Winter of the World (7 page)

The older man in the steel helmet joined in and hit Werner with a pickaxe handle. Lloyd stepped forward and hit the older man with a straight right. The blow landed perfectly, next to the
man’s left eye.

But he was a war veteran, and not easily discouraged. He swung around and lashed out at Lloyd with his club. Lloyd dodged the blow easily and hit him twice more. He connected in the same area,
around the man’s eyes, breaking the skin. But the helmet protected the man’s head, and Lloyd could not land a left hook, his knockout punch. He ducked a swing of the pickaxe handle and
hit the man’s face again, and the man backed away, blood pouring from cuts around his eyes.

Lloyd looked around. He saw that the Social Democrats were fighting back now, and he got a jolt of savage pleasure. Most of the audience had passed through the doors, leaving mainly young men in
the auditorium, and they were coming forward, clambering over the theatre seats to get at the Brownshirts; and there were dozens of them.

Something hard struck his head from behind. It was so painful that he roared. He turned to see a boy of his own age holding a length of timber, raising it to strike again. Lloyd closed with him
and hit him hard in the stomach twice, first with his right fist then with his left. The boy gasped for breath and dropped the wood. Lloyd hit him with an uppercut to the chin and the boy passed
out.

Lloyd rubbed the back of his head. It hurt like hell but there was no blood.

The skin on his knuckles was raw and bleeding, he saw. He bent down and picked up the length of timber dropped by the boy.

When he looked around again, he was thrilled to see some of the Brownshirts retreating, clambering up on to the stage and disappearing into the wings, presumably aiming to leave through the
stage door by which they had entered.

The big man who had started it all was on the floor, groaning and holding his knee as if he had dislocated something. Wilhelm Frunze stood over him, hitting him with a wooden shovel again and
again, repeating at the top of his voice the words the man had used to start the riot: ‘Not! Wanted! In! Today’s! Germany!’ Helpless, the big man tried to roll away from the
blows, but Frunze went after him, until two more Brownshirts grabbed the man’s arms and dragged him away.

Frunze let them go.

Did we beat them? Lloyd thought with growing exultation. Maybe we did!

Several of the younger men chased their opponents up on to the stage, but they stopped there and contented themselves with shouting insults as the Brownshirts disappeared.

Lloyd looked at the others. Volodya had a swollen face and one closed eye. Werner’s jacket was ripped, a big square of cloth dangling. Walter was sitting on a front-row seat, breathing
hard and rubbing his elbow, but he was smiling. Frunze threw his shovel away, sailing it across the rows of empty seats to the back.

Werner, who was only fourteen, was exultant. ‘We gave them hell, didn’t we?’

Lloyd grinned. ‘Yes, we certainly did.’

Volodya put his arm around Frunze’s shoulders. ‘Not bad for a bunch of schoolboys, eh?’

Walter said: ‘But they stopped our meeting.’

The youngsters stared resentfully at him for spoiling their triumph.

Walter looked angry. ‘Be realistic, boys. Our audience has fled in terror. How long will it be before those people have the nerve to go to a political meeting again? The Nazis have made
their point. It’s dangerous even to listen to any party other than theirs. The big loser today is Germany.’

Werner said to Volodya: ‘I hate those fucking Brownshirts. I think I might join you Communists.’

Volodya looked at him hard with those intense blue eyes and spoke in a low voice. ‘If you’re serious about fighting the Nazis, there might be something more effective you could
do.’

Lloyd wondered what Volodya meant.

Then Maud and Ethel came running back into the auditorium, both speaking at the same time, crying and laughing with relief; and Lloyd forgot Volodya’s words and never thought of them
again.

(v)

Four days later, Erik von Ulrich came home in a Hitler Youth uniform.

He felt like a prince. He had a brown shirt just like the one worn by Storm troopers, with various patches and a swastika armband. He also had the regulation black tie and black shorts. He was a
patriotic soldier dedicated to the service of his country. At last he was one of the gang.

This was even better than supporting Hertha, Berlin’s favourite soccer team. Erik was taken to matches occasionally, on Saturdays when his father did not have a political meeting to
attend. That gave him a similar sense of belonging to a great big crowd of people all feeling the same emotions. But Hertha sometimes lost, and he came home disconsolate.

The Nazis were winners.

He was terrified of what his father was going to say.

