Café Berlin, page 8
I excused myself, went to my room, and returned with the colorful embroidered kipah, or scull cap, my father had bought for me in the Bokharan quarter of Jerusalem. I went to the head of the table and, in the Sephardic fashion, poured the wine into the silver kiddush cup, so that instead of stopping at the lip it overflowed copiously into a saucer I had placed beneath the cup. I raised the cup and chanted that portion which told of God having completed his work of creation, the heavens and the earth and all the hosts thereof.
“Blessed art thou, O Eternal, our God, King of the Universe, who created the fruit of the vine.”
I drank from the silver cup and offered Herr Landau the next sip. Then, observing the Sephardic tradition, I offered the cup to Frau Landau, all the men present, and finally the women. I then chanted our thanks for the gift of the Sabbath, the day that ranks first among the holy convocations, in remembrance of our departure from Egypt. I removed the starched white napkin, that covered the loaf of braided white bread in front of me.
“Blessed art thou, O Eternal, our God, King of the Universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth.”
Ignoring the large silver knife next to the loaf, I tore the bread with my hands, dipped bite-size pieces into salt, and, to the astonishment of hosts and guests, tossed the pieces to each one at the table.
They wanted to know why I had not cut the bread and passed it from hand to hand, as was their wont. “It is God’s bread. How can I give it?” So much wisdom in such a young man! The women beamed at me and the men smiled at one another. But I realized that I was the only man whose head was covered. Only Warschauer made common cause with me: he had knotted the four corners of his not overly clean handkerchief and put it on his head.
The dinner started. First, the gefüllte fish: cutlets of poached carp, their centers filled with a forcemeat of carp, pike, onions, almonds, and meal of matzah. It was served cold in its own jelly with fiery horseradish. It is a dish beloved of all Ashkenazim, whether from Russia, Hungary, Romania, Poland, or Germany; rich or poor, Orthodox or assimilated, Communist or freethinker, they all love gefüllte fish. In my ten years among the Ashkenazim, I never learned to like it. From this first night onward, I disliked the peculiar flavor: at once bland, sweet, and salty. I have given this much thought. It is gefüllte fish that separates the Ashkenazim from the Sephardim. It is not the arrangement of benches in the synagogue, not the manner in which they mispronounce Hebrew, not the ritual melodies, not the minute diversions in tradition: it is the gefüllte fish. I have never met a Sephardi who could countenance it. Give it up, and the house of Israel will cohabit forevermore!
The rest of the dinner was always wonderful: the chicken soup, rich and deep golden with its ravioli-like dumplings, sometimes served with flat, yellow, homemade noodles; the main course, usually chicken or incredibly tender boiled beef with its side dishes of cucumbers and sweet-and-sour wax beans, cooked with pears; cakes fragrant with vanilla, almonds, and raisins, accompanied by mixed fruit compotes.
On this first Sabbath at the Landaus, the dinner was more elaborate. After the sacramental wine had been removed, French red wine was uncorked to accompany the crisp duck, served with kasha, a grain from eastern Europe similar to the burghul we use in the Levant. It was a cheerful evening. Much wine was consumed and my presence was toasted. Everyone made little clumsy speeches. Dr. Friedländer stood and declaimed couplets, which, I was told, were Heinrich Heine’s. Herr Landau explained that he was a great German-Jewish poet, but I had never heard of him, and I doubted that he measured up to the splendors of Ibn Ezra or Judah ha-Levi, the great poets of our golden age in Spain.
There was more wine. I had difficulty following the rapid patter of the conversation. The men were now addressing one another. The ladies, in turn, were speaking of fashions or servants or children or whatever it is that women discuss together. Only Warschauer and I were still enjoying the poppyseed strudel. It was then that I felt a hand slip beneath the napkin in my lap. Warm, nimble fingers sought me out, under the layer of navy-blue serge. The fingers found what they were seeking, and my zoub leaped into the hand as a trout heading upstream.
The hand, I discovered, belonged to Frau Landau, who, leaning forward, was speaking intently to Frau Breslauer. It was as if her hand were no part of her but, rather, a disembodied limb acting out of its own volition. It lingered, withdrew, and the dinner came to an end. Everyone got up. I sat for a moment, my heart pounding, waiting for the excitement to subside. Then I joined the gentlemen in the salon.
