Letters From Berlin: A Story of War, Survival, and the Redeeming Power of Love and Friendship

by Kerstin Lieff

  My stepfather worked in the OKM Oberkommando every day. He was a Kapitän zur See in the Kriegsmarine, and he came home most nights like a man with an ordinary job. Sometimes it wasn’t safe, and he would stay in the bunker they had there, underneath the government buildings.

  He’d been home the night I returned from Jena. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year, and he looked distinctly gaunt in a way I had never remembered him. His fat cheeks had hollows in them now, and his face, although he shaved religiously each morning, had a shadow on it.

  That night he was waiting for me in the parlor. It was just before we were to begin our dinner, and he asked me to come in and sit. In his formal way, he wanted to welcome me home. I was nervous, as I had always been nervous around him, but times had changed. This man was no longer a threat to me; he was merely a man who had married my mother and had lived in my home for half my life.

  “Margarete, come for a moment and sit.” His eyes looked like they did when he used to help me with my Maths problems. Stern yet focused and clear about what he was about to say. If there was anything different about him, it was that he looked sad.

  “Child … ,” he began, and he let his sentence drop. He only looked into his lap and seemed at a loss for words. This was unusual. I waited.

  “I want to apologize to you.” He lifted his head and his eyes met mine in a way they had never done. “You are a woman now. You are no longer a girl. You have experienced things no human should ever experience. And at such a young age.”

  With a sincerity I’d never before seen in him, he said, “I’m sorry. For all of it. That our country is in this mess. That your dreams of becoming a doctor have been shattered. I am sorry for it all. If only I could make it better for you. You will be a great doctor one day. I know this about you. You are a kind person and a giving person and your patience is an asset. You are strong …”

  Tears welled up in me. I had not, in my wildest dreams, expected this from him. Memories came. Memories of the cane, of his temper, of running to my room to hide. I stood up from my chair and walked over to where he was sitting, rather more hunched than usual. I put an arm around his shoulders, and I said something I would later regret: “It’s too late.”

  I was about to leave the room then, when I saw him drop his head into his hands and weep bitterly.

  “Oh, Grete. I don’t blame you. I’ve had remorse over our relationship, the way I was with you, for so long. I realized, once you were in Jena, and when we received your letters, the stories you heard from the refugees from Hamburg, what a great woman you are. And that you are but a young girl.

  “And I’ve realized, too, how I’ve failed as a father.”

  I was not prepared for this. I saw a kindness in him that I’d never allowed myself to see before, and in that moment I forgave him everything.

  “When I was growing up, it was not easy, you know. My father was away, often for years. He too was in the Kriegsmarine. My only dream was to be as important as he. Why do you think I’ve always worked so hard? I never felt I had done well enough. I always wished for more, to be better. And I always felt like a failure.”

  I sat down. He turned and lit a lamp. It was getting dark outside.

  “My mother? She ruled with a paddle. It’s how things were in those days. Children were to be dealt with strictly, and that defined good parenting.

  “I tried to raise you as I saw best. I wanted for you, and for Dieter, to make me proud. To do well in school and in your duties. I see now that, in that respect, I’ve succeeded. You have done well. And I’m proud of you. And I have failed. But you have always been a daughter to me. I am sorry.”

  The eyes of this man, the ones I only ever saw as bird eyes, now had honesty and regret in them, and they looked soft. His hair, which had become much thinner in the last year, was wet and sticking to his forehead.

  “Forgive me,” he said, again and again. And the man wept. I sat there and said nothing. I feel sad about that now. But I knew that our relationship had changed. He would never take a cane to me again. This I knew, and I knew he would be someone I could call “Papa” again, and feel proud.

  13

  THE TWENTIETH OF JULY

  I.

  Letters from Dieter still arrived regularly. He still sounded well, and it all still sounded like boys’ camp. But he hinted that often there was no food, or very little of it, and Mutti sent him her food ration stamps, writing he should use them to purchase meat.

