Chapter 11:
Paris: July 1933
It is true that liberty is precious –
so precious that it must be rationed.
V. I. Lenin (1870-1924)
Where else could one enjoy café life better than Paris? Sitting outside a café in Spring, all the way through the warm embrace of a French Summer and even on sharp, winter days in chilly sunlight was something they didn’t do in America; in London it would have been crazy, too. But in Paris? Yes. Paris was an open city in every sense. This was the metropolis of the international traveller, the artist, the student, the writer, the musician, the revolutionary. They all enjoyed a drink, many worked, even the tone deaf listened to music, if not the piano or accordion, then the fiddles of gypsies or rattle of trams or the whispering breeze in the trees along the boulevards. The air smelled of fine tobacco, baking bread and liberty. And Paris was the city to dance in; anyone could try a mad fandango after a little liquid Dutch courage, and there was plenty of that commodity in Paris.
They would meet at Gypsy’s Bar on the Rue Cujas. Gunther had found the long train journey from Hamburg hot, uncomfortable and tiring. He had only managed about two hours of sleep since leaving his ship. Yet he knew that any discomfort, much greater than a simple train ride, would be worth it. He would have walked to Paris if he’d had to. This was all part of his general amazement; he was still astonished by the fact that Ruth Thielemann, erudite, beautiful, intellectual, should still find the time and purpose to exchange letters with the sea-going son of a Markenburg vintner.
Yet despite everything which had happened back home, the long discussions, the endless arguments, Ruth and Gunther had formed a bond of what they recognised as true love. Her father, the Rabbi, like many of his calling, a man of infinite wisdom, had provided huge doses of common sense which they had both chosen to ignore. He had invited Gunther into his home on several occasions. After seriously studying every book he could find on Judaism and religion, what Gunther thought he knew about the Jews was still thrown into confusion by the Rabbi’s bluntness and honesty. The week before Ruth left for Paris, Rabbi Thielemann had given them both a stern lecture.
“I am not blind to your mutual passion. I ask you here into my home because hospitality is a good creed; the ornaments of our house are the guests who frequent it. Yet the reason you are here presents a difficulty. Love knows no religious or cultural boundaries. But I do not want my daughter to ever lose her faith. It is all we have, and since the death of her mother, she is all I have. Did old Professor Steiglitz teach you nothing,Gunther? These are dangerous times, young man. Every few decades the Jews have to face up to this recurring misery. Look at the storm clouds gathering. The suffering of my forefathers is about to descend upon us yet again. Were you both to part company in an amicable way, this would not give me pleasure. But it would give me immense relief. Another thing, Gunther – do you realise how lucky you are to be able to see Ruth without my insistence on a chaperone? Even such a sensible protocol has been pushed aside. God forbid, but let us suppose that at some time hence you decided to marry?”
Close though they had both become, neither Ruth nor Gunther had dared to mention to one another such a tempting prospect; so the Rabbi’s inclusion of the subject in this discourse was highly embarrassing. Yet he pressed on.
“Where wouldyou get married, who will perform the ceremony and where and how will it be performed? My Judaism does not allow interfaith marriages to be performed in our synagogues, nor can rabbis to perform such marriages, and before you casually dismiss this as bigotry, let’s remember that you would be asking me to put a religious stamp of approval on an act that has nothing to do with my faith. You might as well ask the rabbi to say “amen” to a blessing over a ham and cheese sandwich. And you, Ruth, my sweet child, with everything you know and everything we have taught you,could you imagine being married in a German church, under a cross or crucifix?”
Gunther had felt desperate. When it came to the subject of religion, he was in his father’s camp. He respected his mother’s zealous Catholicism, but he saw in Father Heinzel nothing but hypocrisy. He had even tried to discuss the dilemma of his love for Ruth with the old priest, but this had only uncovered a dark undercurrent of anti-Semitism which was hardly removed from the frequent newspaper ramblings of Goebbels. Yet he still clutched at straws.
“What if I were to convert to Judaism?”
