Read Online The Pieces from Berlin by Michael Pye - Free Book Online Page B

is what I have, that I don’t need.” She gave Nicholas a little tin box, for throat lozenges, that rattled.
    “What are they?”
    She said: “Never you mind.” Then she said: “We call them Jewish drops.”
    “But I’m not Jewish.”
    “Then you won’t like them.”
    He carried the box back to Mr. Goldstein, who made the Jewish drops disappear into his hand like a conjurer does.
    Nicholas told his mother about this. He wanted to discuss it, a little. She only said he shouldn’t do such things. Then she went downstairs herself to talk to Mr. Goldstein, and from downstairs he heard music: and he knew it was Bach, the Brandenburg Concertos, and was proud to know the name, because Mr. Goldstein had told him.
    “What’s happening?” he asked his mother when she came back.
    “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing unusual.” And she was right; the usual was accelerated, frantic, menacing, but it was usual.
    A few days later, Katya complained about having to clean a rug that had suddenly appeared, a fine red and gold affair. Lucia said she’d sort that out. “It can go into storage,” she said. He noticed there were a number of other new and fine things.
    He always had the key in his pocket. He walked carefully, tiptoe, down the stairs. He half hoped Mr. Goldstein’s door would still be open, although he knew that adults all locked up at night; he’d been careful to check the locks on his own door.
    The stairs were still very clean, the paint washed, the light dull neon gray. He didn’t like shadows at the time, and there were hardly any shadows because the lights were overhead. Sometimes he felt safer on the stairs than in the apartment.
    On the next landing down, he stopped at Mr. Goldstein’s door. He pushed it. It came open. It didn’t seem he had opened it for the sake of the air, but it wasn’t locked.
    He ought to warn him, say something, but he didn’t want to go any further in. But he could hear music, and if he shouted, Mr. Goldstein might not hear him.
    The light was shut off in the corridor, but he could see some faint shine, like a candle, in the living room.
    He knew he should stop there. He looked back and the door bounced on its hinges and swung shut.
    He was still an adventurer. He knew Mr. Goldstein, and Mr. Goldstein would be glad to see him, surprised, but glad. He was an adventurer, brave and intrepid, and he ought to go walk on down the corridor.
    He ought to turn back.
    If someone moved on the staircase, that would explain why he lost his nerve. But there was no movement in his memory, no foot-steps. All he remembered was suddenly starting to run toward that faint gold light at the end of the corridor and stopping short of the door and hearing the needle catch in the gramophone record.
    Mr. Goldstein would now get up from his chair and correct the record. But Mr. Goldstein did not correct the record. The needle banged and fizzed on the groove.
    Nicholas was more afraid to run back than to run forward. Ahead there was light, behind was a throat of darkness, ready to swallow him.
    The light changed. The candle, which had been flickering in a glass at the level of a tabletop, was now down on the floor.
    He opened the door. The candle caught papers on the floor which burned up in a little boiling of flame.
    He knew what to do. He stamped on the flames. He picked up the candle and pinched it out between his fingers.
    He had seen something in the light. He saw Mr. Goldstein, in his chair. But now he could see nothing at all.
    This living room must be much like the living room upstairs, so it would have windows over to the left, with shutters inside. If he could get to the shutters and open them, there would be light from outside: the Christmas lights of a bombing raid, perhaps.
    He felt his way across the room.
    He said: “Mr. Goldstein. Mr. Goldstein. Are you asleep?”
    He fumbled with the low catches on the shutters and opened them. He wasn’t sure if he could reach the higher ones, but he