* * *
My mother and I were sitting in the kitchen the next evening when the air-raid sirens began their unearthly wail. We had taken shifts at the hospital during the day and were slumped in our chairs from exhaustion.
Mother looked at the ceiling as if in prayer and then stared at me with eyes wide with fright. The ceiling shook from an explosion and the kitchen light swayed as if dancing to a discordant rhythm. A fine shower of white plaster dust fell from a crack and settled on the floor.
“I hope it’s nothing,” my mother said.
I was less hopeful. The air sparkled with electricity and the bombers droned overhead. “We should go to the cellar,” I said in a panic. I shot up from the table, ready to grab a few things I might drag downstairs.
Another blast detonated closer than the previous one. The walls and furniture rattled. The intensity increased second by second and soon the house began to shake as if it had been struck by an earthquake. Searing billows of fire split the night while the white traces of flak roared heavenward from German anti-aircraft guns.
“Hurry—there’s no time,” I screamed over the blasts that pounded our ears. The bombs hammered around us.
The more I considered the deafening apocalypse outside our window, the less I thought we should go to the cellar. I grabbed my identification papers and secured them in my belt. I took my mother by the arm and led her down the stairs to the front door. As we stood sheltered behind it, a gigantic orange fireball flashed down the street. The gutter flared with flames from dead leaves; some of the trees burst into flames. We were saved by the stone façade of our building.
I wrenched open the door and started down the steps, making sure my mother followed. When we reached the sidewalk, I looked east and gasped. As far as I could see, Berlin was burning. To the west, several blocks were on fire and a maelstrom of wind and flames swirled into the sky. I was unsure what to do, which way to go for shelter.
My mother stopped me from taking another step. She clutched me and yelled, “Frau Horst. She’ll burn to death!”
In my panic, I had forgotten about the old lady who lived upstairs. “You stay here. I’ll go for her.”
A bomb whistled in the air and exploded less than a block away. The houses shivered on their foundations and then came to rest with creaking moans. Mounds of dirt and debris fell around us. I sprinted up the stairs to the top floor of our building. I pounded on the door, but there was no answer. Another bomb fell close and shafts of orange light shot up the stairs. I slammed my fists against the wood and then, in a moment of unearthly quiet, I heard a feeble voice say, “Go away.”
I tried the knob, but it was locked. I screamed at Frau Horst again.
There was no reply.
The air fractured like glass around me and the concussion knocked me to the landing. The ceiling curled in red and yellow flames like paper held to a candle. Burning embers fell upon my skin and dress. I brushed their stinging bites off my arms and head and fled down the steps. I had no choice. Outside, waves of fire trembled in the sky. I called for my mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. One of her shoes lay next to the curb. I yelled until my voice cracked, but I couldn’t find her. I fled west; it was cooler and the air was less smoky. I looked back to see my home consumed in the fiery tempest. I ran until I was far away; then, sat on the stoop of an unfamiliar house and cried. The bombing seemed to go on forever. I waited on the stairs until it stopped. The fire, smoke and ash from the neighboring blocks rose high into the air. The flames crackled as hellish heat swept over the city. The sound of the inferno was punctuated by screams and the thunderous crush of falling buildings.
I don’t remember how long I sat there. People shuffled by me with burned flesh sagging from their bones. Men and women moaned while the children cried out in pain or for their parents. I could do nothing for them. I imagined my father in the hospital, filled with the dying and injured, while the Führer, sipping tea, sat far away in his bunker protected from the bombs.
Not even dawn could assuage my rage. I left the house after someone gave me a cup of water. I had no conscious thought of where to go, so I wandered for many hours until I arrived at the hospital where my father was being treated. Fortunately, the building was only slightly damaged in the bombing. The spirits of the staff seemed as broken as the city. The nurses had given up protecting visitors against the grippe. Rows of beds lined the halls. Patients had been wheeled there for protection against breaking glass.
