Dieter didn’t appear to be in any hurry, and he ordered a second coffee. I had just drained the last, precious mouthful when the driver appeared, red-faced and breathless. Captain Stenz tensed and the grey jacket stiffened.
‘Rainer, what is it?’
‘Pardon the intrusion, Captain, but Fräulein Hoff is needed back at the Berghof – immediately.’
It was my turn to brace then. It could only mean one thing. Eva.
‘Is she unwell?’ I could hardly expect him to know if she was in early labour. At thirty-two weeks, this could be a problem.
‘My instructions are to fetch you immediately. Daniel has been dispatched to bring a doctor, but he may be some time.’
‘We’ll leave now.’ Captain Stenz was the officious SS officer again. He pulled out some bills and left them on the table, following Rainer, their long limbs needing to slow for me to keep pace.
My mind was racing with possibilities. Why hadn’t I insisted on seeing her this morning? Why had I bowed to that man Sergeant Meier? I might have picked up on something. If the baby came now, we would struggle to have the right help in time. We would be making the best of a bad situation, and that wasn’t good enough for the Reich.
18
Calming the Fire
Rainer drove at speed, forcing the raspy engine, but the journey seemed painfully slow and it was forty minutes before I stepped out of the car and ran up the steps. Frau Grunders herself opened the door, with my small bag of equipment in her arms, her steely gaze fixed.
Eva was in her room, her head just visible over the blankets. Glistening with sweat, she was hot to touch and the colour of the beetroot soup served up by the kitchen. Her lids drooped, fighting to stay open.
‘Eva, Eva,’ I said softly, then louder, ‘can you hear me?’
She roused a little, moaning, and finally opened her eyes, blinking several times before she appeared to recognise me.
‘Anke? I’m glad to see you. I don’t feel well. Tell me the baby’s all right.’ Her speech was slow and laboured, and she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Frau Grunders was hovering outside the door, and I asked for some cold towels and help in moving Eva. She clipped away smartly, and the senior maid appeared almost instantly.
Together, Lena and I peeled back the blankets and moved Eva onto her side. Though her skin radiated the heat of hot coals, she was shivering as if in an ice bath, whining for the blankets to be put back. Her pulse was racing at a hundred and twenty beats a minute, veins fighting to push blood around her infected body. There was no doubt it was a fever – the cause unknown, although I had my suspicions.
Under duress, we helped Eva to the bathroom, where I coaxed a urine sample from her as she sat, heavy-lidded and semi-aware. Back in the bedroom, the windows were thrown open and Lena applied the cold towels to Eva’s head and chest while I got to work on the dresser, putting a flame to the sample. It was heavy with protein – a urine infection as I’d suspected, common to pregnant women and easily treated in the early stages, but more of a danger if it took hold. The intense irritation if it reached her kidneys could cause her uterus to spasm, and bring on a premature labour. At thirty-two weeks and without specialist care, the baby would have little chance of survival.
Eva was still moaning softly, showing less angst but now clutching her belly while her brow crimped. I hoped the contraction of her facial muscles wasn’t mimicking anything lower down. ‘The baby,’ she kept saying, ‘save the baby, Anke.’
Automatically, she was still as I put my Pinard on her belly, lying close enough to feel the waves of heat come off her skin. The baby’s heartbeat was strong and even, a good rate, but I sensed a slight rise on my ear while it lay flat on the wooden trumpet, the mesh of belly muscles pulling together. She was tightening.
‘The baby sounds fine, Eva, good and strong. We just have to cool you down.’
She moaned, signalling some understanding. She didn’t need to know about the tightening. If it was strong enough, she would tell me.
I told Lena to keep cooling with the towels and spooning iced water into Eva’s mouth, and went in search of news. Halfway down the hall, Captain Stenz appeared, his face fraught with worry for the first time since I’d known him.
‘How is the Fräulein?’ His voice was thick with anxiety.
