No Light (7 page)

“What was she like?”

“I loved her. She was intense and passionate and deeply spiritual. When I first met her she was writing poetry but she preferred painting. She asked me to sit for her one day and I agreed. I was very shy and didn’t want anyone to recognise me so I asked her to change the hair colour.”

“She definitely succeeded. I never noticed a likeness.”

“I liked what you said about there being truthfulness in the painting. Maybe you recognised something deeper in it.”

*

In June 1940 Alex’s prediction came true. Camille and I watched German soldiers march triumphantly along Le Champs Elysees. No-one applauded. A few cried. Our army had capitulated after only four weeks and we now found ourselves at the mercy of Hitler and his Aryan ideology. The soldiers looked nervous as they paraded past. Occasionally a few looked at us, their young eyes scanning our faces. I gave one of them a weak smile. He turned away immediately. Was our life about to crumble?  I hoped not but if it were I hoped some remnants of our culture would survive. Camille was more positive. She claimed that the Germans would not want to completely destroy French society.

“Why would they? The war will eventually end and when it does we will return to exchanging ideas and trading with each other. Anyway, you are an artist and artists do not owe allegiance to governments or politics. Art is their master wherever that may take them.”

We returned to the apartment and found father asleep by the radio. Camille went to the kitchen to prepare some food. I sat on the settee and looked at him; his head resting against the back of the chair, his mouth lying open and his lengthening beard rising and falling with every breath. I was growing fonder of him and I was also growing up. I had found a woman I could love. Many times I thanked God for bringing us together that morning. She had transformed my life. I was painting more and gaining a reputation of sorts. I now received commissions and the shop was doing well. I eventually sold the Lautrec sketchings to a London Restrauntier and now only my paintings adorned the window.

My father woke and asked me how the parade was. I didn’t tell him much.

“Maybe it will be all right”, he said hopefully.

It wouldn’t be. Two days after the occupation the new government enacted the denaturalisation law. A committee was formed to review the naturalisation of over half a million people but what they were really looking for was Jews. Seven days later a mob attacked my father’s synagogue and burnt it to the ground. A short time after that he was forbidden to own a radio.

They came early in the morning. I was awakened by someone banging on the front door.

“Reveiller! Reveiller!”

Camille slid towards me, her delicate hands reaching for my face. She whispered in a tiny voice.

“What time is it?” I did not know. The room was dark.

“Who is it?”

I listened to my father’s footsteps in the hallway, shuffling painfully towards the door. He was mumbling loudly.

“All right, all right, I’m coming. Stop your banging!”

I heard the bolt being pulled back and the latch lifted.

“Please stop!”

Lights went on, more voices, more shouting, more swearing, the door of our bedroom flung open, the light from the hallway momentarily blinding us.

“
Raus aus dem bett nun Jude!
”

That voice, German!

Minutes later we stood in the living room. Camille huddled on one side her trembling hands embracing my arm, my father stood unsteadily on the other resting his hands firmly on his stick.

Three gendarmes and a young German officer stood facing us. The gendarmes appeared nervous and would not look at us directly. The young officer was not so unsure. He gazed at us unswervingly with no kindness in his eyes. Then he stepped forward and addressed my father.

“Sind Sie Rabbiner?”

My father looked at me with alarm. He did not speak German.

“I have no idea what you are saying”, he replied.

One of the gendarmes translated.

“Are you a Rabbi? Answer, quickly!” 

My father looked again at the German.

“Have we met before sir? I seem to recognise you.”

I stood, frozen in this ridiculous drama, powerless to react. Without warning, the German slapped my father hard on his face
.

“Sag mir alter mann, sag mir schnell. Denn ich jetzt alles wissen wollen.”

The gendarme automatically translated.

“Tell me old man tell me quick, for I want to know everything now.”

My father recoiled violently from the blow, stumbled back and fell almost comically on to the settee. I was unable to move. Camille screamed and rushed to his aid.

