While the other girls sewed or sang together during their free time, Herta preferred to spend evenings alone on her bunk, quietly practising her flute. Sometimes an owl nesting in the tree outside joined in. It reminded her of when she was a young girl and her grandmother, an old woman with a belly like a pumpkin, would tell her about the owl that hooted the day Herta was born.
‘I’m afraid it means you are destined for an unhappy life, my child,’ she made sure to warn her young granddaughter, over and over again.
Ernst would try to sweeten the old lady’s superstitions about evil owls by telling Herta stories of the bird’s reputation for wisdom. He showed her a specimen of bone from a tawny owl he kept hidden inside a wooden music box, lifting it out carefully to place on Herta’s outstretched palm.
‘Birds’ bones are filled with air. Well, mainly the ones that can fly, that is.’ He carefully chose another laid out in the box.
‘Hold out your hands.’ He placed the other bone in her free hand. ‘Which is heavier?’
Like the weighing pans of a scale, she moved her palms up and down.
‘The one on the right?’
‘Correct,’ he said, grinning. ‘But do you know why?’
She shook her head.
‘The one on the right belonged to a grebe and is heavier. This helps it dive underwater. Since the other comes from an owl, it’s hollow. Birds that fly need lighter bones.’
‘And what about this?’ She pointed to a pale green egg that had caught her eye.
‘That’s from a mallard duck. The female is the main one who sits on the nest and cares for her chicks once they’ve hatched. She is far more heavily camouflaged than the male so that if a predator approaches, she doesn’t need to leave her young. Blending in with the nest surroundings helps protect both her and her offspring.’
At noon, Herta sat on the leather couch outside Frau Scholtz-Klink’s door, flipping through a well-worn Reich-sponsored magazine, NS-Frauen-Warte. Women Waiting. She scanned the pages, glancing at recipes for how to fillet a fish and patterns for sommerliche, leichte Kleider, summery frocks designed, it seemed, for lifeless mannequins. Herta felt curiously calm. Right under an advertisement for Nivea sunscreen, she saw it; knew straightaway this was what she’d been looking for. It would be the perfect wedding gift for Ernst, something that would bring such joy to the lonely hours that awaited him in the wilderness of Tibet. The advertisement promised, A beautiful sound from an exceedingly light instrument – Hohner Mundharmonika. A beloved friend, inside and out. A harmonica. She knew Ernst would love it.
She looked around the room. The secretary’s desk was unattended. Everyone was still at lunch, but Herta had left the dining room early, her appetite not whetted by pork roast and mashed potatoes with gravy. She jumped up from her chair, grabbed a pair of scissors and hurriedly cut out the advertisement. By the time the secretary returned, Herta was seated again, straight-backed and smiling, the magazine stealthily placed at the bottom of the pile. Frau Scholtz-Klink walked past the desk and, without looking up, called her in. Herta followed the dreary woman into her equally drab office, fingering the clipping in the pocket of her skirt.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ she said, smiling. ‘I just wanted to have a chat with you.’
Herta sat and folded her hands in her lap.
The Directress lowered herself into the chair behind her large desk. ‘I feel perhaps you have been struggling a bit to adjust to our little bride school. It is such a long time to be away from your beloved.’ She cocked her head, studying Herta’s face.
Herta tried to relax a little. Perhaps she had misjudged the harshness of the woman.
‘Are you feeling homesick?’
‘A little.’ Herta blushed.
‘In less than three months from now you will take your formal vows, Fräulein Völz. It is time to step up. I must warn you, we do not tolerate weakness here, of any kind.’ The woman embarked on a belligerent tirade – country, duty, sacrifice, no make-up, no gossip, no books, no smoking, no alcohol, no hesitation, no impurity, no work outside the home. ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, Frau Scholtz-Klink.’
