Paule could not speak of these things which tormented her. To speak of them would be to recognize them and to demand that Veelee recognize them—which he could not do—which would have led ultimately to leaving Germany, and she could not leave because Veelee could not leave. Gisele maintained her feather-headed, noncommitted composure. Gretel would not, could not, allow the direction of the German path to be shown to her. She shut all things Nazi away from her. Paule waited for Veelee to tell her that he understood and condemned what was happening; to say that until his superiors acted he could do nothing about it; to tell her how clearly he saw that the situation related to them because she was a Jew and he was a German, and because they therefore were both an immortal part of the people who were being killed and beaten and humiliated and destroyed, as well as being a part of those who were killing, beating, humiliating, and destroying.
Paule began to suffer crippling stomach pains. A “safe” doctor—now there were none practicing who were not Aryan and “safe”—a mild and drunken old man whose surgery was in the building, said that these were understandable symptoms, a chronic problem of the times. The doctor gave her sedatives which calmed her muscles. But the medicine could not slow the racing of her mind, and it could not dull the grinding remorse of having to be ashamed of her husband.
Eight
Unemployment kept rising, passing five million. Farmers had been unable to meet their mortage payments for four months. If there had been a moneyed class to pull down it would have been sent crashing, but the ruling class was in the army and the army waited steadfastly to serve the side which would win. Something had to be done. Hunger and the loss of faith and face had become the fuse for the dynamite of German resentment. As the people stared at the calendar, bloody hands were fumbling in the darkness for a match.
Businessmen contributed three million marks to the Nazi election campaign fund on February 20, 1933, when Goering explained that there might not be another German election for a hundred years. Hitler was Chancellor, but his party had no majority in the Reichstag. Something had to be done. Communist meetings were banned and the Communist press was shut down. Social Democrat rallies were broken up by the SA, and the leading Socialist newspapers were suspended. Fifty-one anti-Nazis were murdered in the pre-election campaign, following Hitler’s appointment to the chancellery by President von Hindenburg, when fifty-two thousand SA, SS, and Stahlhelm veterans were authorized “to take over the policing of Berlin at their own discretion with complete indemnity for the use of firearms.” The Reichstag was set on fire, and as a result von Hindenburg signed a decree suspending the seven sections of the constitution which had guaranteed individual and civil liberties. Four thousand Communist officials and hundreds of Social Democrats were dragged from their homes to be tortured and murdered. The state radio, controlled by Goebbels, carried unceasing speeches on almost every street corner. Billboards screamed, bonfires made night like day, and those voices of sanity still remaining could not be heard over the din as they pleaded with President von Hindenburg to protect the nation from its oppressors.
Nevertheless, the election of March 5th did not produce a clear majority for the Nazis. In desperation, Hitler made his peace with the army, the monarchists, and the nationalists, so that von Hindenburg signed the Enabling Act, which transferred the powers of Parliament and, with a legal flourish, put the control of the resources of a great state into the hands of street gangs.
Adolf Hitler had become Chancellor of Germany on January 30, 1933. When he addressed his emasculated Reichstag on January 30, 1934, he presented Germany with the list of his unparalleled achievements. He had destroyed the republic, liquidated all political opposition, obliterated state government, smashed labor unions, banished Jews from German public and professional life, destroyed freedom of the press and of speech, subverted the courts, and begun the total corruption of an ancient and honorable people.
On February 22, 1934, Paule and Veelee were invited to a ball given by Vice-Chancellor von Papen at the Prince Friedrich Leopold Palace. They took Hansel and Gretel in their car, entering the palace through ranks of full-dress guards under the lights of newsreel cameras and flashbulbs.
Clutching Paule’s arm under his, Hansel said, “Damn these photographers, I can’t pinch you.”
“A good photograph might teach the young people how to pinch properly,” Paule said.
“Let them go to Rome and study, which is what I had to do.”
The General wore full-dress uniform with his pounds of medals and climbed the great marble staircase with increasing difficulty. “We eat too much, you know,” he groaned. “My liver is as swollen as a football.”
