Adam: The Story of a German Jewish Family in the Time of the Weimar Republic

By Christopher Charlton

Fritz Adam, a German Jewish entrepreneur, owner of one of the most prestigious department stores in central Berlin, finds himself at odds with the political developments at the time of the Weimar republic.
Fritz is an enthusiastic supporter of the Olympic ideal and sees the promotion of sports as the way forward to increase cooperation between nations in the form of healthy competition so as to prevent future military confrontations. Also an adventurer at heart, and sponsor of many of the first exploratory voyages around the globe, he sees his beliefs and ideals threatened and finally shattered as the Nazis return to values of order, discipline, and military expansionism.
As a Prussian officer who fought in the great war, he regards himself as a German, a Berliner and a Jew, in that order. Despite being forced into bankruptcy and witnessing the increasing repression of the Jewish people, he holds on to his belief that it is only a temporary phase and that the army will restore order in time.
As the political situation deteriorates, the tension between Fritz and his eldest son, an ardent pacifist, increases and threatens the family unity. Fritz has to decide whether to stay or leave the Germany that he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665597722

Christopher Charlton

Christopher Charlton was born in London in 1955. The second child of a German Jewish mother and Polish Catholic father, he was influenced by their liberal post-war attitudes from an early age. He was brought up in Bohemian Hampstead where the house was always full of ex-refugees, writers, painters, singers, and actors. He moved to Frankfurt, Germany, in 1987 and made his home there. Influenced by his family background, he became interested in German history and culture, especially the causes of the two world wars, and was able to witness with great satisfaction the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the integration of modern Germany into the European Union. After a career of over 40 years in financial services, he walked away on his 60th birthday. Three of his uncles wrote books about their lives and he decided that it was time to tell the story of their father and the history of the family. ADAM is Christopher’s first book.

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2022 Christopher Charlton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/10/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9770-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9771-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9772-2 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Dedication

To my wife, Renate, and my children Timothy and Nicolas.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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This book would not have happened if my close friends, Dora Heinze and Uwe Westphal, had not contacted my mother in the early 1980s. The seeds of this book were sown by their continual interest in the story of my family. I owe them a great deal.

My special thanks to Andrea Barnick, who dragged me through those dark days of self-doubt, and continuously inspired me on this journey.

Also, to Michael Farrell, Klaudius Sobczyk, Nick Stadler and Sir Christopher Frayling, who supported me with their positive comments.

And finally, to Renate for her enduring patience, Nico for his visual concepts, and Timmy for his pragmatism.

Ich bleibe und denke deutsch für mein ganzes Leben.

(I will always remain German in thought and spirit for the rest of my life.)

—Fritz Adam, 1936

PROLOGUE

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Have you ever seen the sun go down on the Wannsee in the late evening?

No, my darling. Tell me.

Fritz looked up as if in a dream. The sky is streaked in colours of gold and amber, which blend into the dark silhouette of the forest that lies on the other side of the lake.

He paused for a moment and then continued, saying, Just above the trees, the sun shines in brilliant fiery yellow, so strong that you can hardly look at it. It casts an intense streak of light across the lake directly towards you, tempting you to come and join it. The water is perfectly still with some swans swimming quietly across your field of view; you can see only their shadows against the sharp light. There is no sound apart from the gentle lapping of the water on the bank and the occasional call of a coot or woodcock. Slowly, as the sun drops behind the trees, the water changes colour as the grey evening light displaces the last gasps of sunlight.

Fritz was quite still as Lilli reached out and turned his face towards her. She whispered, Thank you, my darling, then kissed him deeply.

CHAPTER 1

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London 1980, First Visit

The windows were hidden by white lace curtains, and the sun streamed through in parallel beams of light that illuminated the German eighteenth-century walnut secretaire that stood against the wall at the back of the room. It was tall with pictures of the forest and hunting scenes, which were painted on the doors of the upper half. A lonely oak tree stood forlorn in a meadow. It was as if it had always been there, part of a people who were restless and insecure. It defined their hardships and battles that had been fought long ago. It represented their national identity, their souls. The forest, dark and threatening, with the evil lurking within its shadows, symbolised the angst of a people who had yet to confront their destiny.

