"He can't truly want me to play for him again, can he?"
"Who knows what he wants? Just that he wants is what's important." He put an arm across Solomon's shoulders. "You're a good boy, Solomon Freund, the best, but you listen to me. I know your intentions are good, but if Herr Rathenau wanted Erich to go with you, he would have said as much without your prompting." He patted Sol on the rump as if to give him a running start across the street to the apartment. "Go! Get ready!"
Sol glanced into the shop and shrugged his shoulders. His body said, I tried. "Must I take my cello, Papa?"
"Questions, always so many questions. No, my son. No cello." Herr Freund took out the long black key attached to a silver chain dangling from his belt loop, and shut the door.
In disbelief, Erich listened to the key rasp in the lock.
"Papa, you're locking Erich in!"
There was a second metallic scraping, and Jacob pulled open the door. Erich waited until Herr Freund had stepped back before he exited the shop. Keeping his gaze on the merchant, he eased around him as if around a large cat.
"I'm sorry, my boy. It seems we forgot you in all the excitement." Jacob smiled.
"Just forget you forgot!" Hands in pockets, Erich backed several steps up the street before turning and stalking away.
"Erich?" Solomon called tentatively.
Erich kept walking. No use going home, he thought. Papa would be mulling over his racing forms, downing sherry like beer to compensate for not having enough money to go to Mariendorf and bet on the trotters. Once he heard Rathenau had chosen to take Sol to lunch instead of Erich, he would start complaining again, and yelling, and his mother would cry. Why did they always have to be so predictable?
He headed toward the Tiergarten, remembering how Miriam had smiled and put her arm through his when they had heard the barrel-organ man playing "Glowworm." She had kissed him--sort of--and he had kissed her back--almost.
Well, he would show them.
There would be no almosts anymore.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Hello, Konnie." Miriam smiled at her uncle's chauffeur. "Thanks for coming to get me. Where's my uncle?"
"He and that young man are still at the Adlon, Fraülein--"
"Miriam, please! Which young man?"
"Young Herr Freund, Fraülein Rathenau." The chauffeur opened the rear door of the limousine.
Trying to cure the Germans of their excessive formality was an exercise in futility, Miriam thought, throwing her tennis racquet onto the back seat. But she was not about to stop trying--not until someone could give her a satisfying explanation of why people who had known each other for most of their lives still called each other Frau and Herr.
"Thanks again for the lesson, Vladimir." She waved to her tennis instructor, who was standing halfway between the court and the curb, staring at her. "See you on Wednesday. Don't forget to bring some of Mashenka for me to read next time."
Ignoring Konnie's disapproving look and the open door, she got into the front seat of the limousine.
"My uncle took Solomon Freund to the Adlon for lunch?" She thought about the doe-eyed boy with the cello. He had never come back to the party, so she had not been able to tell him how she had felt about the Haydn. "Did he take the other boy, too? His friend--Erich?"
The chauffeur shook his head and started the car. "Home, Fräulein?" He glanced sidelong at the tennis dress she had brought back from America.
"I think not," she said impulsively. "Where are you picking up Uncle Walther after his walk?"
"At young Herr Freund's home."
"Then that's where we'll go. I'll wait there with you."
The chauffeur gave her another disapproving look. "Do you not wish to change?"
"No, Konnie. Thank you. This will do perfectly well."
Uncle Walther would not exactly approve of her being seen in public like this, she thought, but she was not breaking any laws. Besides, he was enough of a renegade himself that he generally forgave her those kinds of trespasses. He tried to be stern, but the indulgent twinkle in his eyes betrayed his pride in her independent spirit.
As they made their way into the city, Miriam thought about the two boys--Erich and Solomon. Romantically, they were much too young for her, of course, but they were the most interesting boys she had met since her return to Berlin. She was used to young men like Vladimir falling all over her; it was flattering, but dull. There were lots of Russians in the ballet company in New York. They were attractive, but so serious about themselves. Vlad was no different, except that he was a writer, or wanted to be, instead of a dancer.
They were rounding a corner several blocks from Friedrich Ebert Strasse when Miriam spotted Erich waiting to cross the street.
"Stop the car!" She rolled down the window. "Erich! Erich Weisser! Come over here."
