Wunderland(87)

“Here,” he calls to Kai and the other motorcyclist. “Give us a hand.”

The other two fall into position: “Eins, zwei, drei…” They hurl their combined weight into it with a heavy thud. Then another. And another, this one followed by a faint splintering sound.

“Almost there,” shouts Kai.

Ilse’s stomach has curled itself into a tight ball of anxiety, balanced out by a tingling anticipation. Her teeth are chattering even though it’s not particularly cold. As the other three continue their assault she finds herself wishing she could have a few more swigs of Max’s rum.

Meanwhile, the synagogue doors finally give way with an ancient-sounding, splintering complaint. Panting, Kai and the two drivers peer in, as though surprised by their own efforts. There’s a round of applause from the newcomers; Max takes an elaborate bow. Then he ushers the others into the darkened interior. “Remember the instructions,” Ilse hears him bellowing above the excited roar. “No stealing. We’re only here to destroy.”

He is greeted with catcalls and more mocking laughter. “Yes, Headmaster,” one of them shouts.

As the last of them files in Ilse hesitates a moment, certain that the Polizei must be on their way by now. But the street is quiet, save for a lone black van that has pulled up a slight distance from the parked BMWs. As Ilse watches, the driver cuts the engine and lights a smoke. He seems to be settling in for a wait.

She looks back to the shattered synagogue. From inside comes the sound of laughter and more shattering; the lights go on. Max sticks his head out. “Come on, Ida,” he shouts, and gestures for her to hurry.

What she actually feels like doing is running away, and for a moment she even considers it. But then she thinks about the article Kai has promised to give her: the thrill of seeing her own words in a major Party publication.

Berlin’s answer to Torchy Blane.

Throwing her shoulders back, she starts mounting the stairs.



* * *





Inside the building a dozen-odd men and boys lay waste to everything they get their hands on. Several are on the balcony, pulling books from bookshelves, ripping pages from them, sending them skating down like flat white leaves on an autumnal breeze. Two have just pushed over the lectern at the front and are laying into it with axes. Max and three others have ripped the curtain off a large cabinet and are pulling out enormous and ancient-looking scrolls.

“What are those?” she calls.

“Torah. The kike bible,” he calls back, panting.

Ilse watches, both enthralled and aghast as he rips off the protective silver headpieces and sends the yellowing parchment rolling down the steps into the aisles. When one of the others unbuttons his pants and starts to urinate on the hand-inscribed texts, Ilse feels her bile rise—as much at the sight of the soft pink member as the way the careful lettering smears beneath the yellow stream. Yet it’s like watching a horror film: she can’t seem to look away. And as the boy splashes his last, Max, who’d disappeared briefly, reemerges wearing several skullcaps piled on his lank hair, his body wrapped like a mummy in prayer shawls.

“What do you think?” he calls to Ilse. “Is this my color?”

She shakes her head, both sickened and strangely exultant at finding herself here, in the heart of such astonishing transgression. Everywhere, ripped scroll paper is fluttering down like snow. The boy next to her is plunging his Hitler Youth dagger into the burgundy velvet of the pews, while Kai is stamping on a silver goblet of some sort until it lies squashed like a precious bug beneath his boots. She still can’t quite believe the police won’t appear at some point, though Kai had assured her that they will not.

“Are you getting all this, Ida?”

Turning back toward the lectern she sees Max, now hatless, about to take aim at an ornate wooden screen with his boot. At first she has no idea what he’s talking about. Then, remembering the whole purpose of her inclusion in the event, she reaches into her satchel and pulls out a notebook and a pen. The movements feel almost embarrassingly inappropriate; like trying to read Shakespeare in the center of a tornado. And yet this, she remembers, is what she has come here to do: to get the story.

Just get the story, she tells herself.

She sets her pen to her notebook, then hesitates, her mind a blank. Somewhere, someone has started singing what sounds like a gibbered approximation of Hebrew: Dai-dai-dai. Dai-dai-dai. Dai. Within moments the others have taken up the tune, singing in rhythm as they pound and smash and break: Dai-dai-dai. Dai-dai-dai. It’s like the finale of the most frightening opera ever composed, as if Nosferatu had stepped from the screen into the screaming, deafening present. She has to remind herself that in this live version the attackers are the heroes, taking revenge on the true villains: bloodsucking Jews.

As she writes the phrase down, she becomes aware that a sudden hush has fallen onto the hall.

The rioters in the balcony area are all looking in one direction. Looking up, she follows their gaze.

A man is standing in a side door she hadn’t noticed before. He is short and dark, wearing a long dark coat and a black hat, from beneath which corkscrew curls tremble on either side of his pale cheeks. He doesn’t look like a vampire. He looks like a frightened, oddly dressed little man.

But even before the thought is completed there is a hoarse shriek from the balcony area: “KIKE!”