This story was written approximately three years ago. At the time, I had a strong interest in the Third Reich. I just wanted to make clear the fact that my writing and ideas have improved significantly since then.
The sky was a rich robin egg blue and cooling breezes lifted my heart and my skirt to new heights. Only, perhaps the latter was not the best, considering the situation. I heard the snickering of youth behind me, and deciding not to turn around lest I blush with shame, stomped forward, the soles of my heels making a rich clattering sound on the gravel pavement. In reality my cheeks had turned scarlet, but I managed to maintain my composure until I turned the corner whence I made a private face of mortification and secretly willed them to go to the devil for their maddening goggling.
The basket I was carrying jostled my thighs, and I wished I could trot faster, but to my vehemence realized that would only cause more embarrassment. Already the people who walked by me, ceased to nod with approval; instead they gaped partly with curiosity, and partly with confusion. I hoped I didn't look too mad up against the wall as if I'd been attacked. Around me the sweet sound of birdsong filled my ears, and the honest noises as people left their homes in early morning haste. Women were outside with icy washing, ready to be dried during the hours of sunlight we were blessed with. It was mid-October and it was certain that the heat that still lingered on occasional days such as today would soon evaporate, for as soon as October set in, the sprint to the finish of the year began. Young boys shouted in the clear morning air, gesturing eagerly to their friends as their sisters and belles chattered together like flocks of sparrows, braiding their hair, and clutching their books to their breasts as they passed the boys by in a disdainful manner.
At the corner of Kotzen and Nethossen a round faced old man who rented the same penthouse apartments as I did greeted me unexpectedly. He tipped his hat toward me good-naturedly, his round, bulbous face poking out from under his broad bowler hat. His wire-framed circular glasses added a certain depth to his round complexion, as well as a certain unpleasantness I couldn't place a finger on. He was faintly sinister, and I avoided the man as often as I could. The man, who I knew to be a Swiss banker, was living with his ailing aunt until her death- so that (at least these were his speculations) he could collect the immense fortune she had amassed (probably the reason I disliked him so heartily).
A fortune she had recently disinherited her grand-nephew from for debauchery and a pocket-full of cash and credit which he seemed to be flaunting all over America- the country he had fallen in love with (other than the pretty stock he had discovered there). The grand-nephew, Frederick?- particularly hated what was taking place in his birthplace and decided to boycott Rhineland until either the commies took over or someone loaded their rifle. Besides, in humorous letters to his beloved 'auntie' he had quite a harem of lovely women who vied for his attentions, calling his German accent more than charming. I couldn't really decide how I felt about this unusually risqué young buck, but there was something deliciously admirable and dashing about his certain resolve to begin a new life far away, while at home, turmoil was on the rise like a bubbling kettle of chemical elements in a gymnasium laboratory. Then, I remembered how he depended on the constant cash flow of his great-aunt.
My elderly charge gave a brisk salute to me, his already wide face broadening in a Cheshire grin.
'The Reichsmarks are on the rise my dear! Funds for the Wehrmacht! Panzer divisions in the East need some resupplying; I hear they had some skirmishes along the Moravian border- time to roll out, no doubt!' the man's cane skimmed the ground as it whirled in ever increasing circuits while the Swiss man's maniac grin grew wider. Despite his 'neutral' nationality, Mr. Wagner was very pro-German, and like man Austrians supported the movement of territorial expansions and had sent his son to an academy of science simply to study the arts of creating new thermonuclear weaponry.
I eyed the man wearily, grimly smiling back at him, my teeth clenching automatically as I stole past him to avoid his piercing gaze.
To school, to work, to market- ahead of me the heady aromas emanating from the marketplace drew me in like a cat to a bottle of cream, and I licked my lips at the thought of a larder filled with wurst and hothouse onions. Old men chatted in the streets, coupling in the park for games of chess, and virtually speaking to each other by clucking and thumping their canes on the dusty ground. I scuttled along intent on my destination, careful not to trip on the haphazard cobblestones which impeded my arrival to the sweet-smelling center. Clutching my skirts, I adjusted my bonnet and gazed happily toward the market which was already full of people eager to buy and sell. My heart swelled at the sight of this. It seemed to be only a few years ago that people would dare not venture in the market place with their useless marks. Now it seemed the place was filled with people, pockets filled with money, ready to be exchanged for useful items. I was reminded by the pleasant jingling in my own pocket and headed to where I could fill my basket with breaded chicken cutlets and thick pieces of sirloin.
'Abigail! Hallo! Wie läuft das Geschäft?'
Her eyes lit up when saw me trooting brisquely toward her.
'Dominika-hurry up and come over here! You should see the fine veal I saved just for you!'