The room itself was not large, but the ceilings were high, and some portraits of rather austere women hung from the picture rail, peering down in eternal judgement.

Lilli Adam sat in her armchair near the window, dozing quietly. Sometimes in midmorning, when no car was passing, there was complete silence. The thick light amber carpet and heavy velvet-draped curtains accentuated this so that even the sound of one’s own thoughts failed to impose on the complete stillness.

The sound of horse hooves and the cry of the rag-and-bone man broke the spell. That’s old Jim, Lilli thought. She had known his father back in the days of the boarding house. Now he would soon pass on, taking his disappearing world with him. She sighed and thought that her time was also due. The whole family had attended her ninetieth birthday celebration the week before, and it had been a great success, but she had felt tired afterwards. She was tiring faster now than before. But that is normal, she thought, starting to doze gently again.

The ring of the doorbell shocked her for a moment, but she was expecting the visit. It was eleven in the morning, and Loni, her daughter, had told her that Dora Heinze, a German journalist she had recently met, would like to meet her. Of course, she had agreed. Eileen had opened the door and ushered Dora into the living room, where Lilli had already stood up to welcome her.

Dora, how nice to meet you. Please come in and sit down here. Lilli showed her the armchair next to hers.

Thank you, Mrs Adam.

Please call me Lilli. Now tell me, how I can help you? Loni told me how charming you are—and so beautiful.

Dora blushed. As she looked at Lilli, she immediately recognised what a beauty she must have been as a young woman. Her features were still striking, although worn by age. The high cheekbones, the large dark eyes, her posture, her smile. She felt an immediate affection for this elegant old woman as she had felt with Loni at their first meeting.

Dora had been commissioned by the ARD, a German TV station, to make a documentary about the history of the German clothing industry in the 1920s and ’30s. The story had not been told. The industry was concentrated in and around the Hausvogteiplatz in central Berlin, which had become the centre of European fashion. Paris produced the haute couture designs, and Berlin produced the ready-to-wear clothing. It was a large and vibrant industry, dominated by Jewish firms. Of the two thousand that existed in 1920, fewer than two hundred remained in 1939. The Nazis, through force, guile, and deceit, had steadily forced Jewish owners into bankruptcy or exile. What was still not revealed was how complicit the banks and insurance companies had been in appropriating Jewish companies at ridiculously low prices, forcing the owners to sell either through dubious legal arguments or simply by using force. Dora’s journalist colleague Uwe Westphal had met a brick wall when he had tried to uncover whether some present-day companies had benefitted from those coercions. No one was willing to talk about it. He had even received threats to drop the investigation. Dora hoped that her documentary would bring these crimes to public attention.

She had been introduced to Loni by Uwe, and they had already become close friends. Loni’s childlike charm and infectious enthusiasm endeared her to anyone she met, and Dora had fallen under her spell. She was just finishing her documentary about the life of the German impressionist painter Max Liebermann and was astonished to hear he had been a close friend of Loni’s father. They were quickly able to film an informative interview to include in the documentary.

Listening to Loni describe her family, their experiences under the Nazis, how they had left Germany and settled in England, London in the war, and more, she thought that here was also a story to be told, and that was why she had come—to find out more.

Thank you, Mrs … Lilli, she corrected herself. I have had such a wonderful time with Loni. She has been so helpful.

Lilli smiled. But first, would you like some tea? Or coffee? I prefer coffee, and I have found a very good supplier of Kenyan mountain coffee, which they grind for me. It was always difficult to find good coffee in England; the English preferred tea and still do. They have no idea what good coffee tastes like. I think it was Agatha Christie who once said that English coffee tastes like a chemistry experiment.

Dora laughed. Of course, coffee. Thank you.

Excellent! Eileen, please bring us some coffee and biscuits.

Eileen, who had been dusting in the next room, acknowledged and went to the kitchen.

So, what would you like to talk about, my dear? Lilli asked.