  Dieter had been sent to Gross-Born, in western Pomerania. There he was to be trained in artillery for the Wehrmacht, and because Gross-Born was close—only a day’s train ride—I decided to visit him.

  How happy we were to see each other! He was taller, that was my first impression. And he had become a man. He had turned seventeen while I was away, and he was shaving now. His face, which had become harder than I remembered, had the shadow of a day’s beard on it. His eyes looked hollowed like those of the men I saw on the transport trains going to the east. Yes, it was clear, he had seen some things already, things I did not want to know about. He had seen battle. He mentioned it only briefly in a letter once, saying only that it was difficult to ride his horse well because his saddle had no stirrups. But I wanted to know about him. How was he doing? Who were his new friends? How was “boys’ camp”?

  “Grete, you’ll laugh! I had the best Christmas Eve! I went to bed. That’s all. All these men who use any excuse to drink and laugh long into the night and dance and feel terrible the next day from their hangovers, they puzzle me. I took all my schnapps and all my cigarettes—you know I don’t smoke and I hardly drink—and traded them for eggs. I now have food, and I had a good sleep!

  “Here’s something else that will make you smile. I get my shoes polished for me each morning, for which I get an extra twenty minutes in bed. They do all this for me! I just trade and enjoy myself.”

  Then he looked up at me, as if for the first time. Maybe he noticed how thin I had become, how strained my face was. “Grete. How is it for you?” I knew he was thinking about Jena and that I had, just like Mutti, seen too many bombings. His eyes met mine, and he asked again, “Grete? Are things all right?”

  I shook my head no, but I said I was managing as everyone was managing. I told him how I had shared my clothes with Ilse, and he was genuinely pleased. I told him about my work at the train station and how much I felt I was doing something to help, and he nodded his approval at this. Then I told him that I wished I wasn’t always so hungry.

  “Ja, ja. Grete. I know. We’re all in the same boat. I too am hungry, and the soldiers here are all hungry. Sometimes we even go with no food for an entire day, but we still have to go out in the field and it often goes for ten hours or more. I do believe this war will soon be over, though. Just think, Grete, and believe in this, we’ll be celebrating Christmas together again, and it will be this year yet. I’m sure of it. I’ll be home, and we’ll all be able to put our lives together again, soon.”

  It was reassuring to see him in such high spirits. He was a dear boy, and all those thoughts I used to have, about how gentle and soft this boy with glasses was, passed through my mind, and I thought, Surely, God will protect one as innocent as he. I prayed and I believed, along with him, that we would spend our next Christmas together, in our home on the Windscheidstrasse, and all this mess would be over.

  We walked for miles that day, our arms linked, talking and reminiscing about happy times. When it was time for me to catch my train home, he said his last words to me, words that reminded me again that this boy was far too sweet for a soldier’s work. He said, “Enjoy, Grete, what God has granted you,” and then he turned away. Why I remember the look of his back, the wool of his jacket, I don’t know. It will be a picture that will stay with me forever. My brother with his soldier’s cap on and his uniform and his knee boots, with his skinny body, walking away on the platform.

  Two weeks later, he was sent to the front, in Italy. Even then, his letters said no mor
e than this:

  Dear Mutti,

  Could you please try to find a small Italian phrase book for me?

  The landscape here is breathtaking. From the window in my room, I can see the blue Adriatic Sea. A cooling breeze blows constantly, so it is never hot here. The cherries and strawberries are just now in season and the roses are blooming. One liter of wine costs twenty Lire—that is about two Reichsmarks. Yesterday we bought two liters. Things are going very well for me. I’ll write again soon, and send my best wishes to the family.

  Your Dieter

  II.

  Dieter was promoted. He was to be trained as a lieutenant. This was wonderful news! This meant he might stay away from the heavy fighting at the front, and he would have a position when the war was over. Mutti was delighted. His station would be in Küstrin, straight east of Berlin, and we could visit him often.

