Ashes

by Kathryn Lasky

  “You mean because she’s Jewish?” I asked. Papa looked at me. There was that gray, sad mist in his eyes that I had never seen until this past year.

  “Yes, because she’s Jewish,” he answered.

  “But Papa, I thought you said Lippe didn’t count for much.”

  “It doesn’t.” He paused. “But these are just not good times.”

  “Don’t worry her, Otto,” Mama said.

  This angered me. “Mama, don’t talk like that. First of all, I am here in the room. You don’t have to say ‘her’ when I’m right here. Secondly, I’m not a baby.”

  “Don’t speak to your mother that way, Gabriella.”

  I closed my eyes. So would this be item number nine? I have the guts to speak to my mother rudely but not Herr Hölle? I went to my room to study before dinner.

  It had begun to drizzle and then a wind from the west side of the city came, which always seemed to swirl up old leaves from the courtyard garden below, and now rain-splattered leaves were flattened against my window. I noticed, however, some smeary colors against the pane that were hardly from nature. I went over to the window to examine what was stuck there more carefully. An envelope! My windowsill letter to Christkindl? After almost three weeks?

  But it was not my letter. It was Ulla’s. The sugar and the colored inks had smeared until it was barely legible. The only word I could make out was freund, friend. And then it looked as if she had written the words “help me,” but I couldn’t really tell. There were many other illegible words on the paper. I wasn’t sure quite what to do with it. One was not really supposed to read another’s windowsill letter. It was private, for Christkindl. But I didn’t think I should return it to Ulla, either. So I tore it up into very small bits, and put it in my trash bin.

  A week later we were sitting at our dining table with Uncle Hessie and Baba for dinner when the telephone rang. Hertha came into the dining room looking quite agitated.

  “I am sorry to interrupt, but it is a call for Frau Blumenthal.” The color rose in Hertha’s face and her eyes sparkled fiercely. “It is the chancellor’s wife, Frau Schleicher, calling and she says it is urgent.”

  “What?” Baba looked as stunned as the rest of us. She got up automatically and followed Hertha to the kitchen. Elisabeth von Schleicher was an old friend of Baba’s but that she should call her here at our house seemed strange.

  Two minutes later Baba returned. She seemed to be in some sort of a trance. She stopped at Papa’s chair and looked down at him. Her lips trembling. “Otto, you were right.”

  “Right about what, Baba?”

  “The Old Gentleman—he is so weak. He is getting sucked in. Hindenburg’s son, Oskar, went with Hitler to von Ribbentrop’s for a meeting.”

  “What?” Papa said.

  “This can’t be good!” Uncle Hessie said, starting to rise from the table.

  I thought I had heard this name before—von Ribbentrop. He was a Nazi. He was perhaps like the steel millionaire Fritz Thyssen whom the newspapers sometimes called Hitler’s banker. Perhaps von Ribbentrop was another source of money for Hitler, I wasn’t sure.

  Mama put her hand out and touched Hessie’s arm gently. “Sit down. What can you do?” Suddenly I noticed the color had drained from Ulla’s face. Beneath her eyes was a greenish tinge. She jumped up from the table. “I feel sick,” she said as she ran out of the dining room.

  Mama turned to me. “Gaby, go check on Ulla.”

  There wasn’t much to check on. Ulla was on her knees throwing up into the toilet. She waved me out with one arm. “Out! Out! I’ll be fine. Just something I ate at lunch.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said. I shrugged and walked away.

  When I returned to the table, Mama asked me how Ulla was.

  “Fine, just something she ate earlier today.” I looked around. “Who’s this von Ribbentrop man?”

  Baba sneered. “A wine merchant who married money and paid for his title. Thus the ‘von.’ His wife makes Lady Macbeth seem like a pussycat. Horrid woman. But he’s always been there behind the scenes for Hitler, ready with the money. He paves the way for him.”

  “Yes, right to the coffers of the biggest industrialists in Germany,” Hessie added.

  “But what can Ribbentrop do for him now?”

