Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

by Justine Saracen

  Peter was no fool. Reducing the ammunition supply from one factory, or the army supplies from one warehouse would have no effect on the war. But each act of arson was a blow struck for Rudi and for Katja against the Reich that had taken them away from him. He had been terrorized for far too long. Now he was the terrorist.

  *

  March 1944

  It was Katja’s turn to sleep as one of the two on the inside. She had grown used to the odor of sweat and unwashed hair and rank clothing, her own and that of the others. But she had not grown used to the ravening hunger and had begun scraping moss off the trees for food. She couldn’t eat much, for it was hard to digest, but she brought back bits of it in her jacket cuff and chewed it before going to bed. Along with the exhaustion, the sensation of having something in her stomach helped her fall asleep.

  Unfortunately, she wakened often, from the crowding and prodding of her bedmates or from the sounds of coughing or quarreling from the other bunks. Everyone was sore and sick and struggling for the slightest comfort, and a sudden dispute over a blanket could elicit a storm of complaints from all the others trying to sleep.

  Tonight she lay between Violette and Bertha. Bertha, a German who had been arrested for black-market trading and whose red “political” triangle made no sense at all, had never forgiven Katja for reducing her portion of the bunk from one-third to one-fourth. She had never joined the camaraderie of the others, and Katja suspected her of being an informant to the Kapo. She could find no other reason for Bertha’s sudden removal from the wood-cutting detail and transfer into a far better job. Bekleidung, the assignment of maintaining prison clothing, was one of the most desired in the camp. The work was in a heated cottage, and all one had to do all day was repair rips and sew on strips of cloth with new numbers as the clothing of the dead was recycled for the new arrivals.

  Katja turned her back to Bertha and rested her forehead on Violette’s back without waking her. She thought briefly of Rudi Lamm and wondered if he had slept in the same way at Sachsenhausen. Where was he sleeping now? In a tent, or on the frozen ground somewhere in the East?

  With a stab of longing, she thought of Frederica, carrying out her mission with the same courage as Cecily and Denise and Violette had carried out theirs. The comparison sent a shudder of fear through her. No, Katja resolved. She would never breathe a word about her. The thought that Frederica was still free and still Caesar sustained her.

  She wondered briefly how her father reacted after receiving the single postcard she was allowed to send telling him her whereabouts. Was he ashamed, or angry, or afraid? He had refused to be “political” but now politics had come to him.

  “Not-political” made her think suddenly of Leni Riefenstahl, lying on her own bed of pain, begging for morphine. Did she know about places like Ravensbrück, where women, beaten and starved, slept four to a bed? Did she know about the medical experiments, or the Jugendlager and the crematorium?

  No, she couldn’t. She knew only about the glory, and the perfect photos, and the magnificent spectacle of a field of 150,000 uniformed men.

  Katja fell asleep to images of blankets and flags and of wandering through a vast phalanx of men standing at attention, searching for Dietrich’s face. She could not find him and became ever more fearful as the men began to menace her and she finally fled.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  March 1944

  Like a wounded soldier who continues battling because he can’t retreat, Frederica carried on. Only the knowledge that she had a plan kept her sane, though it involved Leni Riefenstahl, and for the time being, Frederica couldn’t find her. Work on her film had been suspended for a time, and no one knew where Riefenstahl had gone to take a rest, or if they did, they had been instructed not to reveal it. So Frederica waited, tense and determined, and continued to transcribe the revealing diary entries.

  But smuggling them out was now a problem. With Katja, a biweekly concert at the opera house had never drawn attention, for what was more natural than a daughter seeing her father in performance? But now Frederica was alone, and a single young woman always drew attention. She had male acquaintances but feared to ask them, afraid of giving the impression of romantic interest. Moreover, she would have made them suspicious, for she had no control over what seat she could purchase, and it was invariably nowhere near the critical cloakroom.

