Becker said it with an enticing smile, as if it were true, but Hilde only saw the hate, the cruelty, and the sadism in his eyes. The very things she’d suffered from in those past three weeks. Something snapped in her.
“I will tell you nothing! You have destroyed my life, taken me away from my children, beaten and abused me when I knew nothing about my husband’s intelligence work. What makes you think I will believe you now? You…you…evil…” …bastard.
As she thought the swear word, she instinctively ducked from the expected beating. But nothing happened. When Hilde looked up again, Becker was grinning from ear to ear, applauding her outburst.
“Are you done?” he asked, which only served to fuel the fire burning within her soul.
“No.” She slammed her fist on the table, raising her voice, “I want to go home. I’m innocent. My children need me.”
Kriminalkommissar Becker crossed his arms over his chest. “There is a way you can go home. Tell me what you know.”
“I…know…nothing!” In her rage, she shoved the chair, knocking it over on its side. She paused as silence filled the room, sure this would have consequences.
Becker, though, seemed to be satisfied by witnessing her state of complete breakdown and ordered someone to take her back to her cell. There, she sank down onto the cold floor, pulled out the letter, and cried for a long time.
Chapter 10
For two long days, Q had been trying to come to terms with his death sentence. He’d assumed his life was forfeit the minute he’d been arrested. That assumption had now been confirmed in a secretive trial before a Nazi judge. And despite having expected the outcome, it still had hit him in the bowels. The look of agony on Hilde’s face when he’d glanced into her eyes one last time!
Will I ever see her again? Or my sons?
Fear gripped him harder with every passing minute. It wasn’t so much the fear of death, because his rational brain understood it would be quick and rather painless. What had him in tight knots was what might come before that last breath.
Kriminalkommissar Becker had more than once stated how enraged Hitler himself was at Q’s audacity to collaborate with the enemy and plan an assassination attempt on Goebbels. He’d never been shy with hints on what else his brutes had in store for uncooperative prisoners.
In the solitude of his death cell, Q’s mind went down a dangerous path, envisioning and recalling the most appalling rumors he’d heard over the last years. Now that his trial was over, he’d never be shown in public again. What reason did the Gestapo have to keep him in one piece?
Terror took up every last cell in his body until he made a momentous decision. If he were going to die anyway, it would be on his own terms, by his own hand. Once he made the decision, he felt a peace and calm settle in his spirit. It would be his last act of defiance against this evil regime. With the prospect of agonizing torture, it was an easy, almost joyful task to plan his own demise.
The sun set and the guards distributed what they called food. Q all but grinned at them, in the certainty that he’d never see their abhorred faces again. He waited until everything grew quiet beyond the doors of his cell. It was the perfect time. Nobody would make the rounds until morning.
He removed his glasses and broke them into pieces. Then he slipped beneath the wool blanket, the shards of glass clutched in his fingers. Q closed his eyes and thought of Hilde and his two little boys, and he almost lost his courage to go through with his plan.
Please forgive me.
He pressed the shard of glass against his left wrist. The pain was slight, the rush of blood over his fingers warm and calming. After he slashed his right wrist, he waited for the inevitable to happen as he sensed his very life seeping into the mattress beneath him.
***
“Wilhelm Quedlin! Aufstehen! Augen auf!”
Q was floating on a cloud, looking down at the tiny city of Berlin, when a voice repeatedly insisted he open his eyes and stand up. He ignored the pesky voice, but it wouldn’t shut up. Then hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
“Er lebt.” He’s alive.
How disappointing, Q thought and finally opened his eyes. Same cell. Same guards. Only this time, they were actually trying to save his life. Stupid bastards. Let me die. They wrapped his wrists with pieces of cloth, and fuzzy snippets of conversation reached his brain.
They pulled him from the mattress and attempted to get him to stand, but he’d lost too much blood, or not enough. He sank down to his knees, wavering like a tree in the storm.
“Take him to the hospital,” someone said.
Q let everything happen to him like a puppet on a string, unable to move or talk. He was thrown onto a flat board and deposited in the back of an ambulance. A wave of nausea assailed him as the ambulance rushed off with the sirens wailing.
The drive to the prison hospital, Alt Moabit, didn’t take long, and he was carried into the hospital ward. A stern-faced nurse and a physician examined his wounds and stitched the torn flesh of his wrists back together.
“Stupid man,” the nurse said with a scowl. “You’re lucky you didn’t die.”
Q’s voice wouldn’t work, or he would’ve told her how unlucky he was.
He was wheeled into a tiny cell with a large window in the center of the wall, but he couldn’t get up to look outside. As punishment for his attempt to take his own life, he was held in solitary confinement, wearing leather mittens, and tied to his bed so he wouldn’t do something stupid again. The nurses fed him the minuscule half-rations, and for the rest of the day, he was alone with his thoughts. Nothing to occupy his mind. Nobody to talk to. No books to read. Nothing.
Q almost chuckled at the irony of fate. The same people who had sentenced him to death wouldn’t let him commit suicide. No, even his death had to be on their terms.
