by Derek Hansen
Initially, the SS had been the sole foundation for his plans. They rewarded those whose loyalty was unswerving and whose ruthlessness was absolute in the service of the Führer. They also rewarded those with street cunning and in this attribute Dietrich’s credentials were among the best. A successful career in the SS was assured. But Dietrich wanted more. Yes, one day he might make Hauptsturmführer but he had his sights set on loftier ranks. After all, hadn’t the Führer himself once been a humble corporal? SS-Captain was not enough for him. Oberführer or Brigadeführer better fitted his aspirations. But he needed help to get there. He needed patronage, influence and wealth. He needed Christiane.
Meeting her had been no accident. Even if she’d had a face like the working part of a pig’s backside he would have asked her to dance. Or, if not her, someone equally pedigreed. Christiane had matched his criteria perfectly. Her family was not so wealthy that she would dismiss a junior Lieutenant out of hand, nor her father so senior that his plans would be obvious. She was well connected. It had taken no time at all to discover the existence of Uncle Gottfried and his exalted rank. She was also young, beautiful and childishly naïve. She was putty in his hands.
He loathed opera and cursed the day that Richard Wagner was born. But at least opera had some semblance of a plot, however ridiculous. He was at a total loss to know why people paid to sit down and listen to an orchestra. Dietrich could imagine nothing more stupefyingly boring. At first he had agreed to escort Christiane because it was necessary to foster their relationship. Yet Dietrich soon realised that an apparent knowledge and appreciation of German culture could be more important to his aspirations than proficiency with weapons. Suddenly he found himself rubbing shoulders with generals, leading politicians and captains of industry. How could they not notice him and speculate upon his contacts? After all, he and Christiane were by far the most attractive couple there, a glowing tribute to the future of the German people. If the subtleties of opera eluded him, the potential of these evenings did not. He kept a record of every notable and influential person he met. He learned how to conduct himself and, more importantly, the art of saying precisely what his peers wanted him to say.
So he expanded the foundations upon which he would build his career to include Christiane and the Schiller family. He began to pay her the little courtesies and compliments he’d learned by observing others. He went out of his way to see her whenever he was off duty. And, instead of waiting for Christiane to take the initiative, surprised her by buying tickets to hear the Staatskapelle Dresden, the Semper Opera Orchestra, and to performances by the choir of the Kreuzschule. He could see that Christiane interpreted this latest development not only as a burgeoning appreciation of the arts, but as clear evidence of the fact that he loved her as much as she loved him. He even began to respond to her lessons in elocution. Ah! If only everything in life could be as simple!
He courted her parents as diligently, though less successfully. Her mother, Clara, seemed to like him well enough but he could see that her opinion counted for little. Herr Schiller was another matter. He was courteous as expected, but cool and distant. The only approval he’d ever won from him was when he’d announced his promotion to Obersturmführer—full Lieutenant—following the first demonstration he’d led against the Jews.
But Dietrich had inherited his father’s persistence and he persevered. One day Carl Schiller would have to face the fact that his daughter was in love with him. He couldn’t help but notice. She could hardly stop smiling and radiated happiness. Even the Semper Picture Gallery’s most prized exhibit, Raphael’s Sistine Madonna, paled in her presence. In the meantime, Dietrich pretended to enjoy the tiresomely formal dinners at Prager Strasse where he was clearly out of his depth. Little by little, they drifted inevitably along the path towards marriage.
Throughout it all, Dietrich made no attempt to sleep with Christiane and their embraces, though warm and genuine, had none of the fire and passion he showed with his whores. Often he could hardly wait to bid his love farewell, before dashing off to the beer cellars to join his comrades in their drinking and whoring. Ambition was one thing, but he still had to get on with the business of living.
For Christiane the warm embraces were enough though, in truth, she’d had few other experiences to compare them with. She was in love—a hopelessly naïve and impossibly idealised form of love. Dietrich was her gallant knight and she his pure, virginal lady. She forgave him his accent and the fact that his wit was either absent or obvious. It was a romance straight from the pages of a storybook and bore little relationship to reality. She forgot about the other young officer Uncle Gottfried had introduced her to, and the little fantasies she’d briefly entertained with him as the centrepiece. Christiane was evidence that true love is not only blinkered but often hopelessly blind.
But fate intervened just as their relationship was gathering momentum. Hitler found another use for Dietrich and his brethren. On 12 March 1938, the day before the plebiscite which would determine whether Austria joined the Reich or not, the Führer exercised his will over the democratic processes. His troops marched into Austria with the tallest, strongest and fairest to the fore, living proof of the superiority of the German race, the master race which would unite all German-speaking people. For Dietrich Schmidt, it was the proudest moment of his life. Perhaps it was the significance of the occasion or the enthusiasm with which he performed his duties, that caused him to overlook the obvious. Whatever his reasons, it never occurred to him to write a letter to Christiane.
