Chapter Three

At the station Lili and Papa Rostaing helped Nöelle with her bags. While Papa went to park his beloved Hispano-Suiza, the two girls managed tickets and porters. Although Lili didn’t ask about the money or the hiding place, her face was flushed with suppressed excitement.

When the time for leave-taking came Lili kissed Nöelle hard on the cheek, whispering “Bon chance.” Papa Rostaing pressed pocket money into her gloved hand as if she were his own.

“Tell us everything when you come back. It will be good to hear about the way things are in Berlin from someone we know so well.” They smiled and waved.

Her new shoes slipped on the metal steps of the train. Two middle-aged business men passed her and stared as she made her way toward the sleeping compartment, marking the effect of her new clothes. At every second the damned umbrella seemed to have a life of its own and wanted to jump out of her hand. At the first compartment had been blessedly empty. Nevertheless, simple acts such as sitting became part of a ridiculously convoluted process — trying to figure out what she’d normally be thinking and doing. Perhaps the key was not to think, at least not up front. To calculate in the back of her mind, and just walk forward. Finally, she had shoved the umbrella and her satchel into the luggage rack, and taken her seat, painfully aware of every gesture, removing her coat, smoothing her new skirt as she sat, and digging through her purse for passport and tickets. Each movement came under an inner scrutiny: yes, surely this was the usual procedure.

Drops of rain slunk along the window as if hurrying home. Everywhere he grimmest parts of human occupation plagued the rail lines. Broken village parts, factories that hadn’t been modernized since before the war, laundry-flagged tenements, and heaps of refuse, rushed by in the dark. Nöelle had purposely avoided the express which arrived in Berlin at an ungodly hour and made sleeping impossible. At this time of year it was better to travel at night. The rain and the sinking darkness reinforced the illusion that one could step away from everyday life, carried away to another reality. To Cette and her new husband. Once the job was done, that gay round of parties would be a well-deserved break from the semester.

Nöelle pulled out her book, a memoir written in German. As children she and Cette had shared a nursery and a nanny. German nannies, like the English, were supposed to be the best, skilled at instilling discipline in rambunctious French toddlers. Long ago in Lorraine, when her parents had been young and in love, when Papa and his brother had come each night to tuck in their baby girls, Una had ensured that both girls spoke decent German, learned to wipe their noses with a clean handkerchief, and never tracked mud indoors. In her childhood, so close to the Alsace, many people had spoken both languages. Usually a few hours with a moderately difficult book was enough to bring back those fluent conjugations along with memories of rye toast and warm milk. The book, however, was as depressing as the back lots of train yards.

Written by a German cavalry colonel about his days as a member of the Freikorps, it described life in those hired armies during the battle for control of Germany after the war. Max had lent her the book, insisting that she couldn’t understand what Germany had become without knowing about those shattered years when a headless monster turned its aggression on itself in epic battles for local power. Like everyone, Nöelle was familiar with images of wheelbarrows full of devalued German marks during the twenties, but had never heard details of those first years of “peace.”

The quiet first class compartment faded, absorbed into the strange and nightmarish world of street barricades, Bolsheviks, machine guns, and bombs. A revolution at home had forced Germany to pull out of the war and in the ensuing battle for power, battalions of newly released veterans, battle-hardened and broke, took to the streets. For the Bolsheviks Germany was the next likely spot for revolution, and their opponents feared the same outcome. It was this fear that prompted the formation the private armies known as the Freikorps.

The term “shot while trying to escape” became standard. Only the intervention of the allies brought the fighting to an end. Nöelle turned the pages slowly, wading through the long German words and unfamiliar constructions, impelled forward by the colonel’s bitter descriptions of intra-city warfare. Chin on hand, she gazed unseeing at the rain-spattered window. France had been through some wild years, certainly, one ineffective minister after another, scandals, riots, but nothing like this. In Berlin and Hamburg, children her age had gone to sleep in their cribs to the sound of machine guns and explosions. Members of the Freikorps had pulled citizens off the street to murder them in alleys and courtyards, while Bolsheviks did the same to those whose coats looked too new.

When the steward came through asking when she preferred to eat, she chose the first sitting, more than ready to escape from her thoughts and her book. Ordinarily eating with strangers brought no pleasure, but there was something enjoyable about shooting through the darkness, encased in yellow light, sipping from stemmed glassware, and exchanging pleasantries with people you’d never see again. All the barnacles of life slid away and left her wearing, for a few hours, some inner and perhaps truer self.

That left the problem of the umbrella -- what to do with it during dinner. It seemed wrong to leave it, and yet one could not bring one’s umbrella to the dining car. In the end she left it in the compartment and dinner passed uneventfully. Two schoolgirls shared her table. They were impressed by her fashionable new suit and her studies in Egyptology. Both were getting off at Lille, and so had to hurry through their meal, leaving some time for Nöelle to sit alone with the cheese and wine before retiring.