My father was near his room, his bed against a wall. Dread filled his eyes when he saw me. I caught sight of myself in a mirror. My face was streaked with ash, my hair caked against my skin, my clothes pitted with holes from the embers.
I collapsed against him and cried until I could shed no more tears. “The bombs,” I muttered, and could say no more.
My father knew what had happened without asking. He patted my hand as his face turned blank and ashen. He shed no tears. Anger and grief seethed inside him.
An all clear sounded and nurses moved the patients back to their rooms. I fell asleep in the chair by the window and slept well into the afternoon. My father and I talked only briefly. I told him I would have to return to my job. I didn’t mention Karl or where I was; it was not the time for revelations or predictions of happiness. I had no home to go back to, so I begged the nurse to let me stay the night so I could leave on a train the next day. My luggage and money had been destroyed; however, I had my identification papers with me. Because I served the Führer, I was certain I would have no problem getting passage to Rastenburg.
That night, as I sat in the hospital with my father, a second round of bombs fell. This time they sounded farther away. Still, the hospital shuddered with the blasts, which broke a few windows and carved spidery cracks in the walls. My father walked to the hall in his mask and I huddled against him. The hours dragged by as we rode out the attack. For most of the night, I held his hand.
The next morning, I told my father I was leaving. “Where will you go?” I asked him. “Our house was destroyed.”
“I will find some place,” he said. “Or perhaps I will live with my brother.”
I wasn’t convinced that he could find an apartment in Berlin, let alone in our district, and I was certain that living with Willy and Reina would make him miserable.
“Let me see what I can do,” I said, hoping to enlist Hitler’s help.
His face turned red and he puffed up in a rage. “Never! I will ask no favor from that . . . man!”
I held his hands. “You don’t understand. I can make your life easier.”
He jerked his hands away. “You do and you will be no daughter of mine. I will go back to my job and find a place to live on my own.”
I sighed. “Of course, Papa. Whatever you want.” I took his hands again and leaned in close to his face. I was no longer afraid of catching the grippe. “I’m on your side,” I whispered, and then kissed his forehead. “Please believe me.”
His eyes sparkled in their dark sockets and he seemed to understand. “Do what you must to survive. I know you’ll do what is right.”
I left the hospital and hitched a ride on a horse cart. I got off near the old neighborhood and walked through the crumbled stone and mortar, jumped across the burned timbers that had fallen into the street, some still smoking from the fire. People were sweeping up, piling the remains of their homes near the curbs. A few families had settled into burned-out buildings, having no place to go. Their faces looked wan and war-weary with vacant, searching eyes and no hint of a smile. Berliners had come to know how much misery could be meted out by the Allies. At the moment, I was as lonely and forsaken as they were. I could do nothing but stumble along with them.
My mother’s shoe was still lying where I had seen it two nights ago. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. There were no bloodstains, no remnants of flesh. I asked a few neighbors if they had seen her, but no one had. I suspected she had perished in a firestorm, but I didn’t want to believ
e it. That she had sought shelter or found a home with a friend were false hopes. There was a slim chance she was in a different hospital from the one my father was staying in, but to find her would take days of searching.
Only the burned-out frame of our home was left. The roof had been incinerated, the remaining floors collapsed downward, one upon another. A sooty gray smoke rose in pigtail curls from the basement. The entire building—tons of debris—had collapsed on top of it. I walked as far as I could on the crumbling frame and called out for my mother. She did not answer. My voice cracked as I called out again and again. Only the pop and hiss of the lingering fire rose from the basement. In my heart, I knew she and Frau Horst were dead.
I said good-bye to a few people who wandered like ghosts through the neighborhood. Most acted like shell-shocked automatons. However, in some I saw a burning fanaticism for revenge—the destruction, the deaths, the Allied attacks, would be avenged. Little could be done, however, by those bombed out of their homes. Such retribution was wishful thinking, as unlikely as stopping the falling bombs.
