by Ben Stevens
The bright summer’s day had finally turned to night. Marie von Hahn sat on the sofa in the living room, remembering the thin youth who’d slept on it over a year before, after their lips had met for the first time. She’d hardly spoken to him since they’d slept together; he’d not the slightest idea that she was pregnant.
The room seemed smaller than usual, the dark wallpaper with its flowery design and the heavy, blood-red curtains inducing a certain feeling of claustrophobia. This feeling was not, however, unpleasant – in fact it almost seemed protective.
Time for her was running out; another month or two and it would become apparent to everyone that she was pregnant. Her head fell into her hands and she softly wept: for herself, for Heinemann, and for their unborn child.
The familiar double-knock came at the front door, the calling card of her next-door neighbour Mara Friedeburg. Friedeburg had acted as both a friend and confidante for Marie, ever since her parents had died in a rail crash when she’d been aged three.
A member of the Prussian aristocracy whom the Nazis despised, Marie’s grandmother had always been a little cold and aloof. So it had been Friedeburg who’d compensated for the surfeit of affection the noble woman had given her granddaughter.
Tat-tat – the knock came again, and suddenly Marie felt as though she was a small child who could be protected from everything that was wrong by her caring neighbour. So standing up she left the living room, walking out into the hall and opening the front door.
Even though she could not see Marie’s forlorn expression in the darkness of the hallway, Mara Friedeburg’s gentle smile instantly changed to a look of concern. She was a sensitive person who possessed an innate sympathy for the feelings of those around her; thus she knew that all was not well with the young woman.
During the last year or so she’d detected several emotions obvious within Marie – grief, of course, given her grandmother’s disease and consequent death – but also one that she’d considered to be love...
‘Marie – are you all right?’ she asked softly, extending her hand in a gesture of confidence and support. She was homely-looking, possessing the air of someone who was happiest cooking or sewing – basic pleasures which imparted a feeling of modest pride upon their completion.
In a rush this came to Marie and the simplicity of it all, against the terror that she felt now, caused tears to flow anew.
‘You have to help me,’ she gulped, and nodding determinedly Friedeburg entered the house, shutting the door behind her.
‘I think, young lady, that you’d better tell me just what is happening,’ she said with firm kindness.
As they entered the living room Marie managed to compose herself; and although she longed to divulge the serious nature of her problem, she was suddenly seized with an awful suspicion.
Did she know this woman quite as well as she thought? Could she trust her with such shocking news? In such a time as this close friendships were no guarantee against a secret informant of the SD or Gestapo running to tell their paymasters everything they knew.
Then she felt ashamed – never, never, would Friedeburg do such a thing. The woman formed part of some of Marie’s earliest memories, and her hatred of the Nazis had been shared by Marie’s grandmother – they’d shared a lot of beliefs, which was one reason why they’d been best friends for so many years.
And so Marie talked – she revealed everything, and finished she fell into an exhausted sleep, her head on Friedeburg’s shoulder as they sat on the sofa.
The soft light of the only lamp shining in the room eased the older woman’s worried expression, as she stroked Marie’s hair and wondered how on Earth this problem could be solved.
She knew of one way, of course, but if (as she suspected) the young woman possessed her late grandmother’s extreme stubbornness she would never consent to it, no matter that it would ultimately be for the best.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ Friedeburg whispered, thinking of the illegal baby that was growing in the young woman’s womb.
17
The autumn term began at Humboldt University, the music class finding that their number was depleted by one. No reason was initially given for this and so Erich Heinemann was consumed with worry – had Marie become one of those who simply ‘vanished’?
Such people were snatched clean out of society, their ‘disappearance’ forbidden comment, all traces of their life before erased. It was made as though they’d never even existed in the first place.
And Heinemann could not even go to her house to see if she was safe – if he was observed then that really would be it. Maybe, he attempted to think reassuringly, she’d nothing other than a bout of flu. But this being the case, why had nothing been said concerning her absence?
Heinemann was not the only one to miss Marie – many of those who stared so evilly at himself also searched hungrily for the cellist, as the article in Der Stuermer had not lessened her attractiveness in the minds of any but the most virulent of Nazi students.
While fully agreeing with everything that Streicher had written concerning the Mischling, such students decided to take the allegations concerning Marie with a pinch of salt. They were not so charitable when it came to Enrich Rath, as it was well known that he was a Jew lover; and so the lecturer himself received some hard stares as he walked within the university.
A fortnight after term had begun Rath concluded the day’s lesson with an announcement:
‘I’m afraid that I have some rather distressing news regarding Frau von Hahn. I’ve been informed that she has an illness that has confined her to bed. She is being cared for by a neighbour, and has been visited by a doctor. It appears that she has exhaustion of a kind, and I’m sure that everyone here wishes her a speedy recovery.’
As Rath finished speaking Heinemann caught Muehlebach staring at him, suspicion and anger gleaming in the red-haired student’s eyes.
What did he…?
