‘Well done fella! Well done!’ Peter said.
Picking the girl and blanket up, Peter cradled her in his arms and began walking away, before anyone could see what he was doing. He carried her easily for she was very underweight.
Although they had long since stopped taking anyone to the apartment, this was different. Without any discussion Peter knew that Franz was in agreement.
Back at the apartment the bundle including the small child was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a warm blanket. She had been bathed in very hot water and some of the colour had returned to her cheeks. Lotte had held her close to her chest and having warmed her, managed to feed her some soup. The child had not spoken a word and was sleeping, at times fitfully. Her tiny overcoat was on the chair next to her with threads hanging from one lapel where Lotte had torn off the Jewish Star in disgust.
‘What sort of person tattoos a number on a child’s arm?’ she asked.
For the first time ever her friends had seen her really incensed. Lotte had bathed the young girl and was dumbstruck when she had come across the long series of numbers tattooed on the child’s forearm. Until this point the horrors of war had largely passed her by. Of course she had heard Franz’s horrible tale and all the details of Peter’s survival. She knew of terrible acts perpetrated by the regime from many of the very people she had helped to rescue. All of this she had managed to put to the back of her mind, as much for her own sanity as for any other reason. This was different. This one act of mutilation to a girl so young and innocent had a profound effect on her.
After nursing the young visitor most of the evening, Lotte placed her in her own bed and took up position in a chair by the bedside, wrapped in a horsehair blanket.
When Lotte woke the following morning she leaned forward to examine the patient. ‘She’s gone!’ Lotte said anxiously.
Throwing the blanket from her shoulders she rushed out to the sitting room. Her young charge was standing in front of the Christmas tree holding Peter’s hand. She was looking at the gingerbread men and the chocolate bells.
‘In a few days you will be able to eat them. When Father Christmas has been.’ Peter was crouched down with his head touching hers as he spoke. Next to both of them lay Wolfi. Lotte was pleased as the only real reaction they had observed from the girl was to try and hide when Wolfi had approached. Now she was wedged against him with his head resting on her foot.
The first full day with the girl was spent trying to encourage her to talk and disclose her name. As yet no-one had heard her speak and it was to be another full day before she uttered a word. Her means of communication was to nod or shake her head.
She was very underweight and pale looking. Her black curly hair flopped over her forehead and her dark eyes radiated sadness. It was difficult to guess her age as she was so small, but she could clearly understand what was being said to her.
For all the adults, the first full meal that she ate on her own gave them great pleasure. It was only a vegetable soup, thickened with flour and served with bread and a little cheese. As she ate she looked around her in all directions, as if expecting someone to steal it. Lotte constantly reassured her.
‘Don’t worry my darling. No-one is going to take it away,’ she repeated over and over. Still the young girl looked around her.
Once she had eaten the girl wandered around the apartment, taking in her surroundings. She had big dark eyes which widened when she saw something unfamiliar or impressive. When eventually she did speak it was to say just one word ‘telephone’.
Lotte tried to encourage her to say more. It was to be another twenty-four hours until any new words were forthcoming. That evening Lotte tucked her up in her own bed once more and kissed her on the forehead. Within minutes her small chest was rising up and down and she entered into a deep sleep.
The following day they made much better progress. The girl ate very well but still looked around her suspiciously. When she had finished breakfast, Lotte tried to ascertain her name.
‘I am Lotte. That is Peter and that is Franz,’ she said, pointing at each in turn. ‘And that man there is the Professor.’ As she said the word ‘Professor’, the little girl looked very intrigued and replied with a single word ‘Papa’.
The next major advance did not take long to follow. ‘What are you called, little one?’ the Professor prompted.
‘I am called Hannah and I am five years old.’
Over the next few days Hannah grew stronger and more curious. As her trust grew in her surroundings so did her gregariousness. Unsurprisingly she knew little of how she had come to be on the bridge and had obviously blocked out memories of whatever camp she had been in or how she had been rescued from it.
‘It’s probably for the best,’ the Professor consoled them.
Five days after little Hannah’s arrival it was Christmas Eve. The apartment was almost as lively as the pre-war and pre-Nazi years. There was Lotte, the Professor, Peter, Franz and Wolfi and Herr Riesen with his two children. And of course Hannah. Despite being considerably older, the violinist’s children played noisily with the new guest.
When they sat down to eat it was a real feast. Lotte had spent a fortune on the black market. All the traditional favourites were there as well as the promised carp with three different types of vegetables. For pudding they had a real Stollen, a special German Christmas cake, served with real coffee from freshly ground beans.
‘To my husband Eric.’ Lotte raised her glass as she toasted the founder of the feast.
After dinner they gathered around the tree and swapped Christmas presents. For all of them, even the older children, the highlight was the smile on Hannah’s face as she unwrapped a wooden doll, made for her by Franz. She hugged everyone politely, then sat down on the rug to play with it.
Lotte was not forgotten. Peter and Franz had somehow scraped together the money to purchase bath salts for her. It was a long time since she had soaked in a hot bath with proper salts.
