Letters from Berlin

by Tania Blanchard

  ‘Complaints from the village again. This time it was about Elya not wearing the yellow star, last time about her entering a shop forbidden to Jews and the time before that about Frau Kraus. Jews aren’t allowed to have Aryan servants.’

  ‘Frau Kraus isn’t a servant. She works for us and is a dearly loved family friend who’s refused to leave us when so many others have abandoned us.’

  ‘I know, Susie. I’m just telling you what’s been reported.’

  ‘They resent Tante Elya even being there,’ I said bitterly, pushing the sliced apple away from me. ‘I know what they say. “She lives a lavish life up in the manor house with servants and luxuries, with her husband and her son safely by her side…” But they forget everything she’s done for them over the years, and now she’s suffering her loss of freedom, and watching Onkel Georg struggle to keep the estate running. But worst of all is the uncertainty and fear she lives with every day.’

  ‘Mueller’s behind some of it too, possibly even stirring discontent in the village when he’s there.’

  Gooseflesh stippled my bare arms. ‘Why is he doing this?’

  ‘He’s a man with a massive ego, who wants what he’s never had and jealous of those who have it. Despite rising through the ranks of the Nazi Party and acquiring great power, he still doesn’t have the status he craves. He’s unable to break into the social circle of the elite without the family connections or lineage we have.’

  ‘But why us?’ I asked, desperate to understand why my family was being targeted.

  ‘Deep down he knows he’ll never be one of us, so he uses whatever situation he can to manipulate and exert his power to get what he wants – he’s an opportunist and a predator.’ I nodded slowly, making sense of what he said. ‘With your family destabilised, I’m sure he’s aiming to coerce you into doing what he wants, and even getting his grubby fingers on Gut Birkenhof. It’s his ticket into the private club he so desires to be part of.’

  I had no illusions about Mueller being an egocentric opportunist but I couldn’t believe he was set on taking Gut Birkenhof. I remembered the night of my party and the charged conversation between him and Julius, like two bucks fighting for territory. Now that I knew more about Julius’s childhood, I understood his fierce protection of the estate, but I wondered if what was happening in the village was Mueller’s revenge for Julius’s personal attack on him that night, a salve for his wounded pride. Regardless, there was no doubt that Mueller was a threat, not just to Tante Elya and my family, but also to me. I was grateful to have Julius’s protection.

  ‘The locals have no love for the Nazi officials who come to Onkel Georg’s cottages,’ I said, ‘especially someone like Mueller who throws his weight around.’

  Julius shook his head, pulling up a stalk of wild grass. ‘But they’re nervous, too, and fear reprisal for being associated with Elya. Their way of distancing themselves from her is by doing what’s expected and reporting her.’

  ‘Even though many of them have known her for most of their lives?’

  ‘Fear is greater than anything else when it comes down to survival.’

  ‘Except for love,’ I whispered, thinking of Leo. ‘Should we be worried about what they’re saying?’ I was light-headed with anxiety. ‘They’re deportable offences.’

  He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. ‘No, I’ve taken care of it. All reports regarding your family come to me before they’re processed and nobody asks questions when they’re dropped.’

  I touched his cheek. ‘Thank you. We’re lucky to have you, Julius,’ I said. ‘But how can you do it without question?’

  ‘Ganzenmüller has the organisational control for the department and together we work with many powerful men who can ensure these reports disappear.’

  ‘People can’t help but want to do things for you. No wonder you’re a rising star within the ministry.’ The woollen blanket I had borrowed from the hospital was scratchy against my hands as I shuffled next to him, stretching my stockinged legs to get more comfortable.

  ‘I don’t do it for the sake of naked ambition, you know. I really want to make a difference creating policy that’s beneficial for Germany. If I were the minister I could do so much…’ Julius broke off small sections of the stalk and threw them into the grass.

