The Dower House

by Malcolm Macdonald

  When the further introductions were over and Felix and Mutti had mopped their eyes, she held out her arms to bar the door. ‘Stay here a moment,’ she said. ‘Some of our neighbours are watching and I want two of them in particular to have a good long look at this reunion.’

  ‘Who?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Sanders down there on the corner, for one. And Bachmann, with the new red tiles on his roof – they have five children, for which she got the Hitler Cross. Two years ago, both those fine families would have gladly denounced the four of us to the Gestapo. We must all go for a walk after lunch and I hope we meet them.’ She sniffed deeply on the air and concluded, ‘Just smell the freedom now!’

  After lunch, Angela excused herself and left for a walk on the beach; the others protested – she was part of the family now, inside the perimeter of their privacy, and so forth . . . but hers was the wiser head just then. An hour or so later Felix set out to join her. But at the edge of the beach, where the tarmac ended and the sand began, he paused. She stood, statuesque and statue-still, gazing out to sea – the sea where his mother and grandfather, old Billy Breit, had drowned, eleven years ago. For a moment he was overcome by his love for her – a love like no other, at least not in his experience, for it was a mixture of desire, not just to possess but to protect as well, and to know all those unknowable things about her as a separate human being . . . of desire and . . . fear. Beneath that mature and reconciled exterior, who could know what unresolved conflicts and guilts still lay in ambush?

  And not just the obvious guilts, either, but the treacheries they had both committed (and tolerated in others) simply to survive in a KL. From the theft of a crust to the substitution of an unknown name for that of a friend on a list of prisoners destined not to survive . . . these acts were survival’s stock-in-trade. In the imperative of the moment they scored no mark, left no outward scar; but there must be internal bruises – healed or bruises still?

  The broken waves rushed at her, hissing over the sand in tongues; she stood, watching, as if daring them to lap her ankles.

  ‘It’s not very tidal here,’ he called out as he drew near. ‘All the water has to come in and out through the Kattegat.’ He folded her in his arms and luxuriated in that magical presence which seemed always to surround her, and only her.

  ‘Here,’ he said when they broke.

  ‘What?’

  He fumbled in his pocket. ‘My mother’s engagement ring – now yours. Hand!’

  The moment it was on her finger she flung her arms around him and hugged herself tight into his chest. ‘So precious,’ she whispered.

  ‘Nothing like so precious as you.’

  She broke from him and held her hands up to his face, palms to his nostrils. ‘Smell that,’ she said – then immediately plucked them away and, bunching them into a tight fist, said, ‘No! I’m sorry.’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  But he had already caught a whiff of what she had wanted him to smell. Gently he took her wrists between thumb and one finger and raised them again to his face. As in a trance, she watched him unfold them, finger by finger, and press them to him. He sniffed deeply, then closed his eyes and murmured, ‘My God! That’s it! That’s it!’ He opened his eyes again. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wild geranium.’ She let her hands fall to her side and gestured vaguely to a clump growing above the tideline. ‘A mad woman once told me that if I ever needed to remind myself how the KL smelled, just crush geranium leaves. At least I thought she was mad then . . . now . . . I’m not so sure.’

  ‘It’s exact,’ he said. ‘Wash it off.’

  They went down to the water’s edge, where she slipped off the ring and handed it for him to hold while she used wet sand to scour her hands clean again.

  They kissed and he replaced the ring on her finger. ‘It looks a bit loose to me.’

  ‘It’s fine. Food parcels from Germany will take care of that.’

  They took a few aimless steps while she held her hand splayed before them, admiring the simple gold band. ‘I met Herr Sanders,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He asked if you were the son they thought had died in a KL – the famous artist. I said you were and he said thank God you survived. So they never told him you survived! Anyway, I asked what he thought about the others – the millions who didn’t survive. He just shook his head. He was too choked to speak.’

