by Louise Fein
There’s a bang on my door and I jolt.
“Hurry up, Hetty. You’ll be late for school,” Karl yells.
“Almost dressed. Coming!” I climb reluctantly out of bed.
Downstairs, everyone is already eating breakfast, the early morning news playing on the radio.
“. . . Hermann Göring will today transfer the administration of the Prussian State Secret Police, the Gestapo, to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler . . .”
Mutti looks up at Vati. “Did you know about this?”
Vati raises his eyebrows and stops chewing for a few moments, listening intently to the radio. “. . . In Austria, eighty-one men, opponents of the government, have been incarcerated in Wöllersdorf . . .” Vati loses interest in the story and switches the radio off.
“There was nothing in Goebbels’s news briefing this morning. It’s all been kept quiet.”
I help myself to a cup of warm milk, salami, and pumpernickel and take a seat next to Mutti.
“Now things will become interesting,” Vati says. “I wonder what Göring will do next.” He looks at his watch. “I’m late this morning. I must send a journalist to Berlin to get the scoop. If we’re quick, we’ll have something in time for tomorrow’s print run.” He leans back in his chair. “Mark my words, this will be a change for good. There’s chaos out there, on the streets. Stirred up by Jewish conspirators and Communist thugs. Himmler and Heydrich will bring them to heel. This is good news, Hélène. Good news indeed. Every German citizen should be working for the good of the Reich. And these are the men to make it happen.”
Vati wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes his chair back. “I must be on my way.” He kisses Mutti and ruffles the top of my hair on his way out.
“What does he mean?” Karl asks after he has left. “What chaos on the streets?”
I glance out the window. Fritzschestrasse is all peace and calm. Perhaps the trouble is in Berlin, or Halle, or Munich. I hope it doesn’t spread to the respectable streets of Gohlis.
“People are starving, Karl,” Mutti says, her forehead wrinkled up. “Even though, since Hitler has been in power, things are getting better, there is still no work for many, many people. Hungry, idle men make for trouble. And worse, they listen to the lies and empty promises of our enemies. We have problems that have been brewing for many years. One man cannot solve them all at once. People must be patient. But some are too stupid to trust. Others simply have evil intentions to be rid of him. A strong leader is what we need right now, and we are lucky we have one.”
I stare at the food on my plate. Thank you, Hitler, that I’m not one of the starving.
“Is Vati in danger?” I ask, vaguely aware of his special duties in the SS to protect Hitler and the Party. I picture him, face-to-face with ugly thugs on the streets of Leipzig, many against one, just the way it is with Tomas.
“Of course not,” Mutti says quickly. “But he has an important job, through the Leipziger Tageszeitung, to make sure the citizens of, at least this city, know truth from lies. The lies of the doubters, and the bad-mouthers,” she adds firmly.
“But what exactly does he do when his puts on his Schutzstaffel uniform?”
Mutti smiles. “He’s a senior officer, Hetty.” Then she laughs. “He does a lot of organizing and paperwork. Now, enough of this, both of you, you’ll be late for school, and I must visit my blessed old soldiers today.”
I swallow the rest of my milk and follow Karl into the hall to gather our coats and satchels.
“Bye, Mutti,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“Come on, funny Little Mouse,” Karl says, holding the front door wide for me to pass through. “I’ll take care of you. Always.”
AT THE END of school, I wait for Erna just inside the big double doors. Students pour out of classrooms, congregating in the corridor, before passing out into the bright light outside. Walter appears in the throng. He walks apart from the chattering groups. I try to catch his eye, but his head is down. There’s a pressure in my chest as he passes. I long to reach out and touch his shoulder, ask him what happened between him and Karl. But my arm stays limp at my side and the opportunity is gone.
Outside school, my heart sinks when I see Tomas waiting. Erna nudges me as he walks toward us.
“Who’s this?” she asks with a giggle. “Is he your sweetheart?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just Tomas. From my old school,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth, because he’s within earshot. He looks so scruffy and rough. Like a battered old coin next to shiny new ones. I have the urge to grab Erna and run away, but it’s too late.
