‘That’s lovely,’ I said, bringing myself upright, ‘a good hundred and forty beats per minute, very healthy.’
Again, her face lit up like a child’s. ‘Can you really hear it?’ she said, as if Christmas had come early.
‘The baby’s still quite small,’ I said, ‘so it’s very faint, but I can hear it, yes. And everything feels normal. It seems to be progressing well.’
She stroked the bump again and smiled broadly, muttering something to the baby under her breath.
We talked about how often she might want a check, when we would start planning the birth, if she might take one last trip to see her parents – a good day’s drive away. I realised I would be redundant for much of my time at the Berghof, amid this luxury, and the intense guilt rose up again. As I turned to go, she called behind me: ‘Thank you, Fräulein Hoff. I do appreciate you coming to care for me.’
And I believe she meant it, innocent or not. I didn’t know whether to be gracious for my life chance, or angry at her naivety. A thought flashed, ‘a child within a child,’ and I forced a smile in response, while every sinew in me twirled and knotted.
8
A New Confinement
I ate breakfast the next morning in the servants’ quarters. I was introduced as Fräulein Braun’s companion, yet no one asked where I had come from, or about my life during or before the war; everyone’s history, it seemed, had been washed away by the turmoil.
We had agreed I would see Fräulein Braun briefly each morning after breakfast, and once a week for a full check. In between, I would see her only if she needed me or had questions – this was all made clear in my first meeting with Sergeant Meier, who proudly introduced himself as I returned to my room.
‘And I needn’t make it clear you cannot leave the complex without Fräulein Braun,’ he added, ‘or her express permission – in writing.’
He gave a reluctant smile, his small, neat moustache rippling, wire-rimmed glasses sitting astride a short, pointed nose, topped by oiled, cropped hair. His creeping arrogance and the way he wore his sombre SS jacket made me shiver; I had seen a hundred SS guards wielding heavy coshes, lined up before a thousand powerless women. Before the war, this man had been small and insignificant. Conflict had granted him gravitas, and he basked in it.
‘Given where I have come from, Sergeant, I’m under no illusions about my place here,’ I said. ‘I’m still a prisoner, engaged in slave labour, however you want to dress it.’
‘Very comfortable slave labour, Fräulein,’ he said without skipping a beat. ‘Just remember that. And your family. Good day.’
The rest of January and into February passed slowly. The house was quiet, and I could only assume its chief resident was conducting the war from elsewhere. Fräulein Braun and I soon settled into a routine: I would go to her room after breakfast, enquire about her night, how the baby was moving, and if she wanted me to listen to the baby’s heartbeat. Once or twice a week I performed a full check, with her blood pressure and urine. She was healthy and there were no obvious problems.
The weather was bitterly cold, but on clear days the views were spectacular across the wide valleys below the house, and I was itching to venture further afield. Strangely, though, I never once thought of talking my way past the guards and out into the world. At times, it didn’t feel like a prison; I was treated with respect by Fräulein Braun, engaged in conversation with the other servants, and was tolerated by Frau Grunders. It was the constant spectre of my family’s future that kept me in check. If there was the tiniest chance that my compliance would allow even one of them to survive, it was a small price to pay.
I spent hours wrapped in my blanket in the corner of the wide, stone terrace attached to the main house, drinking in the winter sun and reading. On still days, the space was dotted with tables and striped sun umbrellas, giving it the feeling of a hidden and exclusive resort hotel. Fräulein Grunders had granted me blissful access to her bookshelves, and I was hungrily eating my way through volumes of German and English classics – Austen and Goethe, Dickens and Thomas Mann. The skies buzzed with small aircraft, possibly fighters, but up here, surrounded by the purest air, there was no hint of a war raging across the world; our cotton clouds bore no resemblance to the gun smoke below.
The war, in fact, seemed a lifetime away. Aside from the young jackboots who patrolled the complex, smoking in their breaks, there was no hint of anything untoward in the world at all. They were bored and eager to chat, wearing the guns slung across their shoulders like elaborate trinkets. In the camp, we’d had scant news from the outside world – only when a new inmate had been brought in did we learn which borders had fallen, or what new countries had been occupied. There were no newspapers, nothing by which we could judge our place in the great scheme. I presumed it was intentional, since our ignorance contributed to the regime of fear, to their ability to leverage our lives, and that of our families. Anything to isolate our humanity.
High on up in the Bavarian hills, we also seemed to be in a news black spot. I sometimes glimpsed a newspaper on Sergeant Meier’s desk and harboured a ravenous hunger for the print on its pages. But I also knew it was pure propaganda – as the daughter of a politics professor I had been taught to have a healthy disrespect for the media. ‘In the pocket of the politicos,’ was one of my father’s more familiar groans. ‘Always read between the lines, Anke. Accept nothing on face value.’ Any Nazi newspaper these days – slavishly controlled by Goebbels – was more fiction than fact.
In the servants’ hall, there was a small radio set, one of the Reich’s People Receivers, but it was rarely switched on, and conversation was limited to enquiring about immediate family who weren’t away in the war, or the plentiful meal in front of us. In fact, everything about the Berghof made it seem as though the war was an elaborate figment of our imaginations: the quality of the furnishings, the luxuries of soap, shampoo and even shoe polish, which were refreshed in my room regularly.