‘Good. Because this is my first and final warning to you.’ The smile was still fixed on her face, only now she began to resemble a wooden marionette. ‘You will have to give up this silly flute-playing of yours, too. We do not tolerate such selfish pursuits in our girls. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Frau Scholtz-Klink.’ There was no way Herta was going to surrender her music for anyone. She had left her beloved sister behind in order to pursue her passion for music in Berlin. After such an agonising decision, it was unthinkable not to complete her studies. Besides, her final examination was coming up soon.
As if the Directress was reading her mind, she tapped her finger rhythmically on the desk.
‘Your only focus from now on should be pleasing the Führer by making a wholesome German home.’
CHAPTER 8
14 July 1937
Waltershausen
Swallows dived between wisps of cloud, swooping above the fountain in the town square, celebrating the glorious summer afternoon. Inside the church, guests gathered to watch the ceremony. Vati was wearing his best suit. He sat stiffly in the front pew, a still life surrounded by a sea of men in black uniforms who filled the three levels of curved balconies. Mutti had promised she wouldn’t cry, but of course she did.
Herta held the bouquet of blue cornflowers tightly as she peeked through her veil at Ernst, his face blurred in the dim light. The warm air enveloped them like translucent skin. It would only be a matter of moments before this man she had known her whole life became her husband. Soon she would taste every part of him. Their stories were now intertwined, tangled together with years of history.
She glanced up at the ceiling fresco, the white dove of the Holy Spirit flying before the sun. Angels were perched atop the giant organ, statues boasting golden wings and trumpets. She felt as if she was falling, before being jolted back into the moment by a blast of music.
Herta had graduated with merit from her course at bride school. Frau Scholtz-Klink issued her with a certificate of accomplishment, stamped with the Germanic tree of life. In spite of the Directress’s strong advice to give up her music, Herta had also excelled in her flute examinations. Herr Kittel called her his star pupil. He had even invited her to be a flautist in the orchestra for a forthcoming performance of Handel’s opera Hercules at the Waldbühne amphitheatre, celebrating the 700th anniversary of the founding of Berlin. Ernst had been working night and day to finish his dissertation, as well as writing several articles about his previous adventures, and was busy with preparations for the Tibet expedition. He would be leaving in a matter of months. Their lives had been so chaotic in the lead-up to the wedding that they had barely seen each other over the previous weeks. There would be no time for a honeymoon.
Just before the wedding, Herta had managed to squeeze in a couple of days with Mutti and Vati. Mutti had been busy organising floral arrangements; Herta refused to be involved with them, as they brought back memories of bride school, but she did help her mother finalise catering for the reception, to be held at the beautiful Hotel Ratsherberge, just off Hauptstrasse.
Herta brought her wedding dress along to show her parents, and stood on a stool in the middle of the parlour as her mother pinned the hem. Hildegard had helped with the sewing, insisting on an intricately beaded long train and delicate white veil.
‘Who have you invited to be your bridesmaids?’ Mutti asked, reaching for the pincushion.
‘Just Hildegard.’
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at Herta. ‘But surely you need more than one?’
Herta’s voice turned to steel as their eyes met. ‘Then perhaps I should ask Margarete?’
Mutti’s face turned white. She was kneeling on the floor, head bent like a sinner in silent prayer. Vati, who had been playing a Chopin nocturne
in the background, slammed the piano lid down and left the room.
‘What’s up with him lately? I’m finally with the man I have loved my whole life and you’d think I was marrying some kind of monster.’
‘Calm down, Herta. He is very fond of Ernst’s family. You know he and Albert Schäfer hold similar values.’
‘Mutti, I understand more than anyone Vati’s attitude to the Reich, but I’m begging you, please ask him to keep his views to himself while the guests are here.’
Mutti cleared her throat and returned to pinning the hem of Herta’s gown. A silence hung between them for several seconds.
‘And why won’t you tell me the truth?’ Herta asked, her voice sounding shaky. ‘Where is Margarete?’
Mutti jabbed herself with the needle, and the clatter and crash of pins falling on the floor filled the room. She grasped the gold cross hanging from her necklace, glancing over towards the doorway then up at her daughter. Tears welled in her eyes.
