A Woman of War

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘We say nothing, keep quiet. You haven’t told anyone else, have you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then that’s how it stays. We carry on as if nothing has happened. Trust no one. Except each other.’

  She looked at me, a face of innocence – she was probably the same age as my sister, Ilse, maybe even younger – yet it masked a mind much wiser than her years.

  ‘Just each other,’ she said.

  Now seemed a good time to ask. ‘I’ve been thinking it for a while, after Sonia’s baby, and now I’m more convinced that I need you to help,’ I said. ‘At Eva’s birth, I mean. Someone I can rely on, someone who knows me. Is that too much to ask?’

  Christa’s lips spread and she put a hand on my arm. ‘I would be honoured and I’m touched that you want me. I’m scared stiff, mind, but there’s nothing like a birth to lighten up life. I know that now.’ Her face darkened slightly. ‘Do you think they’ll let me?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t blotted my copybook so far. Eva is easily persuadable, and what the Fräulein wants, she seems able to get. And Captain Stenz, well, he’s been reasonable up to now.’

  She narrowed her eyes at me, surprised I was extolling the virtues of an SS officer. Me of all people.

  Communication up and down the mountain was our biggest barrier, we decided. If Christa was contacted again I needed to know, but her trips up to the Berghof were rare. Involving someone else, even innocently, was perilous and Daniel, the driver, was an unknown quantity. Food parcels went via the kitchen, and I couldn’t be sure of intercepting them in time. Christa had the brilliant idea of adjusting some baby clothes, with good reason to send packages directly to me. We could only hope they reached me without being searched.

  We walked back into the complex as Magda Goebbels was saying her goodbyes on the steps. Christa handed me the flowers, and hastened towards the car.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Magda said in disapproving tones as she waited for the car door to be opened. She spotted me as she turned.

  ‘Fräulein Hoff, I trust we won’t see each other until after the big day now. At least I hope not.’ She gave her half smile, carefully cultivated. ‘Please do let me know if we can help in any way.’ And she stooped elegantly into the seat and was gone. Perfect – she had offered her assistance, and I would take her up on it, in requesting Christa. Two could play at the propaganda game.

  Back on my porch, I thought about this latest twist. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Goebbels and his calculating mind were behind the approach to Christa, testing my loyalties and using her as a go-between, watching for our reactions. But being in league with Goebbels posed its own dangers, and I squirmed at the thought of his attentions.

  I couldn’t confide in Dieter – I didn’t know enough of him to guess at his deepest beliefs. Of course I had sympathy with any group who plotted against Hitler and his heinous ideas, but if this was a true resistance group, could I trust their motivations in involving a newborn? The stakes were high and it might be that they were no better than Goebbels in intending to use Eva’s baby as a pawn – or, worse, see its loss as collateral damage. No, I reasoned the best plan was to keep silent and hope the Minister for Propaganda had more on his mind than my dishonesty, or that there was a resistance we could more easily ignore.

  23

  Nurturing

  Eva regained her strength in the next week, a testament to her body before the pregnancy, hardy and resilient. Perhaps shaken out of a dangerous complacency, we began talking about the birth. Sitting on the wide veranda, or walking with Stasi and Negus towards the Teehaus, I tried to relate the length and intensity of an average first labour, without weighing too heavily on the exhaustion or the apparent agony of some women.

  How to describe a contraction, the feeling as a web of muscles squeezes together to create a sensation that to an outsider looks like the worst pathology, but is perfectly natural? Midwives struggled, with or without their own experience, to paint any picture. I was careful to pepper my conversation with positives, aware that Eva could opt for a caesarean at any point, at the intense peak of the journey, and the doctors would be ready to comply, eager to ensure the safety of the Führer’s baby at any cost.

  Eva’s natural tendency to see the world through rose-tinted glasses was a distinct advantage; she didn’t appear overconfident, but she was also cocooned from the real world, enough not to have been thoroughly infected by Germany’s inbred fear of birth, or exposed to stories of dread from well-meaning gossips.

