by Jan Casey
Fred smiled at that. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me take your bag.’
But Annie slipped it behind her back. ‘Personal things,’ she said, lowering her eyes. And it wasn’t a lie; the journal was and would remain her personal property. ‘I’ll take them upstairs then go in to Oma.’
‘Of course. Yes. You must.’ Fred nodded with his eyes closed. ‘We will get on with our plan when you come back down.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Annie said, heading for the safety of the stairs. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Burying the notebook beneath her undergarments in a drawer of the tallboy, Annie let out a sigh of relief. She felt sure that was the best hiding place as Fred would never go in amongst her private possessions and Oma was not able to do so. If warranted, she would come up with an alternative in the future.
She straightened her hair and clothes then went across the landing to Oma. Every time she opened her grandmother’s door and peered at her, she had to steel herself to be faced with the worst. Herr Doctor repeated every day that they should be prepared as the end could come at any time. But Annie didn’t know what she could do to prepare for that kind of heartbreak. Oma, once so robust and energetic, was becoming more frail and fragile before their eyes. It was often difficult to tell if there was breath left in the elderly woman, so Annie had to creep forward and, dreading not finding any evidence of life, place a hand on her grandmother’s chest or under her nose.
This time, Annie could detect the gentle rise and fall of Oma’s nightgown over her heart, so put her lips to Oma’s hand then placed it back on the counterpane.
‘Oh, Liebling Annie.’ Oma stirred and opened her eyes. Her voice was thin and sounded painfully rasping. ‘The market was busy?’
‘Not too crowded, Oma,’ Annie answered.
‘Fred brought me lunch and told me about the war. Terrible,’ she said.
Annie sat in the chair that was nestled next to Oma’s bedside. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘But you must not worry about it. We will do the worrying.’
‘It seems as if I have nothing left to do now but worry,’ Oma said. ‘Will you turn me, Annie?’
Annie leaned over her grandmother and placed one hand under her waist and the other on her shoulder, feeling the brittle bones and wasted muscles under her hands, nudging and adjusting inch by inch as Herr Doctor had shown her. Oma landed, with a sigh, on her side. ‘Are you quite comfortable, Oma, or do you need to be a bit more towards me?’
‘No, this is good. Thank you, Liebe. I will close my eyes for a moment or two.’ But Annie knew it was more likely to be hours, as the elderly woman couldn’t stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.
She sat and watched over Oma, curled on her side as if protecting herself from the suffering and outrage of the world, and longed to talk to her as they had done so often, about everything and anything. Now Oma was too feeble and infirm and besides, it would not be fair to burden her. What she needed and deserved was quiet calm, tenderness, patience, care and love. But that didn’t stop Annie from thinking of all the things she would dearly love to chat to her about.
What would Oma say if Annie admitted that she fretted about her identity and how it would now be viewed here in Germany, where she had felt accepted and safe for large chunks of her life? Or about how people would see her in Britain if she was there? With an intake of breath she realised she and Fred could be accused of being spies by either country or sympathisers to the other side from whichever country they were residing in. They had gone from having a foot firmly in each country to finding themselves with nowhere to place their feet and with their legs trembling in fear.
One thing she was sure about was that she did not want the Fatherland to count her amongst those who agreed with the pastor and the Nazi party. That was an aspect of this country she would always reject. And she refused to be brainwashed into believing that the ordinary, everyday, commonplace German, like Oma, wanted to be thought of in that way either. It was not within the scope of the German people she knew and loved. They were innocent of crime and wanted to do nothing more than get on with their lives.
Vati had been outraged at what was happening in Germany from the end of the Great War. He could have so easily up and moved them here, to be with his family when Mum died, but thank goodness he hadn’t as they might well have become entrenched in the Nazi way of life and become victims of their propaganda.
Annie vividly remembered Vati’s shock and contempt when Onkel Niklas suggested – no, strongly advised – that she should join the Young Girls’ League with her cousins when she was twelve or thirteen. Fred, exempt from Hitler Youth at seventeen, had dropped his jaw in horror. ‘I do not think so.’ Vati had sounded unshakeable.