Back in the sleeper her new roommate was sitting cosily in a blue bathrobe rubbing ointment onto her feet. The little Belgian began to talk and didn’t stop, despite Nöelle’s monosyllabic answers and pointed involvement in her book. The chatter didn’t cease until Nöelle was able to make an excuse and turn out the reading light, able at last to devote herself completely to her worries. The umbrella lay at the end of the fold-down bed, throbbing all night like a giant stubbed toe, the kind sported by cartoon characters at the cinema. The gentle sway of the carriage was not relaxing; instead it became a lullaby of dread. Here and there city lights flashed by in the darkness and she began to watch for them in the space between the shade and the window. Various scenarios that might take place at the border rattled through her mind, making sleep impossible. Near two o’clock, Nöelle shifted quietly to turn on the reading light, pulling out her book and shielding the glare with a pillow. The other woman spoke immediately, full of motherly concern.

“Can’t sleep, dear? Perhaps you aren’t used to traveling? I can never fall asleep properly in these compartments, not that I usually sleep anyway . . .” and on and on.

The remainder of the night was spent in enforced quietude, sleepless, straining toward relaxation, but unable subdue the kicking and turning that her body demanded. When she dared to move, the weight of the umbrella on the blankets served as constant reminder of the coming ordeal.

The German border crossing was scheduled for 6:00 a.m. Once this had meant merely brief halt, a cursory inspection of passports carried out in the dining car or sleeping compartment or where ever one happened to be. Things had changed since the Nazis came to power. Now, perhaps the passengers would have to leave the train. Luggage might be examined.

If she had to get off, what would she do with the umbrella? She could leave it in the car and not take it to the inspection. But, perhaps someone would go through the compartments and check items left behind. She could try some kind of trick, like leaving it in a different compartment, an empty one if possible, perhaps in second class. Then at least they couldn’t definitely link the umbrella to her. But then she’d have to explain to the Belgian why she was getting up at such an ungodly hour rambling through the train, and after the inspection she’d have to go and find it again. Definitely conspicuous. And, what if she lost the umbrella or picked up the wrong one, unable to identify it again. Better to stay in the sleeping car, and leave the umbrella there. Better to be natural. Unless, of course, it was raining. Perhaps they might not have to leave the car at all. Would anyone think to look at an umbrella? How had they managed to get the money in there anyway? It must be rolled up inside the thick wooden handle.

When sleep finally crawled into the bunk to lie with her in the darkness, she dreamed of answering a knock on the door of the compartment, clutching the Belgian’s blue robe at her throat, reeking of foot ointment, to greet a shadowy inspector. The dream ended badly, and she was left with image of the umbrella, bright red and blinking like a Christmas light.

At 5:00 the steward came by, his polite tap merging for one confusing moment with her dream. “Border crossing in twenty minutes. Please have your papers ready, ladies.” Nöelle jumped from the bunk and cracked open the door.

“Will we have to get off? Or do they check our papers here?” She tried not to seem nervous, just slightly irritated.

“No, Mam’selle, if everything is in order you may remain in your compartment.”

The Belgian peered around her shoulder, “What time do we reach Berlin?”

“On schedule, Madame, for 9:17. Breakfast is served at 7:00 or at 8:00. What is your preference, ladies?”

Nöelle waited for the other woman’s choice.

“Oh, I’ll go at 8:00 I think,” her companion’s voice was high and tired. “I didn’t sleep a wink so I believe I’ll keep trying. Shall we eat together, my dear?” 

“I’m starving. I’m afraid I can’t wait. Seven o’clock for me.”

The steward marked a box on his notepad. “Very good, ladies.”

Instinct decreed that she should meet the inspection fully clothed. She felt vulnerable in her old wool robe. It might be better, however, to greet the officers in her dressing gown. Perhaps it would discourage them from disturbing her further. The Belgian sat on her bunk staring, as if following Nöelle’s thoughts. The woman’s dark, watery eyes had become unbearably irritating.

“Now I’m awake, I don’t know whether to get dressed or not,” said Nöelle.

The woman nodded, as if knowing that was the problem. “It’s merely a formality, child. Germans are so polite you know. A decent person has nothing to fear.”

Nöelle nodded, pulled the robe more tightly around her, and moved to the window. “Do you mind?” she said, indicating the shade.

They must be nearing the station. The train was slowing. The iron webbing of rails wove through the train yard in a crazy dull network, frosted with a sprinkling of fresh snow. As the train came to a halt, uniformed guards crossed the station platform. Any moment now. No need to check again, the papers were in their place in the zipped compartment of her purse. Nöelle smoothed the blanket on the bed and laid out her suit, all the while avoiding letting her gaze linger for a second on the black umbrella.

The woman’s silence was almost as oppressive as her chatter had been, and it was almost a relief when she spoke again. “The whole business takes much longer when you leave the country. They aren’t interested in people like us. Just smugglers or undesirables.” Then suspicion crossed her dry little brow. “You aren’t a Jew, are you? Is that the problem?”

Nöelle shook her head, feeling vaguely guilty at the denial. If a cock crowed three times, she’d burst into tears. “No, but my best friend is, and I guess I was thinking how she’d be feeling.”