Chapter Ten
Dietrich Schmidt was correct in his belief that not everyone in the Schiller family was as enamoured of him as Christiane. There were things about him that Carl Schiller found disquieting. Unquestionably, Dietrich was a product of the times, one of the automatons Gottfried had spoken of. His opinions weren’t his own but reflected hard-line Party attitudes. In his heart Carl could not believe that Dietrich was the right man for his daughter. She was subtle, clever and sensitive, he the reverse. Dear God, the young fool spoke in slogans! Apart from his obvious good looks, what on earth did his daughter see in him?
Other thoughts troubled him. He was well aware of the persecution of the Jews and the role of the SS. He had no sympathy for the Jews but some of the stories he’d heard had disgusted him. Surely the Jews could just be arrested in an orderly fashion and taken to wherever it was they went? Was this other business really necessary? Carl Schiller knew that Dietrich could not have escaped involvement, indeed, he had to have been involved. In Carl’s mind, a thug was a thug even if he was a German thug, and that was not the sort of person he wanted his daughter to marry. But what could he do? What reason did he have to caution her against their growing friendship? And even if he did, would that not have the reverse effect? He could order her to stop seeing Dietrich and he knew that she would obey. But he was reluctant to take that step. Better to let things run their course. His daughter was too clever. Sooner or later she would realise how unsuited they were.
But as time passed and Dietrich’s position in his daughter’s affections achieved a sense of permanence, his despair grew. He’d allowed the relationship to run too long and was reluctant to call a halt. When Dietrich was dispatched to Austria, he seized the opportunity to try to entice her out to the theatre and opera where he could arrange for her to meet other young officers. But she refused all his entreaties. Having farewelled her gallant knight, she patiently and loyally settled down to await his return. She felt it improper to go out and enjoy herself while the man she loved was away on duty. The only times she left the house were when she went to work. The rest of the time she floated around lovelorn and infuriatingly virtuous, until Carl could stand it no longer. At dinner time he made his announcement.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘I have decided we will spend the weekend at Little Pillnitz. We need some fresh air, you especially Christiane. We will go fishing. Yes, Christiane, before you object, you will come fishing with us, too.’
‘Bu
t Daddy …’
‘Yes, you too, Christiane. We will pack and leave tonight. I am tired of your moping around here. So is your mother and your brother and sisters. It’s time you pulled yourself together and took stock of things.’
Christiane bowed her head, martyred by authority.
‘If your young man has written to you, his letter will be here waiting on our return. He knows the address. The question I’m tempted to ask is, does he know how to write?’
‘Oh Daddy, that’s unfair! How could you?’
Christiane rose from the table and fled in tears. Her father shook his head. He’d gone too far and he knew it. Still, what had been said was said and there was no changing that. Probably do more good than harm. He turned to his wife.
‘Go to her, Clara. Help her pack. Tell her I apologise for my remark but I haven’t changed my mind.’
The moment his wife left the room his son and daughters began to giggle. His son looked up at him mischievously.
‘Well, Father? Do you think he knows how to write?’
Carl Schiller looked steadily at his young son. This was normally a prelude to a scolding and, Lord knows, the little upstart deserved it for his impertinence. Instead he began to smile and that was enough. His son and daughters burst out laughing. There was no way Christiane could not have heard.
Saturday dawned the sort of day that renews life in those weary of the long, cold, German winter, even though the hills of the Elbe valley protect Dresdeners from the worst of it. True, the trees looked skeletal against the soaring blue of the sky, but anyone who took the time to observe more closely could see the tinge of green where new leaves budded.
This first breath of spring even worked its magic on Christiane. She’d been quite prepared to sulk and make life miserable for all around her, but on this crisp, clear morning she couldn’t work up the heart for it. Her father’s remark had cut her to the quick. But the fact remained, she’d received no letters from Dietrich even though three weeks had passed. Why didn’t he write? She decided to be stoic and put up a brave front, which suited her mood far better. Besides she was quite looking forward to wetting a fly, despite her earlier protestations.
Knowing how cold it would be, particularly if the wind came up, she changed into the heavy winter underwear she kept for fishing, the fine, high-necked, inner pullover and heavy twill trousers. She pulled her slippers on over the thick socks, threw her heavy-knit pullover across her shoulder, and went downstairs to join the rest of her family for breakfast.
As soon as her father saw her, his face lit up. He had been certain she’d be in one of her moods, but there she was, dressed and ready for action. He didn’t question why, for the mental processes of the female of the species never ceased to leave him bewildered. He merely accepted that she’d changed and that the change was for the better. He rose from his chair to greet her and kissed both her cheeks.
‘Ah, Christiane, it will be like old times! I hope you haven’t given away all of our flies to Uncle Gottfried.’
‘Not at all. I keep the best ones for fishing. They can’t catch trout when they’re in glass cases. Ah … Plinsen!’ Her mother handed her a plate of buckwheat pancakes flavoured with lemon rind and sour cream, and covered with a sugar beet syrup. Christiane knew she was supposed to be serene and distant but the morning, the hot pancakes and her father’s excitement made a mockery of her intentions.
‘We should have got up before dawn for the early rise,’ said her brother.