  He had always been a mystery to me growing up, but there was so much more to him than I’d realised and now I was beginning to see what a complex man he really was. I couldn’t work out why he wasn’t already married with a family, because from what I knew he was kind, considerate, thoughtful and funny: a good man who would make some lucky woman very happy. He was handsome for someone his age, too, with a strong, chiselled jaw and an aquiline nose, balanced by a soft, full mouth. He kept himself in good condition, his stocky body strong and powerful, his dark honey blond hair kept short and neat, and he was always dressed immaculately, even now in an open-collared shirt and casual trousers. He had an easy manner that made people around him comfortable and he was well liked. The more I learnt about him the more I felt he was like a mature wine or cheese: mellow and full of flavour, with a lingering intensity. I enjoyed his company more each time we saw each other.

  ‘There’s nothing like doing something you’re passionate about, where you’re really making a difference,’ I said, picking the fluffy tops of the wild grass within reach. ‘I love watching our patients leave the hospital on discharge, hopefully as whole men again, but usually better than when they arrived, especially considering the challenges that come with the injuries we see. No matter where we’re from and what we believe, we’re all the same where it really matters. We all love our families, want to live happy lives and be useful citizens. That’s what nursing shows me every single day. I live for the day that people remember that.’

  ‘You know that could be seen as dangerous talk, Susie,’ said Julius quietly. ‘Some would even say treasonous.’

  ‘But you know better than that.’ I sat up tall, crossing my legs under me and matched Julius’s gaze.

  Julius leaned across and took my hand. ‘You have to be careful,’ he said urgently. ‘Only in the most private places can you talk like that. If anyone heard and took offence, you, your family and even I could expect a visit from the Gestapo.’

  I looked at him defiantly. ‘Don’t tell me you’d rather be part of a government controlled by Nazi policy and rhetoric? A minister kept in line by party heavyweights isn’t a man who can make a difference.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘You and I are the same. That’s why we’re together, doing what we’re doing.’

  He kissed me suddenly on the lips, quite a chaste kiss, but the shock of his soft lips on my skin took my breath away. ‘Stop talking,’ he murmured. ‘I agree with you, but never speak those sentiments out loud again. If I have to stop you with a kiss, then so be it.’ His face was close to mine and I was aware of the stubble on his cheeks, despite his clean-shaven appearance. His eyes were large and mesmerising and I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth.

  ‘I…’ He kissed me again, this time with a little more feeling, and I couldn’t help but kiss him back.

  ‘I said stop talking,’ he said in all seriousness when he broke away. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful. You can’t take what we’re doing lightly.’

  ‘I know. I promise I’ll watch what I say… But now you know what I think – and I know how you really feel.’ I pressed my fingers lightly against my lips, trying to make sense of what had just happened and the confusion of emotions it had provoked.

  His fingers trailed across my cheek, making me catch my breath. My heart beat faster. I was aware of his nearness, the warmth radiating from his body and the tingling in my sensitive lips. ‘We’re kindred spirits, Susie,’ he said softly, ‘but you’re so young. I’ve seen and heard things that would make you weep with despair. I don’t mean to scare you, but sometimes I lie awake, the images of what I’ve seen etched into my mind and I think I’ll go crazy. I know what can happen to those who speak out, those who
are defiant.’

  I stared at him a moment, taking in the vulnerability behind what he’d said. ‘Things you saw when you were in Krakau?’

  I knew the Poles had been brutally treated. And I knew Julius well enough to know how confronting that would have been to him. Like me, he believed that all people deserved to be treated with respect and humanity.

  He nodded, a haunted expression crossing his features. ‘I try not to think about it, but when I’m alone in the dead of night…’ He looked at me with such anguish. I put my arms around him and held him tight, as if I could protect him from the pain he obviously carried.

  ‘I was at Rosenstrasse when the women protested against the incarceration of their husbands and sons,’ I said. ‘It could have been my family there. I have a good idea where those men were going. I might be young, but I’ve seen and heard things too. Those women never gave up fighting for their men and I felt their collective strength. I knew then that we could beat oppression. That’s why I speak the way I do.’

