A Ladder to the Sky(9)

‘I came in to escape the rain.’

He nodded and seemed lost for what to say next, finally raising the novel in the air in appreciation and smiling at me. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said, turning around, and a moment later he disappeared back into the kitchen.

It had been a short conversation but afterwards I found myself unable to get him out of my mind and so, three days after this, I returned to the café, this time arriving almost two hours later in the hope that he might be finishing work. When he emerged from the kitchen, he noticed me sitting there and offered a wave, apparently happy to see me again.

‘Have you finished your book yet?’ I asked, when he came over to say hello.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘And now I’m reading Dickens. A Tale of Two Cities. No one can object to Dickens, surely.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ I replied, attempting a casual tone. ‘These days, anyone can object to anything. Will you join me now?’ I added, but once again, to my great disappointment, he shook his head.

‘My father doesn’t like me to sit here with friends,’ he said. ‘He resents the idea of waiting on us. But what if we were to go somewhere else? Do you know the B?ttcher Tavern? It’s not far from here. A few streets over.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Oskar G?tt,’ he said. ‘And yours?’

‘Erich Ackermann.’

‘I’ll meet you at the B?ttcher at five o’clock. Do you drink beer, Erich?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then I will buy you a beer. It will be my way of thanking you for keeping my secret.’

I left the Nachmittag, taking a stroll around the neighbourhood as I watched the hands of my watch move sluggishly towards the hour. When it was finally time to return, I walked in great excitement towards the bar, which stood opposite the Schutzstaffel headquarters, where a tall, thin, red-haired guard, distinctly different from the typical Aryan type, stood with a rifle slung over his shoulder. I could feel his eyes on me as I ran across the road and pushed open the doors, looking around and smiling when I saw Oskar sitting at a table in the corner, drawing in a notebook.

At this time, in the early months of 1939, there was a general assumption that war was coming. No matter what the British said or did, it seemed clear that the Führer wanted armed conflict, knowing that only a full-scale international engagement could establish Germany as the world’s leading power. For young men of my age, this was a frightening thought. We had seen the effect the last war had had on our fathers – those of us who still had fathers, that is – and did not relish the idea of our lives following a similar pattern. And so perhaps it is not so strange that the first thought I had upon laying eyes on Oskar in the B?ttcher was that war must be avoided at all costs lest someone as beautiful as him fall to the indiscriminate brutality of the battlefield.

‘Oskar,’ I said, sitting down, and as I did so he closed his notebook and placed the charcoal pencil on top of it.

‘My friend!’ he replied, smiling at me, and I swallowed nervously. I had never before known someone whose sheer physicality could hypnotize me to this extent. We ordered two beers and clinked our glasses together. He told me that he hated working in the café because his father was a brute but his plan was to save enough money so that he could travel and see the world. ‘I’d like to be an artist,’ he said. ‘And Paris is the place for that. Have you ever been?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve never left Berlin.’

‘I’d like to see London too,’ he added. ‘And Rome. I read a book about the catacombs once and they’ve fascinated me ever since.’

Neither of us mentioned the possibility of war. There were two types of youth in Germany then: those who could barely wait for it to begin and those who pretended that it was not coming at all, as if by ignoring the fact we could smother the bellicose infant in the crib.

‘You were drawing when I came in,’ I said, nodding towards his sketchbook. ‘Will you let me see your work?’

He shook his head and smiled, his cheeks flushing a little. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t drawing, it was just doodling. You know this word, yes? Something to pass the time. I have some canvases at home and that’s where my real work is. I paint with oils, mostly. At the moment, however, I can’t seem to find the proper inspiration. I paint landscapes, bowls of fruit and portraits of great buildings simply because I can and I’m able to sell them at the street markets. But what I really want is to paint something that no one else has ever painted before. Either that or paint something familiar in an unfamiliar way and allow the viewer to consider it from an unexpected angle. Does that make sense, Erich? I hear myself speak and worry that I might sound ridiculous to you.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, drawn to the idea of Oskar as a great painter. ‘I would like to be an artist too someday.’

‘You paint?’ he asked.

‘No, I can barely draw a straight line,’ I replied with a laugh. ‘But I write a little. Stories, that’s all. Perhaps one day a novel. Like you, I have not yet found my subject but I hope it will appear one day.’

‘Would you let me read one of your stories?’

‘Only if you show me one of your paintings.’