It had been a long day at the studio and Julian needed a good night’s sleep. He trudged toward the apartment, his portfolio and supplies weighing him down. From more than a block away, he spotted a fancy car parked in front of his building and as he moved closer, he saw the foreign license plate. The sleek Daimler-Benz, with its long louvered hood and rear-mounted spare tire, postured like a queen among the queue of Peugeots, Renaults, and Citroëns. As Julian approached, he noticed a chauffeur guarding the vehicle and staring up at his building.
No one Julian knew had a driver or a car like that—except maybe for someone in Felix’s family. Julian stopped in his tracks. By the way the man was staring at his building, Julian knew something was definitely wrong. Quickening his pace, he passed the driver without making eye contact and flew up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. He paused breathlessly outside the door, about to insert his key into the lock when he heard Felix engaged in a shouting match in German. He slid the key back into his pocket and waited.
“Damn you, Father. Why didn’t you contact me first before coming?” Felix demanded.
“So, this is what I’m paying for, Felix? You’re living here like a pig in shit. I can’t even breathe in this place. If your mother saw—”
“Leave Mother out of this!” Felix shouted.
“Look, I did not come here to argue. I came here to discuss an important issue concerning the family.”
“Discuss?” Felix laughed contemptuously. “As in exchange words like human beings? Please, Father, we’ve been down that road before, and it’s a dead end.”
“I see,” the baron said coldly. “Then I will get to the point. You have lived in Paris for five years. I have allowed you to play around with this painting hobby.”
“You’ve allowed me?” Felix countered. “What the hell—”
“Goddamn it, Felix, you are going to listen to me!” Baron Wilhelm Von Bredow’s deep baritone bellowed down the hallway. Julian expected Felix to strike back, but he heard nothing in return except for heavy breathing.
“Now, as I was saying,” the baron continued, “your brother is not well.”
“I could have told you that,” Felix said.
“Damn you, Felix. Hans is very sick. Do you understand me? He is no longer able to work. You will come home.”
“What? No, Father, I am not going anywhere.”
Julian pressed his ear hard against the door. Silence.
“You are coming home,” the baron repeated. His voice, though calm, was on the verge of eruption, like the stillness just before a storm. “You will run the company while I take care of political affairs. The situation is changing quickly, to our good fortune. Enough playtime, Felix. You will pack up your things. We are leaving here in two days.”
“I am not a child, Father. I don’t pack up my things because you say so. And why the hell do you want me to run your company? What about your puppet, Rolf? He’s been waiting for years for a chance like this. Let him do it.” Felix sounded bitter. “Look, I’m not leaving Paris. My life is here. I am an artist, not an accountant.”
“You have responsibilities to our family, whether or not you recognize them,” the baron said sharply. “And I’m sorry, son, to break the news, but you are by no means an artist.”
“Get out of here!” Felix yelled.
Julian heard a rush toward the door, so he hustled up one flight of stairs. The apartment door flung open violently. The baron was now standing in the doorway.
“I am not giving you a choice, Felix,” he said. “I am prepared to cut you off from your allowance unless you return to Berlin.”
“So cut me off,” Felix retorted.
“Don’t test me.” The baron laughed scornfully. “You haven’t worked a single day in your life. Let me put it in a way that even you can understand: I am not leaving Paris without you.”
The door slammed shut. Peering through the wrought-iron baluster, Julian saw the shiny bald top of the baron’s head as he descended the stairs. He was a big man, taller than Felix, and was wearing a large wool overcoat and holding a matching gray fedora. Each step pounded oppressively against the thinly carpeted wood. Julian heard the closing of a car door outside and pictured the dour-faced driver behind the wheel, his face fixed forward, awaiting instructions. Julian stayed where he was until he heard the roar of the car engine and then the dwindling sound as the vehicle sped down the street.
Entering the apartment, he found Felix sitting on the couch with his head buried in his hands. Suddenly, the room seemed smaller. Julian walked over to Felix and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but Felix did not look up.
“I was standing outside the door, Felix. I heard everything,” Julian said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have no idea what he is like.” Felix was fighting back tears. Julian had never seen him like this, so broken. He opened the nearest bottle of wine and even managed to find a clean glass. He offered it to Felix, who took it without looking up.
“What are you going to do?” Julian asked, sitting next to him.
“I have no choice.”