  When I explained about Christa’s vital calm at Sonia’s birth, Eva was easily won over. I knew she didn’t possess any loyalty to the Berghof maids, most of whom she had abused in her rages against loneliness and the Führer’s neglect. She sent a letter to Frau Goebbels immediately and Daniel was dispatched to collect Christa a few days later. The two got on immediately. Taking tea on the balcony, Christa was suddenly much more than a housemaid, and Eva’s expression reflected what she’d been craving these last months in her virtual exile – companionship and friends. Strange that she had found those among a prisoner and a maid.

  Sitting back, I was aware of something intrinsic about the two of them that, despite Christa’s true feelings about the war, created a gel I didn’t have with Eva. Perhaps it was their traditional upbringing, not sprinkled or confused with the liberalism of my parents, which made them both somehow more German. I was pleased they had a connection; it would allow me to relinquish the role of supporter on the day itself, and concentrate on smoothing the clinical journey. That and keeping the predators at bay.

  Eva’s mood was generally upbeat, buoyed by several letters bearing the Führer’s mark and a visit, finally, from her sister, Gretl. As the intended wife of an SS officer in Hitler’s favour, Eva’s younger sibling played the part perfectly, sweeping up the driveway in her black sedan and stepping elegantly from the car, lips a siren red, her hand firmly on the arm of the pristine driver; the kitchen gossip hinted Gretl’s reputation for flirting with officers of varying ranks.

  Gretl came laden with boxes and gifts for her new niece or nephew, and the two of them tattled endlessly over tea in the parlour, or lying out on the terrace under umbrellas chattering about plans for ‘after the war’, and ‘when Mama and Papa come to stay’. They also planned celebrations for Gretl’s upcoming nuptials at the Berghof, set for early June and unchanged – even with Eva’s due date around the same time. Whether Eva truly believed any word of Gretl’s happy families I couldn’t tell, but when I was called to be introduced to Gretl as ‘my indispensable midwife’, Eva looked the most cheerful I had seen her in weeks, as if she was truly preparing for blissful domesticity on top of the world.

  It was the absence of Captain Stenz that concerned me most. With preparations to be made, I worried I had broken the thin strand of friendship we had weaved. I sat on my porch each morning willing his car to draw up, to see his tall form striding towards me, that blond head at half turn.

  Eva was thirty-four weeks pregnant and lumbering characteristically when he reappeared. She and Gretl had driven down to the lake a few miles from the Berghof and I was watching for their return. Ironically, I was absorbed in writing the Captain a letter, reminding him about the equipment we had agreed on, as a shadow sliced across the paper.

  ‘Fräulein Hoff, good day,’ he said.

  ‘Oh! Oh, Captain Stenz, I … I thought you wouldn’t be returning again.’ My voice was high and sounded ridiculously frivolous.

  ‘Why not? This is my primary concern at present.’

  ‘Well, after the … you know, how we …’

  ‘You mean our cross words?’ He was half smiling.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Fräulein – may I still presume to call you Anke? I have a score of encounters each and every day far more bitter than our conversation. Although none of those have given me cause to worry in the same way.’

  ‘Worry about what?’

  ‘That I had lo
st your trust – if I can presume to own a little of that – or your friendship.’

  ‘I trust you to … to be human,’ I said. ‘And I consider us friends, despite the circumstances.’

  ‘Well, that’s all I can ask.’ He smiled. ‘In the circumstances.’

  He sat down and we resumed plans for the birth. Although it was still uncertain, the Führer was unlikely to be present in the house, he said, but the medical team would arrive at thirty-six weeks, and set up a room with their anaesthetic equipment, sterilising apparatus, and everything needed for an impromptu operating theatre. It would be led by an experienced doctor, and a junior. I would act as anaesthetic nurse, if need be, as I had been through my training. I had expected as much but I couldn’t stop my face projecting concern.

  ‘But I have insisted – to keep the Fräulein as worry free as possible – that they stay in a house at the bottom of the mountain, until she goes into labour,’ Dieter said quickly. ‘I imagine you wouldn’t want them hovering for days or weeks on end.’

