Sirius (4 page)

Sirius jumps up onto the windowsill. Fire! Ghostly clouds of smoke sweep over the rooftops, glowing fiercely. The coal-black billowing mass spits out blazing sparks – the synagogue on Fasanenstrasse has gone up in flames.

Vehicles hurtle past, men march up. They’re wearing boots, hats and red armbands. Sirius hopes they are the firemen. But the men are jeering. One lights up a cigarette in a leisurely fashion.

A man in a hat, who actually looks very respectable, is working the crowd up into a frenzy: “Down with the Jews!” The cry is echoed from all throats, more and more violently, increasingly wild. On command, the tailgate of a truck opens, and iron bars roll down onto the street like claps of thunder. The men grab the bars and storm off. They smash the windows of Jewish shops, one after the other. The glass panes shatter, splinters flash through the air, layer upon layer of shards cover the ground. The sound is deafening.

Finally, the police arrive. But they don’t intervene. Quite the opposite, in fact. A policeman pulls out his pistol and shoots into an upper floor window, where a light can be seen burning. This incites the mob even more. The men break down the front doors to the buildings and force their way into the apartments, shouting. “Down with the Jews!”

Families are driven out onto the streets in their nightgowns. Sirius recognises Albert Salomon. He is the Liliencron family’s doctor. Trembling, he holds his wife and children by the hands. In front of an armband-wearing youth, who is already swinging his cudgel, he throws himself to his knees and pleads for his life. The boy spits on his head.

Sirius longs to jump at the youth’s throat. He growls and bares his teeth. But he can’t do anything against the pack out there alone. He has to warn his family.

The Liliencrons’ bedrooms are on the peaceful, rear-side of the house. Sirius jumps up against the doors and barks.

Georg is the first to appear. “What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night!”

Still half asleep, he follows the dog over to the window. Then he looks down at the street and freezes in shock.

By now, the mob has grown to several hundred men. The ones with the armbands have been joined by passers-by and voyeurs. They have grabbed everything from inside the shops and thrown it onto the pavement. A troop stands there at the ready, covering the loot with petrol and setting it on fire. Others force their way into apartments to plunder them. The street looks as though it is made of glass, so high are the mountains of shards. “Down with the Jews!” roars the mob.

Only now does Georg realise that the thick clouds of smoke are not coming from the flames on the street. He sees the immense wall of fire where the synagogue used to be.

Else comes over, rubbing her eyes. “Has something happened?”

Georg replies: “Yes, now it really has.”

The firemen take great care to ensure that the water hoses don’t extinguish the flames of the synagogue, but instead prevent the blaze from spreading to non-Jewish buildings.

Else screams: “No!” She is thinking of Andreas. Is he being driven out of his house at this very moment by men with bludgeons?

As her parents approach the window, Else breaks down and faints.

Naturally, the first thing Liliencron notices is the smallest detail amidst the chaos. “There’s Zinke. Caretaker Zinke.”

He watches as Zinke distributes canisters of petrol.

Then he broadens his viewpoint and takes in the whole inferno. Shard by shard. He is rooted to the spot. Lost for words.

He put his arm around Georg. Then he turns away and tends to Else.

Rahel has covered her face with her hands. “Where are the police? Why is no-one calling the police?”

“The police are there already,” says Georg. “They’re protecting the criminals.”

One apartment after the other is emptied. The henchmen’s boots thunder through every stairwell. “Are there Jews living here?”

“Yes, upstairs,” the neighbours denounce.

Rahel sees families streaming out of the houses. The police separate them, seize the fathers and take them into custody. Protective custody, they are calling it.

The mothers hold their youngest children in their arms and the eldest by the hand. Some of them had time to grab blankets as they left. Most stand there shivering in the cold. It’s November.

Then, suddenly, the horror is at close proximity. Fists hammer against the Liliencrons’ front door.

“Oh God,” cries Rahel.

“It’s time to get out of here!” shouts Georg.

Crowbars smash the lock. An axe splinters into the wood. “Down with the Jews!”

“Where can we go?” whispers Liliencron.

“To Uncle Benno’s!” hisses Georg.

