Wunderland(89)

“He said that maybe they’d done enough damage for now,” he said.

Cutting the engine, Max dismounts, as does Ilse. He begins walking the heavy machine across the street. “One more stop,” he says, gesturing across the street with his chin. “This one’s a special assignment.”

“Special?” Following his gaze, she feels her mouth go dry.

“He’s had offers from Aryan buyers but has been holding out for a better price. We’re to give him a little incentive. Though by the time we’re done with it I doubt the place will be worth more than a few Pfennige.”

Noticing something near the engine, he squats to get a closer look, then looks up, seeming annoyed. “You go ahead.”

“I can wait.”

“No, go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”

She makes her way toward the crowd, her heart pounding as she draws close. The target, as she’d feared, is the Schloss-Konditorei, though it bears no resemblance to the fragrant haven of her younger years. The large glass display window has been shattered so thoroughly that the shards are tiny, piled high both inside the building and outside on the sidewalk like mounds of glittering snow. Baked goods lie in swollen, sodden piles on the ground, brown loaves mashed into gray pavement with lingering imprints of heavy boots, cakes oozing frosting and custard like sugary innards.

But most shocking of all is the sight of Herr Schloss himself.

It’s been over three years since Ilse saw the baker, and he no longer looks as though he’d fill out the red robes and bishop’s hat he used to sport at Weihnachten in years past. In fact, it’s hard to imagine him even laughing at all. His formerly round, pink face is now pale and pinched-looking, and he has an angry welt on his left cheek. His apron has been marked with a lopsided Star of David, in what looks like the same yellow paint used to scrawl Jude across the shop’s door.

As his bright blue eyes meet hers and widen in recognition, she feels a spike of panic: No, she thinks. Nonono.

But he is already calling her name. “Ilse!”

His voice is different too. No longer hearty and deep, it’s the voice of a thinner, weaker man.

Pretending not to have heard, she searches wildly for Kai and spots him a few meters away, dousing a pile of towels and potholders with petrol and the fierce overfocus of the exceptionally inebriated.

The baker calls to her again. “Ilse!” he calls again. “Ilse von Fischer!”

Ilse shrinks into the crowd, still pretending not to have heard. Kai, however, clearly has: swinging around, he glares from Herr Schloss to Ilse and back again. Then, setting his can down with the same overstated care, he walks unsteadily over.

“Who are you talking to, Jew?” he says.

Though not especially loud, his voice cuts through the shouting and laughter. A queasy quiet descends as, as if on cue, two heavyset men step out from the group. Each one takes one of the baker’s quaking arms.

Herr Schloss stares at him blankly.

“I asked you a question,” says Kai more loudly. “Do you know this girl?” He points to Ilse.

When the baker doesn’t answer, one of the men shakes him hard enough that he briefly loses his footing. Regaining it, he blinks.

“I do,” he says quickly. “I do.” Looking back to Ilse, he adds: “Tell them, Ilse. Tell them you know me. Tell them I’m a good man.”

As the crowd turns its bleary gaze on her, Ilse is rooted to her spot.

“You know this Yid?” asks Kai, his voice now even quieter.

Ilse shakes her head. “No.”

“Of course she does,” says Herr Schloss, his voice rising in desperation. “She’s been one of my best customers. Go on, Ilse!” he pleads. “You can tell them!”

For a moment, no one seems to breathe. Ilse keeps her gaze on the ground, on a raspberry turnover whose glistening innards splay on the street with obscene sticky sweetness. She feels rather than sees Kai approaching from the corner of her eye. He is walking slowly, as though taking a casual stroll. But when he puts his arm around her shoulders this time, there is nothing joking or affectionate about it. And when he presses his lips to her ear, there is nothing even faintly seductive in his voice.

“Is the Jew telling the truth?”

Pulse racing, she shakes her head again. “No,” she repeats. “I—I don’t know him.”

“But of course you do!” exclaims the baker. He actually laughs, an obsequious smile spreading on his bruised face. “You even came during the boycott! Don’t you remember?”

Kai’s grip tightens. “Really,” he says. His voice is tight and low. To Ilse, almost beneath his breath, he says: “Look at me.”

Trembling slightly, Ilse meets his gaze. He is staring at her with a kind of gloating intensity. Pulling her close, he murmurs directly into her ear: “Did you break the boycott for a Jew?”

His breath smells toxic: beer and bile and molded cheese. Swallowing back a surge of nausea, she pulls away. “Of course not.”

“Prove it.” He lifts his hand, and it takes a moment for Ilse to realize that he is signaling Max, who is still holding his motorcycle up on the other side of the street. Nodding, the latter turns and begins rolling the bike toward them, the crowd parting to create a silent path. When Max reaches Kai, the editor reaches into the sidecar and selects a large red brick, which he hands to Ilse.