Loni was telling me about the boarding house, how it was always full of refugees and was even famous many years after the war.

Oh, yes. We had such fun despite the difficult times, but there was also deep sorrow and tragedy. Lilli’s face clouded for a moment and then brightened again. But also much joy. When people are thrown together by circumstance—terrible, terrible circumstance—there is a common bond that brings them together whatever their background. This area of Hampstead was chosen by the refugees as a place to settle. I am not sure why, maybe the price of properties as compared to Kensington and Chelsea. Not just German refugees but also people from other countries as well, Hungary and Poland, for instance, and not all Jewish, although most were. When we emigrated from Germany, we lost everything, everything of value, and were only able to bring some pieces of furniture with us, as you can see here.

Lilli pointed to the Louis Quatorze writing desk in the corner and the chaise longue that was placed in front of the bookshelf. Dora stood up and looked at the books. Lilli explained that they were all first editions of Goethe’s and Schiller’s complete works, but they were not of any real value in 1934—nobody was interested in buying them, and now she was glad for that. They had even owned a Renoir, but that was gone. They had been forced to sell it for a pittance to an art dealer to provide them with money for the emigration.

A Renoir! Dora exclaimed. It would be worth a fortune now.

Yes. Lilli sighed. But at the time it was worth a fortune to us. Without it, we would not be here today. But first, we needed a house, and luckily we had Tante Connie!

Tante Connie? Dora asked.

Constance Hoster. We always called her Aunt Connie. She had already come to England with her family in the 1880s; she was a wonderful woman and a bit scandalous. She eloped with a Frenchman when she was nineteen, but he was a bounder, and she quickly divorced him.

Lilli laughed and continued, saying, She started the first secretarial school for young women in London. It was at the beginning of the century when the city of London was growing rapidly; typists and secretaries were in big demand. Her school was the ultimate qualification for young women looking for work. She had many influential contacts and helped my son Peter look for a home for us. Peter had arrived a few months before we came, and that was a real help.

I’ve heard of her school, Dora remarked. She must have been an interesting lady. And this is the same house? The house where you moved into at the beginning?

Yes. Lilli smiled. Fritz, my husband, was in frail health, both mentally and physically, and we needed money to support the children, so we decided to start the boarding house here in this house.

How did you cope with all the lodgers and visitors?

I had Mrs Hines, our daily help, who remained with us until she died, which was only five years ago; Eileen is her niece. And we also had a cook, who came in the evenings. I also cooked a lot myself. We were able to feed a table of twenty or more nearly every evening. We mainly cooked soups of various forms—cabbage, lentil, potato—and on the weekends we had chicken or whatever was available. And we had eggs! One of our lodgers was a chicken expert, and we had ten of them in a coop in the garden. We coped. The dinners were always very boisterous and entertaining. We had such a diverse selection of people: philosophers, musicians, singers, bankers, lawyers, actors. We had all sorts, both men and women. The conversations were always interesting; there was so much going on, and everyone tried to help each other. Often, there was sadness when we heard the news of the terrible developments in Germany or of someone’s family bereavements. From our family, Fritz lost three sisters and their husbands in the concentration camps. Also his nephew Herbert, but that is another story.

Dora, having heard about the family losses from Loni, offered her condolences. Wondering why the sisters had not left at the same time, she decided to come back to that later. Now she asked, How was it during the war for you and the children?

The war was a nightmare for me as all my three sons were away fighting. Even Loni worked for the US Embassy, listening to German radio broadcasts. It is so strange to remember how I felt in the first war with my husband away fighting the English and then here with my sons fighting the Germans. But we were not fighting the people; we were fighting the Nazis for freedom and against oppression and, as Jewish people, for the right to survive. I had no problem with ‘switching sides’ as some might say. My younger brother, Werner, even gets a bit confused with his wars as he fought actively in both, in the first for the Germans and then in the second for the British.

Lilli laughed loudly. He is getting on a bit now and gets mixed up. My grandson gets quite irritated with him and has to tell him occasionally, ‘No, Uncle Werner, that happened in the First World War, not the Second!’

