Back then, Herta thought of leaving Waltershausen all the time. She knew she would miss home, the reliable smell of Mutti’s cooking at noon, the scratchy sounds of Stravinsky playing defiantly on Vati’s gramophone each evening. But she could not stay in this small town anymore, fashioning unseeing eyes for dolls by day and singing to her unhearing sister by night. Berlin was where she could dedicate herself to music. It was where she belonged.
Margarete breathed quietly, jolted awake every few minutes by the violent shuddering of her withered legs. Caught somewhere between anguish and slumber, she rolled her head back and glanced at Herta. But her eyes soon flicked away as she retreated into sleep again. Herta looked around the room, its pastel-blue walls yellowed by time, paper gulls with crumpled wings held aloft by frayed string. A spoon lay abandoned in a wooden bowl resting on a placemat, embroidered chicks half-covered in blobs of mashed pumpkin. The air tasted of disinfectant, Mutti’s attempt to keep illness at bay.
Outside, the light had started to fade. Herta would be gone before sunrise. How to say goodbye? Her fingers laced with Margarete’s, who gripped them tightly as if she might never let go.
CHAPTER 13
Late October 1937
Ernst was back in his patron’s office, this time surrounded by the team of fine scientists he had put together. The Reichsführer removed his gloves before shaking each man’s hand in turn, presenting them with angora-wool pullovers.
‘We don’t want you catching colds in Tibet!’ Himmler said with a laugh.
Ernst’s colleagues stood there like a flock of pigeons waiting to be thrown some scraps by their auspicious feeder.
After a few formalities, Himmler abruptly cut the meeting short.
‘My apologies, gentlemen. I must rush to see the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who are arriving today. But I am very much looking forward to officially presenting you all to the public at this year’s winter solstice celebrations.’ He turned to Ernst and grinned. ‘And you, my dear Schäfer, on this occasion will be awarded the rank of Hauptsturmführer.’ With a perfunctory ‘Heil Hitler!’, Himmler dismissed the men.
The rank of captain was more than an honour; it meant a decent increase in salary. The last time Ernst received such a promotion was at the end of his last summer in Philadelphia, as he celebrated his birthday at Seven Oaks, the Dolan family’s property.
The closer his departure date for the new expedition loomed, the more often Ernst found himself thinking about Brooky. A tender madness had coursed through Brooky’s alcohol-soaked veins, a streak carefully covered over by his family’s wealth and influence. While it wasn’t that unusual that Brooky had commenced his studies in zoology at no less than Princeton, it was also no surprise he soon became bored with academia and dropped out. Meanwhile, he busied himself hatching a plan. Always one to seek out adventure, Brooky started organising an expedition to China and Tibet, and so Ernst’s career as an explorer began.
Ernst also found himself thinking more of the day, five years down the track, when he was summoned back to Berlin and his ties with the Reich were fixed in place. On 26 April 1936, after two expeditions with Brooky, Ernst’s time in Philadelphia working at the academy was cut short by an unexpected telegram.
‘Sign here, please.’
Ernst had scribbled his name hurriedly. The delivery boy handed him the envelope, addressed to SS-Untersturmführer Ernst Schäfer. There must have been some mistake. That wasn’t his rank; he was only a sergeant major, not a second lieutenant. A bicycle rested against the railing on the stoop and the youth shuffled awkwardly. It took Ernst a few moments to realise what the kid was waiting for. He dug into his pocket for some pennies, which he deposited onto an outstretched palm. Doffing his hat, the messenger turned, mounted his bike and was gone.
Ernst went inside and sat down on the bottom stair. He tore open the envelope. Under the heading, Deutsche Reichspost Telegramm, four words blazed across the slip of paper: RETURN TO GERMANY REQUESTED.
The next line was equally unexpected.
You have been awarded a commission as an honorary SS-Untersturmführer.
Signed: Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.
Ernst replied immediately:
I am so proud and happy that I cannot express it. I hope I will be able to show my gratitude through my actions. The greatest honour for me is to have been promoted.