‘But, Franz,’ his brother had said. ‘Better for Annaliese to join voluntarily than be conscripted.’
‘Enough,’ Oma had interrupted. ‘No such thing is about to happen.’ She’d dismissed the idea with a wave of her ringed fingers.
‘No, it will not,’ Vati had said. ‘I would not allow Annie to be conscripted. If such measures are taken, then we shall leave for home at a moment’s notice and not return.’
How wrong Oma had been. By December 1936, all eligible youths in Germany had to belong to either the Girls’ Leagues or Hitler Youth. As it turned out, Fred and Annie did not qualify as ethnic Germans so were considered ineligible. Instead, they were able to stand back and watch their cousins going off to their gatherings in blue skirts or brown shirts, heavy marching boots clumping their path to the meeting halls and back.
Amongst the photos on Oma’s dresser, Annie picked out various of those cousins during different phases of growing up. She spied Werner, who had refused to join any Nazi group. His parents had begged and scolded, pleaded and tried to reason, but he would not be drawn. They thought his resolve would cave when he began to be taunted by fellow pupils and one of his masters set him an essay entitled ‘Why am I not a Member of Hitler Youth?’ But he merely set out his arguments in paragraph form, handed in the essay and steadfastly dug in his heels; Fred and Annie both admired him for that. Then, the poor lad was told he would not receive his school leavers’ diploma unless he joined the wretched organisation and that would, in effect, bar his entrance to university. Their own dear Vati had stepped in and said he would ensure Werner could study at Oxford and live with them but, lo and behold, when Werner gave that piece of news to his school, it was confirmed that he would receive his diploma along with the rest of his class. They wouldn’t have wanted to lose a brilliant architecture student to Britain, although she would take bets he was being watched very carefully at the university in Hamburg.
Vati had taken such good care of them. He was so confident in himself and his beliefs that it seemed as if he didn’t have to think before he made what was always the best decision. Annie knew that Fred tried so very hard to be like him – strong, decisive, trustworthy and reliable – but sometimes she saw terror in his eyes, for a fraction of a blink, that she had never seen in Vati’s. But perhaps she would now, were he here with them in this situation.
Enough about the past, Annie thought. They must think about the future and to do that they must have their plan in place. Her eyes strayed to the door beyond which was her room and the brand-new notebook ready and waiting for its first entry. She knew Fred would not disturb her, so took the journal from the drawer and sat back down next to Oma. For a few minutes she chewed the end of her pen and deliberated about whether or not she was doing the right thing. If uncovered, the book could get all of them arrested, imprisoned, sent for trial or executed. But Werner stuck to his beliefs as did Vati and she felt compelled to do the same.
She dated the page then set down how she had disobeyed Fred’s decree, what she had seen in Munich and on the train, Oma’s struggle, her sympathies with both the German and the British people and her ever-increasing fears of alienation from both sides.
But now I am determined to give my brother as little cause for worry as po
ssible, she wrote. I will tend to Oma and the house, the shopping and cooking. I will make a start by coming up with a plan for our safety, which I will present to him so I can take the pressure of that responsibility off his shoulders.
We must inform each other of our movements, intended destinations when we go out, who we are meeting if anyone, what time we will return and we must keep to this at all times. (The irony of this is not lost on me, but I do understand the necessity of adhering to this in the future.)
In public, we must appear to agree with the status quo. How we go about that in practical terms will have to be discussed. However, we will have to be prepared to wear masks of alliance and affiliation when our heads and hearts will be rejecting the regime in no uncertain terms. We will have to learn the jargon that goes along with being good, upstanding German citizens. We will have to practise the Nazi salute and use it. We will have to Heil Hitler in response to others and perhaps instigate the greeting if necessary. We must stay away from the truck and diesel factories, the barracks and depots in Ulm, which will be under heavy surveillance. We will have to avoid gatherings if we can or perhaps go to a few to show our faces.
