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  It is the time of love,

  O bride come into my garden.

  The grapevine has blossomed,

  The pomegranates have flowered.

  We will rejoice and sing.

  Isabelle reached over and gently took my hand.

  “I feel your mother is with us now”, she said.

  I was sad to leave them. As we sat on the train to Paris I noticed Camille was quieter than usual.

  “Are you unhappy?”

  She tried to smile but I knew it was difficult for her to leave her family.

  “Maybe we should talk about leaving Paris.”

  She looked concerned.

  “Why? Your father needs us and you have the shop. I also have my teaching.”

  She was right of course. Father was becoming more dependent. He loved having Camille around the apartment and they had grown close. She had taken to reading him poetry and often walked with him to the synagogue.

  We sat huddled together on the train watching the countryside pass us with increasing monotony. Occasionally the train stopped to allow passengers on and off and we always took this opportunity to step on to the platform. During one such stop I remembered the first time Camille came to my shop.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course”, she replied.

  “That picture by Nathalie Kraemer. I asked you if you were acquainted with her and you said you were more than acquainted. What did you mean?”

  “Did you not recognise me?”

  “The painting was of you?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “But the hair...it was black.”

  “I asked her to change the colour as I wanted to hide my identity.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I met Nathalie when I first arrived in Paris. We shared an apartment together.”

  “What was she like?”

  “I loved her. She was intense and passionate and deeply spiritual. When I first met her she was writing poetry but she preferred painting. She asked me to sit for her one day and I agreed. I was very shy and didn’t want anyone to recognise me so I asked her to change the hair colour.”

  “She definitely succeeded. I never noticed a likeness.”

  “I liked what you said about there being truthfulness in the painting. Maybe you recognised something deeper in it.”

  *

  In June 1940 Alex’s prediction came true. Camille and I watched German soldiers march triumphantly along Le Champs Elysees. No-one applauded. A few cried. Our army had capitulated after only four weeks and we now found ourselves at the mercy of Hitler and his Aryan ideology. The soldiers looked nervous as they paraded past. Occasionally a few looked at us, their young eyes scanning our faces. I gave one of them a weak smile. He turned away immediately. Was our life about to crumble? I hoped not but if it were I hoped some remnants of our culture would survive. Camille was more positive. She claimed that the Germans would not want to completely destroy French society.

  “Why would they? The war will eventually end and when it does we will return to exchanging ideas and trading with each other. Anyway, you are an artist and artists do not owe allegiance to governments or politics. Art is their master wherever that may take them.”

  We returned to the apartment and found father asleep by the radio. Camille went to the kitchen to prepare some food. I sat on the settee and looked at him; his head resting against the back of the chair, his mouth lying open and his lengthening beard rising and falling with every breath. I was growing fonder of him and I was also growing up. I had found a woman I could love. Many times I thanked God for bringing us together that morning. She had transformed my life. I was painting more and gaining a reputation of sorts. I now received commissions and the shop was doing well. I eventually sold the Lautrec sketchings to a London Restrauntier and now only my paintings adorned the window.

  My father woke and asked me how the parade was. I didn’t tell him much.

  “Maybe it will be all right”, he said hopefully.

  It wouldn’t be. Two days after the occupation the new government enacted the denaturalisation law. A committee was formed to review the naturalisation of over half a million people but what they were really looking for was Jews. Seven days later a mob attacked my father’s synagogue and burnt it to the ground. A short time after that he was forbidden to own a radio.

  6.

  July 16th 1942

  They came early in the morning. I was awakened by someone banging on the front door.

  “Reveiller! Reveiller!”

  Camille slid towards me, her delicate hands reaching for my face. She whispered in a tiny voice.

  “What time is it?” I did not know. The room was dark.

  “Who is it?”

  I listened to my father’s footsteps in the hallway, shuffling painfully towards the door. He was mumbling loudly.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming. Stop your banging!”

  I heard the bolt being pulled back and the latch lifted.

  “Please stop!”

  Lights went on, more voices, more shouting, more swearing, the door of our bedroom flung open, the light from the hallway momentarily blinding us.

  “Raus aus dem bett nun Jude!”

  That voice, German!

  Minutes later we stood in the living room. Camille huddled on one side her trembling hands embracing my arm, my father stood unsteadily on the other resting his hands firmly on his stick.

  Three gendarmes and a young German officer stood facing us. The gendarmes appeared nervous and would not look at us directly. The young officer was not so unsure. He gazed at us unswervingly with no kindness in his eyes. Then he stepped forward and addressed my father.

  “Sind Sie Rabbiner?”

  My father looked at me with alarm. He did not speak German.

  “I have no idea what you are saying”, he replied.

  One of the gendarmes translated.

  “Are you a Rabbi? Answer, quickly!”

  My father looked again at the German.

  “Have we met before sir? I seem to recognise you.”

  I stood, frozen in this ridiculous drama, powerless to react. Without warning, the German slapped my father hard on his face.

  “Sag mir alter mann, sag mir schnell. Denn ich jetzt alles wissen wollen.”