I explained about the infection and the need for a doctor immediately. ‘But we have to ensure they are carrying antibiotics, and the means to administer them quickly. Has the doctor already left the hospital?’
‘I’ll ring ahead and check. I’ll send the fastest rider as a back-up. Do you think the baby is in danger?’
‘Not at the moment, but if she starts to labour properly, then yes. The next few hours will tell, but we can’t risk moving her right now.’
‘I’ll get word to the doctor.’ As I turned, he caught my arm. ‘Anke?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m glad it’s you. Up here, with her. With everything you know.’
‘Let’s just see about that,’ I said. ‘We need luck on our side too.’
19
Watchful Waiting
I sat with Eva constantly after that, scanning her face as she moved uneasily in and out of sleep, instinctively palming her abdomen while her face crimped in discomfort. Her bump was warm to the touch and at times, hard and unyielding, retreating after sixty seconds or so to a soft shell under my hand. I couldn’t help it, but the image of a dragon’s egg swam into my thoughts, illustrations from my dog-eared fairy-tale book, a favourite story my mother read to me at bedtime. And yet in all my years as a midwife I hadn’t thought of it once, likened any birth or baby to that fiery image. Until now.
Eva’s tightenings moved closer together, from one every fifteen minutes to every ten, then averaging at seven or eight, spiralling dangerously towards labour. As with any woman, it was difficult to gauge the level of pain, but I watched Eva’s mouth and eyes intently with each contraction, watching for the contortion in her features. So far, the pain dial was static. Nature’s little gift of luck perhaps? Her skin remained pasty, but had lost the violent flush of earlier, only a faint salt line settling around her hair.
It was then that I noticed it, while rearranging the thin nightshirt – a disturbance in her skin low into her neck. At first glance I thought it was a water splash, and moved to wipe it away, but soon realised it was part of her, fixed. The skin was raised like an old burn, flecks of star-like pink around a small, circular crevice, a tiny volcanic crater. Almost as if she had been burned by a pointed object or – and my imagination stretched wildly here – stabbed, or even shot? In her semi-consciousness, I couldn’t help skimming my finger pads over the area, and Eva squirmed irritably, forcing me to snap my hand away, like a child caught in the cookie pot.
The minutes ticked by noisily on the mantel clock until, at last, the spitting gravel outside signalled an arrival. The doctor was a middle-aged local medic who had specialised in obstetrics in his hospital days, and he readily agreed to the antibiotics. We worked together setting up an intravenous line into Eva’s arm and a catheter into her bladder, to monitor her urine.
With the drugs snaking into Eva’s veins, Lena took over the vigilance for half an hour to give me a break, and I walked towards the offices. The doctor was perched nervously on a leather chair in front of the desk as I appeared. He and Captain Stenz looked at me with anxious enquiry.
‘She’s sleeping now, no change for the worse,’ I said quickly. ‘Certainly, in the last half hour the tightenings have subsided, and the Fräulein doesn’t appear to be in pain. Her temperature is down. It’s looking positive.’
Two pairs of shoulders relaxed visibly.
‘Dr Heisler tells me the antibiotics should work quickly, and we will know a lot more about Fräulein Braun’s condition by the morning,’ Captain Stenz added.
‘I think so too,’ I agreed. ‘But just to be on the safe side, I’ll spend the night in her room, and report to you both at breakfast.’
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The doctor shifted again, perspiration pricking his brow. ‘I can arrange transport to the local hospital as soon as possible, this evening if needed. And a private room, of course. Complete privacy.’
Captain Stenz looked at me, his features inviting an opinion.
‘Well, I agree the doctor should review her condition in the morning,’ I said. ‘But if the Fräulein’s urine is clear, and her condition improves, I can’t see any reason not to nurse her at home, as planned.’
‘Doctor?’ Captain Stenz was playing diplomat again, but his expectations were clear.
Dr Heisler plucked at his words carefully. ‘Naturally, I would err on the side of caution, but again I would be happy to consult on the Fräulein at home, if the general consensus is to remain here.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, your expertise is very much appreciated,’ said Captain Stenz, bringing the game of words to a close.
