No Light (9 page)

After the Rally we took the train back to Berlin and boys and girls were permitted to mix freely. I sat with Leni and enjoyed feeling her head on my shoulder as we chatted about the weekend.

“Will you still want to see me when we return”, she asked me?

“Of course”, I replied, “but you know I have to go to Paris tomorrow to meet my mother.”

“Yes, you told me. I wish I was going with you.”

I wished it too. I didn’t really want to listen to mother and her friends telling each other how wonderful they were but I did want to see Paris and experience its beauty, admire its buildings and marvel at the sights. It also meant a few days off school. That night I lay in bed unable to sleep, my head full of the weekend, the grandeur of the rally and my time with Leni. It was a perfect combination and I felt so happy to be alive. I wanted so much to have her lying beside me.

The following evening I caught the sleeper train to Paris. To pass the time I began reading a new book entitled
Crusade towards the Grail
by Otto Rahn. It fascinated me. Rahn had travelled to the South of France in search of the Holy Grail and unearthed information linking it to the Cathars, a medieval sect who were persecuted for their heretical beliefs. They guarded the Grail in their castle at Montsegur and when they were attacked by crusaders sent to destroy them, some managed to escape from Montsegur and hide the Grail in a local cave. Reichsfuhrer Himmler had sponsored Rahn to search for it but he was unable to find anything. As I read the story, I imagined myself as the intrepid adventurer fearlessly scouring the mountains and fighting off bandits until I found the cave that housed the Grail. I fought the forces of evil in one final battle before returning triumphantly to Berlin.

When I arrived at the Gard du Nord the next morning, mother was waiting with her friend Alex. She gave me her usual extravagant welcome fawning me with kisses and hugs and speaking much too loudly. She insisted on showing me around Paris immediately. We went straight from the station to the Eiffel Tower where we had photographs taken, followed by a dash to the Louvre for more photographs. I glimpsed the Mona Lisa in a tiny room crammed with tourists, was told how wonderful Monet was and suffered mother’s excessive praise for Van Gogh. It may have been the journey but I was low on appreciation. It seemed the beauty of these paintings had been destroyed, hung on walls and surrounded by a thronging mass of people whose only purpose for visiting was to say they saw them.

Back in her apartment mother announced that I could have the night to myself as she and Alex had to perform in
Carmen,
but I could join them in La Coupole later. This was a trendy restaurant she and her fellow actors attended quite regularly. I told her I was tired and needed sleep. She left me some money and told me I could eat in a small restaurant a few doors up from the apartment. When she and Alex left I ran a bath. I wasn’t that impressed with the bath. It was old and stained but I used some of mother’s Rose bath salts so at least the water smelled nice. After the bath I went into the street and quickly found the restaurant. It was a pleasant enough place. I had Schnitzel and some wine. The owner Louis praised mother to the rafters and spoke about how he loved Berlin. After the meal I decided to go for a walk. The streets were narrow and I realised I could very easily become lost so I didn’t venture too far and was careful to memorize the route I was taking. Eventually I came upon a small square full of beech trees. I sat on a bench and immediately noticed how clean the square was, a sharp contrast to the streets that stank of sewage and were littered with empty boxes and rotting food. The buildings surrounding the square were quite old with some faded frescos and paint flaking from the walls. I noticed a man approaching me. He was having difficulty walking and used a stick. I recognised him immediately as a Jew probably a Rabbi. He looked exactly like the pictures Herr Farber showed us at our class. He had a whitish beard and wore a long black coat and a wide brimmed hat. As he passed me he bid me good evening. I stood up and even though I felt nervous and a little frightened I asked him if he needed any help.

“I just live over there”, he replied, pointing with his stick to one of the buildings opposite.

“Let me walk you to the door”, I offered.

“That’s very kind of you.”

It wasn’t kindness that compelled me to help him, more curiosity. We had learned all about Jews and their dishonest ways, how they controlled money and sponsored Bolshevism. The Fuhrer called them evil and dangerous. They were an infection. Now I had the opportunity to actually touch one, smell one and expose myself to the evil and corruption. Nervously, I allowed him to take my arm and began walking slowly across the square.

“Are you from Paris?” he asked me, “You do not look French.”

“No, I am from Berlin. My name is Ralf Hartmaan and I am visiting my mother who is singing in
Carmen
at L’Opera Comique. Cecilia Hartmaan, do you know her?”

“I can’t say I am familiar with her but my son Paul has been to see this opera.”

“Did he enjoy it?”

The old man laughed loudly. I was surprised at the power in his voice.

“I think he enjoyed it very much. He was smitten by one of your mother’s colleagues. Art, eh? It captures your heart and soul Ralf. What do you like?”

“I like books”, I told him.

“Have you a favourite?”

“
Death in Venice
.”

“Thomas Mann, a great author and a beautifully written book full of pain and longing.”

We arrived at his door.

“I am Solomon Politzer.” He said. I shook his hand. He thanked me and went inside.

I couldn’t wait to return home and tell Herr Farber and my friends about this encounter. I had spoken to a Jew and survived. I began laughing. To be honest, a big part of me thought this demonizing of Jews was ridiculous. Solomon seemed like any other old man and he was quite pleasant. I actually liked him. I knew of course that I couldn’t discuss this with Herr Farber. I slept well that night dreaming of Leni and Venice.

The following evening I attended the performance of
Carmen
. I had spent the day alone, mother had rehearsals. We spoke briefly at breakfast and I described my encounter with the Rabbi.

“You were in Le Marai
s”
, she informed me, “the Jewish quarter. It’s such an interesting place full of wonderful cafés and restaurants. The delicatessens are the best in Paris and hidden away in the narrow lanes are delightful art shops but best of all; you can buy the most exquisite clothes there.”