  Dear Mutti,

  The day after tomorrow, you will celebrate your birthday for the fifth year during this war, but I believe your next one will be in time of peace. I know you worry; please don’t worry. You are my mother, and I love you dearly.

  I am strong. You must believe this. Be happy for me, as I am happy that I don’t need to stand by and watch. I am here to save our country. I know it is difficult for you; perhaps more difficult than anything you’ve ever had to do. Be proud of me.

  I will be home soon.

  Your loving son,

  Dieter

  Five years of birthdays, and Berlin was being bombed as he was writing.

  Then came the weekend that Dieter visited. It had been nearly three months since I had seen him, and I’d asked for the time off from work.

  He was already home, sitting in a chair in the parlor, when I came through the door. I flew to him and he took me in his arms and we twirled. He smiled so broadly, his mouth was nearly as big as the glasses on his face.

  We sat and smiled at each other for a long, long time, and we squeezed each other’s hands. He started to talk about small things, like had I been to the Wannsee lately and how much he missed the “fine Italian air.” I think he talked about unimportant things because he didn’t want to make things hard for anyone, to leave behind tears.

  And then, when all the chatter had come to an end, he paused. He looked at me through his two thick lenses, and said, “Grete, will you trust me if I tell you this? I am a soldier, first and foremost. I fight to defend our country. You trust this, right? I have given my all; I enlisted at sixteen, a time I should have gone to study, as you went to study. But now I realize I believed in things I no longer believe in.”

  He dropped his head. He seemed at a loss for words. And clearly about to weep. He set his glasses on the desk next to him, and pushed at his eyes the way he had as a child. Then he threw his head back and these words blubbered through his lips: “It’s not what I thought. It’s not what I thought. Oh, Grete. We have been so betrayed!”

  “Dieter?” What was it he wanted to tell me? What had he seen that had made him react so? “My brother. Tell me. I can hear it. There’s hardly a thing I haven’t seen. Hardly a thing I would not believe by now. Tell me. What is it?” I sat on the divan, not far from his seat, and he leaned toward me, now beginning to convulse as he tried harder to hold back his tears.

  “Grete. He has betrayed us. I never knew this. I always believed. He said he was not against the Church, and yet the things I know now are not of God. They are of the Devil.” And he wept. He wept and wept, and I tried hard to keep from letting that place behind my own eyes let loose. I wanted to be strong for him, but I was losing ground. “He has betrayed us, the German people. Hitler is not who he said he was. He is the Devil …”

  He would not say more. He straightened his back and put his glasses back on. He brushed his shirtfront, smoothed his pants, and said, “Will you come visit me now that I’m in training in Küstrin? Will you come on the weekend, maybe?” His voice was imploring.

  I said I would, but I knew I wouldn’t. I knew, when the weekend came, I’d be too tired. I’d want to find an excuse. I’d want to sleep. But I said, of course, and we hugged a brotherly, sisterly hug.

  We spent two happy days together, trying to pretend there was no war. I told Dieter about my job and how much I loved medicine, and that I intended to go right back to studying as soon as all this was done. “This is true,” I told him. “I even left my books in Jena!”

  And when the bombs came, we ran to the bunker together, Mutti, Dieter, and I. Now there was one more in our cellar, and he was a man from the front. Those of us who had been there for so long together talked with him and loved him and gave him wishes for a safe return to his duties, and we did as we always did. We prayed and looked to the ceiling.

  That Sunday afternoon, as he was preparing to leave, Dieter recited a verse he loved, from his favorite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke:

  Life has not forgotten you.

  It will hold you in its hand.

  It will not let you fall.

  I knew this poem, and I repeated it back to him. It was our farewell.

  A week later, a telephone call came from Dieter. His voice was soft and not quite as proud as it had been. He told Mutti his officer training in Küstrin had come to a halt, because men were needed at the front. He could not wear glasses as an officer, he explained to us, so he was being sent out to fight.

  We talked a long, long time on the phone. Dieter must have been lonely. Again he asked, “Will you visit me, Grete? I’ll be gone soon to the front. I mean, I’ll be home soon, I’m sure of this.”