‘Herta, we simply couldn’t manage her anymore after you left. She became so difficult, lashing out and biting us whenever we tried to wash or dress her.’
Herta leaned forward, clutching her mother’s hand. She pulled out a handkerchief tucked inside her brassiere and wrapped it around the tiny puncture wound.
‘But you promised you would look after her. You know I would never have gone to Berlin otherwise.’
‘When you left, Father Gerhard offered to take care of Margarete, under the wing of the Church. He told authorities she had been found in a wheelchair on his doorstep one night, and was taken in by the nuns, with no identification papers.’ Her mother lowered her voice. ‘Father Gerhard has been good to us. And we didn’t want there to be repercussions for anyone. Especially now, with you marrying Ernst.’ Her voice was unsteady.
Herta began breathing rapidly, a tightness rising in her chest. Her mother went on to tell her that one day, around six weeks earlier, two police officers had come and taken Margarete from Father Gerhard. They bundled her into a car without taking any of her belongings with them and drove off. At first, Mutti and Vati thought it might be the authorities wanting to make sure she could never have children, following the law passed a few years ago. They assumed she would be brought back after an operation. One evening a couple of weeks later, when Margarete still hadn’t returned, they decided to go to the cinema, to help take their mind off things. There, they saw a movie trailer, Das Erbe. It described a proposed new law, for ‘the Prevention of Hereditarily Diseased Offspring’. Gnadentod, it was called: merciful death. After that, Vati had become nervous and went to Father Gerhard, begging him to intervene, but he said it was simply God’s will, and nothing could be done. In the weeks since, they had begun to hear rumours around the village, of young people who were not quite right at birth, or those who suffered terrible seizures like Margarete, being designated Lebensunwertes Leben – life unworthy of life. Herta’s father was too scared to make any further enquiries, which would risk placing Father Gerhard in an even more precarious position.
Herta felt the room spinning.
Her mother’s voice sounded more and more muffled. ‘I don’t think we will ever find out what really happened to your dear sister. All I know is she is gone.’
The words trailed off into the air. Herta felt like screaming, but fear gripped her throat. What would Ernst say about all of this?
She ran out into the hallway to escape her mother’s sobs. Vati stood there, waiting. She tried to rush past him, avoiding his eyes.
‘Herta, stop!’
Slowly and reluctantly she looked up, but felt herself staring right through him as though he were a ghost. Herta hadn’t spoken much to her father since moving to Berlin; lately, any conversation between them seemed so dour and guarded. She imagined it was because he didn’t approve of Ernst or, rather, whom her childhood sweetheart had become. A father trod such a precarious line between protector and peacemaker, and now he had to relinquish his daughter.
Leaning forward, Vati whispered, ‘I taught you how to take your first steps, and now you are walking away from me, straight into that nest of hornets.’
‘You’re wrong about Ernst, Vati. A man’s love is far greater than his politics,’ she said, her voice still tremulous.
He grabbed her hand. His fob watch fell out of his pocket, dangling on its chain. It was a family heirloom, passed down to him from his father. Herta froze. She watched Vati’s knuckles turn white until suddenly he let go, a look of horror on his face. This was the first time he had ever hurt her. Maybe he hoped the pain would somehow bring back the Herta he once knew. She lowered her gaze and ran from him. Disappearing into the shadows at the top of the staircase, she felt part angel, part phantom, the chiffon trail of her dress flying behind her. She glanced back momentarily, wondering if he would follow her, only to see her father turn and walk straight out the front door.
Why had Vati become so narrow-minded? Why could he not trust her, hold out his arms and embrace her and Ernst as one? Maybe if she could convince Ernst to use his influence to find out where Margarete was, Vati would change his mind. Yes, she would speak to Ernst about it after the wedding.