I wasn’t really that interested in art shops or exquisite clothes and after breakfast, on advice from my friends who had already visited Paris, I decided to seek out Le Quartier Pigalle. They told me it was full of whores and theatres showing saucy cabaret; reason enough for wanting to see it.

When I finally came upon the main thoroughfare it was lunchtime so I parked myself outside a restaurant opposite the Moulin Rouge and had coffee and a baguette filled with ham and cheese. I looked around but couldn’t see any whores. In fact, I began to realise that I probably wouldn’t recognise one unless she came right up and asked me if I required her services. I had no such luck and had to content myself with watching the general hustle and bustle. The Moulin Rouge with its large windmill was promoting someone called Mistinguett and near me a hoarding advertised
Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol présente Le Crime de la Rue Morgue.
It sounded exciting and there was a performance beginning in forty minutes so I quickly finished my lunch and headed off to find the theatre.

I arrived ten minutes before the performance began. What an extraordinary place. An information poster on the wall informed me the theatre was originally an old chapel that had been converted to a theatre in 1894 and that I should seek out the boxes under the balcony used by nuns to watch the religious services and carvings of angels above the orchestra. A small endnote said that the boxes were available for hire during performances for audience members who became aroused by the action happening on stage. This sounded hopeful so I hurried to buy a seat as near to the boxes as I could.

I needn’t have been excited. The performance was awful. The nearest I came
 
to being aroused was when a man dressed as a gorilla ripped the blouse of a well built young lady but proceeded to carry her off with such haste that I hadn’t time to see anything. I left after forty minutes disgusted with myself for being so easily deceived. I felt unclean and for some reason scared. This feeling increased as I made my way back to the apartment. I lost my way a few times and became more impatient with the city and the people. I kept reminding myself of my true calling as a member of the Hitler-Jugend and what I was supposed to be representing.

Mother was in the apartment when I arrived. I tried to avoid speaking to her and lied when she asked me where I had been.

“I was walking by the river.”

“How lovely. Did you walk as far as Notre Dame?”

“No.”

I lay down on a couch and must have dozed. Because the next thing I remembered was mother singing
Habanera
from
Carmen
. She was
standing before the large windows in the sitting room, her body silhouetted by sunlight, the muslin curtains swaying gently behind her. I was transfixed as she swayed in time to music and moved her arms elegantly through the air.

When we arrived at L’Opera Comique she took me straight to the dressing room to meet some of the cast. Alex I already knew but when she introduced me to the female members I think I fell in love with all of them. I left to find my seat excited by the prospect of spending an evening with the cast after the performance. The music began and everyone began singing and stomping. I have to admit I enjoyed it but when mother entered and began to sing I was instantly embarrassed and felt exposed to all those sitting around me. Unlike her singing at the window, she pranced and flaunted herself around the stage in the most revealing way and I sighed with relief when she finished. I was bored with the rest of the opera and nodded off a few times. Afterwards, we went to La Coupole. The walls were plastered with grotesque paintings, people were shouting instead of talking and the band played what the Fuhrer would have called decadent music. Mother sat me between someone called Anton and another girl called Sabine. I liked her. She was full of fun and amusement and we entertained ourselves by ridiculing other people in the restaurant; how they dressed, their walk and how they sat. Anton was more introspective and we spoke briefly about opera of which I knew very little. To be honest, I wasn’t that interested either but allowed him the courtesy of discussing it with me. As the evening progressed we all drank too much wine, laughed too much and mother spoke incessant nonsense about how wonderful we all were. Later, when mother had gone off to talk to others in the restaurant, Alex began shouting at me across the table.

“Cecilia tells me you are a member of the Hitler-Jugend, Ralf.”

I nodded and raised my glass.

“Here’s to the Hitler-Jugend!” I replied drunkenly. Sabine and Anton joined me. Everyone laughed but not Alex.

“I suppose you know everything now about how wicked the world is.”

“Yes, the world is a wicked place indeed”, I continued, “Here’s to the wicked world”. I toasted my glass once more.

“You’ve come from the rally in Nuremburg?”

“I have”, I replied proudly, “and good fun it was.”

“Did you really enjoy all that saluting and parading around?”

Saluting and parading around! I resented Alex’s smug and clumsy analysis.

“It was more than that”, I retorted.

“Really, are you referring to Hitler’s speeches? It seems no-one can get a word in edgeways when he’s around.”

How dare he refer to him as Hitler! He was my leader. I had shaken his hand.

“He is passionate about his beliefs and he cares about the German people.”

“So much so he’s willing to start a war”

I felt outraged and was not prepared to listen to his lies.

“All we want is peace”, I replied. “We are made to feel like second class citizens in our own country. Now we are claiming back our identity and our culture. People like you laugh and ridicule us because we have the strength and the will to stand up and declare our freedom, but it was people like you who enslaved us.”

“Does that give you the right to trample on everyone else’s freedom? Your Fuhrer has decided who is German and who isn’t. He has come up with this notion that you are all Aryans, tall beautiful blonde haired and blue eyed supermen but look at him, short, dark haired and wearing that stupid moustache. My dog looks more Aryan than he does.”

I almost laughed at his stupidity.

“You dim-wit. You have no idea who we are. You have never bothered to read anything or learn anything about us. You just sit there spouting nonsense trying to impress my mother.”

“So dressing up in fancy uniforms and strutting around with that stupid salute isn’t about impressing people either? Do you not get a kick out of it Ralf? Don’t you want all the girls to see you as a real man?” 

Some of the girls laughed. I was angry. Then mother returned and noticed how upset I was.