Papa began:
My darling Anke,
You can’t imagine how relieved and delighted I was to receive your letter – so unexpected. You sound well, in fair health. I am with some lovely comrades, and we are keeping up our spirits together.
You would not believe how practical I have become, working all day at my bench – I almost feel like I have a proper job, darling girl, just like you! My chest is holding up, even through the winter, so there is every reason to be cheerful. We can see the sunshine from our workplace, but it would be nice to glimpse a consistent horizon every so often too. Maybe one day.
I think of you, my gorgeous one, of all of you, and hope one day we can be reunited – if not at home, then all together. Please, be well, be good.
I hope to hear from you again.
All my love, Papa
I read it through several times, scanning for hidden messages. He was in a men’s camp – he only used the word ‘comrade’ in the male sense – and there was no mention of my mother, so they were not together and – I had to assume – hadn’t been for some time. Clearly, he was in a labour camp doing some type of factory work, which quietened my nerves a little. Our agreed code – talk of smooth or rocky horizons – told me he was surviving, and he was pleading for me to ‘be good’, to follow the rules, to stay alive. Most of all, Papa’s tone was reassuring; his old tenacity about politics had transferred itself into survival. He hadn’t given up.
The next letter, date-wise, was from Mama. She relayed the same sort of messages, of being in a packed hut of women with many new sisters, but her tone smacked of being alone, without her family, until she wrote: Ilse is well and sends her love. I still have to chide her about trying to protect her wheezing chest but you know your sister! We are both working hard, but managing to rest also.
So Ilse was alive, and they were together! It seemed almost a miracle, but then when I thought about the night we were all taken, they would have been together. Men and women were automatically separated, but not necessarily female relatives. It had been common in my camp to see mothers and daughters spooned into each other on the bed racks, feeding off each other’s heat, those children old enough to work, teenagers usually, with bodies like chiselled stone from the heavy lifting of machinery around the factory.
While Papa had chosen his words carefully to avoid the censor, Mama’s naturally emotive style had attracted a few black marks. I held the tissue-like paper up to the light in the hope of seeing through, but the Reich’s black stain was foolproof to the naked eye.
The second letter from each said almost the same; like me they struggled to say anything new, and when they signed off a second time, there was a masked plea for news. I hope you are all well and smiling through, wrote Papa. Perhaps we will all be together again someday, said Mama. They were ravenous for news of each other, and of Franz. It was my task, in the new letters I could write, to be their conduit.
I felt buoyed, though not entirely free of the smouldering belly glow. I had imagined I would explode with emotion, but I found myself not sobbing, only a steady rivulet of tears trickling, settling into each ear. I let it pool, and when I woke briefly, it had made a little salt crust around each lobe. The room was dim, and it reminded me we were all still in darkness.
It was the hacking that brought me to my senses, a steady rhythm of alternate dry and wet coughs, heavy phlegm rolling around some poor unfortunate’s lungs. I walked nearer to the bed, my hospital shoes clipping in time to the noise behind the screens – clip, clop, cough, clip, clop, cough. I looked down and noticed several spots of blood on my snowy white apron. That will never do, I thought concisely. Matron will be very cross.
I pulled the screen to one side. ‘And how are we today, Herr Hoff?’ I said, feeling for the lank wrist of the man lying on the bed. His grey hair was wild, beard long and unkempt, and his striped pyjamas peppered with spots of blood across his bony ribs and mottled flesh. ‘Oh, our spots match,’ I mused, while counting his languid pulse.
‘Surviving, Nurse Hoff,’ he managed, chest peaking with each laboured breath, the wheeze of bellows working hard to function. ‘I mustn’t complain.’
‘That’s the spirit, Herr Hoff,’ I trilled, and turned to go. ‘Just make sure you stay alive a little longer. There’s a war on, you know.’
His spindly fingers caught the edge of my apron as I swivelled, another ball of spittle pushing up in his throat. ‘Please stay,’ he rasped, suppressing the rattle of death. ‘Stay with me.’ His fingers crawled into the air, probing for contact.
