The Good at Heart

by Ursula Werner

  Dressing the girls was far less simple. Checking on their progress in the other bedroom, Edith found Marina deep in conflict with both Lara and Rosie. Lara wanted her hair down, while Marina insisted on flipped braids, affenschaukel. “So the monkeys can swing in your hair,” Rosie called from her corner of the bedroom, where she was pressing her arms against her sides to avoid the dress Marina was pulling over her head. Marina seemed more short-tempered than usual, so Edith took over Rosie. Tickling was the key to this child: success in just under two minutes, and Rosie went off to parade herself before Opa. Edith hoped he knew his role was to gush and praise. Lara glowered from a chair beneath Marina’s quick-braiding fingers. Edith flashed a reassuring smile and returned to her own mirror. Picked up her lipstick. And, for the first time all morning, she allowed herself to think. She froze.

  Would the Führer approve or disapprove of lipstick? Was lipstick consistent with the honesty and purity of a German hausfrau? Would he interpret it as licentiousness in her character? Or would he consider bare lips an affront, disrespectful? Edith didn’t want to appear disrespectful of the Führer. If he perceived her as insolent in her outward appearance, he might begin to suspect the contempt she really felt for him.

  Even as she acknowledged the insanity of engaging in this kind of second-guessing—about lipstick, for heaven’s sake!—Edith could not shake her fear. She was terrified of the Führer and his power, a power that crouched over her country like a malevolent demon, strangling its people and culture. Even more alarming was the Führer’s power over her family, over Oskar in particular.

  Oskar was, Edith knew, quintessentially Prussian in his adherence to rules and laws, a man who did as he was told. That line-toeing mentality made him a dependable subordinate, someone the Führer could count on to carry out his dictates. He had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Führer early in the administration, but so much had changed since then.

  When the Führer had been unknown, when he had been just one of many candidates pontificating and ranting on the political stage, she and Oskar had laughingly dismissed him as a right-wing demagogue. But once he had achieved political power and enacted the fiscal and commercial reforms that Germany so desperately needed, Oskar’s view shifted. Coming home from work, Oskar had optimistic reports about the economic programs he was implementing. Mandatory public works projects that assigned men to specific jobs and eliminated unemployment. Corollary compulsory entertainment and leisure plans that organized workers’ free time and gave families short vacations to the Baltic Sea at affordable prices. Incentives for working families to save money for a Volkswagen, the car of the people. Oskar applauded such initiatives for restoring economic prosperity to their wounded and downtrodden country. Like so many of his countrymen, he was ready to give political allegiance to a man who could raise the German phoenix from its ashes. And as a former military man, Oskar knew that stability and control required some relinquishment of individual liberties.

  Looking back, Edith realized how cunning the Führer had been: as he gradually dictated and corralled every aspect of citizens’ lives, he expanded the authority of his secret police. They took over local law enforcement, infiltrating every city and town, keeping lists of all the inhabitants—names, relatives, occupations, movements, and, most important, political affiliations. They encouraged people to watch their neighbors and report any transgressions, offering incentives like extra ration cards and easier access to travel permits. By the time people realized they were being told not just how to live but what to think, they were far too afraid to do anything about it. Because thinking, speaking, or doing anything contrary to proscribed ordinance led to sudden disappearances. Everyone knew that if you did anything wrong, the police would take away not just you, but your children or parents, even if they were completely innocent of any wrongdoing. This threat, more than any other, kept people in line.

  Had Oskar realized what was happening? Was he complicit? Edith couldn’t say, for as the state increasingly extended its reach, her husband turned inward, keeping his own counsel. Edith knew she was culpable. She allowed herself to be occupied by domestic concerns—helping Marina establish her new household, supporting her and Franz and their new babies, keeping everyone fed and everything organized. And by the time she raised her head and looked around, Oskar had stopped communicating. Now the Führer was inviting him for personal tête-à-têtes at Fürchtesgaden, and she realized that she no longer knew what Oskar believed. Perhaps her husband had crossed the line from approval of the Führer’s economic initiatives to affirmative endorsement of his entire vision. Perhaps years of being in the Führer’s company, years of being surrounded by others of like small-mindedness, had changed Oskar’s convictions. If so, she couldn’t fault him, though she devoutly wished for the opportunity to persuade him back to her—their—way of thinking.

