‘I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed you. I won’t mention it again. I want to see him settled, and happy, that’s all. He’s so angry and lost, and every door that closes on him makes his temper worse. I love that boy, I really do, but whatever I say is wrong. And that rabble he’s mixed up with: they’ve turned his head, with their talk of rights and revolutions. His mother always knew best how to reach him. If she was still alive…’
Otto lapsed into a silence Liese had no idea how to fill.
When the car finally glided to a halt in Alexanderplatz, outside a shop whose five sparkling storeys dominated the square, Liese jumped out of the car faster than the chauffeur could reach her door. Then she looked up and stopped so suddenly, Otto almost bundled into her. Until a few weeks ago, a sweep of letters across the top storey had spelled out the store’s name as Hermann Tietz. Now, the arch was shrunken, truncated into Hertie.
‘I can’t get used to the new name, no matter how often I see it.’
‘You shouldn’t have to; none of us should.’ Otto sniffed. ‘Reducing Germany’s oldest department store to this is an abomination. Hertie sounds like the lowest kind of cabaret.’
Liese stifled a giggle and hurried inside. To her relief, nothing in there had changed. The interior wrapped round her like a favourite dress.
Three steps across the floor and she was at the building’s heart, surrounded by slender pillars and staring up through floating chandeliers to where a glass dome hung like a green-tinged moon. Fur-swaddled women swanned up the curving staircase. Figures drifted in and out of the balconied galleries, shadow-like and flickering in the flatteringly dimmed light. Despite the bustle, there was a satisfying hush: footsteps were lost to thick carpets, voices whittled to whispers. Every counter was crowded and yet everywhere was space.
Liese breathed in the leather and the face powder and the faint lilac sweetness. It smelled like perfection
‘Fraulein Elfmann, Herr Wasserman.’
Herr Bruckner, the store’s new Head of Womenswear, stood poised like a conductor at the staircase’s turn. His voice carried a snap, which straightened the shop assistants. He clicked his heels and inclined his head; he didn’t come down to greet them.
‘If we could proceed to my office?’
Liese frowned and caught Otto doing the same, although he hid his discomfort more quickly.
Bruckner was newly in post, but surely he knew how things were done? A tour of the accessories departments, tea in the Palm Court and then, and only then, into the office to sign the orders they would have discussed along the way. ‘A gentleman’s approach to business’ her father called it, based on relationships and civility. Every department store in Berlin ran its affairs the same way.
Above them, Herr Bruckner coughed. ‘I have other meetings.’
‘Then we must not delay you.’
Otto waved Liese up the stairs, beginning a commentary on October’s sudden cold snap as if nothing was out of place.
Bruckner took no notice, leading them to the tucked-away warren of offices behind the sales floors at a pace designed to discourage conversation. They were seated before Liese could unfasten her coat and no one appeared with a tea tray. Otto asked after Bruckner’s health and was again ignored.
Liese knew she was there, as always, to observe and not to involve herself in the meeting, but the man’s brusqueness was sailing close to an insult. She coughed and fixed on her best smile.
‘Goodness, you are in quite a hurry today, Herr Bruckner. Normally, as I’m sure you know, we visit the bag and shoe departments first to discuss the new season’s colours and shapes with the salesgirls. I hope we can still make the time to do that?’
Bruckner addressed Otto as if no one had spoken.
‘I am surprised to see you, Herr Wasserman. I made it clear in my letter that Hertie will not be buying from Haus Elfmann this year.’
‘What letter?’ Liese swung round to Otto, who also looked through her.
‘I received your communication, Herr Bruckner. But, I confess, I could make little sense of it. For one of our most valued customers to not stock our brand? There is surely some mistake? Our prêt-à-porter line has always been an integral part of…’
The pause, the stumble it implied, was short, but it was long enough for Bruckner’s face to tighten. For him to register, if he hadn’t already done so, that not only was Otto about to say the store’s old name, he had also used the French term to describe the ready-to-wear collection, not the German Konfektion the new rules demanded.
Otto recovered himself but could not entirely mask the tremor unsettling his voice. ‘… of Hertie’s offering. Your customers expect to find us here, Herr Bruckner. So I felt certain there was still a conversation to be had. I wondered if some adjustment on the price might correct matters?’
Bruckner straightened a pen that was already straight.
‘It’s always about money with your kind, isn’t it?’
Liese withdrew into her seat as Bruckner continued, the echo of the Olympic Stadium’s you people too strong in your kind.
‘There was no mistake, Herr Wasserman, not on my part. And, whatever the practice in the past, our customers do not expect to find your brand here. They expect to find outfits that are more appropriate. More German.’
His contempt tugged at Liese like a toothache. She willed Otto to speak. He sat hunched over as if he was winded, while Bruckner observed him through hooded eyes.
‘More German? What do you mean, Herr Bruckner? Dirndl skirts and puff-sleeved blouses?’ This time, Liese spoke so sharply, Bruckner was forced to look her way. ‘Surely not? I know you are new, but can you honestly see the women of Berlin dressing like peasants?’
It was rude. It was also stupid and it played, as Liese realised a moment too late, straight into Bruckner’s hands.
‘How nastily you use that word. As if modest people who work hard for their country are somehow beneath you. But, given who and what you are, why should your attitude surprise me?’
He reached for a sheaf of papers and began reading from the top one before Liese could think how to defend herself.
‘This is the report on your salon’s most recent offering. It does not make pleasant reading. Shamefully tight skirts, naked backs, necklines more suited to a brothel. Garish colours that do not suit German colouring. Designs unfit for decent women.’
Bruckner put the notes down and folded his hands.
‘A French collection, in other words. From a house that insults us by claiming to be German. A collection, Fraulein Elfmann, there is no room for here.’
‘Liese, please. Let me speak before you cause any more offence.’ Otto had finally pulled himself together.
He waved his hand to stop Liese’s response, but there was no need: she couldn’t think of a single word to fight back with.
‘Herr Bruckner, Fraulein Elfmann spoke out of turn and with uncalled-for rudeness, but I would ask your indulgence. She is young. She is loyal to her salon and to her family. Not a bad thing, I’m sure you’d agree.’
He was gabbling, fawning. Liese couldn’t meet his eye.
‘As for our last showing – if there are dresses that fit those descriptions, descriptions which, I must say, pain me, please understand these are not the garments you would receive. Our shows always include pieces custom-made for clients whose lives demand a little more, shall we say, glamour? If you have specific requirements, then, please, list them. Whatever you want can be done.’