“Hello, Tomas, from Hetty’s old school,” Erna says with a smirk, as I hang back.
“Hello.” Tomas looks uncertainly from me to Erna and back. He pushes his ugly glasses up his nose. A thin line of mucus tracks its way down from one of Tomas’s pink nostrils and reaches his top lip. His tongue flicks out and licks at it.
Erna turns away. She hitches her satchel onto her shoulder and gives me a little wave. “See you tomorrow, Hetty,” she says, leaving me with Tomas.
I set off fast for home and Tomas trots to catch up.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“All right. You?”
He shrugs.
I remember the conversation over breakfast this morning, and my heart softens a little. “Your father got a job yet?”
“No.”
“He could become a policeman. Or work for the Party.”
“No way. He’d rather die.”
“That’s stupid. Why?”
“Because he’s a Communist and he hates the Nazis.”
I stop walking. Tomas’s words rise and mingle with the spring breeze ruffling our hair. They hang there, heavy and shocking.
“He can’t be. You’re making it up.”
“I’m not.” We begin to walk again, Tomas dragging the heels of his too-big shoes along the pavement. “He has meetings in my uncle’s flat with this Polish man, Bajek. And other men he used to work with from the factory. I’ve listened through the door.”
“What’ve you heard?” I sidle closer to him, dropping my voice to a whisper.
“They talk about this person and that person and how they’ve suffered. About the National Socialists bullying and roughing people up. How they aren’t allowed to meet anymore, but it won’t stop them. It’s that Bajek. He’s the main one.”
“Communists are traitors,” I hiss.
“I know . . .” he hisses back.
We’ve been studying Hitler’s early life at school. His longing to be an artist. His early struggles against his parents and how, if things had been easier, he would not have been where he is today. We’ve learned about his misery in the 1920s, how he was tried for high treason and imprisoned. But these hardships only made him stronger. His quest for the German people seemed impossible, but he continued to fight, and win he did. We must all be like the Führer and fight, even if it means risking our lives. A vision of his face floats. Help me. He wears a solemn look, but then one ice blue eye winks. My child—his voice is firm and resonant—you must do the right thing. It is your responsibility to be a leader and show the way. Tell Tomas, I, too, went against my parents’ wishes. Show no weakness, Herta. You must be fearless in all that you do . . .
The vision fades but my skin prickles. So this is what He has planned for me. Not being a doctor, but someone who guides others along the path to righteousness. I see clearly the mangled shapes of the men in the soldiers’ home, maimed so cruelly by our enemies. I know what must be done.
“Come home with me, Tomas. My parents won’t mind. You can have lunch and stay for the afternoon if you like.”
“Really?” Tomas’s eyes flare.
“Yes, really.”
Ahead, I glimpse the humped shapes of two people shuffling toward us from the direction of Berggartenstrasse. An old man leaning on a stick, an old lady holding on to his arm. My heart jumps at the sight of Flocke, silently padding at the
ir side, blacker than black.
I point at them and whisper to Tomas, “They’re Jews.” He looks around and wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Let’s get a bit closer,” he says, eyes lit with something I’ve not seen before.
We walk toward them. We get quite close and Tomas shouts, “Eww, there’s a nasty stink around here!”
The Goldschmidts stop and stare at us approaching.
“Say something.” Tomas nudges me.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come. They both look so old and frail.
“Go on,” Tomas urges. “Show them who’s best.” He turns toward them and spits, the white globule landing on the pavement between us and them. My stomach turns over.
He nudges me again.
This time I manage to push a few words out. “It’s the smell of swine,” I say, but my voice is barely a whisper.
“Louder,” Tomas says. We’re just a few feet from them now. Frau Goldschmidt was unkind, I remind myself. She shouted at me and wouldn’t let me walk Flocke. She deserves this. I try not to look at Herr Goldschmidt.
