Child of the Light (9 page)

"We of the Freund family are honored to be the friends and guests of Walther Rathenau, our esteemed Foreign Minister, of his esteemed mother, Mathilde, and his lovely and talented niece, Miriam." Jacob bowed slightly to each in turn. "In our house we like to listen to our two children perform together." He watched Sol take the cello bow from its case and snap the lid shut. "Recha sings and dances, and Solomon accompanies her. Our little Recha has become the darling, if I may say so, of the Berlin Singakademia."

Jacob waited for the brief round of applause to end. "Both of our children were to perform tonight in small repayment to you, Frau Rathenau," he bowed in Oma's direction, "for the wonderful companionship and dinner we have so enjoyed. Unfortunately, Recha has a cold. Therefore, Solomon will do a solo."

He looked at Sol, who bowed slightly and managed a weak smile.

"Solomon has not had quite the musical training Recha has enjoyed, but we should all remember that, in the world of music, unlike in business," Jacob nodded toward Friedrich Weisser, "or even in politics," a nod toward Rathenau, "the very act of performing is often at least as important as the product." Gesturing toward Sol, Jacob stepped aside. "So now, it is with great pride that I give you my son...."

Walking as if his knees had turned to liquid, Solomon clutched the neck of the cello and moved into the spotlight. He bowed to the audience.

Feeling a mixture of empathy and amusement, Miriam waited for the first note. When it came, she was relieved to find herself not entirely unimpressed. His playing was tenuous, but the emotion was there, the caring which, for her, shifted technique to secondary importance. She closed her eyes and let the sweet strains of Haydn flow around her. When it was over, she opened her eyes and applauded loudly. She would introduce herself to Solomon and tell him that he was not nearly as poor a performer as he seemed to think.

She rose and walked toward him, but was not quick enough. Apparently terrified that he might be required to give an encore, he bowed and fled the room. Disappointed, Miriam headed back to her table.

"I really enjoyed that," she said to Erich, who had once again jumped up to pull out her chair. "Please ask him to come back."

"He won't."

Erich sat down. He had a strange expression on his face, like a swimmer on the verge of diving into icy water.

"He'd come back if...if...you asked him," the boy said.
 
"We could go for a walk...maybe...until he calms down...and then look for him together--"

"I'm starving. I have to eat something first or I'll faint right into your arms in the street," Miriam said, teasing. She wondered if Erich always stammered like that when he felt embarrassed. Or perhaps it was only when he did not feel in control of a situation, she thought. She had met men like that--grown men who had wanted her and were embarrassed by feeling that way about a fifteen-year-old.

"L-later? All right."

Seeing his crestfallen expression, Miriam relented. She took a slice of dark pumpernickel from a silver basket and bit into it hungrily. "Don't they feed the entertainers in Germany, Uncle Walther?" She motioned at the bare tablecloth in front of her.

"My profound apologies, Fraülein Rathenau," Erich's mother said. "I will rectify the situation immediately. You were--"

"Don't take me seriously, Frau...Weisser."
 
At the last moment, she remembered the woman's name. "This will do just fine, thank you--as long as you save me some of those nonpareils they're serving with dessert. I crave them."

She took a second slice of bread and stood up.

"Let's take that walk, Erich."

Her uncle looked at Erich. "How old are you, son?"

"Fif--"
 
Erich looked at his parents. "Thirteen, sir." He blushed.

"Just once around the block." The Foreign Minister barely suppressed a smile.

Miriam smiled openly at him. "Just once around the block.
 
Promise!"

Erich led the way up the metal stairs, which gave Miriam a chance to see his outfit from the rear and to hope that he had not chosen it himself. Must have been his parents, she decided, wondering why she sometimes disliked people so intensely on first sight. She did not know Herr or Frau Weisser, yet something about them made her uncomfortable: the mother, obsequious and angry; the father arrogant, yet betrayed by a weakness around the mouth.

As soon as they were in the street, Miriam felt better. No matter how many German aristocrats she met, how many celebrities, she never felt quite comfortable being herself. They had a way of watching and judging, as if they measured everything anyone did on a scale of one-to-ten--one if you were Jewish, ten if you were an Aryan Berliner; anything else had to be earned, if that were even possible!

"Did they feed you, Konnie?" she called to her uncle's driver, who was lounging against their limousine, smoking a cigarette.

"Ja, Fraülein Rathenau. Thank you for inquiring." He quickly crushed the cigarette underfoot and stood up straight.

"Relax." Miriam waved her hand. "We're not leaving yet."

A few of her grandmother's guests, taking the air at the top of the steps, looked in her direction. Several other people craned their necks, trying to see into the cabaret. They glanced at her and at the limousine and, whispering and pointing, moved on. At the corner of the street, surrounded by a dozen locals, a barrel-organ man was grinding away.

Miriam stood for a moment and listened. Then she executed a few dancing steps and grabbed Erich's hand. "Listen. He's playing 'Glowworm'. I never get enough of that song."

She lifted Erich's hand so that she could see it more clearly in the lamplight.

"Kiss it better!" she said. Impulsively, she kissed the red scars. "Tell me about it one day?"

Before he could answer, she let go and danced in the direction of the music.

"Glühwürmchen, Glühwürmchen, glimm're--"

She stopped abruptly. She had not realized she was singing aloud. People were staring at her--not that she cared, but it was not exactly smart to draw attention to herself like that, at night, in the middle of the street.

Someone started to applaud and others joined in.

"More!" a man yelled. "More!"

"Play, barrel-organ man!" another shouted. "Bring out the beer. We're going to have a real Saturday night party now!"

The barrel-organ man grinned widely and patted the head of his monkey; it seemed to be grinning too. The stiff-necked upper crust could keep their genteel appreciation, Miriam thought as she curtsied and began to sing. This was more like it; this was the real thing.