Dora laughed as well. She felt very relaxed. There was something about the room that was deeply comforting, yet it seemed to hide so many memories. She asked spontaneously, Who are the persons in the portraits?

Lilli looked up. That is Sophie, my mother, and that is Jettchen my grandmother. You can see portraits of Fritz’s family in Loni’s room. They look rather austere, don’t you think? But they weren’t—just the opposite.

Jettchen looks quite serious, Dora remarked, but you look just like your mother.

Yes, I suppose so. My family had already arrived in Germany in the eighteenth century. We were originally from Spain.

That is where your dark eyes come from.

"Yes, my great-grandfather’s family were Hofjuden. At that time, in the eighteenth century, most Jews still lived in ghettos, but some were emancipated and had full citizenship. He was a supplier of horses to the court of Frederick the Great. My grandfather was a successful banker and a dreadful snob, but Jettchen was quite a socialite. She used to give afternoon teas and soirées where many of the Berlin chic would meet. Have you heard of the author Georg Hermann? He wrote a book based on her character."

"Oh, you mean the novel Jettchen Gebert?" Dora asked.

Yes, that’s the one. My father was a doctor and was well known in Berlin circles. When I met Fritz, there was an awful uproar. The Adams were a commercially successful family but had only arrived in Germany in the mid-1800s, a bit too ‘nouveau’ for my family, although my mother immediately took my side. Lilli smiled. My brothers also liked Fritz, and in the end, we persuaded my father, and I was allowed to marry. We were so happy, and then two years later the war broke out and everything changed. But I am digressing. We were talking about the boarding house.

No, no, please continue, Dora said. It is all so fascinating.

Well, the war, the second war, was hard on all of us. There was little to eat, and finding soap was a problem as well. Rationing hit everyone, but the boys were fed by the army, and Loni had a daily meal at the embassy, so we were fine. And we were able to share the lodgers’ rationings to produce a daily meal at the house. The bombings came close occasionally; one bomb destroyed the house at the end of the road, but normally they concentrated on the docks and the East End. There, the people suffered terribly.

And your husband, Fritz? Dora asked. Can you tell me something about him? Loni told me that he died in 1936.

Lilli sighed. Yes, dear Fritz. He was such a proud man. He could not understand what was happening around him. It was not just the political upheaval; I think it was more the incessant evil that ran beneath everything. You couldn’t always see it, but you could feel it. He could not come to terms with it. The business was in ruins, and he was unhealthy. He couldn’t find a decent job here in London, and the frustration of not being able to support his family was overbearing. The London smog didn’t help either. Although, in the end, we thought that things were improving.

And you became a widow at the age of forty-five with four children to look after!

Yes. Lilli looked down for a moment and then looked back up at Dora. Yes, it was not easy at first, but in a way, it was a relief. He was such a positive man, full of laughter and optimism. He was fiercely ambitious and competitive. He was also the most generous and caring man that I have ever known. To see his pride and esteem being slowly eaten away was nearly unbearable.

Lilli paused for a moment and then asked, May I tell you something of his life and the family?

Oh yes, please do, Dora replied.

Gostyń, Poland, 1865

The wind had picked up, announcing the storm that was approaching from the east. Thick, dark clouds swirled in preparation as the temperature dropped. Saul was pleased that the storm would come and clear the humidity that had hung over the area for the last few days.

He was leading the procession behind the simple wooden coffin, which was placed on a rickety wagon, pulled by an old horse. He walked on his own, as it was his wife who had passed away. She was only eighteen and had died in agony as the baby had refused to appear. It was already dead.

Saul did not feel any real remorse. Although he had known Sarah since childhood, he had never loved her. The marriage had been arranged by their parents as was the custom; he had dutifully obeyed, especially after his father had told him about his plans.

This is no place for a young man, he had said. The Russians will ensure that. I have discussed this with Sarah’s parents, and we have agreed that you will marry her, and then you will both leave for Berlin. I have a cousin there. He will give you lodgings and set you up in his business. He is a tailor by trade like we are.