“Please, stop, you are hurting him!”

The German smiled, turned to me and asked in French,

“Is he Rabbi?” I nodded. He glanced at the gendarmes.

“Ja. Nehmen sie ihn.”

Two of them walked quickly forward and lifted my father from the chair. Camille attempted to prevent them, but they brushed her aside with ease. They held his arms and marched him from the room. Only once did he glance back, his face contorted with confusion and his lip bleeding from the blow. On the floor by my feet lay his stick. I picked it up and called out,

“He needs his walking stick.”

The gendarmes paused and looked at the German.

“No! Take him out. He will not need his walking stick.”

I watched as they hauled my father through the door, my heart wrestling with the most unbearable thought. He was powerless, unable to walk. I prayed that some kindness would be shown him; maybe a friend would aid him. The German beckoned us to sit. Grabbing one of the dining table chairs, he shook it for some reason, before sitting cautiously and allowing himself to barely touch the seat. He took off his cap, brushed it with his hands and laid it neatly on his lap. His blonde hair was short, shaven at the sides. I slowly sank on to the settee with Camille clinging to my side, weeping uncontrollably. The German smiled.

“I am
Oberscharfuhrer
Ralf Hartmaan. You are?”

I felt no desire to answer him, but spoke all the same.

“Paul...Paul Politzer.”

“And she is?”

“She is my wife, Camille.”

“The Rabbi, Solomon Politzer. He is your father?”

“Yes, my father. Where have they taken him?”

“Forget about him. What is your work?”

“I own a small art shop in Rue des Rosiers.”

Hartmaan nodded.

“Jewish Art?”

“Mostly my own work.”

“...and your wife”

“She teaches music at L’Academie Musicale de Villecroze.”

Hartmaan looked at Camille who tightened her grip on my arm. I noticed the remaining gendarme was examining my father’s collection of silver samovars on the sideboard. He held one close to his face, peering over the intricate details that adorned the surface.

“Please don’t touch those.” I shouted.

My raised voice startled Hartmaan. He looked at the gendarme who smiled and showed him the samovar.

“Hmm...Nice piece! Are they yours?”

“They belong to my father. Please tell him to put it down.”

Hartmaan ignored my request and turned his attention back to Camille.

“You are a singer, madam?”

Camille lowered her head.

“You are frightened Madam? Please don’t be! My mother is a singer with the Berlin State Opera. Do you know Peer Gynt? She sings soprano and possesses the most beautiful voice. Often she stood before the large windows in our sitting room and sang for me, her body silhouetted by the sunlight, the muslin curtains swaying gently behind.”

Camille slowly raised her head until she met Hartmaan’s gaze.

“You are Cecilia Hartmaan’s son.”

He looked momentarily stunned then he smiled.

“You know my mother?”

“I sang with her in
Carmen.
..and I have met you.”

“Have you visited Berlin?”

“You visited Paris and joined us in La Coupole after the performance. I remember you not being that impressed with Alex. He kept making fun of you”

Hartmaan, of course! My heart lightened and I began to see some hope in our situation.

“You didn’t like the word, crusade.” Hartmaan remarked.

Camille nodded and smiled.

I wondered what his statement meant. I glanced at Camille then back to Hartmaan. He looked agitated.

“I will sing for you Herr Hartmaan. And when you return to Berlin please tell your mother you met Camille Berman and that she sends her love.”

The gendarme laughed.

Camille began to sing, quietly at first, but her song was not from
Peer Gyn
t. The beautiful music sprang from her. A song my mother sang to me as a child,

The voice of my beloved is coming,

Leaping
on the mountains,

Dancing on the hills...

