Unyielding: Love and Resistance in WW2 Germany (World War II Trilogy)

by Marion Kummerow

  Q helped her as much as he could, but as the war wore on, everyone was required to work overtime and put in weekends. Vacation was a word of the past. And to be honest, what would they do during vacation?

  Hilde sighed and put down her needlework. She’d resorted to mending and re-mending Volker’s clothes, attaching pieces of textile to make the pants and shirts cover his growing legs and arms. Right then, she was cutting up an old skirt of hers and making it into matching shirts for the boys.

  When would this end? Desperation took hold of her, and she shed a few tears.

  On Sunday, Leopold Stieber and his wife came over to visit with their children. Hilde offered them some bread and herb tea.

  When Dörthe saw the green liquid, she raised her brow. “You’re not picking weeds at the side of the street, are you?”

  Hilde laughed. “I wouldn’t. They could as well ask us to sweep up the dust on the streets and stretch the flour with it.”

  Dörthe grimaced. “Ugh.”

  “No, I grew lemon balm and peppermint on the windowsill.”

  Leopold and Q joined their discussion, and soon they were telling jokes about the bad conditions.

  Leopold said, “This one is good: Someone tried to commit suicide by hanging himself, only the rope had been made with such poor quality material, it couldn’t withstand his weight and broke.

  “He then tried to drown himself in the river, but the suit he was wearing contained too much wood, and he ended up floating and couldn’t make himself sink.

  “Despondent, he returned home and went back to living and eating only the official rations the government gave him. He was dead two months later.”

  Everyone shared a laugh; it was better than crying in despair. Only Dörthe sent her husband a scathing glance. “You should know better than to tell such a joke. We could all be sent to prison.”

  “Come on, Dörthe, we do need to have some fun.”

  The Stiebers soon left and the daily routine returned. Hilde made it a habit to take turns visiting her mother-in-law and her own mother. She also took many pictures of the boys and regularly sent letters to Emma and Carl.

  Her relationship with her mother had steadily improved over the last year. Hilde had finally accepted Annie’s selfish nature and tried to not let it bother her.

  Her mother seemed to make an effort to change, and she was always excited to see the boys – for a short while. Volker’s explorative spirit and Annie’s immaculate apartment didn’t mesh well.

  “I can hold the baby for you. You keep Volker away from my glassware.”

  Hilde sighed and handed Peter to his grandmother. Some things would never change. Peter seemed to be quite taken with his grandmother and soaked her blouse in baby drool, which earned him a sour face but no complaint.

  Meanwhile, Volker tried to discover how fast he could run from one end of the living room to the other, cheering himself on and clapping his hands after each turn.

  “He’s much too wild,” Annie complained, and Hilde tried to distract him with a picture book she’d brought along.

  When Peter began to fuss, Hilde said, “I’ll take him back, he must be hungry.”

  As she began to nurse him, her mother gave her a disgusted glance. “You shouldn’t be doing that. It’s not ladylike. It would be better to give him a bottle.”

  “I disagree, besides the milk is bad, even when it’s available. How can you feed an infant only skim milk?”

  Annie retreated into the kitchen, and it soon started smelling heavenly. She returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. Real coffee.

  Hilde finished nursing Peter and then laid him against her shoulder. “Oh my God, Mother, where did you get real coffee?”

  But her mother chose not to answer, and instead, sipped at the cup. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  It was. The full aroma of sweet and fruity coffee with just a hint of pleasant bitterness exploded on Hilde’s taste buds. “Hmm. Wonderful.”

  A few minutes later, Hilde said, “In the tram, I overheard a conversation. Their neighbor got caught trying to stockpile food from a farmer and has been sent to one of the labor camps.”

  Annie nodded. “Well done. Im Krieg ist sparen Deine Pflicht.”

  Hilde raised a brow at her mother’s attitude. “Do you really believe it is your duty to skimp because we are at war?”

  “Yes. It’s also a crime against the Fatherland to keep more rations than someone is assigned.”

  “Says the woman who has real coffee in her home,” Hilde responded, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

  Annie shrugged, not looking the least bit embarrassed. “My husband is a famous opera singer. I can’t well decline if people want to show their appreciation for his talents.”

  “Did you know that people are actually killed in those so-called labor camps? Especially those in Poland?”

  “Those are just silly rumors.” Annie sat down her empty cup and waved her hand, as if she could wave away the truth so easily.

  “Are they?”

  “Does it matter if they’re true? The Jews deserve it for ruining Germany. The least they can do is work to help bring her back to her former glory.”

  “Mother, they’re being killed.” Hilde scowled.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.” Her mother stood up and looked at the clock on the bureau. “I’m afraid I have to leave now. Robert is singing tonight at the State Opera.”

  “Well, give him my best wishes. I’ll come by next week again.”

  On her way home, Hilde pondered over the fate of those deported to one of the labor camps. She hadn’t believed the news when Q first brought it to her attention. But he’d sworn it was true; it had reached him through some secret channels from someone working for the Polish resistance.

