A fortnight later, Greta received a letter in care of the Department of Sociology, a letter from Germany she had anticipated ever since her unexpected reunion with Anna Klug.
Adam had not written to her in months. She pocketed the letter and resolved not to read it until later that evening, or perhaps the following morning. She had plans to meet a friend at the British Museum and would not let Adam’s words distract or distress her. But her heart pounded fiercely as she walked northwest along Drury Lane, each theater she passed reminding her of him, of their long, engrossing discussions about classic plays and the renaissance of German theater and the role of the artist in society.
She made it to the steps of the museum before she tore open the envelope and withdrew a small sheet of paper.
Adam had written scarcely more than a sentence: “Come—I’m waiting for you.”
A mix of emotions flooded her, joy and hope, longing and wariness. Adam was waiting for her, but had he done anything to extricate himself from his marriage? Or was she misreading him entirely, and he only meant that she should return to join the struggle against fascism?
She was apprehensive—she could admit that. Returning to Germany meant willingly accepting uncertainty and danger. Yet Adam’s brief message, five simple words, forced her to acknowledge how homesick she truly was. She missed her family and friends, German food and culture, the Berlin theater. She ached with anger and indignation when she thought of Jewish friends suffering under the Nazi regime, friends she could help if she were there.
The more she brooded over it, the more she yearned for home.
Her decision, once made, was firm and immutable. She would return to Germany, but whether Adam would play any role in her life, and whether she wanted him to, was impossible to know.
Chapter Thirteen
March–April 1933
Sara
Sara could ignore the swastika flags and the Brownshirt recruiting posters proliferating all over the University of Berlin campus, but she froze in terror whenever she came upon storm troopers smashing windows of Jewish-owned shops, destroying merchandise, and roughing up the frightened proprietors. At first city police attempted to intervene, but they were no match for the SA, and over time many began to look the other way, as if it were more important not to muss their green uniforms than to uphold the rule of law.
Natan told Sara that he had seen SA officers stride into courthouses, haul Jewish lawyers and judges out to the street, berate them, beat them, spit on them. Attacks on synagogues were so commonplace that it had become second nature to glance over one’s shoulder while walking to Shabbat services.
The outrages received widespread coverage in the international press, and a movement began among Jewish organizations worldwide to boycott German goods in protest. Adolf Hitler denounced German Jews for turning the international press against the Nazis, and in retaliation, he proclaimed a national boycott of Jewish businesses beginning the first day of April.
Sara thought the date was a curious choice, as April 1 was a Saturday and many observant Jews closed their businesses for Shabbat. Perhaps Hitler hoped people would see the darkened windows and assume the intimidated Jews had not bothered to open their doors that morning. Or perhaps he knew that observant Jews did not shop on Shabbat, preempting any attempt the Jewish community might have made to offset the boycott with shopping sprees.
Indignant, Sara phoned her sister. “Dieter invited me to a party and I need a new dress,” she said. “Want to come shopping with me on Saturday?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Amalie agreed. “Don’t tell Mother,” she warned.
“Of course not! She’d lock me in the house.”
On the morning of April 1, Sara and Amalie met in front of the Café Kranzler in Charlottenburg. Amalie was as breathtakingly lovely as ever, her dark hair arranged in a graceful chignon that emphasized her slender neck and high cheekbones, and her clothing, elegant and perfectly tailored, spoke of wealth and excellent taste. Only a tremulous smile betrayed her nervousness.
The sisters linked arms and strolled along Kurfürstendamm, their conversation falling silent at the sight of storm troopers standing menacingly outside shops and businesses unmistakably identified by the symbols painted on their windows and doors, a yellow six-pointed Star of David with Jude or Jüdisches Geschäft scrawled in black in the center. Posted on walls and lampposts were chilling signs in stark black and white: “Don’t Buy from Jews,” ordered one, and “The Jews Are Our Misfortune,”