  Because that was it, wasn’t it? Edith and Oskar had been of a similar mind on almost every subject throughout their married years, on questions as important as what to name their daughter (they both loved Shakespeare’s Pericles, Prince of Tyre) and whether there was a God (they were undecided, but tended toward pantheism), and as trivial as how long to cook a soft-boiled egg (three minutes and forty seconds). It was evidence of their compatibility, but to Edith it was also a testimony to their bond, a rare and cherished fusion of mind and heart. They completed each other’s sentences, understood each other’s thoughts. It was not uncommon, when they were together, for Oskar to voice an idea that was, at that very moment, also going through Edith’s mind. So if Oskar had changed his beliefs about the Führer, about something so fundamental—if Oskar now supported the policies that had sent her beloved Hilde and Martin Stern and the entire Rosenberg family to some ghetto for who knew what purpose—well, to Edith, that would be far more than a tear in the fabric of their relationship. It would be a chasm.

  For today, she decided, she would be patient. She would watch. She would observe Oskar’s interactions with his leader, his demeanor when talking and listening, his responses to the Führer. She knew her husband. She knew, or at least was fairly certain she would know by the end of this tea, where his loyalties truly lay.

  Edith applied the pale coral tint to her lips. Better, she thought, stepping back to look at herself critically. She definitely looked more proper, more polished, and that was the image she wanted to convey. When she got downstairs, she found Marina nervously assembling the girls in the entrance hall, positioning them in line from tallest to shortest, giving Rosie’s curls one last smoothing before she took up her spot next to Lara. “The car is just a few kilometers away,” Marina updated her mother. “The security posse is checking the outside perimeter of the house one last time, making certain everything is safe, that there aren’t snipers hiding in the cherry tree or positioning themselves atop the neighbors’ roofs.” Marina rolled her eyes, but Edith felt her daughter’s anxiety lying beneath the sarcasm.

  Edith nodded, adding a plea that she knew was likely to be futile: “You know, my dear, you should be careful with the facial expressions. I’m told nothing escapes him.”

  “I know, I know, Mutti.” Marina grimaced and covered her face with her hands. Edith saw that they were trembling slightly. “It’s involuntary. I just wish this were all over already.”

  Edith sighed. “It will be soon, Marina. Think of the girls, if that is helpful, to get you through this.”

  As if on cue, at that moment, Lara sought her mother’s intervention. “Mutti, will you please tell Sofia to stop bumping me?”

  “I can’t help it,” Sofia said. “Rosie keeps fluffing her skirt and knocking me off balance.”

  “Enough, Rosie,” Marina said. “Stand still.”

  Edith stepped forward to close the front door, which was still ajar, but Oskar appeared on the threshold, pipe in hand. With some surprise, she noticed that he wasn’t wearing his uniform but rather a suit. Civilian attire. She wondered whether there was some meaning to that, an indication to the Führer
that Oskar was, in his home at least, more than just a minion. Or was that wishful thinking? “A handsome family,” Oskar said approvingly. He looked from Lara, who was smoothing a reluctant ringlet to its spot behind her ear, to Sofia, beaming at him, to Rosie. “Absolutely beautiful, you are all breathtaking in your loveliness. No wonder the soldiers dispersed so quickly. The sight of all of you together is unnerving. Makes a man forget his assignment.” He stepped inside and took Edith’s hand from the knob of the front door. “Leave it open, my dear, his entourage is at the front gate.”