Another voice rose above the curtain, urgent and pleading, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ I stepped smartly into the ward, white rays of sunlight bleaching the chalky walls, adjusting my eyes for the figure calling. The contrast was dramatic: a halo of light, in the middle of which was a head, bleating like a lamb in need.
‘Anke, Anke,’ it said, a gowned body melting into the glare, straw-coloured legs connecting with the floor. I clipped towards the form, its gaze focused on the scrubbed, pristine tiles. A slick of red was snaking its way towards my black, austere shoes, meandering like a reptile tasting the air. ‘Oh no, not more blood,’ I sighed to myself. ‘This really won’t do.’
I followed the source of the ruby river, towards bare feet, and upwards, a tiny pulse noticeable on the ankle as it continued to trickle steadily from inside the gown. Two hands emerged from the halo, bloodied across the fingers and palms, like a naughty child who had spread its hands into a paint pot. ‘Anke, Anke,’ the monotone cry continued. It was only then I looked up, into and through the ivory mist and saw it was Eva’s face, her eyes fixed on mine. ‘The baby, the baby,’ she said, one, two, three times over, looking down mournfully at the uneven pool of blood. ‘What about the baby?’
Behind the curtain, the air dirtied with a phlegmy cough, and a voice travelled over the screen. ‘Nurse Hoff, come back, please stay.’ My shoes swivelled on the viscous claret, one ear tuned in to either plea, pulled towards the dying needs of the old man, and drawn in the opposite direction by the pathetic bleats of Eva’s distress. Which one needed me most? I felt my own anxiety pulse and I clutched a hand to my chest as my heart literally tore in two.
I woke, and this time it was sweat, not tears, coating my face, heavy gasps keeping pace with my racing heart. The room was light, a morning brightness, with a fresh taint to the air, and I lay for some time, relieved it was daytime and consciously slowing my breath. Nightmares were not common for me – in the camp some women were plagued by a continuous newsreel of horror in their sleep – but I had had only a few, and surprisingly none since leaving the camp.
As I washed away the salt stains, the dream images hung like a faint negative of a photograph, never quite showing themselves properly. Those letters had triggered something inside, but I was somehow comforted. I possessed the right emotions. I could still feel as me. Human.
17
A Slice of Life
There was little talk in the servants’ dining room the next morning and, once more, I ate virtually alone. Sergeant Meier intercepted me on the way to Eva’s room – he had his own little game whereby he stepped out and startled me.
‘Morning, Sergeant Meier. Can I say you look a little tired? Are you well?’
Automatically, he palmed his waxen face and the moustache bristled. Mission accomplished.
‘I am perfectly well,’ he said. ‘I came to tell you that Fräulein Braun has asked you attend her later. She is feeling a little under the weather and is sleeping.’
‘Well, perhaps I should see her now, if she’s unwell?’
‘I think it would be better if—’
‘I think that’s my decision, Sergeant, since I am the health professional.’
He started at my attempt to pull rank but stood firm. ‘She has given me strict instructions to be left alone. You can see her after you return from your trip.’
‘Trip?’ The thought of a sudden exit created a small panic, but he had at least spoken o
f a return. Strange how the mountain top seesawed between a prison and a safe haven.
‘Fräulein Braun was planning a shopping trip to Berchtesgaden, to purchase supplies for the baby. She is anxious not to delay and has asked that you go instead. She has written out details, but says for you to use your experience if you feel it’s not complete.’
He handed me a piece of paper, thick and expensive, and I glimpsed eight to ten items listed.
‘And who am I to go with?’ I balked at the idea of Sergeant Meier as a shopping companion, trailing my every move and making awkward small talk.
‘I am happy to accompany Fräulein Hoff this morning.’ Captain Stenz approached from behind. ‘I have a meeting in the afternoon; I can drive on from Berchtesgaden. Sergeant Meier, I’m sure you can arrange for a driver to collect Fräulein Hoff later?’
The oily head dipped, heels clicked, and Sergeant Meier was gone.
Unusually, I was bemused and stood silently.
‘Shall we?’ Captain Stenz gestured towards the hallway. ‘Do you have anything you need to collect from your room?’