“Well, Jews are usually very bright, at least the ones in France and Belgium. I’m sure she’s far too sharp to be vacationing in Germany right now.” The woman smiled cheerfully.

Nöelle took another glance out the window, only to be greeted by the sight of two armed guards in black uniforms escorting an elderly gentleman into the stationhouse.

“Oh my, they’ve taken someone away, haven’t they? I wonder what he’s done.” The Belgian pressed her face to the window.

The man was struggling, trying to pull his arms away from the grip of his captors. It didn’t seem like he was trying to escape, just an old man in a shabby suit, trying to maintain his dignity. The soldiers lifted him off his feet, dragging him along. The toes of his shoes scraped the pavement.

A sharp rap at the door. This time she let the Belgian answer. Having nothing to fear, the woman slid the door all the way open, offered a cheerful greeting in her whispery voice, and stepped aside.

 “Papers?” A plump man with a round red face, a grey overcoat, and the typical homburg. The uniformed guard next to him was alert and very young.

The Belgian proffered her papers first, encased in an expensive leather wallet. The fat man looked them over carefully. “Reason for your visit?”

“I’m visiting my son in Berlin.”

The man made no answer. He examined each piece of paper, running his finger over the words as if they were difficult to read. “Very good.” He shut the wallet with a snap.

“What is the problem with the man you took away?” The woman’s colorless mouth pursed in disapproval, but her eyes were bright.

“Nothing to concern you, Madame.” His attention turned to Nöelle. As she handed over her papers, his eyes narrowed, sensing. . .something. He fingered her luggage claim ticket and scanned the room. “Your case, mademoiselle?” She handed him the worn leather overnight case and backed further into the room.

“It’s not locked.” She pretended to stifle a yawn.

The fat man glanced through her meager toiletries, measuring the case and its contents against the expensive suit lying across the bed next to the umbrella. He moved forward. Nöelle snatched her book from the bunk and held it against her chest.

He paused, smiling. “And what does a French girl read during her visit to the Reich?” He held out his hand.

The Belgian watched the exchanged with interest. Silently Nöelle handed it over the slim volume and watched his expression change to pleasure. “Ah, the Freikorps. You are an admirer?”

“Most enlightening. I had no idea,” she answered, honestly.

“I tend to forget that we have many friends in France.” He nodded politely and returned the book. “Enjoy your visit, ladies.”

And then it was over.

By ten she was comfortably ensconced in the von Sternau limousine.

“Nice suit, Nöelle. Your maman must have picked it out, right?” Cette sat against the corner of seat, one foot tucked under her, smoking. “Do you think I look different? I think I do. I feel different. Like my whole life was just practice for being Freddy’s wife.”

Cette did look different. Her pale hair had been cut and set into perfect waves. Hatless, as always, she wore a chic black suit, a vivid scarf twisted elegantly around her neck, a sable jacket on her shoulders.

“Is your mother coming for Christmas?” The girls had always spent holidays together in Vienna with Francesca’s family, in Lorraine at their fathers’ family home, or skiing in Switzerland.“She and Henkel are already here. They have an apartment in the city this year.” Nowadays Cette’s mother and her second husband spent most of the year in Berne.

Year after year as soon as the two girls exchanged hugsm they slid easily into old habits, picking up conversations abandoned months before as if no time had passed. Today, however, some indefinite barrier lay between them. Being in a new city perhaps, or perhaps it was Germany itself. Or marriage. Something new lay veiled in Cette’s eyes.

Nöelle tried to think of a uncomplicated question. “Do you see your father?”

“He comes through now and then.” Cette shrugged. Like his brother, Cette’s father worked in the textile industry, but rather than producing fabrics for apparel, he created intricate designs for outrageously expensive drapery fabrics. Unlike Nöelle’s father, who had gone into business for himself some time ago, Uncle Claude, earned only a moderate salary, one that Francesca had long ago found unsatisfactory. Cette stubbed out her cigarette in the pocket ashtray. “Papa and Freddy don’t get along that well, especially lately,” she lowered her voice, although a thick window separated them from the chauffeur. “Papa hates the National Democrats.”

“The Nazis?”

“Don’t call them that. Are you crazy? The only people who use that term are enemies of the state. That kind of talk could ruin Freddy. He’s getting a promotion to the Abwehr, any day now. Working in military intelligence, we’ve to be squeaky clean.” Cette stubbed out her cigarette and shot her a hard look. “Listen, you’re going to have to be careful. Don’t just say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“Me? You’re the one that says the first thing that comes into your head,” said Nöelle.

“Yes, well, I’ve grown up.”

Outside a hard sunlight carved deep shadows into the formal architecture of the city. The wide boulevards were as busy as ever. At first Nöelle could see nothing different from her last visit nine years before. Although only ten at the time, she clearly remembered what fun she and Cette had together, thrilled to be traveling alone with their fathers. They had visited museums, gone swimming in the nearby lakes, seen operas and plays. Berlin had seemed the pinnacle of modernity then. Late at night the two girls had ordered ice cream from room service at the Hotel Prinz Albrecht and played board games, while their fathers visited the cabarets in the Kurfurstendamm.