Ernst felt no hesitation in leaving Philadelphia. Though he was a shrewd and clever operator, the academy had refused to guarantee further funding of his research. Himmler’s attention was tantalising for a young scientist like Ernst, so it didn’t take him long to pack up his things and book a berth on the SS Bremen back to Hamburg.
Albert Schäfer, delighted to have his son home again, knew as a businessman that flexibility was an important quality to cultivate. Although he prided himself on being a liberal thinker, he saw that times were rapidly changing. That was why, back in 1933, when his son had come home for a brief visit after his first joint German–American expedition, he took the opportunity to convince the mayor of Göttingen, a good friend with a solid background, to encourage young Ernst to join the SS. Albert Schäfer knew better than most that one could never be too careful when it came to matters of career, having used his networks to build a fine company of which he was proud. The convoluted SS application process hadn’t been easy at the time – they had to dig up all the family records from the previous ten generations – but their ancestry proved to be entirely clean. Ernst received his Ahnenpass, a genealogical passport, which would ensure he could rise up the ranks in his career, unimpeded.
Herta stood by the window, her back to her husband. It had started raining outside, the drops slowly chasing each other down the glass. Two pigeons huddled together on a nearby branch, their grey feathers ruffling in the wind. As the meeting with his men at Himmler’s office ended much sooner than expected, Ernst had rushed home to check on Herta, who he thought was looking a little pale of late. He filled the kettle, placing it on the gas burner to boil, and busied himself preparing her a late breakfast. As he reached up to take the tea canister down from the shelf above the stove, he knocked over the candelabra they received as a wedding gift from Herta’s parents.
Herta was still in her nightdress, even though it was mid-morning. She hadn’t slept well. Ernst heard her whispering prayers into the night as she wrestled with her pillow. He felt as though he tried so hard to please her, but it never seemed enough. Lately, her eyes followed his every move, watching closely, accusing, as if he were somehow betraying her. The radiator hissed and clanged.
‘Are you hungry, mein Liebling?’ He spooned some mulberry jam into a dish and set it on the table.
She didn’t answer, staring blankly ahead as she moved across the room, lowering herself onto a chair. Ernst put a plate of rye bread in front of his young wife but she refused to eat. The kettle shrieked on the stove, steam shooting out violently. He poured water into the teapot and brewed some tea. The cup rattled in the saucer as he carried it over to her.
He told her about the meeting with Himmler, and the winter solstice celebration.
‘This whole business is a disgrace,’ she said. ‘Remember how last year we were told to put a swastika on the top of the tree instead of a star?’
Herta was disgusted that a Christmas tree was no longer to be referred to as a Christbaum anymore; now it was called a Julbaum, a Yule tree. Even poor old Saint Nikolas had turned into Odin, with a grey beard and slouch hat, riding around on his white charger. Mary and Jesus’ dark features were suddenly transformed into blue eyes and fair hair, and the manger was overrun by toy deer and rabbits instead of wise men.
She leaned forward, reaching for a department-store catalogue lying on the table.
‘And just look what they’ve done since they took over beautiful Wertheim last year.’ She flipped through its pages. ‘Chocolate SS soldiers and toy machine guns for the children. What has this world come to when we are told that even Jesus has been repl
aced by a new saviour – our beloved Führer himself!’
‘Shh! Herta, darling. Lower your voice. We don’t want the neighbours hearing.’
‘I don’t care what anyone thinks. What is the meaning of Christmas without Christ?’
She started crying. Ernst stood behind her and stroked her hair.
‘Calm down, my sweet.’ He spoke quietly, as if he were trying to lure a wild animal into a trap.
She turned around, her eyes unyielding. ‘And this stupid Yule lantern Himmler gave us. No doubt made by those miserable wretches in Dachau.’ She lifted the clay ornament from the table. ‘What am I supposed to do with this thing? Conjure up dead spirits, expect a visitation from Madame Blavatsky’s ghost? Your friends over at the Ahnenerbe are busy rebranding Christmas as a propaganda tool for their occult drivel. I, for one, refuse to go to this absurd winter solstice of theirs. They are destroying everything we hold dear.’ She slumped back in her chair, exhausted.