Erich looked up, squinted in her direction, and blushed.
"Here!" she called out again. "We'll give you a lift home."
She pushed open the door and beckoned. He darted across to the car and slid in beside her.
"We're going to pick up my uncle," she said. "Why didn't you go with them?" Oh Lord, she thought, seeing the expression on Erich's face. "Next time we'll all go," she added, hoping to alleviate some of the embarrassment she had caused. Konnie pulled up in front of the tobacco shop. "We could wait for them at your place," she said to Erich. "Didn't you tell me you lived above the Freunds?"
"Yes, but...but..." Erich stopped stammering, and looked angry as he took a breath. "My parents aren't home."
Miriam started to ask why that mattered. This is Berlin, she reminded herself. Here, parents expected children to be little Victorians, even if they themselves were anything but. "Okay. Then let's wait in the car."
"That's our shop over there, remember?" Erich pointed at the cigar shop.
Perfect, Miriam thought. She had forgotten about that. Now she could buy her uncle some of his favorite tobacco as a surprise. "Let's wait in there, then," she said.
"The lights are out."
"So?"
"Herr Freund hasn't come back yet. It's locked up." He stopped, as if he'd had an idea. "Come."
"Shall I wait here, Fraülein Rathenau?" Konnie asked.
"Whatever you like, Konnie." She thought about it. "Why don't you come back in, say, half an hour. They should be back by then."
She and Erich got out of the car and headed toward the shop. When they were at the door, he pulled out a key chain from his hip pocket and opened the oblong leather pouch attached to it.
"Don't you have a key?" Miriam asked.
Erich took out a pick and shook his head. "Have to pick the lock," he mumbled.
"Why do you carry lock picks?"
He shrugged. "Just because."
Like in the movies, Miriam thought, enjoying herself until it occurred to her that someone might think they were breaking into the shop--which they were, in a manner of speaking. "Hurry up!" She pictured her uncle's face if he arrived and found them being questioned by the police.
"It's open." Erich pushed at the door, and the bell above it jangled. "Quick--inside." He let the door close behind them.
"It's too dark in here. Put on a light, will you?"
Erich hesitated.
"Come on. I want to buy some tobacco for my uncle."
The boy walked across the store and turned on a single light near a red velvet curtain. She followed him and pulled the curtain aside. It led to a stairway, going down.
"Have you ever smoked?" Erich asked, from behind the counter.
Miriam shook her head. He reached under the counter, pulled out a cigarette, lit it and handed it to her. She drew on it and started to cough. Laughing, he took it from her.
"That is not funny," she said, though she could not help but laugh, too. "Let me try again." She took a second draw. Her head started to spin; she felt dizzy, like when she had tried champagne for the first time. The taste in her mouth was dry and musty. "Tastes like old shoes," she said. "See.
"
Leaning toward him, she kissed him on the lips. He stood there with such a shocked expression on his face that she could not resist. Putting her arms around him, she kissed him again.
A bell jangled and the shop was flooded with light.
"What do you think you're doing!"
Miriam whirled around to see Herr Weisser striding toward them.
"Smoking, kissing, breaking into the shop! What kind of a girl are you?"
Jacob Freund came in behind his partner. "Calm down, Friedrich. Please."
Herr Weisser turned to face him. "Calm down? Look at her! Acting like a street walker, and you tell me to calm down. I told my wife last night--already, you were making eyes at my boy--these rich Jews, I told her. They're not to be trusted!"
"Friedrich! Control yourself!" Herr Freund, obviously mortified by his partner's outburst, took off his glasses and began to clean them.
"I'm sorry, Herr Weisser." Miriam spoke slowly, struggling to mask her anger. She was bristling at the insults.
"Sorry? That's a thirteen-year-old boy and you say you're sorry?"
Miriam glanced over at Erich. He was standing against the shelves, his face red and angry. "Papa, we were--"
"I can see what you were doing!" his father bellowed. "You! Fancy lady! Sit down!" He turned to glare at his son. "You! Go home and wait for me!"
Erich did not move.