I was suddenly irritated. Why couldn’t they simply say what they meant? Why dress every exchange in etiquette and niceties, when everyone present knew the true meaning was dirty and ugly, a sinister threat to the only thing you could truly own in this war – your life? The doctor would go away, not crowing or boasting about his fortune in treating the Führer’s mistress, but looking over his shoulder daily, praying nightly that she and her baby survived, and that he wouldn’t open his door late one night to the Gestapo looking for retribution. That was the Germany we lived in.
More than anything, I couldn’t figure out why I was so irked at Captain Stenz for being part of it. After all, he was SS, one of the chosen, one of Hitler’s boys. Stupid woman, stupid Anke. Why had I been so blinkered, why had I opened a little of myself to someone who could never be anyone other than my overseer or my captor? After years of creating a shell to protect myself since the war began, I had let my guard slip a little for him. Exposed an already wounded heart. And yet I expected more from him, from the exchanges between us so far; since our first meeting I had not seen him as the black crow of Nazism. Now I wondered: was he merely very good at putting on a front, masked by that jacket? If so, was it a front for me, or the Nazi regime? The feeling rankled, like an itch I had no hope of scratching.
Berlin, February 1942
Snow was still falling thickly, but the car was at least warmed by our bodies, two of them in the back either side of me, a driver in the front. They said very little under the brims of their hats, staring straight ahead. I took a measured guess at exactly where we were going. The imposing building at number 8 Prinz-Albrecht Strasse was the same bricks and mortar as when it had acted as an art gallery in the early 1930s, but it had since adopted a dark cloak. It was no secret that thousands had been sucked in through the ornate doorways, or worse still the back entrances, absorbed into its bowels. Gestapo headquarters was no place for a fun visit.
In the car, I was shaking uncontrollably, every artery pulsing and a sick, rolling pit in my stomach. Perhaps because of my job I was able to contain it to a violent twitch in the little finger of my left hand, keeping it clenched and cupped in my other hand, while I thought of my family and all the things I hadn’t said to them. When was the last time I told Mama I loved her? Spent a day with Ilse? Even had a conversation with Franz? The war had flooded us all, and now it was about to engulf me, perhaps forever.
We drew up to the elegant front entrance; the Gestapo had many deep secrets, but their questioning of dissidents wasn’t one of them. They were unashamed about the cull of opponents to the Reich. The large, marbled foyer and corridors were dimly lit – we passed through several long, door-lined walkways before walking up stone steps, several floors until my calves were aching from the climb. Here, the building was much less ornate – it was scruffy and generally unkempt. Eventually, we stopped at a faceless door, with the number 9 on the tatty, scratched wood. My escort opened it and said: ‘In here.’
The room was dark and freezing cold, with bare boards and a small window up in the top of the wall, out of my reach. It had been left open, on purpose, I imagined. I rubbed at my arms instinctively. I’d changed out of my uniform into a light blouse before I left the hospital; my cardigan and coat were at Nadia’s, and they – the collection squad – hadn’t allowed me to snatch at either of them before I was escorted out. Cold itself was an effective torture method, I reasoned. That word kept flashing in front of my eyes, and try as I might, I couldn’t push it back down – an ugly, black and oily stain of meaning that made my whole body shake with dread.
There was a bed, with a bare mattress at least. But nothing more, no water jug or bowl, no chamber pot. I was suddenly aware of being very thirsty and needing to empty my bladder at the same time. The sweat from Nadia’s birth had dried on me and I could smell a sour odour rising from my body. That bath I had promised myself now seemed a distant fantasy. If I didn’t reach a toilet soon I might be forced to relieve myself in the corner of the room, and then live with the stench. Perhaps that was what they wanted, part of the ritual? Break you with your own disgust.