And then, in a split-second, everything suddenly became clear to Heinemann: it was of course Muehlebach who’d posted the copy of Der Stuermer through Marie’s letterbox – just as he’d most likely given Streicher the salient information for the article in the first place!
‘Exhaustion’? Heinemann didn’t need Muehlebach’s look to tell him that this was complete crap. Somehow this red-haired viola player knew the real reason behind Marie’s absence as well – she was pregnant; it was just so obvious. Heinemann had sworn to pull out, but in the heat of the agonisingly sweet moment…
As Rath droned on about the following day’s lesson, Heinemann sat staring back at Muehlebach, who now wore a faint but definite smile of utter triumph…
A little more work from himself, thought Muehlebach, and soon the violinist would be no more. And Marie? Yes – Muehlebach would see that she was dealt with as well. There was apparently a special type of camp for women like her who committed race crimes.
If only she hadn’t chosen to ignore his longing looks, to stare only occasionally at him and with that haughty expression that had driven him near crazy with lust…
If only she hadn’t so obviously chosen to go with a half-Jew.
He would have his revenge for this slight, and it would be sweet.
18
The doctor who came to visit Marie von Hahn was a septuagenarian. In continuing to see his other, often Jewish patients, so he covertly fought the ruling Party, though he had to take considerable care not to be discovered as the rules against the Jews became ever stricter.
Upon realising that all he could do was next to useless, the doctor had cried hopeless tears: his caring rebellion was the smallest of dams against the flood of fear and anti-Semitism raging within Germany.
He’d discovered a slight way of avenging this, however. Those patients whom he knew paid more than lip service to the Party – a surprising number of whom required treatment for sexually-transmitted diseases – discovered to their chagrin that the remedies the good doctor prescribed were often extremely painful, and o
n top of this rather liable to failure.
A feeling of utter despondency had lately all but consumed him: he was old; he possessed neither the energy nor the certainty in his work that he’d had as a younger man. His tongue had become an acidic, bitter weapon; his caustic comments could well be reported if said to the wrong person.
But he hardly cared: the battle – his battle – was already lost, so roll on death.
The real nature of Marie’s problem was immediately obvious to him as he entered her room, the young woman lying in bed and doing her best to appear feverish and ill. Such a charade could not hope to fool someone who’d been a practitioner of medicine for nearly fifty years – for women had a certain look about them even in the earliest stages of pregnancy.
The doctor instinctively realised, however, that such a diagnosis was not what the woman or Mara Friedeburg – whom he’d met while treating Marie’s grandmother at home for cancer – wanted to hear.
Fear was obvious in both their faces though they did their best to disguise it, and noticing this the doctor began a routine examination – looking at Marie’s tongue and gently probing her neck with two fingers as though to check for any glandular swelling.
A desire to inform them that their charade was useless burnt within him: questions would soon be asked – a person could not ‘drop-out’ from this society. Frau Friedeburg might be capable of delivering the baby – but what then? And what if the pregnancy proved to be a difficult one, possibly requiring a doctor, a hospital?
The doctor quickly felt certain that the father of the baby Marie carried was in trouble with the Socialist Party, though for what reason he knew not. Therefore, whatever his crime might be, she in turn would be guilty by association. Such was Nazi logic.
There was one definite way of dealing with this problem, though he dared not suggest it. For then he would be party to something that was illegal, whereas for the moment he wavered precariously on the outer edges of duplicity.
Deciding to go along with the act, he considered that if questioned later he could always impersonate a doddering, slightly senile practitioner who should have retired some years earlier. But that was if he still cared enough by then to pretend anything.
‘Delayed shock, some type of nervous exhaustion. The death of your grandmother has affected you more than you perhaps realise, Frau von Hahn, given the close relationship that existed between you both,’ he said at last, putting his stethoscope back inside his tattered black bag.
He continued, ‘You’ve been engrossed in your musical studies and sleeping little. This type of mental strain is commonest amongst young women, and requires a few weeks of complete relaxation. Bed-rest and a course of mild sedatives are all that you need. I shall of course forward my diagnosis onto the university that you attend in explanation for your absence.’
Walking over to the window as though in thought, the doctor looked down at the quiet street. For a moment he pictured men leaping out of trucks and cars, rifles at the ready, hammering on doors. And his imagination was the bitter reality; the scene below him was a lulling illusion.
Turning back to the two women and ignoring Friedeburg’s sudden pleading look, he said quietly, ‘I shall do as I’ve said.’
With that he nodded his farewell and left the room, leaving Friedeburg to try and talk some sense into Marie von Hahn. For the doctor was not the only one to have realised the obvious solution to the young woman’s dilemma.
19
Autumn was approaching – there had lately been a chill in the air, the students of Humboldt University no longer spending so much time outside during their lunch hour.
Incredibly, a problem had occurred to Erich Heinemann that seemed to be almost of the same magnitude as Marie von Hahn’s certain pregnancy.
For it now appeared that Enrich Rath had been giving his class nothing so much as colossal jigsaw pieces ever since the start of the course – and these pieces had finally started to fit together in Heinemann’s mind.