Warily Miriam made her way to the small round table that held an ebony-and-ivory chess set, and sat down on one of two identicalspindle-backed chairs. While she waited for her uncle, there was nothing she could do but sit and listen to Herr Weisser carry on about her corrupting his precious son. The whole thing was ridiculous! Erich was nice, but he was hardly an angel who needed this kind of protection.
If only Uncle would get here. He would set things to rights. She was always happy to see him, but never more than she would be this time. Clearly, she was in trouble, but since the most reprehensible thing she had done was not discourage Erich from breaking into his own shop, she would be forgiven. Well, maybe she had encouraged him just a little....
Feeling far less grown-up than she had when she'd arrived, she decided that when her uncle came, she would allow herself to be led away without a glance in the Freunds' direction. She would find another time to talk to Sol about his music. In fact, she would not even meet his gaze or smile, lest he or his father think her coquettish--though why it mattered she had no idea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sol looked around the dining room of the Adlon Men's Club. He should have tried harder to have his friend included, he thought, but he would make up for it; he would remember every detail, from the Foreign Minister's custom-tailored dress-suit and broad crimson sash, to the room itself, elegantly set, Spartan, crowded with the rich and powerful. He was proud, and more than a little astonished, at having been included in this milieu, but the rigidity--the lack of Gemütlichkeit--troubled him. Surrounded by the quiet buzz of intense conversation between men whose faces he recognized from Der Weltspiegel and the Movietone News, he felt small and embarrassed. A dose of the cabaret's magic--women and flowers and music--might lend a more festive air to the room, he thought. Everyone seemed so serious!
"The Idle Inn is more fun," Rathenau said, apparently reading the expression on Sol's face. "I prefer the Biergarten and would rather break bread with common men, but there is much unofficial business of State transacted here on Sundays."
At a table next to them, a man raised his glass of drinking water. "To your good health, gentlemen." He and the others at his table gargled their water and spat it into their finger bowls.
Sol mumbled something about never before having realized the bowls' proper purpose, and Rathenau laughed. "An end-of-the-meal fashion established by the Kaiser," he whispered. "I wouldn't suggest you do it elsewhere. Your hosts might not understand."
During the course of their meal, a variety of people had stopped at the table. Rathenau introduced him to each one. Earlier, walking toward the dining room, he had cautioned Sol to give more attention to listening than to eating. "Disregard anti-Semitic slurs," he had said. "Hear what they're saying behind the bigotry. Don't overlook a single nuance or inflection...and don't forget a word you hear."
Forget! As long as he lived, he would remember this day. These were men who could open doors for him--and for Erich--with a word or a wave of the hand. Not that it was all that important for him; he was going to be a scholar--study, teach maybe. But Erich...he was going to be "something big!" Anyway, that's what he said. With the right education, the right clothes, the right connections, you could do anything, Papa said, and these were surely the right connections--here in this room.
"Come along, Sol." The Foreign Minister led him into the lobby of the hotel. "Bear with me. I have some business to conduct as we leave. Then we'll take a Spaziergang--a stroll. Konnie will pick me up at your flat."
Sol followed him across the lounge toward two men seated in wing chairs, smoking and reading newspapers. A third man, dressed in the blue and gold of an officer's uniform, sat reading in the corner, his back to them and his boots on a hassock.
"I tell you it's a disgrace," one of the men said as they approached.
The other, blond, with a Tartar mustache that only partially concealed a scar along the edge of his mouth, looked up and nodded. Rathenau extended his hand. "Good to see you again, Auwi."
The second man, a rotund fellow with steel gray eyes and the downturned mouth of a carp, leaped to his feet and shook hands with the Foreign Minister.
"Glad you're here, George." Rathenau looked at Sol. "Solomon Freund, I'd like you to meet George Viereck, literary executor for the Kaiser, and," he nodded toward the seated man, "The Kaiser's son, Prinz August Wilhelm. 'Auwi' to his friends."
The Prince raised a desultory hand in greeting. Viereck pumped Solomon's hand so heartily that Sol found himself backing up.
"I think you'll recognize this lazy old soldier over here," Rathenau said.
A pasty, doggy-cheeked face sporting a drooping white mustache peered out from around the side of his chair.
Solomon swallowed thickly.
Field Marshal von Hindenburg!
