BERLIN: Reaping the Whirlwind (The Schultz family story Book 2)

by Paul Grant

  Fräulein Sommer lit a cigarette, pulling hard. She exhaled the smoke before starting to speak very quickly. ‘A Jewish girl has been hiding with a sympathetic family in Wedding. We had to move her last night. She is now hiding at an address in Kreuzberg. Her father and mother were shipped out to Litzmannstadt nearly two years ago, her sister, not much after, to Riga. She is alone. She needs food regularly until we can work out what to do with her. I will organise the food.’

  The woman turned to look at Maria for the first time, small threads of smoke emanating from her long, thin nose. ‘Can you take it to her, Frau Schultz?’

  ***

  Hannah Hirsch knew the streets of Berlin like the back of her hand. It hadn’t always been like that. At one time, she’d circulated in the highest echelons of Berlin’s prosperous Jewish society. She would never have been seen trawling the streets of the city. Then the Nazis had come, and all through her teenage years they kept removing things, piece by piece; the right to practice law, to practice medicine, to general education. At seventeen, she was smart enough to find her way around the system. So much so that she’d given up on her Jewish friends. She found many of them too trusting in the Nazis, too ready to do what they were told to do. Report here, bring a bag full of goodies, get on a train to who knows where. Hannah Hirsch had seen it all. She’d decided to go her own way and do her own thing. She realised it was the only way to survive.

  The labour exchange had made her report to the armaments factory, but it wasn’t a place for a highly educated, pretty, young girl. She’d tasted the place, made friends, whilst keeping herself to herself. She reported sick one day, determined not to return. She didn’t go back the next day, or the day after. They fired her and took away her rations. It didn’t stop the labour exchange ordering her to report to another workplace. She ignored the summons. Then another demand came, so she simply wrote “Transported East” and put it back in the post box. She knew Nazi bureaucracy. She knew it would churn around the system for a while.

  After her parents had been taken, she went to her sister’s place. Her sister had been married to an Aryan, somebody important in the printing business. Did that mean her sister was protected? The divorce papers she received left her exposed to the worst of the Nuremburg Laws, just like everybody else. Hannah had tried to help her adapt, but it was never going to work. Her sister, Rebecca, did as she was told. In the end, she went on the train east.

  They caught up with Hannah in early ’42. She was arrested. It was all very polite, organised, just as they wanted it to be. There was a list of what to pack, a list of what to leave; for whom, it didn’t say. They’d been taken to the synagogue on Leventzovstrasse. There was one night there with warm drinks and food, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all, they all said. Her identity card had been stamped “Transported to Litzmannstadt” and taken away. Hannah had taken nothing of value with her. She saw the others having all their worldly goods confiscated. There was jewellery, fine art and figurines. Hannah thought they would look right in fat Hermann’s grand hallway, because that’s where they were heading.

  She’d walked with them in the freezing cold, the old, the infirm. There was no help on the six-kilometre walk to Grünewald station. She was going on the train east, just like her parents and sister before her. But, unlike them, her small suitcase contained only old sheets and a few stones to weigh it down. She placed the suitcase in the small third-class carriage, cramped with worries and Yiddish prayers. There were few guards; there didn’t need to be. Everybody did as they were told, orderly and dignified, except Hannah. She slipped away from the platform and hid in the toilet.

  She heard the train leaving, with a hiss of steam, for its destination, Litzmannstadt. According to the paperwork of Nazi Germany, Hannah Hirsch really had gone east this time. She stripped the yellow star from her coat for good and strode out of Grünewald station. She was free, but without identity, a non-person in Hitler’s Berlin.

