Read Online The Prosperous Thief by Andrea Goldsmith - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrea Goldsmith
Tags: FIC019000
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had acted too hastily. They hadn’t been out as a family for weeks, all of them were desperate for some respite. What could possibly happen to them? And in these unpredictable times, would it make any difference if they stayed home or went out?
A Genius for Reprisal
I t was the ninth of November and the anniversary of the Munich Putsch, an ill-conceived and clumsy mistake if ever there was one, which in a mere fifteen years had metamorphosed into a glorious act of martyrdom and one of Nazism’s most formative moments. Martin put such revisionism down to the Nazi talent for a shrewd type of lying, one that reeked of sincerity and the public good. Renate, however, subscribed to a more fundamental view.
‘Laundry,’ she said. ‘Our leaders are meticulous launderers of the public memory.’
On this particular ninth of November the Lewins had planned to take the train into Düsseldorf. Defy the odds, they had decided, don the blinkers and experience life as it used to be. But that was before young Grynszpan, a Jew as obscure as his name, had gunned down the German official in Paris. Over breakfast they had listened to the latest news on the wireless and discussed the possible repercussions, and Martin now believed they should go ahead as planned. Renate was not so sure. They knew nothing of this Grynszpan, she said, except he was a Jew who had shot a German, and events of the past few years showed it required a lot less for Nazis to turn on Jews.
She had left the dining table and was now standing by the window. In the street below, people in groups, including many in uniform, were making their way to the local Putsch celebrations. There was no sign the Grynszpan incident had diluted the party mood, indeed nothing Renate could see to indicate there would be trouble. And a few hours in Düsseldorf strolling in the gardens and looking at the shops was exactly what she needed. But while Krefeld looked peaceful enough, the situation in Düsseldorf could be very different. It had been reported on the wireless that the wounded embassy worker, vom Rath, came from Düsseldorf. Not a good day for Jews to be on the streets, and particularly not in the injured man’s home town.
Martin, still seated at the table, was watching her. He could see she was struggling; in fact, ever since their return from Berlin there had been a change in her. She now seemed so much less certain about their current situation and much more aware of the dangers. Yet knowing her as he did, he was sure she would not let this incident in Paris keep them at home. Renate had always been the more courageous of the two of them; in fact, he had no doubt that the bare-fisted menace which defined Germany in these days was bearable primarily because of her. His Modigliani woman with her lavish hips smooth like the belly of a cello, her narrow shoulders and sleek neck, and despite the dangling decision, just seeing her across the room made his nerves mollify. That’s what she did for him, had always done for him, and why he was so reluctant to acknowledge that if not for her they might have left Germany long ago.
His Renate. Lively, warm, artistic, a woman who would enter each day like an explorer on virgin territory. She would gaze at the familiar landmarks of their life in Krefeld and see them as a marvellous and changing exhibition. For her, the routines of life were forever new.This was a woman who would step into each day expecting to be surprised and invariably was.
‘So shouldn’t we stay home? Won’t we be courting trouble?’
He started with the sound of her voice, and in the moment he needed to collect himself took stock of how things had changed, the quality of life in Germany, the quality of their life, and most particularly his lush-with-life wife, that she should opt for the safe decision. She sounded so uncertain, miserable too, and the flat felt so crowded with all of them treading on each other’s moods, oddly hostile too.
‘We’ll be
A Genius for Reprisal
I t was the ninth of November and the anniversary of the Munich Putsch, an ill-conceived and clumsy mistake if ever there was one, which in a mere fifteen years had metamorphosed into a glorious act of martyrdom and one of Nazism’s most formative moments. Martin put such revisionism down to the Nazi talent for a shrewd type of lying, one that reeked of sincerity and the public good. Renate, however, subscribed to a more fundamental view.
‘Laundry,’ she said. ‘Our leaders are meticulous launderers of the public memory.’
On this particular ninth of November the Lewins had planned to take the train into Düsseldorf. Defy the odds, they had decided, don the blinkers and experience life as it used to be. But that was before young Grynszpan, a Jew as obscure as his name, had gunned down the German official in Paris. Over breakfast they had listened to the latest news on the wireless and discussed the possible repercussions, and Martin now believed they should go ahead as planned. Renate was not so sure. They knew nothing of this Grynszpan, she said, except he was a Jew who had shot a German, and events of the past few years showed it required a lot less for Nazis to turn on Jews.
She had left the dining table and was now standing by the window. In the street below, people in groups, including many in uniform, were making their way to the local Putsch celebrations. There was no sign the Grynszpan incident had diluted the party mood, indeed nothing Renate could see to indicate there would be trouble. And a few hours in Düsseldorf strolling in the gardens and looking at the shops was exactly what she needed. But while Krefeld looked peaceful enough, the situation in Düsseldorf could be very different. It had been reported on the wireless that the wounded embassy worker, vom Rath, came from Düsseldorf. Not a good day for Jews to be on the streets, and particularly not in the injured man’s home town.
Martin, still seated at the table, was watching her. He could see she was struggling; in fact, ever since their return from Berlin there had been a change in her. She now seemed so much less certain about their current situation and much more aware of the dangers. Yet knowing her as he did, he was sure she would not let this incident in Paris keep them at home. Renate had always been the more courageous of the two of them; in fact, he had no doubt that the bare-fisted menace which defined Germany in these days was bearable primarily because of her. His Modigliani woman with her lavish hips smooth like the belly of a cello, her narrow shoulders and sleek neck, and despite the dangling decision, just seeing her across the room made his nerves mollify. That’s what she did for him, had always done for him, and why he was so reluctant to acknowledge that if not for her they might have left Germany long ago.
His Renate. Lively, warm, artistic, a woman who would enter each day like an explorer on virgin territory. She would gaze at the familiar landmarks of their life in Krefeld and see them as a marvellous and changing exhibition. For her, the routines of life were forever new.This was a woman who would step into each day expecting to be surprised and invariably was.
‘So shouldn’t we stay home? Won’t we be courting trouble?’
He started with the sound of her voice, and in the moment he needed to collect himself took stock of how things had changed, the quality of life in Germany, the quality of their life, and most particularly his lush-with-life wife, that she should opt for the safe decision. She sounded so uncertain, miserable too, and the flat felt so crowded with all of them treading on each other’s moods, oddly hostile too.
‘We’ll be
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