Von Hindenburg cast a rheumy eye at Sol, cleared his throat, and reopened the weekend edition of the Börsen Zeitung. "Protégé, Herr Minister?" he asked. "Send him out on the balcony to wave to the masses like Jackie Coogan. You're his countryman, George. Is the Coogan boy really so talented, or is our city simply in love with youth for youth's sake?"
"I'm afraid neither Prinz Wilhelm nor the Feldmarschall is in a very good mood." Viereck's German was edged with an American accent. "The price of newspapers has gone up again. I remember when a single mark bought a quart of Fauwenhauser."
"Third time this week," the prince said sourly. "All this babbling and squabbling, inflation out of control--" he slapped the paper--"revolutionaries and reactionaries running amok, foreigners and Jews and post-war profiteers stealing the country from under us!"
Stung by the racial slur, Sol looked to Rathenau for guidance. The Foreign Minister flashed him a look that said stay calm.
"We Germans were like the woman in the Aladdin story, too quick to give away the old lamp." Von Hindenburg cleared his throat huskily and adjusted his purple sash. Four starfish-shaped medals gleamed upon a chest once more massive than his belly.
"The Kaiser's greatest wish is to return and march with the workers against the government," Viereck said.
The American looked from Solomon to von Hindenburg, who drew his bushy brows together in an exaggerated frown. "Can the boy be trusted?" the general asked in a rough voice. "He has the features of a Jew."
You have the jowls of a bloodhound, Sol thought, stiffening.
"He is a Jew. Therefore I trust him as I do my own judgment," Rathenau said. "Fully."
"You think too highly of Jews, Herr Foreign Minister," von Hindenburg said.
"Perhaps not highly enough," Rathenau replied in an eve
n tone.
Solomon lowered his gaze. For a while he had felt invisible; now he was certain everyone in the room was staring at him. He pretended to examine one of the massive tapestries hanging on the wall.
For all the times Sol had walked past the Adlon, this was the first time he had been inside. The outside was simple, a plain building with long wrought-iron windows, but the inside--tapestries and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books, crimson curtains, walls wainscoted in mahogany and vaulted ceilings buttressed by elaborate plaster trellises. Words like putsch and purge and anarchy seemed to float in the air and he would not have been surprised to find the Kaiser walking across the candelabra-lit lounge.
"The Kaiser cannot regain the crown, he knows that," he heard the prince say. "He seeks only Heldentod, the hero's death he was previously denied."
So the Kaiser had desired Heldentod after all! Sol could hardly wait to tell Erich. Other boys at school had claimed the Kaiser was a coward. At the expense of several black eyes and split lips, Sol and Erich had insisted otherwise.
"Our beloved Wilhelm shall have his wish," von Hindenburg said. "I shall serve as scapegoat for our military humiliations and the sheep shall flock to someone--perhaps Walther here--who will lead Germany if not to higher heights then at least to solidarity."
He snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared with a tray of brandy snifters and a decanter. "Let us drink to solidarity," von Hindenburg said.
The four men drank, and Sol was filled with awe at how calmly and quickly history could be rechanneled.
Within moments he was out on the street, following Rathenau, who moved silently and at an energetic pace.
Sol's notions of a Spaziergang underwent a dramatic change. His father's penchant was for leisurely constitutionals along well-worn paths, conversing as he walked or pausing at benches to rest and argue a particular point, while Rathenau hiked wordlessly along Wilhelmstrasse, as if allowing the city's penury and seething anger to be his mouthpiece.
His senses opened by the Adlon luncheon, Sol took in everything with a tourist's unease: the farmers and fishmongers near the Ministry of Justice, hawking wilted wildflowers, lettuce, and oily, overpriced herring; the air, filled with grit and the stench of exhaust; the buildings' gray austerity. The streets seemed more littered with garbage and more asprawl with drunks and other dispossessed than he recalled: Schieber--foreign blackmarketeers--worked every street corner; political saviors wearing red cockades or black armbands stood on principles and soap crates, embracing immutable ideals Sol was sure they would be willing to discard for a meal or a few hundred marks; scurrying urchins poked and pleaded, offering shoeshines, sisters, the wisdom of white powders, the serenity of a syringe.
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