Ernst saw there was no point telling her about his promotion right now.
Little Heinz chirped in his cage, his clipped wings flapping. He chattered wildly, as if to fill the void of the sudden silence in the room. Ernst had brought the bird home yesterday as a gift for Herta, to make up for stuffing Klaus. He still could not understand why she hadn’t been delighted when she unwrapped her beloved cat, forever dead but not gone. Although he’d seen so many species of sadness in Herta over time – homesickness, loneliness, guilt over abandoning her sister – she had never seemed to grieve so deeply. Couldn’t she understand how much time he had spent perfecting Klaus? He’d even straightened out the cat’s bad leg so that the beauty it lacked in life would become apparent in death.
He watched Herta scrape her chair back and walk over to the metal cage. The bird fluttered excitedly as she approached. She refilled his seed bowl. ‘Pretty Heinz. Good boy,’ she said, poking her finger through the shiny bars to stroke his blue-green feathers.
Ernst fumbled in his bag and pulled out a book: Abrichten und Sprechenlernen des Wellensittichs. Training the bird to talk would be a lovely project for them. They had spent so little time alone since the wedding, what with him being so overwrought with his thesis and preparations for the expedition. She was obviously feeling lonely, and it might help her forget about Klaus.
Ernst wanted to teach the bird to say I love you before leaving for Tibet, so a small part of him could still be there with Herta while he was away.
He stood beside her and opened the book at Lesson One.
‘Hello, Heinz!’ he said.
The bird chirped in response.
‘Good bird. Hello, Heinz!’ Herta said, a smile gradually appearing on her face.
‘The book says to repeat it over and over.’
The bird squawked, cracking some seeds in its beak.
‘Hello, Heinz. Pretty birdy.’
Right on cue, as if to prove Ernst’s motives could never quite land in the way he intended, the bird started to chirp: ‘Heil Hitler!’
Herta turned pale. ‘What did he say?’
The feathery patriot repeated himself, screeching the same words over and over: ‘Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!’
‘Get rid of it!’ she yelled.
‘Herta! Calm down, please.’
Heinz, becoming more and more flustered by Herta’s shouting, launched into another frenzied display of his limited vocal talents: ‘Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!’
Herta stepped back, horrified. ‘Take it back right now.’ She threw the cover over the cage.
The budgerigar’s squawking, now muffled, continued.
‘We can’t have this creature living under our roof.’
‘Relax. We’ll teach it to say other things.’
‘No, you have to return it immediately! I don’t want it in our apartment another minute. Where did you get such a horrid little thing?’
‘It doesn’t understand what it’s saying. I repeat Heil Hitler like a parrot, too, a hundred times a day. That doesn’t make me a certified Nazi.’
‘You were a sweet young thing too once, and look at what happened to you with just a little training.’
‘Does that mean you want me gone as well?’
Herta sighed. ‘Do what you want.’
Ernst grabbed the birdcage and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Herta had a vivid memory of when she was a little girl, sitting on her bed, looking out onto the back garden at the blossom pushing its way out from the branches of a plum tree. An orange beetle crawled across the lace curtain, its feelers searching for a pathway that might lead outdoors. The thrum of early cicadas harmonised with the birds, sounding like a chorus of tiny angels. Even though Herta practised her flute two hours every day, she knew she could never be a match for the starling perched on a branch of the old oak, singing its melancholy tune. The bird made it look so easy. How could such a perfectly formed melody spill out from a creature with no lips and a throat the size of the button on her collar?