“Forget your father, Felix. Let him stick around Paris all he wants, but you’re staying here.”
Felix swigged hard. “You don’t understand, Julian. He is a very powerful man.”
“So hide,” Julian said. “We’ll all help you. You don’t have to do this.”
“There is nowhere to hide. My father’s friends are everywhere. The political situation in Germany is changing rapidly, as you know. And my father—” Felix paused, about to say something, but stopped himself. “We have never agreed on anything, especially politics.”
Felix got up from the couch, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out at the street below. His gaze was distant, frozen in time like a court portrait. “All I ever wanted was to paint, Julian. But my father is right. I don’t have it.”
Julian walked over to him. “You don’t have what, Felix?”
Felix turned to face him. “What René possesses. I have the passion—” He shook his head sadly. “It just doesn’t translate. Even Dubois says I paint like a juvenile.”
“Dubois is an idiot.”
“Look me in the goddamn eye, Julian, and tell me I am wrong.”
Julian knew he could not do that. Felix was not a good artist. But it didn’t matter. For all of them, painting was breathing. That is what mattered—the desire, the need to paint no matter what. He grabbed Felix by the shoulders. “Listen to me. No one can take away your love of art. Don’t let him do that to you, Felix.” Julian paused, thinking, I did not let them do it to me. But Felix did not know about that part of his life. None of them did.
Felix’s eyes were watery, and this time he didn’t fight it. “Did you know that growing up I ate dinner at a table larger than this entire room? I could have had any damn thing I wanted, and all I have ever wanted was to be an artist.”
“And you are.”
Felix shook his head despairingly. “No, I’m not. I paint. I know art. I love art. But I was born with the inclination, not the talent. I’m a painter, not an artist. There’s a difference.” Felix pushed past Julian and began pacing around the couch. His red eyes were now wild and accusatory.
“René has it. You see him work. You know what I’m talking about— the demon that possesses him. The world could fall on René’s head, and he’d still be painting amid the rubble. I love René, Julian, but he has something that I will never possess, no matter if I paint day and night. That is why I need him—to learn from him, to take from him what I lack. But I will never be an artist like René . . . or like you.” Felix looked away, ashamed. He picked up the opened bottle of wine from the coffee table and waved it. “My father knows how important art is to me. Throughout my childhood he cut it down. I pretend it doesn’t hurt, but it still hurts like hell.”
“I’m so sorry, Felix.” And Julian truly was. He understood the pain, the internal hell, more than Felix could ever know. He thought of his own father, of the horrible day when he had discovered Julian’s artwork hidden in the closet. He was fifteen years old, and by that time, Yakov Klein had become a skilled thief. What began as bi-monthly stints of stealing art books from the library turned into a full-time occupation of weekly pilfering. By day, Yakov sat long hours in the cheder, barely listening to the teachings of the rabbi, daydreaming about painters. At night, instead of reviewing his Talmud studies, he’d teach himself how to paint and draw. He had no real teacher to work with—only thousands of pages of masters to guide him. But Yakov took what he could get. He studied art with the intensity and dedication he should have been giving to the Torah.
That fateful night, after dinner, Yakov was helping his mother clean up, not knowing that his father was busy scouring his bedroom. When he emerged with a stack of the stolen art books and drawings and stood there in the kitchen, glaring with raw hatred at him and his mother, Yakov knew that the worst was about to come. His father violently dropped the books at Yakov’s feet and lunged toward his mother. It was the first time that Yakov had ever seen his father strike his mother. It was a hard slap across the face, a swift whip-like crack that drew blood from her mouth and nose.
“It’s your fault for spoiling him, indulging his sins in my own house. Damn you.” His father, ranting in English and Yiddish, blamed his mother for the transgressions of their son, the artist. He spat out the words “the artist” as though Yakov were “the murderer.” But there was more to it. Yakov knew that slap had dual meaning, and in his father’s eyes, it was a long time in coming—payback for all of the babies his mother was unable to give him. And what she had given her husband was Yakov, the artist-murderer, the disappointment—the cheder’s worst student who cared nothing for his studies.
Yakov, who was taller and stronger than his portly father, immediately wrestled him to the floor and pinned him down with his knees.
“I hate you!” he shouted, staring into his father’s dark cowardly eyes. “If you ever hit her again, I will kill you!”