  “Why would Hindenburg? . . .” Papa and Mama were both talking at once.

  “It’s the Osthilfe scandal,” Hessie said.

  “It’s bribery!” Papa fumed.

  “Wait! Wait!” I held up my hands almost shouting. I was completely frustrated. I had no idea what this scandal was, but I sensed it was important.

  “What’s in God’s name is the problem, Gaby?” Papa exclaimed. “We don’t shout at the dinner table.”

  “Yes, we do!” I said heatedly. “I don’t understand a thing you are talking about except that it’s all bad. You think someone is paying so Hitler can be chancellor? Is that it?” No one answered.

  “I know the Nazis have a lot of seats, but they don’t have a majority because no one does. So I don’t understand. It’s a democracy, isn’t it? But now it’s like they are changing the rules. You can’t change the rules in the middle of a game. It isn’t fair.”

  Everyone looked down into their plates of uneaten food. No one answered.

  “Is it?”

  I felt something collapsing in me. No, not just in me. I looked around the table at everyone’s faces. It was that sensation again, not of a vacuum, but of the black hole of a dying star with a gravitational pull so strong nothing would escape. Not even light.

  chapter 26

  Mr. Walters fell to “showing off,” with all sorts of official bustlings and activities. . . . The librarian “showed off”-running hither and thither with his arms full of books. . . . The young lady teachers “showed off.” . . . The young gentlemen teachers “showed off”. . . . The little girls “showed off” in various ways, and the little boys “showed off” with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur-for he was “showing off,” too.

  -Mark Twain,

  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

  So this was how the chain worked. These were the links. First there was the black limousine with the hand mysteriously opening the door and Fräulein Hofstadt getting in. Next, Papen’s resignation as chancellor in early December. Then Schleicher becoming chancellor. Einstein leaving Germany for good. Papa’s prediction that the Old Gentleman would be sucked in. Then on January twenty-eighth, after fifty-seven days as chancellor, von Schleicher resigned and yes, it happened—January thirtieth, the Old Gentleman finally gave in and asked Hitler to form a new government. At this point, the Austrian corporal, a corporal no more, became chancellor. And thus began the first link in a new segment of the chain. The segment that would become the Third Reich, the name for the totalitarian dictatorship under Hitler that was supposed to last for one thousand years.

  It was Tuesday, January thirty-first, the first day of school after Hitler became chancellor. Rosa and I walked into the classroom and sat at our desks as usual. Fräulein Hofstadt jumped up. No, it would be more accurate to say that she exploded from her chair and raised her right arm at an angle from her chest, the palm of her hand down. “Heil Hitler!” she shrieked. And guess what? I jumped up with the rest of the class and raised my arm as well. This was item number nine in my Diary of Shame.

  1. SA officer on Kurfürstendamm

  2. Beer garden in Caputh when boy sings “The Watch on Rhine”—K’s eyes

  3. U doing it with K

  4. K’s spitting in our basin; K’s toothbrush

  5. “Heil Hitler” in the alley; alley dream. Paint squad boy

  6. Baby Hitler naked on mother’s fat shoulder

  7. Accepting invitation to Christmas tea with Fräulein Hofstadt after spying on h
er

  8. Didn’t have the courage to call Herr Hölle a complete shithead

  9. Saluted Hitler

  And this is what I wrote: “I am no better than Herr Hölle.”

  I didn’t tell Mama and Papa about what happened in school. They were too upset about what was happening at the university. My little world of school was minor in comparison. I was tempted to tell Ulla, but she seemed very distracted and worried about something. I did hear her arguing with Karl on the telephone, and she certainly was not crying. She actually called him a Dummkopf. But then the next minute her voice turned sweet and she was apologizing and saying she hadn’t really meant it.

  The following day, February first, Fräulein Hofstadt called a special meeting of what she called “my girls” after school. I was nervous. Ever since she had shouted out “Heil Hitler,” I was uncertain how I felt about Fräulein Hofstadt. She was not the only teacher who had done this, but one of the few. Maybe it was required now, and not every teacher got the word or something. It was unsettling, nevertheless.