I lay in bed later, but sleep would not come. I recalled Cousin Eli’s prophecy: “You’ll get to see more than her tits, I wager.” But I did not want to live out Eli’s prophecy. I wanted to be decent, honorable; I wanted to preserve our ways. I became indignant. I recited a charge sheet of their transgressions: they did not keep the dietary laws, the men sat uncovered at the table, they even smoked on the Sabbath, and Frau Landau, that sharmuta, had given me an erection at the Sabbath table. Oh, shame, shame! I resolved to stay out of her way, to prove my loyalty, my devotion to Herr Landau.
My resolve was of short duration, as I heard her high, clear laugh in the corridor. It was followed by Herr Landau’s deep rumble as he closed the bedroom door on them. How I hated Landau for possessing her. It was I who wanted to undress her, to take her to bed, to kiss her eyes, her mouth, those silken breasts. Were they not mine? Had she not made a vow when she pressed them against my face? The thirteen-year-old boy had felt their promise, and the seventeen-year-old wanted that promise fulfilled!
December 13, 1943
Lohmann has left me a package that includes two pairs of army issue stockings and some perfumed soap. I can put both to good use. The package was wrapped in yesterday’s issue of the Völkischer Beobachter and, as I glanced at the second page, with its clumsily concealed reports of more military disasters suffered by the German forces, I was brought up short by a boxed article, with heading in heavy print. I translate it here with deep pain and sorrow.
TRAITOR EXECUTED
Berlin, December 13, 1943
On the 11th of December, the 64-year-old museum curator Dr. Theodor Steinbruch was executed by firing squad in front of the War Museum. The People’s Court had condemned him to death for suspicion of espionage on behalf of a foreign power. Adding weight to the verdict was his cowardly conduct in seeking refuge in his academic post when his knowledge of languages should have been placed at the disposal of the various security organs. The site of the War Museum was chosen because of its proximity to the Pergamon Museum, where Steinbruch had been employed since 1924. It will serve as a reminder to those defeatist elements in the academic community that the German people, through its institutions, will protect the nation against treason and defeatism.
This sorry news brings me back to March 31, 1933. The Kaukasus was completely sold out. It could have been New Year’s Eve. The guzzling, red-faced clientele was celebrating the assumption of power by Adolf Hitler, who had combined the offices of President and Chancellor and had modestly designated himself Reichsfuhrer. A sober figure among the celebrants tugged at my sleeve. It was Dr. Steinbruch. I had not seen him since that day in 1929 when he had given my purchase of the Kaukasus his blessings. We retired to my office, and he reminded me that his worst predictions had come true. He wanted to assure himself that I was safe, that I had taken his counsel seriously. He appeared to be satisfied with my new name, even with my forged passport. But his jolly humor, his bonhomie, was gone. He sighed deeply. “Daniel, difficult, cruel times are ahead of us. Remember that you have a friend in me. Call on me if you should need me. In the meantime I shall keep an eye on you.”
In spite of Dr. Steinbruch’s forebodings, nothing had really changed in my life. Although I was aware of the brutal anti-Semitic tenor of the Nazi Party, it had simply never touched me. The nature of my nightclub, the people with whom I associated, did not bring me to the attention of the Party or of the authorities. As our Jewish clientele gradually disappeared, more and more Nazi functionaries, in uniform and out, gave us patronage. Again, as Salazar, a Spaniard, supposedly a subject of General Franco’s fascist state, I was seen as the citizen of a country sympathetic to Nazi Germany. Life went on and I prospered. But on that fateful date, I burned my tallith and my kipah. I would say my morning prayers without them—a minor transgression that I was certain would be overlooked by the Merciful One.
It was also the last time I wrote my family, begging them to understand that I did not wish to call attention to myself with the receipt of mail from abroad.
Dr. Steinbruch reappeared in the Kaukasus on the eleventh of November 1938, exactly forty-eight hours after the infamous Reichskristallnacht. The rampage undertaken by the Nazi hoodlums had been particularly fierce in the area of the Kurfürstendamm. The normally grand and colorful thoroughfare was littered with the shards of countless shopwindows smashed by the Brown Shirts. It was the broken glass on the sidewalks that gave the Crystal Night its name.