I half laughed. ‘You mean, like a bag, Captain Stenz? What on earth would I put in it?’ I didn’t mean to be inflammatory, especially towards him, but it was a natural reaction to my smouldering anger, the in-built subversion of an inmate. His deadpan expression was neither irritated nor amused, a sign of his well-honed diplomacy.
‘I was thinking more of a jacket, but if you don’t need one, then perhaps we should we go?’
His car was well used and comfortable, the odour of ageing leather and his own scent, a light cologne I couldn’t identify yet.
‘Thank you, Rainer,’ he called to the driver, and we moved off. I looked at Eva’s list, her recollections of the conversations we’d had while walking to and from the Teehaus – nightdresses and muslins, napkins and blankets. She had scribbled on the bottom in pencil – perhaps as an afterthought – rattle.
‘I’m quite relieved Fräulein Braun wasn’t able to travel today,’ the Captain said as we drove, and I felt my heart skip sideways. We locked eyes, his blue pools dipping swiftly. ‘Well, Herr Goebbels is very keen she is not seen in public, however much her … condition can be disguised.’ Only then was his expression awkward.
We drove to the centre of town, stepping out into a bright, spring day, a smell of domestic industry in the air and a steady bustle of people who gave neither the car nor his uniform a second look.
‘Do you know the town well, Captain?’ I asked, casting around for the shops we might need.
‘Not well, no,’ he said. ‘We may need to follow our noses.’ He smiled, the playful one again, and he’d visibly relaxed on getting out of the car. Was I wrong, or did his uniform of mere material act like a straitjacket to the real man inside?
I walked towards the town square, a fountain marking the middle, feeling we could fan out into the side streets of shops if needed. The town was typical Bavaria, with gabled and shuttered houses sporting newly planted baskets, giving colour shots against the black and white timbers. Crystal-cut mountains peeked between the buildings, with a clear blue sky as their backdrop. Much like the Berghof, here it was hard to even imagine there was a war on. Only the numerous swastikas, their hard and sharp edges set against the floral display, reminded us this was Reich country, infinitely proud of their local boy.
‘Perhaps we should head for the nearest draper’s, and then ask about the best stores for baby clothes?’ I suggested.
‘If that’s what an expectant couple would do, then I bow to your knowledge, Fräulein Hoff.’ His expression was pure mischief.
Amid the sumptuous display of the draper’s, the rotund shopkeeper beamed broadly, talking about the ‘arrival’ and how his own wife had used this particular cloth for napkins, and were we hoping for a boy or a girl? I glimpsed a further flick of amusement in Captain Stenz’s eyes.
‘Oh, no,’ I said quickly, ‘it’s not for me, it’s … for my sister. She’s not terribly well.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ the man said. ‘But you know she will be pleased with the quality of the goods.’ Behind me, Captain Stenz’s silence only reinforced the lie, and he pulled out a sheaf of notes to pay. He took the package under his arm, rather than having it delivered. Without sight of Eva in the past few months, the town wouldn’t have been aware of the pregnancy. Loose lips wouldn’t be tolerated at the house, and its residents understood all too well the dangers of gossiping. The Goebbels’ cloak of secrecy appeared to have been drawn tightly.
At a nearby shop selling children’s clothing, I almost enjoyed myself picking out several outfits and nightdresses, snowy white and angel-like. The irony wasn’t lost on me, nor the swell of guilt at such luxury and decadence, when I knew camp women were still peeling rags off the filthy floor as a means of keeping their babies warm. Alive. I could only justify it as surviving. Could I – should I – have refused to go? A small act of defiance, but one that reminded them, the enemy, of where my feelings stood? Instead, I had complied, and – if I was truly honest – was enjoying the experience of being out, some kind of liberty beyond the barbs of the Berghof. Yet the shame always burned hot, a fire pit licking at my insides.
As Captain Stenz was settling the bill, my eyes wandered over the well-stocked shelves towards a wooden rattle. I fingered the smooth, beautifully carved handle – hours of human life gone into this trinket, so far from the ugly, cold machinery of guns, of the camp workbenches, of the rough wooden cosh.
