The Prosperous Thief (7 page)
‘You’re like a priest in the confessional, the way you listen to people,’ Renate once had said. And then she’d laughed. ‘A Jewish priest.’
He had not set out to be Everyman, a sort of friendly neutral. Rather, growing up the elder brother of a musical genius meant he’d had to learn to endear himself to people in ways different from his brother. Fritz had been compared with the young Mozart even before he could walk, and while he had been pompous in short trousers and insufferable in long, Martin saw that everyone was prepared to forgive because of the music. And Martin, too, forgave, but his task did not end there, for he knew that unless he wanted to end up as page-turner to his famous younger brother, he would have to carve out a niche for himself. One of his school teachers had once described him as possessing a talent for friendship, his very own talent just like Fritz. So Martin chose what his brother lacked, he chose to be liked and, given its rewards, was well satisfied. But there were costs too. He was not much more than twenty when he realised that being so attuned to the needs of others meant relegating any urgings of his own to the background. He had become so efficient at gratifying other people’s passions his own had withered on the vine.
This explained, he now realised, why as a Jew in Germany he had done so well. Germans welcomed him to their circles because his Jewishness was not obvious – as one German friend once said: ‘You’re more like us’ – and Jews liked him because he was less self-concerned than they were. He became as much a genius at friendship as was Fritz at the piano. But as the days and years passed, he knew something was awry; his life was out of kilter, he felt numb with all his niceness, he needed someone to quicken the heart.
He had met his future wife ten years ago at a recital given by his brother. Renate’s family was well known in the arts. Her father was one of Germany’s foremost art dealers and the most highly regarded in Westphalia. A patron of the avant-garde, he was one of the reasons why Düsseldorf had maintained its reputation as a centre for the arts while other cities had lagged behind. Renate’s mother, Amalie Friedman, was a well-known pianist and an associate of Fritz’s. At the conclusion of the concert, Martin had watched Renate being scooped up and presented to his brother, watched this shimmering young woman dressed in an oyster-shell pink gown made from the highest quality silk – Martin was a silk merchant even while falling in love – and was reminded of the women in Modigliani’s late work: the slick crop of black hair, the pointed face, the long, full-hipped body, the casual sensuality of the whole, and his heart beat hideously with wanting.
Suddenly he was fed up with being nice. He would far prefer to be like his brother, an object of admiration for beautiful women despite being bereft of every positive quality other than a genius for music. But Fritz was Fritz and Martin was Martin and with no chance of a miracle, Martin decided to preserve his self-respect and grind away at his envy and desire alone. He collected his coat and hat and was about to leave the hall when Renate turned away from the brilliant brother and walked out of the crowd towards him.
And so began a life unlike anything he had ever known. Suddenly he found himself in a perpetual fireworks storm, his life of order shattered in cascades of colour and heat. He neither wanted nor needed sleep, all he wanted was Renate. And she to his utter astonishment wanted him. His friends laughed at him: he was in love, they said, but would settle. And they were right, but only to a point. From the time of meeting Renate, the bland likeable Martin moved to one side to make space for a new Martin, Renate’s Martin. It was as if he had become two people: the pleasant singalong tune to the world, and the full orchestra at home.
The dual Martins continued for many years, but a singalong tune was easily drowned out in today’s blaring propaganda, and with the tensions at home the full orchestra had somehow lost its beat. When life was good Martin hardly gave it a second thought, but now it had soured, the loss was as intrusive as chronic pain. If only he could silence memory, he was thinking, but how to fuel his hopes and manage the bad times if he did? And to compound all the losses were the ever-present assaults: the violence, the abuse, the shafts of hatred slamming into him no matter what he did or where he went or how insignificant he tried to make himself. And it was hatred of
him
, he who had never before known hatred. Better he had been more like his brother, Martin found himself thinking for the first time in years, although not even Fritz, with a network of protectors in the music world, had been spared the violence of these times. A couple of weeks earlier he had telephoned from Berlin asking if he could visit for a few days. He gave no further information, so when he disembarked from the train it was a shock to see his fine, even features pummelled almost out of recognition. ‘SA,’ was all he said and, despite Martin’s urging, refused to elaborate. This was the first time his brother had ever needed him, so Martin stifled his curiosity and did not press. Besides, the warming of their relations had been timely: with no one in the world clamouring for Jews, unless like Fritz they were exceptional, Martin hoped that once his brother was settled in America, he would help Martin and his family emigrate. With persecution of Jews ever more violent and their own prospects for emigration day by day more dismal, Fritz was their best hope.
Although something had to be done now, Martin said to himself, he couldn’t just sit here waiting for the next horror to strike. He pulled up the collar of his dressing gown against the chill, pushed the coffee aside and reached for his ledger – still in its green leather folder, and still the gold fountain pen, all these possessions from lost times, like the flat itself so solid and established, so German if the truth be known – studied the figures and made some more. He used to think life could be lived like a balance sheet, credits on one side, debits on the other, and as long as he was in credit there was no cause for complaint. He used to think a lot of things he now knew to be wrong. But unfortunately, knowing his mistakes did not rectify them, particularly when circumstances had put most of his resources well out of reach.