  Felix sensed she had not finished but he did not press her. At length she continued, ‘I told him I was an SS-Führerin . . .’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I wanted to see if he’d change his tune. But he didn’t. He actually backed away from me. So then I said I protested at the Vernichtung and they put me in Ravensbrück, and d’you know what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He shook my hand and said, “So you spoke out in time!” I just laughed and said my little gesture didn’t save a single life, and he said, “That’s not what speaking out in time means. It’s when you suffer for speaking out – that’s what matters. You spoke out in time to suffer. And now the rest of us must suffer for not speaking out.” D’you think he’s right?’

  Felix gave the easy answer: ‘In your case, yes.’

  ‘I told him something Nicole once said to me, which was . . . we were talking about resistance to the Nazis and she said it was like standing at the edge of a vast marsh, a horizon-to-horizon marsh, and shooting arrows into it at random. In the dark. The pleasure . . . no, the reward was simply in firing off the arrows. It didn’t really matter whether they hit anything or not. You just had to keep firing. And hoping.’

  ‘Let’s walk – or d’you want to go back to . . . ?’ He nodded toward the house he could not quite call home.

  ‘Walk. I want to hear what happened.’

  ‘Then you should have stayed!’

  She dug him sharply with her elbow. ‘Why d’you say Sanders was right “in my case”? Don’t you think he was right in your case, too?’

  ‘I never spoke out – not in any situation where I’d suffer for it. I took great care not to. So I was like any other German – and a good many French and Poles and Dutchmen. And Italians, too.’

  She swept a hand vaguely out toward the sea, much as to say, What’s the point? ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘tell me all about it – this unexpected reunion.’

  After a pause he said, ‘Vati didn’t know we are Jewish. Were Jewish.’

  ‘Until they arrested him?’

  ‘No. He got warning from someone in the Brown House. Anyway – we both got away. When I first read those letters, it intrigued me to think that while I’d been on the run in the south of France – after the Nazis occupied the whole country and we couldn’t rely on the corruption of the Vichy authorities – Vati had been undergoing a similar ordeal in occupied Denmark. But it’s more amazing still. Listen! We both had false papers in the name of Brandt!’

  ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘No! That’s the extraordinary thing. We each chose it out of the blue. It held no special significance for either of us.’

  ‘Apart from being close enough to Breit for you to answer to it – without much hesitation, that is.’

  ‘Well . . . yes,’ he conceded. ‘There is that.’

  She giggled. ‘Sorry. Am I spoiling it? I won’t say another word.’

  ‘My father has learned – this was only last year – he’s learned how old Billy Breit – born Solomon Breit – became Christianized. My great-grandparents, about whom we know nothing, were wealthy Orthodox Jews living in Berlin and, because they couldn’t even turn on a light switch on the Sabbath, they employed Christian servants, who could break all those old laws for them. And so baby Solomon had a young Catholic nursemaid. And when he got whooping cough or measles or something, the girl got in a panic at the thought that this little baby whom she loved was going to spend all eternity in hell if he died. So she asked her priest what to do and he told her how to baptize
the baby. Which she did. He lived, of course, but the priest then invoked the law, which said that a baptized Christian child could not be brought up by Jews. And they seized him. The priest came with a squad of police and they seized him. And they put him for adoption with a violently evangelical Protestant couple – childless . . .’

  ‘Protestant?’

  ‘I’m sure money changed hands. Anyway, they brought him up as Billy Breit, the famous artist and anti-Semite. It took half a dozen words and a splash of water to make him Christian but it took five kilos of the Nuremberg Laws and the most ruthless bureaucracy in history to turn us back into Jews again. Funny old world.’

  They had reached the northern end of the beach, where municipal sand gave way to heathland; there they turned and strolled slowly back again. She was silent so long that he was at last forced to say, ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t want to come back to Germany for quite a while,’ she said. ‘Certainly not to live.’

  He gave a baffled laugh. ‘Was that ever on the cards?’