But his mother, still bleeding, pulled her only child off the man she did not love but had been taught to revere no matter what. Yakov stood and released his father—for her. He knew he might have killed him in that moment. Perhaps he was a thief. Perhaps he was an artist-murderer. But his mother had kept his secret all these years, and he owed her. Someday, he vowed, he would get out of this place, away from that bastard, but she was stuck with him until death.
“Julian? Did you hear what I was saying?” Felix repeated.
Julian nodded, but was still caught in his childhood memory—that night still too fresh in his mind. He remembered his father’s face later that night, the mask of cruelty, as he’d lit a match to each drawing, each page of each precious book being thrown into the fireplace, slowly, meticulously, with madman relish. Julian saw his mother cowering in the corner with the bloodstained kitchen towel pressed against her swollen mouth. They both stood in silence, watching the man they hated destroy everything, the only real beauty in their home—the sketches, the paints, the pencils, the art books, all gone—a burning bush of color against the blackness of night. What he lost, she lost. Never again, Yakov swore to himself. He would find his time. He would get out one day and never come back. His mother met his hardened gaze, and he saw the fear in her eyes. In her husband’s burning of their son’s art—the essence of his young soul—she knew she had lost him for good. Yakov’s green eyes blazed silently, lovingly, into hers. I have no choice now, Mama. She blinked back tears. I know, Yakov, I know.
Felix took another long, hard swig straight from the bottle, his eyes fastened on Julian. “As I was saying, my mother would support my father while he was in the room, but as soon as he left, she would be right there with a new set of paints for me. She used to take me and my sister Isabel on visits to modern art museums in Germany and Paris. My father loved the Old Masters, but my mother showed us only the most contemporary exhibits. It was our secret. The Masters were too cold, too dark, too much like my father. Van Gogh, Munch, Matisse, and Gauguin represented freedom to me.”
“Then don’t give it up now,” Julian said. “Don’t let him control you.”
“You just don’t understand. It’s not that simple. His friends are—”Felix averted his eyes. “Dangerous.”
Felix threw the empty bottle at the wall in the corner, causing the glass to shatter everywhere. “You know what I’m going to do, Julian? I’m going to run his goddamn company into the ground.” He smiled painfully, eyeing the broken glass as though justice had been served.
“You don’t have to go.”
Felix shook his head as if his fate were already sealed. “When I leave, you’re keeping the apartment. I will make that bastard pay for it. You will stay here, and then I’ll come back. It will be as though I never left.”
They stared at each other, knowing it was a lie. If Felix followed his father, he was not coming back.
“I don’t care about the damn apartment.” Julian looked around the pig-in-shit apartment that they both loved. “This is crazy. You are twenty-three years old. To hell with him.”
“It’s a done deal. It was done the second he walked through that door, Julian. That’s how it works in the world of the Von Bredows. With all of our money and fancy titles, there are no choices, only obligations.” Felix looked more depressed than before but he hid it by changing the subject. “Did you see the way Charlotte flirted with me at René’s exhibition? It is finally starting to happen, Julian. Damn it, what do I do about her?”
Julian wanted to tell him everything about Charlotte—about René and Jacob Levi. But he realized that the truth would be too much for Felix to handle at that moment. Besides, it was up to René to tell Felix, not him. But, would René tell him? Julian stared down at his damp shoes, uncertain as to what he should say or do. But now was not the time, he decided. Felix couldn’t handle it.
Felix stood, then paced across the room, finally stopping beneath the van Gogh. He stared up at the painting in stoic silence, then turned around with a satisfied look on his face. Julian knew that look.
“This may be crazy, but what if I bring you all to Germany with me?” Felix smiled.
“That is crazy.” Julian began cracking his knuckles. He knew Felix was serious. But there was no way in hell he was being dragged to Germany too. He’d read the newspapers. He listened to the radio broadcasts. He knew what was going on there. Everyone did.
“Just hear me out, Julian.” Felix’s eyes were wide open and devious. “What if I could set you up in a studio there? Would you come? Just for a short time? I will make a deal with my father. He knows he’ll have to cough up something to get me to come home.”
Julian shook his head no. “Forget it. The political situation is out of control.”
“Believe me,” Felix pointed out, “it is no crazier than Bastille Day here.”