  The processional arrived. Four years earlier, at the Führer’s insistence, his hand-picked legislative council had proclaimed him emperor. Thus, as befitted such a grand personage, a parade of personal guards and officers preceded him in all public appearances. Edith watched one young man after another file past her, each seemingly more blond and blue-eyed than his predecessor, each stopping briefly before her and Oskar, pausing only to jerk his arm up straight in salute in a manner so sudden and violent that it was a wonder to her that shoulders were not dislocated. After the eighth young soldier passed by, Edith noticed a sudden leap in age, for the next set of men looked older and more experienced, more like Erich. These were the Erleuchtete, or “enlightened ones,” the Führer’s elite inner circle of guards, so named because their close proximity to the Führer’s person supposedly enhanced their mental and spiritual acuity. The twelve coveted positions coincided in number with the disciples of Jesus Christ. That the Führer embraced such Christian symbols while simultaneously denouncing organized religion was a hypocrisy not mentioned in public. These men were Erich’s colleagues. He had been invited to join this personal security force after his graduation from the Military Academy and, except for his detail to Poland at the beginning of the war, had remained there ever since. Like Erich, these men were distinguished officers. Their demeanors, though serious, appeared more relaxed than the youngsters’ before them, and their salutes, while strong, lacked the youths’ intensity. Probably they had attended countless teas of this sort, Edith thought. All sported the khaki uniform trimmed with deep purple that the Führer insisted upon for its royal effect.

  After the last Erleuchtete marched by, there was a gap, a space deliberately incorporated into the retinue, Edith suspected, to heighten expectation. The next person who would cross the threshold of Edith’s home, she realized, would be the Führer himself. She imagined the timbers that framed her open door straining against the pull of a dark gravity that pulsed with each step the Führer took toward them. For the next few moments, she fought a powerful urge to run forward and slam the door shut to protect her beloved home from intrusion, the contamination of his presence.

  But suddenly there he was, standing regally in the open doorway, arms stretched upward and outward—in greeting? to receive adoration?—his petite shape backlit in a full-body halo by the midafternoon sunlight while his face remained in shadow. Everything he had achieved, from political power to military victories to public support, was so vast, so staggering, that it was hard to reconcile the mental image conjured by those successes with the physically diminutive person standing before her. This man was pasty and thin, with a head hunched into his shoulders like a turtle’s, and his limbs were almost spindly. In the retelling of his history, the Führer attributed his weak musculature to the atrophy he had suffered from years of wrongful imprisonment for trying to end the debilitating payment of unreasonable German war reparations. Another marvelous reconstruction of the truth, Edith thought, this self-portraiture as a martyr for the cause of German honor. Yes, it was true that the Führer had been in prison as a young man, but he had been jailed for bombing a government building that housed only postal services.

  Regardless, the Führer had presence. He had a way of annexing the very physical space surrounding him, commanding and seizing the attention of everything nearby. People on the street stopped and stood immobile, fixed in salute; the sparrows sitting atop the fence ceased chattering, silenced. Even the air seemed to freeze in its movement. The power he wielded was palpable. Long ago, upon seeing him in Berlin, Edith had learned the origin of that power—his eyes. Like everything else about the man, they were, at first glance, unremarkable: small, jet black, and heavily lidded. But their stare, when turned upon someone, was compelling, piercing, and inescapable. Oskar said that the Führer’s gaze could penetrate not only a man’s soul, but his intestines, and that the lavatory located just outside the Führer’s office in Berlin required more toilet paper than any other in government.

  Now the man stood in her house, fixing those eyes on her family. “Ah, what beautiful girls! Yes, beautiful. Each more beautiful than the last.” The Führer made his way down their small receiving line, his voice wheedling its way around her granddaughters, making Edith bristle protectively. Without looking, she knew Marina was doing the same. She tried to exhale both audibly and inconspicuously so that Marina would remember to breathe. “You never told me, dear General Eberhardt, that you had so many jewels in your possession.” The Führer stopped in front of Marina, taking a moment to appraise her, raising his chin and lowering it slowly, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe and back up again, resting finally upon her face. Edith’s quick sideways glance at her daughter revealed that Marina’s jaw was tightly clenched, and her eyes, thankfully, were cast downward, lids sheltering the mixture of defiance and fear they undoubtedly would have radiated. While the Führer lingered in front of Marina, staring at the top of her bowed head, Edith felt him willing her daughter to look up, daring her to challenge him directly. But Marina didn’t move. The tension between them pulsed until Oskar stepped forward and saluted his superior.