The anxieties were relentless, although sometimes he would experience a small pocket of relief as he listened to his mother-in-law playing the piano. The music seemed to insert itself at exactly the right level, somewhere beneath the grid of rationality yet close to the soft flesh of his hopeful soul. And he still turned to his books, but was all too often left wanting when it came to sense and coherence. With rational thought an anachronism in the fervour of Nuremberg, he wondered whether even he, a Jew, had been infected. Renate disagreed, suggesting instead he was creating his own defeat. ‘You’re going to the best Germans to make sense of the worst,’ she said, pointing to his books of German poetry and philosophy. ‘The devils define the gods, but rarely the other way round.’ So he broadened his reading, but was forced to accept that the problem lay with the circumstances themselves. There was no sense, no rational, civilised sense to be made of a nation gone mad, a people gone mad, men, women and children gone mad.
Martin stood up and went to the window. It was light outside now, and through the glass he could see the banners lining the street, the same banners which lined every street heralding certainty for Germans and the opposite for Jews.Times had changed and Martin had to change too. It was not enough to love his wife and daughter with all his heart, it was not enough to want their happiness, and it was certainly not enough to wait for better times. But while he struggled in the absence of money and connections to secure their visas, he had to determine a way of living now, in the present, a better way than the fear-riddled existence of recent months. Of course the times were unpredictable, the violence, the restrictions, the visas themselves, but surely the next few hours, the next day would bring no surprises. Not even Hitler was that organised.
Martin smiled, not for a moment was he fooling himself. He, Renate, Alice and Amalie had planned an outing to Düsseldorf today. It was the annual Munich Putsch holiday, and with all good Germans occupied with the celebrations, it had seemed as safe a day as any to venture out. But when news came in early yesterday about the shooting of an official in the German Embassy in Paris by a Jewish youth, Martin had immediately cancelled. There would be repercussions, there always were; in fact, Jews suffered when there was no reason at all. Now he wondered if he had acted too hastily. They hadn’t been out as a family for weeks, all of them were desperate for some respite. What could possibly happen to them? And in these unpredictable times, would it make any difference if they stayed home or went out?
I
t was the ninth of November and the anniversary of the Munich Putsch, an ill-conceived and clumsy mistake if ever there was one, which in a mere fifteen years had metamorphosed into a glorious act of martyrdom and one of Nazism’s most formative moments. Martin put such revisionism down to the Nazi talent for a shrewd type of lying, one that reeked of sincerity and the public good. Renate, however, subscribed to a more fundamental view.
‘Laundry,’ she said. ‘Our leaders are meticulous launderers of the public memory.’
On this particular ninth of November the Lewins had planned to take the train into Düsseldorf. Defy the odds, they had decided, don the blinkers and experience life as it used to be. But that was before young Grynszpan, a Jew as obscure as his name, had gunned down the German official in Paris. Over breakfast they had listened to the latest news on the wireless and discussed the possible repercussions, and Martin now believed they should go ahead as planned. Renate was not so sure. They knew nothing of this Grynszpan, she said, except he was a Jew who had shot a German, and events of the past few years showed it required a lot less for Nazis to turn on Jews.
She had left the dining table and was now standing by the window. In the street below, people in groups, including many in uniform, were making their way to the local Putsch celebrations. There was no sign the Grynszpan incident had diluted the party mood, indeed nothing Renate could see to indicate there would be trouble. And a few hours in Düsseldorf strolling in the gardens and looking at the shops was exactly what she needed. But while Krefeld looked peaceful enough, the situation in Düsseldorf could be very different. It had been reported on the wireless that the wounded embassy worker, vom Rath, came from Düsseldorf. Not a good day for Jews to be on the streets, and particularly not in the injured man’s home town.
Martin, still seated at the table, was watching her. He could see she was struggling; in fact, ever since their return from Berlin there had been a change in her. She now seemed so much less certain about their current situation and much more aware of the dangers. Yet knowing her as he did, he was sure she would not let this incident in Paris keep them at home. Renate had always been the more courageous of the two of them; in fact, he had no doubt that the bare-fisted menace which defined Germany in these days was bearable primarily because of her. His Modigliani woman with her lavish hips smooth like the belly of a cello, her narrow shoulders and sleek neck, and despite the dangling decision, just seeing her across the room made his nerves mollify. That’s what she did for him, had always done for him, and why he was so reluctant to acknowledge that if not for her they might have left Germany long ago.
His Renate. Lively, warm, artistic, a woman who would enter each day like an explorer on virgin territory. She would gaze at the familiar landmarks of their life in Krefeld and see them as a marvellous and changing exhibition. For her, the routines of life were forever new.This was a woman who would step into each day expecting to be surprised and invariably was.
‘So shouldn’t we stay home? Won’t we be courting trouble?’
He started with the sound of her voice, and in the moment he needed to collect himself took stock of how things had changed, the quality of life in Germany, the quality of
their
life, and most particularly his lush-with-life wife, that she should opt for the safe decision. She sounded so uncertain, miserable too, and the flat felt so crowded with all of them treading on each other’s moods, oddly hostile too.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Martin said, surprising himself. ‘They promised bigger and better celebrations this year. There’ll be so much excitement no one will notice us. Besides,’ he said, looking at their daughter white-faced and silent on the couch, ‘Alice desperately needs a change.’
Amalie Friedman decided to stay home. She was too old and too German – properly German, she added – to tolerate what was happening out there. And despite pleadings from Alice that her Oma change her mind, would not be persuaded. Amalie had seen quite enough of what her compatriots had become.‘I don’t know these people,’ she said.‘And I don’t know my country.’
She withdrew to her room and a short time later the sombre beauty of the second movement of the
Pathétique
emerged, softly, ever so softly so the music wouldn’t escape the flat, because Beethoven had been taken from the Jews too.