by Ken Follett
Some boys were scared of her, but others were attracted, and at parties she often ended up with a small cluster of admirers. She, in turn, liked boys, especially when they forgot about trying to impress people and started to talk normally. Her favourites were the ones who made her laugh. So far she had not had a serious boyfriend, though she had kissed quite a few.
To complete her outfit she put on a striped blazer she had bought from a second-hand clothing cart. She knew her parents would disapprove of her appearance, and try to make her change, saying it was dangerous to defy the Nazis’ prejudices. So she needed to get out of the house without seeing them. It should be easy enough. Mother was giving a piano lesson: Carla could hear the painfully hesitant playing of her pupil. Father would be reading the newspaper in the same room, for they could not afford to heat more than one room of the house. Erik was away with the army, though he was now stationed near Berlin and due home on leave shortly.
She covered up with a conventional raincoat and put her white shoes in her pocket.
She went down to the hall, opened the front door, shouted: ‘Goodbye, back soon!’ and hurried out.
She met Frieda at the Friedrich Strasse station. She was dressed similarly with a stripey dress under a plain tan coat, her hair hanging loose; the main difference being that Frieda’s clothes were new and expensive. On the platform, two boys in Hitler Youth outfits stared at them with a mixture of disapproval and desire.
They got off the train in the northern suburb of Wedding, a working-class district that had once been a left-wing stronghold. They headed for the Pharus Hall, where in the past Communists had held their conferences. Now there was no political activity at all, of course. Nevertheless, the building had become the centre of the movement called Swing Kids.
Kids of between fifteen and twenty-five were already gathering in the streets around the hall. Swing boys wore check jackets and carried umbrellas, to look English. They let their hair grow long to show their contempt for the military. Swing girls had heavy make-up and American sports clothes. They all thought the Hitler Youth were stupid and boring, with their folk music and community dances.
Carla thought it was ironic. When she was little she had been teased by the other kids and called a foreigner because her mother was English: now the same children, a little older, thought English was the fashionable thing to be.
Carla and Frieda went into the hall. There was a conventional, innocent youth club there, with girls in pleated skirts and boys in short trousers playing table tennis and drinking sticky orange cordial. But the action was in the side rooms.
Frieda quickly led Carla to a large storeroom with stacked chairs around the walls. There her brother, Werner, had plugged in a record player. Fifty or sixty boys and girls were dancing the jitterbug jive. Carla recognized the tune that was playing: ‘Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me.’ She and Frieda started to dance.
Jazz records were banned because most of the best musicians were Negroes. The Nazis had to denigrate anything that was done well by non-Aryans: it threatened their theories of superiority. Unfortunately for them, Germans loved jazz just as much as everyone else. People who visited other countries brought records home, and you could buy them from American sailors in Hamburg. There was a lively black market.
Werner had lots of discs, of course. He had everything: a car, modern clothes, cigarettes, money. He was still Carla’s dream boy, though he always went for girls older than she – women, really. Everyone assumed he went to bed with them. Carla was a virgin.
Werner’s earnest friend Heinrich von Kessel immediately came up to them and started to dance with Frieda. He wore a black jacket and waistcoat, which looked dramatic with his longish dark hair. He was devoted to Frieda. She liked him – she enjoyed talking to clever men – but she would not go out with him because he was too old, twenty-five or twenty-six.
Soon a boy Carla did not know came and danced with her, and the evening was off to a good start.
She abandoned herself to the music: the irresistible sexual drumbeat, the suggestively crooned lyrics, the exhilarating trumpet solos, the joyous flight of the clarinet. She whirled and kicked, let her skirt flare outrageously high, fell into the arms of her partner and sprang out again.
When they had danced for an hour or so Werner put on a slow tune. Frieda and Heinrich began dancing cheek to cheek. There was no one available whom Carla liked enough for slow dancing, so she left the room and went to get a Coke. Germany was not at war with America so Coca-Cola syrup was imported and bottled in Germany.
To her surprise, Werner followed her out, leaving someone else to put on records for a while. She was flattered that the most attractive man in the room wanted to talk to her.
She told him about Kurt being moved to Akelberg, and Werner said the same thing had happened to his brother, Axel, who was fifteen. Axel had been born with spina bifida. ‘Could the same treatment work for both of them?’ he said with a frown.
‘I doubt it, but I don’t really know,’ Carla said.
‘Why is it that medical men never explain what they’re doing?’ Werner said irritably.
She laughed humourlessly. ‘They think that if ordinary people understand medicine they won’t hero-worship doctors any longer.’
‘Same principle as a conjurer: it’s more impressive if you don’t know how it’s done,’ said Werner. ‘Doctors are as egocentric as anyone else.’
‘More so,’ said Carla. ‘As a nurse, I know.’
She told him about the leaflet she had read on the train. Werner said: ‘How did you feel about it?’
Carla hesitated. It was dangerous to speak honestly about such things. But she had known Werner all her life, he had always been left-wing, and he was a Swing Kid. She could trust him. She said: ‘I’m pleased someone is opposing the Nazis. It shows that not all Germans are paralysed by fear.’