‘Right, time to sing some carols,’ Lotte enthused and made everyone stand around the tree. Franz was about to begin a favourite carol when Lotte held up her hand.
‘This will not do,’ she said. ‘Something’s missing. I know. Music!’
‘We have no music,’ Peter protested. Lotte was already out of the room. When she returned she held a large box wrapped with paper and a red bow on top.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, handing it to Herr Riesen. He hesitated. He had already opened a splendid present from Lotte, a lovely, warm, lambswool scarf. ‘Please open it,’she said.
Without further encouragement Herr Riesen gratefully unwrapped the present. He stood silently for a few minutes. This one gift meant more than any other he had ever received. It was a violin.
‘It’s no Stradivarius, but I guess it will do,’ Lotte joked. Herr Riesen was choked with emotion.
After a few minutes of effusive thanks, he took the violin in his skilful hands and plucking each string several times, tuned his instrument. Then he played. The violin may not have been a Stradivarius, yet it sang nonetheless, as the bow smoothly caressed the strings, allowing the notes to dance into the air. When finally the musician took the violin from under his chin, little Hannah surprised everyone.
‘Mendelsohn! Mendelsohn!’ she said, over and over. She was clapping enthusiastically at the same time. They now had another clue as to her true identity.
For the rest of the evening the gathering was entertained by one of the world’s premier violinists. He was no longer Herr Riesen, the caretaker, but the great concert violinist once more. Elsewhere in the building those who heard the music assumed that Lotte had acquired a gramophone. None realised that the music being played was forbidden by their rulers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘We must get her abroad somehow. We must!’ Lotte said. It broke her heart to say it, but she was suggesting that little Hannah, to whom she had become so attached, should leave them.
‘We just cannot keep her here. Th
e risks are too great. I can’t pass her off as my daughter as everyone knows I don’t have a daughter. Besides her colouring is much too dark. Most of all, we can do very little about that thing on her arm. What if someone sees it?’
Peter, Franz and the Professor had to reluctantly agree with Lotte. They had all fallen for this remarkable little girl and none could bear to see her suffer again.
‘Look,’ Lotte repeated, ‘she cannot stay here. Who knows how this war will end, but it looks more and more likely that Germany will be defeated and we could soon be under Russian rule. Hannah cannot hide inside for the rest of the war. She must have the chance to play like normal children and not worry about the future. We cannot jeopardise her safety by keeping her here.’
Although little Hannah had become a carefree child, with barely a hint of her past suffering, she often looked longingly out the window. She was happy playing inside most of the time, but every morning as Peter and Wolfi left for their daily walk, she would rush towards them and ask to go too. Peter put her off as best he could saying that for the time being it was not safe. He found it hard to bear the disappointment in that otherwise happy face and more so when the same explanation was required in the afternoon. Peter had never had a sister and this little girl had, in just two weeks, become so important to him. Nonetheless as much as he would miss her, he understood Lotte’s insistence that she should be able to play, just like any other child.
The conversation continued along these lines for some time. It was the second week of January 1944. Since little Hannah had been discovered they were still no closer to knowing what exactly had happened to her and by what miracle she had escaped from the camp. Nor did she identify the person Peter had seen running away from the bridge.
What was undoubtedly clear was that she had lived in a house or apartment with a telephone and that her father had been a professor of some type, probably music, and that she was accustomed to the sound of all the classics. She even knew how to hold the violin properly and the correct angle for the bowing action, as well as being able to play some of the chords. Herr Riesen so longed to teach her. It was too risky. It was one thing to give a concert at Christmas, it was yet another to play in Lotte’s apartment on a regular basis. His whole disguise was to hide his origins as the great concert violinist and he knew that once he had the instrument in his grasp, he could not resist playing. When he played, the passion, the emotion and the skill would betray him at once. He simply could not endanger the others in that way. Instead he vowed that the first thing he would do when the war ended would be to give a concert.
* * *
After a long period of discussion, the agreement was reached that somehow, Hannah would be smuggled out of Germany. They did not need to consult as to where. There was only one person they would trust to love and care for Hannah and she now lived in Switzerland. A visit to Aunt Berta was in order.
‘Yes, but how do we get her there?’ Peter asked. ‘A car will cost a fortune even if we can find petrol supplies. We cannot risk being stranded half-way to Switzerland.’
Lotte had long since been required to give up both limousines for the war effort and the official car had been taken away. Even with a car, petrol was now so tightly rationed it seemed impossible they would ever buy enough.
‘We shall go by train,’ Franz announced.
‘We can’t it is too dangerous, especially for Hannah.’ Peter was exasperated. ‘And we will need permits for the journey.’
They had already considered travelling with Hannah openly. Franz could easily prepare false papers for her including the necessary travel permit. Lotte could partially disguise her distinctive colouring. With makeup the tattoo could be hidden from all but the closest inspection.