For most of the time, Q floated in a cloud of haze, trying to escape reality by solving mathematical puzzles, but not even his brain worked the way it was supposed to. The itching and burning wounds reminded him of his desolate situation, and the leather mittens over his hands made things worse.
The slashes didn’t heal properly, and in the following days, the physician had to re-open the wounds twice to drain the infection from them. By the second day, copious amounts of suppuration soaked through his bandages. The young nurse gave him a wary smile before she exchanged his bandages. What she saw must have been awful because a look of horror crossed her face, and she hurried away to call the doctor.
After some consultation, they agreed to give Q penicillin.
“You shouldn’t waste your precious penicillin on a man condemned to death,” Q argued, but nobody took notice of him.
He slipped into a state of despondency; the infection, the constant hunger, and the boredom were taking a toll on his body and soul. As he lay in his bed, hour upon hour, without books or any form of human interaction aside from the nurses twice a day, his mind began to unravel. It circled in a downward spiral.
Hilde.
His sons.
Gerald’s betrayal.
His imminent death.
When will they come for me? How will I die? By firing squad? By guillotine?
Chapter 11
Hilde had finally been allowed to write a letter and was given a few sheets of paper and pen and ink. She stared at the blank pages for the longest time, thinking of her beloved family and wondering how Volker was adjusting to his new life with his grandparents in Hamburg.
Her father, Carl, had just turned fifty-seven years old, and she constantly worried about his health. Mother Emma… she smiled at the name. She had never called her stepmother “Mother” until Volker was born and Hilde became a mother herself. It was only then that she started to understand, and their relationship had improved.
She envisioned her half-sisters, twenty-one-year-old Julia and seventeen-year-old Sophie. Hilde wondered how much they had changed since she last saw them. There was so much she wanted to know. So much she wanted to say
. But she was afraid of who else might read every word. Hilde sighed, and a tear fell as she began to write…
My dear Mother and Father,
Finally, I’m allowed to write. You were probably very scared when you received the news. I am fine, as far as one can be fine in my situation. Except for the horrific thoughts that follow me day and night.
Pappa, please take my best wishes for your birthday, even though they come late. I wish you, from my deepest heart, love and all the best for the new year of your life; above all, health. You know you are supposed to relax and not work so much.
Was Volker already with you for your birthday? You are now allowed to write me whenever you want. I believe you will be given the address you must write to. As you know, all letters will be read by the appropriate officials first.
I don’t know anything about you and the children. Please write me about your lives. I miss you all so much. I only know that Volker is in Hamburg with you. I hope he is fine, at least I have wished so.
I hope he is not too much of a burden for you, dear Mother Emma, now that both of your daughters are also back to living with you. As long as Julia is not working, I hope she can help you, and the little boy gives you some pleasure and not only work.
We had been so looking forward to our first Christmas at home. The first time with our own Christmas tree, and also the first time with two children. How many Christmas holidays have we spent with you? Little Volker will think this celebration exists only at your place.
It consoles me that he will believe it is a good custom and not some rupture in his life, and that he doesn’t have to be somewhere with strange people and strange children.
Thankfully, Mother Annie agreed to take care of my sons when I was arrested, but I haven’t seen or heard from her and have no idea how Peter is. There is so much I’d like to know. I was supposed to be allowed a visit from her a while ago, but nothing happened.
Was Julia in Berlin, and was it she who took Volker with her to Hamburg? I’m longing to know the details of his trip.
It was a true stroke of fortune, in my misfortune, that I finished sewing Volker’s winter coat. I finished it on Friday, and Monday, November 30, was my unlucky day.
Hilde jumped when a guard yelled her name. She set down the pen and stood, her legs shaky beneath her. But he was only there to tell her she’d be transferred to a regular prison the next day.
“Pack your things and be ready,” he yelled at her.
Which things? Hilde wanted to ask. She possessed nothing except the clothes she was wearing and the letter from Ingrid. She’d been wearing those same clothes continuously since the day she’d been arrested more than three weeks ago, except for the two times she’d been stripped bare by her interrogators. Hilde stiffened at the memory.
It took several minutes until she was able to pick up her pen again. With a heavy heart, she continued to write…
When I finished the coat, I even told Q that if I were to die now, at least he had a memory of me, and that he would have to remind Volker that his mother loved him enough to spend many day and night hours making it especially for him.
I really said it as a joke. I had no idea what a horrible fate was already hovering over us.
But now, when he wears his winter coat, you can remind him of his mother. I hope he doesn’t forget me and doesn’t endure the same fate I did when I was his age. I still remember, as if it was yesterday, living with always-changing relatives.
Not that they treated me badly, but I always knew that my mother didn’t want me, and I longed to be back in my parental home. Knowing that the name of my mother was never mentioned, would be fearfully avoided, didn’t make things better. Volker should know that I’m still here, and that I always think about him, and I hope deep in my soul that I will soon be together with him again.
If you have some, please show him pictures of me. Believe me, it will be solace for him even when he doesn’t seem to be unhappy. Seeing pictures of his mother will help him remember me and keep our close relationship.