The revolution had failed dramatically. For two years, the rebels had fought bravely, but how could they defeat an organised army of more than three hundred thousand men? It had started as a student uprising against Russian rule, and then it gained the support of the peasants and workers. Even so, they were poorly equipped and lacked leadership. The uprising was brutally subdued, and many died in battle or were executed. They achieved the exact opposite of what they had fought for, and Russian oppression increased.

This is no place for a young man. His father’s words resounded in his head as he marched along slowly and steadily behind the wagon, his head drooped down. Behind him came the men, all dressed in black with wide felt hats, which they now clutched tightly to stop them flying off. The women followed, their heads and clothing covered in white shawls that started to flap like sails of a boat as the wind caught them.

Saul threw the earth from the small shovel onto the coffin and put the shovel down for the next mourner to use. The sky had darkened, and the first drops of rain had started to fall. The mourners speeded up, each throwing a small amount of earth into the pit. Psalms were read, not quite in strict accordance with the tradition. After ten minutes, everyone was in full flight to get back to the inn as quickly as possible. The rain fell in torrents.

Aunt Alya pulled Saul to one side. You poor boy, you will need some comforting again now, she purred.

She was his aunt but only six years older than he. Her husband had been killed at the beginning of the uprising, at which time she started to take more of an interest in Saul’s upbringing than would normally be expected of an aunt. Saul was already in his early twenties but was hardly worldly in terms of experience with the opposite sex. He didn’t know why she had taken such an interest in him. Maybe he reminded her of her husband. Maybe she just liked sex. He didn’t ask, and he didn’t care. What he did like was what she did to him, and she did it well.

When she heard that he was to be married to Sarah, she increased her eagerness. Once you are married, I will no longer be able to touch you.

He had understood. And now, after one year, he was free again and she was tugging on his arm. They both knew that his next marriage had already been arranged. It seemed only normal that he should marry Sarah’s sister, Fanny. The plan to leave for Berlin had been agreed upon. There would be no turning back.

Fanny was different. She was quieter than Sarah, more mature, and two years older. She was not as pretty but had a certain attractiveness to her. And she was stronger. Saul was sure that she would bear him many children.

The shiva and the shloshim had ended. The marriage ceremony was arranged for a few days later. One could not say that Aunt Alya was particularly religious, but she did wait seven days for the shiva to end before resuming her advances. Saul readily capitulated.

Now, the night before the wedding, Alya had been especially accommodating. As Saul was leaving, she said, "Isn’t it strange that our law permits a man to marry his niece but not a woman to marry her nephew? Schande. This time, my boy, you will marry and be happy. Fanny will bear you many children. Got zol dikh bashitsn." She didn’t attend the wedding, citing illness, and Saul was pleased.

Now, as Fanny circled around him under the chuppah, he knew that he was ready for a new life. His heart filled with excitement at the thought of going to Berlin. He had heard so much about it. Poles were leaving the country in the thousands, and not just Jews. Many of the upper class and intelligentsia had headed for Paris or London, but Berlin was where there was work to be found. The city was only just starting to emerge from the backwaters. People were pouring in, and Saul would supply them with clothing.

Saul took Fanny’s hand as they sat on their chairs after the ceremony. The dancing began. This was not just a wedding ceremony; this was the final farewell. He looked over at his parents—his father, beaming with pride, and his mother crying and being comforted by the other women. He smiled and wondered whether his mother was crying out of happiness or sadness. He felt a pang of emotion overwhelm him as well, but Fanny’s squeeze of his hand and her warm smile brought him back into the festive spirit.

The next day, half the village were there to bid their farewells. Saul and Fanny sat on the fine carriage that Schmuel, the local carpenter, had built especially for them. Reuben, the farmer, had given them a young stallion that would take them speedily to Berlin.

They each kissed their parents and bowed their heads as their fathers blessed them one last time. Then they jumped up onto the carriage bench. Saul took the whip and snapped it above the horse’s head. It jerked forward and started off in a trot.

Saul and Fanny did not look back, and they would never return.