The big car passed through the city center, where new buildings were going up in many of the old neighborhoods. The Prinz Albrecht was no longer a hotel, but an office building hung with a gigantic red flag sporting Hitler’s crooked cross. Many men wore uniforms, some in the traditional grey-green but most in Nazi brown and a few in black. On street corners men and boys shook small cardboard boxes, asking for change from the passers by. Almost everyone stopped to slip in a few coins.

Cette noticed her attention. “It’s the Winter Drive. They collect for the poor, on street corners and door to door, in the movie theaters, the symphony, everywhere.”

“So many people stop and give. In Paris they’d just walked on by.”

Cette looked at her and smiled. “Hitler wants everyone to give. And the boys can be very aggressive.”

Suddenly her demeanor softened and she slid across the seat and slid her arm through Nöelle’s. “I’m glad you’re here. I love being married and the new house is fabulous, but it hasn’t seemed like home without you.” 

The new house in the Grunewald district was everything Cette’s letters had promised. Set in a wide park, adorned with creamy pillars and carved moldings, graced with three palatial bathrooms in the upstairs alone, Cette had nevertheless infused the villa with a cheerful homelike atmosphere. Antique Turkey carpets lay scattered across the gleaming floors like jewels, pale warm colors glowed on the walls, and long windows let the wintry light into every room. Upstairs her cousin proudly threw open the doors to Nöelle’s room. “You are the first one to stay here – I’ve saved it for you,” Cette lowered her voice. “Freddy’s mama was livid when she came in August and I wouldn’t let her have it! I told her I’d decorated the one at the back of the house especially for her -- and I had! It’s all red and gold, disgustingly Victorian. But this is for you…” 

The airy bedroom combined modern and traditional furnishings as only Cette could. Pale walls in robin’s egg blue and a ceiling washed in shimmering rose set off gilt- framed modern paintings. A sleek armchair waited near the French doors, complete with footstool, table, lamp, and a pile of hand-picked books. Hothouse roses bloomed on the bedside table, a tiny gold-leafed desk occupied an alcove of its own and the old sleigh bed was piled high with pillows and draped with a quilted throw in pale orchid velvet. “You have your own bathroom, right through there and you’re only one door down from my room – oops, “our” room. A desk so you can study and a dressing table– don’t argue, you’ll need a dressing table because we’re invited to simply everything and I’m determined to show off my brilliant Parisian cousine. Is it my fault if my cousin shocks the party bigwigs, just a teensy bit?”

“It’s beautiful. I love it,” she squeezed Cette’s hand. The months of separation melted away in the thoughtfulness of the welcome.

“It was Freddy’s idea. He wants you to come whenever you can get away. He thinks I need cheering up.” The girls looked at each other. “He’s gone so much these days, with all the talk of war.” Cette held her finger to her lips just as the hall door clicked open and a thickset maid entered, arms piled with pink towels. “Vera, this is my cousin Fraulein de Cassignac.” The nodded politely, before disappearing into the bathroom.

“You’ll like Vera, she’s quite efficient. She can even help you with your hair for parties.” The young woman reappeared. “Vera once shook hands with the Fuhrer, isn’t that right?”

Instantly Vera’s cheeks turned bright pink. “I did Gnadige Frau.” 

Cette smiled encouragingly, “Tell her about it. I’m sure my cousin will be extremely interested.”

“I was in the Bund Deutscher Mädel, that’s our girls club, and I was chosen to present mein Fuhrer with flowers at the Harvest Festival. I was fifteen.”

“What was he like, Fraulein?” said Nöelle, without looking at Cette.

“Very kind. He smiled at me, and he has the most beautiful eyes!”

“Blue?” asked Nöelle innocently.

“No, they’re brown. And warm, very warm.” Vera smiled at the memory.

“Well, cousin you can see for yourself on Saturday. There’s no doubt he’ll be at the reception at the Goebbel’s new house. That will be all Vera.”

“Yes ma’am.” Vera left clicking the door shut quietly after her.

“So, you see how it is. The whole staff is like that. And they are always at your beck and call, anything you need, liebchen, they’ll be right there at your service, night and day. You’ll have to get used to it.”

As if to emphasize her words, the footman arrived with the luggage. The rest of the afternoon sped by with a tour of the house, lunch in the breakfast nook,  and a walk on the grounds with Geisha, Cette’s  old beagle and Freddy’s two glossy black sheepdogs. Their conversation during the day dwelt mainly on the holiday parties they’d be attending, the dresses Cette had ordered, Nöelle’s new clothes, and Freddy’s promotion. Not until they were outside watching the dogs race through the wet leaves was there an opportunity for a private talk.

