Wunderland(8)

“Because you’re dizzy and clumsy,” retorts Ilse. “Everyone knows that.”

Renate groans. “You’re impossible.”

“Better than being easy,” Ilse quips, and they laugh.

As they approach the perfumery they pause out of habit; Renate notes a new bottle—Nuit de Chine—in the showcase. She wonders fleetingly what a Chinese night smells like.

“You know he’s Jewish, don’t you?” Ilse is asking.

“Who, Martin?” Renate shrugs, lifts her voice in mimicry: “Everyone knows that.” As they resume walking she checks her pockets to make sure she’s got enough for their daily after-school snack cake. “I was afraid he’d be upset, actually. About what Rudi said. But he said it was all in good fun.”

“No. Steinberg. Steinberg’s a Jew too.”

“Really?” Renate frowns; she hadn’t known this.

Ilse nods. “If you look carefully you can tell. Something about the nose.” She pinches her own snub button in demonstration. “My mother saw him coming out of that big synagogue on Oranienburger Stra?e last Saturday. He had that hat thing on and everything.”

“The big furry thing the Jewish men wear in the Scheunenviertel?” Aptly enough, they’re now passing Herr Gerstel’s hat store, though for some reason it’s closed today. And the purple turban has disappeared from the window. Renate wonders if it sold, and if so, who might have bought it. A movie star? A wealthy sultan? A magician’s exotic assistant? Maybe they spent so much on it that Herr Gerstel has already retired. Though (selfishly) Renate hopes not. She loves his shop.

“No,” Ilse is saying. “The little one. The kind that looks like a tea cozy.”

The thought of Herr Steinberg with a tea cozy capping his comb-over sends them both into another brief gale of laughter. That subsides, however, as they approach Schloss-Konditorei.

As usual, Herr Schloss’s doorway is open to the sidewalk, allowing a wafted hint of the yeasty delights inside. What isn’t usual is the sign that someone’s taped on the store window, where it obscures the carefully constructed tiers and towers of shortbread, donuts, and tarts; of fruit pies, stollen, and glistening, glazed apple cakes. Deutsche! the sign reads in cryptic-looking Gothic script: Wehrt Euch! Kauft nicht bei Juden!

To further the point two stocky men flank the door, each holding a sign bearing the same warning. Their brown shirts and crisp red armbands identify them as Sturmabteilung, the self-appointed militia that goose-steps down Berlin’s streets, belting out songs of blood and soil and country. As the two girls hesitate, one glowers at them in silence while the other adopts a patronizing smile.

“Sorry, girls,” he says. “No sweeties here for you today.”

“Why not?”

“A kike owns this business.”

“Really?” Renate asks, once more surprised. The Konditorei is famed for its holiday displays. Not just at Christmas, when the window fills with brightly wrapped boxes, glittering evergreens, and a festive little red train set. But also at Easter, when lamb-shaped cakes and painted eggs take their turn. And of course there’s Herr Schloss’s yearly costume; the big red suit, the bishop’s hat. The sack filled with nuts and candy for visiting children. What sort of Jew dresses up as Sankt Nikolaus?

“Are you sure he’s Jewish?” Ilse asks.

“As Jewish as Jesus,” says the trooper. “So be careful. They like pretty young girls.” He licks his lips pointedly, lewdly; then he adds, sotto voce: “But don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

“We don’t need protecting, thank you,” Ilse retorts stiffly. She hates being belittled.

Renate says nothing but peers past the man’s shoulder. The bakery is indeed empty of customers, and Herr Schloss is also nowhere to be seen. But Frau Schloss—his pink-cheeked wife who is almost as round and fat as he is—stands at silent attention at the counter. She usually smiles so much that her small blue eyes disappear in a surging tide of rosy flesh. Now, though, her face is sober, her eyes fully visible. When they meet Renate’s she offers with the faintest hint of a shrug: What can one do? Is she Jewish as well? Renate wonders. Can Jews be that blond and that pink?

“I heard this was going to happen.” Ilse looks thoughtful. “I didn’t realize it was today.”

“Heard what was happening?”

“The boycott of Jewish businesses.” Ilse’s cook, Britta, has a son who’s a stormtrooper. She often regales Ilse with tales of his feats and distinctions.

“So it’s not just Schloss?”

“I don’t think so. Look over there.”

Renate shades her eyes and looks down Unter den Linden. Sure enough, she sees more white signs—including one on the closed hat store that she’d failed to notice as they passed. The stores that are still open are manned by more Sturmtruppen. Some also have confused-looking consumers standing outside them.

“What a bother! How long is it supposed to last?” Renate is both peeved and somewhat peckish, having forgotten to bring her lunch to school again.

“Just today,” says Ilse. “But it’s not like it’s a law. They can’t actually stop us from going in.”

“We shouldn’t have to stop you,” says the sullen-faced trooper. “You should be proud to support your country.”