These are the woman’s last words on that day.
The next morning comes, and Rashka is aroused with a kick. “Come, Bissel,” says the gnä’ Fräulein flatly. “Time to earn your keep.”
The bombing is worse now. The Tommies by night, the Amies by day. Masses of gleaming silver wings streaking through the blue of the sky. The wine restaurant that the gnä’ Fräulein had picked for the day has evacuated to the nearest U-Bahn tunnel, which is now thickly crowded with Berliners intent on surviving the latest onslaught. Above them, the guns of the Zoo Flak Tower begin to pound the air, and a fresh swell of people invade the tunnel, but in the crowd, the gnä’ Fräulein is suddenly gone. Separated from Rashka and the man Cronenberg. The tunnel stinks of fear and of soapless Berliners. Faces are numb-looking. Numb to any illusion of victory piped out through the loudspeakers of the Propaganda Ministry. Numb to the daily ration of destruction. Numb to the crush of defeat.
Rashka is numb as well. She tries to imagine where her eema is. In a slave camp somewhere east? Is she hungry? Frightened? Cold? Does she believe that Rashka has abandoned her? Rashka herself feels beyond tears. She has isolated her soul within her body. Now she simply breathes in and out. Her heart simply continues to beat without purpose, when abruptly, she feels a hand invade the inside of her coat. It’s Cronenberg. For an instant, it feels like a violation. But then the hand is withdrawn. He has stuffed her coat with an envelope. She glares at the man’s face in confusion, but Cronenberg’s eyes are level.
“That’s money and papers,” he tells her. “Enough for train fare and some food along the way. Also, a bomb pass with a false name. Your building was bombed out. Your father’s at the front. You’ll be on your way to join your family in the town of Furtwangen in the Schwarzwald. That ought to put you far enough west of the Russians when they come.”
She is too shocked to answer him.
“Not much of a plan. Might not work. But it’s the best I could manage,” he tells her. “When the raid ends, leave by the opposite stairwell. I’ll make sure she doesn’t catch up with you. So good luck, little baggage,” he says, and then he is gone.
***
“I know it was me who asked for this meeting,” says the Angel, “but I almost did not come.” She tells this to Rachel on the park bench as if she is speaking more to herself. They are separated on the bench by an empty middle space of a little less than a foot. That’s all. “I thought you might be laying a trap for me.” She frowns off at the trees for a moment before she speaks. “That you might have some misguided desire for vengeance.”
“You must mean for justice.”
“Justice?” The Angel turns with a half smile. “Let’s not get in over our heads, child. Justice.” She repeats the word. “True justice. Don’t you believe that might sink us both?” She breathes in smoke and then releases it. “That’s why I decided to take the risk. I thought, if I am guilty of anything, then surely she is guilty too.”
Rachel turns away from those huntress eyes and stares at the walk. The spent cigarettes and daily sweep of litter, from which the ashes of a nameless, braided schoolgirl have risen on the breeze and assembled themselves. The girl stands before Rachel as she must have once stood before the death chamber of the Krematorium. Stripped to her flesh, staring still with terror yellowing her eyes. And then she melts in a drizzle of wind.
“So why can’t we dispose of this nonsense, hmm? I did what I did, and I’ll tell you why. It began as all tragedies begin. With a mitzvah, of course. When I was first arrested, I tried to spare my parents. They were vulnerable. Helpless. I did my best to save them. Them and myself,” she admits. “I confess to that much. I was trying to save myself as well. I had an instinct for self-preservation, but is that a crime? Every animal has the instinct for life, and only the human animal lays blame to it. But what can be said? Did you know there was money paid for Jews?” she asks. “Two hundred marks, Dirkweiler paid me. Two hundred marks per Jew. That’s what they paid me for you. I admit it. You and your mother. Four hundred Reichsmarks you earned me. So don’t expect to get high and mighty with me, child,” she instructs. “You were pocket money.” She pauses to ignite a cigarette from a gold-plated case.
“Why aren’t you dead?” Rachel asks aloud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, why aren’t you dead?” she repeats. “You committed suicide in a Russian jail,” Rachel points out. “So why aren’t you dead?”
And the Angel shows her an ugly, humorless smile. “When the Red Army entered Berlin, Dirkweiler blew his own brains out. The lager disintegrated. Berlin disintegrated. Emil and I had slipped into the city at night during a raid, but we split up after the Russians crossed the Teltowkanal, and I didn’t see him again. I hid until the Russians found me like the Russians found most women,” she says. “It was brutal and debasing. But then I acquired a protector. A major in the NKVD. He was ugly and smelled of onions, but he could make things happen. It was he who had the rumor spread that I had been arrested and hanged myself.
“It was all nonsense. I was never arrested. What crime had I committed after all? But it worked. It saved me from the zealots rooting out so-called war criminals. What dreck. One does what one must to survive, and that is a crime? You did what you did because you thought it would keep you alive, didn’t you, Bissel? When you spied that little Mädchen with the braids in the café that morning? You did what you did to stay off the transports. To keep yourself alive. To keep your mother alive. I understand. Your mother understood. That’s why she gave you up.”
Rachel glares darkly at her.
“Ah, such a look. You didn’t know, Bissel?” she taunts. “Mummy never told her little Schatzi? Well, then I will tell. I asked her permission. Your uncle Fritz had some power over the transport lists, yes, but it was limited. Dirkweiler could overrule any decision at any time. But I had the power to influence the Herr Kommandant himself. No one netted him Jews like I did, not even Emil. But. Before I brought you into the business. Shall we call it that? Before then, I wanted your mother to agree. I simply refused to allow her to pretend that I had stolen you from her. You were a gift, Bissel. Your eema gave you to me. Just as she had given me to your uncle since she was too cowardly to pursue her own feelings for me. She had a reputation. She had a child. It was hard for a woman to survive in the art world. So I understood. But I did not forgive. How does a person ever really forgive betrayal?” She crushes out her cigarette. “I have done some digging on you, Bissel. Isn’t that how it is called? Digging? You are married.”
“Yes,” says Rachel.
“But no children?”
Rachel says nothing.
“No? Your husband would like things differently, perhaps? Never mind. No need to answer. I can see it in your face. My advice, Bissel, is stand to your ground. How is it said? ‘Stick to your guns.’ The world does not have to be an unhappy place. Can you learn that, do you think? There are beautiful things to be had. To be enjoyed. If there is any lesson I can still teach you, perhaps it could be this: the world resents the unhappy but indulges those who know how to take joy from their surroundings.”
And suddenly the Angel issues a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to laugh. It’s only that here I am preaching. The last thing you expected from me, I’m sure. You must have hoped I would break to pieces in front of you. Come apart like a doll. But be honest, will you?”