Berlin, March 1900

It was early March. The winter had been hard, but the snow had gone two weeks before, and now the cherry and magnolia trees were blossoming, announcing the arrival of spring with colour and form that brought joy and hope to all those who have survived the winter, as they did each and every year.

Potsdamer Platz was bustling. Carriage horses clip-clopped over the cobblestones. Rhenish Coldbloods pulled large wagons stacked high with furniture or beer barrels; horse-drawn buses rumbled by with people crammed into the interior and sitting on the upper decks; men were pushing carts laden with potatoes and vegetables; others were scooping horse manure into wagons and washing the urine down the gutters; bicyclists rode past; and occasionally an electric tram trundled by. People were rushing to and fro, all with earnest looks, trying to get from here to there as quickly as possible, unaware of the others around them. Some stood idly by, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Elderly men with large top hats and canes strolled past; their wives wore huge bonnets and carried matching parasols. There was an air of haughtiness about them as they held their chins up high. They were original Berliners or thought themselves so. Younger men wore straw boaters with blazers; one could detect the eagerness and exuberance in their fast and steady steps. Tourists walked past carrying their Baedekers, on their way to Brandenburg Gate or Museum Island. There were the others, the immigrants, who were swarming into the city relentlessly and unceasingly, wearing monotone wool jackets and trousers with cloth caps. These were the workers who slaved in the new factories and cleaned the streets, a whole new class of people. And then there were the Jews. One could always spot them from afar with their yarmulkes and wide hats. They had come from the east.

The whole square was a monument to cosmopolitanism. This was the centre of a new city that in forty years had arisen from a swampy backwater to become the most vibrant in Europe, surpassing London and Paris in style and energy and leaving sleepy Vienna in its wake. The city inhabitants had increased to more than one and a half million, and to Fritz Adam that morning in March, it seemed as though half of them were there in the square.

Fritz crossed the road, dodging the carriages and bicycles. The sun was shining brightly; it was just before midday, and he was in a hurry to get to the Hotel Kaiserhof for the family lunch. He wondered what it was all about; his father had called the family together, all ten of them, without giving a reason. It was rare nowadays that the whole family came together. Yes, always for Christmas, even though they were Jewish, or another special occasion, but there was always a reason. Fritz was intrigued and slightly worried. Was there an illness?

His thoughts were suddenly and pleasantly interrupted by the sight of a young woman who had crossed the square farther up and now was turning towards him. In her early twenties, she was carrying a tennis racket. Fritz was temporarily mesmerised. She was perfect, he thought. She wore a white blouse with a high collar that reached up to under her chin, the sleeves of which were frilled, and her dark blue fluted skirt fell to her ankles. He admired her bonnet, which was covered with spring flowers, exhilarating him. It was her small waist which emphasised the roundness of her bosom and the curvature of her hips, that trapped Fritz’s gaze. What a figure! he thought. As he looked up, their eyes met in a fleeting moment of mutual attraction, for Fritz did not look so bad either. He was dressed in the latest fashion from London, a blue blazer, beige flannel trousers, a bow tie, and a brand-new boater.

The young woman smiled coquettishly and looked away. Fritz’s breath froze. Shall I follow her and talk to her? he thought, as he began fantasising about playing mixed doubles with her and a lot more than that. A large horse and carriage galloped by and briefly caught his attention. Once he turned back, she was gone, lost in the crowds.

Fritz still had half an hour before lunch. He sat down at a street cafe opposite the Bellevue Hotel and ordered a beer. Ein Kindl, bitte! Null komma Fünf. He thought about the young woman. She was exactly his type, not too curvaceous, but still curvy enough for his hand to roam down along her side like stroking the curve of a cello. He loved doing that, and so far, the women he had known had appreciated it too. He wondered where this young woman had come from and where she was going. Was she a Berliner? Or had she arrived recently like so many young people? Did she have an apartment, or was she living with her parents? The arrival of the beer roused him from his reverie.