  The gendarme automatically translated.

  “Tell me old man tell me quick, for I want to know everything now.”

  My father recoiled violently from the blow, stumbled back and fell almost comically on to the settee. I was unable to move. Camille screamed and rushed to his aid.

  “Please, stop, you are hurting him!”

  The German smiled, turned to me and asked in French,

  “Is he Rabbi?” I nodded. He glanced at the gendarmes.

  “Ja. Nehmen sie ihn.”

  Two of them walked quickly forward and lifted my father from the chair. Camille attempted to prevent them, but they brushed her aside with ease. They held his arms and marched him from the room. Only once did he glance back, his face contorted with confusion and his lip bleeding from the blow. On the floor by my feet lay his stick. I picked it up and called out,

  “He needs his walking stick.”

  The gendarmes paused and looked at the German.

  “No! Take him out. He will not need his walking stick.”

  I watched as they hauled my father through the door, my heart wrestling with the most unbearable thought. He was powerless, unable to walk. I prayed that some kindness would be shown him; maybe a friend would aid him. The German beckoned us to sit. Grabbing one of the dining table chairs, he shook it for some reason, before sitting cautiously and allowing himself to barely touch the seat. He took off his cap, brushed it with his hands and laid it neatly on his lap. His blonde hair was short, shaven at the sides. I slowly sank on to the settee with Camille clinging to my side, weeping uncontrollably. The German smiled.

  “I am Oberscharfuhrer Ralf Hartmaan
. You are?”

  I felt no desire to answer him, but spoke all the same.

  “Paul...Paul Politzer.”

  “And she is?”

  “She is my wife, Camille.”

  “The Rabbi, Solomon Politzer. He is your father?”

  “Yes, my father. Where have they taken him?”

  “Forget about him. What is your work?”

  “I own a small art shop in Rue des Rosiers.”

  Hartmaan nodded.

  “Jewish Art?”

  “Mostly my own work.”

  “...and your wife”

  “She teaches music at L’Academie Musicale de Villecroze.”

  Hartmaan looked at Camille who tightened her grip on my arm. I noticed the remaining gendarme was examining my father’s collection of silver samovars on the sideboard. He held one close to his face, peering over the intricate details that adorned the surface.

  “Please don’t touch those.” I shouted.

  My raised voice startled Hartmaan. He looked at the gendarme who smiled and showed him the samovar.

  “Hmm...Nice piece! Are they yours?”

  “They belong to my father. Please tell him to put it down.”

  Hartmaan ignored my request and turned his attention back to Camille.

  “You are a singer, madam?”

  Camille lowered her head.

  “You are frightened Madam? Please don’t be! My mother is a singer with the Berlin State Opera. Do you know Peer Gynt? She sings soprano and possesses the most beautiful voice. Often she stood before the large windows in our sitting room and sang for me, her body silhouetted by the sunlight, the muslin curtains swaying gently behind.”

  Camille slowly raised her head until she met Hartmaan’s gaze.

  “You are Cecilia Hartmaan’s son.”

  He looked momentarily stunned then he smiled.

  “You know my mother?”

  “I sang with her in Carmen...and I have met you.”

  “Have you visited Berlin?”

  “You visited Paris and joined us in La Coupole after the performance. I remember you not being that impressed with Alex. He kept making fun of you”

  Hartmaan, of course! My heart lightened and I began to see some hope in our situation.

  “You didn’t like the word, crusade.” Hartmaan remarked.

  Camille nodded and smiled.

  I wondered what his statement meant. I glanced at Camille then back to Hartmaan. He looked agitated.

  “I will sing for you Herr Hartmaan. And when you return to Berlin please tell your mother you met Camille Berman and that she sends her love.”

  The gendarme laughed.

  Camille began to sing, quietly at first, but her song was not from Peer Gynt. The beautiful music sprang from her. A song my mother sang to me as a child,

  The voice of my beloved is coming,

  Leaping on the mountains,

  Dancing on the hills...

  I gazed at her and my heart almost shattered with desire. Each note seemed to fill her eyes with radiance. Hartmaan now sat expressionless but for a thin smile on his lip. It was impossible to gauge his thoughts. Suddenly, he stood up, drew his pistol from its holster, extended his arm and fired! I watched in horror as the bullet smashed into Camille’s forehead, her hair ballooning behind her as it exited the back of her skull. She sat momentarily suspended between life and death before falling back on the settee, her head lolling to one side, her eyes fading, her radiance gone. I leapt to my feet, my face splattered with her blood. I still held my father’s stick. Without thinking I swung it at Hartmaan. The heavy handle caught him on the cheek and he lurched sideways, dropping the pistol. I swung again and this time connected with the back of his head. He moaned, stumbled forward and fell to the floor. I turned to the gendarme who tried to run but I was quickly upon him and brought the handle of the stick down on his back. He screamed and fell spread-eagled on the ground. He tried to raise himself and I swung again, this time connecting with the back of his neck. A guttural sound escaped his lips as he collapsed unconscious. I ran back to Camille but stopped short of touching her. I was terrified and almost paralysed with fear. Her killer lay motionless on the floor and I noticed the pistol lying nearby. I contemplated using it on myself; my only thought was to be with her. I resisted the urge to scream. I resisted the urge to use the pistol on Hartmaan and the gendarme. I knelt before her half expecting to see her smile, half expecting the scene to rewind, for Hartmaan to stand up and pat me on the back and tell me it was all a practical joke, for my father to return laughing with the gendarmes. Nothing changed. Camille still lay motionless, her life destroyed. I dropped the stick, placed a kiss on my fingertips and planted it gently on her lips. I ran from the apartment. In the hall, doors lay ajar and items of clothing lay everywhere. I ran down the heavy oak staircase almost stumbling on occasion until I reached the ground floor. The large wooden outer door was open. I heard shouting and screaming beyond. I took a deep breath and ran into the street.