  At last, with four weeks of coded transcriptions of military discussions accumulating, she decided to risk making the drop alone.

  The Staatsoper had been closed since the previous August as part of the Total War program, but the Nazi leaders still permitted themselves a schedule of symphony concerts where they could wear their pretty uniforms. And so it was on a Thursday evening that Frederica was to listen to a Bruckner symphony from a seat on the other side of the hall from the cloakroom drop.

  The concert was scheduled well after dark, during the usual lull between the late-afternoon bombing of the RAF and the late-night bombing of the USAF. Pressed within the dense crowd of concertgoers, Frederica felt reasonably safe, even though the notes formed a dangerous bulk in her coat pocket.

  She shuffled along in the mass of people moving up the stairs to the first tier and suddenly felt a small hand on her shoulder. The tinkle of bracelets told her it was a woman.

  “Frau Goebbels?” Frederica held her breath.

  Magda Goebbels smiled warmly. “Are you alone?” the perfectly coiffed first lady of the Third Reich asked. “Come sit with us in our box. We’ve got two seats that are always empty.” The leering face of her husband standing behind her showed that he approved the idea, perhaps even suggested it.

  “I…uh…” Frederica stammered. Thoughts raced through her mind of lies she could tell to escape them. The dignitary boxes used a different cloakroom, and even if they didn’t notice her coat pocket swollen with notes, she would have had to surrender her coat at the wrong spot.

  “Thank you so much, but I have a very good seat,” she said with what she hoped sounded like gratitude.

  Magda insisted. “Don’t be silly. We have one of the best spots in the theater, right next to the Führer’s box. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, and this way we can chat.”

  “Very kind of you Frau Reichsminister,” a male voice suddenly said. “But Fräulein Brandt is in my company this evening, and we have our own special place. You understand, I hope. We have so little time together. Thank you again and good evening.”

  Frederica struggled to conceal her astonishment as, with a barely audible tapping of heels, Peter Arnhelm, in the uniform

  of a lieutenant, executed a sharp military bow and led her into the crowd.

  Questions crowded in her mind like clowns in a doorway, and none of them could make their way out to her mouth. There was no way to talk in the crowd anyhow.

  She surrendered her treasonous coat at the correct cloakroom and joined the new lieutenant waiting near the wall. “I have only a single ticket. If we want to sit together, we’ll have to go up to the highest balcony.”

  “That’s fine. That’s where I’ve got a seat anyhow.”

  In just a few moments they were seated, and as the house lights darkened and the orchestra began to tune, she leaned forward to whisper, “Wherever did you get that uniform?”

  “Becoming, don’t you think? Its previous owner was killed in an air raid,” he whispered back. Then the conductor stepped up to the podium and the concert started, preventing further conversation.

  *

  When both concert and information drop were done and they were on the street, she could finally talk to him. “How did you know where I was? What made you do this insane thing?”

  “It’s not insane. I told you I couldn’t stand to stay locked up any more in the zoo, that I had to do something. With this uniform, I’ve been able to strike a few small blows, setting things on fire or blowing them up. But best of all…” He tapped the black leather holster that hung from his belt. “With this, I’m not a victim any lo
nger.”

  “But why did you come here tonight? How did you know?”

  “Your neighbor said you’d gone to the opera, that you usually go the last Thursday of the month. By the way, you look lovely.”

  “What?” Frederica was shocked. “My neighbor knows when I go to concerts?” The thought made her sick to her stomach. “But why were you looking for me in the first place?”

  “To tell you I found Leni Riefenstahl.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She embraced him. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner! Where is she? How did you find out?”

  “She’s in Kitzbühl with her mother. She’s due back in her Berlin apartment in a couple of weeks. I contacted an old friend of Rudi, who in turn contacted Sepp Allgeier, one of her cameramen friends. Allgeier must not have known her whereabouts was a secret and so told this guy as soon as he asked.”

