Ashes (25 page)

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To the roof,” he replied. His face was dark. His hair was rumpled as if he had been running his fingers through it.

“I want to come, too!” I said.

At that moment the phone rang. “Get the phone, Gaby!” Mama shouted. Mama never shouted. But everything seemed suddenly frantic.

I ran for the phone. “Schramm residence.”

“The Reichstag's on fire!” the voice gasped. Had I heard right?

“Baba!” I shouted into the phone. “Baba, the Reichstag? Are you sure? What's happening?”

“Just what I said. The Reichstag is on fire.”

“Where are you?” I was suddenly worried that maybe she was there at the Reichstag, although why Baba would be at the German parliament past midnight, or at any hour, I didn't know.

“I'm at the Esplanade Ball. I was sitting with the Italian ambassador and Colonel Schaumburg, the Commander of the City of Berlin.” She dropped her voice. “Horrible man, but his aide came to the table and announced that the Reichstag was in flames.”

“Who is it?” Mama came in her heavy flannel wrapper.

“Baba!” I replied. “She says the Reichstag is burning.”

Mama grabbed the phone.

“Is it true?” Mama asked me.

“Of course it's true, Mama.” She flapped her hand for me to be quiet as she spoke into the receiver. “Baba, I'm scared. I think you have to get out. It's . . . it's all disorder!”

I looked at my mother. “Disorder” seemed like such an odd word. It was a catastrophe, not just disorder. “Yes, yes.” She was nodding into the phone. “No, I know. No, she won't be going back to school. Not now. Not here, at least. Ulla can still go to Vienna in the fall.”

Oh God,
I thought.
This really is becoming a mess.

She hung up the phone. “Mama, can I go up on the roof with Papa?”

She shook her head wearily.

“Why not?”

But she gave in a minute later.

We all went up. Ulla, too. All of us bundled into our winter coats, fleece-lined snow boots, ski hats, mittens. We were not the only ones on the roof. Four other families lived in our building and most of them were up there too, even Herr Professor Blumen, on his two canes. And of course Herr Himmel, our stalwart
Hausmeister
. He was bobbing up and down with excitement.

“It's the Communists!” he announced. “The Reds. They're the ones who set the fire.”

Papa looked at him sharply.

“Herr Himmel.” Papa's voice was low and level. It reminded me of a file with a rasp edge. I hoped he was going to grind this man down. “We would all prefer if you would keep your speculative remarks to yourself. You know nothing of this situation, but if you talk much more we might begin to think you know more than you should and that might prove dangerous for you and your job here. Your job, Herr Himmel, is
Hausmeister
, not political commentator.”

I was so proud of Papa, I could have hugged him right there. But I didn't. I noticed, however, that the other tenants of the building were smiling and nodding in approval.

We could now see the flames quite clearly, even though we were nearly a half mile from the Reichstag. And when the wind changed, we could smell it. Despite the cold, most of us stayed on the roof for almost two hours.

 

 

By the next afternoon, speculation was rampant. When I came down with Mama, Herr Himmel was standing by the door, a newspaper prominently in one hand with the headline COMMUNIST SUSPECT ARRESTED. There was a look of sheer vindication on his face. We were setting off to meet Baba at Olbermann's Konditorei, a favorite pastry shop of hers. Now that I was not going to school, I got to join them. I had lied to Mama about Ulla, who once again was vomiting in our bathroom. I just told Mama that that she wasn't feeling well. I dared not even mention throwing up. So I said that she had a sore throat and we should stop at the pharmacy on the way home for some throat lozenges.

“What's she doing outside the pastry shop?” Mama asked as we rounded the corner and spotted Baba standing by a lamppost with a quizzical look on her face. As we approached Baba said nothing, but she hitched her thumb in the direction of the shop. There was a sign in the window of the pastry shop.
Juden werden hier nicht bedient
. Jews not served here.

