A Quiet Flame

On Friday nights there was even more traffic than usual, because of all the Jews attending shul at the New Synagogue, which was Berlin’s biggest. The New’s size and magnificent onion dome were a reflection of the confidence the city’s Jews had once felt about their presence in Berlin. But not anymore. According to my friend Lasker, some of the city’s Jews were already preparing to leave Germany should the unthinkable happen and the Nazis be elected. As we arrived, hundreds of them were streaming through the building’s multicolored brickwork arches: men with large fur hats and long black coats, men with shawls and ringlets, boys with velvet skullcaps, women with silk headscarves—and all under the watchful, slightly contemptuous scrutiny of the several uniformed policemen who were positioned in twos at intervals along the length of the street, just in case a group of Nazi agitators decided to show up and cause trouble.

“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Grund, as we got out of the car. “Look at this. It’s like the bloody Exodus. I’ve never seen so many damn Jews.”

“It’s Friday night,” I said. “It’s when they go to pray.”

“Like rats, so they are,” he said, with obvious distaste. “As for this—” He stared up at the huge synagogue, with its central dome and the two smaller, pavilionlike domes flanking it, and shook his head sadly. “I mean, whose stupid idea was it to let them build this ugly thing here?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It doesn’t belong here, that’s what’s wrong with it. This is Germany. We’re a Christian country. If they want this kind of thing they should go and live somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

“Palestine. Goshen. Somewhere with a hell of a lot of sand. I dunno and I don’t care. Just not here in Germany, that’s all. This is a Christian country.”

He stared malevolently at the many Jews entering the New. With their long beards and white shirts and black coats and big, wide-brimmed hats and glasses, they looked more like nearsighted pioneers from America’s nineteenth century.

We walked toward the Friedrichstrasse end of Oranienburger, where the more specialized whores I was looking for were given to waiting.

“You know what I think?” said Grund.

“Surprise me.”

“These Friedrichstrasse types should dress more like the rest of us. Like Germans. Not like freaks. They should try to blend in. That way people would be less inclined to pick on them. It’s human nature, isn’t it? Anyone who looks a bit different, who looks like they’re setting themselves apart, well, they’re just asking for trouble, aren’t they?” He nodded. “They should try to look like normal Germans.”

“You mean brown shirt, jackboots, shoulder belt, and swastika armband? Or how about leather shorts and flowery shirts?” I laughed. “Yeah, I understand. Normal. Sure.”

“You know what I mean, boss. German.”

“I used to know what that meant. When I was in the trenches, for instance. Now I’m not so sure.”

“That’s just the point I’m making. Bastards like these have blurred things. Made it less obvious what being German is all about. I suppose that’s why the Nazis are doing so well. Because they give us a clear idea of ourselves.”

I might have said that this was a clear idea of ourselves I didn’t much like, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue politics with him. Not again. Not now.

In Berlin, all special tastes were catered for. The city was one big erotic—and sometimes not so erotic—menu. Provided you knew where to look and what to ask for, the chances were you could satisfy even the most peculiar taste. You wanted an old woman—and I mean an old woman, of the kind that lives in a shoe—you went to Mehnerstrasse, which, for obvious reasons, was also known as Old Maid Street. You wanted a fat woman—and I mean a fat woman, of the kind that has a twin brother who’s a sumo wrestler in Japan—you got yourself along to Landwehrstrasse, also known as Fat Street. Now, if mothers and daughters were your thing, then you went to Gollnowstrasse. That was known as Incest Street. Racehorses, girls you could use the whip on, were most often found in the beauty shops and massage parlors that surrounded Hallesches Tor. Pregnant women—and I do mean pregnant women, not girls with cushions stuffed up the front of their dirndls—were found on Münzstrasse. Münzstrasse was also called Coin Street, because there was a general sense that it was a place where people were prepared to sell absolutely anything.