  Frederica took his arm and leaned sideways against him. “Peter, you’re amazing. If things get really bad, I hope we’re together.”

  “You mean this isn’t really bad?” He chortled. “But don’t worry, no matter what, I plan to be there with you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  April 1944

  Karl Sommer laid down his violin bow with a limp hand. In front of him, the conductor gathered his sheet music and stepped down from the podium, signaling that the orchestra rehearsal was over. The musicians packed their respective instruments into their cases, and made small talk among themselves, inquiries about family, speculations as to which Strassenbahn was still running, complaints about the scarcity of soap. Karl sat motionless for a long while, his violin resting on his knees.

  “Better hurry up, Sommer,” the oboist remarked. “You’ve got a long way to Grünewald, and I’m sure you want to get there before the RAF pays its evening visit. Their aim is getting better too. Did you hear? Last night they took out two more beer halls. At this rate, there won’t be any places for Goebbels to give his speeches.”

  Karl nodded faintly, laid his violin and bow mechanically in his case, and covered it with an old velvet cloth. Lethargically, he took his music from the stand and laid it on top. He stared at it for a moment, then snapped the case shut and shuffled along behind the other orchestra members.

  Oblivious to the people hurrying past him, he barely changed pace as he made his way along Unter den Linden. When he reached the Strassenbahn stop, he saw the vehicle traveling away from him in the far distance. He had missed it by several minutes. Slight disappointment percolated through his indifference; it would be another half an hour before the next one, and even that was unreliable.

  Without a conscious decision, he simply kept walking, in a stupor. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had no one to go home to now in the Brahmsstrasse, no one who would care if he arrived late at night. He walked for nearly a kilometer, more or less southwest, toward Grünewald. Finally, his feet began to hurt and he realized he was thirsty. He had been too depressed to eat that day and still had no appetite, but walking did make his mouth dry. Another two hundred meters and he found a Gasthof that still had beer.

  He drank one, then another, and a third, then gathered up his coat and case and shuffled on. His feet still hurt, but he was fuzzy-minded enough to no longer care. He passed a street where bombs had taken out a building and found it laborious to walk along the fine rubble that pressed through the worn soles of his shoes. He also needed to urinate.

  A year before, he would never have considered relieving himself in the street, not even under concealment. He was just too civilized. But he glanced around at the rubble that stretched half a block and felt the constraints of civilization fall away. He forced himself to march a while longer, to where the buildings still stood, and turned into an alley. Glancing around one more time, he set down his violin case and undid his trousers.

  While he relieved himself, he looked across the street at what was once a building, the ruined concrete edifice a metaphor for the ruined structures of his life. How did all this happen, he asked himself. How did he lose so much in just a few years’ time? First the Nazi government had taken his beloved Kroll Opera. Then he’d lost a wife to cancer, a son-in-law to Stalingrad, and finally his daughter to Himmler’s concentration camps. Now he was about to lose his homeland too. Why was he still playing concerts? For pampered Nazis, to take their minds off the bombing raids they had called down upon themselves?

  As if in response to his seditious thoughts, an air-raid alarm sounded. More or less on schedule. He zipped his trousers and stepped out of the alley to scan the street for signs of people filing into a shelter. He saw one far behind him in the direction he’d just come, but he didn’t want to retrace his steps on his throbbing feet.

  And so, for the first time, he ignored the piercing sirens and simply plodded forward toward Grünewald. When the bombers rose from the horizon in geese-like squadrons, then broke formation to avoid the flak guns, he stopped under a portico and watched them with intense interest. It was deafening—the roar of the aircraft, the thunder of the detonating bombs, and the constant high pitch of the flak cannons. The main ones seemed to come from Berlin proper, probably the zoo tower.

  Only once did the flak actually strike the fuselage of one of the bombers, so that the aircraft spiraled downward at a steep angle. It blew up half a city block upon impact, as lethal in its dying as in its bombing.