  Yes, all the signs pointed to it being the truth. No one had ever come back to tell. She remembered the young woman she’d met on the train to Magdeburg. SS-Obersturmbannführer Huber’s maid. Why was she so afraid, if she didn’t have inside knowledge? Something only a few initiated knew about.

  Chapter 35

  Q spent many sleepless nights and anguished days arguing with his conscience. He was a pacifist and had always prided himself to believe in the good of mankind.

  But in light of the atrocities the regime had committed and continued to commit, he felt the urge to change the course of history.

  He wrote in his diary…

  Is one human life worth more than another one? Is one life worth less than a thousand?

  Who am I to take the decision out of God’s hand of who should live and who shouldn’t?

  Is it my mission to go against the basic rules of mankind and murder one person to try and save thousands?

  Am I any better than the worst of the Nazi followers if I raise my hand against a fellow human?

  No, the die is cast, and I should not waver in my faith to do the right thing. I believe the Gods have put me onto this world for a reason.

  If I do not survive, I’m consoled by the fact that I always acted in good faith. I hope my children and history will one day forgive my deeds and see them for what they are: a desperate attempt to turn the wheel around for a world worth living in.

  Q closed the diary and hid it on the top shelf in his study. Then he went to work. Summer was in full bloom, the blossoming chestnut trees a stark contrast to the burnt buildings lining the streets of Berlin. No major street had gone unscathed by the continuous bombings.

  Martin and Erhard already waited for him. During the last weeks and months, they had meticulously worked on their assassination plan, adding detail after detail. Coming up with an idea, only to discard it when they gathered the next piece of information about Goebbels.

  They had investigated everything about him. His daily routine. His office. His home. His family. His travels. The people he spent time with. Finally, everything began to fall into place, and their plan was slowly taking shape.

  “His office is
too closely guarded,” Erhard said.

  “But we don’t want to harm his family, so his house is out of the question,” Martin said and then added, “have you seen where he lives?”

  “No.” The other two shook their heads in unison. Martin had been tasked with that part of the operation, and as a devoted Party member, he’d even managed to get an invite to one of the pompous parties Goebbels liked to host.

  “He has bought the estates of two exiled Jewish bank directors and joined the properties. The mansion he’s built to replace the two former ones is simply outstanding.”

  “We wouldn’t get inside anyways,” Q cautioned and rubbed his chin. “He lives on that upper-class island Schwanenwerder in the Wannsee, right?”

  Martin nodded, and Q continued, “I live not too far away from there. We used to take bicycle tours along the Wannsee. As far as I know, there’s only one bridge connecting the island with the mainland. The Schwanenwerder Bridge.”

  “I know that bridge. There’s not much traffic, only inhabitants are allowed on the island nowadays,” Erhard said.

  Martin agreed. “He has to cross that bridge every morning and every evening. It’s the perfect place to plant our bomb.”

  “We have to think about it,” Q said, and everyone agreed. They decided that Q should have a look at the bridge on the weekend since he lived the closest to it. They would meet the following week to discuss further steps.

  Back at home, Q wanted to tell Hilde what he was up to. He opened his mouth several times to explain, but no words came out. Whenever he looked into her trusting blue eyes, his throat went dry.

  No, he just couldn’t bring himself to destroy the little peace of mind she still had.

  Always in tune with her husband, Hilde picked up on his worries. “What’s wrong, my love. You’ve been incredibly tense these last weeks.”

  He sighed. “I am. All of this anxiety is taking a toll on me. But I don’t want to bother you with it, you have your hands full with the boys.”

  Hilde intensely studied his face, and he forced himself not to flinch. “We should go for a walk to the Wannsee beach on the weekend, it will help to get your mind off whatever troubles you.”

  Hell no! “That’s a good idea. We have to hold onto what little happiness we have left in these dark days,” Q answered and felt like a traitor. How could he concentrate on his family when the potential crime scene lay in plain sight? On the other hand, it would be the perfect excuse to take a closer look at the Schwanenwerder Bridge.

  The next Monday, Q returned to Loewe and his partners in crime with a plan. The small wooden bridge was the perfect target.

  “We can plant our bomb beneath the bridge, and I’ll detonate when Goebbels Mercedes passes over,” Q explained.

  “We have to find out the times he passes over the bridge and set a timer,” Erhard said.

  “No, that’s too hit-or-miss. I’ll wait nearby and trigger the remote control right when the car rolls over the bomb. Because the bridge is so old, cars have to go slow. It will be easy to identify the exact moment.”

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s too dangerous. If someone sees you–”

  “This is the crux. I initially wanted to hide behind the trees, but that’s too suspicious. I need a legitimate reason to linger near the bridge, maybe for hours…”

  Erhard jumped up and shouted, “Fishing!”

  “What?” Q asked, quite puzzled upon the sudden outburst of his friend.

  “Fishing. You disguise yourself as a fisherman and wait on a boat in the water with the fishing rod in hand a short distance away from the bridge.”

  “That’s a fantastic idea. That will work,” Martin chimed in, and even Q had to agree that this definitely could work. “Now we only need to secure the boat and the fishing equipment.”

  “It’s a deal then,” Erhard stated. “Let’s start building our bomb.”