He took out the silver cigarette case that his father had given him a week ago for his twenty-first birthday. He pressed the catch on the side, and the case sprang open to reveal two sets of six perfectly rolled oval-shaped cigarettes from Sullivan Powell, London. He had discovered their Turkish blend and had smoked nothing else since, apart from the occasional cigar. Engraved inside were his initials and the date of his birthday. It was a beautiful case and just what he had wanted.

Fritz was a perfectionist and slightly ostentatious; he liked to dress well and was meticulously clean and well manicured. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Life was good, he thought. As he watched the carts and carriages pass by on that busy morning in the sunshine, his mind drifted to London, where he had just spent one year as an apprentice at Burberry, the prestigious clothing company. Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus were more crowded, but here in Berlin there was a buzz, a pulse, that was lacking there. This was a new city, and one could feel it, sense it, even smell it. It was also the start of the new century, and he felt that it belonged to him. It was going to be his century, and he had many plans. He thought back to the Millennium Ball on New Year’s Eve at the Wintergarten ballroom. With more than four hundred guests, the party had lasted into the early morning hours; his two best friends, Kurt Wittgenstein and Ludwig Rosenthal, had been there as well, and he had met Carl Diem for the first time, the two of them having chatted about the Olympics. He had danced with Kurt’s sister for most of the evening, but their relationship was platonic. And she was older in any case. Then he was introduced to a young woman from Stettin, but her family had whisked her off at three in the morning. Damn shame, he thought. I had a real chance there.

An electric streetcar passed by. Far better than the old horse-pulled ones, he thought. Fritz loved horses; they were his passion, and he was glad that they were being replaced. The trams were getting heavier with the new workloads, and the horses could only do three-hour shifts before they became exhausted. How the hell can they pull a wagon full of people? These electric trams are the future, he mused. He had recently read in the newspapers that last year a Frenchman had exceeded one hundred kilometres per hour in an electric car. Now that’s something!

Fritz finished the beer and stubbed out his cigarette. He took out his pocket watch; it was a quarter to noon. He glanced up at the pillar clock in the centre of the square to check whether his watch was accurate. It was, and that pleased him. He asked for the bill, which he paid. As he was leaving, he glanced at the headline of the morning’s Tageblatt, which a man was reading on the adjacent table: English Cavalry Routs the Boers at Poplar Grove.

Fritz had been following the developments of the war avidly. The English defeats at the end of the previous year had demoralised the public, and the government badly needed a victory. The relief of Kimberly in early February had been a start, and this new victory might turn the war in their favour. That said, he was not sure which side he was on, if any. The Brits just want the diamonds, he thought. Mind you, what are we doing in South West Africa? He decided to discuss it with Otto, his elder brother, who was highly knowledgeable in current affairs. Fritz was more interested in sport and young women. What’s wrong with that! he thought, smiling.

It was a ten-minute walk to the Hotel Kaiserhof. Rather than taking the direct route via Voßstraße and then Möhrenstraße, he chose to walk down Leipziger. He enjoyed the street with its variety of shops and department stores. The family store, S. Adam, was farther down, on the corner of Friedrichstraße, where he would turn left for the two-minute walk to the hotel.

He passed by the new Wertheim store on his left and looked at the window displays. Although the store was only four years old, he felt that they were already dated; the background decorations were drab and lacklustre. Our store isn’t any better, he thought. We need to change. It is the new century after all! Fritz walked briefly inside. It always took his breath away. The ground floor was split into sections of square and rectangular blocks of dark polished mahogany. On top lay different garments and objects for sale. In the centre was a large fountain, and the floor was covered with thick Persian carpets. The atrium reached up to the glass ceiling, four storeys higher; it was enormous. He had no time now to wander around, so he left and walked briskly along the street. He glanced briefly at a travel agent placard offering trips to Egypt; the thought of an exotic holiday with the young woman he had just seen entered his mind. He smiled and moved on, coming to the S. Adam store. The building was not as imposing as Wertheim’s, but the store had been founded over thirty years ago and was famous for its traditional men’s and women’s fine clothing, as well as for having the best sports department in Berlin.

Fritz walked down the Friedrichstraße and arrived at the hotel at a quarter after twelve, fifteen minutes late. He rushed through the foyer as the concierge called out, Hello, Herr Adam. They are all waiting for you upstairs in the Bismarck Room. Nice to have you back.

