The Orphan's Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds. Pam Jenoff

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ that would make his once-sparse quarters our home. Our biggest dilemma was which café to frequent for Sunday brunch.

      I’d been in Berlin for almost five years when the war broke out. Erich received a promotion to something I didn’t understand having to do with munitions and his days became longer. He would come home either dark and moody, or heady with excitement about things he could not share with me. “It will all be so different when the Reich is victorious, trust me.” But I didn’t want different. I liked our life just as it had been. What was so wrong with the old ways?

      Things had not gone back to the way they had been, though. Instead they worsened rapidly. They said awful things about Jews on the radio and in the newspapers. Jewish shop windows were broken and doors painted. “My family...” I’d fretted to Erich over brunch in our Berlin apartment after I’d seen the windows of a Jewish butcher shop on Oranienburger Strasse shattered. I was the wife of a German officer. I was safe. But what about my family back home?

      “Nothing will hurt them, Inna,” he soothed, rubbing my shoulders.

      “If it’s happening here,” I pressed, “then Darmstadt can be no better.”

      He wrapped his arms around me. “Shh. There have just been a few acts of vandalism in the city, a showing. Look around you. Everything is fine.” The apartment was scented with the smell of rich coffee. A pitcher of fresh orange juice sat on the table. Surely it could not be so much worse elsewhere. I rested my head on the broad shelf of Erich’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar warmth of his neck. “The Klemt family circus is internationally known,” he reassured. He was right. Our family circus had been generations in the making, born from the old horse shows in Prussia—my great-great-grandfather, they said, had left the Lipizzaner Stallions in Vienna to start our first circus. And the next generation had followed and the one after that, the very oddest sort of family business.

      Erich continued, “That’s why I stopped to see the show on my way back from Munich that day. And then I saw you...” He pulled me onto his lap.

      I raised my hand, cutting him off. Normally I loved his retelling of how we met, but I was too worried to listen. “I should go check on them.”

      “How will you find them on tour?” he asked, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. It was true; midsummer, they could be almost anywhere in Germany or France. “And what would you do to help them? No, they would want you to stay here. Safe. With me.” He nuzzled me playfully.

      He was right of course, I had told myself, lulled by his lips upon my neck. But still the worry nagged. Then one day the letter came. “Dearest Ingrid, we have disbanded the circus...” Papa’s tone was matter-of-fact, no plea for help, though I could only imagine his anguish at taking apart the family business that had flourished for more than a century. It did not say what they would do next or if they would leave, and I wondered if that was by design.

      I wrote immediately, begging him to tell me what their plans were, if they needed money. I would have brought the whole family to Berlin and fit them into our apartment. But that would only have meant drawing them closer to the danger. In any event, the point was moot: my letter came back unopened. That had been six months earlier and there had been no word. Where had they gone?

      “Ingrid!” Herr Neuhoff booms as he enters the sitting room. If he is surprised to see me, he gives no indication. Herr Neuhoff is not as old as my father and in my childhood memories, he had been dashing and handsome, if portly, with dark hair and a mustache. But he is shorter than I remembered, with a full stomach and just a gray fringe of hair. I rise and start toward him. Then, seeing the small swastika pin on his lapel, I stop. Coming here had been a mistake. “For appearances,” he says hastily.

      “Yes, of course.” But I am not sure whether to believe him. I should just go. His face appears genuinely glad to see me, though. I decide to take a chance.

      He gestures to a chair overlaid with lace and I sit, perching uneasily. “Cognac?” he offers.

      I falter. “That would be lovely.” He rings a bell and the same woman who answered the door brings in a tray—one house servant where there used to be many. The Circus Neuhoff has not been left untouched by the war. I feign a sip from the glass she offers me. I do not want to be rude, but I need to keep my head about me to figure out where I am going from here. There is no resting place for me in Darmstadt anymore.

      “You’ve just come from Berlin?” His tone is polite, one step short of asking what I am doing here.

      “Yes. Papa wrote that he disbanded the circus.” Herr Neuhoff’s brow creases with his unspoken question: the circus broke up months ago. Why have I come now? “More recently I lost contact and my letters came back unanswered,” I add. “Have you heard from them?”

      “I’m afraid nothing,” he replies. “There were only a few of them left at the end, all of the workers had gone.” Because it was illegal to work for the Jews. My father had treated his performers and even the manual laborers like family, caring for them when they were sick, inviting them to family celebrations, such as my brothers’ bar mitzvahs. He’d given generously to the town, too, doing charity shows for the hospital and donating to the political officials to curry favor. Trying so very hard to make us one of them. We had nearly forgotten that we weren’t.

      Herr Neuhoff continues, “I went looking for them you know, after. But the house was empty. They were gone, though whether they went on their own or something had happened, I couldn’t say.” He walks to the mahogany desk in the corner and opens a drawer. “I do have this.” He reveals a Kiddush cup and I rise, fighting the urge to cry out at the familiar Hebrew letters. “This was yours, no?”

      I nod, taking it from him. How had he gotten it? There had been a menorah, as well, and other things. The Germans must have taken those. I run my finger along the edge of the cup. On the road my family would have gathered in our railcar just to light the candles and share a bit of whatever wine and bread could be found, a few minutes of just us. I see shoulders pressed close to fit around the tiny table, my brothers’ faces illuminated by candlelight. We were not so very religious—we had to perform on Saturdays and had not managed to keep kosher on the road. But we clung fast to the little things, a moment’s observance each week. No matter how happy I had been with Erich, some part of my heart always drifted from the gay Berlin cafés back to the quiet Sabbaths.

      I sink down once more. “I should never have left.”

      “The Germans still would have put your father out of business,” he points out. If I had been here, though, perhaps the Germans would not have forced my family from their home or arrested them, or done whatever had caused them to not be here any longer. My connection to Erich, which I had held up like such a shield, had in the end proved worthless.

      Herr Neuhoff coughs once, then again, his face reddening. I wonder if he is ill.

      “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he says when he has recovered. “You’ll go back to Berlin now?”

      I shift awkwardly. “I’m afraid not.”

      It has been three days since Erich returned unexpectedly early from work to our apartment. I threw myself into his arms. “I’m so glad to see you,” I exclaimed. “Dinner isn’t quite ready yet, but we could have a drink.” He spent so many nights at official dinners or buried in his study with papers. It seemed like forever since we’d shared a quiet evening together.

      He did not put his arms around me but remained stiff. “Ingrid,” he said, using my full name and not the pet name he’d given me, “we need to divorce.”

СКАЧАТЬ