Herta closed the door behind her before changing out of her bridal gown. Her bedroom was like a diorama of her childhood. A row of dolls, their glass eyes open wide, a box holding her treasured feather collection and a worn chess set sat on the shelf beside her bed. In the corner, her old music stand was tucked away. Beside it, resting on a wicker chair, was the first instrument her father ever gave her. Still trembling, Herta stroked the red velvet lining of the familiar case as she lifted out the tarnished flute. Unfolding the brass wings of the music stand, she propped up some sheet music she found in a drawer and held the instrument to her lips.
Vati had taught her to play when she turned eight. During their first lesson, he showed her how to curl her fingers over the keys and rest her lower lip on the outer rim of the silver mouthpiece. She had blown tentative, tiny breaths into the hole, but wasn’t able to sound a note.
‘Stand straight.’ He placed his hand against the small of her back. ‘Now breathe in deeply, as if it were summertime again and you were about to dive into the lake like a swan. Remember, though, the instrument will swallow only half the air you blow out, so you need to take the biggest breath you can.’
She tried again. This time a feeble sound spluttered out, which Herr Völz seemed to think was an improvement.
‘Bravo, mein Kind!’ He reached for some paper on the desk and tore a piece off, crumpling it into a tiny ball, which he rested on his outstretched palm.
‘Now, blow!’
She pursed her lips and fired tiny breaths.
‘No, no. Relax! You’re not cooling down hot soup.’
Herta held her breath, fighting back the tears.
‘Think of the songbird in the linden. His serenades had to start somewhere, too. He practises and practises until he finds just the right note.’
She tried again. This time, her efforts sounded more like a snort of disgust.
‘Pretend you are trying to make a hummingbird’s feather fly up into the air.’
She was determined to make Vati proud of her. Closing her eyes, she blew gently on the mouthpiece. As if by magic, a sound she would never forget emerged from the flute. Love at first breath. A note as pure and sweet as birdsong.
The wedding ceremony was perfunctory and brief, conducted by a military chaplain. Father Gerhard sat alone, watching from the back of the church. The Reichskonkordat treaty between the Church and the German Reich, signed four years earlier, stated that ‘Catholic army officers, personnel and men, as well as their families, do not belong to the local parish communities and are not to contribute to their maintenance.’ But an exception was made in the Schäfers’ case, possibly due to Ernst’s rank in the SS. The young couple were allowed to marry inside their local church, on the condition it was run as a civil service. When they were pronounced husband and wife, Ernst lifted H
erta’s veil and they kissed.
Afterwards, at the reception, Bruno and Hildegard came up to greet the married couple. Bruno slapped Ernst on the shoulder, congratulating him.
‘This is all thanks to you, Bruno,’ Ernst said, holding his hand out.
Bruno, already tipsy after having downed several beers, placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder instead. ‘Well, it wasn’t really my intention for you two to fall in love.’ Ernst’s friend chuckled. ‘You have my wife, your lovely bridesmaid, to thank for that. Personally, I didn’t think Herta was your type. I would have chosen someone slightly more salubrious for a man of your standing.’
Ernst tightened his hold around Herta’s waist. Hildegard took a big sip from her glass, her cheeks burning red. Her curls were coming unpinned, and she teetered slightly as she drank.
Bruno turned to Herta. ‘Must be quite an overwhelming experience for you, being at the centre of everyone’s attention all at once, especially the crème de la crème of the SS.’
Herta’s smile disappeared. As much as she disliked him, he was right. Standing there in front of all these well-heeled guests, Herta felt like a simple country girl. It wasn’t so long ago she and Ernst had been children, throwing mud cakes at each other behind the barn. Yet here they were, sipping champagne from crystal glasses brought to them on silver trays by elegant waiters.
A group of good-looking men came up to greet them, saving Herta from Bruno’s inane banter. Hildegard pulled her husband aside, making way for the bridal couple to be engulfed by Ernst’s SS friends, all dressed in immaculate uniforms. After a few minutes, the chatter stopped abruptly. The men parted like a black sea, from the depths of which emerged a short, balding man.
The Hollow Bones Page 6