The Rabbi threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, Gunther. Lad! You have the three marks of a Jew – a tender heart, self-respect, and charity. But that is not enough. But what you don’t see with your eyes, don’t invent with your mouth. There is no exam, certificate or diploma which will change your race. If there was, I would personally pay for you to attend whichever university offered it. Look at history – how many of my people in, for example Spain, yes, and even here in Germany, thought that by converting to Christianity, they would somehow be ‘safe’? Have you never heard of the Inquisition and Torquemada? Look them up – if fact, you don’t need to, because they are being re-created here in Germany. Their thumbscrews are being oiled, their irons already in Hitler’s fire. Even the Muslims in Spain, the so-called Christianised Moriscos, suffered the same horrendous destiny. Four centuries ago rebellion broke out among the Moriscos of Andalusia, who sealed their fate by appealing to the Ottoman Empire for aid. The incident led to mass expulsions throughout Spain, the exodus of hundreds of thousands of converted Jews – the Conversos, and Moriscos, even those who had apparently been devout Christians for generations. Pragmatic conversion? Assimilation? Believe me, that’s futility itself. If God himself lived on earth, there are people who would break his windows.”
Ruth knew deep in her heart that her father spoke the truth. Yet she tried to reason with him.
“But father, isn’t there a saying that he that can’t endure the bad, will not live to see the good?”
The Rabbi sighed.
“How much of the bad are you willing to endure? Oh, we’re a great nation for platitudes. Gunther, do whatever you have to do with your life. Ruth, you must pay homage to your dear departed mother, honour your father and fulfil your vocation in Paris. Be a good doctor. At least you’ll be safe in France. Remain friends by all means, but find the strength you both need to curb your passions. Some things are not meant to be, believe me. If you persist in this attraction for one another, then the repercussions will fan out like the shockwaves from a bomb. Think of your families, both of you. You have my love, my affection, in return I expect you to respect my common sense.”
In his cabin on board his ship Gunther had recalled the Rabbi’s words over and over again. There was no comfort to be had in all this, yet he dreamed of Ruth constantly. Before she’d left Markenburg for Paris Gunther had asked for a photograph, and this four inch by three inch glossy window into his passion had become an icon above his bunk. Hanging alongside this in a clear cellophane envelope was a lock of Ruth’s fine dark hair. Now these had travelled with him from Hamburg, the photo safely nestled in his wallet, the lock always in his inside pocket. He had also brought his own camera, a Rolleiflex twin lens reflex model. The one image Gunther wanted was a shot of him and Ruth together, and to have Paris as a backdrop would make it special.
As he emerged from the Metro at St. Michel Notre-Dame, dazed and confused, the thrill of his new life was thrust once again into vibrant colour. He’d already seen the coast of Africa, the teeming streets of South America, and even Hamburg had been a stimulating discovery. But this was Paris, the intellectual hub of Europe. The lofty cathedral, the stately boulevards, the flowing Seine, the winding, pungent streets of the Latin Quarter. Clutching the neatly drawn street plan and directions he’d received by letter from Ruth when he’d docked in Curacao, his pace quickened with the exhilaration of knowing that somewhere, possibly within an area of only a few hundred square metres, she was waiting. He looked at his pocket watch; it was 3.15 pm. Ruth had arranged to meet at 3.30. As he rounded the corner into the Rue Cujas he saw the meeting place – Gypsy’s Bar. Ruth had described the place as a somewhat sleazy spot, where the drinks were cheap and students were welcome. Although Gunther had a limited knowledge of literature, he had been impressed when Ruth had mentioned that Gypsy’s had been a favourite watering hole for James Joyce. As he sprinted past hotels, newsstands and flower sellers, he could see the sign for the bar. And, as promised, there was Ruth, resplendent in a yellow cotton dress and red shoes, standing by the kerb in the warm afternoon sun. Gunther was breathless with joy and exertion as he drew closer; then she recognised him. Her smile seemed to outshine the sun as she skipped towards him like a joyous schoolgirl. Their arms open wide, they gently collided in a warm embrace. Gunther felt hot tears in his eyes as they hugged. He could hardly find the breath to speak. Their lips met and their kiss seemed to last for minutes. He held her back at arm’s length and gazed intently into her eyes. He drew her back to him and they hugged again.
“My God, I’ve dreamed about this.”
“Me too. I missed you.”
“I looked at your picture twenty times a day. I keep that lock of your hair by my bunk.”
“And I looked at your picture, and I think I should have a lock of your hair too.”
Gunther laughed.
“What? I don’t have ‘locks’ - just good old blonde Teutonic tresses!”
“Well, I shall cut one off later!”
They disentangled themselves and Ruth led him by the hand to the pavement tables outside the bar. They sat down. The waiter approached, smiling, his long apron flapping around his legs.
“What shall we have?” asked Ruth.
“Champagne!” exclaimed Gunther. Ruth rolled her eyes.
