Wunderland(86)

Oh, no, Renate thinks, starting across the street. Nononono…

But as she gets closer it becomes clear that it is. The woman shouting is her mother, who is attempting to pull the half-stripped man away from the crowd of leering, laughing youths.

The half-stripped man is her father.

And standing between the crowd and the couple is Ilse von Fischer.





13.


    Ilse


1938

The man on the motorcycle wears civilian clothes: khaki slacks, white shirt, leather trench coat. But his hair is cut close on the sides and in the back, in the style favored by the SS. And his bike—a BMW, glinting with newness—is the type Ilse has seen SS officers riding.

“Heil Hitler,” says Kai, Ilse’s editor at Das Deutsche M?del.

“Heil Hitler,” says the biker, saluting back. “It took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Kai says. “I had to confirm a few details on our list. You ready?”

“Never more so. Who’s the skirt?” The biker pushes back his driving goggles, and Ilse realizes with some surprise that he’s quite young, probably not much older than she herself is.

“A colleague,” says Kai. “Berlin’s answer to Torchy Blane. She’s here to write about us making history.” Grinning, he flings a thin arm across Ilse’s shoulders. She forces herself to smile back, even as she subtly maneuvers away.

Whippet-thin and sallow-skinned, Kai Hellewege spends his work days circling his female staffers like an undernourished shark; general opinion is that the only reason he took the job was in order to have girls actually talk to him. And at least in Ilse’s case it is working: she is here because he offered her her very first political piece. He declined to offer many details about it. But after two years of writing columns about racial hygiene and seasonal craft ideas Ilse leapt at the chance. It didn’t hurt that Kai’s personal connection to the Führer’s extraordinary Propaganda Minister is said to be very close—some say Goebbels is practically his godfather.

“Good thinking,” says the driver. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls a flask out. Deftly unscrewing the cap, he takes a swig and hands it to Kai, who in turn offers it to Ilse. After hesitating a moment, she tips it against her lips, discovering to her relief that it’s rum and not Schnapps. After her experiences with Hauptsturmführer Wainer, even a whiff of the latter can trigger a sickening gag reflex.

She hands the flask back to the boyman biker, who restows it before turning to candidly look her up and down. “Want a lift?”

“How far are we going?”

Kai pulls out the map she’d seen him studying earlier when they’d stopped for a few drinks at a local Bierhaus. “First stop is Pestalozzistra?e 14–15.”

“What about the others?” asks the biker.

Others? Ilse thinks.

“They’ll meet us there.”

“Excellent.” The driver pats the seat behind him. “Come along then, Torchy. You’ll have to sit behind me, though. Sidecar’s taken.” He juts his chin at the latter, which Ilse sees is covered with a tarp.

“I think she wants to walk,” says Kai possessively.

“Actually,” says Ilse quickly, “I am rather tired. I’ll meet you there.”

Before he can argue further she perches herself behind the driver, smiling apologetically. Shrugging, Kai turns and starts off at a rapid clip down the darkened street.

Ilse’s driver kicks the engine into gear. As he lowers his goggles he shouts over his shoulder: “I didn’t catch your real name.”

“It’s Ida,” shouts Ilse back, surprising herself. “Ida Fuchs.” She hasn’t thought of her old pseudonym for months, perhaps years, and for a moment she considers correcting the lie. But the rum is warm in her stomach, and the idea of assuming another persona is both titillating and unexpectedly reassuring. It’s like she’s donning a disguise.

“I’m Max,” he says, revving the engine again. The leather seat vibrates against the insides of her thighs like a live animal, something forbidden.

Cautiously, she snakes her arms around his waist. Leaning against her, Max chuckles.

“You’re going to have to hold tighter than that, Ida. It’s going to be quite a ride.”



* * *





Ten minutes later they stand with Kai and a dozen others in civilian clothes in front of an aged building that Ilse recognizes as one of Charlottenburg’s smaller but gracious-looking synagogues.

“Ten Reichsmarks to whoever hits it on the first try.” Kai squints. “Twenty to anyone who hits the center of the kike star.”

“You’re on,” says Max.

As he removes the tarp from his sidecar Ilse sees that beneath it lies a dense pile of rocks and bricks. Atop that are several sets of leather gloves, some welder’s glasses, and a few crowbars. Removing a rock, Max winds up theatrically, like an American baseball player. They all watch with bated breath as he lobs his stone, sending it up and up, straight at the shining surface. It hits just to the star’s left, shattering half the window.

With a whoop, two others in the small gang Kai’s led here let fly their missiles. After reducing the big window to splintered wood and jagged glass teeth they take out the smaller, clear windows that flank the doorway, their shouts growing more exhilarated and confident with each throw. They lob a few stones at the door itself. When this has no effect beyond scraping off some paint, Max climbs the short stairwell and sets his shoulder against it.