I trudged away from my neighborhood. My stomach churned with each step as I thought of my mother, most likely dead, and my father, who had no home to return to. I stopped people I recognized and told them to watch for my mother. I couldn’t tell them where I worked, so I asked them to contact the Reichsbund in Berlin if they had any news.
Eventually, I arrived at the train station. I must have looked a fright in my tattered dress. However, we had all suffered the same fate, and nothing was said about my appearance. Horror and destitution had found homes in Berlin. I told the SS guard it was imperative that I return to the Führer. As I suspected, once I showed my papers I was whisked onto the train. The conductor gave me a blanket to keep warm. The train and the tracks had escaped damage from the bombs.
As the train traveled east toward the Wolf’s Lair, I had plenty of time to think about what needed to be done. Karl and I had a responsibility to act, and that urge burned brighter in me than it ever had before. I was certain others in the Party felt the same way.
CHAPTER 12
The next afternoon, I arrived at Rastenburg to bitter cold. The day felt like winter, with the sun passing low on the southern horizon. Pinkish-red rays streaked the clouds and the icy smell of snow was in the air, but the crisp scent was tainted by the smell of decay from the foul swamp. The pervading dampness spread across headquarters. I found Dora at the dormitory and told her my story. She said she would find clothes to replace those destroyed in Berlin. I had left my few belongings at the Wolf’s Lair, but clothing was now in short supply. I stood next to a heater while I waited for her. A few women lay huddled under layers of blankets on their beds. Dora returned with four dresses and a winter coat. I showered, put on a small amount of makeup and then set out to find Karl.
I caught sight of him passing through the guard gate into the second perimeter. He was in his gray field uniform. His eyes were focused on the ground and he did not see me until I called his name. He looked up, broke into a run, swept me into his arms and kissed me.
I dissolved into tears as he pressed my head to his chest and stroked my hair.
“I was worried sick,” he said. “I had no idea whether you or your family was alive. I knew your neighborhood had been bombed because Göring’s generals informed us in the situational conferences with Hitler. He is furious about what is happening in Berlin and places the blame squarely on the air force. Göring is in deep trouble.”
“Karl,” I said, sobbing, “my mother is dead.”
He squeezed me tighter. “I’m so sorry, Magda. How cruel this war is.” He put a finger to my lips. “Weep, but be strong. It’s the only way we can survive.”
I pulled away from him—my inability to control our circumstances stoked rage within me. “I don’t care who knows,” I cried out. “Hitler, too. My mother is dead and my father is homeless. In Berlin, thousands are dead and hundreds of thousands are without homes. I’ve seen the destruction with my own eyes. For what? His Reich?”
Karl pulled me off the path past a stand of bare trees. We stood concealed behind them. “Please, Magda, think before you speak. The operation is in place. I’m not sure when it will occur, but you must be patient. When it’s over, Germany will be a free nation again.”
I stepped back, ready to fight anything blocking my fury, including Karl. “I would kill him now, if I could.”
“Think of your father—think of the innocents who would die because you killed the Führer. It’s a delicate operation that has to be planned. The Wehrmacht has to fall in line behind us. The officers have to support us; otherwise, we are lost. Please understand how complicated this has been . . . and if one man betrays us . . .” His eyes grew cloudy and their edges turned pink with tears. “And what would I do without you? How could I go on? Please, don’t do anything rash. I couldn’t stand to lose you, like Franz lost Ursula.”
His words calmed me enough that I considered what he was saying. He kissed me again and I welcomed his touch. “Come to my room at ten.”
“What about the other men in your quarters?”
“I have the room to myself tonight. Would you like to be alone with me?” He brushed his fingers against my cheek.
I nodded and we embraced. Large snowflakes began to drift down through the trees, falling lightly upon our shoulders.
“It’s cold,” Karl said. “I don’t want you to catch your death. We should go inside.”
We walked hand in hand to my dormitory and then parted. “Until tonight,” he said.