  Building the bomb was the easy part because they could tap into the resources at Loewe. Martin was tasked with building the bomb itself while Q and his wireless equipment department handled the remote control unit. His employees, of course, thought they were working on a new prototype for the Wehrmacht.

  It took Q plenty of time and a considerable amount of effort and money before he was able to source the boat and fishing equipment.

  Once the equipment was in place, they just had to determine at which times Goebbels would most likely cross the bridge. Martin and Q worked out a schedule so that they could take turns observing their target.

  Chapter 36

  Q was waiting for his tram to arrive when a teenage boy joined him at the tram stop.

  “Are you Herr Quedlin?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.” Q nodded, wondering what he could want.

  “I have a message for you. Open on page seven.” With these words, the boy handed him a newspaper and quickly disappeared around the corner.

  Q’s curiosity was spiked, but he didn’t dare open the paper in plain sight. Instead, he meticulously folded it twice and stored it in his briefcase. Only when he was home, in the safe confinement of his study, did his shaky fingers find page seven.

  He gasped. A note lay inside: Meet tomorrow at six p.m. at Westkreuz train station. Bring your half of the torn map.

  His heart raced. Q hadn’t heard anything from Moscow since Pavel had left Berlin more than a year ago. Communication was difficult these days, and from Erhard, he knew that the other resistance groups also had trouble staying in touch.

  What if this was a trap? He retrieved his half from his desk and scrutinized it carefully. Could anyone have known about the map?

  Hilde called out to him. “Q, dinner is ready.” He stored the map and the note in his briefcase and exited his study to have dinner with his family.

  Later that evening, he told Hilde about the note he’d received.

  “If this was a trap, how would they know about you and the map the Russian agent gave you?” she asked.

  “The Gestapo has means to get everyone to talk.” He shuddered, remembering the horror stories he’d heard.

  She put a hand on his arm. “This may be so. But I believe the Gestapo wouldn’t go to so much trouble if they wanted to arrest you. They’d burst in here and haul you away.”

  A shiver of fear ran down his spine. “You’re right. I will go to the meeting place.”

  The next day he was sitting on pins and needles, unable to concentrate on his work. More than once, he opened his briefcase to feel the map tucked away inside a newspaper. The hands on the clock in the laboratory moved excruciatingly slow until it was finally time to leave.

  Q arrived at Westkreuz Station, which was crowded with workers on their way home. As if by magic, a man appeared and asked if he had a map of Berlin. This must be my contact. Cold sweat broke out on Q’s forehead. Unlike the other agents he’d met, this one clearly was German and not Russian. Q barely remembered the question he was supposed to ask.

  “Is the hike up Mount Etna strenuous, mein Herr?”

  The man looked confused and then laughed. “Not at all. Only if you intend it at night. Didn’t you trust the map, comrade?”

  Relief flooded his entire body, and Q shook the agent’s extended hand. “Never can be too careful, comrade. Can I see the map, please?”

  They sat on one of the waiting benches, and the agent handed him a newspaper with the map inside. Q laid it beside his own. They fit perfectly.

  “Satisfied?” When Q nodded, the agent introduced himself. “Gerald Meier, Wehrmacht deserter and proud member of the Red Army.”

  “You probably already know who I am,” Q said and leaned back to watch a few pigeons fighting for crumbs. Before the war, old men and women had come here to feed the birds, but nowadays nobody had food to spare.

  “I thought all agents had been recalled. How did you get back into Germany?” Q asked.

  “That’s quite a story. Care to take a ride?”

  Q nodded, and they jumped on the ne
xt suburban train. Gerald gestured to keep silent until they reached their destination. After a fifteen-minute ride, they got off at one of the deserted suburban stations that only saw crowds twice a day.

  They found another waiting bench and sat down. “I parachuted into Sweden about a month ago and made my way down here,” Gerald said. “Because I’m German, I’ve had no problem getting along, and I’ve been living in Berlin with some old friends.”

  Gerald Meier probably wasn’t his real name, if he really was a Wehrmacht deserter.

  “How do you make contact with Moscow?” Q asked.

  “I have a transmitter.”

  “Why me?”

  “My superiors gave me a list of contacts I should try and re-activate. Pavel was sure you’d still be on our side. Is that so?”

  Q nodded. “My opinions haven’t changed. In fact…”

  “In fact, what?”

  “Nothing. What kind of information do you need?”

  Gerald squinted his eyes and looked sharply at Q before nodding. “Basically everything you can give us. Headquarters will decide whether it’s important for their strategy or not. A summary of production at Loewe would be a good start. Together with blueprints for any and all new advances you’ve made in the last year. Especially wireless transmission, echo-sound, and this new radar thing everyone raves about.”

  “I can do this, but it will take some time. A week at least.”

  “Fine, meet me a week from now. Same place same time.” With a nod, Gerald stood and walked away.

  Q was left alone in a deserted train station with plenty of information to think about. He would have a lot of work to do.

  Chapter 37

  Hilde had just put the boys to bed when she heard the door.

  “You’re late, Q. I was worried.”

  He took her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I wish someone would invent a telephone that we can always carry with us. Then I could have advised you.”