  The special meeting included Rosa and me and Helga and Hannah—the four of us who had attended the Christmas tea party. I thought a first that it was going to have something to do with the play Hamlet, although seeing as Helga and Hannah were not in the same class as Rosa and me, I wasn’t sure why I would have thought this. As I walked into Fräulein Hofstadt’s apartment, I felt my stomach tighten when I saw that on her collar she was now wearing a glittering jeweled swastika.

  “Fräulein,” said Fräulein Hofstadt, “I have something very exciting to share with you.” She paused and looked at each one of us. There was a little plate of cookies and teacups already set out. She began pouring the tea and talking at the same time. Her movements were so smooth, so graceful. I could never pour tea into tiny cups and talk at the same time. I would have spilled it at best or scalded someone at worst. “Since our Führer has become chancellor, I have been given permission to form a BDM and I want you, my girls, to each become a candidate for Jungmädelschaftsführerin . A leader.”

  We looked at each other in amazement. The BDM was the girls’ division of the Hitler Youth group. It stood for Bund Deutscher Mädel. Fräulein Hofstadt began to hand out pamphlets to each of us with a picture of a girl on the cover. My hand shook as she handed me the pamphlet. I dared not look at Rosa.

  “Gaby, doesn’t she look just like you before you cut your braids?” Helga said, remembering me from the other school building when we were both there. The girl on the cover of the pamphlet had long blond braids, and she was standing on a mountainside with a tiny alpine village in the background. Looming over everything was a dark iron statue of an eagle. The eagle looked left, which meant that it was the symbol of the Nazi Party. When the eagle looked right it was considered the symbol of Germany.

  “I don’t think she looks anything like me,” I said adamantly. But in truth, at first glance she did. She was an Aryan paragon of the Third Reich. I could not stand to be anyone’s ideal. To be an ideal was to be less than human.

  “If you join the BDM, you will be eligible to go to summer camp. Take a look at the booklets. There will be all sorts of sports, because the Führer believes in developing young women’s strength through joy. There is a membership fee and a cost for the BDM uniform, but it’s very small.”

  On the very first page, written in a flourishing script printed just beneath a swastika, were these words: The role of girls in the Third Reich is a sacred one. It is above all their duty to become strong and healthy and to produce healthy children. . . .

  I read this and flipped quickly through the book. There were photographs of girls who looked to be about my age swimming, hiking, playing outdoor games.

  “But I don’t understand,” I said, flipping back to the first page. “What is this about having babies? Are we supposed to go to the summer camp to get babies?”

  There was an eruption of giggles. Even Fräulein Hofstadt laughed. “No, not right away. But you must develop your body, your constitution, to have children. That will be your gift to the Reich.” I felt a cold sweat begin to creep over me. There was something indecent about people, Fräulein Hofstadt, whoever wrote this book, anyone, telling me about having babies. This wasn’t the facts of life, a birds-and-bees talk that a girl has with her mother. This was the government, the Third Reich. I felt Rosa shift in her chair.

  “Yes, Rosa, do you have a question?” Fräulein Hofstadt asked.

  “Why isn’t Ellie Schuman here?” Rosa asked. “She’s president of student council.”

  Fräulein Hofstadt cocked her head and smiled sweetly at Rosa. “But Rosa dear, she’s Jewish.”

  “Oh,” was all that Rosa said.

  I can’t do this!I thought. What will Mama and Papa say? I have to tell her no.Yesterday had been bad enough when I jumped up like a jack-in-the-box in response to Fräulein’s Hofstadt’s “Heil Hitler,” but did Fräulein Hofstadt have to be the organizer of a Hitler Youth Group in our school? It just didn’t seem to fit with a teacher who loved literature as she did. Marching about? Strength Through Joy and not joy through language and poetry?

  I was staring at my hand, which rested on the desk. “Gaby! Gaby!” called Fräulein Hofstadt. Rosa gave me a nudge. “Gaby, Herzchen, have you gone deaf? I am asking you a question. Will you and Rosa be leaders?”