‘There are lots of things you can do against the Nazis,’ he said quietly. ‘Not just wearing lipstick.’
She assumed he meant she could distribute such leaflets. Could he be involved in such activity? No, he was too much of a playboy. Heinrich might be different: he was very intense.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m too scared.’
They finished their Cokes and returned to the storeroom. It was packed, now, with hardly room enough to dance.
To Carla’s surprise, Werner asked her for the last dance. He put on Bing Crosby singing ‘Only Forever’. Carla was thrilled. He held her close and they swayed, rather than danced, to the slow ballad.
At the end, by tradition, someone turned off the light for a minute, so that couples could kiss. Carla was embarrassed: she had known Werner since they were children. But she had always been attracted to him, and now she turned her face up eagerly. As she had expected, he kissed her expertly, and she returned the kiss with enthusiasm. To her delight she felt his hand gently grasp her breast. She encouraged him by opening her mouth. Then the light came on and it was all over.
‘Well,’ she said breathlessly, ‘that was a surprise.’
He gave his most charming smile. ‘Perhaps I can surprise you again some time.’
(ii)
Carla was passing through the hall, on her way to the kitchen for breakfast, when the phone rang. She picked up the handset. ‘Carla von Ulrich.’
She heard Frieda’s voice. ‘Oh, Carla, my little brother’s dead!’
‘What?’ Carla could hardly believe it. ‘Frieda, I’m so sorry! Where did it happen?’
‘In that hospital.’ Frieda was sobbing.
Carla recalled Werner telling her that Axel had been sent to the same Akelberg hospital as Kurt. ‘How did he die?’
‘Appendicitis.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Carla was sad for her friend, but also suspicious. She had had a bad feeling when Professor Willrich spoke to them a month ago about the new treatment for Kurt. Had it been more experimental than he had let on? Could it have actually been dangerous? ‘Do you know any more?’
>
‘We just got a short letter. My father is enraged. He phoned the hospital but he wasn’t able to speak to the senior people.’
‘I’ll come round to your house. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
‘Thanks.’
Carla hung up and went into the kitchen. ‘Axel Franck has died at that hospital in Akelberg,’ she said.
Her father, Walter, was looking at the morning post. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Poor Monika.’ Carla recalled that Axel’s mother, Monika Franck, had once been in love with Walter, according to family legend. The look of concern on Walter’s face was so pained that Carla wondered if he had had a slight tendresse for Monika, despite being in love with Maud. How complicated love was.
Carla’s mother, who was now Monika’s best friend, said: ‘She must be devastated.’
Walter looked down at the post again and said in a tone of surprise: ‘Here’s a letter for Ada.’
The room went quiet.
Carla stared at the white envelope as Ada took it from Walter.
Ada did not receive many letters.
Erik was home – it was the last day of his short leave – so there were four people watching as Ada opened the envelope.
Carla held her breath.
Ada drew out a typed letter on headed paper. She read the message quickly, gasped, then screamed.
‘No!’ said Carla. ‘It can’t be!’
Maud jumped up and put her arms around Ada.
Walter took the letter from Ada’s fingers and read it. ‘Oh, dear, how terribly sad,’ he said. ‘Poor little Kurt.’ He put the paper down on the breakfast table.
Ada began to sob. ‘My little boy, my dear little boy, and he died without his mother – I can’t bear it!’
Carla fought back tears. She felt bewildered. ‘Axel and Kurt?’ she said. ‘At the same time?’
She picked up the letter. It was printed with the name of the hospital and its address in Akelberg. It read:
Dear Mrs Hempel,
I regret to inform you of the sad death of your son, Kurt Walter Hempel, age eight years. He passed away on 4 April at this hospital as a result of a burst appendix. Everything possible was done for him but to no avail. Please accept my deepest condolences.
It was signed by the Senior Physician.
Carla looked up. Her mother was sitting next to Ada, arm around her, holding her hand as she sobbed.
Carla was grief-stricken, but more alert than Ada. She spoke to her father in a shaky voice. ‘There’s something wrong.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Look again.’ She handed him the letter. ‘Appendicitis.’
‘What is the significance?’
‘Kurt had had his appendix removed.’
‘I remember,’ her father said. ‘He had an emergency operation, just after his sixth birthday.’
Carla’s sorrow was mixed with angry suspicion. Had Kurt been killed by a dangerous experiment which the hospital was now trying to cover up? ‘Why would they lie?’ she said.
Erik banged his fist on the table. ‘Why do you say it is a lie?’ he cried. ‘Why do you always accuse the establishment? This is obviously a mistake! Some typist has made a copying error!’
Carla was not so sure. ‘A typist working in a hospital is likely to know what an appendix is.’
Erik said furiously: ‘You will seize upon even this personal tragedy as a way of attacking those in authority!’
‘Be quiet, you two,’ said their father.
They looked at him. There was a new tone in his voice. ‘Erik may be right,’ he said. ‘If so, the hospital will be perfectly happy to answer questions and give further details of how Kurt and Axel died.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Erik.
Walter went on: ‘And if Carla is right, they will try to discourage inquiries, withhold information and intimidate the parents of the dead children by suggesting that their questions are somehow illegitimate.’
