by Hegi, Ursula
1908
Tuesday, February 27, 1934
1914
Tuesday, February 27, 1934
1933: May 10–12
Tuesday, February 27, 1934
Tuesday, February 27, 1934
Chapter 1
A WINTER MORNING IN 1934. Imagine frost on the windowpanes of the schoolhouse in this village by the Rhein, milk blossoms of frost. Imagine the chill on the necks of the boys in Fräulein Jansen’s classroom. Feel their dread because today is the first anniversary of the fire that destroyed the parliament building in Berlin, a fire that has scorched their dreams in a whoosh of yellow and red, jagged and fast, so fast it’s like a whip, like a hot wind, clutching at timbers till they cave in.
“What if the communists burn our school?” the boys ask their young teacher.
“Will they attack our village?”
“Oh no.” She tries to calm them. “The fire happened far away from here. Hundreds of kilometers.”
But the boys have heard about the fire so often that they’re frightened it will happen here in Burgdorf. They’ve heard about it on the people’s radio and in their parents’ discussions over who really burned down the parliament building. Most parents repeat what’s on the radio, that the communists set the fire. But other parents whisper that the Nazis set the fire to frame the communists.
“We are safe here,” the teacher promises her boys. And hopes it’s true.
*
They want to believe her. Because they adore her. Because she makes them feel proud. Because she gets them to laugh till their belly muscles ache. Because—and this they don’t know but will figure out as men, those who’ll survive the next war—she keeps the shutters open at night, even in winter, to feel moon on her skin. It takes a certain kind of teacher to do this, one who leaps and runs with her boys when she takes them outdoors.
“What if the communists burn my barn, Fräulein Jansen?”
“What if they blow up our bridges?” Otto’s voice is fearful.
But some of her boys look excited.
Thekla Jansen knows why. As a girl, she built bonfires with her Catholic youth group. The girls and their leader would sit around the flames, roasting potatoes and competing with stories about creatures that arose from the underbellies of their dreams. In the mist—stories like that are always more exciting in the mist—the girls would huddle closer, shout with delicious fear, lure the beast inside their circle of flames, and laugh at it till it faded away.
Andreas raises his hand. “The communists sleep on steel floors, not in beds, that’s how tough they are.”
“We have three cows, and if we can’t get them out—”
“What if they sink our ferry?”
“Five cows. We have five.”
The teacher rests one hand on the piano, against the glass frog house where Icarus lives. The frog’s heartbeat pulsates on every surface of his body, flashy and rapid, as if his body were his heart. Icarus survives on the dead flies the boys peel off sticky coils of flypaper that dangle from their kitchen ceilings.
“I was afraid, too,” Thekla Jansen says. “Especially those nights after the Reichstag burned.”
*
Startled that their teacher is admitting to fear, her boys lean forward in the wooden rows of desks, two to each row. Most of her ten-year-olds are already in uniform, pins of the new flag on their brown collars. But the nine-year-olds, too young to join, wear threadbare shirts buttoned to their throats, borders of white collar only on those boys who own their schoolbooks; for the poor boys, it’s one book shared by two.
“For weeks I kept checking for flames and smoke above our roofs,” she says and wonders if her boys, too, will forever remember where they were when they found out.
For her it was at a costume ball, dancing with friends from her university days to music from an orchestra of clowns. Rosenmontag—Shrove Monday, the pomp and glory of parades and floats and music and masks, your last fling because once Lent began, you had to atone for your sins and mistakes. Rosenmontag, the next to last day of Karneval, when all of Germany let loose in frivolity, when—behind your mask—you could be anyone you chose. As Thekla danced in the red and black flamenco costume her mother, Almut, had sewn, words shattered the music, a man’s voice from the Volksempfänger—people’s radio saying the Reichstag was on fire in Berlin, saying it as though he didn’t believe it, his voice urgent and climbing like the highest note of music itself. The costumed dancers froze as if in a pantomime as the voice described how, there in Berlin, ghosts and jesters and Vikings and Chinamen and ballerinas and prophets and Indians and angels and cats and Dutch girls with wooden clogs were swarming from restaurants and bars toward the blazing cupola of the Reichstag, while men in uniform, firefighters and SA and police, tried to block the bizarre witnesses from getting too close.
