The Second Son

“She wouldn’t go for it when you asked her last night,” said the Pole. “Or the night before. But don’t let that stop you from asking again.”

The Bulgarian peered over at Hoffner. “Must be nice to have a wife who writes letters. And a little boy.”

“Must be,” Hoffner said distractedly.

“I have one somewhere. A wife. Not the writing type.” He leaned forward. “So tell me, why is it that Pathe Gazette has a German working for them? It’s English newsreel. Shouldn’t you be with Ufa-Tonwoche or Phoebus? One of the German studios?”

Hoffner folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. “Phoebus never did newsreels.”

“So why not Ufa?”

Hoffner took hold of the bottle. “Not too many Jews working out at Ufa these days.” He poured himself a glass. “I’d say none, but then there’s always one or two who’ve managed to slip through the cracks. Too good at what they do for some government statute to force them out. I wasn’t that good in the first place.” He drank.

“I’m a Jew,” said the Pole.

Hoffner poured himself another. “Good for you.”

The Bulgarian said, “And Pathe Gazette just happened to have an office in Berlin? How nice. I’m thinking they haven’t had time to set one up in Sofia just yet.”

“Don’t sound so bitter,” Hoffner said with a smile. “The girl’ll think you don’t really want her.”

The Bulgarian shot a glance back at the bar. The girl was chatting up the barman.

The Pole pushed back his chair. “I have an interview with the Swedish fencing team,” he said. “We’re very keen on fencing in Warsaw.” He stood. “Anyone interested?”

“Are there women on the team?” said the Bulgarian.

“I imagine so.”

“My God. Swedish women in those outfits. And socialists to boot.” The Bulgarian was on his feet. He piped his voice toward the girl at the bar. “No more negotiating, capitalist. I’m off to the Revolution.”

The girl glanced over. She smiled and winked and went back to her barman.

“And yet she knows I’m a capitalist at heart. How it kills me.” The Bulgarian picked up his rucksack from the floor. It was holding a new Zeiss Ikon, courtesy of the English Pathe Gazette Company. The Bulgarian had promised to get the camera back in one piece. Hoffner wasn’t holding his breath.

“Fifteen pesetas for an hour,” said the Bulgarian, as he hoisted the strap over his shoulder. “It’s a crime.”

“Enjoy the Swedes,” said Hoffner. He picked up his own bag.

The dozing Czech or Russian opened his eyes. Hoffner stood. He left a few coins on the table and headed for the door.

His room smelled of wood polish and garlic and stared out at the expanse that was the Plaza Catalonia. His hotel, the Colon, stretched the length of one side of the square and seemed to be perpetually in direct sunlight. Eight in the morning, nine at night, there was no escaping the glare. Hoffner thought it must have been some sort of architectural coup, but all it did was make the room unbearably steamy.

He had worked his way through descriptions of the square, the view of Barcelona, the taste of the food-a letter each day required topics to fill it. Lotte had written back with things far more compelling: their four-year-old Mendy had remembered to flush the toilet twice in the last three days; Elena, their cook and na

My love,

Have I mentioned it’s hot? Very hot, and they seem to think that water makes you less of a man. I wouldn’t mind it so much, but I get thirsty from time to time and they offer wine or whiskey, and I find myself no less thirsty. Can you imagine it? (I hope you’re laughing. I need to know I’m still wonderfully fu

I smell awful. There’s no reason to bathe (see water reference above). And yet, among the other journalists, I’m one of the few I can actually bear the smell of. There’s a nice Frenchman who I think has an unlimited stash of women’s perfume, and I’m coming close to asking him for some, but several Czechs have asked him to dance, so I think I’ll hold off for as long as I can.

I ate bull’s tail yesterday. Thick brown sauce. A little like brisket but stringier. And then apples, I think, in the same sauce. Not quite as effective. The whiskey was a help there.

I miss you-terribly. I’m amazed I’ve waited this long to say it. And Mendy. I try not to think about that. I suppose he’s still trying to be very brave, but I do hope there have been some tears. Selfish of me, I know, but at least that way I can think I’m not forgotten (yes, there are always a few lines of self-pity in here, so you’ll just have to bear with me-you always do).

Still, I am finding it fascinating here. All these idealists pretending to be athletes. I suppose it makes some sort of point. They’re all very kind to me when they find out I’m a German. “Brave, German,” they say. “That’ll show Hitler.” Of course I don’t tell them I work for an English company. I think it would deflate me a little in their estimation, and you always get a better reel of film and an interview when they think more of you than they should.

As for being a Jew, no one cares here. It’s almost as if I’d forgotten what that was like. You say you’re a Jew, and they say Oh and move on as if you’ve asked for the salt. There are the few who realize I’m a German, and the pieces start to click together, but for the most part there’s nothing more to it.

Can you remember what life was like when that was true? Can you imagine raising a son without having to explain that? They manage it here quite wonderfully, even with their aversion to water. Excuses aside, your father and I will have to sit down and have that talk when I get back. It can’t go on. Is he still thinking the racial laws will be recalled? Is he still trying to stay as quiet as he can? Does he still shake at night?

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so shrill about your father, but you and I both know the time has come.

Did I mention it’s hot? And that I miss you-desperately? It is desperation. I love you beyond all measure. I’m a fool to go away as often as I do. So let’s all go away.

I’ve been told I’m trying suquet, tonight. No idea what it is. Maybe fish and potatoes. Think of me when you eat.

Your Georgi

He folded the letter and placed a wrapped piece of chocolate inside for Mendy. He would post it on his way up to the park. He checked his watch. He had time for a nap.

The sun was low across the horizon as Hoffner set the camera on a narrow shelf of stone and tile. He had borrowed a car to make his way up to this particular park-Park Guell-Antonio Gaudi’s homage to sweeping curves and staggering colors and a mind unburdened by things of this world. It was like walking through a child’s gingerbread fantasy, except here all the garden walls seemed to be sprouting from trees or dripping from their branches. Hoffner tried to find a straight line somewhere among them, but it was pointless.

The city below looked equally untamed, pale stone and arching roofs, sudden openings here and there where a column or spire might rise from the disarray. The strangest and tallest was Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, his unfinished cathedral, whose towers looked to be made of sand, as if a spider were caught belly-up and struggling to right itself. Farther on stood the hills and Montjuic, with its ancient fortress and the new Olympic Stadium. To the left, the sea.