I gazed at her and my heart almost shattered with desire. Each note seemed to fill her eyes with radiance. Hartmaan now sat expressionless but for a thin smile on his lip. It was impossible to gauge his thoughts. Suddenly, he stood up, drew his pistol from its holster, extended his arm and fired! I watched in horror as the bullet smashed into Camille’s forehead, her hair ballooning behind her as it exited the back of her skull. She sat momentarily suspended between life and death before falling back on the settee, her head lolling to one side, her eyes fading, her radiance gone. I leapt to my feet, my face splattered with her blood. I still held my father’s stick. Without thinking I swung it at Hartmaan. The heavy handle caught him on the cheek and he lurched sideways, dropping the pistol. I swung again and this time connected with the back of his head. He moaned, stumbled forward and fell to the floor. I turned to the gendarme who tried to run but I was quickly upon him and brought the handle of the stick down on his back. He screamed and fell spread-eagled on the ground. He tried to raise himself and I swung again, this time connecting with the back of his neck. A guttural sound escaped his lips as he collapsed unconscious. I ran back to Camille but stopped short of touching her. I was terrified and almost paralysed with fear. Her killer lay motionless on the floor and I noticed the pistol lying nearby. I contemplated using it on myself; my only thought was to be with her. I resisted the urge to scream. I resisted the urge to use the pistol on Hartmaan and the gendarme. I knelt before her half expecting to see her smile, half expecting the scene to rewind, for Hartmaan to stand up and pat me on the back and tell me it was all a practical joke, for my father to return laughing with the gendarmes. Nothing changed. Camille still lay motionless, her life destroyed. I dropped the stick, placed a kiss on my fingertips and planted it gently on her lips. I ran from the apartment. In the hall, doors lay ajar and items of clothing lay everywhere. I ran down the heavy oak staircase almost stumbling on occasion until I reached the ground floor. The large wooden outer door was open. I heard shouting and screaming beyond. I took a deep breath and ran into the street.

I was stunned by light.

In time we hate that which we often fear

(William Shakespeare)

Silke gripped my hand tightly and dragged me along Ersteiner Strabe towards school. We were late. The wind continuously forced me to blink tears away and small pellets of snow stung my face. I was so cold. My short trousers were inadequate and my socks were too thin. My hand was numb in Silke’s grasp and my satchel bounced wearily on my back. I wore a short coat with the collar up but without the scarf Grandmamma Charlotte gave me last Christmas. I hadn’t worn it since Otto Becker called me a girl the day I first brought it to school. Until then I had liked it. I liked the colours – bars of red blue yellow pink and green, but Otto just laughed and began calling me a sissy. Of course the others joined in like baaing sheep. I cried that day and mamma told me to stand up for myself. I didn’t know how to.

Silke rushed me through the door. I was glad of the heat. She snatched my blue school cap off my head and shoved it in my satchel. After a short conversation regarding my lateness with Frau Duerr the school secretary, she commenced the futile and embarrassing ritual of smoothing my hair, straightening my coat and slobbering on my cheek before dashing back out into the snow. Frau Duerr then led me along the corridor towards my teacher Herr Frey’s room. We called her The Ghost because of her appearance. When we entered the classroom Herr Frey gave me one of his unsympathetic looks and beckoned me to my seat beside Otto who was tittering uncontrollably behind his hand. I sat down and used my elbow forcefully on his ribs causing him to scream dramatically. This prompted The Ghost to rush to my seat and give me such a slap behind the head, my ears rang.

Ten minutes later, my head still smarting from Frau Duerr’s assault; I listened to Herr Frey telling us a story

Once upon a time there was a small girl who was strong willed and forward and whenever her parents said anything to her she disobeyed them. One day she said to her parents. I have heard so much about Frau Trude. Someday I want to go to her place. People say amazing things are seen there and very strange things happen there. I have become very curious.

Her parents strictly forbade her telling her that Frau Trude was a wicked woman who committed godless acts.

“If you go there you will no longer be our child.”

But the girl paid no attention to her parents and went to Frau Trude's place anyway. When she arrived Frau Trude asked her why she was so pale.