*
“Do you remember where you were when you heard about the Reichstag fire?” Thekla Jansen asks her students.
A murmur. A hum. Several hands rising.
“I was allowed to stay up late because of Rosenmontag. A neighbor came in and told us.”
“I heard on the radio.”
“I went to sleep in my costume.”
“I was a cowboy with—”
“I was a Chinaman. My Oma made me a yellow hat that’s like an umbrella.”
“—with two holsters and a mustache.”
“My mother woke me up and took me outside,” Richard says. “Some houses were dark. She kept wondering who knew about the fire. And who didn’t.”
“Did you have a mask, Fräulein?”
“Black satin with red stones.” Thekla remembers how troubled she felt as she pulled off her mask, and again on Aschermittwoch—Ash Wednesday two days later, when the priest’s thumb drew the cross of ash on the forehead of each parishioner. The scent of ashes in his golden bowl tilted her back into the night of ashes falling on Berlin—Ashes to ashes. To whom must I answer?—as though the Reichstag fire had been the harbinger for this ash on her skin; and she envisioned future Ash Wednesdays, years funneling into decades, when the cool smudge on her forehead would summon that fire for her.
“It started fourteen minutes past nine,” says Franz. Pants too short, but quick with numbers.
“I was asleep. But my father told me the next morning and said it would be a different world tomorrow.”
“My mother said anything can happen now, and that we must stock up on food that can’t spoil.”
“We bought lentils and peas.”
“My father, he was yelling,” Bruno Stosick says. He’s the son of the teacher’s landlord, a brainy child who can recite every move of historic chess games but doesn’t know how to play in the dirt. Already, Bruno is a chess champion, has grown up within the Burgdorf Chess Club that meets every Tuesday in his family’s living room.
Soon after the teacher rented the apartment above the chess club, Bruno began sneaking up the steps in his socks to play his hiding games. He’d knock at her door, hide behind the coatrack in the hallway. When she’d open her door and pretend to be surprised nobody was there, he’d leap out, smelling of chalk and of sleep, tip his face to her—“I thought you’d never find me!”—such sweetness in his smile, it’s almost too much for a boy.
But Bruno isn’t smiling now. He’s imitating his father’s hoarse voice: “‘Everyone knows that damn Austrian started the fire!’”
Most of the students giggle.
But some don’t.
Bruno digs his fingernails into his palms. “My father says the Führer should be strung up by his—”
“Bruno!” Alarmed, the teacher cuts him off. She has never seen him like this. “We do not say swear words.”
As if ‘damn’ mattered one damn to me. But this is what she wants her boys to recall when they tell their group leaders or their parents about school: that their teacher scolded Bruno Stosick for saying damn—and not that Bruno’s father wants the Führer strung up by his balls. Or, rather, by his one and only b
all. If rumors are to be trusted.
Chapter 2
BOYS,” SHE SAYS, “please repeat after me: We. Do. Not. Say. Swear. Words.”
They recite: “We. Do. Not. Say. Swear. Words.”
Not enough. She needs more from them to undo what Bruno said. Folding her hands, she nods toward the portrait of the Führer above the piano, where the crucifix used to be. “And now a prayer for the Führer.”
By order, all crucifixes have been removed from schools; yet, prayer has remained. As long as it’s for him. That homely man with his prissy mustache.
—Nein nein jetzt nicht. Weg damit—No no not now. Away with this—
Appalling, how much her boys expose about their families in all innocence. She would never turn them in. Still, others might.
Especially since last Tuesday’s faculty meeting, when Sister Mäuschen suggested essays about dinner conversations. Mäuschen. Little Mouse. A nickname the sister had been given as a child. There must have been a birth name before that, a saint’s name—there always was—because there certainly was no saint named Little Mouse.