“You eat too much. Anyway, why don’t you wear a corset? Uniforms are made for corsets.”
“My corset is what is killing me,” Hansel moaned. “How do you think I keep this magnificent figure?”
“No breath for talking, only for climbing.”
At the top, where they were received by the von Papens, Hansel was gasping and clinging to Paule’s arm for support.
“My dear General,” the Vice-Chancellor said, motioning to a footman. “What have you been doing, wrestling a lion?” The footman and Paule took Hansel to a room across from the ballroom and stretched him out on the sofa.
“My tripes are being strangled,” Hansel gargled, breathing like a bagpipe.
“We’ll get it off,” Paule said, beginning to unbutton his tunic.
“No, no, darling. You must fetch Gretel. It’s not that I’m shy, you understand, but Gretel is the only one living who knows how to get me out of this rig.”
“I’ll find her and bring her back,” Paule said, and left the room.
“Get me a large whiskey,” Hansel ordered the footman.
“Yes, my General.”
Paule’s stomach pains were intense. The corridor was crowded, but the ballroom even more packed. The massed colors of uniforms, dresses, jewels, epaulettes, medals, sashes, and the great hanging hakenkreuz laying on its side within the symbolic sea of blood on the huge flag all smote at her with the noises of music and speech; shrill cries of recognition, strident commands, and the swirling eddies of many perfumes, cigars and the heavy smell of schnapps and sauerkraut steamed out of the brown-shirted men around her. She could never have found Gretel; fortunately she and Veelee were waiting for her anxiously at the doorway.
“Are you all right, darling?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. But Hansel has had some sort of attack—in the middle corset. And he says only you can get it off, Gretel.”
“Oh, no! Not again!”
“He really is in pain.”
“Well, he should be if he insists on wearing such tight corsets at his age. And he doesn’t need me to get it off. Anybody can get it off—it’s built right into the tunic. He wants me to go home and get him another tunic, that’s what he wants.”
“I’ll get it,” Veelee said. “I can be back here in twenty minutes.” Paule put up her hand, involuntarily, to stay him but no one saw it, and Gretel said, “You are a darling brother. We’ll wait right here.” Veelee waved and disappeared in the crowd.
Suddenly a friend of Gretel’s came rushing through the crowd, whispering hoarsely to people as she moved. “Oh, my God, Gretel,” she said. “He’s coming up the stairs. The Fuehrer. He’s coming up the main staircase right now.”
Paule grasped Gretel’s wrist tightly. “I feel sick,” Gretel said. “I’ll count to myself until he passes out of sight. I’ll fill my mind with numbers.”
“Look at the women!”
The women around them, magnificently gowned and coiffed, were near hysterical paralysis. Postulants waiting for the Host, they stood staring at the largest archway, some thirty feet away. The men with them were at attention; hands gripped thighs and sweated upon trousers. Paule wondered with dread how Veelee would have been standing if he had still been in the room.
Framed by the archway, Hitler entered wearing evening dress, extremely well-t
ailored. Somehow this shocked Paule; she had expected him to appear in that awful raincoat. Brueckner loomed just behind the Fuehrer, glaring impersonally at the faces in the great room. Staring at Hitler, Paule remembered the words from Mein Kampf: If the Jew triumphs over the peoples of the world, his crown will be the funeral wreath of mankind, so, today, I believe that I am acting in accordance with the mind of the Almighty Creator. In killing Jews, I am fighting for the work of the Lord. Paule’s great eyes grew larger still as she stood, so tall and so very beautiful, staring at him with fright. The Fuehrer began a self-conscious march through the aisle formed by the crowd. He trudged through an awed silence as heavy as sea water. Papen was blocked behind the SS guard; given no other destination, the Fuehrer headed straight for Paule. He had to lift her hand from her side to kiss it. “My dear lady, may I have the pleasure of bidding you good evening?” he asked stiffly. He bent over her gloved hand, and then his head came up and he looked at her, and she felt an enormous thrill go through her as she stared into the pale eyes. “You are having a good time?” he asked.