Thank you, Andre, Fritz replied. He ran up the winding staircase two steps at a time. The family were well known in the hotel. Fritz’s father, Saul, frequently entertained customers for lunch there and held many events for the family and guests. The Hotel Kaiserhof was the grand hotel in Berlin.

The private room was large with three round tables, one in the middle that could seat twenty, and two smaller ones at each end. Chairs and settees were placed against the surrounding walls, facing inwards. Three crystal chandeliers hung from heavy cords over each table; they looked like giant pear drops with twelve rather unsightly but practical electric light bulbs encircling them. In the evening they sparkled with elegance. The room was heavily carpeted, and the walls were papered in floral designs. Flowers in large urns were strategically placed around the room.

The larger table was laid for lunch; it was covered with a thick white linen tablecloth with matching linen serviettes, each embroidered with the letter K. In the centre was an arrangement of spring flowers which basked in the sunlight that streamed through the large French windows. Silver cutlery and crystal glasses completed the decoration.

The family were standing in small groups, gossiping and drinking champagne, as Fritz entered in a flash of exuberance. He went straight to his father, who was standing talking to his two eldest sons, Georg and Siegfried.

Hello, Father. I am sorry for being late.

Saul Adam was a man of medium height and upright posture. His main characteristic was his sideburns, which covered his lower cheeks from ear to chin in tufty hair and were then joined by his moustache to provide a continuous growth from side to side. He was immensely proud of these, combing them for five minutes each morning after he was dressed. His hair was flat but curly on the sides, and his nose was straight and pointed. His eyebrows arched quite high above his eyes, which gave his penetrating gaze extra emphasis. It was a kindly face.

Harrumph! Saul snorted. As usual! But come, it was your birthday last week, and we are here to celebrate it with the family. Have some champagne.

Fritz took a glass from the tray that the waiter had brought.

May I be so bold as to also offer my congratulations, young Mr Adam? the old waiter, who was well known to the family, said.

Thank you, Albert. Thank you, Father. Prost, everybody! Fritz shouted.

Prost! they all shouted back.

Georg and Siegfried hugged him, and then he went straight to his mother, who was surrounded by five of his sisters.

Hello, Mamam. Sorry I was late.

She exclaimed, "Ach mein Junge, when will you ever learn to be punctual!" They all laughed. Fritz was hugged and kissed in turn by his sisters.

Finally, he turned to Otto and Käthe, who were standing slightly farther away. They were his favourites. Otto was three years older than Fritz, and Käthe was the youngest of the family and would be turning sixteen in July. She jumped towards him, hugged him, and gave him a long kiss on the cheek, spilling some of his champagne at the same time. Otto laughed and said, I’ll get you another glass. Happy birthday, Fritzie!

Oh yes, happy birthday! Käthe added.

Otto brought the champagne and asked, Have you any idea what this is all about? Apart from your birthday, of course?

Not a clue, Fritz replied. Did you see the papers today? About the battle at Poplar Grove? There was a cavalry charge and—

Oh, do stop! Käthe spouted. Tell me about the girls in London. What are they are wearing? Are they friendly? She gave Fritz a cheeky smile.

They can never be as beautiful as German girls, especially my little sister. Fritz laughed. Käthe pretended to kick him in the shins.

Käthe loved Fritz deeply. She felt especially attached to him. They were the two youngest of the family and had a special bond. Otto was eight years older than she, and then the gap widened to Dagmar, who was already over thirty. Their childhood had been a happy one, growing up in an age of peace and amidst an extraordinary explosion in wealth and living standards. As young children, she and Fritz had played together. She had helped him set up his ranks of tin soldiers again after they had been mown down by Otto, and he had helped her set up her doll’s house and puppet theatre. She felt that Fritz was different from his brothers; he was more sensitive and caring. She did not mean badly of the others. Georg was a quiet man, a bit sullen, she thought, and an introvert, whilst Siegfried was tall and handsome, a lover of music, but a bit