In private we can vent our anger, frustration and antagonism. But what if we are asked to join the party? We will have to go along with whatever is required to save our own and Oma’s lives. I suppose. But I am not sure I would have the stomach for that if the situation arises.
Now our plan is going to get more and more complicated. For what about all of the above in regard to other members of the family? Those, for example, who happily sent their children, our cousins, to the wretched Hitler Youth Clubs. My deep concern with this is that amongst them there might be some who have willingly joined the party and would be delighted to give our names to the authorities as dissenters and troublemakers. In other words, should we trust anyone at all? Probably not. And that includes, and here I have to steel myself, the very handsome and charming Walther who will be taking over from his father, Herr Doctor, when he has completed his studies. The thought of that makes me fume with anger.
We must not purchase anything that is likely to cast aspersions upon our loyalties, for example books or newspapers or pamphlets that do not toe the party line. It causes me great dismay, though, to know that if one so desired, it would be beyond difficult to get one’s hands on any books other than those approved by the Nazis since they have either burned or banned any type of literature that goes against their regime. All my favourites are no longer available: DH Lawrence, Upton Sinclair Jr, James Joyce, Trotsky, Tolstoy, Vicki Baum and Hermann Hesse; they are ash. Ash that has by now dissipated into the air or been ground into the earth. I like to think that some of the powdered embers have lodged themselves in the cracks of walls and pavements, or in the roots of trees that continue to grow strong, still nourishing the world we live in. It’s an idealistic hope, but even if it were true it could never make up for the ideas that were razed to the ground when those tens of thousands of pages were set alight. I remember verbatim Helen Keller’s response that Vati read aloud at the time: ‘You can burn my books and the books of the best minds in Europe, but the ideas in them have seeped through a million channels and will continue to quicken other minds.’ How we clapped and cheered, never imagining that we would be in the position we’re in now where we have to live without the freedom of reading what we want when we want.
We must take care of our health – eating the right foods, taking exercise, sleeping well. We must take care of each other.
Annie snapped the book closed and placed it on the dresser behind her when Oma stirred.
‘Annie?’ Oma’s voice quivered.
‘Yes, Oma, I’m here. Do you want to be turned again?’
‘A sip of water, please.’
Annie helped her grandmother to sit up and held a glass to her mouth. A sip was all she could manage, then she fluttered back, exhausted, against the pillows. ‘Annie…’ Oma reached out her hand. ‘You do know I loved your mum, don’t you?’
Annie was taken aback. Why would Oma ask that now? Because Mum had been British? ‘Of course,’ Annie said, finding it as painful to utter her words as her grandmother did.
‘She was like a daughter to me and to your Opa. Our very own English rose.’
‘Yes, she was beautiful,’ Annie said. ‘Everyone loved her.’ Oma slept again, and Annie added that exchange to her journal. Then she returned the book to its hiding place under her knickers and vests and went down to Fred.
Lining up potatoes, cabbage and carrots to peel, Annie started to tell Fred about the plan.
‘Where is it then?’ he said. ‘I’ll read through it whilst you do that.’
Annie pointed to her temple. ‘In here,’ she said. ‘So you’ll have to put up with me reciting it.’
Fred popped a round of carrot into his mouth and studied her. ‘Why were you such a long time today?’ he said. ‘Buying a few items from town never usually takes you that long.’
Annie turned to the sink on the pretence of rinsing the vegetables.
‘Did you meet Walther?’ Fred asked.
Annie felt her face turn as puce as the beetroot she’d bought earlier, but she knew this turn in the conversation would detract from the truth so let her brother see her chagrin. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t meet Walther today.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know about every single time we’ve seen each other.’
‘And I’m begging you to keep it that way.’
Annie sighed. ‘Yes, I will, even though I was never privy to the same information about you and Vi.’
‘Don’t be childish,’ Fred said. ‘You know the situation is completely different.’
She did, but felt aggrieved regardless. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I think Walther must have returned to university.’
‘Without saying goodbye to you?’
