the same time, pulled a chord that released the drapes so they fell across the window. He pulled me to him and kissed me on the lips. Before I knew what was happening his tongue was in my mouth and his hands were up behind my head forcing our faces together.

  He released me partly but our mouths were still together and he was sucking on my tongue. It seemed as if he was trying to tear it out by the root. There was no mistaking his intention as he steered me stumbling towards the bed.

  Despite this and the level of arousal initiated by those few seconds of contact I was still unsure. I pulled away as Wolf flopped back onto the bed so that I was standing while he was sitting in front of me. “Stop!” I said.

  He pressed the palm of his hand against my trouser front. I slapped it away. “Stop!”

  “But, Cammie.” His face was flushed and there was sweat on the fuzz of his infant moustache. “I want you. Do you see it yet?” />
  I couldn’t bear to look at him and put my hands to my face. “You’re so young. I can’t be the right person to do this.”

  “What does this mean, do this?”

  “Do this. Have sex. Be your first. It should be someone—”

  He was sniggering.

  “Why are you laughing? You are young – inexperienced. You should be certain.”

  “I am certain, Cammie. One of the reasons I’m certain is because I have been with the other men. You are not the first. It was my first when I was fifteen. What do you think we are all doing on Hitler Youth camps – all the boys together? I want it this time with you.” He looked down at his hands which were clasped in his lap. “I love you.”

  I knelt down in front of him and took his hands. There was a bubble of emotion building in my chest. “I love you too, Wolf. And I will always care for you.” I pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead and, tentatively at first, I put my lips against his.

  Chapter 23

  As autumn is turning into winter, the days shorten but most of them remain bright. The wind is cold and cutting and Jay has to wear his overcoat and scarf for his walk to the library. Falling leaves swirl about him. Cars whip past and when an outsize SUV booms by it shoulders the air aside with enough force to make him cower by the ditch.

  The library beckons from across the green with welcoming golden windows while its white clapboard sides are grey in the afternoon light. Inside, a cushion of warm air embraces him and he loosens his coat buttons. He welcomes the familiar sight of Prentice behind the reception desk. On his way to her he passes a side table displaying a copy of the October Burford Buzz. His spine tingles and he vows to take a detour to the grocery store to see if he can buy one there.

  ‘Why, Jay. I haven’t seen you in a while.’

  He smiles and takes in yet another twin-set – this one is moss green. He tries to deconstruct the superstructure beneath her breasts as if he’s capable of discerning their texture through the cashmere, their ability to withstand gravity.

  No, Jay. You’ve already decided. She’s not the one.

  He nods his agreement but this doesn’t stop him scanning the mossy tussocks again.

  Prentice waits for him to speak. She’s used to men not being capable of eye-to-eye contact.

  ‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘You’re working every time I come here.’

  ‘I must be lucky I guess.’

  ‘Don’t you ever take a break?’

  She cocks her head to one side causing her hair to go off-kilter like a balance with unequal weights. ‘Of course.’ Her eyes are wide; she smiles, inviting the obvious next question.

  Stop! We agreed the risk is too great.

  Reluctantly, Jay adopts a more businesslike tone. ‘I’ve brought this back.’ He holds up the Dexter Parnes VC book.

  She nods and turns to one side, fingering a display of leaflets. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘It was lightweight – not my usual fare.’

  She turns back, smiling and showing off expensive teeth. ‘Oh, Jay, you have such a lovely accent.’ She tries it out, ‘maou usuwal ferre’, and puts a hand up to hide her giggle.

  His face is already hot from the heat in the room; now it’s the colour of an English Grenadier’s coat. ‘The book?’

  She wriggles herself upright and smooths her skirt over her thigh. She takes the book from him and passes it over the reader. ‘Just in time. Nothing to pay. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’

  ‘Not unless you can show me anything about Cameron Mortimer rather than by him.’

  She looks as if she has to tell him that his pet dog has died. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ She perks up. ‘I’ve remembered!’ She points a finger to the ceiling. ‘I did put something by that I thought would interest you.’ She dips, retrieves a book from under the counter-top and holds it up.

  Jay reads the title aloud, ‘The British Are Coming’.

  ‘Something about it made me think you’d be interested,’ she says. ‘Let me see.’ She flips it over and looks at the back. ‘Yes, here it is: an account of the pre- and post-second world war invasion of Hollywood by English writers including in their number: PG Wodehouse, Aldous – am I saying that right? – Aldous Huxley,’ she pauses for emphasis, ‘Christopher Isherwood,’ her voice tails off for the rest of the list, ‘JB Priestley, Noel Coward, Elinor Glyn, WH Auden, Edgar Wallace, Hugh Walpole …’ She turns it over to show the front cover and hands it across.

  ‘If it mentions Isherwood, it’s got to be worth a look. Thanks, Prentice. It was very thoughtful. I’ll take it.’

  She’s blushing. ‘I’m pleased.’