  I was stunned by light.

  Ralf

  In time we hate that which we often fear

  (William Shakespeare)

  7.

  Berlin, 1926

  Silke gripped my hand tightly and dragged me along Ersteiner Strabe towards school. We were late. The wind continuously forced me to blink tears away and small pellets of snow stung my face. I was so cold. My short trousers were inadequate and my socks were too thin. My hand was numb in Silke’s grasp and my satchel bounced wearily on my back. I wore a short coat with the collar up but without the scarf Grandmamma Charlotte gave me last Christmas. I hadn’t worn it since Otto Becker called me a girl the day I first brought it to school. Until then I had liked it. I liked the colours – bars of red blue yellow pink and green, but Otto just laughed and began calling me a sissy. Of course the others joined in like baaing sheep. I cried that day and mamma told me to stand up for myself. I didn’t know how to.

  Silke rushed me through the door. I was glad of the heat. She snatched my blue school cap off my head and shoved it in my satchel. After a short conversation regarding my lateness with Frau Duerr the school secretary, she commenced the futile and embarrassing ritual of smoothing my hair, straightening my coat and slobbering on my cheek before dashing back out into the snow. Frau Duerr then led me along the corridor towards my teacher Herr Frey’s room. We called her The Ghost because of her appearance. When we entered the classroom Herr Frey gave me one of his unsympathetic looks and beckoned me to my seat beside Otto who was tittering uncontrollably behind his hand. I sat down and used my elbow forcefully on his ribs causing him to scream dramatically. This prompted The Ghost to rush to my seat and give me such a slap behind the head, my ears rang.

  Ten minutes later, my head still smarting from Frau Duerr’s assault; I listened to Herr Frey telling us a story

  Once upon a time there was a small girl who was strong willed and forward and whenever her parents said anything to her she disobeyed them. One day she said to her parents. I have heard so much about Frau Trude. Someday I want to go to her place. People say amazing things are seen there and very strange things happen there. I have become very curious.

  Her parents strictly forbade her telling her that Frau Trude was a wicked woman who committed godless acts.

  “If you go there you will no longer be our child.”

  But the girl paid no attention to her parents and went to Frau Trude's place anyway. When she arrived Frau Trude asked her why she was so pale.

  “Oh” she answered trembling all over. “I saw something that frightened me.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw a black man on your steps. That was a charcoal burner. Then I saw a green man. That was a huntsman. Then I saw a blood-red man. That was a butcher. Oh Frau Trude it frightened me when I looked through your window and could not see you but instead saw the devil with a head of fire."

  “Aha! So you saw the witch properly dressed. I have been waiting for you and wa
nting you for a long time. Light the way for me now!”

  With that she turned to girl into a block of wood and threw it into the fire. When it was thoroughly alight she sat down next to it and warmed herself chuckling all the time,

  “It gives off such a bright light!”

  I listened intently lulled by the warmth of the large radiators. I easily imagined Frau Duerr as the witch and had no problem imagining Sophie Dressner burning in the fire. She lived near me and was always calling me names. Beside me Otto rested his head on the desk with his eyes closed. I was sure he was sleeping.

  Herr Frey asked us if we understood the meaning of the story. As usual Martin Vogel raised his hand first.

  “The story tells us that we must obey and respect our parents.”

  “And if we don’t do that what will happen?”

  “Then we may be in danger.”

  “What would be in danger of?”

  “Bad people”

  “Who are these bad people Ralf?”

  I didn’t even hear the question. I was too busy trying to prize my ruler away from Otto who had woken up and was now using the ruler to slap me on the legs.

  “Who are these bad people Ralf?” Herr Frey shouted.

  I was confused. What was he talking about?

  “What are you doing?”

  “Otto keeps hitting me with my ruler.”

  Herr Frey charged towards me, grabbed my collar and hauled me to the front of the class.

  “I’ll hit you with more than a ruler if you don’t stop that. Were you listening to the story?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So tell the class who these bad people are.”

  “I don’t understand sir.”

  “Did you hear what Martin said?”

  I hesitated.

  “No sir.”

  He slapped me on the back of the head and told me to change places with Martin Vogler which meant I had to sit beside Ernst Moller who was fat and always smelt of fish.