  ‘It was at the back of my mind before we set out from London – and still just about possible in Paris, even after . . . you know – the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘We both have a much brighter future in England. In London – don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but apart from that . . . I mean, seeing the way Germany is recovering now . . . when I left, they were defeated. Now they’re realizing that actually it wasn’t defeat but liberation. The Allies liberated us just like they liberated France and Holland and so on. And it seems obvious to me that liberated France and liberated Germany, or half-Germany, are going to dominate the rest of Europe. The English have no idea. At the BBC I can listen to the news from anywhere, not just what they distil for British ears. But even I had no idea how things really were until this trip. You heard how young Treite speaks. That’s the voice of the new Germany. It shocked me. I thought it would be decades before any German would speak like that again. But the English don’t listen to foreign news at all. They have absolutely no idea of what’s going to happen here in Europe. They must wake up! They must join in. They must make a balance between France and Germany in the new Europe or it will all go wrong again. The state will triumph over the individual.’

  Felix stared out across the sea, to the horizon that hid Denmark. Was this going to be their first serious quarrel?

  She pressed him for an answer . . . some word of agreement.

  ‘Include me out!’ he said, aping Willard. ‘The English will never belong in Europe.’

  ‘Not immediately. But eventually they must.’

  ‘They ought to, but they won’t. Ever. The mentality of a nation that has only ever been the conqueror has no place among nations whose history has alternated between victory and defeat.’ He laughed drily. ‘If we try to convert them, we’ll just be known as The Breit Bores!’

  She shook her head. ‘Only if we go about it crudely. Not go for conversions – just . . . bearing witness.’

  Friday, 10 October 1947

  A week later, on the train back to Cologne, and thence to Paris, Felix took out the Wannsee transcript and said, ‘You came all the way to collect this, and you haven’t even looked at it.’

  ‘I know what’s in it,’ she said. ‘Of course, I always did know – in general . . . a fading memory. But seeing it again, exactly as I typed it, has brought it all back. And now I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Because?’

  She sighed and it was a long time before she answered. ‘Because . . . because one day, when I was delivering some tapes from Giesebrechtstrasse to B-IV, I went to the Ladies and there was a Jewess there – part of some liaison or welfare committee. You know how the Nazis liked the Jews to administer as much of the resettlement programme as possible – because it gave confidence to the proceedings. I assume she was on one of those committees. She had an escort, of course, but that woman was in one of the toilets. I could just have whispered, “Don’t believe in Resettlement – it’s a cover-name for Vernichtung.” I could.’

  ‘And risk her shouting, “What? What are you saying?” . . . Or just the give-away look on her face when her escort came out? Or her telling everyone on the committee and word of it getting back to the Gestapo, who would trace it back to you? Or—’

  ‘Felix!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Darling! Of course all those objections raced through my mind at the time, but whenever I thought about it afterwards, I could never be sure that I didn’t simply fail to overcome a decade of Nazi indoctrination . . . that I could not risk my life for a bloody Jew!’ After a pause she added, ‘And that suspicion would haunt me through every single page of this transcript. Anyway – just holding it in my hand . . . smelling the paper . . . official German paper had a particular smell in the war. Have a sniff. That takes me right back, so I don’t actually need to read it again.’

  He sniffed the paper and said, ‘God, you’re right.’

  He settled back and opened the package.

  A verbatim protocol of a meeting held at Interpol Headquarters, Am Großen Wannsee 56/58 on January 20, 1942, secretly recorded on tape and wax by me, -Führerin Angela Wirth, on the orders of -Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. This transcription from that tape was made without his knowledge and the tape itself was made without the knowledge of any of the participants.

  It is now my intention to convey it, through certain channels, to a neutral embassy, so that it may become known to the world.