The plump 60 some woman shook her beefy arms at me in greeting, and as I neared her, I could see those bright hazel eyes of hers twinkling with multi-dimensional colours. She literally brushed away a browsing customer in her haste to hug me, and the stick-like man who had been gazing longingly at a plucked turkey was nearly blown off his feet.
I was immediately enveloped in the warm, filthy aroma of Abigail Faerber the easily lovable butcher who I had known practically all my life.
'Dominika, I feel like I haven't seen you in ages, when in reality, I believe the last I saw you was...' she raised a grimy finger to her wobbling jelly-like chin, 'Last week, on Thursday. Yes, it seemed like a century!' 'Only, you are finally back! Could it be to make some piping schnitzel? My dear, you know my darling Ebbe and his stingy wife Baila, well, only a few days ago did her sweet baby Câcilia start speaking, well and you shall never guess what her first was? No, not Mutti, Vati! Well! Did that peahen get into a huff! She literally stormed out of the house the moment she heard that baby say that! Dear Ebbe just chuckled to himself, and hugged that baby! Can you think of a more foolish thing? She is a strange one, her? My poor sweetie, sometimes I truly pity him? Why he chose to marry her I shall never know!
Her accent was clearly Jewish underneath the German, or a so-called Eastern Jew (Ost-Jude) born in Krakow, but grew up in north-western Germany in one of those diverse, mid-sized provincial towns where everyone knows each other and Turks and Gentiles and Russians and Jews live together in peacefully and harmoniously, meeting amiably at the Butcher's, and little to their knowledge, sharing the same kosher milk. It works well enough when the populace knows no better. Later, when she had children, Abigail moved to Berlin, and quite frankly, into the lion's den.
Abigail's face was one of perceived joy and pleasure, her eyes twinkling like miniature stars, but even the eagle-eyed observer could not see the pain and suffering that lay under that quivering frame. For she was marked, as sure of any Jew in Germany these days. Ever since last year when the Nuremberg Laws were drafted, destroying Jewish citizenship, things had never been the same again for Jews here, and the hatred and anti-Semitism seemed to be growing every day like a foreboding shadow. Especial pressure was being forced upon Abigail and her family because of her Polish citizenship (even though all she very knew, [like me] was the great and formidable Deutschland) Only, you would never realize that when looking at Abigail's face. It seemed as if her massive charisma and strength could ward off the Fuehrer himself!
The old woman shook her head back and forth, her face as easy to read as an open book, her deadly looking chopping knife being thrown into the air through fits of passion. Only, I had no need to fear, I could trust Abigail with a machine gun.
'Here let me you get you that veal, hmm...'
The sickly looking man beside us gave one last look of hatred before heading his own way, swinging his cap with dignity.
Abigail Faerber was as described a woman of particularly large proportions, like a ball of lard almost bursting under its seams, a pointy fat pink face with chocolaty eyes set in into a doughy gingerbread skin. She was everything sweet and wonderful about old women, she was stuffed with sugar and spices, and the sweat which rolled down her monstrous arms was like melted butter. Atop her head was a great mop of dark brown hair mingled with hairs of grey. It was as if the grey was tangling itself into the rest of the hair, struggling to survive like flowers in a weed-choked garden.
A sickening thought like a stone dropped into the bottomless pit of my chest, sinking slowly before landing in some deep, dark pit.
'Umm, has there ever been a shortage of anything, Abigail? I don't mean to be brusque or rude, but, money!' 'These days...'
My voice trailed off with consternation. I was literally begging her.
She gazed at me momentarily, the knife cutting through the air with frightening precision. Half of me wanted to take back those words. Her look was that of extraordinary calm, her expression did not seemed to have been twisted by what she had just heard; in fact time seemed to have slowed down, so that the only proof that I hadn't been contorted into some 4th dimension was the steady rhythmic beating of my heart.
'Money?' her voice pierced the air in a disquieting way. Her eyes moistened, or was it just a trick of the light? It quivered momentarily before rising upwards and growing in confidence.
'Silly girl!' Abigail clucked her tongue as if chastising a young child, waving her meat cleaver at me in small circles in a playful manner.
'You think dusty old men can ruin a woman like me? I think not!' She gave a sudden snort, and I instantly realized then that I had struck a chord. A frayed nerve, perhaps not yet at the breaking moment, but constantly frazzled more each day.
It's all just hatred and spite what they say about us, every word of it! The Jews did this and the Jews did that!' She spat at the ground beneath her with defiance. It was painfully defiant. I cringed.
They blame us for something so ridiculous it has not a smidgeon of truth! If they believe us Jews are cowards and ninnies, they are in for another bargain! Wiping out an entire race with their evil talk! No sir! No sir, indeed!'