I had mixed with the nighttime street mob to witness the collapse of the burning synagogue in the Fasanenstrasse, where I had attended services with the Landaus. A holiday atmosphere prevailed as smoke and flame poured out of the windows and doorways of the venerable gray stone building. It appeared that the spectacle was to be interrupted by the arrival of the fire brigade. But it had come, not to extinguish the flames but to protect adjoining Aryan property against the furor of the fire. To the cheers of the crowd, the roof of the synagogue caved in, sending a comet’s tail of burning embers into the sky. But in a show of defiance, the twin lions perched atop their stone columns, guardians of the temple’s gate, refused to come down. Even after the collapsing edifice had detached itself from the gate, the lions remained in place, snarling their fury at the tormentors of the people whose Torah they had guarded over the centuries.
I sought to escape the mob and had worked my way toward the brick arches which supported the S Bahn, the elevated train farther down the street. I passed a crowd gathered in front of an apartment house.
There was a curious atmosphere in the air as the press of bystanders grew, augmented by drunken idlers from the many neighborhood bars. All were eager to watch the brutal spectacle that was unfolding in their midst. I heard shouts of “Get them!,” “No mercy!,” “May Judah perish!,” and caught a glimpse of two men, perhaps a father and son, on their knees, blood streaming down their faces. Men in brown uniforms were raining blows upon them with rubber truncheons, kicking them brutally with their jackboots. The crowd enjoyed the sport and people were laughing. Two policemen stood by, enthusiastic spectators.
Suddenly there was a cry. “Sali! Josef!” The mob looked up. A woman had clambered up on the decorative stone balcony of her third-story flat. A gust of wind parted her bathrobe, revealing stout thighs encased in a pink corset. The crowd roared its amusement. The woman screamed “Murderers!” and jumped. She seemed almost graceful, the bathrobe flapping in her wake as she plunged. The laughter stopped as the crowd scattered. The last thing I saw were the three bodies lying close to one another.
It was after two o’clock in the morning when I returned to the Kaukasus. Lohmann was waiting for me. His relief was so great that he shouted at me, an extraordinary occurrence. “Goddammit, you stay off the streets, do you hear?” I think we were equally surprised by the outburst.
The following morning, on the tenth of November, the newspapers appeared on the streets with well-orchestrated explanations for the furor of the Kristallnacht: the German people had risen as one, to show their fury and disdain of the Jews. Why? Because a member of that accursed race, a seventeen-year-old boy, Herschel Grynszpan, had assassinated the third secretary of the German Embassy in Paris, one Ernst vom Rath.
Dr. Steinbruch had aged in the past five years. He had put on weight, and what hair remained had turned gray. While we sat in my office he kept his overcoat on, with his hat and gloves in his lap. He was here to remind me that his scenario for the future of Germany was unfortunately correct.
Dr. Steinbruch felt that after dealing with domestic dissidents such as Jews, intellectuals, uncooperative clergy, and Communists, Hitler would turn his attention to the countries he said were threatening Germany. War, Dr. Steinbruch thought, was only a matter of time. He told me of the true extent of the destruction that had taken place during the Kristallnacht. Hundreds of synagogues were destroyed, most of the major department stores were set on fire, countless private homes were vandalized. Almost a hundred Jews, mostly shopowners, were killed in the street. Thousands of businesses were smashed and some twenty thousand Jews were arrested. So much for the spontaneous uprising.
He drew his chair close to my desk and leaned over towards me. We were almost eye to eye.
“Daniel, I am going to speak openly to you and, in the process, put myself into potential danger. I hope you will do as I say, but if you decide not to I only ask that you treat this conversation as if it had never taken place. I also promise that you will never see me again.”
I nodded for him to proceed.
“My wish is that you leave this country and join your family—in Beirut, in Palestine, in Brazil, wherever they are. That would make the most sense. But in my heart I hope you’ll stay here and help me in my fight against the ‘Brown Shame,’ against Hitler and his murderers.” I must have looked at him as if he were a madman. “Daniel, I am not alone in this matter.”
“Dr. Steinbruch,” I said, “I’d like to know who is with you.”
There was a long pause before he spoke again. “We have allies, and powerful ones at that.”
“Who are they?” I insisted.
