Berlin: A Novel

A suspicion crept into her mind that this explanation wasn't right. The cherry season was over, and she had never heard of them having that effect.

She met Dr Ohlsen on Saturday in her parents' bar, where he was drinking a beer. 'Hello, Jutta, we hardly ever see you these days.'

'You know I've been married two years. We live in Zehlendorf.'

'Is having babies forbidden there?' the old family doctor teased her. 'Or do you need medical instructions?'

'Neither. Can I ask you something, doctor?'

'Go on.'

She told him about the discoloration of the stools.

'It can happen if someone eats too much beetroot. Out of the question with cherries,' was the medical reply. So Drechsel was lying. In her mind's eye, she saw childish buttocks criss-crossed with bloody weals.

Outside, brakes squealed. A truck drew up, its engine idling. There were loud shouts, and then police officers brought four people out of the house opposite. SA men in brown uniforms lifted the father, mother and two little daughters up on the open flatbed of the truck, which was already crowded with a great many men, women and children. 'They're taking the Jews away all over Berlin,' someone said. 'It's Ki penick's turn today.' The truck slowly moved off again, the valves of its diesel engine ringing.

My God, the professor, though Jutta in dismay. She ran as if the devil were after her. She knew all the short cuts in the neighbourhood, but she was still too late. Professor Georg Raab was already standing in the truck, clutching a small case. A single to Jerusalem!' mocked the fat-necked man in front of her.

The professor's wife Mascha, apologizing courteously, forced her way through the onlookers. Her tall figure in its simple, tweed suit, her distinguished face and velvety, dark eyes, the hair caught in a knot at her neck all made her stand out from the naive, gaping crowd. An SA man barred her way.

'Let me by, please. I'm going with my husband,' Jutta heard her calm voice.

'Hey, ever here the likes of this? Here's one actually volunteering to go!' shouted the SA man.

'My husband is a diabetic. It's his blood sugar. He needs my help.'

'Don't you fret, we'll give him blood sugar!' The SA lout looked around for applause. His companions roared with laughter.

A police officer moved in front of Mascha Raab to protect her. Jutta knew him. He was from the local station, and quite often came to the Red Eagle for a beer. 'Sorry, Frau Raab, they don't take half Jews,' he said regretfully. He seemed unaware of the absurdity of his remark. He made a path for her back to the gate and steered her carefully through. Igor greeted her in the front garden, wagging his tail. She absently tickled him behind the ears, her gaze directed over the heads of the crowd and at her husband.

Jutta stood wedged in the throng. 'Where are the people going, Mama?' one little boy asked. 'To Palestine,' his mother told him. 'It's always sunny there, and oranges grow on the trees.'

'That brown riff-raff, they want hanging,' muttered the man behind them. 'Hush, be quiet, Egon,' his wife warned.

Jutta shook off her paralysis. She worked her way forward, climbed on the truck, flung her arms round the little man with his wreath of grey hair and kissed him on the cheek. 'Hey, let's take the Jew's whore along!' shouted one of the SA men angrily.

The Kopenick policeman lifted her down. You come down to the station with me!' he shouted harshly, grabbing Jutta's arm. Are you crazy?' he whispered. He let her go at the next corner. 'Those SA bandits aren't from around here, and I never saw a thing. You go home, quick.'

There were loud celebrations in the bar. The local football team had beaten Adlershof. She went round behind the counter to help her father. 'They've taken Professor Raab away.' she shouted to him through the noise.

'It was three-nil,' he shouted back with enthusiasm.

Rainer and Isabel Jordan came to visit one Sunday morning in August 1939. They would have created a sensation even without their open Mercedes with its long, long radiator and chrome-plated compressor pipes, Isabel longlegged in a sporty foal-skin coat, her dark-blonde hair tousled from the breeze, Rainer in his smart, fluffy, teddy-bear coat. Their car brought people crowding into the usually peaceful Wilskistrasse. The four friends watched with mischievous pleasure from the living-room window.

Jutta looked at Rainer's profile: his rounded chin thrust slightly forward, his full lips, the strong eyebrows over the straight nose. He had hardly changed at all, was still youthful, if not as carefree as on the day they'd first met. His physical proximity set off that old tingling below her navel.

'Rather nouveau riche.' she teased.

He grinned. 'The fruits of hard labour. I'm working away, day and night. Right now I'm working for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, haggling with the Propaganda Ministry over every Hollywood film that doesn't fit with our sound German national feeling, Shirley Temple excepted. A Swiss watch or a gold tiepin for the head of the relevant ministry department works miracles, along with a couple of cuts in the movie for form's sake. I get paid pretty well by MGM, of course. I'm legal adviser on rights to Tobis Films. And then there are the divorces. You'd be amazed how many would sooner part with their Jewish wives than their movie careers. Riihmann's in a particular hurry. On the other hand, I'm also creating a legal precedent for a wonderful union. Hoppe and Griindgens are supplying each other with male and female playmates, all under cover of their wedding rings.'

'I don't remember you as being quite so cynical,' Jutta marvelled.

'Pure self-defence. Is there a beer anywhere around here?'

'Sure, in the kitchen.' Jochen took his arm.

Isabel stayed in the living room with Jutta. 'How's life with you two?'

'I think Jochen's happy. He throws himself into his work body and soul, he's a born teacher.'

'I can hardly believe I ever wanted to be one too. Sorry, I didn't mean to sound stuck-up. How about you, Jutta?'

'I have Frau Gerold and the bookshop.

'What about your marriage?'

'In bed, you mean? Well, it's kind of OK there. Reliable.'

You fancy a change?'

'Yes, I guess so. But I'm not really on the lookout for an opportunity. Too lazy, too cowardly — probably both.'

Isabel nodded understandingly. 'We sometimes ask a nice couple round to our place.'

'Heavens, Jochen would never go along with that.' Jutta offered Isabel a Juno, but it was refused. She laughed dryly. 'The most erotic thing he can imagine is a Volkswagen. I guess he has that in common with our beloved Fuhrer. Except that I don't suppose the Fuhrer has to stick savings stamps in a book. Jochen is financing his by giving pupils extra coaching. And about coaching, by the way — Drechsel does some coaching too. He beats the boys. He drew blood from little Didi Muller, though of course he denied it when Jochen asked him.'

'That doesn't really fit the picture,' said Isabel. She sounded as if she knew.

'What do you mean?'

Rainer and Jochen came back from the kitchen, each holding a bottle of Engelhard lager. Jochen was unusually animated. '. You unbend the metal clips and pull the closure out of the bottle neck. It works with bottles of pop too. You remove the porcelain stopper. Then the wire's a perfect skeleton key. We used one on the sly at my public school in Naumburg to open the teachers' toilets and spread honey over the loo seat.'

'Sounds a sticky business to me.'

'Herr Wetzer, our teacher, sat on a wasp. You should have heard him yell.'

The two of them shook with laughter. Rainer was gasping for air, Jochen's face was red. Like two naughty boys, thought Jutta. Isabel winked at her, obviously thinking just the same. 'What shall we do now?' she asked her husband.

'I'm inviting us all to Brumm's.'