eternal gratitude to the adjutant,’ followed by a chorus of soft laughter.
‘In my opinion, it’s a scandal for us to mention such crude gossip. Hermann Göring is a splendid man,’ said a young, innocent voice. ‘He’s so romantic. No man ever loved a woman the way he loved his first wife.’
‘Did you hear that Elena von Brink committed suicide last week?’ the lady from the Nazi Women’s League said in a stage whisper.
‘It’s all because her despicable Jewish therapist disappeared,’ an angry voice rejoined.
‘But she was in love with him,’ the sweet young voice trilled, ‘and, when true love disappears, we die.’
Thomas wanted to turn around and look at the woman with the pure voice, but he was reluctant to make his eavesdropping obvious.
‘I advised her to stop such unnecessary treatment,’ complained a voice with a faint tremolo. ‘That Jew only made her sink deeper into morbid fantasies!’
How the devil had it not occurred to him? That is to say, from time to time the idea had flashed through his mind, but hadn’t solidified into real understanding. Only fear can make clear something so simple: Erika Gelber’s time in Berlin was growing shorter.
Immediately after that night in November she had been evicted from her clinic. Apparently the people who had been protecting herand delayed the cancellation of her licence were no longer able to help. A few days later she had received a letter forbidding her to treat Germans, and she was required to pay a tax for the damage done to her office. She didn’t tell Thomas about the tax. She never confided in him about her troubles. Even when the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute underwent Aryanisation, and she had to sever all connections with it, he only learned the facts from his own sources.
That week he called her to find out whether she was safe and to tell her that his mother had died. She expressed condolences, of course, but a week later she told him that to her regret she could no longer treat him. He begged her to take him for a final session, and at that meeting explained to her that she needed money. He offered to double her fee, in cash, and to hold their sessions in his house. ‘After all, I just lost my mother,’ he added.
He also convinced Paul Blum, a friend who worked at one of the Jewish banks, to try psychoanalysis. The therapist had to be Jewish, of course, and Erika Gelber was the best. ‘Things are happening to you that a person can’t bear, Blum. It’s horrible the way the world you knew has suddenly ceased to exist. You have to analyse the experience, or else you’ll go crazy. You know what a tragedy I had. Without Erika, I would have jumped off some tower.’
Blum was pleased, and Thomas looked for other Jews in distress whom he could send to Erika. She needed money. For what? To clear out. At last he understood that a few Jewish patients wouldn’t be enough to keep her in Berlin.
Thomas looked around: the manager of the Paris office was nowhere to be seen. Now Rudolf Schumacher was approaching the bar. He had put on more weight. The seams of his white waistcoat were bursting, and a pin in the shape of two horseshoes was inserted between the buttons. How could anyone dare to dress so badly in public? After Thomas’s mother died, Schumacher began annoying him with gestures of sympathy. Thomas couldn’t recall that he had ever been close to the fat man, even at university, but Schumacher, who worked in the Ministry of Economics, possessed useful information,so Thomas found subtle ways to keep him at bay.
Now he went to look for the toilet to evade Schumacher. He had to wash his face and freshen up. Attendants in dark blue suits, holding white towels, stood in the hallway.
‘Thomas!’ It was Frau Tschammer. How she loved the moment when he had to stop and turn back to her and obey the imperative of her voice! The light in the corridor was dim, and Frau Tschammer’s shadow towered up behind her. She suddenly
‘In my opinion, it’s a scandal for us to mention such crude gossip. Hermann Göring is a splendid man,’ said a young, innocent voice. ‘He’s so romantic. No man ever loved a woman the way he loved his first wife.’
‘Did you hear that Elena von Brink committed suicide last week?’ the lady from the Nazi Women’s League said in a stage whisper.
‘It’s all because her despicable Jewish therapist disappeared,’ an angry voice rejoined.
‘But she was in love with him,’ the sweet young voice trilled, ‘and, when true love disappears, we die.’
Thomas wanted to turn around and look at the woman with the pure voice, but he was reluctant to make his eavesdropping obvious.
‘I advised her to stop such unnecessary treatment,’ complained a voice with a faint tremolo. ‘That Jew only made her sink deeper into morbid fantasies!’
How the devil had it not occurred to him? That is to say, from time to time the idea had flashed through his mind, but hadn’t solidified into real understanding. Only fear can make clear something so simple: Erika Gelber’s time in Berlin was growing shorter.
Immediately after that night in November she had been evicted from her clinic. Apparently the people who had been protecting herand delayed the cancellation of her licence were no longer able to help. A few days later she had received a letter forbidding her to treat Germans, and she was required to pay a tax for the damage done to her office. She didn’t tell Thomas about the tax. She never confided in him about her troubles. Even when the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute underwent Aryanisation, and she had to sever all connections with it, he only learned the facts from his own sources.
That week he called her to find out whether she was safe and to tell her that his mother had died. She expressed condolences, of course, but a week later she told him that to her regret she could no longer treat him. He begged her to take him for a final session, and at that meeting explained to her that she needed money. He offered to double her fee, in cash, and to hold their sessions in his house. ‘After all, I just lost my mother,’ he added.
He also convinced Paul Blum, a friend who worked at one of the Jewish banks, to try psychoanalysis. The therapist had to be Jewish, of course, and Erika Gelber was the best. ‘Things are happening to you that a person can’t bear, Blum. It’s horrible the way the world you knew has suddenly ceased to exist. You have to analyse the experience, or else you’ll go crazy. You know what a tragedy I had. Without Erika, I would have jumped off some tower.’
Blum was pleased, and Thomas looked for other Jews in distress whom he could send to Erika. She needed money. For what? To clear out. At last he understood that a few Jewish patients wouldn’t be enough to keep her in Berlin.
Thomas looked around: the manager of the Paris office was nowhere to be seen. Now Rudolf Schumacher was approaching the bar. He had put on more weight. The seams of his white waistcoat were bursting, and a pin in the shape of two horseshoes was inserted between the buttons. How could anyone dare to dress so badly in public? After Thomas’s mother died, Schumacher began annoying him with gestures of sympathy. Thomas couldn’t recall that he had ever been close to the fat man, even at university, but Schumacher, who worked in the Ministry of Economics, possessed useful information,so Thomas found subtle ways to keep him at bay.
Now he went to look for the toilet to evade Schumacher. He had to wash his face and freshen up. Attendants in dark blue suits, holding white towels, stood in the hallway.
‘Thomas!’ It was Frau Tschammer. How she loved the moment when he had to stop and turn back to her and obey the imperative of her voice! The light in the corridor was dim, and Frau Tschammer’s shadow towered up behind her. She suddenly
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