“Oh” she answered trembling all over. “I saw something that frightened me.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a black man on your steps. That was a charcoal burner. Then I saw a green man. That was a huntsman. Then I saw a blood-red man. That was a butcher. Oh Frau Trude it frightened me when I looked through your window and could not see you but instead saw the devil with a head of fire."

“Aha! So you saw the witch properly dressed. I have been waiting for you and wanting you for a long time. Light the way for me now!”

With that she turned to girl into a block of wood and threw it into the fire. When it was thoroughly alight she sat down next to it and warmed herself chuckling all the time,

“It gives off such a bright light!”

I listened intently lulled by the warmth of the large radiators. I easily imagined Frau Duerr as the witch and had no problem imagining Sophie Dressner burning in the fire. She lived near me and was always calling me names. Beside me Otto rested his head on the desk with his eyes closed. I was sure he was sleeping.

Herr Frey asked us if we understood the meaning of the story. As usual Martin Vogel raised his hand first.

“The story tells us that we must obey and respect our parents.”

“And if we don’t do that what will happen?”

“Then we may be in danger.”

“What would be in danger of?”

“Bad people”

“Who are these bad people Ralf?”

I didn’t even hear the question. I was too busy trying to prize my ruler away from Otto who had woken up and was now using the ruler to slap me on the legs.

“Who are these bad people Ralf?” Herr Frey shouted.

I was confused. What was he talking about?

“What are you doing?”

“Otto keeps hitting me with my ruler.”

Herr Frey charged towards me, grabbed my collar and hauled me to the front of the class.

“I’ll hit you with more than a ruler if you don’t stop that. Were you listening to the story?”

“Yes sir.”

“So tell the class who these bad people are.”

“I don’t understand sir.”

“Did you hear what Martin said?”

I hesitated.

“No sir.”

He slapped me on the back of the head and told me to change places with Martin Vogler which meant I had to sit beside Ernst Moller who was fat and always smelt of fish.

At break time I checked my lunch bag - a large piece of bread, a boiled egg, a piece of sausage, an apple and three pieces of caramel that Silke had made. I immediately ate the caramels and threw the disgusting sausage away. I wasn’t sure about the egg. Nevertheless, I scraped off the shell and placed the egg between my lips. I looked around until I caught someone’s eye. When a boy called Hans Klopp saw me I sucked the egg into my mouth and squashed it between my teeth letting all the bits squeeze out of the sides of my mouth. Then I opened my mouth wide and stuck out my tongue out. Hans was in stitches.

After break we had Mathematical problems to solve. I think Herr Frey was teaching us to become farmers because most of the problems concerned cows and sheep, ducks in a pond and pigs and their litters. Next came music and Herr Frey taught us a song called
Tag der Arbeit
, The Day of Work.

This is the new theory: 
work is not misery, 
but high honour. 
Working is not a curse. 
Everyone looks forward to having a job, 
and having the work of Love 
as the garden bears his fruits, 
doing nothing would mean it becoming the emptiest desert. 

Thanks to the work, thanks to the leaders 
of the sacred right of labour
and the joy of work.

I didn’t really understand the meaning of the song even though Herr Frey explained how superior German workers were because they loved to work. He also informed us that most of our surnames are connected to particular types of work for example Karl Fisher’s ancestor was a fisherman and Thomas Kruger’s a potter. To make the song even more interesting Herr Frey encouraged us to create mimes of people working like pretending to dig roads and hammer nails. I stood behind Ernst and pretended to hammer a nail into his back before eventually banging my fist on his head in time to the music. For that I received yet another slap from Herr Frey!

By lunchtime the snow was falling heavily and settling on the playground so we were not allowed out to play. Instead we had to go to the assembly hall and remain quiet. The principal of our school Herr Kohler, a charcoal maker, gave us a speech about studying. I easily imagined him standing on the steps of the witch’s house looking evil and scary.