And he should not forget his little brother either. He shall know that he and Peter belong together always. Volker, despite his almost three years, is not a mindless child anymore, and I want him to stay so thoughtful.
We have always talked with him as if he was an adult, and his daddy has often said that he is a complete person. And now this complete person’s life has changed a great deal. He had to give up those painting lessons with Auntie Stein, those he liked so much. Maybe you can write her a letter and have Volker paint something for her; she will be so happy.
He had to leave the kindergarten where they just started with the advent celebrations and the Christmas carols and the other children of his age with whom he played so nicely. I’m sure he will also miss the nice little garden where he spent many hours a day outside.
I hope so much that all this he can have back very soon. Please do not misunderstand me; I know he is treated well by you, better than anywhere else except with me. And this is the reason why I want Volker to stay with you. Peter is, thank God, too small to comprehend all this. But it is even harder for me to leave him at this cute age.
All the joy he brought to my heart, every moment I spent with him. Oh God, it is so hard, but still not the hardest thing to do.
Hilde could not go on. Her shoulders shook too hard for her to continue writing. And even if she had been steady, she wouldn’t have been able to see the paper through the blur of tears. She missed her children so badly. She was so afraid for them. For Q. For herself.
Christmas was in two days, but saving a miracle, she’d spend it in prison. Alone.
Amidst total darkness and desolation, she spotted the smallest silver lining. Tomorrow, she would leave the awful Gestapo headquarters behind and be transferred to a normal prison. A place without constant interrogations. A place where prisoners were treated like human beings. A place where she might be allowed clean clothes and a shower.
A shower! After three weeks in this hellhole, her clothes were covered in dried blood, dirt, and sweat. Mold and stench oozed from every thread.
Hilde curled up on the hard cot and fell into a nightmarish sleep. In that horrid place, it wouldn’t take her mind long to slip into madness. It wasn’t until morning that she felt steady enough to finish her letter.
You cannot imagine with how many tears I’m writing this letter. My first letter in this dreadful time of my life.
I can only write about my children because I have focused all my thoughts on them to help me in the darkest hours. Thinking of them warms my heart, but sometimes makes all of this so much more painful.
But I also know, and this has given me consolation, that with you and Pappa, I will always have support. And that you will not be the only ones.
Now I must talk about the reason for my letter, the instructions on how to handle Volker. It is natural that he has to be integrated into your way of life, but I must warn that he wakes up very early, around seven. If with you, he wakes up earlier, then he will have his naptime earlier as well and go to bed earlier in the evening.
My biggest wish in that regard is that he continues his naptime. He still needs it. At our house, he sleeps at least two hours and is still able to fall asleep immediately in the evening.
But he needs quiet and darkness when he is supposed to sleep, especially during the day. If he doesn’t sleep, it’s because he hasn’t had enough exercise, especially outdoors.
My second wish is that he plays a lot outside, even if it rains. We have always played many hours outside, and I used to also let him play alone. It is my explicit wish, and he is used to doing so. Volker knows he’s not supposed to step on the street. I have actually had to beat him two times because he did so. The second time, I hit him with a stick, the only time ever. He was seriously scolded and then spent half a day locked in a room.
But he had only followed other children; alone, he wouldn’t have run onto the street. If he does the same thing at your place,
I ask you to be as strict as I was because this is vitally important.
I grant my permission for you to give him a good smacking so he knows this is not just an empty threat when he doesn’t do what you tell him. I’m sure it will work, but you have to be rigid and not grandmotherly. Because now you must replace his strict mother.
I will ask Mother Annie to send you his handcart to play outside, as well as the sleigh he received last Christmas to keep him occupied. When it gets colder, he will need winter shoes because those from last year will not fit anymore. Mother Annie will have to apply for them.
I already applied for a pair of slippers for him. You should have received the ration coupon by now. All of this you will need to coordinate with Mother Annie. Give Volker gloves, scarf, etc. for playing outside.
I would love it if you could let him paint as often as he wants. Maybe you can help him with this. He loves painting.
Next, I must talk to you about nutrition. You know how badly sick Volker was and how long it took to recover from his stomach sickness. Therefore, please excuse me if I am very thorough about his nutrition because I do not want you to have the same problems with him again.
Hilde found great comfort in writing her son’s daily requirements down, knowing this was the only motherly thing she could do for him right then. She guided Mother Emma on the foods he could eat and how often, letting her know what settled well on his stomach and what proved to upset it. When Volker turned three, he would get additional coupons for the extra nourishment the child needed. She hoped Emma and her father wouldn’t be financially burdened by any of this.
Hilde wracked her brain trying to think of anything she had forgotten. She hated burdening Mother Emma with so many instructions, but what else could she do? She couldn’t be a mother to her son right now, so all that was left was to mother as best as she could from afar.
When she was certain that she had covered everything, she rushed to finish the letter so it could be on its way to her beloved family…
Unwavering: Love and Resistance in WW2 Germany Page 5
