‘I thought it would be all right. This is Haus Elfmann; nobody ignores us.’
A reasonable assumption, if it hadn’t been for the Party memos suggesting people should.
The showroom stayed empty. The dresses expecting their debut sat unhatched and unwanted in their muslin cocoons. Paul shouted; Otto wrote letters. Neither was heard.
As Berlin’s mood stiffened, the Elfmann clients who could choose where they shopped went to rub shoulders with Nazi wives at Romatzki and at Maggy Rouff – Frau Goebbels’ new favourite designer. The clients who couldn’t go anywhere else stretched their dresses across the seasons, or ordered travelling costumes, plain and practical garments; one-off purchases. As for the department stores, the German ones had followed Herr Bruckner’s lead and abandoned Haus Elfmann; the international ones were nervous of Hitler’s posturing and couldn’t be relied on to come.
‘You’re the last fly in the web. They’ll swallow you up too – you wait.’ Helena’s parting shot, delivered when Paul blamed her, nastily, for the show’s fiasco.
It had wormed under Liese’s skin and led to dreams she woke from, heart racing, legs kicking; giant spiders in pursuit.
The quarter-hour chimed.
She stretched her stiff neck. She should go home, except the emptiness there would be worse than here. Her parents rushed round their nights as much as their days, flitting through the receptions they could still wrangle invitations to, Margarethe dressed in Paul’s designs, as if anyone still cared. There was no one waiting for her, no one to share and soften the day.
Liese stopped that thought as it started to spiral. If she began to feel sorry for herself, she would never leave the chair. If she imagined the next day unfolding exactly like this one, she wouldn’t have the strength to step into it.
Not home then, but perhaps the workroom. The seamstresses were struggling with the dress Paul had demanded for Margarethe’s upcoming birthday dinner. Its design involved flounced cape sleeves with chiffon cascades which needed delicate work and lengths of material their plundered stores could barely stretch to. Solving the most efficient way to create those would take the concentrated work needed to wear her out and buy a few dreamless hours on the sofa.
Liese rubbed her fingers supple again and was about to get up when the door opened.
She shaded her eyes, expecting a light to snap on. Someone entered, but the room stayed dark. The footsteps weren’t Paul’s fast click or Otto’s shuffle. They were soft, deliberate.
Liese pulled up her feet as a figure headed towards the desk.
Drawers slid open; papers rustled. A hand pushed back an unruly flop of hair.
She switched on the lamp.
‘What are you doing?’
Michael stared at her like a rabbit a step away from a fox and jumped, dropping one of the envelopes Liese knew was stuffed full with notes. Envelopes she had so far resisted, despite their temptation.
‘Are you stealing? Surely not. You can’t need money so badly you’d do that. If something’s wrong and you’re desperate, why wouldn’t you just ask?’
Then he turned more fully towards the light and the money and what Michael was or wasn’t doing no longer mattered. His face was striped with blood, his left eye swollen and bruised. He didn’t seem to hear her gasp; he didn’t waste time on an apology.
‘I didn’t know if you’d listen. And I’m not taking it for me – it’s for the resistance. This money will pay for leaflets and the campaign we need to encourage recruits.’ His defence gathered speed, bristling him with energy, pushing him onto his toes. ‘We need to get the word to more people that we’re here, that we’re fighting back. We need to get the workers out of the factories and marching.’
Liese was barely listening: she couldn’t take her eyes off the damage to his face. She moved round the desk and reached for his purpling cheek.
‘What on earth happened to you?’
He brushed her frightened hand away.
‘It’s nothing. We ran into a patrol. There was a fight. We got away. If we’d had more men, they wouldn’t have chased us in the first place. Which is why we need to pull in more members. It’s time to mobilise, Liese: we just need one big push to make people understand what Hitler is doing. How he’s feeding his war machine while working men go hungry. How Austria is the start, not the end of his plan. How we have to take action and stop him.’
He had snapped to attention like a soldier, his one good eye burning bright as a beacon.
The sight of his cuts and bruises throbbed through her. Liese knew Hitler’s annexation of Austria the previous March, and the harsh measures taken there against the communists and the Jews, had lit a flame under Michael. She was hardly surprised that his behaviour, that his belief that an uprising was possible, had crystallised. She sympathised – how could she not? – but that didn’t mean she had to like the danger his actions exposed him to.
‘Forget about all that. Have you seen the state you’re in? Won’t you let me call a doctor?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’ He grabbed the envelope back from the desktop where it had fallen. ‘I need to get this where it’s needed.’
He was wild-eyed, barely looking at her. Liese’s stomach flipped as she realised the lengths he was prepared to go to.
‘You’re going to get yourself killed.’
Michael grabbed a second envelope and slammed the drawer shut. The casual way he ignored her fear and helped himself, without any thought for who might take the blame for his stealing, suddenly made her see red.
‘Didn’t you think someone would notice the money’s gone? Weren’t you worried who might have been blamed? I don’t get it, Michael: some seamstress who’s barely clinging on as it is could have lost her job. How does that fit with your love-of-the-worker principles?’
Why didn’t you trust me enough to ask for my help? Why won’t you let me help you now? was what she wanted to say, but her pride wouldn’t let her.
Michael stuffed the money in his jacket.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic. There’s plenty left – too much for anyone to notice what I’ve taken. And your father can spare it; the struggle needs it far more than he does.’
That he was right didn’t help. Liese was suddenly so weary of it all, so sick of the stupidity. Paul hiding money while he pretended his business, and his country, was healthy. Michael believing a handful of men and some poorly printed leaflets could slow down a Führer who had rolled over Austria without a hand raised in protest. Her, eighteen and thinking she could stop a crumbling fashion house from collapsing, or that it mattered anymore if it did.
I don’t want to do this; I’m done.
The realisation caught her by the throat. She didn’t believe in the business. Not with the passion she once had, not with a passion like his. How could she?
‘Take it.’
The speed with which his mouth dropped open would have once made her laugh.
‘What am I doing? Why am I trying to pretend that dresses are still important? It’s a fashion salon – that’s not the same as a family, no matter how much I try to kid myself it is. It’s going to fall sooner or later. So take it. Fund your campaign and your recruiting. I hope it works, I really do. And I hope you won’t get shot.’