Ashes

by Kathryn Lasky

  “About the license plate. I am sure it is Goebbels’s.”

  “Goebbels? You mean the Goebbels, Hitler’s adviser?” My voice dropped. Joseph Goebbels was now the most important adviser to Hitler. He was the highest ranking in Hitler’s innermost circle of counselors, although he had no official position.

  “Yes.” She paused. “You’re old enough to know. And now there is absolutely no reason you shouldn’t know. Fräulein Katrina Hofstadt is Goebbels’s new mistress. One in a long line. I am sure there will be more to follow. Or perhaps he has three or four right now. He is an infamous womanizer. His affair with your teacher has been going on for a few months. Your mother and father were very upset when they heard about it but they didn’t want to disrupt your studies in the middle of the year.”

  Fräulein Hofstadt’s romance with Goebbels made it all clear to me now. It explained her increased power at the school, the whole thing with the BDM, the firing of Jewish teachers, the harassment of Jewish students. It all fit.

  “And what about this list of books and the students who were reading them?”

  “Ah.” Baba crossed one leg over the other, leaned back against the sofa pillow, and gave a sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a snarl. “Well, Herr Professor Goebbels holds an advanced degree in literature. In fact, last night I was at the annual Opera Ball and he was discussing Hamlet.”

  I opened my eyes wide.

  “Yes, you don’t expect Nazis to be discussing Shakespeare, do you?”

  “Well, now I understand why that is the play Fräulein Hofstadt is planning for the spring, and not Schiller’s play about Joan of Arc,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, you see, Goebbels now suspects Schiller for his radicalism, and he even feels that Goethe’s works are not as patriotic as they should be. But he is determined to Aryanize Shakespeare. After all, Hamlet was a Dane, and he went to Wittenberg. Last evening Goebbels was expounding on the parallels between Hamlet being deprived of his rightful inheritance and Germany’s losses because of the Versailles treaty. Shakespeare, he says, foreshadowed what was to come.” She snorted and continued. “So I don’t think you need to worry, Gaby, about your parents insisting that you stay in such a school, because obviously you won’t be receiving much of an education from Goebbels’s mistress.”

  I shook my head slowly in wonder. “But Baba how are we going survive this?”

  Baba bit her lip lightly, “I don’t know, Herzchen, I don’t know.”

  No one was home when I arrived at our apartment. I went immediately to my bedroom and untied the string on the package Herr Doktor Berg had given me. There were not two books but three. On top was The Story of My Life, by Helen Keller. That one he had confiscated the first term of the previous year. Then there was The Call of the Wild by Jack London. And the third was one I had never known about, White Fang,also by Jack London and the same translator as The Call of the Wild. Inside there was a note from Doktor Berg.

  Dear Gabriella,

  I kept these books longer than I intended. Indeed I have had in my possession the Helen Keller book for over a year now, and Jack London’s Call of the Wild for six months. At today’s interest rates, if I were to compound them twice annually, I think I would owe you 28 marks. Instead of money, I thought perhaps you would enjoy another Jack London book. I hope you haven’t yet read it. I couldn’t resist when I saw it was translated by the same person. There is an elegance to his translation that is quite wonderful.

  Good luck to you.

  Your friend and professor,

  Hermann Berg

  I stared at the letter for a long time after I read it. My hands trembled as I held the paper. I had always thought of Doktor Berg as so stern, which he was. But I saw something else now. He was not simply a harsh schoolmaster. He was noble, and he was very brave.

  Baba was right. Mama and Papa seemed almost relieved when I said that I didn’t want to go back to school. When I told them what had happened, they were not shocked. The same thing was happening at the university. Jewish students were leaving in droves. Jewish professors were being cut. The SA was a constant presence. Einstein’s office had been rifled, and it was rumored that his apartment, now empty for almost two months since he had gone to America, had been searched as well. An SS officer had appeared in Papa’s office that morning demanding to see his files. Papa chuckled sourly.

  “I gave him the copies of the Belopolsky formulations of redshift lines for spiral nebulae and of course fifty pages of calculations. I then began a lengthy explanation of the possible mathematical inconsistencies between that and the Doppler-Fizeau effect. Needless to say, he got bored immediately and just took the papers.” Papa seemed quite pleased with himself. He then said that he would call my school the next day and tell them that I would not be returning. “We’ll find a new school for you next year,” Papa told me. “Until then, I’ll teach you at home.”

  “What about Rosa?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s a decision that Rosa’s mother will have to make,” Mama said.

  I knew that Rosa’s mother would not allow her to leave. Rosa’s mother was somewhat timid about such things. She had been reluctant when Rosa had said she did not want to join the BDM. She’d never let Rosa leave school.

  Papa had promised that he would try to find out where they had taken Doktor Berg. “Another one for my list,” he said with a sigh, and from inside his vest pocket he withdrew a piece of yellow paper.

  “What list, Papa?” I asked.

  “List of people—friends, friends of friends—who have been suddenly taken away by the SA.”

  That evening after dinner I started reading White Fang. I finished it at midnight. I closed the book and turned out the light but, still propped up in bed against my pillows, I stared into the night through the frost-rimed windowpanes. I thought of the two men from the book, Bill and Henry, alone in the Canadian wilderness.