“To help us identify families that are not supportive of the Führer,” Sister Mäuschen said.
The school nurse, Sister Agathe, quickly shook her head. The students liked her because she gave them licorice and told them riddles.
Nearly everyone in that meeting looked at the principal, Sister Josefine, who was passionate about learning, who advocated that all children were born with the impulse to create things that were not there before—pictures and stories and songs—and that out of that impulse came wanting to learn more. Sister Josefine had finesse, and she used that finesse to procure whatever her school needed: radios and teachers and books and repairs. For herself, she craved poverty. Spartan self-discipline. She was accustomed to obedience—the obedience of others—because she’d grown up on an estate with horses and tutors and servants.
For the sake of her school, she’d offer up any student or teacher who might cause conflict. Nuns whispered that Sister Josefine tangoed with the government, wrapped it into her virgin-nun dance. Still, they had faith she’d calculate just how much they must let the government lead so they wouldn’t risk losing their convent and their school.
But Sister Josefine said nothing to contradict Sister Mäuschen.
*
If Thekla could advise the Führer what to change—just one change if he were to ask her, one single change—she would remind him of his promise to strengthen the German family, get him to understand that children denouncing their parents weakened the family.
While her boys pray, Thekla decides she must warn Bruno’s parents, not only about what he revealed in class, but also about him climbing from his window to go to rallies. Tonight. Tonight she will tell his parents.
Last fall, when Thekla’s mother told her the Stosicks’ rental was vacant, Thekla went to see it: parquet floors, tall windows, a bathtub deeper than that of the Abramowitz family, for whom her mother worked as the housekeeper.
When Herr Stosick quoted her the rent, Thekla confessed she’d estimated it to be twice that much.
“An honor to have you live here,” he said. “A colleague, after all.”
Gisela Stosick nodded. As usual, she was all of one color—sandy dress, sandy scarf, sandy hair—except for her shoes, top-stitched leather in two shades of blue. Gisela liked flamboyant shoes.
“It’ll be good for our Bruno,” she told Thekla, “to get to know his teacher.”
Thekla was astonished how welcoming Gisela was. As girls they’d been classmates and in the same youth group, but once Gisela had married, she’d set herself above her unmarried friends.
*
How to talk to the Stosicks without betraying Bruno’s trust? If they weren’t so strict, he wouldn’t need to come to Thekla with his secrets. Like joining the Hitler-Jugend last December, as soon as he could after his tenth birthday. For him it was different than for her other boys, who felt like adults once they joined, important. Bruno had been a little adult all his life, altklug—old-wise, competing with his mind; but once he belonged to the Hitler-Jugend, he got to compete with his body, and discovered the joy of exertion as he leapt and ran, trained for distance and speed, proved himself as part of this sprawling team that included and absorbed him.
But within two weeks, his parents found out and forbade him to belong.
Now they won’t let him out of the house alone. It mortifies Bruno when his mother walks him to and from school as if he were a little boy.
Early this morning the teacher heard him crying downstairs; then his father’s voice, firm; his father’s steps, heavy, in the bathroom. Herr Stosick takes up more space than his wife and son together. The click of the dog’s toenails on the kitchen floor, then scratching at the back door. Soon, the dog’s dance with the door, throwing herself at it, wailing, scratching, until someone let Henrietta out. Some mornings Thekla used to hear laughter downstairs. But not lately. Bruno has been sullen. Agitated.
So many losses for him.
The comradery of the Hitler-Jugend.
His best friend, Markus Bachmann. Markus, who murmured instructions to himself whenever he sketched because he already envisioned the finished piece. Who hiccuped when he laughed. Who was always rushing himself, though he was one of the brightest boys in Thekla’s class. Markus had two best friends, Otto and Bruno, but Bruno had only Markus as a friend. And now he’s too alone in her classroom.