  Angela Wirth

  1 March, 1942

  [In the anteroom – a meeting exclusively of the SS]

  HEYDRICH: I’ve decided to change the seating plan I circulated among you. We were – you remember – going to be seated with an SS officer between each civilian – to inhibit them from writing damaging notes. But Gutterer can’t come, Greifelt can’t come, our own Krüger can’t come, and Freisler will be standing in for Schlegelberger, so . . .

  MÜLLER: Cold feet?

  HEYDRICH: If so, they’ll never forgive themselves. Today is one of the truly great days in the history of the Third Reich. Anyway, seeing that we are now seven civilians and eight SS, I believe we’ll make a stronger impression if we sit in one solid rank, all along one side of the table – with our backs to the windows – facing them.

  LANGE: And they can write notes?

  HEYDRICH: They can write whatever they want. Comrade Eichmann will collect every last scrap of paper at the end and burn it.

  MÜLLER: After reading them!

  HEYDRICH: No! What they write, what they think, what they feel – it’s of no consequence. They’re only messenger boys, deliberately chosen from the second-tier of the party and government (and I include myself here) to carry the message of the Final Solution back to their masters. And the message comes from my master – our master – the Reichsprotektor himself.

  MEYER: And ultimately from his master – the Führer.

  HEYDRICH: Of course. And for that reason, there may not even be a protocol. [surprise] Think about it. What we’re going to do will, in the eyes of many, even of many good Germans . . . I mean – put it another way. Do any of you think the Führer should go on the radio and announce that we are starting a programme of annihilation of every last Jew in Europe – and ultimately the world?

  SEVERAL: No!

  HEYDRICH: Precisely. And for the very same reason, we will probably have no protocol. Or we may produce a general or summary version. We’ll make that decision later. First I want to gauge the reaction of senior party members like the ones who are here today. But we already know that a literal protocol would be a time-bomb waiting to explode in our faces if certain milk-and-water party-members had their way. Comrade Müller, I just want one assurance from you – we are ready, are we not, to go ahead with the annihilation of Jews and other undesirables at the rates we discussed?

  MÜLLER: When Höss has put the Auschwitz facility in place – which will be before the autumn – we can process them at the hi
ghest rate of all. Ten thousand on a good day. But – as I noted in my report – the ‘Brack solution’ is not the answer. Carbon monoxide is too slow and the killing rate too variable. We will continue to perfect it at some of the camps but our main agent at the big camps of last resort will be Zyklon-B – the gas that was so effective with those gypsy children last year. When the remaining camps are fully in action – Belzec, Sobibor, Treblinka, and Majdanek . . .

  EICHMANN: The problem will shift to the railways!

  HEYDRICH: Speaking of Höss, the Reichsführer- wants direct communication with him. Cutting out Glück. Make sure Höss understands that. Good! Excellent! We’re so far ahead that now no one can volunteer to take the honour out of our hands. Let us join our colleagues . . .

  MÜLLER: And show them who’s master!

  HEYDRICH: The order is unchanged. I’ll open the proceedings, then I’ll ask you, Comrade Schöngarth to cover the history. Then you, Comrade Eichmann, will reveal the sheer size of the problem – in case anybody there still thinks they could share in the glory. Then Comrade Lange will show why the Action Groups – despite amazing achievements – are not the Final Solution. Then Comrade Müller will tell them what that Final Solution really is.

  KLOPFER: And us?

  HEYDRICH: You and Comrade Hofmann have the most important task of all, which is to answer objections from the bureaucrats. Treat Kritzinger with respect. Be firm but not belligerent with Neumann, who will want to keep his privileged Jews and high-level workers. Remember he is a brother officer. Be as scornful as you like with Stuckart with his pleas for half-Jews and quarter-Jews. But be sympathetic with Gauleiter Meyer and Doctor Liebbrandt and Doctor Bühler of the Generalgouvernement, who will all want their Jews to have priority for liquidation – for very understandable reasons – but promise them nothing unless we have to.

  EICHMANN: Liquidating the eastern Jews first would ease the strain on the railways.