The dense crowd around them hung on every word. I am a Jew, she wanted to say to him. You have kissed the hand of a Jew. You are talking to a Jew and all of the rulers of Germany are watching you, she wanted to shout at him, but the eyes devoured her and she answered, “Yes, Chancellor. Thank you, Chancellor.”
“You are not German, my dear lady?”
“I am French, Excellency.” Could her father forgive her if he saw her? He had taught her about the courage and dignity of Jews, and she was too cowardly to say to this pale, bristled, consuming man that she was a Jew. But she was afraid; she had never been so afraid.
Now von Papen had the Fuehrer by the other arm and was pulling him lightly. He bowed to Paule and left, and the crowd moved with him, leaving a wide space around Paule and Gretel.
Nine
Paule and Veelee returned to the flat in high spirits just before one in the morning. They had left Hansel dancing and drinking and eating with Gretel as though he had never had an uncomfortable moment. Veelee was whistling as he opened the door. “I wouldn’t have given Hitler credit for having such taste,” he said.
“Well, my God, Veelee, the man isn’t blind.”
He closed the door and walked past her toward the kitchen. “How about a little wine?” he said.
“Bring the Moët,” she called after him.
He stuck his head out of the kitchen door. “I’ll bring the Schaumwein.”
“Bring the Moët! French champagne is the only champagne and you know it and you just tease me.”
“Oh, yes. The French champagne.”
“And don’t change the subject,” she shouted. “We were talking about me and Hitler.” She dropped her wrap on the chair, she unhooked her dress and let it fall to the floor around her feet. She wriggled out of her brassiere and stepped out of her shoes as she heard a fine, popping sound from the kitchen and Veelee emerged with a bottle of Moët and two glasses.
“Great God in heaven, you are a gorgeous woman,” he said huskily.
“That awful Goebbels woman came over to me later and told me how much her Fuehrer had liked me. She wanted to know how she might reach me so that I could come to dinner and maybe lay him before the sorbet.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I was a Jew.”
“Ha!” He poured two glasses of wine and chuckled with delight.
“You should have seen her face.”
“Once was enough, thank you. I saw it in 1930.”
“She called me a bitch.”
“Ach! And what did you do?”
“I kicked her in the ankle. We were standing close in the crowd and I let her have a real bone-cutter.”
He rolled back onto the sofa in laughter and she plopped down beside him. “Now you’ll never get invited to one of her dinner parties,” he said.
Paule pushed him over and stretched out on top of him and kissed him lingeringly. “How I love you, Veelee,” she said. “My God, how I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Couldn’t be.”
“I am twice as big as you. My heart holds more.” He rolled out from under her and took her in his arms.
“You know, I thought of Papa tonight,” Paule said. “When that murderer kissed my hand and I felt so ashamed that I didn’t say—”
“Didn’t say what, sweetheart?”
“Didn’t say to Herr Hitler that he was kissing the hand of a Jew.”
“But he would have loved you for it.”
“What?”
“Of course—it’s a known fact. They make bets on it. Whenever Hitler is attracted to a women she is always racially impossible. That’s why he’s such a confirmed bachelor—he’s afraid he’ll go and get himself engaged to a Jew.”
“Veelee, you devil—”
“No, really. If you had told him he probably would have said, ‘Well, don’t tell me I did it again?’ I mean it.” Paule grabbed him again and kissed him, then dropped the shoulder straps of her slip. Her beautiful body contracted and expanded, and her great purple eyes grew dimmer and dimmer as she stared at him. “Oh, Veelee,” she moaned. “How I love you, how I love you.”
Veelee was asleep on the broad double bed wearing the white silk pajamas which Paule had had made for him at Lanvin. She sat beside the open window wearing his heavy blue robe. She decided that there was nothing she could have done in that ballroom and that her father would have agreed that there was nothing she could have done. But his kiss still burned into the back of her hand like an infection, and more than ever before she felt her Jewishness. She knew that it was time that her husband knew what she had known for many weeks. Shivering in her dread, yet warmed and exultant because of it, she walked to the bed and touched Veelee’s shoulder. He stirred and mumbled and his eyes flickered. “I am going to have a baby,” she said. He sat up bolt upright, still partly asleep.
