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Heading home in the rain that evening, Leila mulled over what the professor had said. She had certainly enjoyed her time on the university newspaper, but was it really something she could turn into a career? Minki had been looking for work as a journalist since the summer, and as far as Leila knew had so far failed to be offered a job. More worrying, might Minki be angry or envious if Leila chose the same path? She could just imagine Minki’s reaction: ‘You’re only going into journalism because I want to do it and you can’t think of anything else.’ Now Leila wondered if that might be true. Whatever her professor thought of her abilities, did she really have either the talent, or the determination, to make it work?
And what would her father make of such a career choice? She recalled a conversation with her parents back in the summer after she had been awarded her degree. To celebrate, her father had opened a bottle of wine – a rare treat – and toasted her. ‘To my darling daughter. I feel sure you will one day do important work.’
‘What do you mean, important work?’ Leila had asked.
‘I don’t know…simply that you’ll become a person of importance – a teacher, or doctor, or a politician.’
‘Goodness, Papa. I’m not sure how I could become a doctor with an English degree.’
Her father had tutted. ‘You know what I mean…’
‘To be honest,’ added her mother, ‘I’d be quite happy if you found a nice boy and settled down.’
Now Leila wondered what her parents would make of her decision. Would her father consider journalism ‘important work’?
Lost in her own thoughts, Leila was walking down Marienplatz towards the town hall square when a crowd of men suddenly materialised from the side streets on either side of her. At their head, and shouting at the top of his voice, was an unremarkable-looking man wearing an old dun-coloured raincoat, his hair plastered flat by the rain. Alarmed, Leila ran into the nearest shop doorway, and hid in the shadows. As the crowd ran past, chanting and yelling, they smashed shop windows and jeered at passers-by. Leila waited until the last stragglers had disappeared before ducking out from the doorway and running home as fast as she could. She crossed the river on the Luitpold Bridge and within minutes was rushing down the elegant nineteenth-century street where her parents lived. Once inside the apartment building she ran up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Fumbling with her keys, she finally managed to unlock the door, and literally fell into the hall, panting heavily.
Her mother found her a few moments later, on the floor. ‘Leila, darling. What on earth is the matter?’ She took Leila’s arm and helped her to her feet.
‘Oh…Mutti, I was on my way home, and a huge crowd of men rushed past me, heading for the Alter Hof. They were jeering and shouting – smashing shop windows. It was awful. I ran all the way home.’
‘You’re soaking wet. Take off your coat.’ Hannah shook the raincoat on the tiled floor.
‘I’m afraid this is wet through as well,’ said Leila, handing Hannah her headscarf.
‘I’ll hang it on the mantelpiece in the sitting room – I’ve got the fire lit, and then I’ll get you some tea – you’ve obviously had a shock.’
‘I hope Papa’s all right,’ Leila said. ‘I think the crowd might have passed his shop.’
Leila’s father Levi owned a jewellery business just off the fashionable Marienplatz, and often stayed late after the shop had closed, expertly repairing rings, bracelets and brooches.
‘Well, we must just pray he will be all right,’ said her mother, disappearing into the kitchen.
An hour passed before the two women finally heard Levi’s key in the lock. ‘Thank goodness,’ sighed Hannah. The pair listened as he went through his normal routine – removing his coat, and stowing his umbrella in the metal stand. But when he came into the room his face was white and drawn.
Hannah stood up, her arms outstretched. ‘Levi, darling, you look exhausted. Sit down.’
He sank down into an armchair by the side of the fire. ‘I’m glad to see you both here, safe and sound.’
‘Did that awful crowd of men come past your shop, Papa?’
‘Yes, they did.’ He took his pipe out of his jacket pocket and sucked on it, soothing his nerves.
‘Who were they, do you think?’ asked Leila. ‘I got caught up in it too, but managed to get away. It was very frightening.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Levi filled his pipe with tobacco from the pouch in his pocket. He tamped it down with his thumb, and struck a match. The smoke billowed around his head. ‘I was about to close the shop, and had just put the lights out when the mob raced up the road. Thank God I did, because they passed by without incident, but poor MrLepmann – you know, the tailor opposite – was still hard at work, and the mob saw him through the window, and hurled bricks through the glass.’
‘Through his window?’ interjected Hannah. ‘But why?’
‘Because he is Jewish,’ replied Levi matter-of-factly.
Hannah blanched. ‘Oh, no…surely not. Who would do such a thing?’
‘National Socialist thugs.’
‘Was MrLepmann all right?’ asked Leila.
‘He was shocked, of course, but not hurt, fortunately. I helped him clear away the shattered glass, but he was worried people might break in – he has some lovely bolts of cloth in there. We moved most of his stock into the back room and locked it. Then we nailed some old pieces of plywood across the broken window. He said he’d get someone in the morning to replace it.’
