Wunderland(107)

“So will you leave the Party?” Renate asks her.

“I’m thinking about it.” Ilse leans back again. “I’ve actually applied to go to the Wartheland, to help with the Volk resettlement and with press and publicity in Lodz. But I’m thinking perhaps I’ll apply to university as well.”

Renate nods, dropping her gaze. University had always been a delicate subject between them. Until Jews were banned from higher schooling it had been considered a given that Renate would go. Ilse’s mother, though, had discouraged it as impractical: in her mind university was wasted on girls, since their main destination was marriage. “Your parents are all right with university now?” she asks.

Ilse nods, tightening her jaw.

“And after?”

“I’m hoping this madness will be over.” Sliding off the bed, she stands and stretches. Turning, she treats Renate to one of her old, rare, cheek-dimpling grins.

“I’m so glad I’m back,” she says. The words seem to issue forth in a rush of breathy relief.

“Me too,” says Renate, cautiously.

“May I use the toilet?”

“Of course.”



* * *





After Ilse is gone, Renate picks up Ragdoll Alice from her facedown position on the bed.

What do you think? she asks her in silence.

The button eyes look back dispassionately.

It might be real, Renate tells her. Think about it. It might.

And for the first time since Ilse’s forceful knock on the door, Renate actually almost believes this: that the change of heart for which she’d so desperately yearned might actually be possible, even imminent. And yet for some reason, her emotional response to this idea feels almost as muted as the rag doll’s. There is no melting sense of relief. No flooding rush of joy. Merely a cool, almost clinical curiosity. It’s as though her friend, like Lawrence Selden in The House of Mirth, has arrived with her flowery proposal too late.

And what would it mean now, anyway, she wonders, leaning back against the pillows again. How could they resume their friendship, when literally everything they once did together is either explicitly or implicitly forbidden? Their trips to the Concordia are kaputt. She is no longer welcome at the Deutsche Oper Berlin or the Odeon theater, so opera and drama are out too. So is the museum, the restaurants and cafés they used to visit. The Tiergarten is now out entirely, though last year they could have gone so long as Renate only sat on the Jewish benches. They can’t listen to music or take bike rides together, since Jews no longer own phonographs, radios, or bicycles. And with the new ration restrictions, Renate isn’t even allowed the sorts of sweets she and Ilse had once so loved eating together.

In short, any resurrected friendship would have to be limited to short, careful walks during daylight hours, or else sitting and talking here at home. And even then they’d still risk censure, since someone could report Ilse to the Gestapo for merely being seen in Renate’s presence.

Down the hall, Renate hears the gurgling flush of the toilet, the rusty sink faucet squeaking in protest at being twisted. I’m so glad I’m back, she had said.

Restless, Renate picks up the little book of poems, flipping through the first few pages, reading a few passages aloud to herself. But she feels too confused, too tightly wound to be able to focus; after a few minutes she throws the book back on the bed, stands, stretches. Glancing at the bedside clock, she realizes that Ilse has been in the bathroom for a long time. What’s keeping her?

Thinking perhaps she needs more newspaper (they’ve gone back to the old-fashioned, hand-cut squares of Renate’s early childhood, Toilettenpapier being now an unnecessary expense) she makes her way down the hallway. But to her surprise the bathroom is empty. Hearing a rustling noise in the direction of Franz’s room, she takes three stocking-footed steps to his doorway, where she sees Ilse standing over his desk, a look of concentration on her face.

“What are you doing?” Renate asks.

“Oh!” Clearly caught off-guard, Ilse starts. “I’m sorry. I suppose I should have asked. I’d just remembered Franz had a lot of Kafka. There’s a quote I’ve been trying to recall for the past few days.”

“Which book?”

“I can’t remember. It’s something about…” She cocks her head in thought, in that gesture Renate remembers so clearly. “It’s about using one hand to wave off life’s miseries and the other to write about them. But of course, put much more eloquently than that. Do you know it?”

Renate shakes her head. “I don’t. I think he got rid of all his Kafka. Along with all the other books on the list.” Though she actually knows that this isn’t the case. Franz has a system of storing his forbidden books inside larger, permitted volumes, the pages of which he’s hollowed out with his (also forbidden) jackknife.

“Right. I forgot about that.” Sighing, Ilse makes her way to the hallway. “That’s another thing I hate about the Party. Why should they be able to tell us what to read?” Something in her tone strikes Renate as a little too bright, just a shade too enthused. But then her mother is calling from the dining room.

“Reni? We’re eating in half an hour. Can you wake your father?”

“Klar,” Renate calls, faintly relieved for the excuse to end the conversation. Turning to Ilse, she says: “I’d invite you to stay. But you know my mother’s cooking.”