  “Mein Führer.” Oskar’s clear, steady voice echoed. “Let me present my family. From youngest to wisest: my granddaughters Rose, Sofia, and Lara; my daughter, Marina Thiessen; and my wife, Edith.” With Edith’s name, Oskar gave a small flourish of his hand in her direction, and Edith gathered herself enough to curtsy slightly.

  The Führer broke off his trance and turned to Edith. His puffy fingers reached for her hand, and his bloodless lips kissed the air above it. “Such a pleasure, Frau Eberhardt, such a pleasure to see you.” The sour smell of partially digested pickled herring and horseradish drifted from his mouth, making Edith’s stomach turn.

  Some response was expected of her, but she struggled to find her voice. She was overpowered by her visceral response to his presence. Finally she managed to utter, “Herr Führer, it is my honor to welcome you to our home.”

  “My dear Frau Eberhardt, I would not miss this opportunity for the world! And I may be the only person who honestly has that alternative.” The Führer squeezed Edith’s hand conspiratorially and winked at her. “Actually, I am here for the strudel and Linzer torte. Your husband cannot stop raving about them. It is quite the distraction when we are trying to get work done up in Berlin and we take a break for coffee and cake. You should hear him gloat about the excellence of his own personal pastry chef.” He leaned in toward her cheek, the acidic cloud of his breath polluting the air. “He says your strudel dough is so thin that he can read the front page of the newspaper through it.”

  Edith felt a cough rising in her chest. Best to escape by moving everyone over into the other room. “Well, Oskar can be prone to exaggeration, but perhaps you would like to try it yourself? My daughter and I did a bit of baking this morning, and I would be grateful for your opinion.” Oskar took her cue and opened the door to the living room, motioning the Führer in. The entourage had already dispersed, the younger soldiers taking up position on the outdoor patio, while the Erleuchtete stood around the room’s perimeter, inconspicuously stationing themselves at doors and windows. The Führer entered the room slowly and deliberately, approaching the sitting area like a bride walking down the aisle of a church: first extending one foot, then bringing the other up to meet it, pausing and looking around, then stepping out again with the second foot to repeat the entire cycle. The halting gait gave his ey
es time to dart around the room like small daggers, piercing the shadow of each piece of furniture for hidden foes. This man knew he was hated, and trusted no one, not even his beloved Erleuchtete, to protect him fully.

  “A lovely room,” the Führer concluded, finally standing next to the large upholstered chair Oskar held for him. “Undoubtedly the nicest garage I have ever seen.” He chuckled and stared at the seat before him. “Yours, General?”

  Oskar looked confused. “The chair? No, mein Führer, I generally sit over there.” Oskar pointed at a mahogany chair covered in maroon velvet that flanked the window. “But that one, I am sorry to say, has a tear in the seat that we have not had time to repair. This one will be more comfortable.”

  The Führer frowned. “Comfort is irrelevant, General.” He went to the maroon chair and ran a finger over the armrest. “Interesting style. I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It is American,” Oskar said.

  “A William and Mary, from Boston,” Edith added. “But originally inspired by the Dutch, I believe.”

  “Ah, American!” A broad smile stretched the Führer’s thin lips, revealing overlapping teeth with distinct coffee stains. He patted the seat cushion and settled into Oskar’s chair. A moment later, Edith became aware of a soft clicking noise in the room. Although muted, the sound was steady and precise, like a muffled metronome or ticking timer. After several seconds, she realized it was emanating from the Führer. His mouth was slightly open, and he appeared to be tapping its roof with his tongue. A strange habit, Edith thought, and highly unnerving. She wished Oskar had mentioned it to her. But even if he had, she wasn’t sure she could have prepared herself for the sense of impending doom that the incessant clicking aroused in her. At least when the man spoke, the noise stopped. “America, America,” the Führer mused aloud. “Yes, there is much to learn from that country.”