by Anna Patrick
The wholesome beauty of his wife Henni and their shared joy in their children left Bauer pretty much immune to the sexual charms of other women, but he recognised that his prisoner had possibilities in that department, especially if the man wanted something more than just a physical release, such as intelligent conversation, humour, companionship.
He was inclined to believe her story and rely on his gut instinct, the famous gut instinct as Fuchs had sarcastically described it. Now what did he mean by that? His new boss worried him. Mercurial by nature and concealing what Bauer suspected was a cruel streak, he could prove an enemy he didn’t need in his new situation. He would have to play this one carefully.
Minutes later Fuchs returned to his seat. A waiter, scanning the room as he went about his duties, came to take their orders. Beers and a fine bottle of wine soon graced their table, followed by generous, appetising dishes of meats and vegetables.
‘This is a magnificent place; I could get used to eating here,’ said Bauer.
‘Enjoy it while you can.’
Bauer raised an eyebrow and inclined his head forward, certain that a confidence would be forthcoming. Fuchs did not disappoint him.
‘The Tommies are making headway in France.’
‘Ah.’ Bauer leant back and nodded. This wasn’t the place, or the chosen companion, to offer his analysis of the war. Fuchs was unperturbed, however, whether from an excess of brandy or because he regarded the hotel as his natural stamping ground and lectured his subordinate on the shortcomings of current military strategy.
‘We should have left Brother Ivan alone and invaded Britain first. They’re not a bright people, the British. I swear we’ve got more intelligent cleaners in our smallest villages than they have brains in their entire government. Maybe not Churchill but aside from him there’s nobody. They’re cowards too, couldn’t manage anything on their own, need the bloody Americans behind them.’
Bauer shifted in his chair. He had seen Tommy courage at first hand during the Great War, but he wasn’t going to disagree with his new boss. Nodding approval of his invective seemed the safest policy; he filled the man’s glass with wine as soon as it was empty and chewed his own food to prevent a two-way conversation.
By the end of the meal Bauer was exhausted, not only by the onslaught on his ears but also the necessity, as he saw it, of preventing his boss making a fool of himself in public. Although he now regarded Fuchs as dangerous, he knew any humiliation would reflect just as badly on him. He suppressed a yawn and rubbed his eyes.
Desperate to change the subject, he remembered his boss’s lascivious nature and pointed out one or two of the more attractive females. Fuchs responded with a clownish wink at his companion.
‘You’ve got a good eye, Bauer, I’ll give you that. Or should I call it your gut instinct? Or does it come lower than that?’
Fuchs roared with laughter and gave Bauer a playful poke in the ribs. One or two diners looked round but were quick to smile at Fuchs’s infectious enjoyment of his own wit. Bauer played along with a broad grin and an embarrassed shake of his head.
The waiter reappeared at that moment to ask if the gentlemen would like to order anything else and the interruption enabled Bauer to say he needed to be getting home as Henni and the children would be back and expecting him. He offered to pay for the lunch but Fuchs, still smiling and in high good humour, waved him away.
‘No, no, the treat is all mine. I’ll just have a brandy and then I’ll be setting off for home too. Give my warmest regards to your wife.’
‘Thank you, Sir. It’s been a real pleasure.’
Once in the hotel foyer, he asked to use the telephone and told the operator to put him through to Gestapo headquarters.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘Is that you, Karl? It’s Bauer here. Would you arrange to send my prisoner to the holding prison? Yes, that’s right. No, don’t order a car, she can wait until one becomes available. Yes, that will be all. Thank you, Karl. Heil Hitler.’
He asked the doorman to point him in the right direction for Wawel Castle and set off at a brisk walk. The family’s large apartment was a stone’s throw from the castle, now used as the headquarters of the Central Government.
Henni was supervising the children’s tea when Bauer turned his key in the lock.
‘Papa!’ There were squeals of delight from his two youngest children as they threw themselves at him; only his eldest was more restrained in her greeting which she followed with an earnest Heil Hitler.
‘Papa?’
‘Yes, Monika.’
‘I’ve been wondering…’
‘Yes?’
‘We don’t have a portrait of the Fuehrer in our apartment here. We should get another one, just like the one we had back home in Berlin, don’t you agree, Papa?’
‘Ah yes, that was a superb portrait, wasn’t it? Your mother purchased it in Berlin and that’s a long way to go. We must ask her to find another one in Krakow.’
‘Uncle Albrecht and Aunty Magda have an enormous one hanging in their living room. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell Mama where to buy one.’
‘Didn’t you ask them yourself while you were there today?’
‘No.’ She sounded disappointed in herself.
‘Don’t worry, Monika. I’m sure your mother will find out. Now will you take the younger children into the other room and play with them so I can talk to your mother in peace and quiet?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Thank you, Monika, and close the door behind you please.’
Bauer had one eyebrow raised as he went to greet his wife.
‘How was Albrecht? And Magda?’
‘We had a lovely day. The children enjoyed it.’ Henni waited until the door closed on the children and she heard the piano being played before she relaxed enough to speak as frankly as she dared.
