Read Online The Second Son: A Novel by Jonathan Rabb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Rabb
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Gershwin. You’re thinking of the wrong thing.” He shoveled in another forkful.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” said Radek. “I’m not.” There was a quiet menace in his tone; Rolf, however, continued to chew. “This is”—Radek became more serious as he thought—“ Crazy Girl ,” he said triumphantly. “ ‘Embraceable You’ from Crazy Girl .”
“ Girl Crazy ,” Rolf corrected. “And, no, it’s not. This is ‘Night and Day’ from The Gay Divorce . Cole Porter.” Rolf took a drink of beer and swallowed.
Radek watched as Rolf dug back in. “I have the phonograph,” Radek said.
Rolf nodded. “Good. Then you have the phonograph of The Gay Divorce by Cole Porter.” He raised his hand to a waiter, made some indecipherable gesture with his fingers, and went back to his plate. “I’m getting the spätzle, Nikolai, if you want some.”
This, evidently, was the way an evening with Berlin’s most dangerous trio took shape: elementary economics and Tin Pan Alley.
With anyone other than Rolf or Franz, Radek would have found a reason to press things, even when he knew he was wrong. He had once told Hoffner it was good for a man to learn how to cower every now and then. This wasn’t cruelty. It was therapeutic, even better if the man recanted the truth just so as to save himself. Radek called it the psychology of order: men liked knowing where they stood; they liked even better being told where to stand. No wonder he was finding Berlin so comforting.
“Finish up,” said Radek. “We’re heading west. I’ve got a treat for you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, all four were crammed into the back of Radek’s Daimler saloon, Franz and Rolf perched precariously on the two jump seats.
“You were a fencer, weren’t you?” said Radek.
Hoffner tapped his cigarette out the window and watched as a floodlit Unter den Linden raced by. The avenue had once been famous for its dual column of trees down the center. Not now. The Nazis had insisted on building a north-south U-Bahn to impress their Olympic guests. That meant digging and destruction and the temporary loss of the trees. But not to worry. There were always plenty of flagpoles and light stanchions at the ready to take their place, row after row of perfectly aligned swastika banners fluttering in the rain.
Berlin was now nothing more than an over-rouged corpse, gaudy jewels and shiny baubles to distract from the gray, fetid skin underneath.
Hoffner said, “It’s going to smell like this for a while, isn’t it?”
The avenue was jam-packed with the city’s esteemed visitors, guzzling their beer and munching their sausages—most of them good little Germans, small-town folk, who had been arriving by the trainload for the past week. The foreign contingent—all that promised money from abroad—had proved something of a disappointment. Still, at least most of these knew how to speak the language.
Radek said, “Gives it a nice rustic feel, doesn’t it?”
They drove past the Brandenburg Gate, and the light in the car intensified. Hoffner said, “So how much have they laid out for all this?”
“Why?” said Radek. “You thinking of chipping in?”
Hoffner turned to him. “How much?”
Radek shrugged. “No idea.”
“Really.”
Radek shook his head. “I’m telling you, we had the stadium—that’s it. The electrics went to Frimmel. The Sass brothers took the village complex. They get catering on that, so they’ll be making some nice money, although they’ve had to deal with the Wehrmacht, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And Gröbnitz got waste disposal.”
Franz, who was staring out the window, laughed quietly to himself.
“Franz likes that Gröbnitz will be up to his arms in it,” Radek said. “What Franz doesn’t realize is how much money there is in shoveling someone else’s shit.”
Hoffner said, “Refreshing to see all the syndicates working so nicely together.”
“It’s the
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” said Radek. “I’m not.” There was a quiet menace in his tone; Rolf, however, continued to chew. “This is”—Radek became more serious as he thought—“ Crazy Girl ,” he said triumphantly. “ ‘Embraceable You’ from Crazy Girl .”
“ Girl Crazy ,” Rolf corrected. “And, no, it’s not. This is ‘Night and Day’ from The Gay Divorce . Cole Porter.” Rolf took a drink of beer and swallowed.
Radek watched as Rolf dug back in. “I have the phonograph,” Radek said.
Rolf nodded. “Good. Then you have the phonograph of The Gay Divorce by Cole Porter.” He raised his hand to a waiter, made some indecipherable gesture with his fingers, and went back to his plate. “I’m getting the spätzle, Nikolai, if you want some.”
This, evidently, was the way an evening with Berlin’s most dangerous trio took shape: elementary economics and Tin Pan Alley.
With anyone other than Rolf or Franz, Radek would have found a reason to press things, even when he knew he was wrong. He had once told Hoffner it was good for a man to learn how to cower every now and then. This wasn’t cruelty. It was therapeutic, even better if the man recanted the truth just so as to save himself. Radek called it the psychology of order: men liked knowing where they stood; they liked even better being told where to stand. No wonder he was finding Berlin so comforting.
“Finish up,” said Radek. “We’re heading west. I’ve got a treat for you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, all four were crammed into the back of Radek’s Daimler saloon, Franz and Rolf perched precariously on the two jump seats.
“You were a fencer, weren’t you?” said Radek.
Hoffner tapped his cigarette out the window and watched as a floodlit Unter den Linden raced by. The avenue had once been famous for its dual column of trees down the center. Not now. The Nazis had insisted on building a north-south U-Bahn to impress their Olympic guests. That meant digging and destruction and the temporary loss of the trees. But not to worry. There were always plenty of flagpoles and light stanchions at the ready to take their place, row after row of perfectly aligned swastika banners fluttering in the rain.
Berlin was now nothing more than an over-rouged corpse, gaudy jewels and shiny baubles to distract from the gray, fetid skin underneath.
Hoffner said, “It’s going to smell like this for a while, isn’t it?”
The avenue was jam-packed with the city’s esteemed visitors, guzzling their beer and munching their sausages—most of them good little Germans, small-town folk, who had been arriving by the trainload for the past week. The foreign contingent—all that promised money from abroad—had proved something of a disappointment. Still, at least most of these knew how to speak the language.
Radek said, “Gives it a nice rustic feel, doesn’t it?”
They drove past the Brandenburg Gate, and the light in the car intensified. Hoffner said, “So how much have they laid out for all this?”
“Why?” said Radek. “You thinking of chipping in?”
Hoffner turned to him. “How much?”
Radek shrugged. “No idea.”
“Really.”
Radek shook his head. “I’m telling you, we had the stadium—that’s it. The electrics went to Frimmel. The Sass brothers took the village complex. They get catering on that, so they’ll be making some nice money, although they’ve had to deal with the Wehrmacht, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And Gröbnitz got waste disposal.”
Franz, who was staring out the window, laughed quietly to himself.
“Franz likes that Gröbnitz will be up to his arms in it,” Radek said. “What Franz doesn’t realize is how much money there is in shoveling someone else’s shit.”
Hoffner said, “Refreshing to see all the syndicates working so nicely together.”
“It’s the
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