Wunderland(84)

At another nearby corner the crowd hurls cakes and pastries and loaves of dark bread from a shop Renate recognizes with a jolt as the Schloss-Konditorei: the once-beloved cake shop she and Ilse so often frequented on their way home from school. The same shop into which Ilse crossed the first SS boycott, in a moment that now seems not just from another era but from some other, alien planet.

Herr Schloss is a good baker. I don’t really care if he’s Jewish.

Renate thinks of the Mohnkuchen she and Ilse would share daily, like a sacrament; the display window always whistle-clean, filled with brightly fragrant delicacies. The cheerful train set and snow-capped model village in the winter, the pastel lambs and painted eggs in the spring. Now the shop lies in wreckage: a doughy bedlam of baked goods and broken glass. The destruction is no worse than that of any of the other nearby shops, but the sight hits like a clenched fist to her gut.

Swallowing, she cranes her neck, trying to glimpse beyond the broken display to see if Herr Schloss or his wife is inside. But all she can see is the laughing crowd, tossing food and plates, trays and tongs, light fixtures and framed pictures into a growing pile on the street. As she watches, one of them pours petrol over the resulting heap and lights a match, and in an instant they are standing around a small, man-made mountain of flame.

“They’re getting closer,” mutters Rita.

Renate shivers, remembering her question to Herr Lawerenz: What are we too easy a target for? She again sees Herr Lawerenz’s flushed, rough face again: Two-by-two. Why hadn’t they listened to him?

She is considering grabbing Stella’s arm and simply pulling her from the car when the vehicle resumes its lurching trek forward. For a few minutes a relieved silence fills their car. But then they reach the Tiergarten, and the Moorish-inflected arches of the Fasanenstra?e Synagogue, and a collective gasp rises from the riders.

The synagogue’s entrance swarms with barbarous activity. The huge oaken doors are hanging open; silver ornaments and ancient-looking scrolls fly through the air, the lambskin parchment flapping like lopsided wings. Chairs and bits of pew rain down from one of the upstairs balconies, where a red-faced man wears a prayer shawl on his head like a turban and is doing a kind of drunken jig. As was the case with the shattered shops, policemen stand on the periphery but make no effort to intervene. Towering above the entire surreal scene is an enormous pillar of smoke that seems to stretch straight up to the clouds, so thick and dark it looks unreal.

“It’s on fire,” says Gartner, forgetting his own directive. His voice is hushed, reverential, as though he is witnessing the burning bush.

The old woman sitting next to him shakes her head, her soft white bun vibrating with the movement. “Such a shame,” she clucks. “Such a lovely old building.”

“Was?” The interjection is so abrupt and so loud that both Renate and Stella jump in their seats. Turning, Renate sees the man who’d been reading the newspaper in the corner striding furiously toward them. As he draws near, Renate clutches Stella’s arm in panic. But he passes them both, stepping up to the old woman and grabbing her frail arm.

“What did you say?” he shouts, yanking her to her feet, his mouth inches from her shocked face.

“Mein Gott!” she quavers. “What—what are you doing?”

He shakes her, so hard Renate hears the woman’s teeth rattle. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“I—I just…” The woman throws a petrified glance around the carriage. Help her, Renate thinks, to herself, no one, to anyone.

But no one, including herself, moves a muscle.

“You want to save the Jew house?” the man continues, shaking the woman again with each word. “You’re a goddamn kike lover? Is that it?”

His captive shakes her head. Two tears travel the fleshly channels of her wrinkled cheeks. If the man sees them they mean nothing to him. Still clutching her arm, he yanks on the emergency stop cord above the windows. “The building is a Jew house,” he repeats, pointing, spittle flying from his lips. “It’s where they gather to plan the demise of our country. Where they have their secret rituals of murder and sacrifice.” As the trolley slows, he pushes the woman toward the door. “But if you love it so much, Oma, you can go take part. Go join the rabbi. They love German women. I’m sure he’d even love a wrinkly old ass like yours.”

Yanking the door open, he shoves the woman out so that she falls sprawlingly on the curb, losing a shoe in the process. Stunned, Renate gapes as the man strides back on board, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Anyone else have anything to say?” he demands, eyeing each of them in turn. “Any other kike lovers on board today?”

Beside her, Stella gives a small, terrified sob. Across the carriage Gartner stares at the floor, his face chalk-white. For a moment all Renate can think about is not vomiting before they get to her stop, which is next. But then she sees the woman’s shiny black purse lying like a wounded reptile on the trolley floor. She remembers the woman’s petrified face, almost childlike in its incomprehension.

And before she realizes fully what she’s doing she has leapt up and grabbed the bag, and is throwing her weight against the door. She battles with it for a moment until it reopens with a sigh, spilling her onto the glass-littered street.

The fall knocks the wind from her. At first she simply lies there, purse clutched to her chest, eyes glued to the yellow, smoke-filling sky. She hears the noise of the riots and the strangled gasps of the woman weeping. Then the clamor fades slightly, as though someone has twisted the volume knob. A constellation of dull white light points dances before her eyes. As Renate sits up slowly, though, they dissipate, and the noise of the chaos returns.