I felt a sudden wave of tiredness and curled on the bed, staring at the faint glow from the settling snow, which cast a square on the ceiling. I strained my ears for sounds of Berlin – cars, trams, laughter or rising conversation that would convince me the world outside was normal, and not frozen solid. But up here, it seemed the Gestapo had a monopoly on noise as well. I hugged myself into a ball, feeling totally and utterly alone.
After my early morning shift and Nadia’s birth, exhaustion must have washed over the fear, because I woke to two men coming into the room.
‘Fräulein, get up – quickly.’
It was still dark, and I could just make out their shapes from the light in the corridor. I sat up and pushed on my shoes, while they shuffled impatiently. We wound through more corridors, down several floors, and back into the former art gallery, facing another looming doorway.
It was warmer in this room at least, with a single-bulb electric light, but no window. I was guided to a chair tucked into a bare wooden table, with an empty chair opposite. I would be joined. But by whom? And what would they do? Rumours of creative Gestapo torture constantly circulated in Berlin, and it was difficult to know what was fact or fiction or simply cultivated fear. All seemed despicably inhumane.
They left me for I don’t know how long, since my watch had been taken from me. I rationalised this was part of the plan – to suspend a mind in limbo, where I couldn’t place my own fatigue, thirst or hunger. And I was all of these things, since I’d missed supper, and the last drink I’d had was tea from Minna. I thought of her terrified, grief-stricken face as their noisy boots had invaded the safe space we had created, mouthing ‘Sorry’ as I looked back. I had no doubt she did not betray news of the birth – her sorrow was in placing me in harm’s way.
I kept myself from the horrors of looking forward by casting backwards: counting the numbers of babies I had seen into the world, the homebirths I’d enjoyed – something in the world that would be left behind if I was spat out of this building in a box. A legacy my parents could be proud of. Oh Lord, Mama and Papa – they would be worried sick!
He walked in, clicked his heels together, flopped a file on the desk and sat directly opposite. Opening the file, he flipped over a few pages and looked up, with a weak smile. It was half friendly, not the dirty smirk I’d expected.
‘Fräulein,’ he said formally. He was blond, but with a reddish streak to his hair, and a small wiry moustache, wider and thinner than the Führer’s, giving him more of a film star air. His eyes were a bright, watery blue and he looked, in his brown suit, like a humanised fox.
I sat in silence and something told me not to show my desperation. To try at least.
Hands flat on the table, he began. ‘Do you know where you are?’
‘At the Gestapo headquarters.’
‘Do you know why you are here?’ He leafed through the pages, and I glimpsed my hospital mug shot.
‘I imagine it’s because I was helping a woman give
birth. In the Jewish quarter.’ Surprisingly, there was no quiver to my voice. Keep soft, Anke, I reminded myself – don’t antagonise.
‘Is this something you make a habit of?’ His tone was of a headmaster dealing with a mildly irritating pupil.
‘Not a habit.’
‘But you have done this before?’
‘What does my file say?’
He smiled, enjoying the game, perhaps because he knew he couldn’t lose. ‘It says you like to help Jews.’
‘I like to help people. People who need help. It’s true that some of them are Jewish.’ Careful, Anke – temper the fury, be smart.
He took out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. I smoked only occasionally but I was sorely tempted, except I thought it would highlight my thirst. I shook my head. He lit one himself, blew out a plume of smoke towards the light bulb and sat back.
‘It seems your whole family – your German family, Fräulein – are unsure where their loyalties lie. To the Reich, or your Jewish friends.’
I started at the mention of my family. Surely they had been watching just me, tracking my movements in the ghetto – where someone had betrayed us? At worst, spying on me at the hospital. But not at home?
‘This is nothing to do with my family,’ I said sharply, desperation evident.
‘I beg to differ,’ he replied. Now he was rooting out his trump card, a cunning slant to his eyes. ‘Quite apart from your father’s association with two prominent Jewish community leaders, there are your mother’s visits to several Jewish households, to bring food.’
This was a surprise to me; I knew they had been in touch with several families – Papa’s former colleagues at the university – but neither ever spoke of real contact.
A Woman of War Page 13