“How can you tell so soon?” he asked thickly.
Her eyes widened with mirth, and she pointed her long finger at him and began to giggle helplessly. She tottered and staggered in circles around the room, wailing with laughter and holding her sides. Veelee began to laugh. As she reeled near the bed he grabbed her and pulled her quaking body to the bed. “By God,” he said, “if that’s how it works I’m going to try for twins.”
Veelee returned to Wuensdorf the next morning, leaving Paule in the sun-bathed bed, happy and at peace. Whatever had happened to turn everything around and to rearrange the sliding furniture within her mind was wonderful. She understood clearly now that it made no difference if she did not like most of her exterior life. She had Veelee and he loved her. No harm could reach her or her baby because of Veelee and his mighty German Army. She dressed slowly, then rode to the Zoological Gardens. She walked with the lively crowds to browse through Wertheim’s and Tietz’s, buying a large jar of calf’s-foot jelly, then took a cab to the Vierjahritzheiten Theatre. It was matinee day and Dame Ellie Lewis, the great English character actress who had been her father’s favorite from the time she had helped him to get started in the French theatre, was appearing. Paule’s only connection with the old carelessness was with such touring players. She studied the newspapers to know if any foreign companies had been booked. Sometimes they would be French actors and old friends. Sometimes they would be English or Italian. All of the stars knew her father. All of them were a link with Paris and with the cheer of the past. She knew that such visits kept her young for Veelee. They reported frivolity and bubbling meaninglessness, and that was what she needed in her life in Germany.
Dame Ellie Lewis was said to be eighty-seven years old. She had a remarkable memory for the distant past. Whenever she played Berlin Paule arrived at her dressing room with a jar of calf’s-foot jelly before the first matinee performance, and the old lady would repay her with a new reminiscence about the splendor of Paul-Alain Bernheim.
“You know, Paule,” the great lady said, ??
?for years I have been meaning to ask you something very important. My husband is ninety-four now, the poor man, and he dotes upon unraveling secrets.”
What a joy it was to hear French spoken again. How could she have forgotten? She must insist that Veelee speak French to her every weekend.
“It was 1921, I think,” the old woman said, “and my question is: What was the name of the restaurant because of which your father won the quarter of a minion francs from Benoit Lesrois?”
“Restaurant?” Paule’s memory wasn’t as sharp as Dame Ellie’s. “Oh, no! I remember what you mean. It wasn’t a restaurant at all.”
“Fascinating! Oh, dear me, my husband will be thrilled. We were in at the very beginning of that wager, you see. It started at our restaurant, the old Hotel du Golf. Benoit Lesrois was a gourmet of such caste that he employed two writers to turn out his bon mots about food and wine. Restaurant proprietors were delighted to have him dine at their establishments—absolutely free, of course, because of the glory his approval could bring.”
“Monsieur Lesrois still is a most formidable man,” Paule said.
“He was the greatest causist for fine food in all the world. He invented the congressional system of feeding, you know. He organized thirty-nine seemingly not connected feeding and drinking societies, which he designed principally for North Americans who cannot bear to eat well alone. He became an uncommonly rich man because of this.”
“He became so pale when he drank.”
“He became as white as chalk only when he drank the red wine of Pauillac, Château du Colombier-Monpelou”
“His third wife was called Josette Monpelou.”
“Ah.”
“Papa admired her.”
“Of course. Well, one evening in the Restaurant du Golf your papa had ordered ortolans under white truffles. When they arrived he opened a small tin of something called condensed milk which he poured over the ortolans and truffles, ate it with gusto, then washed it all down with a Montrachet ’o6—a wonderfully rewarding wine and a long keeper—which he mixed before everyone’s eyes with some American soft drink he had brought with him in a grotesquely shaped bottle.”