Liesl’s crowd had taken some getting used to. For much of that first evening at Bonhoeffer’s Kurt had said as little as possible, content to let Liesl conclude that he was shy around strangers. The truth was that he was a bit shocked by some of the talk, and while he wasn’t inclined to disagree, he hadn’t yet been up to the task of joining in.
Bonhoeffer himself had seemed welcoming enough. For someone who supposedly posed such a threat to national security, he was mild and kindly, even docile.
The music playing on his phonograph was another matter entirely. A choral selection in English, it was unlike anything Kurt had ever heard—strange, moaning voices of such high passion that the hair on his neck stood up. Soloists burst through hailstorms of rhythmic clapping like shots of adrenaline, evoking cats in heat or women in childbirth. It was one thing to experience the soaring emotion of opera, where all the power was channeled and focused, but in these recordings the energy was raw and untrammeled. Unnerving, but admittedly exhilarating. Kurt supposed that the propagandists who always railed against jazz and swing would have had a field day with this stuff, and he amused himself by imagining Goebbels flailing his arms in rage over this very record.
“Who is singing?” he shyly asked Liesl.
“It’s a Negro spiritual.” Her smile made it clear that she approved. “Pastor Bonhoeffer has a lot of them. He collected them while he was living in New York.”
“Herr Bonhoeffer lived in America?”
Was it wise to be playing such music from a country that was now their enemy? Especially on a Sunday when “quiet rules” were in effect on every street. What if the neighbors overheard?
Liesl must have noted his uncertainty, but instead of criticizing she sought to reassure.
“Don’t worry, it was years ago. But isn’t it silly, the idea that something like music could corrupt you, especially when it’s so full of life?”
Then she squeezed his hand, and as far as Kurt was concerned the matter was settled.
He was less certain about some of the other people in attendance. A few were downright strident, even boastful in their dissent. The most abrasive was a fellow named Dieter Büssler, who loudly told a coarse joke about why the golden angel on the Victory Column had recently been moved to a higher pedestal—to keep Goebbels from getting up her skirts. Dieter struck him as all talk, just the sort of fellow who might get everybody in trouble and then be among the first to run.
Others he liked immediately, such as the quiet-spoken Christoph Klemm. Christoph, too, told irreverent jokes, but his were more sophisticated, and cleverly refrained from mentioning their targets by name, as with the one that clearly referred to Gandhi and Hitler: “What’s the difference between Germany and India? In India, one man starves for millions. In Germany, millions starve for one man.”
Kurt laughed louder than was warranted, partly out of nerves. It was a bit like being back in grammar school and having the boy at the next desk show you a naughty drawing of the teacher. It intrigued him to realize there must be more of this racy material out there, in parlors and living rooms far beyond the sedate comfort of his parents’ house. But he sensed that he had best enter this new realm carefully, and should closely guard its secrets.
When his mother asked later how the evening had gone, he sanitized the description, making it as bland as possible. He didn’t dare mention Bonhoeffer’s name.
“But you were there for hours. What did you do?”
“Oh, you know, the usual sorts of things. Listened to music. Chatted with the girls. Nothing that exciting.”
But it had been exciting, he realized, an exhilarating blend of sudden love and a fascination with the forbidden. The two ingredients now seemed inextricably bound, as if neither would be quite as exciting without the other.
Liesl was putting on her skis when he arrived, and within seconds they were darting through the trees, scooting downhill on a trail that cut between the small woodland lakes of Krumme Lanke and Schlachtensee and then led straight into the densest part of the forest.
The sky was a metallic gray, and the raw air burned his cheeks. In only minutes it felt like they were miles from civilization. Long brown furrows cut the snow where wild boars had rooted for acorns the night before. The only sound apart from their breathing and the hiss of their skis was the wind soughing in the pines. It kicked up a crystal mist of blown snow.
Pausing for their first rest, Liesl bent forward awkwardly on her skis and nuzzled him with flushed cheeks. They kissed, and were so swept up that afterward they nearly tripped while disentangling their crossed skis, which of course made them laugh, a bright call of joy through the forest gloom. Kurt felt strong enough to ski all the way to the North Sea.
“I used to wonder why these woods always made me so cheerful,” Liesl said, as they got back under way. “Then one day I realized it was partly because of the bark on the pines, the way it is colored. Do you see what I mean?”
He did, now that she mentioned it. Most of the bark was a deep brown, but on every tree the southern exposure was a lighter shade, almost golden.
“It makes it look like the sun is shining,” Kurt said.
“Even on a day like this. The perfect illusion for the German winter.”
For Kurt, Liesl had a similar brightening effect, except her radiance was no mere illusion. He pulled to a stop and leaned forward for another kiss.
Their plan was to have lunch around noon, but the skiing was so good and the daylight so fleeting that they kept going, pausing only for an occasional nip of the hot, sweet cider. Then, just as the lowering sun finally peeped through the clouds, Liesl cried out in dismay.
“What’s wrong?”
“My left binding. It’s broken.”
They stopped for a look. It wasn’t promising, and in resting they realized that the air was growing colder. Kurt got out the first aid tape and tried to rig a binding sturdy enough to get them home, but it snapped within a few yards.
“What now?” she said.
For a change, it was his turn to set the tone, and he relished the opportunity. He scanned the sky, the trees, and a nearby crossing to assess their probable location and their best options.
“We must be pretty close to the Wannsee by now. If we head southwest, we could have a bite to eat down on the beach, then walk to the S-Bahn stop. If it gets dark, I have my flashlight.”
“I like that idea. Lead the way.”
“You use my skis. I’ll carry yours.”
He half expected her to object, but she seemed touched by his gallantry. She slid along up front while Kurt kept pace at a brisk march, and sure enough they soon emerged from the trees at the south end of a strip of snow-covered sand along the waterfront. It was Europe’s largest inland beach, and on hot summer days it was packed with sun-bathers and umbrellas. Today, with an icy west wind blowing in off the water, the strand was empty.
“It’s quite romantic,” Liesl said. “A perfect place to watch the sunset.”
They ate their late lunch in companionable silence while seated on a large stone lapped by small waves. They saved the chocolate for last. Neither had eaten any sweets for more than a week. Kurt exulted in his weariness, feeling that the day had been a huge success. He cupped his hands around the last cup of warm cider and leaned toward Liesl’s lips as she snuggled closer.
Then his attention was drawn to the whine of an engine coming from across the water. A small boat was headed their way, its running lights already burning in the deepening shadows of 4 p.m. Whoever was at the helm was watching through a big pair of binoculars.
“Not the police, I hope,” Liesl said with a note of worry.