‘Oh Heinz, Albrecht has become a stranger to me. We’ve led such different lives for so many years now. I used to have a real connection with him but not anymore. Still, one thing hasn’t changed: it’s still the Fuehrer this and the Fuehrer that, all said with complete loyalty and conviction.’
‘Just as it should be.’
‘Yes. And it seems we need not worry about the outcome of the war or anything else because Hitler has our future safe in his hands.’
‘Good, that is reassuring.’
‘Oh and guess what? Magda is pregnant again. Their eighth baby in almost as many years.’
‘Goodness, well I must remember to congratulate them when I see them,’ he said, hoping the occasion would never arise. ‘Eight? That must be the gold cross, then.’
‘Yes, she’s already got the bronze and silver on display for everyone to admire.’
Bauer rubbed his wife’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, my love, perhaps if we were younger.’
‘Oh never mind about that. There are worse things to worry about, like my parents.’
‘Oh?’
Bauer realised that age and anxiety were catching up with his beloved wife. A deep frown marked her forehead and little lines edged her cornflower blue eyes while grey hairs were dulling her golden locks. He noticed too little pouches under her eyes but rather than be repulsed, he loved her all the more and wanted to take her in his arms and protect her from the world.
‘We spent quite a lot of time talking about them and Albrecht doesn’t appreciate how old they are or how difficult they’re finding it to manage on the farm.’
‘That worries you, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. In fact I’ve been wondering if there’s anything we can do about it.’
‘Such as…’
‘Early retirement.’
‘Albrecht’s? I don’t imagine he’ll agree to that for a single second.’
‘No, silly, yours.’
Bauer smiled. ‘Yes, I di
d rather suppose you meant me. I can’t do anything for a while. We can’t let Albrecht down when he’s been kind enough to help us.’
‘No, I understand that, but they must release people on compassionate grounds.’
‘Well, like I said, I’ll look into it. I enjoyed helping your father when I stopped with you at Christmas. If he’s still able to keep running things, then I could provide the labour.’
‘Yes, and I could do my bit, besides helping Mama around the house, and the older Tomas gets the more useful he’ll be around the farm and he does so love being there.’
‘Yes, he’s a young farmer in the making.’
‘Thank you, Heinz. You’re a good man.’
‘Am I? In that case, why don’t you join me on the sofa, with a small glass of schnapps, while we watch the children play?’
‘Give me five minutes to clear up and I’ll be through to join you.’
Together, enjoying their children’s sense of fun, Henni felt a small spark of hope they might escape the surrounding madness. Let the Albrechts and Magdas of this world continue Hitler’s vision; she wanted none of it anymore.
She blushed at the naïve entries she’d made in her diary just a few months ago; how she had hoped her Jewish friend, Mrs Rose, had found somewhere nice to go to. Could she have been that stupid?
In her diary she had wanted answers to questions she didn’t dare ask out loud, but Albrecht had provided all the answers, without even being asked. She didn’t want to talk to Heinz about the horrors her brother had described without compunction; there would be time enough for that when the war was over. She prayed Heinz was unaware of all these orders Hitler had issued because she wasn’t sure how such knowledge would affect their marriage and her feelings for him. Sometimes it was better not to know.
4
It was late when they ordered her out of the foul, airless cell and manhandled her into another make of car which smelt of pee and worse. She slumped in the back and couldn’t stop yawning, great ungainly yawns she barely covered with her hand. A high wall topped with barbed wire and broken glass surrounded Montelupich prison, a place she had hoped never to see again. She groaned and tried to stretch, bracing herself for the next interview. The sleepless night with Ludek, the strain of maintaining an act of injured innocence, the hours of waiting, no wonder she felt shot. She craved a bed and oblivion.
Gates opened. They marched her up to the red-bricked building and pushed her inside the door. The prison’s duty officer turned out to be a small, dapper man, with slicked back, dark brown hair and glasses he kept pushing up his thin nose, accompanying every push with a little sniff. Was it a cold from the damp surroundings or an affectation? He kept a running commentary as he noted her details in black ink in a large black book.
‘Do you have a bag, my dear?’
‘No.’
‘Empty the contents of your pockets.’
She handed over the keys to her flat, loose change and the remaining matches. The black cat continued to wink at her but the Inspector never noticed their German origin.
‘Everything looks innocent, my dear. No doubt you are innocent; prisoners always are, I find, not that I listen to a word they say, but I want to keep things pleasant while I can.’
A burly woman entered the room through a side door and stood, arms folded across her formidable chest.
‘Ah yes, Klara, thank you. Strip search the prisoner.’
She gasped. The woman gave a mocking laugh and moved towards her. Marta stepped back.
‘Not in here, Klara.’
Klara stopped. She moved like a robot.
‘Follow her please.’
Legs turned to cement. Surely there hadn’t been a strip search last time?
An almighty thwack of wood against metal made her jump: ‘Move right now or you’ll regret it.’
In a separate room filled with filing cabinets, the automaton ordered her to remove her clothes. Face coloured scarlet, she held back tears. Nakedness in front of strangers was unbearable.