Julian spoke slowly. “You have a life there, a home, a history. I don’t want you to leave, but I sure as hell am not going there.” He eyed Felix closely. “And I’m a Jew, remember? It’s not safe.”
“Is the situation really any different here in France?” Felix retorted.
They both knew it wasn’t. Julian conceded. “The difference is, there aren’t anti-Semitic thugs on every corner here.”
“You’re right, Julian, because they are all inside the cafés. Look, the Nazis are a handful of lowlife extremists, buffoons,” Felix continued. “No one pays attention to them, except perhaps my father and his ridiculous friends. But you will be fine if you are with me.”
“I’m sure your father would just love me tagging along.” Julian laughed, and Felix joined him.
“That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” Felix picked up a new bottle of Bordeaux, clearly next in line of what would be a long night of drinking. “Let me ask you this: How many times have you said that painting with Dubois is a waste of time?”
Julian shrugged. “About a thousand. What’s your point?”
Felix grinned with buoyed confidence. “I have a close connection with Ernst Engel, you know.”
Julian leaned forward. “The Ernst Engel?”
“Yes, the one and only,” Felix boasted. “He is a friend of my mother’s. What if I can arrange a spot for both you and René in Engel’s studio while I do my father’s shit-work?” He paused. “And believe me, René will not refuse. I know after his exhibition at the gallery things are happening for him here, but he has been begging to meet Ernst Engel for the last five years. Given the opportunity to paint with Engel, you can bet René will be in Germany before my father can pick up a prostitute at Le Panier Fleuri.”
They both laughed at that, picturing the baron heading over to Paris’s infamous brothel.
“Are you serious about Ernst Engel?” Julian stared at Felix, imagining what it would be like to paint alongside one of the world’s most innovative Expressionist artists—the leader of the entire new movement in Germany. Julian tried to shake the thought. Engel or no Engel, he knew he should not be traipsing anywhere near Germany right now.
Sensing Julian’s hesitation, Felix continued, “Look, this is not just about painting with Ernst Engel, Julian. It’s about me. I know you have a certain view of me here—but around my father, back in Berlin, I’m different. It’s hard for me, and that’s why I left. And I can’t go back there alone. I really need you with me.”
Julian took a deep breath. He picked up a pinkish cigarette butt that was hiding near the base of the couch. It must have been Adrienne’s. “What about the others?” he asked, staring down at the lipstick marks.
Felix eyed Julian closely. “Look, if you and René both come, Adrienne will come too. We will all be together.”
Julian recalled the harsh slam of Adrienne’s portfolio the day before as she watched René and Charlotte talking quietly in the corner of Dubois’s studio. “I’m not so sure.”
“I know Adrienne and René have not been getting along lately, but whatever it is, she’ll get over it,” Felix assured him, rubbing his hands together. “And maybe I can somehow convince Charlotte to join us, and then Berlin really will be a party.”
“I don’t think that will happen,” Julian said hesitating. Tell him now.
Felix tapped his stomach. “Look, my gut speaks to me, Julian. Charlotte is not planning to pose forever. That girl will seize any opportunity to elevate herself. We both know that she is probably screwing Dubois, foolishly thinking he is her meal ticket. That doesn’t bother me, Julian. You know I want her.” He smacked his fist into his hand. “Let her see my life in Berlin and that girl will come running to me.”
Julian hated Charlotte more than ever at that moment. Felix was right. She would not only come running, but also surely come between his friends. This was going to be bad. Julian cleared his throat. “Felix, there is something you need to know.”
Felix looked intently at Julian, not hearing him. “What I need to know is if you will come with me. It will only be for a short time and then we’ll return to Paris and pick up where we left off.” His voice cracked. “I’m not asking you, Julian. I’m begging you. Come with me. I love you like a brother. I don’t want to do this alone.”
Julian lost himself in the assorted shades of Felix’s eyes. The inner ring was yellowish brown, merging into a thinner circle of sea green, and the outer ring was so blue that it was practically violet. Perhaps he would paint those eyes—they were so volatile and strong. Felix was his friend who needed support. After everything Felix had done for him— free apartment, free food and living expenses—so he could paint without having to get a job, Julian felt he owed him something. And how could he pass up the opportunity to paint with Ernst Engel? The move would be temporary. What could really happen in a few months? He’d get called a kike? Big deal.
Julian took a deep breath and Felix was embracing him even before he said yes.