  She returned to collect the valuables and belongings she had hidden. From then on, she was relying on others. Moving from apartment to apartment, from house to house, she was depending on the goodwill of others. She stayed with a doctor, a woman with good contacts, strongly communist working-class families who hated the Nazis. Hannah either had to sit silent in the apartment all day long, no movement, no noise so neighbours would not be alerted, or she left in the morning with her protectors. She would then spend the day walking around the city. She hated sitting and waiting in an unfamiliar house, so she walked. She didn’t look Jewish, however Jewish looked, and she knew how to use her pretty face to get what she wanted. If ever she was stopped by the police, or anybody in authority, she would fall back on her postal identification. She knew a postman who vouched for her identity as the Aryan woman, Gertrude Maier. It was simple; it didn’t stand prolonged scrutiny, but it worked with the passing, overworked policeman.

  She was fine until they caught up with the family of Jehovah’s Witnesses with whom she’d been staying. The husband had been allowing his printing presses to be used by some students. The Nazis didn’t like anybody else to print things. They’d been taken away. They’d given up others with whom Hannah had stayed. She had heard the Gestapo coming and slipped out of the back, her escape route always planned in advance.

  Now Hannah was waiting. She was in the cellar of a house that had been recently destroyed in a bombing raid. She knew the house in Kreuzberg, she knew the street. She had some of the things she needed to survive; her mind and her instinct. She only needed food in the short term. Everybody needed food, and food was hard to come by in Berlin.

  She’d gone to the church in Lichtenberg. It was the first time she’d entered a church. It wasn’t that different to a synagogue, except for the fact it was still standing and people were allowed to use it. That wasn’t the case for synagogues anymore. She’d trusted them because she had no choice; she had nobody else to turn to.

  In the silence of the cellar, she heard her stomach rumble like thunder for the hundredth time that day. She needed their food, their help, of course, but Hannah Hirsch didn’t want to be anybody’s burden. In fact, she saw any help she was given as a short-term thing. She wanted to be allowed to help herself. She knew she could only do that outside Germany, even outside Europe. Could these people help her get to where she wanted to go, to Palestine?

  As she sat waiting for them to come, consumed by a ravenous hunger and fear, that was what she wanted more than anything in the world.

  CHAPTER 15

  JULY 1943, BERLIN

  Her son had pushed her to the limit. Maria did her best to keep him close to her, to stop him doing stupid things. She knew she couldn’t do that forever. He would have to go out and face the world eventually, and she would have to let him go. She still heard him crying during the night. She used to go to him, but that only made it worse. He resented her for it. She was still waiting, wondering what the Major would do. She did wonder if he had forgotten his promise, which seemed odd, because the Major didn’t strike Maria as a person who forgot things.

  Ulrich was unpacking the meagre rations he’d managed to get from Horch’s. Maria smiled to herself; she had to let him go out for some things. There was a knock at the open door; the postman’s whistle floated down the hallway. Maria did wonder what a postman in this day and age had to be so happy about, but old Walther was so.

  ‘Letter for Master Ulrich,’ he shouted.

  Maria raised her eyebrows at Ulrich’s slightly quizzical look. He headed off to the door, with his shoulders slightly higher than their constantly slumped appearance of late.

  He returned to the living room holding a hand-written envelope. Maria’s heart quickened as she realised what it might be.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.

  Ulrich tore it open and sat down in the chair to read. Maria watched his expression like a hawk for a hint of the contents.

  ‘Well?’

  Ulrich put down the letter and looked up. He was miles a
way, his face partially in shock, partially in wonderment.

  ‘It says dad is a prisoner of the Russians. It says he didn’t die at Stalingrad.’

  Maria crouched at the arm of the chair next to him. She could feel her insides doing somersaults.

  Ulrich looked at the bottom of the letter. ‘There is no name. It is signed “A well-wisher.”’ He turned to Maria, ‘What does it mean, Mum?’

  Maria inspected the letter. It was just like the ones she had sent to so many people; anonymous, untraceable. She closed her eyes and silently thanked the Major.

  ‘Is it true?’

  Maria had decided a careful step-by-step approach would be best. Now, in the emotion and the surprise of the moment, she almost didn’t know what to say. First things first, she got up and closed the door.