‘Ernst, there is no fish in the world worth getting up for that early or getting that cold for.’ She put her head back and laughed. Her family looked at her astonished. It was a sound they hadn’t heard for months.
Carl, Christiane and Ernst set off immediately after breakfast, their boots crunching on the frost wherever the pastures were still in shadow. Cows had wandered out from their overnight shelters and watched suspiciously as they passed by. Jonquils had popped up among the scattering of mushrooms that Lisl would soon gather, relishing the sun and the vindication of their early appearance. As they neared the stream they could see swifts and housemartins engaged in aerial combat as they banked and dived in pursuit of winged insects. It was a good sign. They paused just short of the bank so their shadows wouldn’t fall over the water and spook the fish, if any happened to be nearby.
Carl and Ernst elected to move further upstream where the trunk of a fallen beech had partially blocked the stream and caused a pool to form. Ernst, who was the least experienced and least accurate, needed the extra room to cast. Christiane liked to fish where the stream narrowed and the water flowed fastest. Often little pools formed around underwater obstacles and sometimes trout waited in these for food to wash down to them, or hid beneath the overhanging banks.
She chose a caddis, a tiny fly the colour of a muddy puddle. Then moving upstream she cast back into the flow. As the adult caddis fly hatches on the surface of the water it swims against the current, using it to help peel off its larval shroud. Delicately she worked the fly upstream. Nothing. She cast again. Nothing. She shortened her cast where the water swirled around an underwater snag. Again nothing. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. She became totally absorbed in the pursuit of her quarry and the execution of her skills. She slowly began to work her way further upstream. Casting, retrieving, casting again. She saw the splash before she felt the trout hit. In the instant that trout take to crush insects between their tongue and the roof of their mouth, Christiane struck and the tiny hook sank home.
The fish fought hard but the force it opposed was irresistible. Christiane was patient, allowing the spring of her rod to do the work, and slowly drew the tiring trout towards her. She waited until it rolled over onto its side exhausted, before slipping her net beneath it. She was elated. The trout wasn’t particularly large but neither was it so small that it was best returned to the stream. It was lunch for one but, more than that, it was proof that she hadn’t lost her touch. She slipped it into her bag and prepared to catch another. She caught two more worthy of keeping before she became aware of her father and brother heading back towards her. Startled, she looked at her watch. It was almost lunchtime! Where had all the time gone?
Her father had caught five but Ernst had caught the biggest, and wanted to talk about nothing else. Christiane listened as he prattled on, describing the fight in more detail than even the most enthusiastic angler wants to hear. What a glorious day! There wasn’t a cloud in the sky nor, it appeared, over the horizon. There wasn’t even a hint of breeze and the sun had seized the opportunity to return some warmth to the soil.
‘I think you’d better save your story,’ said her father suddenly. ‘You’ll only have to repeat it. That looks like Gottfried’s car.’
Christiane looked over to the house and sure enough a black Mercedes tourer was parked in front of it. Uncle Gottfried! The day just kept getting better. Perhaps she could take him fishing later, once her feet had had a chance to warm up. And her face. It always surprised her how cold she got when she was fishing. She never noticed it at the time.
She gave her trout to Ernst to clean on the bench by the back door, and took his rod and tackle from him. It was one of her father’s mandates that fish had to be cleaned and equipment dried and put away before anything else could take place. She happily took care of the rods because, as much as she liked catching fish, she loathed cleaning them.
The sun still hadn’t reached the outbuilding where they kept their fishing gear and gardening equipment, and Christiane felt the chill seep through to her bones. She worked quickly with practised hands, eager to get to the kitchen and bathe in its warmth. She kicked her boots off at the door and removed her jacket. With her knitted hat still on her head, scarf around her neck, and slippers on her feet, she entered.
‘Good morning. You are more beautiful than I remembered.’
She spun around. It was the young Hauptmann. The infernal man had a genius for embarrassing her! Her two silly sisters were standing either sid
e of him grinning foolishly.
‘Forgive me for greeting you like this, but I have volunteered to help your charming sisters make bread. Actually it is an excuse to stand in the kitchen. After driving from Berlin with your uncle, there is only one place I want to be, and that is wherever it is warmest.’
‘Welcome to our humble kitchen, Captain. I’m sure my two sisters will keep you entertained. If you’ll excuse me.’ Christiane hurried to her room. Why was it, she wondered, that clothes for fishing can look so beautiful and elegant in magazines, yet so agricultural when worn? She pondered upon this when she should have been asking herself other questions. She should have asked herself why it mattered what clothes the Captain saw her in. And, more importantly, why she felt her embarrassment so deeply.
She changed and took time to tidy herself up. She teased up her hair where her hat had flattened it, but nothing could bring colour back to her cheeks or life to her frozen feet. There was no doubt about it. There was no way a woman could ever feel beautiful when her feet were cold. She planned to make an entrance right on mealtime to avoid getting caught in conversation with the Captain before she was ready for him. But first she had to get warm. Should she risk the kitchen or join her father and uncle in the study? Perhaps the Captain had already returned to the study. She chose the kitchen. The Captain was right. It was by far the warmest room in the house.
