and hopelessness. “They can’t find work and they’re afraid of what the future holds.”
“Then along comes this loud, angry man,” Natan said, “promising to take them back to a mythical golden age of prosperity, swearing to punish Germany’s enemies for wronging them. Some people respond to that—in this case, vast numbers of people.”
As Sara approached the Palast-Café, it occurred to her that it might have been more appropriate to celebrate Natan’s promotion with a picnic in the Tiergarten near the Reichstagsgebäude. He probably would have preferred to munch a sandwich while observing the size and temper of the crowd awaiting the arrival of the new deputies.
She spotted Amalie standing alone outside the Palast-Café and hurried across the street to meet her. Although only a few days had passed since Sara had seen her sister for Shabbat at their parents’ home, Amalie greeted her with a fond embrace as if they had been apart for weeks.
Amalie was breathtakingly beautiful, willowy and tall, with dark, expressive eyes and ebony hair that shone like silk whether it cascaded down her back or was put up in a carelessly elegant chignon, as it was then. Some kind people generously said that Sara resembled her, but Sara was dubious, and not only because she was several inches shorter, her hair was a lighter brown, and her eyes were hazel. Amalie was the beauty of the family, and everyone knew it.
Amalie’s hands were smooth, her fingers long and graceful, and even when resting on her lap they seemed poised to move to music she alone heard. She was a wonderfully gifted pianist, but a few years before she had given up the professional concert circuit for marriage and motherhood. She rarely played in public anymore, restricting herself to a few benefit concerts a year and informal performances at the numerous parties they hosted at their luxurious home on Tiergartenstrasse or her husband’s ancestral estate in Minden-Lübbecke. Her husband, the Baron Wilhelm von Riechmann, was an officer in the Wehrmacht and as handsome as she was beautiful. Their daughters, three years old and ten months, were dark-haired and lovely like their mother and cheerfully exuberant like their father.
Sara had never seen a couple more devoted to each other or more perfectly suited, despite the difference of religion. She sometimes wished that Dieter looked at her the way Wilhelm looked at Amalie, but she knew that wasn’t quite fair. She and Dieter had been together only a few months, and surely true love needed more time to take deep root and flourish.
Unlike Wilhelm, Dieter had not grown up surrounded by comfort and luxury. After his father died in a muddy trench in France in the Great War, his mother had raised him on a housekeeper’s wages. He had gone to work in a carpet shop when he was only twelve, continuing his education on his own as well as he could with borrowed books. Eventually one of the shopkeeper’s suppliers, a successful importer, had recognized his latent abilities and had taken him on as an apprentice. Since then Dieter had risen steadily in the business, determined to become a partner one day. He was pragmatic and sensible, and he expressed his affection by bringing Sara American and English books he collected on his business travels, and by encouraging her to pursue her education, even though hers already far surpassed his. Unlike many other men Sara knew, Dieter did not need her to be helpless and ignorant so that he might feel strong and wise.
“I suppose we could have chosen a better day to celebrate Natan’s promotion,” Amalie mused after they had chatted for a bit and their brother had still not appeared.
“He’s probably at the Reichstag as we speak, cornering delegates and pressing them for exclusives.”
“But he’s an editor now. Shouldn’t he assign that to a reporter?”
Sara laughed. “Can you imagine Natan content to sit behind a desk managing things instead of chasing down an exciting lead?”
They waited a while longer, joking about how to punish Natan for his tardiness when he finally appeared, but eventually hunger drove them inside the café.
“Shall we talk politics?” Amalie teased as they were seated at a small round table covered in a white damask tablecloth.
“Please, no, anything but that.” Sara kept her voice low and glanced about, suppressing a smile. “I wouldn’t want to start a brawl. They might not let us come back. How are my darling nieces?”
Amalie’s face glowed as she described her daughters’ latest antics, from the baby’s