  When she arrived back in the living room, Ulrich was smiling. It was the first time in many months. He was smiling like he couldn’t control it, like he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Maria had seen him that happy before. When Ulrich had been six years old, before the war, they were sitting on the tram heading to the Mügelsee for their holiday, for a full week of playing on the sand and in the water, the three of them together, Klaus, her and Ulrich. She’d remembered wanting to capture that smile forever.

  ‘He’s alive, Mum. Dad’s alive.’

  Maria nodded slightly, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  ‘You knew?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ve been listening to the BBC broadcasts.’

  Ulrich looked at her, his face serious. Maria had to start somewhere. She thought she should approach things piece by piece, after all, she couldn’t just pull the rug from under his feet, remove the foundation of everything the poor boy had been made to believe over the last few years. This had to be a gradual process, let him down gently, let him fill in the gaps himself.

  ‘And what did the Tommies say?’

  ‘They said thousands of prisoners had been taken at Stalingrad. Not everyone died like we were told.’

  His breath was short now. ‘Do you believe it?’

  Maria wiped away her tears and looked into those eyes, as wide and as deep blue as the huge platters her Grandma used to have. They were sucking in her every word, her every gesture.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  He turned away, taking a deep breath. His chest heaved. She could hear his mind whirring with the effort of computing things. His head shot back to her with the answer.

  ‘We are losing the war, aren’t we Mum?’

  She nodded.

  He smiled suddenly. ‘Dad’s not at the front anymore. He just has to get through the war and we’ll see him again.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Uli. I am sure the letter is right, but it will be tough in a Russian prison camp. Look at the way we treat the Russians here. And the war, the bombing, will get worse before it is all over.’

  ‘I know you don’t like Hitler and the Nazis. I know you hate it that Dad went to war...’

  Maria tried to interrupt, but Ulrich shook his head. ‘I know why you don’t want me to join the HJ.’

  This is what Maria had been so concerned about. She had no idea how he would react, who he would talk to. It wasn’t fair on one so young, but that was the society in which they lived.

  ‘You must not talk about these things, Uli. Not with anybody but me.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry. We just need to get through this, Mum. I just wish...I just wish the war was over so we could all be together again.’

  Maria sighed. She knew there were so many things that had to happen before Klaus had a chance to come home. The Nazis would not let go so easily.

  ‘I wish it were over too, Uli. I really do.’

  ***

  Maria knew she had to go during daylight hours. She had to be very careful not to arouse any suspicions. Helmi had once again stepped in to take care of Eva. Ulrich, now seemingly much more settled since the letter, could take care of himself for a short time. The daytime had its risks, but being out at night in the blackout, especially now the British bombers had returned in force, was not an option to consider.

  As arranged, she collected the food from the delivery door of a small grocery store in Kreuzberg. It meant she didn’t have to carry the food so far, as it was close to the address Fräulein Sommer had given her. Now she just had to deal with her nerves. Maria was in no doubt of the penalties for harbouring and assisting Jews. If caught, she could expect no mercy from the authorities. Despite all her fears, Maria knew somebody was relying on her in order to stay alive. That was enough to drive her on.

  As she walked through Friedrichshain, over the rail line, Maria had no idea what to expect. She knew the girl was only seventeen and, no doubt, scared out of her wits. She was without parents and family, all because they didn’t fit into the Nazi Paradise, the racial ideology which had been mapped out for Germany, for Europe, whether anybody liked it or not.

  Even if she knew the street well enough, finding the exact place was not going to be easy. Large parts of Prinzenstrasse were operating as normal. Shops were open, trams were running, in these areas there was little damage. As Maria made her way in the direction of the Landwehrkanal, the damage was increasingly more severe. Apartment blocks were shells; walls without floors, some had collapsed completely, leaving only piles of rubble to spill out onto the pavements.

  Maria saw there were messages chalked onto the wall, as well as notes pinned against wooden doorframes. She stopped to read some of them.