  Julius pulled away in surprise. ‘You were really there?’ I nodded. ‘You could have been hurt – shot or killed.’

  ‘But I wasn’t,’ I said, frowning and feeling a little deflated. ‘It was just a crowd of peaceful women, wives and mothers.’

  He took me by the shoulders, his expression stern and eyebrows knitted with worry. ‘No more dangerous activities. Ensuring your family’s safety is a constant fine balancing act with the right word in the right ear at the right time. You can’t do anything to endanger that goal.’ I thought about telling him about the resistance, but Leo had sworn me to secrecy and I couldn’t ask Julius to risk any more.

  He must have seen the anxious expression on my face because he gathered me to his side and kissed the top of my head. ‘You’re young and passionate, and that’s something I love about you.’

  * * *

  One morning in early November, the first Russian prisoner of war arrived on the estate. We’d waited, nervous and impatient, since the previous day when his carefully planned escape had taken place. Anything could go wrong, and we were ready for the arrival of the Gestapo at any minute.

  Although a number of strategies had been considered, a simple but daring plan had been decided on for the first attempt, to minimise the risk. With the help of the resistance, Onkel Georg had acquired an SS uniform and the forged pass and documents of a prison guard. They had been left at an appointed place within the Sachsenhausen complex, allowing the Russian to simply walk out the camp gates to a rendezvous point where Leo was waiting to take him south to Berlin. The Russian stayed at a safe house overnight before continuing further south with Onkel Georg to Gut Birkenhof. I knew that he was to stay with us a few days before it was safe enough for him to travel, but I didn’t know the route he was taking back to Russia. It was safer that way, compartmentalising each stage of his trip, although I suspected that Leo and Onkel Georg knew the entire plan.

  Hans and Frau Kraus were the only two on the estate who knew our plans and we trusted them implicitly. Hans and Leo often worked together, finishing up a busy day over a relaxing beer. Hans was exempt from military duty because of an injury sustained during the Great War and because, like Onkel Georg, he was involved in the production of essential services and his skill in the timber industry was highly regarded. After Hans had seen the Russian to the cabin in the forest, Tante Elya and I headed out with some blankets and an eiderdown, some warm stew, fresh bread and a thermos of hot chamomile tea from Frau Kraus.

  I led Tante Elya along the barely discernible path through the heavily wooded forest. When the tiny timber cabin thrust into sight, nestled in a small clearing deep in the heart of the forest, I recalled the day I’d found Leo curled up in distress all those years ago.

  I wondered what I’d find inside this time.

  The man was gaunt, skin and bones. His clothes hung pathetically from his frame, like an absurd imitation of a child playing dress-ups. Tante Elya began to converse with him in Russian, trying to soothe him with her tone. There was a camp bed along one wall where I placed the extra bedding we’d brought, a bucket in the corner and a small fireplace which was empty. It was too dangerous to light a fire. We gathered around the little table, the Russian greedily eyeing the food Tante Elya was unpacking.

  ‘This is his first proper meal in nearly two years,’ she whispered to me as she put the food in front of him and poured a cup of tea.

  ‘You’ve been at Sachsenhausen for that long?’ I asked him in Russian. He nodded sadly, taking the cup and drinking the warm tea, closing his eyes in bliss.

  He began talking as he shovelled food into his mouth.

  ‘I came with many other prisoners of war in late 1941. We were forced to walk back to Germany from the front line, but given barely enough food to keep us alive, let alone survive the march. Our coats and boots were taken from us and we were left to dig holes in the ground for shelter with our bare hands when we slept. Many of us perished along the way. Those who didn’t wish they had.’ He stared at us bleakly, his sunken eyes blank.