Erik looked less comfortable about that.
Half an hour ago Walter had been a shrunken man. Now somehow he seemed to fill his suit again. ‘We will find out as soon as we start asking questions.’
Carla said: ‘I’m going to see Frieda.’
Her mother said: ‘Don’t you have to go to work?’
‘I’m on the late shift.’
Carla phoned Frieda, told her that Kurt was dead too, and said she was coming to talk about it. She put on her coat, hat and gloves then wheeled her bicycle outside. She was a fast rider and it took her only a quarter of an hour to get to the Francks’ villa in Schöneberg.
The butler let her in and told her the family were still in the dining room. As soon as she walked in, Frieda’s father, Ludwig Franck, bellowed at her: ‘What did they tell you at the Wannsee Children’s Home?’
Carla did not much like Ludwig. He was a right-wing bully and he had supported the Nazis in the early days. Perhaps he had changed his views: many businessmen had, by now, though they showed little sign of the humility that ought to go with having been so wrong.
She did not answer immediately. She sat down at the table and looked at the family: Ludwig, Monika, Werner and Frieda, and the butler hovering in the background. She collected her thoughts.
‘Come on, girl, answer me!’ Ludwig demanded. He had in his hand a letter that looked very like Ada’s, and he was waving it angrily.
Monika put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Take it easy, Ludi.’
‘I want to know!’ he said.
Carla looked at his pink face and little black moustache. He was in an agony of grief, she saw. In other circumstances she would have refused to speak to someone so rude. But he had an excuse for his bad manners, and she decided to overlook them. ‘The Director, Professor Willrich, told us there was a new treatment for Kurt’s condition.’
‘The same as he told us,’ said Ludwig. ‘What kind of treatment?’
‘I asked him that question. He said I would not be able to understand it. I persisted, and he said it involved drugs, but he did not give any further information. May I see your letter, Herr Franck?’
Ludwig’s expression said he was the one who should be asking questions; but he handed the sheet of paper to Carla.
It was exactly the same as Ada’s, and Carla had a queer feeling that the typist had done several of them, just changing the names.
Franck said: ‘How can two boys have died of appendicitis at the same time? It’s not a contagious illness.’
Carla said: ‘Kurt certainly did not die of appendicitis, for he had no appendix. It was removed two years ago.’
‘Right,’ said Ludwig. ‘That’s enough talk.’ He snatched the letter from Carla’s hand. ‘I’m going to see someone in the government about this.’ He went out.
Monika followed him, and so did the butler.
Carla went over to Frieda and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Frieda whispered.
Carla went to Werner. He stood up and put his arms around her. She felt a tear fall on her forehead. She was gripped by she did not know what intense emotion. Her heart was full of grief, yet she thrilled to the pressure of his body against hers, and the gentle touch of his hands.
After a long moment Werner stepped back. He said angrily: ‘My father has phoned the hospital twice. The second time, they told him they had no more information and hung up on him. But I’m going to find out what happened to my brother, and I won’t be brushed off.’
Frieda said: ‘Finding out won’t bring him back.’
‘I still want to know. If necessary, I’ll go to Akelberg.’
Carla said: ‘I wonder if there’s anyone in Berlin who could help us.’
‘It would have to be someone in the government,’ Werner said.
Frieda said: ‘Heinrich’s father is in the government.’
Werner snapped his fingers. ‘The very man. He used to belong to the Centre Party, but he’s a Nazi now, and something import
ant in the Foreign Office.’
Carla said: ‘Will Heinrich take us to see him?’
‘He will if Frieda asks him,’ said Werner. ‘Heinrich will do anything for Frieda.’
Carla could believe that. Heinrich had always been intense about everything he did.
‘I’ll phone him now,’ said Frieda.
She went into the hall, and Carla and Werner sat down side by side. He put his arm around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She did not know whether these signs of affection were merely a side-effect of the tragedy, or something more.
Frieda came back in and said: ‘Heinrich’s father will see us right away if we go over there now.’
They all got into Werner’s sports car, squeezing on to the front seat. ‘I don’t know how you keep this car going,’ Frieda said as he pulled away. ‘Even Father can’t get petrol for private use.’
‘I tell my boss it’s for official business,’ he said. Werner worked for an important general. ‘But I don’t know how much longer I can get away with it.’
The von Kessel family lived in the same suburb. Werner drove there in five minutes.
The house was luxurious, though smaller than the Francks’. Heinrich met them at the door and showed them into a living room with leather-bound books and an old German woodcarving of an eagle.
Frieda kissed him. ‘Thank you for doing this,’ she said. ‘It probably wasn’t easy – I know you don’t get on so well with your father.’
Heinrich beamed with pleasure.
His mother brought them coffee and cake. She seemed a warm, simple person. When she had served them she left, like a maid.
Heinrich’s father, Gottfried, came in. He had the same thick straight hair, but it was silver instead of black.
Heinrich said: ‘Father, here are Werner and Frieda Franck, whose father manufactures People’s Radios.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Gottfried. ‘I have seen your father in the Herrenklub.’
‘And this is Carla von Ulrich – I believe you know her father, too.’