“Are you sure? I’m on a tight budget!”
“And I’m a rolling sailor, home from the sea. Champagne!”
The glasses tinkled and the rising bubbles in the sunlight flickered from the surface like tiny, airborne diamonds. They picked up the glasses, intertwined their wrists and leaning close to one another across the table, laughed as they took a sip. Gunther took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. They sat smiling at one another for a few moments.
“Are you going back to Markenburg?” asked Ruth.
“Not this trip. I can only stay here in Paris for two days, then my ship sails again from Hamburg. I’ve written to my parents. They understand. Does your father know I’m visiting you?” Ruth’s smile faded a little and she looked away.
“No. There was no point in telling him. Have you any news about your brother?”
“Only what my mother wrote to me. He’s moved up the ranks in the SS. He’s one of the guards at the Chancellory in Berlin.”
Ruth shook her head.
“Poor Albert.”
Gunther drained his glass and re-filled it.
“Poor Albert? How do you mean?”
“This SS thing. It’s like some kind of uniformed social disease. Those black uniforms, the skull and crossbones. There’s something dangerous and sinister about it all. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
“Well,” replied Albert, “whatever it is neither I or my mother or father can do anything to influence him. He takes all his inspiration and advice from Uncle Karl. And you’ll not be pleased when I tell you about him.”
“Why? What has he been up to?”
“He’s not only been promoted on the railways – he’s joined the party.”
Ruth looked shocked.
“The Nazis?”
“Who else? The Führer has already banned non-Nazi parties. You must have read some of the news about what’s been going on back home?”
“Yes. I have. Isn’t it strange.”
“Strange?”
“Yes. Your Uncle Karl can actually joinsomething – a party. Two of my uncles have lost their jobs. Uncle Levi in Liepzig was physically thrown from his office in the city council accountancy office. Uncle Mordecai in Frankfurt has run a bookshop for 30 years. In May it was invaded by the brown shirts. They beat him up, took all his stock and burned it in the middle of the street. Then they smashed all his windows.” Albert breathed deeply at this depressing news.
“What about Markenburg – your father?”
“He’s had his troubles. Did you hear about Herschel Blum?”
“Yes. Disgraceful. What about your father, though?”
“He doesn’t venture out much. He’s risked going to what’s left of the synagogue on the Sabbath, but the congregation, small though it is, is dwindling. The SA hang about the place, taunting everyone, threatening. The Kremmens have sold their conditorei and emigrated to New York. So, the only place you can buy a cake now is from the Schultz bakery, but that’s OK because even old man Schultz has joined the party.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Albert. “I always thought your father was exaggerating when he talked about all this, but we even have a couple of party members in the crew on my ship. They say Hitler will get everyone back to work, that the army, navy and air force will re-arm, no matter what the British and the Yanks say. But I’m still puzzled by all this hatred for the Jews.”
Ruth looked downcast.
“Well, at least you can be thankful you’re not one of us. And at least here in France I’m safe. I keep trying to convince my father to move out and join me before it’s all too late; I’m sure that the Jewish community here could find a place for him.”
“Before it’s all ‘too late’? Surely this madness can’t last.”
Ruth stared at him wide eyed.
“Gunther! Unfortunately, I love you, but you can be so naïve. Your bully boy brother knows what’s going to happen. Yet you seem to have your head either in the clouds or stuck in the sand.”
In silence, they smoked, finished the champagne. Gunther shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I’m here, and not for long. Can we just enjoy being together and stop talking about all the bad stuff? I don’t even know where I’m going to stay tonight.”
Ruth softened and smiled.
“You’re staying with me, silly. I’ve got a room on the Rue Laplace, close to the Sorbonne. It isn’t much, a bit Spartan, but I can’t have you staying in one of the flop houses around here. So, let’s go back, you can freshen up, then we’ll go to Lagrange’s for dinner.”
“What’s Lagrange’s, then?”
“It’s a little restaurant where students can get a cheap meal. Good food, good company, and cheap wine.”