His parents infuriated him by insisting on marching out of step. All the boys were joining the Hitler Youth. They had sports and singing and adventures in the fields and forests outside the
city. They were smart and fit and loyal and efficient.

Erik was deeply troubled by the thought that he might have to fight in battle some day – his father and grandfather had – and he wanted to be ready for that, trained and hardened,
disciplined and aggressive.

The Nazis hated Communists, but so did Mother and Father. So what if the Nazis hated Jews as well? The von Ulrichs were not Jewish, why should they care? But Mother and Father stubbornly refused
to join in. Well, Erik was fed up with being left out, and he had decided to defy them.

He was scared stiff.

As usual, neither Mother nor Father was at the house when Erik and Carla came home from school. Ada pursed her lips disapprovingly as she served their tea, but she said: ‘You’ll have
to clear the table yourselves today – I’ve got a terrible backache, I’m going to lie down.’

Carla looked concerned. ‘Is that what you had to see the doctor about?’

Ada hesitated before replying: ‘Yes, that’s right.’

She was obviously hiding something. The thought of Ada being ill – and lying about it – made Erik uneasy. He would never go as far as Carla and say he loved Ada, but she had been a
kindly presence all his life, and he was more fond of her than he liked to say.

Carla was just as concerned. ‘I hope it gets better.’

Lately Carla had become more grown-up, somewhat to Erik’s bewilderment. Although he was two years older, he still felt like a kid, but she acted like an adult half the time.

Ada said reassuringly: ‘I’ll be fine after a rest.’

Erik ate some bread. When Ada left the room, he swallowed and said: ‘I’m only in the junior section, but as soon as I’m fourteen I can move up.’

Carla said: ‘Father’s going to hit the roof! Are you mad?’

‘Herr Lippmann said that Father will be in trouble if he tries to make me leave.’

‘Oh, brilliant,’ said Carla. She had developed a streak of withering sarcasm that sometimes stung Erik. ‘So you’ll get Father into a row with the Nazis,’ she said
scornfully. ‘What a great idea. So good for the whole family.’

Erik was taken aback. He had not thought of it that way. ‘But all the boys in my class are members,’ he said indignantly. ‘Except for Frenchy Fontaine and Jewboy
Rothmann.’

Carla spread fish paste on her bread. ‘Why do you have to be the same as the others?’ she said. ‘Most of them are stupid. You told me Rudi Rothmann was the cleverest boy in the
class.’

‘I don’t want to be with Frenchy and Rudi!’ Erik cried, and to his mortification he felt tears come to his eyes. ‘Why should I have to play with the boys no one
likes?’ This was what had given him the courage to defy his father: he could no longer bear to walk out of school with the Jews and the foreigners while all the German boys marched around the
playing field in their uniforms.

They both heard a cry.

Erik looked at Carla and said: ‘What was that?’

Carla frowned. ‘It was Ada, I think.’

Then, more distinctly, they heard: ‘Help!’

Erik got to his feet, but Carla was ahead of him. He went after her. Ada’s room was in the basement. They ran down the stairs and into the small bedroom.

There was a narrow single bed up against the wall. Ada was lying there, her face screwed up in pain. Her skirt was wet and there was a puddle on the floor. Erik could hardly believe what he was
seeing. Had she pissed herself? It was scary. There were no other grown-ups in the house. He did not know what to do.

Carla was scared, too – Erik could see it in her face – but she was not panicked. She said: ‘Ada, what’s wrong?’ Her voice sounded strangely calm.

‘My waters broke,’ Ada said.

Erik had no idea what that meant.

Nor did Carla. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘It means my baby is coming.’

‘You’re pregnant?’ Carla said in astonishment.

Erik said: ‘But you’re not married!’

Carla said furiously: ‘Shut up, Erik – don’t you know anything?’

He did know, of course, that women could have babies when they were not married – but surely not Ada!

‘That’s why you went to the doctor last week,’ Carla said to Ada.

Ada nodded.

Erik was still trying to get used to the idea. ‘Do you think Mother and Father know?’

‘Of course they do. They just didn’t tell us. Fetch a towel.’

‘Where from?’

‘The airing cupboard on the upstairs landing.’

‘A clean one?’

‘Of course a clean one!’

Erik ran up the stairs, took a small white towel from the cupboard, and ran down again.