“My God, those are beautiful dogs.” Nöelle shrugged deeper into her jacket and knotted a scarf beneath her chin. The sun from the morning was long gone; now an icy wind whipped the tree branches across a bleached sky. The dogs chased each other, immune to the cold. The big dogs dashed across the yellow grass with the older one trotting sedately behind them. As they reached some predetermined distance from the girls the two Belgians whipped into a hairpin turn and tore back the way they’d come. As they neared the girls they split, turning again and, with their big pink tongues lolling happily, nipped and growled at their heels as if urging them out of this lazy stroll. Laughing, Cette flapped her hands at them, sending the pair screaming off into the dusk again. Unperturbed by her lean black companions, Geisha ducked out of their way, content to bury her nose in every pile of leaves.

“They are, aren’t they? They’re Groenendael’s, Belgian sheepdogs. Freddy’s family has kept the breed forever. In the war they were trained to find injured soldiers for the Red Cross. I know they look scary, but they’re sweet as can be.”

“After my traveling companion, I hate anything Belgian, but I may have to make an exception for those two. What does he call them?” The pair raced back again, dark and fast like shadows of wolves, their long silky hair shining in the pearly light.

“Valeur and Chanson.”

“French names?” Nöelle stuffed her hands deep into her pockets.

“It’s a tradition. But they answer to German, when they need to.”

Silence. “How’s Lili?”

“She’s well.” Said Nöelle. “Studying chemistry.” 

Cette shook her head. “What a pair, you two. It’s all I can do to balance the household accounts at the end of the month. Why does she want to study chemistry for heaven’s sakes. Another Madame Curie?”

“Lili has a secret ambition to name the last element on the periodic table. So, she has to hurry, because there maybe no more.”

Cette laughed, and the wind whipped the sound away, a silver strand like the gold ones flying around her head. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Aren’t they making new elements all the time? Shaving off a molecule here and there?”

“No, no. Lili wants to name the last naturally occurring element. That’s altogether different. She wants to give it some beautiful romantic name, like Eternium.”

Cette grinned. “And you? Did you ever see that man again? The one that bought you champagne?” 

Nöelle shook her head. “Why do you need cheering up, Cette?  You still seem to be crazy about Freddy.” 

Cette grimaced. “Oh, we’re good together alright. There’s no problem there.” Nöelle waited. She’d learned long ago that there was no rushing Cette. “It’s a hard time here.”

“Harder for some than for others.”

Cette lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard, even out in the wide white afternoon. “The old military families, most of them aren’t enamored of the new regime. There’s some kind of war coming, it’s no secret among the Wehrmacht. I mean, everyone’s happy about Germany stepping into her place among the nations again, feeling proud again. No one has a problem with taking back what belongs to us, what we lost under the Versaille Treaty. But . . . war? I just have a bad feeling about it, that’s all.”

“Most people have a bad feeling about war, Cette.”

“Not true. Apparently in 1914 all of Germany went war-mad. Flag, parades. Now every thing is quiet. Just waiting. In private we talk about it, will the British and the French let Hitler have what he wants, or will they intervene. I try to imagine what it will be like, waiting at home for Freddy, being the enemy wife, rolling bandages with all the dirndl girls and knowing he’s out there killing Frenchmen. It’s not how I want to live.”

The dead grass crunched under their feet. “It may not come to that.”

The last war had nearly destroyed France, cutting down a generation of boys and fertilizing the fields with blood. Public feeling remained vehemently against the idea of war, despite Germany’s encroachment and blatant disregard of prohibitions on rearmament. Nöelle, like most of her generation, had grown up in classrooms where the teachers were Pacifist to the bone. War, to her loomed like a nebulous nightmare creature, unknown and yet familiar. She tried to imagine being Cette, in love and just starting out,livng in a foreign country. Then she attempted to imagine her own life in France if war came. Of course it would be fought on French soil again.

Everyone they knew had planned their lives on the certainty of a lasting peace. War was impossible. In the end diplomacy must win out. This talk was all posturing, the big shots jostling for power. She couldn’t believe otherwise. The refugees, the little people, got shuffled about in the process of working things out and she could try to help with that, in her own small ways. Still, surely all-out war would be averted. Nöelle said as much, leaving out, of course the part about helping refugees from the Reich. “No one wants war. Wait and see, Cette. Things will settle down. Life will go on -- you’ll have babies. In a couple of years we’ll look back on all these fears and we’ll laugh.”

“You haven’t seen how it is here. Wait until you’ve been out a bit. The way Vera was today about Hitler--they are all like that. Wait ‘til you see the Goebbels house. Swastikas on the napkins. And look at the newspapers. The Beobachter is . . . just pornography. All maids in puffed sleeves being ravished by evil Jews. And you can’t say anything. I mean seriously, you can’t say anything. I was at a friend’s house the other day, and she literally stuffed her sweater under the door before she could talk to me.”

“Who’s this?”

“Suzanne. Her husband is a professor of music -- music! They fired half the professors at the academy where he teaches, naturally -- they were Jewish. Now, if her husband doesn’t sign a loyalty oath, he’s next. And then I won’t be able to see her.”

“Well, they can’t stop you from seeing a friend. What are they going to do, arrest you?”