As they set off, arm in arm, Albert felt butterflies in his stomach. On stret corners he would stop and hand his camera to passers by, asking if they would take a pisture of them. This being Paris, the city of love, strangers were more than willing to capture their young image. Throughout their relationship, he and Ruth had remained celibate. She was so precious to him that he hated the idea of letting his immense physical desire upset the delicate balance their love had achieved. Their kisses, their embraces, these were as hot and as passionate as could be, yet stopped short at any impropriety. They had discussed sex, and boldly agreed about their mutual desires. Yet Markenburg was Markenburg; Ruth’s father at one side, his parents at the other. Apart from the odd summer picnic, there had been no suitable location where anything more daring than an illicit clasp of Ruth’s breasts could take place. Yet this was Paris, the city of love. They were adults, en route to Ruth’s student residence. There would be a bed. They would drink wine, and they would be free, unfettered, and for this brief window in their lives, happy.
As they walked past the palatial expanse of the Sorbonne, Ruth regaled him with its ancient history, and pointed to the windows of the medical school.
“What kind of doctor will you be?” asked Gunther.
“I’m studying to be a surgeon, but I suppose if I’m lucky, I might end up as one of those town practitioners, like old Doctor Rollmann in Markenburg. I don’t care – I just want to know everything there is about medicine and the human body. I’d like to make people better, perhaps even save lives.”
“And all this study,” said Albert, “is it really going to take a whole seven years?”
“That’s only to qualify. I would have to spend several more years in a hospital to really become a proper physician. But it’s no different to your job on that ship. Think how long, and how many exams it takes, to become a Captain. Do you think that’s what you’ll be one day?”
“If I thought it would impress your father, I’d aim at being an admiral.”
“But do you have any ambition? I’m sure a deckhand is a fine job, but can it lead anywhere?”
Albert gave a cynical chuckle.
“Oh, I see … not a very good social combination, eh? A Doctor and a deckhand? You’d be talking about saving lives and sewing people’s guts up whilst all I could offer would be tying knots and splicing ropes.”
“Well, it interests me. You’re what now – 23? You know all about making wine, which would have been a worthwhile career, but you’ve chosen to see the world as a sailor. Fine. But is that it? Will you stay at sea just as a deckhand, or do you want something else out of life?”
“All I want is you.”
“Well, you have me, Gunther, simply by persistence. And I don’t want anyone else, despite what father says. But if we’re going to share this life together, we must consider the future. For me, that future is not in Germany – not as long as the Nazis are in power. So on those long voyages perhaps you should think about where we are going, what we shall do with our lives. If you spend the rest of your time at sea, and I can’t return to Germany, then we’ll always be apart for long periods. I would rather look forward to a future where we are together.”
In silence, Gunther pondered over this dilemma as they walked along.
He was surprised at the cramped size of Ruth’s apartment on the Rue Laplace. It was on the third floor at the end of a narrow, winding staircase where each wooden tread creaked. Her one room had a bed, a small gas stove, a tiny sink, a chair and a writing desk below a large window providing a view of the street below and the rooftops of Paris. They sat on the bed together and embraced.
“What’s that in your hand?” asked Gunther.
“Scissors. Come on - I want some of your lovely golden hair. Fair exchange - you’ve got mine.” She pulled him towards her and cradled his head in her lap. It was the most thrilling experience; he could feel the warmth from her thighs on his cheek as he breathed in the exquisite fragrance of a woman’s body. She snipped the hair, then held it at arm’s length, a thick piece about four inches long.
“You know what’s nice about this, Gunther?”
“No, what?”
“This hair will never go grey. We shall have grey hair one day, but my lock nd your tress will always be as they are today.”
“I think I’m in a dream,” said Gunther, “I still can’t believe it. We’re in Paris; its summer, our parents are nowhere near, and I’m sitting in this room with the girl I love, and we’re sitting on a bed.”
“And is a bed significant?” asked Ruth.
“You know it is. You’re studying the human body. You know how it works. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m a passionate man who loves you. Our time is brief. We’re young in a difficult world, Ruth. If nothing else, we ought to have good things to remember.”
“I know what you want, Gunther. But I’m thinking of my father.”
Gunther closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Ruth, oh, Ruth … can’t you think of us and put the Talmud behind us for a couple of days?” Ruth looked into his eyes, and spoke in a voice close to a whisper.
“Don’t be sweet, lest you be eaten up; don’t be bitter, lest you be spewed out. A bird that you set free may be caught again, but a word that escapes your lips will not return.” Gunther hugged her more tightly.
“Yes, yes, that’s your father’s platitudes again. Your parents, my parents, they had moments like this. Well, they’re not in Paris; we are.”
They kissed and slowly reclined onto the bed. Gunther’s fantasy, slowly, breathlessly, with a burning physical heat, became reality. They made love; in a blaze of ecstasy, the steel chains of chastity had been broken.