The clop of a leather dice-cup and the clicking of ivory dice against the glass counter lured Erich and Sol away from their Sunday job in the basement of their fathers' tobacco shop. From the top of the curtained-off basement stairs, they watched their fathers' customers come and go, hoping for a big sale that would provide them with pocket money for the week.

The two men playing dice asked for a box of Solomons, one of Herr Freund's first creations--a blend of cherry and Martinique tobaccos. After getting odds on the Dempsey-Hülering fight, they let the dice determine which man would pay for the purchase. Not for the first time, Erich wondered if there would ever be a cigar named after him, and dismissed the thought. Papa was and always would be nothing more than a junior partner in Herr Freund's shop.

If he were certain of nothing else, Erich thought angrily, he was sure of one thing: he was not going to play second fiddle to anyone--not even if, as was true for Papa, there was justice in it. After all, Herr Freund was the original owner of the shop.

He glanced at Sol and then back at Herr Freund, who was quietly restocking the shelves. Their parents had it all worked out--after all, the two boys were such good friends. What could be more natural than the two of them taking over ownership of the shop one day? Not me, he thought. He was destined for better things. Last night at the cabaret--and being with Miriam--had convinced him of that.

Not that this place was so bad; it was actually fun because of the gambling license, which many of the more elegant tobacconists had.

Like all other Berlin stores,
Die Zigarrenkiste
, "The Cigar Box," was officially closed on Sundays. But the cost of maintaining the gambling license was high, the rent on the shop exorbitant; in these days of encroaching inflation, Herr Freund said, shopkeepers could ill afford to close for an hour, much less a day. There were always high rollers seeking action, dapper men craving good cigars, and finely fashionable women wanting cigarettes to complement new outfits. Any of them might stop by their favorite tobacconist-bookie on Sundays "to see if the lights were on."

The shop was perfectly located, close to the train depot, the embassies, restaurants, and outdoor cafés, and surrounded by clothing and jewelry stores. Sunday strollers ambled along the wide boulevards of Unter den Linden, past Embassy Row, and on toward Pariser Platz. They turned into Friedrich Ebert Strasse at the Brandenburg Gate, meandered past the Academy of Arts, the Tiergarten, and the zoo, and stopped to window-shop at the various stores that dotted the route to their fashionable destinations. It seemed quite natural that, on the pretext of saying hello, they should drop into
Die Zigarrenkiste
for a quick gambling fix and their weekend smoking supplies.

The men purchased cigars singly or in cedar boxes; they carried them home like chocolate soldiers in wooden coffins, transferred them to humidors, and gave the boxes to their children to use as treasure chests. For weekdays, they bought less expensive cigars; but on Friday and Saturday evenings at the theater and after large Sunday dinners, only Havanas would do.

Berlin's upper crust ladies also frequented the shop. Erich loved to watch them make their selections. They purchased one or two at a time, agonizing over their choices. Right now, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes were all the rage. Since most of the ladies smoked out of fashion rather than habit, nothing else would do but that their cigarettes be specially ordered: embossed with their own names or initials--or those of their tobacconist--or colored to match their outfits or their eyes.

On days when his own gambling losses were excessive, Erich's father complained about the expense of stocking goods to suit the whims of the rich. Papa could rant and rave all he liked, Erich thought, it did not take a mathematical genius to figure out that the profit was worth the investment. The bookie operation was no sure thing, so the shop's real profit lay neither in that nor in tobacco. Tobacco's accouterments, that was where the real money came from: gold and silver cigarette holders encrusted with gems that matched jeweled hatpins and tiepins; cigarette cases initialed or inscribed to husbands or wives or lovers; ivory and enameled guillotines for snipping cigar tips.

"Aren't as many customers as usual," Sol whispered.

"Maybe there'd be more customers if your papa weren't so stubborn," Erich said, referring to his father's contention that his partner was allowing street merchants to take profits rightfully theirs.
Why not,
Papa said,
cater to those who prefer the dreams brought by cocaine and morphine.

And why not, Erich thought. It was legal, and would boost the shop's declining revenues. But Herr Freund inevitably dismissed the topic with words that brooked no further discussion. "We will leave such transactions to lesser men."

"Business will pick up after Kaverne opens," Sol said.

"Depends on how good the cabaret is. Papa says if Oma Rathenau thinks the rich will flock to her place just because
she
opened it, she's in for a surprise."

"My papa says they'll all come--the rich and famous."

"Your papa says a lot of things. People might come once, but after that Frau Rathenau has to make them
want
to come. They want excitement, not just elegance anymore."

Erich lifted his head and shoulders the way his new Freikorps-Youth leader, Otto Hempel, did when he was about to deliver a speech. Why couldn't
his
father look like that, Erich thought. Better yet, why couldn't he
be
like that. While his father was working here in the shop during the war, drinking and playing the horses, Otto Hempel was helping von Hindenburg decimate the Russians at Tannenberg, earning a field commission for gallantry. He had told them about it one night around the campfire, silver hair shining in the firelight. He had commanded the battery that fired those first shells of liquid chlorine in Poland, only to have it fail to volatilize in the frigid conditions. He had helped coordinate the mustard-gas attack at Ypres, only to have the victory that could have won the war snatched away because no one believed him about the new weapon's wonderful potential.

Now
there
was a hero--and he looked the part, too. Said his hair had turned silver from the ardors of the battlefield.

Erich glanced at himself in a cigarette case Herr Freund had left lying on the counter to be polished. He turned it this way and that, imagining himself with a head of silver hair and a row of medals.

"Give people what they think they want, then make sure they keep wanting what you give them," he said to Sol. "Some cabarets have naked waitresses. Men can touch them...anywhere they want."