Inevitably, my waist started to fill out, my ribs gaining a fleshy coating, so that I could no longer tap on them like a xylophone and produce an echo. In the mirror, I noted a subtle change in my face, a gradual colouring coming into more rounded cheeks, and my hair became thicker, acquiring a slight sheen. I looked almost healthy. It was the old Anke I saw, but not one I recognised. My outer and inner selves were at strange odds with each other.
On one or two occasions that month, I was allowed to go further afield. Fräulein Braun usually took a walk after breakfast with her terriers, Negus and Stasi – I often saw her heading through the perimeter fence and along a path linking another hilltop area. One morning, after our usual meeting, she asked if I would like to go with her. When I said I didn’t have a coat, she looked slightly taken aback, and fished in her wardrobe for one that might fit me.
‘There, that should keep you nice and warm,’ she said, beaming, and for a split second the atmosphere was almost sisterly, as if we’d been swapping gossip for hours, teasing each other’s hair into the latest style.
Eva donned her sunglasses against the bright, white sun beating out to warm the icy air. Our breaths left brief trails as we headed down the frosty path, followed at a discreet distance by an armed guard, with the dogs gambolling on ahead. Conversation was stilted at first, given that there were few topics on which we could share, and many off limits. In the circles she mixed, she had picked up a certain amount of tact in chattering diplomatically, almost about nothing. We talked about some of our favourite films, our school days, and she told me a little about her family, whom she clearly missed. Her sister, Gretl, was often at the Berghof, since she was engaged to a senior officer in the SS, but she rarely saw her older sister, Ilse. When I revealed I had a sister of the same name, she smiled and seemed genuinely pleased we had a small thing in common. She stopped short of asking where my own Ilse was, and how she fared.
‘So, tell me about when you were working in Berlin, and the babies you delivered,’ she said, eager to know. ‘I oft
en think it must be a lovely job. I think, if things had been different, I might have been drawn into nursing, or something like that.’ That was as far she came to alluding to the war and its catastrophic effect on the entire world below us, and not for the first time it made me question her true knowledge, or her willingness to ask.
I told her some of the positive stories about birth, of the quirkier events, but nothing of the downsides, the times when it could go wrong, and the emergencies we might have to deal with. The bitter part of me might have hinted at those, but it was an unspoken rule among midwives that we didn’t dwell on the negative side. After all, what was the point? Pregnant women were set on a journey, through the winding hours of labour and into motherhood, with no option of taking a shortcut. Why would I reveal it was potentially fraught with danger, reaffirming the old German view of childbirth as infected with jeopardy? As midwives, we knew intense fear could stop a labour in its tracks, with resulting consequences. We needed mothers to welcome it into their bodies, as much as anyone could invite pain and discomfort. Over endless hours of watching and waiting with women in labour, I was a firm believer that anxiety was our enemy, a generous dose of humour being the best medicine.
It took us half an hour to reach a turning point, a little clearing cut into the trees with a rectangular building on one end, part brick and part wood, becoming circular at the other end. Windows looked out onto the expanse below, across the border and into Austria. The dogs barked our arrival.
‘Quiet, you rascals!’ Eva chided them playfully.
The building was one main room, with the circular ante-room visible through an open door. Comfortable chairs were dotted around the walls and the wood floors covered with expensive rugs.
‘We call this the Teehaus,’ said Fräulein Braun, as the dogs flopped onto their embroidered cushions. She was pleased to be playing the hostess. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’
She beamed as she offered me tea from a little stove, pre-lit and set for her trip – making her regular morning walks anything but arduous – and talked as she filled the cups.
‘We come here and take tea on some afternoons. On a clear day you can see for ten miles or so. The view is breath-taking.’ She didn’t look at me but the ‘we’ was heavily weighted for my benefit.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, as if I was in some kind of fairy tale myself.
‘Goodness!’ she said suddenly, as we finished our tea. ‘Time to head back. Frau Grunders will be calling for lunch and wondering where we are.’
I mused on what might be calling her away – to my knowledge, she hadn’t left the house in weeks. I’d overheard some of the maids gossiping about how full the Berghof used to be with a constant stream of guests. The social whirl, however, had stopped abruptly, no doubt at the Goebbels’ bidding. Eva flashed a naughty child’s grin, inviting me to be complicit in her mild mockery of the housekeeper, and I smiled back as a reflex. Unwittingly, Frau Grunders had helped us forge a small alliance.
9
Contact
A week later, Eva asked me to walk with her again. The day was crisp, but the air heavier with mist and her mood was dampened, though she made an effort to keep the conversation flowing.
‘So, do you think you will ever have children, Fräulein Hoff? I mean, your position – seeing what you do – it hasn’t put you off?’
I was slightly taken aback at her frankness, as we hadn’t broached anything so personal before. She might have known from my files that I was only a year younger than she, and still capable of having a baby, assuming camp life hadn’t rotted my insides – I hadn’t had a monthly cycle in over a year.