Then in a hunched whisper 'Not even that Hitler and his cohorts,' the short exclamation came out in a wheezing cackle, but it made me realize how frightening the world we lived in today was. What if someone nearby had heard? No one spoke of the Fuehrer in that way- my god, what would my parents have thought? Fear shot down my spine and suddenly I found myself gazing around waiting for a Gestapo officer to appear like an indistinct shadow, culminating indirectly at first- then a legitimate vision, clutching me like cold iron, and holding a machine gun to my waist.
I blinked at the futile vision of the staunch old woman before me, holding herself proudly, her back as firm and straight as an iron rod- her wisps of thinning hair flying about in all directions like the banner of a flag. So strong yet so weak; standing in a tumultuous ocean preparing for an incoming tide of hatred. It was easy to have said that in 1933, but now, three years later it was virtually impossible. Courage, that's what I called it. Her son had been urging the family to immigrate to Palestine ever since the elections, after having joined the Chasidics, something which secular Abigail found unusual and off-putting. Either way, she would never on all terms, leave the country which she had always so feverishly adored, but which now repressed her vehemently.
I knew it was all terribly wrong, only I was powerless to the horror which was inflicted around me. Horror? Could it be? Was everyone just walking blind men? Was this man who forced out of the Great Depression a madman? It was easy enough to say he was a force to be reckoned with. He had done well hadn't he? Good. God. No. No. No. One look in Abigail's tortured eyes had disapproved that.
After the wealth came the Gestapo, I saw them outside my window, patrolling the streets at night their hard, cruel faces illuminated in the blinding light of the street lamps. They were merciless beings and had destroyed every party other than theirs, my neighbour then, a Liberal had had her house sacked and looted many years ago in 1933. She immigrated to Austria. People said that that the Gestapo were out there for our own safety, but it was hard for me to believe that their existence perpetuated for anything else than to scare the daylights out of small children.
I usually never reckoned with politics, but the growing persecution sent a spindle of terror down my spine. Yes, people walked blind! Blind and bound in fear? Where were the ones who truly cared? What were they waiting for? A war?
The intensity of my musings alarmed me intensely, and the general pleasantness of the sunny October day left me shaking with mind-numbing agitation. I felt like going home to huddle helplessly in the corner for a hot bath and then some nice caramelized onions...
I was thrust back into reality by an inquiring look from Abigail which taking with a grain of salt, thanked for the meat I had procured, and wobbling on my heels bypassed the spice seller and the organ grinder until I was at a canter, cold sweat beaded along the palms of my hands, my throat and lips dry and icy cold. I clutched the basket to me, and as I walked faster the abhorrence, the uneasiness rose like an all-enveloping tsunami in my heart...
'Ahh!'
My seven-inch heel suddenly broke with a sickening crack and I felt myself suddenly plummeting toward the cobblestones, silently damning the new Paris fashions as I fell forward, my knees buckling under me.
I unknowingly crashed atop a slender figure, a cry of shock tainting my lips. My hands were thrust forward, and the thin but sturdy figure which had managed to break my fall gave a soft cry
'Fraulein...' the voice was noticeably gentle yet stimulated at the same time.
'I, I' I could not possibly speak, my whole body quivered.
This morning was not turning out as planned. I must have looked the colour of overripe strawberries but I could not meet the face of the person I had just crashed into.
'Excuse me... I am so careless...I—'
'Ai! Entshu-uh-diga-'
We both automatically dropped to our knees like fools and as we fumbled in the dirt I then realized that the contents of my shopping bag had gone quite literally flying in all directions. The carefully packaged meat was strewn all over the busy walkway. Bruised, beaten, and lying in the city filth. I choked back a cry of outrage and shock.
To my chagrin tears began to flow down my hot cheeks. Shame flooded me. How could I cry in front of a man like this! What a buffoon I am! My throat constricted and I wiped my face with the back of my hand, only making my face more grimy and the tears made it damp and muddy. Our hands touched, and I immediately dropped my arms as if I had been caressed by a leper.
I stood up, rubbing my red eyes with my sleeve warmth and ignominy rushing to my cheeks.
'Ahh...Nein! Nein! Nein!'
The poor chap jumped up in front of me waving his arms wildly like a madman, despair in every movement. Only then was I able to see his features, and what I saw before me was the most comical and ridiculous figure.
The wayward subject was trying to comfort me with his crazy dance, a pleading look on his face- and what a face!