“Jewish swine,” I say, my voice firmer than before. Frau Goldschmidt is trembling and Tomas laughs. It makes me braver. “Disgusting—who would want to live among pigs?” I don’t look them in the eye and the words come easier. They start to flow like vomit, sour and choking. “Sheds. Pigs should live in sheds, not houses!”
I’m light-headed and Tomas and I both double up with laughter as we run away from them and cross the road.
But the look on Herr Goldschmidt’s crumpled face and the trembling of his wife’s hand on his arm as we pass them leave a sickness swirling in my belly.
You can’t be a leader if you don’t believe in what you do. Hitler’s voice echoes in my ears. I pull myself taller and nod in agreement. He’s right. I mustn’t be weak; I have a job to do, and only I can do it.
WE STAND TOGETHER, shoulder to shoulder, in Vati’s study. I squeeze Tomas’s hand to encourage him. He’s completely mute.
I look around the room and see it for the first time as Tomas must see it. The huge leather-covered desk. Vati’s imposing armchair and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with files and the paperwork of authority. Vati himself, with his slicked-back blond hair, massive and commanding in his black uniform.
“Well?” He raises a pale eyebrow, peering at us over the top of his half-moon reading spectacles. The air is fusty with old cigarette smoke and the acerbic tang of whisky.
Tomas is still struck dumb. I’m scared he is going to change his mind or Vati will become impatient and throw us out.
Show no weakness. A youth before which the world will tremble.
“Vati . . .” My voice comes out louder than I expect. “You remember Tomas? He wants to report something, but he is afraid and doesn’t know who he should speak to, so I thought you might hear him.”
Vati puts his pen down and leans back in his chair.
“Well, speak then, boy.”
Tomas clears his throat and at last finds his voice. “It’s . . . about my father. Well, about this Pole, really. Bajek. I think he might be a Communist.”
Vati sits up straighter in his chair. Tomas glances at me. I nod encouragement.
“And what makes you think that, son?”
“I heard him. And he’s got my father into it, too. Also, I found some leaflets . . .”
“What leaflets?” Vati asks sharply.
“Propaganda leaflets.”
I smile at Tomas. He’s doing really well.
“They have discussions. They say Hitler is an idiot. They say it’s only a matter of time before people see sense. They talk about different men they know and which side of the fence they sit on.”
“Do you remember any names?” Vati asks.
“I think so. Some.” Tomas shuffles his feet. “Sometimes when I’m out playing with my brothers, I sneak back to listen. They talk about victory of the working man and revolution and about the wrongs of rich people and things. But I forget . . .”
“Don’t worry about that.” He pushes a sheet of paper toward Tomas and hands him a pen. “You write me that list of names.”
We watch as Tomas scratches a couple of names onto the paper. Thinks a moment, then writes a couple more.
He looks up at Vati. “These are the only ones I know.”
Vati rises from his chair, comes around the desk, and shakes Tomas’s hand.
“You have done the right thing, my boy. You will be rewarded. What Jungvolk rank are you?”
“My parents won’t let me join up,” Tomas says. His head and shoulders droop with the shame of it.
“What? But you must join immediately!” Vati looks outraged. I give him a hard stare, but he pays me no attention.
“I’ll take care of that. How do you fancy becoming a standard bearer, eh? That’s a real honor. You are a true son of Germany; you’ve done a brave thing. Now, not a word to your mother and father, you understand? You leave all this to us. We will take care of everything, yes? Good boy.”
“What’ll happen to him? To my father?” Tomas asks in a small voice. “Will he be arrested?”
“Of course not. You mustn’t listen to idle gossip. We will take your father into protective custody, for his own safety. Do you know what that means?”
Tomas shakes his head.
“It means that we take him away to look after him. To protect him. Germany has enemies, Tomas. You must keep a lookout for them. Always have your eyes and ears open. Anything, however small or insignificant, you must report it. It’s your duty. To me, or to your HJ superiors.” Vati returns to his chair. “Now, you mustn’t worry. I will take care of your vati. Not a word, mind. This is of utmost importance.”
