Wunderland(31)

She nods. “The ones the city had for me are incorrect.”

“Hmm,” he says. His expression says preposterous. She wants to tell him that the Oberrottenführer of their district’s Hitlerjugend is her very own secret sweetheart. And that he says that she is just the kind of German girl the BDM needs.

Instead, she does the only other thing she can think of: she salutes.

“Heil Hitler!”

“We close in thirty-five minutes,” he says.

He doesn’t even bother to stand up.



* * *





The journey back feels surreal, the lights of the U-Bahn too brightly yellow against the dank darkness of its tunnels. As the train approaches the station a group of boys platform-jump it, leaping from between the cars with Indian-style whoops, letting the engine’s momentum hurl their bodies onto the platform and past the stationmaster’s tiny glassed-in office. As they land—one, two, three—just at the top of the stairwell, one of them whistles at her. “That was for you, little beauty!” he calls. If Ilse had been there they’d have shrieked and giggled together. Now, though, it’s as though his voice reaches her from a distance. The way a breeze might carry cries from far-off gulls.

As she picks her way toward a seat, her schoolbag feeling as though it’s filled with cannon fodder rather than textbooks: her spaetzle arms ache. The U-Bahn itself feels different; the lighting less light. The fixtures and seats somehow ominous and sharper around the edges. The next seat over, a middle-aged woman and a younger one in her twenties pause in their discussion to look up at her before resuming chatting. And though they both smile politely, there is something toothy and raptorial in their faces that makes Renate’s stomach tighten in apprehension.

“I still don’t think you should shop there,” the younger woman is saying.

“But, you know, it’s so much cheaper!”

“It’s cheaper only because the things are more cheaply made.”

“No, really,” says the matron. “The goods there are just as well made as at German shops. They last as long. They are just so much cheaper. It’s a much better deal.”

The younger woman grimaces. “I’m sure there’s some other way they’re going to make you pay,” she says. “That’s what they do, you know. Those Juden.”

Renate stares at them, confounded. Do they know? Something Ilse said recently floats through her thoughts: What if all the world really is a stage, and everyone but you is acting, and you don’t know it?

At the time Renate had laughed. Now she shivers a little and hugs her satchel to her stomach. She focuses on the clack-clack-clack of the rails below, losing herself in their predictable, harsh rhythm.

At Friedrichstra?e she gets off and descends to street level, distractedly planning the next hour. According to the station clock it is now six fifteen: Franz should be home, presuming he’s keeping to his normal Tuesday schedule. As she makes her way toward Unter den Linden, passing blind old Fritz and his pencils without a glance, Renate tries not to think about what will happen if Franz isn’t there. If, for some reason, he doesn’t get home until late, until after she goes to sleep. In the worst case she will simply stay home tomorrow—say she’s sick. At least it will get her out of school, and out of having to tell Rudi about the mix-up. Though—oh, no—what if Ilse ends up telling him anyway? That would be even more disastrous than Renate telling him herself.

She’ll have to call Ilse tonight either way.

She pushes the front door open as quietly as she can. Her parents are in the parlor, having one of their hush-toned “discussions.” Hanging her coat on the wall, Renate carefully unlaces her boots and takes the stairs in stocking feet, hoping that Sigmund is shut up in Franz’s room so he won’t give her away with his whimpering welcome. At the top she pauses again, tilting her head. No sign of the Schnauzer.

Below, her parents continue their tense murmuring. Renate makes out only a few words—exams and committee; then what sounds like attendance. Why, she wonders irritably, do they even bother to whisper? Must everything seem like such a weighty, secretive matter all of a sudden? Why do adults always think they’re so very important?

Soundlessly, she deposits her satchel in her own room before continuing on tiptoe toward her brother’s. She finds herself hoping Franz has one of his jokes for her—she needs one. At the moment she’d probably even laugh at something dirty…the thought is interrupted by a muffled whining and the soft scratch of canine nails against oak.

No, she thinks. Stay.

“All right, buddy,” she hears her brother say. “Go say hello.”

Almost before she’s registered the words Sigmund is tearing toward her like a furry bullet, barking joyously, as though he hasn’t seen her for years. Smiling despite herself, Renate drops to her knees and hugs the wriggling pup, turning her face away as he lunges at her cheek with his floppy tongue.

Downstairs, the tones of hushed conversation stop.

“Reni?” her mother calls. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” she calls back reluctantly, holding the squirming Schnauzer at arm’s length.

“Come have some dinner!”

“I’m not hungry. And I’ve a lot of studying to do.”

“You have to eat something.”