And the overall picture – the overall conclusion – was so vast and complex that it almost hurt him when he attempted to quantify it.
For the first time he considered that as a musician he was utterly inconsequential in comparison to those great composers and performers throughout history; his performances at the Aalto were laughable by comparison. His being lauded by Frau Sasse was the ultimate indignity; it proved that he was in no way the unique violinist he’d so smugly assumed.
What Heinemann had finally realised was that a lifetime spent playing did not make a musician great; the best thing he or she could do (this a thought that had driven many a past musician to lunacy) was to aspire to achieving a certain immortality – and this immortality came with their compositions being performed centuries after their death.
In the face of such a realisation Heinemann craved the mindless routine of Mette Construction, his mind tortured by something that the Gestapo could never have dreamed up: the individuality he sought in his playing had and never would exist.
The sheer terror of this was nearly equivalent to that which he felt for Marie and himself – the terror that their continued existence was quickly coming to an end.
*
Absorbed in his problems, Heinemann at first failed to see the three male students sat on a bench as he walked through the grounds towards the university’s entrance following the end of lessons.
When he did he felt a thrill of fear – two of the men were stocky and had their hair cut in a military fashion; they were well-known within Humboldt for being enthusiastic Nazis. And the third caused Heinemann to feel less afraid and more angry.
Fritz Muehlebach – the very name filled him with a sense of utter loathing.
The accusation Muehlebach had made concerning Marie von Hahn’s involvement with the thin violinist was extremely slanderous if untrue – and so the Nazis had decided to confront Heinemann directly, to finally obtain the truth from him by means of threats and even blows if this proved necessary. Aware of Frau Sasse’s liking for him as they were, this no longer seemed sufficient reason for them to leave him alone.
Eyes like flint observed Heinemann’s approach, the two students stepping onto the path to block his passage, Muehlebach behind them. The sky started to cloud and a wind suddenly blew up.
‘Well, it is true?’ asked one of the Nazis, his fists clenched at his sides.
‘Is what true?’ returned Heinemann, ensuring that a few prudent feet remained between himself and this aggressor.
‘‘Is what true?’’ the man mimicked.
‘You talk like a sly Jew, do you know that?’ said the other student. ‘You know what we mean, so don’t go playing the fool with us or we’ll kick your head to pieces right now. Did… you… fuck… Marie… von… Hahn?’
‘No.’
The single word came from somewhere deep within him, brutal and so honest – the man’s coarse description of the act of love did not describe what he’d felt on that dreamy Sunday morning with Marie. And so in a way he was not lying.
Despite their wish for violence the two men were certain that he was telling the truth; they looked round with stony expressions at Muehlebach, wondering if this obsequious musician had made fools of them.
As one of the two men had admired Marie – though always from afar, due to him being surprisingly bashful in his dealings with the fairer sex – it had been a matter of honour for him to discover whether the half-Jew had impregnated her.
Now that it appeared he hadn’t, his perpetual vehemence sought another outlet.
With almost scientific detachment Heinemann read the situation perfectly: he hoped that Muehlebach would receive the severest of beatings while knowing that his own demise was only being temporarily postponed. For Muehlebach had only to report his suspicions to the Gestapo for Heinemann and Marie to be ruined.
‘Get on your way,’ one of the men said to him, Heinemann’s face impassive as he nodded although relief caused his legs to suddenly tremble.
>
As these two thugs had certainly beaten many innocents over the last few years, using such events as Kristallnacht – the ‘night of broken glass’ – to smash and punch to their hearts’ content, he considered that he’d had an extremely close escape.
But it was coming, it was coming – he heard the clock ticking clear in his mind. The dark forces were massing against him and nothing, not even Frau Sasse, could save him from whatever fate they had in mind.
20
Sat in a chair beside Marie von Hahn’s bed, determined that this young woman should not awaken to find herself alone even for a moment, Mara Friedeburg shifted uneasily as she slept.
In her dream she was yet again begging Marie to have an abortion. She would take care of it; she knew how it was done. But in the dream as in reality Marie was adamantly opposed to such an idea. Friedeburg cursed her stubbornness at the same time as she recognised the fighting spirit of her late grandmother.
No longer did Marie feel weak and scared; she was determined that life would not be snuffed out within her purely because an evil regime had outlawed her choice of partner. She’d assured Friedeburg that the consequences of her being pregnant could not be that catastrophic: she would hardly be killed, after all.
Her greatest fear was for Heinemann, who would certainly be severely punished when it was discovered that he was the father. But the Nazi regime would not last forever, she’d brusquely informed Friedeburg a day or so before; they had to trust in a better future, and furthermore to be brave in the troubled present.
A faint noise, coming from downstairs, caused the middle-aged neighbour to abruptly awaken, instantly alert. Rising quietly up from the chair, she stealthily left the room and padded along the landing towards the stairs.
Something had been posted, and in the light of current circumstances this signalled an approaching menace in her mind. Bright moonlight cut through the glass of the front door, and walking slowly downstairs Friedeburg saw a folded piece of paper lying on the carpet.