“Yes, Nöelle! Someone reports you. They start an inquiry and there’s always someone like Vera to provide evidence. Then, you’re whisked away to a conzentration lager.”

Nöelle, nodded. “I’ve heard about that.”

“The Gestapo hates the army and the old families are especially at risk. Everyone knows Freddy’s father was a social democrat.”

“Surely no one cares which political party your father belongs to.”

Cette turned on her heel, putting the wind at their back. She whistled and the dogs wheeled around again and raced after them. “Belonged to. Past tense. That party is dead, and most of the people who lead it are too. Or they ran and now they are waiting tables In Paris. Brown Shirts burst into their houses in the middle of the night. The next day its reported -- like the Reichstag fire – oh yes, those criminals were planning an insurrection and our dear Fuhrer saved us by moving quickly. Too bad the men were shot while trying to escape,” Cette hissed, “ – out their bedroom windows.”

The girls were quiet on their way back across the grounds. Nöelle tucked her hand into Cette’s pocket. Finally she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

“I know you. You’ll get mad. A little Gallic temper is alright, they expect that from you degenerates from the Third Republic. But don’t talk to me about it, don’t say anything in the house, or in the car, or…

“Ça va. I understand. Better than you think.”

Then it was tea in front of the fire in the library, and fabric samples for the curtains in the breakfast room. Freddy burst in, cap under his arm, brushing sleet from his long coat. There were kisses and laughter, and Nöelle produced the special old brandy he loved. Just the three of them at dinner, at the long gleaming table. Later, Cole Porter on the phonograph.

The next morning sitting cross-legged on her bed, Nöelle reviewed her plans. On her first examination of the umbrella back in her apartment after the meeting at the dress shop, a tiny slip of paper had fluttered out from the folds of the umbrella. It held directions scrawled in impossibly small letters like in Fleury’s spidery hand. She had committed the information to memory, and then, feeling foolish, burned the tiny piece of paper. Now she found it surprisingly difficult not to write it all down again, just to be able to look at it. Wait for the first stormy, find an excuse to shop at Wertheim’s, the elegant department store downtown. Once one of the premier department stores in all of Europe, it had recently been “Aryanized.” The Jewish owners who had pioneered the concept of the glamorous multi-storied shopping wonderland had recently been forced to sell their businesses at a deep discount to loyal Party businessmen. She was to wait alone at the display of linens and tableware, wearing a cloche hat with a white rose on it. Another shopper, wearing a red muffler, would happen by, stop to examine the display of goods, and set down an umbrella down beside hers. Nöelle would simply have to pick up the other umbrella to complete the exchange.

Simple. Unless the weather turned clear and sunny. Still, other than that unlikely eventuality, the plan seems clear and simple. Foolproof. In fact this step was much less nerve wracking than getting the money into the country. The only problem would be getting away from Cette’s sharp eyes, but even this should be easy with Christmas shopping as an excuse. Cette had a full social schedule and wouldn’t expect Nöelle to keep her company on every outing.

She peeked out the window only to find sunshine, so the meeting wouldn’t be today. Unfortunately, that meant lunch with Aunt Francesca. Freddy was already leaving, dashing off a last cup of coffee and planting a lingering kiss on his pretty wife, when Nöelle arrived in the breakfast room. His cheeks flushed pink and with his pale close cut hair, he looked more like a schoolboy than a professional soldier. Cette, not in the least embarrassed grinned and waved him off, settling her silk wrapper closer around her throat. 

“This is like old times.” Grapefruit, rye toast, and white cheese had, indeed been their typical nursery breakfast. 

Cette planned their morning, concluding, as expected with lunch with her Mother. “At least I talked her out of coming here – we’d never get rid of her. Instead we’re meeting her at the Neva Grill, my favorite. We can pretend we’re Russian princesses, flirt with the White’s and drive Mama crazy!”

As they sped from shop to shop, Nöelle took the opportunity to hint that she’d need some alone time to pick up a few presents to bring home for the Rostaings. “Maman, naturally, wouldn’t want anything from Berlin – whatever I might find she could pick up in Paris at a cheaper price, being both better made and more fashionable.” Both girls had always adored their fathers and both had come into frequent conflict with their mothers. Neither of the de Cassignac brothers had been able to apply their charm toward finding a compatible wife, selecting instead two beautiful and ambitious brides with whom neither had a thing in common.

“You can have the car most days. If I have to go somewhere, the driver can just drop me off first and then take you downtown.” Cette promised. “I wouldn’t go to Wertheim’s though.” She lowered her voice, “It’s kind of gone downhill lately.”

Cette immediately ordered vodka cocktails at the Neva, as armor while waiting for Francesca. When she finally arrived, Nöelle was shocked to see how much her Aunt had aged since the summer before. Although her hair was still immaculately waved and icy blonde, Francesca’s face bore deep lines of discontent at each cheek, and her maquillage only emphasized the blue shadows beneath her eyes. They feasted on caviar, tiny pickled onions, and a lovely magenta borscht, followed by blini with more caviar, stuffed chicken breasts, and, finally, miniature apple pastries drenched with Ukrainian honey. Waiters in white tunics and tall boots revived them with scalding tea, rolling the gigantic silver samovar to their table.