  ‘At Sachsenhausen we were treated worse than animals. We were left starving, our rations cut to less than the other prisoners. We were given no warm clothes, so we froze in winter, and were beaten for no reason. Our political commissars and any they discovered were active Bolsheviks were singled out for the worst treatment. Many were executed, shot with a single bullet to the head while digging trenches for their own graves.’ His voice broke and he looked away, wiping his eyes. Then he gathered himself and continued, determined to bear witness. ‘Others were given drug cocktails, making them descend into insanity, turning them into monsters so they even forgot they were human, and some died of gassing as the SS tried more efficient execution methods. But maybe it was better than the experiments…’ He shivered at the ghastly memories and Tante Elya gently placed her hand over his, tears in her eyes. His hazel eyes were glassy, but he smiled at her with gratitude. He ate the stew more slowly now, and I realised that he was unable to eat much after having had so little for so long.

  ‘How did you survive?’ I was horrified by the brutality of what he described, although it confirmed what Onkel Georg and Leo had told us.

  ‘I kept my head down and my mouth shut and somehow I survived. I was interned with Yakov Dzhugashvili, Stalin’s son. He was shot dead during the evening walk. Not even the highly valued prisoners are safe.’ I raised my eyebrows in astonishment, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. There was no telling what the Nazis would do.

  Tante Elya poured more tea and he sipped the hot liquid carefully. ‘Thank you for helping me,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the least we can do. I’m ashamed of what my adopted home is doing to my compatriots.’

  On our walk back, Tante Elya seemed different, happier somehow, as though having some contact with her own people and culture had reminded her of her strength. And perhaps helping thwart the Nazis also gave her some purpose and allowed her to channel her anger and defiance. The Russian was gone in a few days, moved on to the next safe location on his perilous journey home. I prayed that he made it. If his escape was successful, more would be planned, but it also depended on the constantly fluctuating state of German control over its territories as battles were won and lost on the front lines. It was a fine line between risk and daring, with many lives held in the balance. I was so very proud of Leo and Onkel Georg being involved in making those final calls, but I didn’t envy their position.

  * * *

  At Beelitz, injured men had been flooding into the hospital from the Eastern Front around Kiev for the past few weeks. It was hard to believe that the romantic old city of Tante Elya’s childhood was now being reduced to rubble, destroyed by both the German and Soviet armies as they struggled to take control of the city.

  ‘How many more can we take?’ whispered Marika as the new arrivals were crowded into the ward we were working in. ‘It’s not like we can discharge those that are already here, some require nursing for weeks or
months yet.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ I said quietly as we moved to another bed. I glanced back at the new patients down the ward. Most were waxen faced, exhausted with pain and lack of sleep, while others were sweating and hardly lucid, mostly in the grips of fever. I could only imagine what they’d endured, many travelling for days in cattle cars by rail, or by road in the backs of trucks.

  Screams of agony rent the ward as one of the men was moved onto a bed.

  ‘God almighty!’ said Marika as she jumped with fright.

  I put a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘This is the worst time. Once the new arrivals are settled, it won’t be so bad.’

  Marika nodded, her face pale against her auburn hair, and followed me resolutely through the ward.

  We have a battleground of our own, I thought. There were the usual front line injuries from gunshot, shrapnel and explosions. Many of the injuries we saw were horrific, especially the multiple blast injuries from explosions that left the victim with head trauma, ruptured eardrums and eyes, internal injuries and haemorrhages to the lungs and abdomen that were often hard to assess, as well as the broken bones, lacerations, and widespread burns that were more visible. I found the burns particularly hard to look at. They were incredibly painful for the patient, difficult to treat and the resulting scars often left them maimed. The many amputations the doctors had to perform were also difficult for the men to face. The prospect of learning to function without a limb was daunting for most and many had lost more than one limb. But at least these men survived where many had not.

  It was hard to learn of the state many soldiers had been reduced to – men who were fighting for our country. We’d been told about the necrotic frostbite injures of the last two winters when we first arrived and that alone was enough to take in. It wasn’t unusual to find one of us quivering in the bathrooms retching uncontrollably, or in the corridors of the nurses’ quarters, sobbing with relief, exhaustion or despair. There were so many men and so many whose lives would never be the same again. Then there were those who, after everything they’d suffered, died at this point, so close to home.