His gold pen is gone,” Ilse said. “The engraved one Mama gave him for their twentieth anniversary.”
Audrey looked up from her seat on the couch in the lounge off Ira’s study. Through the open glass double doors between the two rooms, she could see Ilse standing behind her father’s desk, the surface of which was strewn with papers stuck together from an overturned inkwell. She was wearing her heaviest dress and a thick wool cardigan. They’d both chosen grey and black clothing today without speaking of it, Audrey realized.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Ilse rubbed her red eyes. “There may have been some money, too, I don’t know. This drawer was forced open. It must have been locked for a reason.”
They’d spent the morning cleaning up after the looting. It had given them a task to focus on to stem the tide of grief that threatened to overwhelm them. The bedrooms had been ransacked quickly, drawers pulled out in search of valuables. But the thieves must have known there couldn’t be much left after the pile of jewellery they’d swiped from Ilse’s dresser. The sitting room and dining room had been the worst destroyed. When the women finished sweeping up the shards of china in the dining room, Ilse had moved on to the final room—Ira’s study—whilst Audrey sat down to write to her father.
She explained all that had happened yesterday, with Ira’s murder, then Ruth and Ephraim’s abduction, and the riots.
I have never in my life encountered such violence, Father. Surely it must make the London papers—you may read of it before this even reaches you, and I am sorry for that. I hope you will not be left worrying for long. I see now that you were right, I should have come home. But who was to know this madness would escalate so quickly?
We are safe in the house, though. For now. But we need your help. I have no access to the trust you set up with Herr Kaplan. Ilse’s passport is invalid, and I have no knowledge of foreign relations or immigration, where to even begin the process of trying to get her out of Germany. But I need you to understand—since I know you will suggest it straightaway—that I have absolutely no intention of leaving here without her.
Please write back as soon as you receive this.
With affection,
Audrey
Audrey finished the letter and stared at her own handwriting, as though hoping an answer would appear between the lines. She had never craved her father’s support and intervention more than she did now. She blinked hard, trying to rouse her tired eyes. They had managed to get a little sleep, but their dreams were of gunshots, and Audrey had woken sometime in the night to rioting in the distance, someone’s life being dismantled.
The sound of shuffling papers and soft thuds continued, punctuated with sniffles as Ilse carried on tidying the study. A shiver ran through Audrey. She glanced across the hall at the broken front window. They had hung a thick blanket over it, but it did little to help as the autumn wind blew in from the west.
“It’s freezing,” she said. “I’m going to go feed the furnace.”
“Good idea.” Ilse brushed her hands together. “And I suppose I’ll need to telephone Matya next.”
In the damp cellar, Audrey opened the furnace door, welcoming the blast of hot air on her face. As she shoveled coal, she thought how she’d never done a task like this in her life; this work had always been within the purview of servants. Change could be so sudden sometimes, so drastic. As she climbed the narrow stairs back to the main floor, she wondered how much more change was yet to come.
Ilse was still in Ira’s study, which always smelled of furniture polish and ink. Her face was buried in her hands, and Audrey went to her.
“We should be preparing for his funeral today,” Ilse said, anger echoing off the walls of her hollow voice. “It’s not enough that we lose him, but we also don’t get to bury him properly? To grieve him the way we’re meant to?”
“I know,” Audrey said, embracing her.
When Michael had died, the family sat shiva. Audrey had come over with her father and Sophie to pay their respects, passing the pitcher of water on the doorstep and the shrouded hallway mirror. The ritual made perfect sense to her. The aftermath of a death was a time to sink into oneself, to hold tight to the memories of the person who was lost. To nurture the wound that it was without distraction. Yet here was Ilse, sorting through her dead father’s ransacked office with hardly a moment to spare for her grief. It was cruel.
Audrey pressed her eyes shut, fighting her own tears. As they cried, Audrey squeezed Ilse tightly, hoping her arms might be enough to hold her friend together.
“Where did they take his body, Audrey? It isn’t right.”
“I don’t know,” she replied, trying not to think about where it might be. “I don’t know.”
After a few minutes, the wave of grief passed. There would be others, Audrey knew, and she would be here to help Ilse through them, she thought, handing her friend the handkerchief from her pocket.
Ilse composed herself, then returned her attention to the desk she’d mostly managed to reorganize. “Before you came in, I found something I wanted to talk to you about. Look.” She lifted a sheaf of paper. “It’s Papa’s bank statement.”
Audrey scanned it, swallowed her surprise at the numbers. Though the family lived well, Ira’s textile business was even more lucrative than Audrey had ever presumed. No wonder he had dug in so ferociously to hold on to his company.
“Oh, my. Ilse, this is…”
“I know. It’s more than I suspected. I didn’t even know what bank he used. He never talked about work with me, really. But this money can’t possibly sit in the bank now that he’s—” She stopped, unable to say the word. “We need to access it.”
Audrey reviewed the document again. The name and address of a credit cooperative in Berlin’s financial district was listed at the top. “They won’t give it to you, surely?” she asked.
“No, not to his daughter. And I can’t leave the house.” Ilse locked eyes with Audrey. “But they might hand it over to his accounting secretary with a handwritten letter from him authorizing the withdrawal.”
Audrey’s brow furrowed. “Do you know his accounting secretary? I thought—”
“It’s you, Audrey.”
Audrey took a step back. “Ilse…”
But Ilse was adamant. “Go get changed into your smartest skirt and jacket. I’ll forge the letter using Papa’s handwriting. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just the signature. I can do it.”
Audrey’s brain whirred, trying to grasp some other possibility.
“You can do it,” Ilse said. “I know you can.”
There was a firmness in her tone that Audrey rarely heard. She was determined to claim something from the ashes of all she had already lost.
“Okay,” Audrey said. “I’ll do it.”
The cool morning breeze was bracing on Audrey’s nerves as she made her way from the post office, where she mailed the letter to her father, on to the bus that would take her to Potsdamerplatz in the financial district. The bank statement was tucked in her pocketbook, which she clutched in her gloved hand. The ruse was simple: she would walk into the bank, confident and nonchalant, introduce herself as Ira Kaplan’s accounting secretary, and tell them he had sent her to access the funds. It all felt a bit outrageous, but these were unprecedented, dire circumstances, so she prepared herself for the required performance, hoping she would be convincing.
As the bus wound through the streets of Berlin, Audrey looked out the window, swaying gently with the motion, appalled by what she saw: Another synagogue had been utterly ruined by vandals. The stone edges of the windows and doors were blackened with soot from fire damage and the inside was dark, giving the building the ominous appearance of an empty skull. Most of the shingles were burned, rafters exposed and sagging. Along the route, there were more burned-out buildings and broken windows, glass shimmering on the pavement beneath, families huddled together outside. One shop had been painted with something, but the bus turned a corner before Audrey could make out the details.