  ‘You imagine correctly,’ I said, relaxing a little. ‘And when she’s in labour?’

  ‘Well, that’s your decision as to when you alert me. Then they will make their way up to the Berghof, and position themselves – discreetly – in one of the rooms on the complex, unless or until you call them. That’s as much as I can manage, Anke. I don’t have total control, as you know.’

  ‘I understand. And the Goebbels, when will they be told?’

  ‘Herr Goebbels has asked to be informed when Fräulein Braun goes into labour. I imagine he will make his way here as soon as possible, for the happy event.’ Dieter’s disdain was apparent.

  ‘No doubt Magda has her congratulations speech already worked out,’ I said, my own sarcasm unchecked.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed.

  A short silence drew a line under our business, and Dieter took off his cap, the signal that he ceased to become strictly SS. He disappeared for a few moments towards the house, and came back looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘I’ve asked Frau Grunders if we can have our supper out here. I’m not sure she was too impressed, but I said we have a lot of business to discuss.’ He grinned like a cheeky schoolboy.

  I might have reflected shock instead of the innate pleasure I was feeling, because he looked suddenly alarmed. ‘Have I presumed too much? Should I eat inside?’

  ‘No … no! I’m just surprised – pleasantly surprised – at the thought of having real conversation with my meal. It’s been quite a while.’

  Aside from the brief days with Christa at the Schmidts’ house, I hadn’t eaten with someone in over two years. Food at the camp had been so like inhaling crumbs of survival that I didn’t consider it sharing a meal, and eating in the servants’ hall was strictly a dormitory affair – necessary and sombre.

  Lena brought out the meal and set it down with a wry smile.

  ‘The light is going – would you perhaps like a candle, Fräulein Hoff?’ she said, and I shot a look in response to her spirit.

  ‘No thank you, Lena,’ I said. ‘We can see very well. I’ll bring the dishes in when we’re finished.’

  We shuffled the plates on the small table, and Dieter poured two glasses from the small jug of beer.

  ‘Frau Grunders may be a tough nut to crack,’ he said, ‘but I have to say she runs a good kitchen. This is far better than anything back at the barracks.’

  He tucked into the chicken stew, but seemed distinctly uncomfortable at the small table, his long arms awkward and the folds of his jacket skimming the dishes. The distinctive runes on his collar caught the little amount of remaining light, and his braided cuffs pushed at his plate.

  I sat back, looking at him. ‘Dieter, do you want to take off your jacket?’ I was wearing only a loose blouse, and the evening was still warm. His neck was flushed and red where it met the stiff collar.

  He stopped, mid-forkful. ‘Do you mind?’ he said, and then laughed. ‘Well, clearly not, since you’ve suggested it!’

  ‘No, I don’t mind in the least.’

  He began unbuttoning the parade of silver down the front. Wary of staring, still I couldn’t take my eyes off him. As each button came free, there was a palpable release of tension, pushed up into the air. Underneath, his shirt was white and creased only by the jacket, no doubt crisp before he pulled it on. Who pressed it for him each morning? He wore no wedding ring, and had never spoken of a wife. Or even seemed married, if you can give off that air to strangers.

  His shoulders were broad, but in shedding the jacket he lost some of his bulk; the wide, black braces pulled the shirt material in to his chest. I tried to imagine him wearing only the trousers, braces loose by his side – I wanted to see him in my mind’s eye working in the garden with his father on a hot summer’s day, hauling an engine aloft.

  ‘Anke?’

  ‘What? Oh sorry – just lost myself for a minute.’

  We could have been sitting outside a nice restaurant on a spring evening, surrounded by the zeitgeist of a city, the heady chatter of Berliners, instead of the twitter of birds beginning to nest for the night. It felt like a real dinner, and the conversation flowed, about life and families, my work and his study. Incredibly, we managed to sidestep the monolith of the war and the Nazis, and it gave me hope that below the ground-in horror, the layers of distrust, we could be people together, stripped of allegiances to one side or the other.