They can already hear voices in the hallway as they run through the conservatory into the open air, jump over the hedge and seek shelter in the house next door.

*

For the first time in his life, Benno Fritsche, the great actor, is confronted with a dramatic situation without being appropriately prepared in terms of costume and lighting.

He comes straight out of bed, standing before the Liliencrons in his underpants and vest. His hair looks like cauliflower.

“What’s got into you?” he asks, dumbfounded.

Liliencron tries to give a condensed summary of the events. Rahel sobs.

Georg and Else stare into the distance.

“So, in a nutshell,” says Benno, “we all need a cognac.”

No-one disagrees. Benno pours.

“Those arseholes!” he cries.

“It’s my own fault,” says Liliencron. “I shouldn’t have stuck my head in the sand for so long.”

Rahel strokes his hand.

“Having your head in the sand,” quipped Benno, “is still better than having sand in your head.”

“The synagogue is on fire!” says Georg.

“Terrible, absolutely terrible,” responds Benno. “But right now let’s focus on the future. Your lives are at stake.”

He excuses himself, freshens up and reappears in evening dress.

“Where’s Levi, by the way?”

“Sirius!” cries Else.

“Of course,” says Benno, “that’s who I meant.”

Liliencron jumps up. “Where’s Sirius?”

Rahel: “Why, isn’t he here?”

“Sirius!” cries Georg.

It seems that Sirius has stayed behind to guard the house.

“We forgot him,” says Else, breaking down into tears.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. They hear voices. A fist beats against the door.

Benno gets up, straightens his dress shirt and cummerbund and strides to the entrance. He opens the door.

“Geheime Staatspolizei,” says a voice.

Benno Fritsche bows.

“Are there Jews living here?” barks the policeman gruffly.

“Jews?” asks Fritsche in amazement. “What on earth gives you that idea?”

“There are Jews living next door,” responds the policeman.

“Well, there aren’t any here.”

The policeman looks him up and down. “Are you sure about that?”

Fritsche, condescendingly: “You clearly don’t know who I am!”

“Who are you, then?” asks the policeman.

Fritsche strikes a pose: “Benno Fritsche. Actor. Film star. Party member.”

The policeman, meekly now: “Please accept my apologies.”

The door closes.

Benno returns to the living room with a beaming smile: “So? How was I?”

The Liliencrons are trembling on the living room chairs, as pale as corpses.

One of them is missing: Georg.

“Where’s Georg?” asks Benno.

“He went back to the house,” says Liliencron. “To look for Sirius.”

*

Sirius is sitting by the window. He looks out at the hell on earth and thinks: “Are those really humans?”

He looks up into the night sky. The light in the darkness, his comrade-in-arms, is nowhere to be seen. Has the star given up hope? Or is it just that the swathes of smoke are limiting the universe to right above the rooftops?

Sirius hears the boots, the voices, the gunshots.

He thinks back to when he was a little dog. Back to when he crawled into the furthest corner, rolled himself up into a lifeless ball and pretended he were an old cushion.

But now he is a big dog.

The men push open the door to the parlour and look around.

“Where are those Jewish vermin?” bellows one.

“Vermin!” roars the other, an axe in his hand.

Their gaze falls on Sirius.

Sirius fearlessly trots over to the two men, stops right in front of them, sits up and raises his right paw in a Hitler salute.

The men are astonished.

“Well, would you look at that!” says one.

The other one is speechless. He even lets the axe drop in shock.

They came to exterminate some Jews, but instead find themselves being greeted by a dog with the Hitler salute.

Their blind hate has suddenly evaporated. They even feel slightly fatigued. Exhaustion from all the barbarism.

“Do you reckon there’s anything to drink here?” asks one.

They search the kitchen, open the fridge and come back with two beers.

“
Prost
!” they toast, sinking back onto the couch with a sigh. They are struggling to keep their eyes open.

“That was good, but tiring,” says one.

A while later, they stand up again, stretch and roam through the house. When they get to the library, they grab books at random.

“
Plankton
,” says one with contempt.

“Look,” says the other. “
Mein Kampf
!”

