Steelie 17

Von Stehle breathes the sooty air, which carries the coldness of the Alps. He considers how to answer the boy in a way in which he might understand and it brings a knot to his throat. ‘Black matter fills the universe with its sadness,’ he splutters, knowing what he’s saying is too highfaluting but continuing speaking, even when he knows from Mole’s expression he’s lost the boy as he himself is lost. ‘That’s a bit like death but it’s filled with a strange yearning. There’s nobody left to tell.’

‘I’m cold,’ Mole cries with chittering lips.  

Others, within touching distance, heads disappear into their hats and necks into their scarves and coats, caught inside their own worlds.

Shifting wind whips the snow against their shivering bodies. Von Stehle unbuttons his coat and uses the flaps as a tent to shelter Mole. Before they make a run for it, he tries to explain things better. ‘Death is always doggerel. It’s life that’s funny. When you’re young, like you. We’re overly confident we’ll get through the ugly snarl of life.’ Mole allows himself to be hugged and he cocks his head to free his ear.

Von Stehle thumps his chest through his silk shirt which echoes with a drum-like beat and he laughs as he pulls him along. ‘We are all hollow inside and that always hurts. Our minds need only the smallest spark of kindness to know love. Too scared when you’re old like me. Our strength is finite. Our life infinite. Something has to give. And it’s usually us. We’re in the sky and the water and the rocks and the shore. To be and not me.’

They cross the street and can see their beating hearts in the cloudy puffs of their breath. Lighting up a corner and to the west of the station is Berlin’s finest store, Kaufaus des Westerns.

A black hatted doormen holds open the door and doffs his cap. ‘Heil Hitler,’

‘Heil Hitler,’ replies Von Stehle, patting Mole’s shoulder.

Well-heeled customers in the lobby smile in tandem. Not sure what to make of them. Von Stehle stares back at them as they shake off the slush. He notes the way their eyes drop and lips turn down when they glance at Mole. Censorship was once verbotten. Now it is part of the natural order legalised by the Nazi handbook. Beheadings are back in vogue. German published more books and newspaper than any other comparable industrialised nation from tabloid to mainstream. Now it burns books. The old order Von Stehle remains part of is not often encountered as the avant-garde and fledgling democracy retreat and hide. But there’s still conspicuous wealth even in this closed space. Women in mink coats, wearing gold and diamonds. Men in uniform. The men running the government for Hitler call themselves National Socialist. Their Fuhrer, with his Charlie Chaplin moustache, widely lampooned as the imprisoned leader of a failed putsch and at best a semi-literate ranter and raver that could be found in any beer hall.

Now it’s a reportable offence not to raise your right hand in salute to a renegade leader who has seized control.      

The KatDeWe provides a warm sanctuary. It smells of mouth-watering doughnuts and perfumes. They take the lift to the second floor.

‘Black shoes, black socks, black shorts, brown shirt,’ Von Stehle does not need to tell the shop assistant that’s the standard uniform of the Hitler Youth. ‘And I’ll need a warm winter coat for the boy to wear now, with a black hat.’

She lifted her pencil-thin eyebrows, forcing a lipsticked smile. ‘Size?’ rolls off her tongue.

The shop assistant had eschewed the usual Nazi greeting. She glances at Mole, but it is Von Stehle she is sizing up.

He replies with an amused grunt. Von Stehle is surprised to find a perfumed woman in the menswear. Hitler’s hatred is not just against the Jews but also women that don’t know their place. There’s no Kristallnacht, but women lawyers are dismissed from firms. Women doctor are fired from all but gynaecological clinics. Restaurant owners are threatened by Brownshirts and Gestapo if they don’t sack their waitresses and replace them with men.

Young women like the elegantly dressed shop assistant are no longer encouraged to better themselves and attend college. A new quota restricts the number of women that can attend a German university. Much like the quota system that work in American colleges that bars Jews.

Mole reels off his measurements and sizes and she notes them down with an amused look.

Moles gaze travels over the rails of clothing. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the materials. Von Stehle crouches and meets his gaze. ‘Go,’ he tells him. ‘Buy two or everything you want and bring it back here.’

‘Really?’ he asks.

‘Yes, really.’ Von Stehle laughs through his nose.

She stands guard. ‘Will I charge it to your account?’

He watches Mole dart from rail to rail, rubbing the material between his fingers, examining the stitching and watching its success or failure on the boy’s face.

‘Is it the same address?’ she asks, stepping closer.

Her familiarity unsettles him. ‘Yes,’ he replies. Wondering how she knew. He had no memory of having instore dealings with her.

 Cute with curled chin-length blonde hair. Almond eyes and a sweet smile.  She doesn’t say much but loves to dance. Her undoing, because she also loves men that love to dance. Loves men, generally. She prefers champagne to tea parties. And caviar to bread and cheese or worse, liverwurst in bed

Clinics which provide free condoms are closed by the Nazis. It’s impossible to find a condom in Berlin, which translates as anywhere in Germany. Vending machines condoms in men’s public restrooms are emptied.

‘Charlotte,’ he takes her hand, squeezes her soft fingers and raises them to his lips. ‘How are you? How have you been keeping?’

‘I need your help,’ she whispers while staring at her pad and jerking her hand away.