As Cette had planned, the opulent lunch took the sting out of Francesca’s habitual acid commentary. The teal suit with it’s embroidered jacket found favor in her Aunt’s eyes, but Nöelle’s hair was too long and old-fashioned, her bag out- -of-date, her gloves smudged, and her studies “ridiculous.” While Nöelle responded patiently, Cette sat back smiling and ordering more food, obviously happy to be out of the line of fire.

Back at the house, the girls retired to their respective rooms for naps, skipped dinner, and later sat on the floor of the library, watching the fire and playing pinochle while waiting for Freddy’s return. 

The next day brought sleet.

Uli Meyer hated his new home. Mostly because it smelled. It wasn’t so bad sharing close quarters with his mother and two sisters; he’d always felt alone in their rambling old house in the suburbs anyway. And he didn’t mind living in town either, though his sisters missed their old school and their friends from “before.”  But the block of dilapidated flats reeked, and Uli had an extremely sensitive nose. He could, in fact, isolate exactly the blend of aromas that made his new life unbearable. Old onions, old grease, hair oil, urine, dust, and a strong top note of mildew. These five factors insured that he spend as much time as possible out and about.

His new school didn’t want him there and that fit in perfectly with his own feelings on the matter. The boys at gymnasium called him Jew-dog and mischling, and the teachers were just as bad. That made life simple – he just didn’t go. Mutti didn’t have time to notice how he spent his day. She’d moved their tailoring business from their old shop into this flat after the Nazis had closed it down for being run by a Jewish man. This time, Mutti registered it in her name, and since she was fully German, so far it was still open. The girls, Leah and Olga, had left school to help out. In the off hours, while sewing as fast as they could, the three women gave lessons in tailoring and cutting to Jewish lawyers and doctors hoping to emigrate and needing new skills like these. Skills that were in short supply in Latin America.

Their father was gone. Picked up two months ago for an expired driving license, he been held briefly at Gestapo Headquarters then sent to a camp. With any luck he’d be released soon. He ought to be, Mutti had spent enough in bribes over the last few weeks. Until then, Uli was on his own. Free to play kick-the-can in the street with his new friends. Or hang around the newspaper offices trying to sell cigarettes to the reporters. Or, like today, free to run errands for old Professor Grieg, in the flat beneath theirs.  Grieg knew Uli wasn’t going to school. And Uli knew that the old man was involved in some kind of illegal activity, something the Gestapo wouldn’t like. 

He could get a lot of money for turning the old guy in, maybe enough to bring his father home. But if Uli had learned one thing in school, it was not to snitch. Nothing good ever came from snitching. Besides, Grieg paid him to run little errands for him pretty often, and a little income here and there was probably better than a lump sum one time. Kind of like the goose and the golden egg. It wasn’t his favorite story; better he like the one about the princess who sewed shirts out of thistles for her 13 brother to save them from a curse. She sewed until her hands turned red and bled. The golden egg thing made sense though.

Today he had been given a bright red muffler, a huge umbrella, and enough money to take the tram down to Werthiem’s. Of course, it wasn’t really Werthiem’s anymore. Not even the richest Jewish business could escape “Aryanization.”  He was supposed to look for a girl with an umbrella and a hat with a white rose on it. The stupid part was that he had to go to the houseware and linen section to do it.  He was going to have to switch his umbrella with hers and apparently the girl didn’t know what she was doing and he’d probably have to help her out. 

Uli whistled as he swung onto the moving tram and then ignored the dressing down from the driver. He hopped off again a few blocks from his destination and ducked into an alley. Usually he could jump off without paying.

At Wertheim’s the salesgirls gave him dirty looks and he was pretty sure they could smell the tenement on him. His clothes didn’t look that bad, lots of kids looked worse. Especially the Jewish kids who hadn’t had new clothes in years.  Of course no Jewish kids could come into a store like this. He could because he didn’t have to wear the star, since Mutti was Aryan and since he’d been baptized Catholic a long time ago. School was out for the day, so no one should pay any attention to him.

He asked a pretty girl who smelled like jasmine where the linens were. She had a nice face, red and white like Olga’s, and after she pointed she whispered to him not to touch anything. “They get pretty mad if stuff gets on the fabric.”

At four o’clock exactly, he wandered up to a shelf with a pile of tablecloths piled on it. They were pretty nice, lots of red and white, lots of holly berries and lots of swastikas on the little ones for card parties. The embroidery wasn’t as good as what his sister could do, but it was alright. Sure enough there was a girl in a cloche hat standing there.  Her hat covered almost all her hair but he thought it was black like his. Uli sidled around to the other side and sure enough she had a white rose pinned on. It actually didn’t look very good, kind of droopy, like she hadn’t got the pins in right. The girl didn’t even notice him. She was deep in conversation with an older woman in a rusty black hat like his mother wore to funerals.