  The colors mesmerized him. A backdrop of bright red and iridescent orange going toward pink, with closer objects silhouetted black against it.

  Curiously, in the midst of the thunderous blasts, he could still hear music in his head, as if his mind detached itself from the hell around him. Out of nowhere rose the melody from a Schubert Lied, To Music. He hummed it to himself: Oh lovely Art, in how many grey hours, When life’s fierce orbit ensnared me. Bombs dropped at both ends of the street, suddenly heating the air and filling it with smoke. His ears ringing, he backed farther into the portico, choking on the hot gas. But the tune would not stop, for a lifetime of familiarity drove it through his hearing memory. Have you kindled my heart

  to love?

  A bomb detonated in the building behind him. Carried me away into a better world! The last words of the song ripped through his memory before a block of exploding brick wall smashed into his head and he collapsed. Fire ate through the wooden support of the portico until it dropped on him, the flames consuming first the violin and then the musician.

  *

  Ninety kilometers north of Berlin, Ravensbrück was untouched by bombs and continued its industries. News of her father’s death struck Katja hard, but the friendship that had developed with the Anglo-French women, especially Cecily, sustained her. The four of them shared everything, and on the day Katja received the news, the others stayed close to her and tried to lighten her workload.

  They had welcomed Bertha at first, but when it became clear that the Blockova favored her and she wouldn’t share her benefits, they excluded her. Her retention of almost normal weight, while the others grew gaunt, suggested she had other ways of obtaining food, perhaps during her work in Bekleidung.

  The entire block made it through the icy rains of April with no fatalities from the cold. But Violette, especially, was becoming emaciated, so Cecily and Denise took turns helping her with the saw. The Kapo didn’t care, as long as they cut and gathered the requisite amount of wood and no blame came to her. After the half-hour break for their scrap of bread, a single slice divided by four, they returned to cutting and had fallen into the normal rhythm.

  The Kapo suddenly sprang to attention, and the women stopped cutting. A Kapo and an SS officer marched along the track toward the work party. The officer spoke briefly with the SS man in charge of the detail, who then called out, “Violette Szabo, Denise Bloch, step forward.”

  The two women glanced at each other, ashen, then crept toward the SS man.

  “Come with me,” the officer ordered, and did an about-face. He strode back the way he had come, and the women fell into place behind him. Denise Bloch lo
oked back, anguished, over her shoulder and gave a small wave of good-bye.

  “Back to work,” the Kapo snarled. Stunned, Cecily and Katja gathered up their cuttings.

  “What does that mean?” Katja choked out.

  “I don’t know,” Cecily whispered back, but the Kapo’s truncheon came down on her shoulder.

  “No talking.”

  *

  After the last roll call, the whole barracks was subdued, as it was whenever someone collapsed on work detail or was sent to the Jugendlager. The separation of the two Anglo-French women was ominous, and no one knew what to make of it. But that night on her side of the bunk Bertha said softly, “I know.”

  “What do you know?” Katja asked, angry at her smugness.

  Bertha paused dramatically. “Their dresses came into Bekleidung this afternoon for renumbering,” she announced, not bothering to name the two women. “In case you want to know. They’re dead.” She paused again, savoring the effect she was having. “Forget about them.” She pulled the blanket, of which she now possessed a third, over her shoulder and turned on her side. “They’re smoke.”

  *

  Katja bent to her work for the hundredth time, and though she had been interned for three months, it seemed now that normal life had stopped years ago. She functioned at the level of animal survival. She ate and rested when she was able, communicated little, usually only with Cecily, and sorrowed, fearing that Frederica had forgotten her. Frederica couldn’t afford to attempt communication, but surely in three months, she could have given some sign.

  Another prisoner had been added to her bunk and to her single blanket, bringing the number back to four. Katja focused her attention on Cecily, sleeping next to her and helping her conceal her fragility. The camp was bursting now, with more arrivals than