Wunderland(30)

“I’m sorry to say that I’ve seen it before, too,” the woman is continuing. “I honestly don’t know what these Juden are thinking, sending girls like you here. It’s quite inconsiderate. To all involved.”

That word again: Juden. Renate fights the urge to flinch. “I’ll—I’ll just talk to them. Tonight. After we sort it out I can come back tomorrow.”

The woman gives her a long, cool look. Her round face reflects disapproval, distaste, and just the faintest touch of—could it be pity? “At any rate,” she says to the brown-haired girl, “your papers are all in order. We should go finish your registration and talk about getting you your uniform. Come with me. And you, Fr?ulein von Fischer—I can show you to room 210.”

“Wait!” Renate feels her throat constrict in panic. “Can’t I—can’t I just register too? As long as I’m here?”

“It would save time,” Ilse offers, though her tone turns the statement into a question.

The Führerin swivels slowly to look at Renate again. “Fr?ulein Bauer,” she says, articulating each word clearly. “I fear I still haven’t made myself clear. It is against regulations for any non-German to wear the uniform of the Bund Deutscher M?del. In fact, it goes against nearly everything we stand for. If you can, as you say, supply proof that you meet our requirements, then we can discuss taking further steps toward membership. Until then, however, this discussion must be finished. It is late, and we have other matters to attend to. Komm, Fr?ulein.”

Turning on her heel, she begins walking briskly back down the corridor, the brown-haired girl scurrying behind her.

Renate stares after them, her gut hollowed by shock, her mind a buzzing blank. “Ilsi?”

It comes out barely a whisper, and when at first there’s no answer she assumes Ilse hasn’t heard. She turns back to see that Ilse also is staring after the Fuhrerin’s receding shape, with an expression that Renate—who can usually read her best friend like a beloved book—this once finds completely unreadable.

“I must go get my press card,” Ilse says at last. “You should go home—it will probably take some time. But I can come back with you tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

Ilse nods. “We can fix this.” Her voice is certain, though Renate can’t help but notice that the other girl doesn’t quite meet her eyes. As she turns away, the thought of being left behind becomes inexplicably devastating—as though she were being cast into a stone gray ocean. Don’t leave me! she wants to cry out. Please stay! But the words won’t or can’t come, and Ilse is already several steps away.

“Call the Albrechts tonight,” Ilse calls over her shoulder. Her family doesn’t yet own a telephone, so they share the neighbors’.

And then she is pacing quickly down the hallway after the Führerin and the brown-haired girl who looks more Jewish than Renate but is somehow fully German nevertheless. She pauses at a door, checks the number, knocks. The door opens. And then she is gone.

Slowly, Renate turns back toward the staircase. Her lungs feel strangely tight. Her hand hurts. Looking down, she sees that she is clenching her identity card hard—hard enough that its sharp edges dig into her skin. Forcing her fingers to loosen, she slides the card into her satchel.

As she starts her descent she imagines the Chancellor’s picture watching her; feels the set of small, dark eyes studying her from behind, checking her stature, her alignment. It’s an absurd thought, she knows this. Nevertheless, she lifts her shoulders and straightens her back as she makes her way down the stairs.

When she reaches the first floor she stops at the landing, unsure of where she is actually going. Home, of course, makes the most sense. But she can’t really ask her parents about the District Census records—obviously, that is out of the question. She could ask her grandmother, who seems to know every detail about every ancestor on both sides of Renate’s family. But knowing her Oma, she will doubtlessly report the query right back to her parents.

That leaves Renate’s own brother—Franz. He had to register at the university this fall, so he will know where to find the right paperwork. And while he ridicules the BDM—he says the letters actually stand for Bubi, drück mich (“Squeeze me, laddie”) or Bund Deutscher Milchkühe (“League of German Milk Cows”)—at least he won’t judge her for having gone behind their parents’ back. Not when he himself sneaks out to meet his friends at the Brauhaus. Not with the Book Lady and those other postcards beneath his bed.

Outside, a church bell sounds out the hour in silvered tones: One. Two. Three…By Five she has decided. She will go home and—directly, before doing anything else—she will go straight to Franz, tell him what has happened, and ask him what to do. And by the evening’s end she’ll be able to call Ilse at the Albrechts’, and they’ll laugh over the misunderstanding.

“Fr?ulein?”

She turns to see the man seated to the stairwell’s left, looking up from his desk. “Is there something more we can help you with?” His tone is clipped and cold. She realizes with a hot flush that he must have heard the entire exchange.

“No,” she says. “I just—I just need to go locate my family records. The correct ones.”

“The correct ones.”