A boy called Aaron Kempler sat beside me to eat his lunch. He was not in my class but I knew him because he lived just around the corner from my house in Freising Strabe. He smiled and began eating a large piece of cheese full of holes.

“Do you like marbles?” I asked him.

His face lit up and he hurriedly swallowed the remainder of the cheese.

“Yes.”

I pulled two marbles from my pocket. They were my champions. One was a large green marble with black streaks and the other was a smaller blue one with white flecks. The green one was called Smasher because I used it for smashing lots of marbles out of the ring. The little one was smaller and was named Sniper because it was good for shooting at single marbles.

“Do you have any?”

Aaron nodded and produced three small ones of different colours, plain purple, bright orange and my favourite, a dark red marble. I wanted that one.

“Would you like a game?” I suggested.

Aaron agreed and we got on the floor to play
Off the Wall
. It was a simple enough game. To capture an opponent’s marble you only had to hit it. We tossed to see who went first. I lost and chucked one of my old plain marbles against the wall. Aaron shot his purple one, missed and I used Sniper to try and hit his but I missed and hit my old plain one. I became anxious when I saw Aaron carefully lining up his dark red marble to shoot at Sniper. He fired! The marble hit the back wall and narrowly missed. Now I had a chance and took aim. Aaron’s marble was about forty centimetres away but lying between me and victory was a small piece of bread that someone had trodden into the floor. The rules did not allow me to remove the bread so I had to decide how I should shoot. I opted for a fast shot and closing one eye aimed and let go. Sniper darted across the floor, hit the bread, bounced over Aaron’s marble and continued on for about four metres. At that point some boy ran past and inadvertently kicked Sniper further down the hall to disappear between the legs of a group of older boys. As I rushed between them someone slapped my head and another kicked me. They all laughed. I searched frantically but my marble was nowhere to be seen.

The bell sounded for the end of lunch and I glimpsed Frau Duerr standing in the doorway telling everyone to return to their class. I ignored her and continued my anxious search. Soon I was alone in the hall with Frau Duerr.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”She shouted.

“I have lost my marble.”

“I know that Ralf. Now get back to your class.”

She knew? Had she seen us playing? Maybe she had found it. I decided to ask her.

“Did you find my marble?”

“Don’t worry you’ll be the first to know if I ever do.” She replied.

Back in class I spent the rest of the afternoon pining over Sniper. I had little interest in the rivers of Europe or the history of the Romans and I decided to speak to Aaron after school. Maybe he knew something. When the final bell sounded I rushed to the front door and explained everything to Silke. She looked annoyed. Outside the falling snow had become a blizzard. She told me we needed to hurry but allowed me to wait for a few minutes for Aaron. He never came.

We struggled to get home and often I had to bend my head against the driving snow imagining I was an intrepid explorer trekking through the wilderness with the wind howling around me and possibly wolves lurking behind walls waiting to pounce. When I finally settled in front of the fire I stared at the flames and tried to solve the riddle of my vanishing marble. I recalled the older boys and could clearly see Sniper rolling between their legs towards the back wall but where it went after that remained a mystery.

Later Silke called me for dinner. Mamma was away singing with her opera. I was eight years old with no papa and I ate alone.

The next morning I ran most of the way to school. The snow had stopped falling and Silke kept shouting at me to slow down but I needed to reach school before class started to speak with Aaron. When we arrived I spotted him in the playground throwing snowballs. I ran to him without saying goodbye to Silke.

“Did you see my marble yesterday?”

“No. You ran after it and I saw those big boys hitting you.”

I wondered if he was telling the truth. Then a snowball thumped the side of my face and I felt something hard strike my cheek. I stumbled back, my face hurt. I looked up and saw Otto laughing. I was about to retaliate when Aaron shouted,

“Look!”

He pointed at the ground. I looked down and was shocked to see a small blue marble with white flecks lying in the snow. I had found Sniper. So Otto had it all the time. He was going to pay for that.