Wunderland(64)

Renate’s mother gives a laugh that is so high and uncontained that it sends a shiver down Renate’s spine.

“You speak as though this were something other than sheer extortion,” she says, her voice brittle.

“Of course,” he says, his tone suddenly both lower and more menacing, “I can return it to you. And recommend that the office close the inquiry today.”

For a moment they just eye one another. And while neither makes a sound—neither (so far as Renate can tell) even breathes—the room fills with such taut and vibrating tension that she is struck by the wild urge to shriek, simply to break it.

At last, her mother gives a barely discernible nod. “Keep it.”

“Smart lady.” The agent flashes a nicotine-stained smile. “Even if you did marry a kike.”

And to Renate’s utter astonishment, he reaches a hand up and lays it against her mother’s cheek, directly on the spot that is inflamed and angry.

It is not a gesture of affection. It is a statement of ownership. Even more shockingly, Lisbet Bauer, the outspoken, irrepressible Doktor Bauer, does nothing whatsoever to discourage it. She simply stands there, erect and frozen, her dark eyes snapping with fury as the Becker ticks ponderously into the silence.

“It’s a pleasure, as always,” the agent says at last.

He turns toward the door, setting the fedora on his head at a rakish angle. Lisbet Bauer stands where she is. She remains there as he unbolts the door with a deftness suggesting he’s done it often, as he says “Auf Wiedersehen” and touches the rim of his hat mockingly. As he jogs down the front steps, she still doesn’t move, though he has, seemingly deliberately, left the door open. It isn’t until the sound of his footsteps, and his cheerful whistling of “Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden” has faded that she finally seems to waken again.

Taking the last few steps slowly, she moves to the door and shuts it. She turns the bolt with deliberation: click.

Then she turns to face the dining room.

“Renate,” she says wearily. “You can come out.”

Renate steps from her hiding place, a small voice in her head wondering, as always, How does she know?

But of course, this isn’t the real question.

She parts her lips, then closes them. Her mouth is bone dry again.

“How much did you hear?” her mother is asking.

A Jew’s leftovers.

She can only shake her head.

“Who was that?” she finally manages.

Her mother opens her mouth, then frowns. “Was someone smoking in here?”

“For God’s sake! Answer the question!”

It comes out a shout. Outside a horse-drawn omnibus passes, a midday medley of horse hooves and brass bells. In the kitchen, Sigi whimpers slightly; then there’s a furry thump as he settles onto his rug by the pantry.

Rubbing her eyes with her hand, her mother leans against the door.

“That,” she says quietly, “was Agent Schultz. From the local Staatspolizei office.”

“But why was he…why was he upstairs?” Renate can’t bring herself to say the word bedroom; it feels obscene. Even thinking the word makes her want to retch again.

“We had a business appointment.”

“Your hair is mussed. Your shoes are off.”

“He was—he was early,” says her mother, as though this actually explains anything. “He was supposed to come at eleven. I wasn’t ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Reni,” her mother says softly. She steps toward her, reaching out.

“No.” Renate steps back quickly. “No. Don’t touch me.”

Her mother’s expression doesn’t change. But something about her seems to deflate; her thin shoulders weaken. Her chin lowers, just barely. For a moment she looks as though she might dissolve into tears. Instead, she steps past Renate to the stairwell and sinks onto the third stair in a movement that would have seemed more natural on a far older woman.

“All right,” she says, seemingly to herself. She takes a deep breath. “You know that the Gestapo has been after me to divorce Vati, yes? The same way they’re pressuring all intermarried couples.”

Renate nods.

“Last month, Agent Schultz came by with some information he said might have a bearing on our case.”

“What sort of bearing?”

“It seems that someone did some digging in my family’s records in Silesia. Most of them are quite clear, of course—the Church records go back for nearly two centuries. But the office has apparently found a weak spot in my grandmother’s parental lineage.”

“Weak? As in, sick?” Renate knows next to nothing about her mother’s grandparents, other than that her grandfather was a visiting professor of politics at a famous Polish university, who died relatively young of angina.

Her mother shakes her head. “Not physically weak. Genetically.”

And when Renate still stares at her, uncomprehending: “They say that there is insufficient evidence that she was fully Aryan.”

Renate gapes at her. “How is that possible?”

Her mother shrugs. “It happens. Particularly with Germans living abroad. People move houses, change countries. Records get damaged, lost. Even stolen.”

“But…” Renate shuts her eyes, struggling to think clearly. “Even if your grandmother was Jewish, that would only make you one quarter. That hardly means anything at all.”