Steinbruch took a deep breath. “This is very difficult for me,” he said. “You know me to be a proper and orderly German, and I know that you are amused by my pedantic ways. But it is precisely because I am an orderly German that I abhor the brutality, the swinishness, with which the Nazis rule. They not only degrade Germany but one need not be a Cassandra to see they have a similar fate in store for the rest of Europe.” He paused to assure himself of my attention. “Now comes the difficult part,” he said. “I may have told you that I read history at Cambridge. I made many lifetime friends there, fellow academics. After much soul searching I have decided to acquiesce to their request. I have decided to assist them. It is the most direct way to work against Hitler.”
“You’re going to be a spy for the English?” I said with naive admiration.
“I am going to gather information. If you are the man I suspect you are, you will join me. In days to come, your family and your people will thank you.” He extended his hand to me. Innocent that I was, I shook it solemnly.
December 15, 1943
I next heard from Dr. Steinbruch in June of 1939. The shameful Munich accord had already sacrificed Czechoslovakia to Hitler’s ambitions, and the Germans were mounting provocations against Poland. The story was the same. The Poles were accused of heinous persecutions of their sizable German minority. Dr. Steinbruch was being prophetic. If Germany invaded Poland, France and Great Britain would have to honor their commitments to go to war. He felt that this could happen at any moment. He was sure that Hitler would treat the various conventions regarding the treatment of enemy aliens and prisoners of war like scrap paper. Dr. Steinbruch was concerned for me. He felt that with my spurious French passport, even though it had been legitimately renewed by the unsuspecting Vice Consul of France in Milan, I might find myself in jeopardy. He suggested that I proceed to London and secure a new passport at the consulate of Spain.
On the following day, I took the night express to Paris. I continued on to London on the sleeper, which was shunted onto the Channel ferry. I arrived in London refreshed and, following Dr. Stein-bruch’s instructions, presented myself at the consulate of Spain, requesting to be received by the Vice Consul. He turned out to be a Senor Irigoyen, a polished Basque, in a Prince of Wales suit. I told him I considered myself a political refugee and, since I was “de lingua Hispana”—“of the Spanish tongue”—I was respectfully requesting the citizenship so graciously offered by General Franco to those who could demonstrate their links to Spain. I explained all of this in the fluent but archaic fifteenth-century Spanish known as Ladino. I tried to filter out the Hebrew, Arabic, and Turkish words with which our language is studded. When Señor Irigoyen smiled, I knew I had lapsed. Either I had used a Spanish word no longer in usage or, through sheer lack of practice in modern Spanish, the Turkish bastardization of a word. Señor Irigoyen said little. He smiled from time to time, his perfect white teeth accentuated a carefully dyed black mustache. I could not tell if his smile was one of sympathy or, if in his mind’s eye, he was already condemning me to the fires of the Inquisition. Luckily it was the former, because Señor Irigoyen showed me to an outer office, where I completed a sheaf of printed forms and then waited, by the hour, for the passport that was being prepared for me.
A stern Generalissimo Franco, threatening even on canvas and oil, and a black crucifix on the wall looked down upon me, ensuring that I did not desecrate the Host or commit other acts of apostasy. I studied the Generalissimo in his olive uniform, his breast crossed by a silken blue sash, his hand grasping a marshal’s baton. I looked at the Semitic face under the uniform cap, the dark calculating eyes. The name “Franco” alone established kinship. To us, Franco is the most Sephardic of names. It is inconceivable that a Franco is not from the seed of Abraham. Our poetic and rabbinic literature abounds with the name. The mind boggles at the twists and turns of history. In 1492 General Franco’s forebears could submit to expulsion and go into exile or accept conversion and remain in Spain, that is if they were not first burnt at the stake as backsliders by an ever watchful Inquisition. Somehow the general’s ancestors overcame the opprobrium “marrano”—“swine”—the name given to these new Christians by their fellow Catholics, and eventually joined the Spanish mainstream. And in 1936 General Franco came across the straits from Spanish Morocco at the head of Moslem troops to recapture a now Republican Spain with the fervent prayers of the very church that had martyred and expelled both Jew and Moslem. This, with the active support of the Hitler regime! Franco, habibi, I thought, you owe me this passport.