History in the making became my full-time curriculum. I read the papers and listened to the radio constantly. Mostly I listened to the one in my father's study. I was no longer comfortable listening in the kitchen while Hertha cooked, not since what happened three days before the Reichstag fire. I had been eating strudel and doing some math problems Papa had set up for me. A broadcast of popular music was interrupted with a breaking news story.

“The police this morning raided Communist headquarters where they are said to have found plans for an uprising.”

“Aha!” Hertha exclaimed. A look of triumph glittered in her eyes. She then returned to peeling the carrots for dinner. I watched her as the announcer continued. She nodded in approval as he reported that “The Führer has ordered the immediate confiscation of all printing presses owned by Communist groups.”

“Very smart,” she whispered. “Very smart indeed. A wise man.”

I got up and walked out of the kitchen.

I waited until Mama finished her piano lesson, but as soon as the student had left, I went in to the music room.

“Mama, I have to talk to you about Hertha.”

She took a short little breath. I almost had the feeling she was expecting what I said next. “What about Hertha?”

“I think she's a Nazi.” Mama didn't say anything right away. She just looked down at her hands and, twisting her wedding band, she finally nodded.

“Yes, you might be right. Your father and I have discussed this.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure. It's a difficult decision. She has been a good, loyal person. If we fire her, I am not sure where she could find work. We would of course be willing to give her a generous leaving wage but I just don't know. I simply don't know.”

“I thought I should tell you, that's all. I mean, I was in the kitchen listening to the radio and something came on about Communists and she said . . . well, basically that Hitler was a smart and wise man. You could just tell how much she admired him. It's hard to be around someone who believes that.”

“Very hard,” Mama whispered.

 

 

Three days before the fire, the propaganda machine had already gone into overdrive cultivating fear of Communists. The Red Terror, as it was called, seized the headlines: SA AND SS GRANTED POLICE STATUS IN FACE OF RED TERROR. The article that followed reported that “to protect the German people and all the good citizens of Berlin” against the Communist threat, the formerly private armies of the Nazi Party—the SA, the SS—were officially granted auxiliary police status.

Now a Dutch Communist named Marinus van der Lubbe was arrested and charged with starting the Reichstag fire. All the Nazis needed was a personification of the Communist evil. Van der Lubbe was the perfect scapegoat. Another headline in a London newspaper that Papa subscribed to shouted, DERANGED DUTCHMAN PERPETRATOR OF REICHSTAG FIRE. The British journalist reported that “A mentally unstable, perhaps slightly retarded young man, Van der Lubbe was said to have been ‘discovered' at the scene of the crime.” The fact that the reporter put the word “discovered” in quotes was a tipoff that perhaps Van der Lubbe had been set up. German newspapers, even the most liberal, would not dare to suggest such a thing. The following paragraph in the British paper underscored the notion that it was a setup when it reported that a senior Nazi official, upon hearing of the fire, was said to have shouted out “This is the beginning of the Communist revolution.”

It was inevitable that the paranoia about Communists would begin to intensify the existing anti-Semitism. But it had still been a shock to me when I stood outside of the pastry shop and saw that sign saying JUDEN WERDEN HIER NICHT BEDIENT. I had turned to Baba.

“I don't get it. I thought it was the Communists they were after now.”

Mama said nothing. She just looked at the sign and moved her lips like a child would, trying to sound out words in a primer. I knew what she was thinking:
This simply cannot be
. Then she turned to her dearest friend and blinked rapidly as if to hold back the tears. I noticed that other people slowed briefly as they approached the café, gave a quick glance at the sign, and either rushed on or entered. No one seemed shocked. No one paused as we had. I could not help wondering if we were being watched. Was it perhaps dangerous for us to be standing outside the shop so obviously looking at the sign?

“Yes, the Communists,” Baba replied wearily. “And here are the new rules for German people's protections. We have become a police state.” She held out a copy of the
Vossiche Zeitung
fresh off the press. The Order of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State was outrageous. The decrees suspended free speech, security of mail or telephone, the rights to assemble. The list went on and on. Seven sections of the constitution guaranteeing individual and civil liberties had been suspended. All these actions were described as “defensive measures against Communist acts of violence endangering the state.”

