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Authors: Anne Blankman
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looking about?” Cohen asked. “You needn’t worry about being caught with me. I doubt any of your NSDAP friends would come into a place like this.”
“No, it’s just I’ve never been to a nightclub before.”
Surprise widened his eyes. “How is it I’ve lived in this city for only a month and I suspect I’ve seen more of it than you have?”
“I’m not allowed.” She spoke defiantly, to hide her embarrassment. How babyish she must appear, a child who wasn’t permitted to go out to nightclubs or listen to popular music.
“Then how did you get here tonight, if it’s forbidden?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I snuck out.”
He laughed. The unexpected mirth transformed his face, softening its strong angles. She caught her breath and had to look away.
“Really?” Cohen said. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. There’s a city hidden beneath the one your National Socialists want you to see—music and culture and art and dancing, all the things they’re trying to blind you to.”
His approving tone shamed her. She couldn’t imagine Uncle Dolf’s reaction if he found out.
“I don’t need your advice,” she said. “I snuck out so I could speak with you again. I need you to explain this story you seem to think you’ve uncovered about my father.”
She spoke softly, so he couldn’t hear how badly her voice shook. Never show your enemies how much you care , Papa had taught, because then they have power over you .
All traces of merriment fled from the reporter’s features. He leaned across the table, the dim lamplight touching his cheeks. “You set those brownshirt thugs on Dearstyne, didn’t you?” His gaze clapped onto hers. “You were afraid he could damage your family’s precious favored position in the Party. No one else could have done it. I’ve kept him a secret from everyone except my editor.”
She didn’t know why the anger in his voice surprised her; Uncle Dolf had warned her that Jews were vipers in the grass, ready to turn and strike at any second. “I didn’t tell anyone. And who’s Dearstyne? The old man from the Circus Krone last night?”
“Yes, Stefan Dearstyne.” He sounded bitter. “Your brother and his mates beat him and kicked him when he was on his hands and knees, looking for his knocked-out teeth.” An image of Reinhard, bending over the defenseless elderly man, his arm raised in mid-strike, flashed before her. She felt sick. “We’re not here to talk about them, but my father—”
Cohen surged to his feet. “I can’t listen to your evasions. Not even for the best scoop of my career. Good-bye, Fräulein Müller.”
“Wait!”
She hurried after him. Her arm flashed out, her fingers closing around his wrist. He stopped and looked down at her hand, as if the sight disgusted him. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked. “Touch a Jew? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“I don’t care about the rules right now!” She pitched her voice low, but the people at the surrounding tables turned to look at them. “People are staring at us.”
He pulled away without replying, moving quickly across the dance floor. She mustn’t let him leave, not until she knew Herr Dearstyne’s story. She darted in front of him and seized his hands. Revulsion roiled her stomach. But she must know the truth about Papa.
“Please,” she whispered.
Herr Cohen stared down at her, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. “I can’t figure you out,” he said, so quietly he might have been speaking to himself. “Every time I think I understand who you are, you seem to change.”
What he thought of her didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the small, circular hole in the back of Papa’s Great War tunic.
“Please,” she said again. “I swear to you, I haven’t told a soul about your letter. I only told my dearest friend that I was coming here tonight, nothing about you. One of the SA boys said they’d received orders from SA-Stabschef Röhm to
“No, it’s just I’ve never been to a nightclub before.”
Surprise widened his eyes. “How is it I’ve lived in this city for only a month and I suspect I’ve seen more of it than you have?”
“I’m not allowed.” She spoke defiantly, to hide her embarrassment. How babyish she must appear, a child who wasn’t permitted to go out to nightclubs or listen to popular music.
“Then how did you get here tonight, if it’s forbidden?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I snuck out.”
He laughed. The unexpected mirth transformed his face, softening its strong angles. She caught her breath and had to look away.
“Really?” Cohen said. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. There’s a city hidden beneath the one your National Socialists want you to see—music and culture and art and dancing, all the things they’re trying to blind you to.”
His approving tone shamed her. She couldn’t imagine Uncle Dolf’s reaction if he found out.
“I don’t need your advice,” she said. “I snuck out so I could speak with you again. I need you to explain this story you seem to think you’ve uncovered about my father.”
She spoke softly, so he couldn’t hear how badly her voice shook. Never show your enemies how much you care , Papa had taught, because then they have power over you .
All traces of merriment fled from the reporter’s features. He leaned across the table, the dim lamplight touching his cheeks. “You set those brownshirt thugs on Dearstyne, didn’t you?” His gaze clapped onto hers. “You were afraid he could damage your family’s precious favored position in the Party. No one else could have done it. I’ve kept him a secret from everyone except my editor.”
She didn’t know why the anger in his voice surprised her; Uncle Dolf had warned her that Jews were vipers in the grass, ready to turn and strike at any second. “I didn’t tell anyone. And who’s Dearstyne? The old man from the Circus Krone last night?”
“Yes, Stefan Dearstyne.” He sounded bitter. “Your brother and his mates beat him and kicked him when he was on his hands and knees, looking for his knocked-out teeth.” An image of Reinhard, bending over the defenseless elderly man, his arm raised in mid-strike, flashed before her. She felt sick. “We’re not here to talk about them, but my father—”
Cohen surged to his feet. “I can’t listen to your evasions. Not even for the best scoop of my career. Good-bye, Fräulein Müller.”
“Wait!”
She hurried after him. Her arm flashed out, her fingers closing around his wrist. He stopped and looked down at her hand, as if the sight disgusted him. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked. “Touch a Jew? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“I don’t care about the rules right now!” She pitched her voice low, but the people at the surrounding tables turned to look at them. “People are staring at us.”
He pulled away without replying, moving quickly across the dance floor. She mustn’t let him leave, not until she knew Herr Dearstyne’s story. She darted in front of him and seized his hands. Revulsion roiled her stomach. But she must know the truth about Papa.
“Please,” she whispered.
Herr Cohen stared down at her, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. “I can’t figure you out,” he said, so quietly he might have been speaking to himself. “Every time I think I understand who you are, you seem to change.”
What he thought of her didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the small, circular hole in the back of Papa’s Great War tunic.
“Please,” she said again. “I swear to you, I haven’t told a soul about your letter. I only told my dearest friend that I was coming here tonight, nothing about you. One of the SA boys said they’d received orders from SA-Stabschef Röhm to
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