The problem was Hannah. She was so pretty, with her lovely dark eyes, dark hair and dark complexion she was bound to attract attention. Hannah was clever and they could easily teach her to adopt a pretend name and persona. Yet she was so beautifully Jewish and very proud of it. Whatever her origins, and in spite of her age, Hannah had no doubts as to her own identity and was prone to telling anyone who cared to listen, even quoting well-known parts of the Torah. These were usually prefaced with the words ‘My papa always says as it states in the Torah.’ Apart from the obvious dangers of an inadvertent slip, deep down Lotte, Franz, Peter and the Professor did not want Hannah to lose this quality. It was part of her and one of the reasons they all adored her.
‘I have an idea about that,’ Franz smiled. By now his friends knew what that smile meant.
* * *
‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please.’ After several hours queuing Lotte was beginning to lose her patience. Everyone in Berlin seemed to be in Potsdamer station trying to leave the capital. And then her luck changed dramatically. ‘Excuse me,’ she repeated and tapped the man on the shoulder.
The object of her attention was middle-aged, in an expensive hand-made Italian suit and good quality leather shoes. His overcoat and hat also spoke of the highest quality and therefore significant wealth or power, or both.
‘What? What the hell do you…?’ The man did not finish the sentence. His annoyance vanished as soon as he saw Lotte.
‘I’m so sorry to trouble you,’ she said coyly. ‘I couldn’t help overhear. You have a ticket that you want to refund along with a reserved compartment. I want tickets for my two boys. One is badly wounded and I am taking them south to recuperate in the mountains. I can pay the full price. Oh please help.’
‘The gentleman’s compartment is available only to the most senior party officials or ministers. Civilians are not permitted to use it. And his ticket is non-refundable.’ The ticket booth attendant’s interruption only served to renew the gentleman’s fury.
‘Shut up or you will take a different train journey and it will be one way only,’ he bellowed at the attendant. The effect on the attendant was clear to see.
‘Well I suppose if, if, if…’ he stammered.
Fifteen minutes passed and Lotte had more than just her tickets. She had a reservation for a separate compartment, all the way to Munich.
Back in the Luisenstrasse apartment Lotte was making a phone call.
‘Gertrude? Aunt Gertrude! How good to hear your voice.’ Lotte heard the click which confirmed the Gestapo were tapping the conversation. They tapped virtually every phone call these days.
‘Yes Gertrude, I miss you too. Good news! I am bringing the boys for a visit. Franz needs some recuperation. His submarine was torpedoed. They can hardly wait to see you. We have a special gift for you.’
Aunt Berta or ‘Gertrude’ as she was known when the Gestapo were listening, was of course in no doubt that Franz could not have been wounded in a submarine. She was not worried. She was excited at the prospect of the ‘special gift’. She once confided in Lotte that her only regret was that she had never had children. Never received that ‘special gift’ as she described it.
Just five days later a very glamorous former actress and a young man in naval uniform were travelling first class through the countryside of Southern Germany. The young man had his arm in a sling and walked with a limp. They were in a sleeping compartment with the bed folded up on one side and down on the other. The modesty curtain was pulled across in front of the bunk that had been opened up. On the luggage rack was a large trunk and two smaller suitcases. The guard had helpfully offered to store the trunk in the baggage compartment. Lotte had been most determined.
‘Those are the few clothes I still possess. I want to keep them close to me,’ she had insisted. As she had paid for the use of the whole sleeper compartment and tipped handsomely, he did not complain.
Out in the corridor another young man stood in his pristine naval uniform. He was stockier and taller than the first sailor and was staring distractedly out the window. Or at least that was the appearance he gave. He was in fact keeping a very close lookout for any unwanted visitors. He was ably assisted by his large black shaggy dog. Wolfi was a useful addition to the party. H
is size and powerful jaws and teeth kept many people at bay, frightened by him. He did not need to snarl, something he seldom did and only when the occasion really required it. Anyone who did venture close to him was more likely to be greeted by a wagging tail and a flip onto his back, paws in the air.
The Professor had stayed behind in Berlin to look after the apartment and their various charges. Wolfi would have been happy to stay with him, but Lotte had a particular reason for hoping that Peter would insist that Wolfi travel with them. Deep down she hoped that both Peter and Franz would finally agree to stay in the safety of the Swiss Alps, looking after Hannah and looked after by Berta. Lotte knew that this would never happen if Wolfi remained in Berlin. Peter would never allow himself to be parted from his faithful pet.
Closer examination of the large trunk that Lotte was so keen to keep by her would have revealed many tiny holes bored into one side. When opened it was a little smaller inside than the outside suggested. The false bottom created a space just big enough for Hannah to hide in. They had hated the moment in Lotte’s apartment when they had asked little Hannah to see if she could squeeze inside. She had managed it easily as she was so very small and underweight. She had accepted confinement in the trunk without any complaint, happy to treat it as a game. It was a game in which she must remain still and silent until they told her otherwise.
The reserved sleeper compartment was a godsend, for it meant that for long periods, little Hannah could lie on the bed behind the curtain or even occasionally sit by the window. At night she was able to lie with Lotte and sleep, well-concealed. And as they were relatively hidden from view the journey could be completed in one go as Hannah did not need to stow away in the trunk.
Berlin Wolf Page 25