  “Uh . . .” I looked at Rosa. I had been so distracted that I had no idea how she had answered this question. “I would have to ask my parents.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” Fräulein Hofstadt replied tersely. She seemed slightly irritated but continued. “Rosa said that her mother might not be able to afford the fee, but I can assure you, Rosa, that this is not a problem. There is a relief fund for those who are financially burdened. I am sure that is not the case with you, Gaby.”

  “I don’t know. It might be.”

  Now Fräulein Hofstadt looked really annoyed. “Well.” She sniffed. “Believe me, there are others willing to take your place. This is a great honor. I would not pass it up if I were you.”

  You’re not me!I wanted to scream. But did I say it? Did I mutter even a syllable? No. I just got up and left the room.

  “I can’t believe it!” Rosa said as we walked home from school.

  “I hate her. I hate her!” I kept repeating. But in truth it was not really hatred I was feeling, it was heartbreak. How had I believed in Fräulein Hofstadt so completely, how had I worshiped her? She had become like a religion to me, a religion of style and grace. She was not like a movie star up there with a gorgeous, flawless face that, magnified by the camera lens, stretched from one side of the screen to another but was still remote and unreachable. She was my teacher. She was close up. She graded my papers, invited me for tea. She was real.

  “What are you going to tell your parents?” Rosa asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” But I knew that I would have to tell them something. I just wasn’t sure how or what.

  It turned out to be easier than I thought.

  When I came home, Baba was there. She and Mama were having tea. “I’ll tell you, Elske, the swastika is becoming a decorative accessory. I saw a dog being walked with a swastika-ornamented collar.”

  “Speaking of bitches . . .” I said.

  “What?”Mama shrieked. Baba’s teacup clattered in its saucer as she set it down.

  I squared my shoulders, squeezed my eyes shut, and began speaking as rapidly as possible. I wanted to get it out—all of it, quickly. “Fräulein Hofstadt wore a jeweled swastika pin today and we have to say Heil Hitler before almost every class and she has asked me to be one of the leaders of the BDM.” I opened my eyes.

  “What? What are you saying? She’s a Nazi?” Mama asked.

  “Yes.” Something flared in me, a pent-up anger. Did I have to spell it out for Mama? Why else would one wear a jeweled swastika?

  “DMB? What?” she whispered.

  Why was she being so dense? “BDM, Elske, the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the Gi
rls’ Service League,” Baba said.

  “The Hitler Youth.” Mama’s mouth seemed to struggle around the shape of the words. My anger died. I felt sorry for Mama. She was confused. I was confused. I leaned forward and touched her hand gently.

  “Yes, Mama, she wants me to be a leader of the Hitler Youth.”

  Mama stood up. She was shaking. “I have to call your father at his office immediately.”

  Tears made the whole room swimmy. I felt something inside me collapsing, turning dark, pulling me toward that precipice of blackness.

  The note that I brought to school the next morning was polite but to the point.

  Dear Fräulein Hofstadt,

  Our daughter Gabriella shall not be participating in the BDM activities. We feel that although Hitler is now the chancellor, participating in his youth group is not part of the education we have envisioned for our daughter, as stated in the Gymnasium Kaiser Frederick Wilhem’s educational philosophy, which proposed to encourage “intellectual curiosity” and “independent thinking.”

  Sincerely yours,

  Mrs. Otto Schramm

  Professor Otto Schramm

  Chairman of the Department of Photoastronomy

  University of Berlin

  Rosa’s mother wrote a similar letter.

  We presented our notes to Fräulein Hofstadt before class. She read first the one from my parents and then the one from Rosa’s. She set them down and looked at us coldly. Then a brief smile cracked her face. “This is a shame. I think your parents will see the error of their ways. But there are many others who will be very happy to take your place.” She drew out a small book and wrote something down in it. This was not the last time that we would see Fräulein Hofstadt write in this book. She now kept it with her at all times, or so it seemed.