As Helene tried and failed to pin down any of her fleeting thoughts — they ought to have started printing banknotes in good time, it occurred to her, and then: what nonsense! Then again: who was Cuno? President of the Reich or Chancellor? Then she thought of those fine-sounding names again: Thyssen and France and cash, cash, cash; printing money would have been just the thing, whether it was legal or not. Come on, she told Martha, who was still disentangling her coat and tucking her hair under her hat. She hoped their trunk was still there.
Together, the sisters hurried along the platform to the luggage van. A queue had formed outside it. The girls kept looking over their shoulders. Their aunt had suggested in her last letter that they should take a charabanc or the tram to reach her apartment in Achenbachstrasse. But wasn’t it possible that in spite of this advice she would come to the station to meet them herself?
Do you think Aunt Fanny will recognize us?
She’ll have to. Martha was holding the luggage voucher ready, already counting out the right money, although there was still a dense line of people waiting in front of them.
It won’t be difficult with you. Helene scrutinized Martha. You look like Mother.
The question is whether Aunt Fanny can see that — or wants to. Perhaps she doesn’t remember what her cousin looked like?
She won’t have a photograph of Mother. Mother has only one from before we were born, that photo of her wedding.
Has? Martha smiled. She had it, rather. At least I brought the photo with me. We want a souvenir, don’t we?
A souvenir? Helene looked at Martha blankly. She thought of saying: Not me, I don’t, but then decided not to.
Need a place to stay? Nice hostel, young ladies? Someone was plucking at Helene’s coat from behind. Or a private room with a landlady? Helene turned. A young man in shabby clothes stood behind her.
Running water and electric light? a second man asked, pushing the first aside.
I can tell you a good place. Those hostels for strangers are full of lice, and who can afford a hotel? You just come with me! An elderly woman took Helene’s arm.
Let go! Helene’s voice cracked with alarm. No thank you, no thank you, we don’t need anywhere, Martha was saying to all the people crowding around them.
We have an aunt in Berlin, Helene added, and now she did up the top button of her coat.
I’m sure they didn’t get on because Aunt Fanny thought she’d risen higher in the world than Mother, Martha whispered in Helene’s ear. She had, too!
You think so? I don’t. Helene often felt uncomfortable when Martha said something spiteful about their mother. Much as she too feared her and often as she had quarrelled with her, she hated it, couldn’t bear it when Martha expressed her poor opinion of Selma for no reason at all. Martha enjoyed saying such things, taking a kind of delight in exposing their mother that Helene shared only occasionally and to a lesser extent.
Aunt Fanny stole from Mother, Helene claimed now. She remembered their mother saying so on the evening when they had first told her about their correspondence with Aunt Fanny.
And you believe that? mocked Martha. What would she have stolen? A dried toadstool, maybe? If you ask me she just made it up. Maybe it was the other way round. Aunt Fanny would never have needed to do such a thing.
She’ll be a fine lady, I feel sure she will. Helene looked ahead of her. The queue was not so long now and, deep in conversation, the sisters had missed hearing the man ahead of them by the big door of the luggage van calling their number for the fourth time. Now he called their names too.
Petitions from the Democratic parties rejected! a man was shouting at the top of his voice, brandishing a newspaper; a whole stack of them threatened to slip from under his arm. The National Socialist Party’s Sturmabteilung forges ahead!
That’s all old hat, shouted another newspaper boy derisively, and he too began bellowing at the top of his voice. Earthquake! He was waving a paper himself and Helene wondered if he had just thought up this news item to sell more papers. In any case, people were snatching newspapers from his hand. Huge earthquake in China!
Calling for the last time! Number four hundred and thirty-seven, first class, Würsich!
That’s us, that’s us! Helene shouted back as loudly as she could, and hurried the short way forward to the man who, in the absence of anyone to take their trunk, was just about to put it on the big truck for unclaimed items.
Rote Fahne! shouted a thin girl with a small handcart of newspapers. Rote Fahne!
Die Vossische!
Der Völkische Beobachter! Helene recognized the young paper boy who had been shouting just now. How old would he be? Ten? Twelve? Occupation of the Ruhr goes on! No coal for France! Earthquake in China! He too was now shouting the headline about the earthquake, although it was doubtful that the paper he was selling had any news of it.
Buy the Weltbühne, ladies and gents, fresh off the press, the Weltbühne! A strikingly tall man in a hat, suit and glasses was striding along the platform. Although he spoke in a strange accent, which Helene immediately assumed to be Russian, his small red magazines were selling well. Soon after he had passed Martha and Helene, an elegantly dressed lady bought his last copy.
Only when someone called: Vorwärts! Vorwärts! Vorwärts! did Helene come to the bold decision to take a wad of banknotes out of her coat pocket. The lemon was still in the pocket too and the notes were now lemon-scented. After all, she knew Vorwärts, the Socialist weekly paper, and she hoped it would give an impression of elegance and culture if they arrived at their aunt’s carrying a newspaper.
They took a cab with several seats in it; perhaps this was what Aunt Fanny meant by a charabanc. The buildings and advertising columns were already casting long shadows. On Schöneberger Ufer the cab stopped; it looked as if the horse were leaning forward; it went down on its knees, its forelegs gave way, there was a loud cracking of wood and the horse slumped sideways in its harness. The driver jumped up. He shouted something, climbed down and patted the recumbent horse on the neck. Walking round the cab, he took the bucket off its hook and went away without a word of explanation. Helene realized that he was going to a pump, where he had to wait until someone else had filled a bucket and it was his turn. The lanterns along the street were lit. There was shining and sparkling everywhere. So many lights. Helene stood up and turned round. A motor car with a funny chequered pattern like a border all round it stopped beside them. Did they need help? asked the driver, leaning out of his window. Maybe they could do with a taxi? But Martha and Helene shook their heads, and looked in the direction their cab driver had gone. The taxi driver didn’t ask again. A young man was hailing him at the crossing ahead.