I recalled Ira the carpenter knocking tentatively on the door of our hut one day – he was allowed into the women’s section for repairs – and handing me three versions of the rattle I now held in my hand, simple and coarse, but imbued with his talent and selflessness. I saw him sitting in his own darkened hut, straining his old, watery eyes as he whittled away for the pleasure of others. I didn’t reveal each baby would never live long enough to hold the simple toy, more likely dead before they even smiled. Their value was as a keepsake for their mothers, a tangible reminder of a baby whose tiny palms might have one day gripped the wood. Memories, when so brief, would fade in time, but the toy would prevail.
‘Fräulein Hoff, are you all right?’ Captain Stenz was beside me as a fat tear rolled down my face.
‘Pardon? Oh, yes, just remembering something.’ I wiped it smartly away and gave him a weak smile.
‘Do you want to purchase this?’ He gestured at the rattle.
‘Er, no, I don’t think so. Fräulein Braun is better off choosing these things.’
There was an awkward silence as I half turned to rid myself of the other tear he hadn’t seen, and he shuffled his feet.
‘Perhaps if we’ve finished in the shops, we could go for some refreshment? A cup of coffee?’
I stared in silent disbelief. Did he say go to a cafe? Together?
‘Well, if you had rather get back …?’
‘No, no! I just didn’t expect … that’s all.’
He smiled – the diplomatic one, just lips spread and no teeth on show. ‘I think it perfectly fitting that I take my companion for a drink,’ he said. ‘I am a captain, after all, and there are some benefits to rank.’ Now, he was playing with me.
‘And do many prisoners get treated this way?’
‘You are an employee of the Berghof, Fräulein Hoff, and as such, it’s perfectly fitting.’
‘Well, perhaps employee is a little extreme, but thank you. And please, call me Anke. I think after shopping for napkins, for our baby, we are at least beyond niceties.’
He laughed, and I felt more relaxed than I had in I don’t know how long. The breeze blew through the sunny streets, and for a moment, I forgot there was a war on.
Captain Stenz led us confidently to a cafe on the square, traditional and ornate, with chairs and tables outside. He sat under an umbrella, took off his cap and gloves. To anyone else, his back was straight and his demeanour fitting of an SS officer, but I was close enough to see his muscles melt
into the chair, to hear that small release of breath.
‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘I do know enough of Berchtesgaden to know they have real coffee here, no fakery.’
Real coffee. The last cup I’d had, with strong, thick fluid topped off with real milk – when was that? In Berlin, with Papa, as war broke out? When the bitterness of the coffee had matched our mood. Since then, rationing had brought the infamous Ersatzkaffee, cups of which my father screwed his mouth at and raged against the war, the Reich and the world. ‘Coffee made of acorns!’ he vented at poor Mama. ‘Now I know we’ve all gone mad!’ To Germans, good coffee meant stability, exchange, friendship, the world in its rightful place. The ground fakery of Ersatzkaffee signalled the universe was spinning out of control – insipid, weak and disingenuous.
‘A cup of coffee would be wonderful.’ Once again, he caught my meaning. He ordered – the waitress flirting with his uniform – and we sat looking at the scene in the square, people milling about, just getting on with their lives. The turquoise in his eyes looked richer under the umbrella, as he stared into the distance, and he looked at peace. But I was too curious for any lengthy silence.
‘Am I allowed to know your name, Captain Stenz?’
‘Oh – it’s Dieter.’ He said it like he’d almost forgotten it himself.
‘I have an uncle Dieter, right here in Bavaria,’ I said, ‘although he’s a farmer.’ I laughed to myself. ‘I can’t imagine him in a uniform at all. Or even in a suit, for that matter.’
‘Is that your father’s brother?’
‘Yes. Although you wouldn’t guess it – they’re nothing alike. Uncle Dieter is never happier than when he’s with his ladies, his beloved herd. And my father wouldn’t do well knee-deep in muck, only books. But strangely, they get on.’
The German Midwife: A new historical romance for 2019 from the USA Today best seller. Page 12