  There’s a moment when they’re both holding the book at the same time. Eventually, Jay lets go so that Prentice can pass it over the reader. When the book’s in his hands again, he starts buttoning his coat and makes for the door. He knows she’s sweet for him at least a little bit, but he’d never get away with it.

  And you have better fish to fry.

  Burford Buzz – 11 October 2001

  Melissa Rosenberg interviews the Rabbis who have disagreed over the Jefferson High production of Cabaret

  You would have to be a hermit living in a hole in the ground to be ignorant of the spat that’s dividing the men and women of Jewish faith in our fair boro. It all started when Mark Costidy, head of Theatre Studies at Jefferson High, decided that this year’s school production should be the Kander & Ebb musical Cabaret. The two rabbis have taken up opposing positions regarding the casting of a key part in the production so I invited them both to explain their views.

  I asked Rabbi Stern from Burford Station’s Beth El (translated ‘House of God’) to state his objection.

  ‘Let me start by saying we have nothing against the production per se but I’ve always been uncomfortable with the final scene in the first act. This is where the woman sings Tomorrow Belongs To Me. It troubles me – the audience reaction to this song. When I discovered that Mr Costidy had cast a Jewish boy in this part, it made me even more worried because it’s trying more to emulate the mood of the film.’

  I turned to Rabbi Elena Zwyck of Bar Shalom (translated Son of Peace) and she smiled. ‘David appears to be conflating two separate things: his concern about the mood of the piece and the casting of a Jewish boy in the role of the singer. The piece has always been ironical. We see the song from the present – with our current knowledge. We understand it’s an example of misguided nationalism. It doesn’t matter whether the singer is Jewish or not.’

  Rabbi Stern leans forward aggressively. ‘Rabbi Zwyck may, with all sophistication, say that the song is ironic. But she should know that it’s been taken up by neo-Nazi organisations throughout the world. It’s not ironic to them.’

  I asked Elayna to respond.

  ‘It is regrettable,’ she says calmly, ‘that these despicable people have adopted the song but this shouldn’t mean that we censor the production.’

  Rabbi Stern reacted angrily to the accusation of censorship. ‘I’m not asking for the song to be cut. I’m asking for the part to be re-cast. It’s wrong for a Jewish boy to sing this song that’s so open to misinterpretation and which is greeted so positively by audiences because it’s the end of the first act. It’s wrong for a Jewish boy to be one of only a few cast members to wear the despised Hakenkreuz – the swastika.’

  What did Elayna have to say to this?

  ‘The boy in question is ethnically Jewish but he hasn’t been brought up in the religion. So I’m not sure David’s outrage stands scrutiny.’

  Rabbi Stern is resigned in his response. ‘Ethnicity is everything here. Was it not for ethnicity that 6 million Jews were sent to death camps? Is it not for our ethnicity that we have our own Zionist principles? Is it not for our ethnicity that we founded the only democracy in the Middle East and defend it against the hordes who would have it destroyed?’

  I remind the rabbi of the topic and Elayna’s calm voice intervenes to clo
se the discussion. ‘One of the greatest blessings of being an American is that we all believe in free speech. I believe in Mark Costidy’s right to put on the production in the way he sees fit. But I also believe in Rabbi Stern’s right to make his case against the way it’s cast.’

  With that I closed the meeting and the two rabbis shook hands. Rabbi Stern left for a pressing engagement and it was so nice that Elayna was able to stay behind for more tea and a relaxed discussion about all the positives we enjoy by living in the fair town of Burford Lakes.

  The grocery store has a Bedford Buzz counter display and Jay reads the article while he walks along the road’s verge. Rabbi Hiller’s views trouble him and he wonders whether he wants to be part of a religion that tolerates such a hard line. But he’s struggling to focus. His encounter with Prentice has put the idea of extra-marital sex forefront in his mind. For the last few hundred yards, with the Buzz stowed in his pocket, Jay’s thinking about his weekly one-to-one meetings in the eerie, empty office with Teri Herbold. Her frostiness at the outset has thawed. She still wears the tailored jackets but leaves them unbuttoned. Softer blouses with lower necklines have replaced the collared, white shirt she wore for their first meeting.

  Should he make a move? The idea of adultery doesn’t carry the anguish that Rachel would expect or hope for. This has always been in his character – the part that allows him to be flipped from point to point like a pinball. If Teri makes the move, so what? He’s alive. It would be an adventure, an exciting experience …

  A life-affirming experience.

  … and he would find it impossible to deny himself. The only negative would be if Rachel found out.

  And who’s going to tell her?

  He resolves that he’ll stick to the business necessities during the meetings in Stamford but if Teri gives him an opening he’ll make a move. If she doesn’t, nothing is lost – he won’t have made a fool of himself. He needs to progress the life insurance claim. Rachel has urged him to pursue it so they can have the money in the bank. Teri has told him that it’s only a matter of time. He’s relaxed about it but he knows that Rachel is on edge.