Baffled, he holds the book up in the air.

Sirius hurries over, sits up and begs, then flings his right paw upwards. The men grin.

“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious,” says one. “There are no Jews living here.”

The other nods and retrieves his axe from the floor.

They are just about to leave the house when they hear a cry.

“Sirius!”

The dog pricks up his ears, turns and dashes off.

The men immediately follow him into the garden. They can just about make out the silhouette of a figure in the darkness.

“
Halt
! Stay where you are!” shouts one.

“Hands up!” orders the other, pulling out his pistol.

The figure comes towards them with his hands held high.

“Who are you?” asks one.

“Name and address!” bellows the other.

“Georg Liliencron,” answers the figure. “I live here.”

The men pull him into the living room.

“Liliencron,” says one. “Nice name.”

“Nice name,” repeats the other, slamming his fist into Georg’s face.

“Nice house,” says one.

“Nice Jew house,” says the other. “That mutt pulled a fast one on us.”

He picks up the axe and demolishes the couch that the two of them were sitting on just minutes ago. Their energy has returned.

“You’re coming with us,” says one.

“Protective custody,” says the other. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

Georg lets them lead him away without a word. He’s shaking with rage. And trembling with fear.

That very night, Georg ends up at the collection point in Levetzowstrasse. He is one of thousands who will be forced to walk barefoot to the Putlitzbruecke the next day. At Moabit train station, the goods trains are already standing at the ready. Final destination: Sachsenhausen concentration camp.

Protective custody.

*

The next morning, the sun rises at 7.42
AM
. Liliencron knows this because he is staring relentlessly at his watch.

Eight in the morning will be the earliest he can reach Emil Abderhalden, the President of the Leopoldina. As the discoverer of Abderhalden’s enzymes and an advocate of eugenics, he has a good relationship with the Reich Ministry.

Uncle Benno has put on some fresh coffee. For Rahel and Else. He and Liliencron stick to the cognac. Sirius is slumbering. Last night is still haunting him.

“My home is your home,” says Uncle Benno. “You’re safe here for now.”

Good old Fritsche. He’s putting his own life at risk. The coffee could cost him his career. Snoops and squealers are working overtime today.

8
AM
comes at last.

“Abderhalden,” says the voice on the other end of the line.

Liliencron wishes him a good morning.

“My dear Liliencron,” says Abderhalden. “I’m so sorry about the dismissal notice. But unfortunately there was no other way.”

Liliencron interrupts him. He recounts the events of the previous night. He reports that Georg has disappeared without a trace. And closes with the words: “You’ve taken my honour from me, and I have to live with that. But I beg you from the bottom of my heart: Don’t take my son too. That I cannot live with.”

Abderhalden is embarrassed. “I understand, my dear man, but I have nothing to do with that.”

“Put in a good word for him,” pleads Liliencron. “You know people in high places.”

“I know,” responds Abderhalden. “But I can’t exactly ring Rosenberg or Goebbels about – if you’ll excuse me saying this – some family matter.”

He hangs up.

Liliencron is distraught: “Is there no-one who can help?”

He goes through a list of his social circle in his mind. Other Jews are in need of help themselves right now. And the non-Jews won’t do a damn thing.

Besides, what Jew could call Goebbels anyway?

“Lorre!” cries Rahel.

“Lorre?” asks Liliencron, startled. A name from long-gone times when Rahel was dating a young actor called László Lowenstein, who later renamed himself Peter Lorre. A few years ago, Lorre emigrated to Hollywood.

“Goebbels himself advised him to leave the country!” emphasises Rahel.

Liliencron shakes his head. “Why would Peter Lorre help us?”

“We were in love,” says Rahel. “Very much in love.”

What husband likes to hear that? If there’s one thing that Liliencron could do without right now, then it’s another stab to the heart.

Absurd; here the Liliencrons sit, in Berlin, in the darkest hour of their lives – and their hope lies in Hollywood!

Lorre!

But does anyone even have his telephone number?

Benno Fritsche, still in evening attire, but with his shirt open and a great deal of cognac inside him, strides over to the desk and proudly fetches his address book.