At home, the mood was apprehensive. Both Mutti and Papa could be faced with dismissal… and then what would happen to them all? Neither of them could claim non-Jewish grandparents.
In the end, President von Hindenburg intervened suggesting that these new rules shouldn’t apply to those Jews who had fought in the First World War, and Hitler reluctantly agreed.
‘So, you’ll be able to keep your jobs, then?’ Asta asked her parents, sitting across from them at the dinner table, their chicken and sauerkraut untouched. Papa had been in the war; he’d fought with his two brothers, but only he had survived. His only surviving sibling was his sister, Trine, who lived now in Denmark.
‘For now,’ agreed Papa, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. ‘But your mother might not.’
They stared at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think it applies to the spouses of war veterans. It’s okay, I might be able to get a job at the Jewish clinic – a former colleague who works there has hinted that there might be an opening if I want to come on board. But at least one of us will definitely get to keep their job. It’s a good thing – a relief,’ she said, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself of that.
Papa looked at her in disbelief. ‘Is it?’ He shook his head, and put down his fork, which clanged onto his plate, then stared out unseeing at the streets of Hamburg below their apartment. ‘You’ve worked hard for that hospital – and you’re excellent at it but despite that, you must leave, just like that? Just because we don’t have Christian grandparents. Maybe it would be better if we had no alternative – like the Rubensteins.’
The Rubensteins were their neighbours – both worked in the civil service, government office jobs, and now were looking at emigrating to England.
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Mutti, who had picked up her wine glass only to set it down with a thud, slopping red liquid onto the crisp white linen. ‘Hana Rubenstein is beside herself, she’s been crying every day since it happened. Her whole life is here – and she can’t even speak English properly. All I have to do is work for another hospital. In some ways it will be better – less responsibility. They’re only going because her husband can, and they have a friend who is willing to put them up – but can you even imagine how horrid it will be for them – it’s not like the English are that fond of Germans, after the war…’
Papa snorted. ‘Worse than here? As foreigners, they will have more rights there than in their own country. As long as he gets the right visa and pays his taxes, they will be fine. I think we should think of doing the same.’
Mama blinked. ‘Leave Hamburg?’
He stared at her. ‘Germany.’
‘And go where?’
‘Denmark, maybe. We can go to Trine – she’s already suggested it; she has a small cottage by the sea, but she has a big barn which she has offered us.’
Mutti’s eyes widened in shock. ‘A barn? You can’t be serious! We don’t need to flee – we aren’t destitute, or about to be like the Rubensteins, we don’t have to go! I don’t want to leave my friends, give up working…’ She started to cry, her gaze falling on their stylish flat in the heart of the city, with its polished herringbone wood, high ceilings and touches of luxury from fine art to hand-made antiques. ‘… to live in a barn.’
The twins looked stricken. They didn’t want to leave either. This was their city, their home, with its vast network of canals. Things were bad for now, but surely they would get better?
Papa sighed. ‘I don’t relish the idea either but we might have to at some point. Maybe it’s better if we did it fast. It’s just… I’ve been thinking it’s like a bone, a clean break often heals the best – but if you keep injuring it, the longer it takes to recover.’
7
Since Asta could remember, Jürgen was usually found with a sketchbook in hand. He was forever drawing something he’d seen: scenes of daily life in Hamburg, from canals to people at cafés and restaurants or sitting on benches. He drew dogs roaming free, as well as Asta and their adventures. There was a playfulness to his scenes, a way of looking at the world and finding the humour, along with the shared humanity.
He kept a daily sketchbook, like his idol, Adolph von Menzel, had. ‘You know, Asta, they say he had eight pockets in his overcoat and they were filled with sketchbooks – he said he couldn’t understand how an artist could be without one.’ Menzel was known for his paintings and his patriotism, but it was his sketches and his work processes that Jürgen respected most. Like Menzel, Jürgen’s drawings were full of empathy, particularly for people who were finding it harder to be acquainted with luck.
On their tenth birthday, Papa and Mutti, presented them each with a single gift. It was unusual, as often in the past there had been several for each, but times were tougher, and more uncertain. Yet it was this very simplicity that made each of their gifts so special. Asta’s was an introduction to veterinary science – a first-year anatomy textbook for university students, and Jürgen’s was a handsome leather sketchbook, that had his initials stamped in gold foil. J.S.
Jürgen began to fill his immediately, sketching his sister, as she pored over the anatomy textbook with fervour.
She was arranging different coloured pencils around her while she began taking notes, a look of satisfaction on her face, as she studied an illustration of the muscle network of a dog.
He grinned, catching her feet, ankles crossed, while she lay on her front. ‘You know, Küken, you are a bit weird, really.’
She had a pink pencil in her mouth – the perfect shade for tendons – as she looked up at him. She didn’t get offended. Her violet eyes danced. ‘I know, but then, I suppose we are all a bit weird, deep down.’
He nodded. She was probably right.
He stifled a smile as she began to learn each and every muscle, bone, and tendon. Later there would be colour-coded notes, which would be stuck up all over her wall, or placed into the pocket of her school jacket, so that she could test herself.
And then soon – like the way she had once studied several maps of all the hundreds of Hamburg’s canals – she would know it all by heart.
Jürgen looked up as a shadow moved over his sketch of the former Jewish teacher, Frau Hinkel, who had passed by the school gate, shoulders weary.
‘See, you’ve got it all wrong,’ said a whiny voice that Jürgen recognised as Udo’s. He looked up and the boy was peering at his sketch with intensity. Jürgen made to stow away his sketchbook, but the boy was quicker, and snatched it, taking out a pencil from his pocket. ‘I’ll fix it for you, shall I?’ he said. ‘The nose should be at least two or three inches longer – and you missed the bump,’ he said, looking up at Jürgen. ‘You all have them,’ he said, and drew a cartoonish mountain over Frau Hinkel’ s nose. ‘Also, the eyes – they have small beady eyes, like rats, like you…’ he said, drawing a line to cut the woman’s eyes in half.
Jürgen stood up quickly, his hands balled into fists at his side.