At the foot of the other tower, the pointed one, Frau Levin and Sophie were moving their lips, nodding their heads, shrugging their shoulders, warding off the cold wind and clutching their hats. A few yards away, Mayor Ratztrinker and Herr Gottlieb removed their hats, although in the gloomy afternoon daylight it might, from a distance, have seemed as if they were doing the opposite — taking off the heads of their respective hats. After the farewells, His Excellency’s last words hung thickly in the air, climbed the cracks in the tower, scaled the damp steps of autumn, edged between the flat clouds, dissolved little by little: “ … and I’ll say it again, Fräulein, you look positively radiant, there’s nothing like a wedding to enhance a woman’s beauty!”
Although it had lasted a matter of seconds, Frau Levin felt positively exalted by the mayor’s greeting. The Gottliebs’ presence had no doubt been a determining factor. Even so, this was the first time the mayor had deigned to address her, to utter her name. To acknowledge her as a respectable citizen and to accept her, finally, as a good Christian. For this reason, she was more determined than ever to do what she was about to do. What a neighbour of hers, who was a policeman, had been urging her to do for some time. Frau Levin waited for a group of carriages to pass before crossing Archway. She must hurry. In an hour’s time she had to serve her husband lunch; he continued stubbornly to refuse to attend Mass, and she had been forced to lie to him in order to be able to go home later. Lying to her husband terrified her — she always had the impression he knew. But besides fear, that morning she felt the excitement of being useful, of really being useful to the authorities. Frau Levin glanced behind her, from side to side, making sure no one was watching her. She quickened her pace. She walked towards Spur Street. She was more determined now than ever.
Aha, the Chief Superintendent’s teeth clacked. Are you taking note, sergeant? Carry on.
The words began to spill from Frau Levin’s lips. She was scarcely able to pause, to emerge from her trance when the Chief Superintendent rearranged his denture ready to pose another question. Some questions were easy to answer: Herr Hans’s profession, Herr Hans’s political leanings, Herr Hans’s friends, arrival of books at Herr Hans’s lodgings, Herr Hans’s everyday habits, Herr Hans’s dubious patriotism. Others were a little more tricky or ambiguous. And yet Frau Levin answered them without hesitation, supplying a wealth of detail, embellishing what she knew and inventing what she did not. After all she wasn’t doing this only for herself — although he didn’t know it, she was also doing it for the sake of her husband. Perhaps one day His Excellency the mayor would greet him, too.
The Chief Superintendent nodded, clacked his teeth, and made sure his officer was keeping pace in his note-taking with the hastily delivered statement. From time to time he raised his hand, made the Jewish bitch shut up and waited for a few moments before moving on to the next question.
When he had gathered more than enough information, the Superintendent raised both hands, and, without looking at the Jewess, said: Thank you for coming.
Herr Gottlieb stood at his desk finishing the inventory of his daughter’s trousseau — family jewels, imported fans, kid gloves, fine-quality brushes, bottles of perfume, expensive sponges, ornate sweet dishes. As her father paused between items, Sophie would say “Yes” or “It’s here”, and he would murmur, “Correct” and resume going through the list.
As he closed the inventory book, Herr Gottlieb’s face grew suddenly solemn. He placed his smoking pipe on the table, tugged on his waistcoat and stood to attention like a general about to embark on an important mission. He offered his daughter his hand, and led her along the chilly corridor. If Sophie were not mistaken they were going to her father’s bedchamber — a room she had not set foot in for years.
A strip of light from the window reached across the room to the opposite wall — the rest was darkness. Herr Gottlieb walked slowly over to the vast mahogany wardrobe, pausing after each step. He turned the key twice, opened the heavy door and whispered his daughter’s name three times. Then he thrust his arms into the wardrobe’s depths and pulled out a trailing luminescence. Sophie recognised her deceased mother’s wedding gown. It was a strangely ethereal garment. It appeared to be made of light. She studied the gown as her father handed it to her — the smooth feel of the satin, the tiny band of organdy around the waist, the airy netting on the skirt. Placing the dress in his daughter’s arms as one passing an invisible ballerina, Herr Gottlieb said: This was your mother’s favourite shade of white, egg white, the purest white of all, that of innocent hearts. If only she were here to help us! My child, my child, will you make me a grandfather soon? It pains me that you barely knew your own grandparents. I don’t wish the same on my grandchildren. But go, child, try it on. I need to see how the dress suits you.
A quarter of an hour later, Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown. As soon as she had stepped into it she knew it would fit her. The three pearl buttons were perhaps a little tight at the back. The gold ribbon on the neckline was perhaps a little lower than it should be. And yet it was undoubtedly her size. Elsa had helped her into the old-fashioned corset that sculpted her waist, pushed up her bust, rounding off her subtle décolletage. She had donned a pair of embroidered silk stockings and wore satin-lined slippers adorned with ribbons. Before stepping out into the corridor, she had studied her reflection in the glass and had felt a strange tingling sensation, like a needle running down her spine.
A quarter of an hour later, when Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown, Herr Gottlieb said nothing. He said nothing at first and looked at her, he looked through her, squinting the way short-sighted people do, focusing like those who are sightless. He stood motionless, his mind elsewhere, until abruptly he opened his eyes, dilated his pupils, parted his lips and said at last: It is perfect, my love, perfect.
Sophie hadn’t heard her father call her my love for a long time, not since she was a child.
Then Herr Gottlieb said: Come here, my child, my precious, come closer, my love.
Sophie walked over to her father. She stopped two steps away from him. She stood motionless and let him embrace her.
You have your mother’s shoulders, her father said.
Sophie felt slightly faint. The room was airless. The wedding gown was pressing her stomach. As were her father’s arms.
You have your mother’s waist, her father said.
The whole length of the white dress was reflected in the wardrobe mirror.
And you have your mother’s skin, her father said.
The airlessness, the gown, the mirror.
As though emerging from a well, Sophie pushed herself away with her arms.
But I’m not like my mother, she said.
Herr Gottlieb’s lips disappeared behind his whiskers. His face fell. His pupils contracted.
How young you are, child, he said, how terribly young (don’t say that, Father, Sophie replied, don’t talk as though you were already old), oh, but I am (no, Father, she insisted), you see, it isn’t just about age, my child, it is also about loss, you have so much youth left in you because — how can I put this? — you still have the feeling of being whole, the unmistakable belief that this wholeness will never end. When you lose that, whatever age you are, you are old, do you understand? And I love you so very much.
Shortly afterwards Rudi’s servants knocked at the door. His berlin was waiting in Stag Street.
Is something the matter, my dear? Rudi asked, removing a speck of snuff from his velvet frock coat with one finger. No, replied Sophie, rousing herself, nothing, why do you ask? For no particular reason, Rudi said, giving off a whiff of lemon scent, or perhaps because I’ve spent ages trying to decide on the wedding menu with you and you’ve hardly said a word. Oh, she said, you know I’m not very bothered about that kind of thing, honestly, you decide. Not very bothered, he stipulated, or not bothered in the slightest? Well, she retorted, is there a difference? Driver! shouted Rudi, rapping three times on the roof. Stop here!