Two Jewish families have left Burgdorf so far. The Gutbergs last December on a flight to London. A few weeks later Markus’s family on a ship to America. So unsettling, Thekla thinks, that heat against the Jews, people saying that their greed caused inflation and unemployment, that they came from nowhere and were taking over everything. On the radio it often was: communists and Jews, as if they were the same. Even at St. Martin’s Church, some parishioners make unkind remarks about Jews. Of course, Thekla never agrees, talks about something else, if she can.
*
When she followed Bruno to the rally, she could spot right away that it had been organized by people who understood about teaching, how to respect children and inspire them. It was the way Thekla taught, instinctively.
Too many of her students had been raised with the rule that children should be seen but not heard. Of course it was intoxicating for them now to have a voice, to be told they were important, Germany’s future. Alone, none of these children had power; yet, being part of the marching columns gave them a mysterious power, all of them moving as one. That part made Thekla uneasy, and she wouldn’t mind saying that to Bruno’s parents.
But what she wouldn’t admit to them is how, from being critical one moment, she was sucked into the swirl of song and of fire, into the emotions of the mass, that passion and urgency, that longing for something beyond them, something great, till she could no longer separate herself, till those emotions became hers, too, that hand to her throat, that sigh, that upsweep of her arm. She felt repulsed. But she didn’t let herself show it. Because someone might be watching. Because it might be a trap. And because just before that moment of repulsion—for the duration of a single heartbeat—she had felt the children’s rapture as her own, felt their pride at being part of this ceremony that was as mystical as church and as lavish as opera with its pomp and music and processions.
*
It was like some crush, some moony devotion, when you lose all hold on yourself and can no longer be responsible. Where am I? Where have I gone to? What if it will be like this from now on? She didn’t want that feeling, just as she didn’t like falling in love. Because of what you give up. Loving was different. It was only the falling she minded. She wished she could love like a man, be skin only, lust only. Her friend, Emil, was good practice. With a man like Emil Hesping, you didn’t need to worry about breaking his heart. It was known in Burgdorf that he got away from any woman unlucky enough to fall for him. Still, women of all ages were drawn to his genuine liking of them, to his curiosity
about the minute details of their lives, to his energy that he focused so totally on each of them. With a man like Emil, a woman might be tempted to tame him so that he would adore her, only her. But not a single one could hold him for long—though he might return to her, for a while—not even the milliner, Frau Simon, so flamboyant with her laugh and her red hair.
Whenever Thekla danced with him, his touch was fast bliss throughout her body. Even when they linked arms on their walks. It was the strongest response she’d had to any man. More like an allergy. So far, she had not slept with Emil. Not because it might lessen his pursuit. And not because of the church. That, she had sorted out with her conscience when she was nineteen and had her first lover, dismissing chastity with its inherent guilt. Just as she dismissed the story of God creating the world in six days. And yet, she liked the rituals of mass and redemption. On the first Saturday of each month, she knelt in the half-dark of the confessional and revealed to the priest her so-called immoral thoughts and acts, counting on him to absolve her, bless her, restore her virginity in the eyes of God, a joke and a miracle.
She hadn’t slept with Emil because for her sex skidded into longing, into that moony falling that made her afraid of losing the beloved though she had no intention of marrying him, or anyone. Living with two brothers had shown her how much marriage took from women. For herself, she wanted Emil’s impermanence. Soon, she would leave him. Because of his reputation. Not with women. But with politics. Until the burning of the Reichstag, she, too, had made fun of Nazis—that they couldn’t add without counting fingers; that their Führer bit into carpets when he got furious—but ridiculing them was no longer safe.
*
When the rally ended, she waited for Bruno without letting him see her. She told herself it had just been pageantry that appealed to small-town minds conditioned by religion to narrow ranges of pleasure. It was probably of value to her teaching to have felt what an adventure it was for her boys to be one with this mass that marched and sang. Passion came into it. The sacred. The ancient. Pride. And now that was over. Until the next time. And she didn’t have to think about it till then.