  The plates clean, he sat back in his chair, and this time his sigh was obvious, pushing back his head towards the sky and releasing the day’s stress as a vapour. I fixed on his prominent Adam’s apple, so often shrouded by his jacket collar. It moved as he swallowed and something inside me – a taut string deep in my pelvis – tweaked, and I felt like a schoolgirl from years ago, tainted with guilty thoughts.

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it up. I took one and held it awkwardly between my fingers, rolling the unfamiliar paper, staring at the tobacco beneath the translucent covering. I hadn’t had a cigarette since Berlin; food was a far more valuable currency in the camp. And at the Berghof, it was well known that the Führer hated smoking. I had seen Eva surreptitiously indulging as she walked down towards the Teehaus, but I knew she would never do it in full view. I had smoked occasionally back home, never in the house, but sometimes on a night out. Everyone indulged then; it was part of the social wallpaper, to be lifting it to your mouth, seesawing it with a glass of wine or beer, words and laughter filling in the gaps.

  Our heads were suddenly close as he offered a light, a strand or two of hair almost touching. I could smell his skin, a stronger scent of the general aura around him. I noted, too, that his hand trembled slightly in holding the match. The first drag made me cough violently, and Dieter laughed good-naturedly.

  ‘It’s been a while?’

  ‘Something like that.’ The taste was of good German cigarettes, rich with pleasure instead of sour from sheer need. Much like the coffee, I decided to enjoy and savour it, knowing it would be my last for a while.

  The dark descended and a silence with it. We both stared at the nightfall and the stars for at least ten minutes, watching our smoke clouds consumed by the navy sky.

  ‘I can never believe it’s possible for the air to be so clear,’ he said at last. ‘So unencumbered.’

  ‘Why? Because you live in the real world most of the time, down there?’ I chided him playfully.

  He considered for several seconds. ‘Because of all the mud being slung.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘There’s so much of it, I can’t fathom how every particle in the world isn’t heavy with filth.’

  I didn’t answer. Much like that first day at the Berghof, I had nothing to add.

  A sudden chill broke up the evening and I began to shift and shiver. I saw in his face that he would have offered me his jacket but his features weighed up the gravity of such an offer, and he simply said: ‘Time to turn in, I think.’

  We carried the dishes in
together, stopping awkwardly by the kitchen door.

  ‘Well goodnight then, Fräulein Hoff,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight, Captain Stenz. I take it we’ll continue our business on another day.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ And he was gone, down the corridor to whichever room he occupied at the Berghof.

  I lay on my bed, unable to switch off. Like every pleasurable experience in the last few months, I measured it carefully, heavy weights fighting with each other on a pair of imaginary scales, like the solid set in my mother’s kitchen. As a teenager, I would have considered such an evening my right to experience, and as a middle-class German woman, to be part of transition towards marriage and children.

  Now, everything that made me forget the camp or the war, even for a second, injected a remorse so strong I wanted to physically purge myself, drag it from my being, like a wire embedded deep in my brain, tweezered from my soul. Worse still was the enjoyment I gained from the company of a Nazi – by name, if perhaps not by nature. Was I a collaborator? One of those we women had despised so much in the camp? I hated myself for liking him, for wanting his company. What if I was wrong about him? What if he was complicit in the cruelty, first-hand? I considered the possibility he was playing with me for his own enjoyment – a cat who catches but can’t quite kill the mouse. Suddenly, even life in this sky village seemed far too complicated.

  24

  A Growing Interest

  I chanced upon Dieter again the next morning, on my way to breakfast. He had his back to me, towards the vast air between us and the next mountain, and so it was difficult to tell if he had been waiting for me to pass. A thought inched its way into my head: is that what I wanted? For him to seek me out?

  ‘Good morning,’ I said as he spun around sharply. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘No … I … Good morning, Anke. I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ I slipped him a small smile as his eyes went back to the landscape. Seconds prickled, though not in an awkward way, more of an accepted space. I almost walked on without another word, but I realised I simply didn’t want to.