Wunderland(103)

In the end Lisbet Bauer had her way, as she almost always had her way: Sigi had a last meal of cheese and blood sausage laced with poison, and the family doctor gave him an injection so that he slept through his own death. They buried him outside by the rose garden that was now a vegetable garden, where Franz and Renate gave him a short (Lutheran) funeral service.

But in the days since, Renate has felt her pet’s absence keenly: in the barkless silence following a ringing phone or a rapping knock on the door. In the empty hallway when she comes home from class or tutoring students in English at the Jüdischer Kulturbund, or at her former school until it was shut down by the government in September. She still shifts her feet at night seeking the warm furry weight that had graced the bottom of her bed since she was ten; still reaches out whenever she wakes up, at night or in the morning, for a quick pat and rough-tongued kiss. And she still finds herself battling jagged and grief-stricken sobs when her toes and fingers find only empty, silent air.

She knows she’s being unfair now. But arguing with her mother seems to have become one of the few ways she can lessen the leaden ache of loss and worry.

“You know that’s not true,” her mother is saying. She pulls her Lords out again, her hand trembling slightly. “You know New York was a long shot. The only reason we were able to afford it for you is that Oma died and we—I—was able to sell her flat. And even then it barely covers everything.”

“I still don’t understand why we can’t find a place cheap enough for us to all go.”

“Are you saying you’d prefer Aleppo?” Her mother lights her cigarette, inhaling deeply and slowly before finally letting the precious smoke out in a slow stream. “Or Cochabamba? Because those are the sorts of places that might possibly take us at this point—and that’s if we could manage to get visas, paperwork, and passage for all of us. Which is becoming increasingly unlikely.”

“Shanghai doesn’t require visas,” Renate points out. “And it’s supposed to be very glamorous.”

“Not the neighborhoods we could afford,” says her mother tartly. “And passage there for the four of us would be nearly three times as expensive as the cost of sending you both to New York on your own.” She stabs the ski-slope ashtray with the ashen tip of her Lord, and Renate sees that her hand is shaking slightly. “Besides,” she adds. “I honestly don’t think that your father would survive that kind of a transition. Not given his current state.”

“You don’t know that,” says Renate, though now it’s her turn to look away. Over the past year Otto Bauer’s condition has gone from poor to worse. He has all but stopped eating, has to be cajoled into bathing and shaving, and refuses to even go into his former home office, instead spending hours in bed or in an armchair in his bedroom. Renate’s mother still speaks of his “condition” as something temporary, remediable. But Renate has noticed that she keeps a keen eye on him when he’s out of bed and has quietly removed the ties, sashes, and belts from his drawers.

Now she leans back in her chair, looking tiny, defeated. “What do you want me to do, Reni?” she asks wearily. “If you are truly telling me you want to stay here, in this suffocating nightmare, then I—” She shakes her head. As she inhales, her already hollow cheeks hollow further, making her look almost skull-like.

“It breaks my heart, too,” she says finally, exhaling as she speaks. “It’s not as if I want to send my children across the world. My God. But I know if I don’t, if we let this opportunity pass us by…”

She breaks off as a sharp rap sounds at the front door.

Mother and daughter stare at each other, eyes wide. Friendly drop-bys these days are rare, especially since it’s now illegal for Aryans to enter Jewish households. When heralded by the kind of forceful knocking they are now hearing, visits are almost invariably dangerous: they’ve twice preceded random searches by the Gestapo. On their last visit the agents took Renate’s father’s Prussian officer’s sword from its decorative post above the dining room cabinet, then fined him forty Reichsmarks for illegally harboring a weapon. “You’re lucky,” the officer who issued the ticket told them. “Jews are sent away for less these days.” He hadn’t needed to elaborate on what away meant.

Renate rises tensely. “I’ll get it.”

She hurries to the door, still bracing for Sigi’s bouncing, barking show of territorial supremacy before remembering he isn’t on her heels. Hand on knob, she shuts her eyes and forces a deep breath before opening both her eyes and the door with a silent prayer.

There, on the doorstep, is Ilse.

She looks the same as when Renate last saw her, if perhaps a little thinner, a little more tired. On her face is an anxious smile. In her hands is a bouquet of purple-and-blue delphiniums.

“Hallo,” she says.

Renate stares at her, her mouth half open.

Ilse gives an uncomfortable-sounding laugh. “You look surprised.”

Renate licks her lips. Her face feels odd—stiff and tight, as though her mouth has recovered from the shock before the rest of her features.

“I am,” she manages.

“I suppose that’s fair,” says Ilse, shrugging. “Can I—may I come in?”

Renate hesitates. Five years ago she would have simply laughed off the question. She would have grabbed Ilse’s wrist—What are you waiting for, you idiot—and dragged her over the threshold. Four years ago she would have felt a glittering wash of relief that her most heartfelt prayer had been answered. Now, though, she can barely process the fact of Ilse’s expectant face less than a meter from her own.