He looked for the girl’s umbrella, and there it was, leaning up against the counter just like it was supposed to be. And then his heart started beating like a jackhammer.  There were two umbrellas there. One was just like his, except his had a rip in it, and the other one was navy blue instead of black. It had a bamboo handle instead of a wooden one. The bad feeling was confirmed when he spotted the shiny scarf knotted at the neck of the old lady’s coat.  It was almost red. Kind of rust colored, but pretty close to red.

Uli cleared his throat. Then he shuffled his feet, trying to get the girl’s attention. She didn’t look away from the old woman. The girl’s skin was white, as white as the girls in the fairy tales his mother used to read to him and she looked happy. She probably thought her job was just about over and she’d done everything perfectly. Grieg was an idiot to decide on a red scarf as the signal. It was Christmas in Nazi Germany and everyone had a red scarf. He could see at least three more in the store right now. Uli let out an expletive. One of the words that would’ve earned him a whipping from his father, back when he had one.

That got their attention. Both women looked at him, shocked.  Then they went back to ignoring him, shaking gloved hands and getting ready to leave. They were in luck – the old lady picked up her own umbrella and began to walk away. He stepped forward, ready to tug at the girl’s sleeve and show her his own umbrella, which was practically as tall as he was.

The girl frowned and looked down where her umbrella still lay leaning against the counter. Then she started after the old lady.

“Gnadige Frau! Excuse me, but I think you have my umbrella!”

The old woman looked confusedly at her hand. “No, Fraulein, this is mine. Yours has a wooden handle and mine is bamboo.” 

The girl set her chin. She looked like she could be very stubborn. “No, no. I quite sure that one is mine.” Now she was starting to grab at the other woman’s hand, pushing her own black one forward. The old lady was getting mad. Berliner’s were famous for not taking any crap off anybody.

He was going to have to do something. He’d learned early on on his little “errands” never, never to draw attention to one’s self. It was better if no one remembered you. This, however, was an emergency. 

What a stupid girl. “Hey lady, that old one is right. You have your umbrella and she has hers.”

Now the girl looked scared and kind of sick, like she’d eaten too many blinis. The mad look faded from the old woman’s face and she smiled and waved at the girl before moving on toward the elevators.

“I’m sure that was my umbrella,” the girl said weakly.

“Well, I’m damn sure it isn’t,” Uli snapped, half under his breath.

“Lady, I’m looking for a Christmas present for my mutti. Maybe you could show which ones are the best kind of napkins. She has a lot of card parties, so I think she wants some of those tiny ones.”

A clerk came towards them chirping, “I can help you with that...”

This time the girl came to her senses. “Oh I have to help him, if he brings home the wrong kind we’ll both be in big trouble from our sister. Then we are going upstairs for that famous Wertheim’s tea, aren’t little brother.”

The clerk backed off, which was a good thing since he felt like biting something.

“Does Mutti like Swaztikas or pinecones?” the girl whispered.

“Stars are pretty popular at our house this year.” She wasn’t so bad after all. “Yellow ones, with six points.”

The girl giggled, and some pink came back into her cheeks. “I think they are fresh out of those.”

They bent their heads together over the stacks of cellophane wrapped linens. She picked out a tablecloth for a card party and two set of napkins. They were embroidered with little mountain villages and with tiny villagers gathered around a big pine tree with a red bow on the top.

“Nice.” Then Uli whispered again, trying to make her laugh. “On the other side of that tree they’re kicking the shit of some old Jew.”

Instead of laughing the girl just looked at him sadly. “You’re pretty cute you know.”

“Yeah, well buy that junk and let’s get out of here. We’ve already broken about every rule in the book.”

“What book?” She was smiling again.

“The ‘Doing a Little Errand for a Close Friend Whose in Deep Shit’ book.”

After they paid the girl suggested that they go upstairs and eat. That was really stupid, but there was no way to be inconspicuous now and she was still clutching her own umbrella. Besides he was starving. 

She picked the escalator like he was a kid or something, but it was pretty interesting. Then she ordered three kinds of sandwiches and two kinds of cake.They didn’t really talk at all, she just made careful jokes about the other people in the restaurant. When he couldn’t eat any more she stuffed the linens under her arm and quickly scooped the leftovers into the white box they’d come in.

He took the box and the new umbrella and she took the one with hole in it. They went back down the escalator and out into the wind and sleet. They walked a couple of blocks without speaking.

“Okay, we can split up now,” he said. “Despite you being an dumbhead, I’m sure no one noticed the switch. I think we are actually okay.” He stepped off the curb and out of the way as a couple of Brownshirts came swaggering down the street.

“Why don’t you take my card, in case you need to get out, or come to France or something.”

“Mein Gott, you are a fool. You could get us both killed that way.”  He shook his head and wished he had long pants so he looked a little older as he ran off down the stree. He turned around once to look and like a dolt she was still standing there, looking after him. He raised his cap to her like Pappi used to do after Synagogue and then he made for the corner, twirling her umbrella like Charlie Chaplin.