  Somehow the book, the words of Jack London, and my thoughts about Doktor Berg began to entwine. I wondered where he was right now. Where had they taken him? What might he be doing this very instant? It was cold out tonight. Was he shivering? He had been wearing just a light suit jacket, no overcoat, no gloves. Had they not even given him time to get those things? I knew so little about him. I had not even known he was Jewish. I wondered if he was married. What would his wife think if he didn’t come home after school? I started to cry silently.

  The book Doktor Berg gave me was a tale about men, dogs, and wolves. It was supposed to be just a made-up story—a story that took place in the north country of Canada, in a region called the Yukon. In the beginning, two men and their dogs are out in the wilderness being tracked by a pack of starving wolves. One by one their dogs are devoured by the wolves. And at night the wolf pack begins to press in on their campsite, their eyes gleaming. They creep closer and closer on their bellies, just outside the rim of firelight. The she-wolf “slinks” in a lovely “peculiar, sliding, effortless gait,” her eyes wistful with hunger but not affection. My own eyes grew heavy. “‘It’s a she-wolf,’ Henry whispered back to Bill, ‘an’ that accounts for Fatty an’ Frog. She’s the decoy for the pack. She draws out the dog an’ then all the rest pitches in an’ eats ’m up.’ ”

  The face of the she-wolf with her red-hued fur bristling with frost loomed in the night. The fur became creamier, blondish, falling in soft waves, finger waves. It was a slow transformation until the wolf head became that of a beautiful woman, a human face of pure malignancy. Fräulein Hofstadt. Two fangs slashed the night.

  I woke up with a silent scream tearing through me. I was gasping. But there was another sound coming from the bathroom. A horrible retching noise. I was confused. Had I been dreaming? Yes, it was a terrible dream, a nightmare but I was hearing this other animal-like sound. Then a sob.

  I got up and went to the bathroom. The door was open just a crack. Ulla was on her knees.

  “Ulla!” I whispered. “Ulla, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m pregnant.
”

  chapter 29

  Each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire . . . and to plunge into the forest. . . . But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again.

  - Jack London, The Call of the Wild

  “What are you going to do?” I asked Ulla. “I don’t know.” Ulla drew back from the toilet and flushed it. She remained sitting on the tile floor. I sank to the edge of the tub and looked at her.

  “You have to tell Mama and Papa.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you told Karl?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, I said I had missed my period. But this happened once before and it was nothing, so maybe . . .”

  “Will you get married?”

  “I guess. Karl really wants to. I mean, in a way, Karl is happy, or at least he was when I thought I might have been pregnant a while back. As I said, I haven’t exactly told him this time.”

  “Why would he be happy?”

  “I don’t think he really wants me to go to Vienna to the conservatory next September.”

  “Oh” was all I could say. I was trying to imagine how she could go to Vienna with a little baby. Or maybe I could help take care of the baby after school.

  Suddenly we began hearing sirens. The blare grew louder and louder, the long shrill blasts scoring the night.

  “What’s going on?” Ulla stood up suddenly.

  We looked out the bathroom window. There was a red glow in the sky. I heard Mama and Papa coming from their bedroom down the hall. The sirens were becoming louder.

  “Clean yourself up,” I whispered. “I’ll go find out what’s happening.”

  I went out into the hallway and nearly slammed into Papa, who was putting his winter coat on over his pajamas.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To the roof,” he replied. His face was dark. His hair was rumpled as if he had been running his fingers through it.

  “I want to come, too!” I said.

  At that moment the phone rang. “Get the phone, Gaby!” Mama shouted. Mama never shouted. But everything seemed suddenly frantic.

  I ran for the phone. “Schramm residence.”

  “The Reichstag’s on fire!” the voice gasped. Had I heard right?

  “Baba!” I shouted into the phone. “Baba, the Reichstag? Are you sure? What’s happening?”

  “Just what I said. The Reichstag is on fire.”

  “Where are you?” I was suddenly worried that maybe she was there at the Reichstag, although why Baba would be at the German parliament past midnight, or at any hour, I didn’t know.

  “I’m at the Esplanade Ball. I was sitting with the Italian ambassador and Colonel Schaumburg, the Commander of the City of Berlin.” She dropped her voice. “Horrible man, but his aide came to the table and announced that the Reichstag was in flames.”

  “Who is it?” Mama came in her heavy flannel wrapper.

  “Baba!” I replied. “She says the Reichstag is burning.”

  Mama grabbed the phone.

  “Is it true?” Mama asked me.

  “Of course it’s true, Mama.” She flapped her hand for me to be quiet as she spoke into the receiver. “Baba, I’m scared. I think you have to get out. It’s . . . it’s all disorder!”

  I looked at my mother. “Disorder” seemed like such an odd word. It was a catastrophe, not just disorder. “Yes, yes.” She was nodding into the phone. “No, I know. No, she won’t be going back to school. Not now. Not here, at least. Ulla can still go to Vienna in the fall.”

  Oh God,I thought. This really is becoming a mess.