“But I don't see anything about Jews,” I said, reading over Mama's shoulder. Actions against Jews would be coming, however. Within a few weeks, Jews would be excluded from holding civil service positions, and the number of Jewish students in schools and universities would be limited. Signs like the one in the coffee-shop window would soon be passed into law.

That day, Mama, Baba, and I had gone to another nearby café. They ordered coffee and I got hot chocolate. While they smoked their cigarettes and drank coffee, I looked at the paper. I turned to Baba's column about the party she had attended the previous evening. “Magda Goebbels wore a stunning Schiaparelli gown. She outshone everyone!” I read aloud. “Baba, I thought you said she usually didn't dress so well?”

“She's improved. I admit I did overstate it a bit. That teacher of yours was there too. My God, that woman practically begged to have her picture taken. I had the photographer take one but made sure the editor didn't use it. I actually feel sorry for Frau Goebbels having to socialize with her husband's mistress. Think of these remarks”—she nodded at the newspaper—“as my social service.”

Mama ground out her cigarette, twisting it rather violently in the ash tray. “Stop being stupid, Baba!” I was shocked. I had never heard her speak this way to Baba. “You have to get out! Writing on what Nazi women wear to parties is like fiddling while Rome burns. You have to get out! It's too dangerous for you.”

Baba leaned forward, lowering her voice. I wasn't sure if she was angry or what. Certainly what Mama had said was harsh. Baba lifted her chin slightly and blew a thin stream of smoke straight up. It serpentined into the air above the small round table where we sat.

“Listen to me, both of you. I am in the perfect position to help people—not Magda Goebbels. Other Jews. I'll get out in time, rest assured.”

The next few weeks would be anything but reassuring.

But there were other forces at work in the cub, the greatest of which was growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience. His mother and fear impelled him to keep away from the white wall. Growth is life, and life is for ever destined to make for light. So there was no damming up the tide of life that was rising within him- rising with every mouthful of meat he swallowed, with every breath he drew. In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away by the rush of life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the entrance.

-Jack London,
White Fang

 

 

 

 

O
n March thirteenth, two weeks after the burning of the Reichstag, Goebbels was officially appointed as head of the Reich Ministry for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. The next day Rosa arrived at my apartment, having run all the way from school, to announce that Fräulein Hofstadt was leaving for a high government post in the ministry. This did not surprise me. Goebbels's mistress would not be satisfied with her current employment. There were more glamorous positions than teaching literature to girls at gymnasium.

In the aftermath of the Reichstag fire there had been hundreds of arrests—many Communists, and members of any group that was thought to be a terrorist organization. Some journalists and Jews were also arrested. More decrees to “protect” the German people had been passed. And despite all of this, I felt less safe, and so did the people I came in contact with. Anti-Jewish riots had proliferated throughout Germany and the government did nothing to control them. The pictures in the newspapers were frightening. One did not need a color photograph to imagine the brightness of the orange flames erupting from the roof of a synagogue, or the red blood pouring from the head of an elderly Jewish merchant who had been dragged out of his shop for some unknown reason. But what was almost scarier than the poor man's blood was the SS patrol officers in the picture, standing by with their leashed ferocious dog. It wasn't the dog that had drawn the blood. The dog was actually muzzled. Was this a cousin of Buck or White Fang? When I looked at the picture closely, I thought I saw a kind of terror in the dog's eyes. But the eyes of the on SS officer who faced the camera showed nothing. Not a glimmer of anger, or even madness. Nothing. Nothing at all. They could have been the eyes of a dead man. But I? I felt brutalized as I sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper and a leftover cruller from breakfast, not taking a bite. Hertha was out on an errand for Mama. It was still unclear what my parents planned to do about her. I was staring at the picture when Hertha walked in.