She wished she were an animal, born to make music, like Schutzi. Her dear budgerigar, sitting up there in his cage beside her bed, spontaneously burst into song, taking tiny breaths between his vocal gymnastics. He would wake her every morning with this pandemonium of gossip, joining the rapid-fire dawn badinage with the feathered choir outside. Some songs were wild and urgent, others petulant and whiny. She loved Schutzi, not only because of his rambunctious chatter and exquisite song, but also because he listened. Even with those minuscule holes for ears, he was a better listener than any human.
When Vati first brought him home, the bird was only twelve weeks old. He would sit on his perch abjectly, refusing to sing. Every morning she would find a new pile of feathers in the bottom of his cage, until his pink skin was almost entirely exposed. She asked Ernst to come over and examine him after school one day.
‘He is moulting,’ he announced confidently.
‘Maybe we should take him outside, so he can have some fresh air?’
‘No, no! You mustn’t do that. It could kill him. He will be very sensitive at this time. Leave him where he is. Moving him around would be far too stressful. He won’t sing for you now, but believe me, he is listening. Be patient.’
The days passed, and a fine layer of fluff pushed its way through Schutzi’s skin. Then one day, at the start of autumn, after an entire summer spent trying to get him to say hello, he finally replied. At first all he could manage was a raspy squawk, but in a short while she had taught him a love song, a tune he would faithfully sing for the rest of his small life.
CHAPTER 14
After He left to go home, they stored me in Basement for a while, right beside Thylacinus cynocephalus, the Tasmanian tiger. Such strangeness and eloquence in her form; those odd stripes on her slender back made her look like the lovechild of a tiger and a dog. And a smile so charismatic, yet elusive. Her ears erect, she listened intently to everything around us. She was never the talkative type, old Thyla, although once I plucked up the courage to ask her what she carried around in her pouch. I’m sure I saw a tear form in her eye as she told me about the baby they stole from her. I tried comforting her, telling her I was sure her child was still alive somewhere, enjoying the freedom of Wild. That made her even more glum. Her aura grew fainter as they moved her further in towards Permanent Storage, almost hidden away behind elk antlers and armadillos.
‘I come from a Wild called Tasmania. I have heard that my clan are gone from there forever,’ she said, and never spoke again.
They have said that about me, too, that I am headed to a place called Extinction. Also, there have been rumours in the past that I am a mixed breed. Experts have visited from around the world, standing before me, engaging in heated debates over whether I’m a bear or the relative of a type of raccoon. I am a living fossil, apparently. They say my scientific name means black-and-white cat-footed animal. The Chinese call me pinyin, a big bear-cat; in fact, a man called Professor came from there several years
back to talk to Smalls about me. He told them over time I have had many names – zhuxiong , bamboo bear; huaxiong , spotted bear. He said people thought for years that I was a missing link. But in 2009, his friend, Scientist, wrote a story in a book called Nature, trying to explain how my body is built to eat bamboo.
‘The panda holds a unique place in evolution,’ Professor said, ‘with continuing controversy about its phylogenetic position.’
Smalls wiggled their sticks immediately over their tree bark when he said that. One lifted his arm up, as if reaching for the most tender bamboo shoot that was just out of reach.
‘Sir!’ he asked. ‘What does “phylogenetic” mean?’
Professor looked shocked that a Small would not know a Fact of such importance, but then explained, ‘It’s how animals with similar genetic make-up have evolved over time.’
But the look on Small’s face showed I wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
‘Do you mean they are all family?’
Professor scratched his ear as if he was trying to flick off a biting flea.
‘Sort of. Yes.’
Then he told them I didn’t have umami. I was worried at first, because I didn’t know what that was either, and was starting to feel like some kind of freak. But when he explained there are five types of taste – sweetness, saltiness, sourness, bitterness and umami – and that pandas don’t have the last one, I felt a little better.
‘Umami is the meaty taste picked up by receptors,’ he said.
Why would I need that? Disgusting to eat another being when there is such an abundance of bamboo in the world. Professor told them my people are ‘vulnerable’, although I do not know why he singled us out – isn’t everything, both inside Diorama and beyond Exit, vulnerable?
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