  She hung up the phone. “Mama, can I go up on the roof with Papa?”

  She shook her head wearily.

  “Why not?”

  But she gave in a minute later.

  We all went up. Ulla, too. All of us bundled into our winter coats, fleece-lined snow boots, ski hats, mittens. We were not the only ones on the roof. Four other families lived in our building and most of them were up there too, even Herr Professor Blumen, on his two canes. And of course Herr Himmel, our stalwart Hausmeister. He was bobbing up and down with excitement.

  “It’s the Communists!” he announced. “The Reds. They’re the ones who set the fire.”

  Papa looked at him sharply.

  “Herr Himmel.” Papa’s voice was low and level. It reminded me of a file with a rasp edge. I hoped he was going to grind this man down. “We would all prefer if you would keep your speculative remarks to yourself. You know nothing of this situation, but if you talk much more we might begin to think you know more than you should and that might prove dangerous for you and your job here. Your job, Herr Himmel, is Hausmeister, not political commentator.”

  I was so proud of Papa, I could have hugged him right there. But I didn’t. I noticed, however, that the other tenants of the building were smiling and nodding in approval.

  We could now see the flames quite clearly, even though we were nearly a half mile from the Reichstag. And when the wind changed, we could smell it. Despite the cold, most of us stayed on the roof for almost two hours.

  By the next afternoon, speculation was rampant. When I came down with Mama, Herr Himmel was standing by the door, a newspaper prominently in one hand with the headline COMMUNIST SUSPECT ARRESTED. There was a look of sheer vindication on his face. We were setting off to meet Baba at Olbermann’s Konditorei, a favorite pastry shop of hers. Now that I was not going to school, I got to join them. I had lied to Mama about Ulla, who once again was vomiting in our bathroom. I just told Mama that that she wasn’t feeling well. I dared not even mention throwing up. So I said that she had a sore throat and we should stop at the pharmacy on the way home for some throat lozenges.

  “What’s she doing outside the pastry shop?” Mama asked as we rounded the corner and spotted Baba standing by a lamppost with a quizzical look on her face. As we approached Baba said nothing, but she hitched her thumb in the direction of the shop. There was a sign in the window of the pastry shop. Juden werden hier nicht bedient. Jews not served here.

  History in the making became my full-time curriculum. I read the papers and listened to the radio constantly. Mostly I listened to the one in my father’s study. I was no longer comfortable listening in the kitchen while Hertha cooked, not since what happened three days before the Reichstag fire. I had been eating strudel and doing some math problems Papa had set up for me. A broadcast of popular music was interrupted with a breaking news story.

  “The police this morning raided Communist headquarters where they are said to have found plans for an uprising.”

  “Aha!” Hertha exclaimed. A look of triumph glittered in her eyes. She then returned to peeling the carrots for dinner. I watched her as the announcer continued. She nodded in approval as he reported that “The Führer has ordered the immediate confiscation of all printing presses owned by Communist groups.”

  “Very smart,” she whispered. “Very smart indeed. A wise man.”

  I got up and walked out of the kitchen.

  I waited until Mama finished her piano lesson, but as soon as the student had left, I went in to the music room.

  “Mama, I have to talk to you about Hertha.”

  She took a short little breath. I almost had the feeling she was expecting what I said next. “What about Hertha?”

  “I think she’s a Nazi.” Mama didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at her hands and, twisting her wedding band, she finally nodded.

  “Yes, you might be right. Your father and I have discussed this.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s a difficult decision. She has been a good, loyal person. If we fire her, I am not sure
where she could find work. We would of course be willing to give her a generous leaving wage but I just don’t know. I simply don’t know.”

  “I thought I should tell you, that’s all. I mean, I was in the kitchen listening to the radio and something came on about Communists and she said . . . well, basically that Hitler was a smart and wise man. You could just tell how much she admired him. It’s hard to be around someone who believes that.”

  “Very hard,” Mama whispered.

  Three days before the fire, the propaganda machine had already gone into overdrive cultivating fear of Communists. The Red Terror, as it was called, seized the headlines: SA AND SS GRANTED POLICE STATUS IN FACE OF RED TERROR. The article that followed reported that “to protect the German people and all the good citizens of Berlin” against the Communist threat, the formerly private armies of the Nazi Party—the SA, the SS—were officially granted auxiliary police status.

  Now a Dutch Communist named Marinus van der Lubbe was arrested and charged with starting the Reichstag fire. All the Nazis needed was a personification of the Communist evil. Van der Lubbe was the perfect scapegoat. Another headline in a London newspaper that Papa subscribed to shouted, DERANGED DUTCHMAN PERPETRATOR OF REICHSTAG FIRE. The British journalist reported that “A mentally unstable, perhaps slightly retarded young man, Van der Lubbe was said to have been ‘discovered’ at the scene of the crime.” The fact that the reporter put the word “discovered” in quotes was a tipoff that perhaps Van der Lubbe had been set up. German newspapers, even the most liberal, would not dare to suggest such a thing. The following paragraph in the British paper underscored the notion that it was a setup when it reported that a senior Nazi official, upon hearing of the fire, was said to have shouted out “This is the beginning of the Communist revolution.”