‘I hope one day to have a baby,’ I said. ‘I’m certainly not put off, or frightened, of it. Far from it. I think – I hope – I would relish it, welcome the experience. My work has taught me to have great faith in women. Mother Nature seems to get it right most times.’
‘I hope she’ll be kind to me,’ Eva Braun countered in a wistful voice. ‘I really do.’
I couldn’t tell if she was talking of the birth, the baby or both; the pressure on her to produce a consummate heir must have been sitting heavily even then. Nothing less than perfection would be tolerated.
‘And of course, the reward for a hard labour is always the baby,’ I said to lighten the mood, but as the words emerged, I thought instantly of the mothers who hadn’t been allowed to keep their prize, and I was ashamed of coating this dirty business with an acceptable sheen. How could I have forgotten so quickly? So easily? I was hit squarely by a swell of contrition and I coloured with the shame.
Eva Braun, however, heard only the gloss. ‘Oh! I’m so glad to hear that. My mother talked of childbirth being so positive, “powerful” she once said. I hope I feel that way when the time comes.’
‘And your family, are they excited?’
The pause in her step told me I’d gone too far, but Eva’s Reich standing did not turn on me. Instead, she pulled up her shoulders and assumed the facade.
‘Gretl is very excited. In fact, she’s coming in a few days, so you’ll get to meet her. I’m hoping she’ll be there at the birth.’
Her false chirpiness spoke volumes. The shroud of secrecy meant only her closest relatives would know – parents and siblings – and if they were enthusiastic Nazis, they would be proud beyond words. But if they were going through the motions of Third Reich belief, as I knew many families in Berlin had been, well versed in etiquette as a survival technique, they would fear for their daughter as well as themselves. I had heard some of the servants talking about Eva as if she weren’t worthy of her place at the Berghof, questioning what or who her family were – I put that down to envy and jealousy, since almost all seemed loyal supporters of their master. I wondered then if her parents regretted their daughter’s place in the inner circle.
Fräulein Braun cut short our walk, saying she urgently needed to write some letters before lunch.
‘I expect you do, too?’ she said.
I toyed with letting it go, but the lack of contact with my family rankled, especially since news of their wellbeing had appeared to be part of the agreement. And yet Sergeant Meier was always terribly busy whenever I tried asking him.
‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed letters, either in or out,’ I said flatly.
‘Oh … I hadn’t realised. I’m sorry.’ She flushed red, embarrassed, and turned in to the house.
After a minute or so, I went in through the servants’ entrance, and made my way to Frau Grunders’ parlour to choose a new book. There was the usual kitchen bustle but her room was quiet. Through the ceiling I heard voices, agitated and urgent. I caught only the edge of some words, muffled sounds – Fräulein Braun’s voice and the distinctive whine of Sergeant Meier.
‘I will have to … only the Captain can say …’ The words faded in and out.
‘I would be grateful … as soon as …’
I cocked my ear to tune further in to the sound, intently curious. I had never seen them in the same room before, and Sergeant Meier’s office and Eva’s room were on opposite sides of the house.
‘I will arrange …’
‘Thank you …’
A chair scraped overhead, that unmistakable click of heels and then silence.
I was returning to my room when Sergeant Meier caught up with me.
‘Ah! Fräulein Hoff.’
‘Morning, Sergeant Meier, and how are you?’ My amusement over the weeks had been in appearing as sweet and courteous to this odious man as I could bear to – my reward being his visible, sweaty discomfort.
‘I’m perfectly well, Fräulein. I have some news for you.’
‘Yes? My family?’ I was quick to presume.
‘Not yet, but I hope soon. It has been decided that you may write some letters, to your family if you wish. Or your friends.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That comes as a surprise. I thought my work here wasn’t to be spoken of.’ I smiled innocently.
‘There will be no mentio
n of your work, of course,’ he said, forehead glistening. ‘Just that you are well. You could talk about the weather, or how well the war is going, but no details. Each letter will, of course, be reviewed by myself.’
‘I wouldn’t expect any less, Sergeant Meier. How many letters am I permitted to write, and what should I write on?’
Sergeant Meier had already driven home that the small ledger and some loose paper I had been given were to be used only for my clinical reports on Fräulein Braun. Keeping a diary was not permitted.
‘No more than two per week, and I will arrange for you to have ample paper and envelopes,’ he said, a tiny bead of perspiration snaking towards one eyebrow. ‘If you put the letters into my office, I will see that they are forwarded, and any replies are given to you. And I will expect your monthly report on my desk soon – Captain Stenz will be visiting to collect your copy.’
I virtually ran all the way to my room, stepped inside the door and hugged myself, a broad smile turning into a laugh. A letter! The prospect of some news in return was so exciting. I realised then how isolated I had felt in recent weeks, with no friends to confide in or physical contact with anyone. Clearly, Eva Braun had engineered this change, either as a genuine act of friendship, some pity on her part, or as a way to engage my favour. The truth was, I didn’t care. I wasn’t too proud to accept her help if it meant I could know my family were alive. And if they were dead I wanted to know, I really did. To stop the hoping, the endless, unknown void.
The German Midwife: A new historical romance for 2019 from the USA Today best seller. Page 6