  ‘I am ok. Hans D Leitner. Living in Spandau with Aunt Dagmar.’

  There were hundreds of similar messages. Life went on among the ruins of Berlin. There would only be more homeless people in the coming months.

  ‘Are you looking for somebody, dear?’

  Maria turned to see an old lady leaning on a walking stick. She was surprised by the question, but soon regained her composure. ‘My brother. He lived at 27a.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What is his name?’

  Wrinkles covered the old ladies face. Even in the fine weather, she had a shawl across her bony shoulders. Maria could see that, despite her age, her eyes were sharp.

  ‘Helmut Schmidt.’ It wasn’t very original, but it was the best Maria could come up with.

  ‘Never heard of him. There was a Schmidt family who lived at 44a, on the other side of the street, but no Helmut.’

  ‘Thank you. I will keep looking,’ Maria said, trying to bring a close to the conversation.

  ‘Well, you’ve a while to go yet,’ the old lady said, pointing her stick down the street. ‘27a was another one hundred metres in that direction.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s so hard to tell with all the damage.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The old lady prodded at a brick with her stick, then went on her way.

  Maria breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t need to encounter more inquisitive people like the old woman, but at least she felt she handled the situation well. She took her time as she walked on. Fräulein Sommer had said the girl was holed up in the cellar of 31a. Maria hadn’t wanted to give the old lady the exact address, but at least her directions were helpful in all the chaos.

  Passing vehicles weaved around the piles of debris protruding onto the road. As she got closer, Maria wondered what to expect from the girl. She was so young to be without anybody in the world. She wondered if she would even be there, worried she may have already been apprehended. Maria found the number she was looking for chalked helpfully on the wall. The door to the courtyard was swinging loose. She peered through into the destruction within. The walls still stood like decaying teeth up to the third floor, but inside most of the building was gone. She glanced quickly back onto the road, wary of snoopers, then slipped through the gateway.

  She found the place eerie. It was devoid of the noises she was used to; crying children, quarrelling adults, clanking plates, and women gossiping as they hung out clothes to dry. There was only silence, except for the echoes her footsteps made on the meand
ering pathway through the rubble. She’d been given some basic instructions of where to find the cellar opening. She continued to look over her shoulder, well aware that this was where the real danger lay. Anybody could be waiting here for her. She couldn’t shake the feeling Kriminalkommisar Reitsch was taking an unhealthy interest in her, especially after he appeared at the scene of Ulrich’s scrape with Horst Stinnes.

  She found the opening to the cellar steps. The door that once led to the cellar was on its back. The sign attached read, “Keep this door closed. No Smoking.”

  Maria’s heart quickened as her shoes crunched painfully on concrete steps. She wondered if she should call out, but thought better of it. She didn’t want to startle the girl. Out of the sunlight, it took a while for Maria’s eyes to grow accustomed to the cellar. When they did, she could see it was basically intact. There were bed bunks over in the corner, a table with a newspaper on it, chairs gathered around much like the cellar under Maria’s apartment block. She couldn’t see any sign of the girl. She crept cautiously on into the room, feeling like she was encroaching, invading somebody else’s space.

  ‘You came then?’

  Maria spun around in the direction of the voice.

  She was faced with a young lady, more than a girl, standing beside the steps, no doubt ready to run if she needed to. Maria could see she was fashionably dressed, although, unsurprisingly, her cheeks looked sallow and pale. She had a definite beauty to her, something Maria had not quite expected.

  ‘Is that for me?’ She pointed at the bag of provisions in Maria’s hand.

  ‘Sorry, yes.’

  Maria handed her the bag and she wasted no time delving inside. The girl pulled out a piece of bread and started eating it immediately. All this time her eyes were on Maria. She didn’t seem startled or scared, just untrusting.

  ‘I’m Maria.’

  The girl continued to chew, then she swallowed the mouthful, closing her eyes in apparent relief. ‘Hannah.’