I couldn’t forget. I kissed him and wondered whether it was wise to go to his room. I barely had time to ask myself the question before my heart answered. Yes. I wanted to make love to Karl. Time was running out and I was unsure how much happiness the future held for either one of us. My mother was dead. My father, I thought, would be proud of my decision to fight Hitler. My love for Karl deserved to be fully expressed. I could no longer deny what few moments of joy were within our grasp. Damn the consequences. When I returned to my room, I knew my love for Captain Karl Weber would be consummated.
* * *
I met him on the path to his quarters at ten. We tried to avoid other officers, but we passed a few outside. They gave me a sideways glance and then looked away. The officer corps was a tightly knit organization. Apparently, it had become well known across headquarters that Karl and I were a couple.
His bed was turned down and a candle burned on his desk. Its yellow light flickered and spread ochre shadows across the room. We said little. He told me to sit on the bed and then he kissed me. We took off our clothes piece by piece until we were naked on the sheets, a blanket spread across our shoulders. Karl asked me if I was a virgin and I told him, “Yes.” I think he was pleased to know I’d not been with another man. I asked him if he had ever been with a woman. He told me he had, several years ago, and had paid for her services. He swore it was the one and only time. My hymen had broken years ago while participating in girls’ athletics, but I felt no need to explain that to Karl. He wouldn’t have minded either way.
He put on a condom, entered me and made love in slow thrusts until we both relaxed into a natural rhythm. We swayed as our bodies clung to each other, molding ourselves as one, until we were consumed and spent by our mutual passion.
We lay in bed, nestled against each other, until early the next morning. We dressed and Karl escorted me back to my dormitory. Neither of us expressed any regret for the evening, but we knew we had to be cautious. Making love every night, even every week, was impossible. Hitler wanted those he had paired, in his wisdom, to be married for the benefit of the Reich. Sexual intercourse without marriage was akin to an act of treason. Our sexual relationship was a danger to the state. Both of us knew we must forsake our mutual pleasure—too much was at stake.
* * *
The fall days dragged by as thoughts of revenge consumed me. I kept them to myself, not even sharing with Karl because I knew he would never
allow me to act on them.
In early December, I received a letter from my father. He had been released from the hospital, returned to work and taken a spare room in the home of a co-worker, a man with a wife and two children. The family had doubled up its sleeping arrangements, allowing my father to rent the room. Housing and incomes were scarce in Berlin. He wrote little about my mother, but his grief came through the letter in a somber and stoic tone. Still, I was happy to hear from him and learn that he was safe.
A week later, Cook informed me that Else, four other girls and I would be transferred to the Berghof for the holiday season, possibly longer. No one ever knew the length of Hitler’s stays; sometimes he remained until spring or early summer before returning to one of his other headquarters. I was disappointed until I learned that Karl was coming as well.
That night, with the others, I boarded a train headed south-west to the Berghof. Else and I chatted on the long trip and played cards, but it took three days to reach Berchtesgaden because we traveled mostly at night. Hitler, ever fearful of Allied bombings, ordered the trains to roll under cover of darkness. The second night, I was invited to have dinner with the Führer. I had to hide my feelings of revulsion as he sat there in his appointed seat in the dining car. How I wanted to end his life there. I trembled at the thought of thrusting an insignificant weapon, a dinner knife perhaps, into his heart. As usual, his conversation was about anything but the war. Cook had warned me that any mention of it was met with a stern look and dismissal from the dinner table. Instead, he talked about art and culture and bombarded us with stories about his youth before returning to one of his favorite topics.
During dinner, he continued to proclaim his disdain for meat eaters. “Do you realize how meat comes to the table?” he said with the air of a pontificate. “Corpse upon bloody corpse strewn across the ground. You can’t how imagine how disgusting it is until you’ve seen it.” He reached down and patted Blondi, who lay at his feet, and then lectured us about the slaughterhouse.
The Taster Page 15