‘That’s not much good,’ Carla said, but she took it and dried Ada’s legs.

Ada said: ‘The baby’s coming soon, I can feel it. But I don’t know what to do.’ She started to cry.

Erik was watching Carla. She was in charge now. It did not matter that he was the older one: he looked to her for leadership. She was being practical and staying calm, but he could tell that she
was terrified, and her composure was fragile. She could crack at any minute, he thought.

Carla turned to Erik again. ‘Go and fetch Dr Rothmann,’ she said. ‘You know where his office is.’

Erik was hugely relieved to have been given a task he could manage. Then he thought of a snag. ‘What if he’s out?’

‘Then ask Frau Rothmann what you should do, you idiot!’ Carla said. ‘Get going – run!’

Erik was glad to get out of the room. What was happening there was mysterious and frightening. He went up the stairs three at a time and flew out of the front door. Running was one thing he did
know how to do.

The doctor’s surgery was half a mile away. He settled into a fast trot. As he ran he thought about Ada. Who was the father of her baby? He recalled that she had gone to the movies with
Paul Huber a couple of times last summer. Had they had sexual intercourse? They must have! Erik and his friends talked about sex a lot, but they did not really know anything about it. Where had Ada
and Paul done it? Not in a movie theatre, surely? Didn’t people have to lie down? He was baffled.

Dr Rothmann’s place was in a poorer street. He was a good doctor, Erik had heard Mother say, but he treated a lot of working-class people who could not pay high fees. The doctor’s
house had a consulting room and a waiting room on the ground floor, and the family lived upstairs.

Outside was parked a green Opel 4, an ugly little two-seater unofficially called the Tree Frog.

The front door of the house was unlatched. Erik walked in, breathing hard, and entered the waiting room. There was an old man coughing in a corner and a young woman with a baby.
‘Hello!’ Erik called, ‘Dr Rothmann?’

The doctor’s wife stepped out of the consulting room. Hannelore Rothmann was a tall, fair woman with strong features, and she gave Erik a look like thunder. ‘How dare you come to
this house in that uniform?’ she said.

Erik was petrified. Frau Rothmann was not Jewish, but her husband was: Erik had forgotten that in his excitement. ‘Our maid is having a baby!’ he said.

‘And so you want a Jewish doctor to help you?’

Erik was taken completely by surprise. It had never occurred to him that the Nazis’ attacks might cause the Jews to retaliate. But suddenly he saw that Frau Rothmann made total sense. The
Brownshirts went around shouting: ‘Death to Jews!’ Why should a Jewish doctor help such people?

Now he did not know what to do. There were other doctors, of course, plenty of them, but he did not know where, nor whether they would come out to see a total stranger. ‘My sister sent
me,’ he said feebly.

‘Carla’s got a lot more sense than you.’

‘Ada said the waters have broken.’ Erik was not sure what that meant, but it sounded significant.

With a disgusted look, Frau Rothmann went back into the consulting room.

The old man in the corner cackled. ‘We’re all dirty Jews until you need our help!’ he said. ‘Then it’s: “Please come, Dr Rothmann”, and
“What’s your advice, Lawyer Koch?” and “Lend me a hundred marks, Herr Goldman”, and—’ He was overcome by a fit of coughing.

A girl of about sixteen came in from the hall. Erik thought she must be the Rothmanns’ daughter, Eva. He had not seen her for years. She had breasts, now, but she was still plain and
dumpy. She said: ‘Did your father let you join the Hitler Youth?’

‘He doesn’t know,’ said Erik.

‘Oh, boy,’ said Eva. ‘You’re in trouble.’

He looked from her to the consulting-room door. ‘Do you think your father’s going to come?’ he said. ‘Your mother was awfully cross with me.’

‘Of course he’ll come,’ Eva said. ‘If people are sick, he helps them.’ Her voice became scornful. ‘He doesn’t check their race or politics first.
We’re not Nazis.’ She went out again.

Erik felt bewildered. He had not expected this uniform to get him into so much trouble. At school everyone thought it was wonderful.

A moment later, Dr Rothmann appeared. Speaking to the two waiting patients, he said: ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m sorry, but a baby won’t wait to be born.’
He looked at Erik. ‘Come on, young man, you’d better ride with me, despite that uniform.’