  I said, “Yes, yes, of course,” while he talked on and on, rapidly, as if he himself didn’t believe what he was saying. “They keep telling us of German victories and—will you visit me?”

  There are some regrets one can never overcome. Dieter phoned on Friday to remind me of our weekend together: “Are you coming?” I said, “Yes, yes,” though I didn’t mean it. My work had been hard. I had sat in the bunkers every night that week, and sometimes all night long. More than once I simply fell off my chair, fast asleep. That’s how it was, but it was no excuse. I lied to Dieter. It’s the regret I’ll live with for the rest of my life. He said, “Please,” and I said, “Yes,” but I didn’t come.

  III.

  A letter came from Dieter dated July 24, 1944. He did not know yet what had happened.

  On the twentieth of July, Mutti had been in the city and came home, much out of breath, saying, “Everything at the Reichskanslei has been cordoned off. There must have been another assassination attempt!”

  There had been many failed attempts on Hitler’s life, going back as far as 1939, and she was right. There had been another one. But once again, Hitler did not die. Once again, it was only an “attempt.”

  The evening radio program announced, “Our Führer is alive and well and will come on the air shortly.”

  We were aghast, horrified, and, in some deep place inside ourselves, we were also hopeful that the radio was only, once again, broadcasting propaganda, and that possibly this time it was true, he was actually dead. The war was such a lost cause by now; our entire country was up in flames. Our soldiers carried on bravely, although we no longer knew what cause we were fighting for. The belief, the one Hitler wanted the German people to stand behind, that our country was under attack, was false.

  His voice came on the radio. That unmistakable barking voice: “Providence has saved me!” he shouted. “Götterdämmerung.” The twi­light of the Gods.

  This wild man who believed even God was on his side had the Devil living inside him!

  The news of the assassination attempt did reach Dieter a week later. He wrote home, asking about the family of his friend Paul, whose father was the Commander of Berlin. His name came up often in the news as having been implicated in the assassination attempt, and Dieter wanted to know if we had heard any further news. Yes, we had. On the radio, and all over the newspaper.

  Paul von Hase, the father, had been put to death. Either hanged or shot. I
n fact, all the high generals and high officers and old members of the Reichstag who were involved in the assassination attempt were put to death. Hitler called his retaliation the Sippenverfolgung, a purge of all family members of all the suspects. Several thousand people were either hanged or shot after this as punishment.

  Many of my stepfather’s friends who had been in our parlor, speaking in hushed voices only a few years earlier, those members of the Schwarze Kapelle, suddenly disappeared. We had no idea where they went; we merely assumed they had been involved. And we just sat at home and kept our mouths shut, very tight. Even a whispered word could put us in jeopardy.

  The twentieth of July changed everything. Jews, who were once able to leave Germany, were no longer allowed to go. Everyone was to be drafted into the all-out war, even old men, even women. All universities were closed. The Heil Hitler salute was mandatory and failure to do so punishable.

  And we would forever, from that day on, refer to it as the Twentieth of July.

  14

  HORSE CARTS AND CHILDREN

  I.

  Anne-Marie was a new woman who arrived one day in our cellar. She was a bit older than I was, a chemist by trade. She was frightened for her life after the Twentieth of July. Her uncle, who was an officer, had been involved in the assassination attempt and had been one of those put to death. This was her uncle she was talking about! She had no idea what would happen to her now. After all, she was his niece.

  Then the news came: They took her job away, and she would no longer be a chemist.

  We sat together during these long, loud nights, listening for directions. It was direction, after all, that mattered most. We’d hear the sound of bombers coming from the north, so we imagined them having crossed the North Sea. Then we’d wonder, would it be the eastern part of Berlin they’d be targeting this time? The west? Would it be, once again, Charlotttenburg? I mean, we couldn’t even shoot back! Those bombs would just fall on us, they never even saw who we were, and we couldn’t see them.