She handed over her cardigan and Klara checked the seams turning the sleeves inside out.
‘Why are you waiting? Take off your clothes.’
‘But it’s cold in here.’
Klara narrowed her eyes: ‘Do I care?’
She examined every item of clothing, dropping it onto a pile on the floor. Marta watched every movement to make sure she didn’t find anything. At a dismissive nod, she grabbed the clothes and dressed in seconds.
‘Find anything?’
‘No.’
‘In that case we’ll find you a nice room for the night in our lovely little hotel.’ He winked at her as he waved a big bunch of keys in her face.
Her stomach flipped wondering if he had seen her humiliation through a peep hole. She did not react to his feigned humour and stood aside to let him pass.
‘This way, my dear.’
They stopped outside a cell which unlocked to show a long, narrow room with a tiny, barred window. Her spirits sank to a new low as she noted a dirty mattress on the floor, a pail with a tin lid in the corner by the door.
‘Well, good night, my dear.’
The mattress gave off a musty, unpleasant odour of sweat and soiled linen. Her stomach grumbled, but she longed instead for another cigarette. Crouched on the bedding, she prayed for Ludek’s safety but her mind remained uneasy. How bad was the betrayal? Had they captured him too? Was this deception in vain?
And the interrogation? What changed its mood? What made an ordinary man with a sense of humour explode into a grim, hard voiced, gimlet eyed disciple of Hitler? Did it mean the end of polite conversation and the start of…torture?
She shivered, hands clammy. Eighteen months earlier brutal suffering racked her body as she went into induced labour weeks after her due date. But it was already too late. Sweat poured off her body as she writhed on the bed and screamed like a wild animal. Excruciating, unfathomable pain tore her apart. She clutched the sides of the bed as she roared for mercy. The nurses and doctors, appearing and disappearing from the bedside, tried to help with their limited resources. They darted ominous looks at each other which she registered somewhere deep in her delirious state. An injection made her black out. When she regained consciousness Ludek was there clasping her hand. She didn’t need to ask: his red-eyed, blotchy face said everything.
‘A boy, a beautiful boy.’
‘Bring him to me.’
‘Tusik, I can’t. They’ve taken him away.’
She gripped his hand with the strength of a maniac.
‘Bring him here if it’s the last thing you do on this earth.’
Frightened by her reaction, he ran out.
An hour passed while she moaned at every movement.
Ludek returned empty-handed.
‘They..um..Oh God, Tusik, a nurse will fetch him from…’
‘Where?’
‘Nothing.’
She cradled the dead child in her arms, smoothing the blond hair, kissing his eyelids, his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his cold, oh so cold hands.
The physical pain continued for weeks but nothing compared to the mental anguish. Swollen eyes gushed rivers of tears; they clung to each other in grief, despair, bewilderment and love. Ludek stayed at her side, the resistance forgotten, as he sought to comfort her and she him. Whole days passed in a dense fog where movement slowed to a stop and time held no meaning.
Friends rallied round with food and practical help and kindness shown in a hundred different ways until slowly, imperceptibly, body and soul started to heal; the tears flowed less readily; the mind looked forward; they began to hope. They even talked of having another baby, not yet, but in a better, brighter future.
She never forgot the fair-haired, blue-eyed boy they removed from her exhausted body but in moments of clarity consoled hersel
f that fate had spared them a greater grief.
The Nazis abducted Aryan looking babies, even ripping them from their mothers’ breasts, sending them to Germany. Her broken heart would mend: other mothers suffered far greater torments than her own.
Guards switched off the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Sleep overwhelmed her and the night passed.
* * *
She squatted over the bucket in the semi-light; when she heard movement and voices in the corridor, she finished her business quickly and stood alongside the mattress. Two men, prisoners, filled a metal cup with steaming fluid from a cauldron and handed her a piece of thick, grey bread.
‘Polish?’ asked one man.
‘When did they bring you in?’
‘Last night.’
‘Good luck to you. Enjoy the so-called coffee.’
‘You don’t have a cigarette by any chance?’
‘Sorry. We’ll try to get hold of one.’
Their kindness sent a warm wave through her.
Dipping the bread in ditch coloured water, she chewed it a morsel at a time, eating to stay alert.
The day stretched out. Monday. She worked the late shift. Would the Gestapo inform the tramways of her arrest? Should she ask? Would anybody care? Did she care?
Oh heavens. To be so helpless and so alone. There was nothing to do. She walked the length and breadth of her cell several times. Twice as long as wide. Then as sunlight streamed in through the window, she noticed the markings on the wall.
Men’s names; women’s names; dates of arrest; updates such as ‘sent to Auschwitz’ or ‘executed by the enemy, date unknown’ caught her eye. How long had people been incarcerated in here, she wondered, as her fingers traced the entire Lord’s Prayer carved in neat, capital letters on the pitted surface?
In another place, she found Poland’s national anthem, written in pencil in a flowing, cursive hand, as if penned on expensive notepaper instead of a rough wall.
Poland has not perished yet
So long as we still live.
That which foreign force has seized