Vati turns to me. He smiles and winks. “Well done, Herta, my girl,” he says. “You are growing up, Schnuffel. I’m proud of you.”
His words are delicious. Perhaps there is hope of a change of mind from him about the Jungmädel, after this.
“Now,” he says briskly, “I must make some telephone calls. Tomas, it might be best if you stay with Herta for a little while. Have some lunch with us.”
I smile into Tomas’s pale, drawn face. He is finally going to join the Hitler Youth, and his father will be protected from the evil of communism. Perhaps the Gestapo might even find him a job.
It has all gone so much better than I ever imagined it would.
Eight
August 19, 1934
Look!” Erna points up to the top of the monkey enclosure. “We’re in luck!”
We prop our bikes next to a bench behind the zoo, where it backs onto Rosental park. A small group of the flat-faced gray creatures sit close to the side of the cage, high up on wooden poles. One of them swings down onto a platform where pieces of fruit are scattered. It grabs a slice of apple, and, clasping it tightly in its little fist, the animal climbs back onto the pole. There it sits, nibbling while its friends squawk and chatter with one another like a bunch of old ladies.
In front of us, small children play on the flat grassy expanse of Rosental in the warm August sunshine and dogs bound in great, loopy circles. From my bag I take out the two slices of linzertorte, wrapped in brown paper, and offer one to Erna. We sit and eat in silence.
A monkey couple crouch apart from the rest, close together, preening and checking each other’s fur. The quiet, gentle movements are broken from time to time as one or the other finds something, a flea or a louse perhaps, and, swiftly grabbing it, pops it into its mouth.
“Imagine if people did that.” Erna suddenly giggles at the monkey couple and wrinkles up her nose. She nudges me with her elbow. “Imagine you doing that with your sweetheart when you get one.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of sweet pastry and jam.
“Erna!” I splutter. “Shhh . . .”
She turns and looks at me, wickedness flickering in her eyes. “Perhaps you already have someone in mind,” she says, nudging me again.
“Don�
�t be ridiculous. We’re only twelve.”
“I’m nearly thirteen. Anyway, what about Karl?” She looks at me sideways.
“What about him?”
“He’s awfully handsome.”
“Karl?” I laugh. “He hardly ever washes and almost never changes his pants and vest.” Something quivers in my belly. A snake flickering its tongue. I carefully lick the jam off my fingers. “Reenacting famous battles. Airplanes. Football.” I count them off. “That’s what Karl likes.”
I study Erna’s profile while she chews and watches the monkeys. The delicate sweep of her nose. Her high cheekbones and smooth, milky skin. She really is impossibly pretty.
But Karl’s not interested in girls.
She lets out a long sigh and scrunches her paper bag into a small ball.
“I told my father about you,” she says, turning the ball round and round in her hands. “He said not to be friends.”
“Why not?” I stare at her in surprise.
“It’s not you he doesn’t like,” she says hurriedly, “it’s your father.”
“But he doesn’t even know my father!”
“I probably shouldn’t say,” she says, squeezing the ball to make it flat. “It’s only because he’s wrong. I should be friends with you, and whatever he says won’t change a thing. You’ll always be my best friend, won’t you, Hetty?”
And everything for a moment stands still. Like the most perfect picture. The sun is gloriously golden and warm. The birdsong is brighter and sweeter than ever before, and the monkeys at their most playful and full of joy.
I try to look unruffled, as if people declare me to be their Best Friend every day. “Of course,” I say, barely breathing, and I can’t help smiling. “Always and forever.”
We sit for a moment in contented silence.
“What is it that your father doesn’t like about mine?”
“Honestly. Don’t worry about it.”
“He shouldn’t say things about people he doesn’t even know.” How odd to think of Vati being discussed in other people’s living rooms.
Erna takes a breath. “Something to do with the way he took over the newspaper,” she says in a rush. “But he’s probably got it all wrong.”