Strands of dark brown hair blew in all directions as if slicked in that particular fashion which seemed to harbour a golden sheen in the rich chestnut locks. His animated face was childish and bright and his hazel eyes illuminated the flecks of gold which seemed to conquer the rest of the eye. He wore dark brown leather vest coupled with simple blue trousers, and expensive looking cashmere boots. The look on his face was so helpless it was laughable. He made wild gesticulations and movements, jumping up and down in the air and pointing toward the spoiled meat wiping his eyes in mock tragedy. The whole thing unconsciously left me in fits of laughter, and before I realized the absurdity of the situation, I was clutching myself with mirth. The disgruntled figure before me cinched and furrowed his eyebrows with various displays of emotion.
I finally managed to regain my composure, but not before my new acquaintance had cleared the rotten meat away and now stood before me holding glossy marks in an impassioned gesture looking slightly aloof. The whole situation was so unusual that I was once again forced the hold back a chuckle.
'Ah-ah-geld...uh—a-o—vee...uh- Sprechen sie- uh Englisch?'
Those pleading eyes! I could have happily died in them!
'Yes...' My own voice sounded foreign to my ears. English! When was the last time I had spoken English? When my parents were alive...My parents...
His longing gaze spoke directly to my heart.
'Uh- please-a take this money! I will buy you a-anything!'
Italian. My day was just getting better and better.
The notes were thrust at me, and I blushed sincerely not sure just how to refuse them.
'I, I how could I... I can't accept...-'
I stared at the money in his hand, finally grasping it and holding it tightly in my own. The hand was smooth and warm compared to mine which felt so icy that it would put a komodo to shame.
'I accept,'
He smiled then. A relieved smile and kissing me deeply thrice looked eagerly at me, the golden glints still shimmering with resolution. The crinkled notes in my hand felt strange on my skin.
Dazed, I looked up at him smiling wanly at him when in fact I wanted to lie down on the pavement.
'We should a buy now, yes?'
'Yes' I felt weak as new-born kitten. All I wanted to do was sleep. Perhaps I just wasn't used to being kissed. I thought of my parents again.
By the way, I my name is 'Feliciano Canavacciuolo'
'Dominika'
So, that was how it began, me clinging on to his arm as we swung back into the marketplace, Feliciano singing 'O Sole Mio' in some gay key, while I meanwhile considered going home to a bottle of vodka. I felt as if I had suffered a major hangover.
It wasn't the most pleasant new association for a person who would inch his way to the spotlight of my life, but the idiocy, the irrationality of the situation which made it so memorable.
We danced through the market like a newly-wed couple all liveliness and foolishness.
I laughed constantly; he could probably make the Fuehrer laugh if he tried. He seemed very pleased by that compliment. His smile was all encompassing.
We bought cheeses, sausages, fresh vegetables, and bright oranges lovely shimmering orbs among the other fruits and flowers. Eglantines and edelweiss so fresh from the mountains that dew sparkled on them.
All the time he chattered wildly and sweetly, and he jubilantly swung me alongside him like a cane, grinning from ear to ear until the afternoon shadows gained on us. My morning shopping had turned into an all day excursion.
'What are you doing here?' I asked casually as we passed the lazy drift of the river.
He gazed openly at me his eyes wide as saucers.
'Me? Why?' As if startled by the question.
'In Italy our family is very proud of the new alliance, for you see-a Germany is a very powerful enemy and an even more powerful ally. I believe staying here; in Berlin is the safest thing to do in uncertain time such as this!'
He continued in a wistful monotone.
'Oooh! Only, how I miss the red hills of Tuscany and the smell of orzo baking in the hot sun! We-a used to visit my cousins in Sicily every winter! We caught anchovies in our handmade nets then came home and marinated them in olive oil and served them with sweet peppers. Each evening Papa would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the table until Mama sent us to bed. Even then we would sneak downstairs to watch the adults dancing. That is what I shall miss. Here, in the North, it is awfully cold.'
There was something childish and sensitive about the way he said it which made me pity him.
'These German women, here, they are so icy. I cannot find a proper lady to paint!'
He mumbled something in Italian, shaking his head with loss.
'Not you though, you're different,' he added for good measure.
'You paint?' I asked with surprise.
'Yes, yes, yes! That is my work! Painting! Without my paintbrush I am nothing- a figment of myself, incomplete...'
We had come to the end of our shopping at this point, and we awkwardly moved away earnestly looking into each other's eyes for words to say. I couldn't find a thing.
'Thank you, I can't express the delight I feel at having met you, today was lovely, it was wonderful meeting you,'
His face appeared hot under the pallor of his skin.
As he slowly slid his hand away from my arm, he handed me a hand-written piece of paper in bold type. Feliciano's Studio, with the obligatory address.
He gave a sigh; 'I suppose it is time for you to go home now,'
'Mmmm...'
'Stop by tomorrow- yes?'
'Yes,' I whispered softly.
He kissed my hand once more before sliding off through the shadows.