Annie shrugged and thought that perhaps this was the beginning of being alienated by people they had known and been friends with all their lives.
‘I am sorry, Annie,’ Fred said. He sighed and gazed into the distance, a glaze covering his eyes that Annie guessed meant he was thinking about Viola.
Fred agreed with all the points Annie had thought about to keep them safe and was grateful to her for devising them, but the Yorkshire puddings were not such a success, as they were flat as pancakes and would have been inedible if they had been living in a time or place or position to waste food.
Oma managed a bit of gravy and mashed potato, then Annie settled her before going to bed herself. She lay awake and listened to Fred pacing the floor below, as he did most nights, and was so grateful that the notebook was secreted away and could not add to her brother’s restlessness and disquiet.
5
November 1939
Matteo had been right. Despite his academic career as a specialist in eighteenth-century Italian literature, government officials came knocking on his door to announce that he would be rounded up, with thousands of others, to an internment camp on the Isle of Man. Viola was initially flustered, then moved enough to take him in her arms and comfort him when he tried, and failed, to contain his emotions as he told her the news.
‘But,’ she said into the collar of his coat, ‘can’t the university or the department or the college write and tell them how…’ She searched for the correct words. ‘How respectable you are?’
Matteo stepped away from her and rubbed his eyes. She could see this wasn’t his first bout of tears. ‘They have interviewed everyone here who could be of help.’ He shrugged, then dejectedly dropped his shoulders. ‘It appears there is nothing left to do. I have been ordered to go. And at least I will be spared having to bear first-hand witness to what is going on in my beautiful country now that Mussolini and the Fascists have got their hands on it.’ Matteo looked sadder than when he’d been crying. ‘It is like finding out that your cultured, sophisticated, beautiful wife has been unfaithful. E
verything you built your life on has given way beneath you.’
Viola flopped into her office chair and thought about how terrible that must be. For Fred, too. And if he were here would he also be imprisoned? Or perhaps he already was in some cold, damp cell or overcrowded, stinking camp in Germany.
‘But the British government is unjust to intern you merely on the grounds of your nationality,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Matteo agreed. ‘But I suppose it is beyond their means to delve into the beliefs held by each of us, so we will be lumped together until we can be trusted again.’
Now tears flooded Viola’s eyes and her throat constricted. She leaned towards Matteo and covered his hand with hers. ‘You are an incredibly brave person,’ she said.
To which he whispered, ‘No, that is not so. I am very, very frightened, Vi. If you pray, pray for me. If you don’t, keep me in your thoughts.’
When Viola put her hand on his shoulder, she could feel him trembling under her touch.
*
At the end of August, Cambridge took eight bombs. None of them hit university buildings because, it was rumoured, Hitler thought if he spared the academic city, Britain would in turn veer her planes away from Heidelberg, the equivalent German university town. Who knew if that was true? Viola wondered how the powers-that-be could possibly gather enough evidence to conjecture that as truth. She reasoned to Lillian that if that were the case, then the British government would have to be in some sort of communication with the German authorities to the degree where they could strike deals and bargains about certain aspects of the war. And they had dismissed that theory during their debate in the pub the night war was declared. Besides, that made the whole thing seem like a game.
Lillian agreed that the whole thing was probably a strategic game and that the general public was, in reality, told very little about tactics, manoeuvres and outcomes.
But of course it wasn’t a game to the poor people who were bombed out of Pembleton Terrace and Shaftesbury Avenue. And she felt for any young boys boarding over the summer in the Leys School who must have had such a fright when they found out that an unexploded bomb had dropped within yards of their safe haven. Then she smiled to herself because she knew her brothers would have been more excited than scared and probably tried to climb a fence or two to have a closer look at the incendiary. They, and it seemed all their school friends, were in awe of the men in uniform a mere few years older than them and couldn’t wait to join their ranks in action. Viola shuddered at the thought. It will all be over by the time they reach that age, she told herself. It must be. Fred and Annie will be back and we’ll all be together again in the garden at home on a perfect summer’s day that never ends.
