by Louise Fein
Can it be so wrong to take a few vegetables if you are denied the ability to buy any? whispers a tiny voice. I silence it.
“I really must get back now.” I speak into an uncomfortable silence. The temperature is climbing and Kuschi pants gently at my side.
“Of course.” Walter glances around and then looks at his basket. “Me too. This is rather conspicuous.”
We stroll back to the humpbacked bridge where we will go our separate ways, me across the river back to Gohlis, and Walter, right, toward his grandmother’s house on Hindenburgstrasse. I’m strangely aware of my body: the shortness of my legs, the messiness of my hair, my thin arms, the fat feel of my tongue in my mouth, a strange tingling sensation on my skin.
“How is Karl?” Walter asks suddenly. “He must have his Arbitur by now and be off to university soon?”
“Yes. He did well, but Karl is going to join the Luftwaffe.” It’s impossible to keep the pride from my voice.
“A pilot, eh? He’ll do well, I’m sure.”
“He reached a high rank in the Flieger-HJ. The Luftwaffe recruited him because he was so well thought of.”
“Remember the games we used to play, Hetty? Cowboys and Indians? We always argued over who would have the pistol, and who the bow and arrow.” He shakes his head and smiles to himself.
“You used to let me be the doctor-squaw. I’d scrub your feet and treat your war wounds. Afterward I’d make you mud pie dinners!”
“Very delicious they were too.” Walter laughs.
We reach the bridge. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. We stare at each other and I shuffle my feet. The silence stretches. Not taking his eyes off mine, Walter reaches out for my hand and solemnly shakes it. I feel a flicker of illicit excitement at his touch and don’t want to let go.
“Well, it’s been very nice to see you.” He slips his hand away. “I’m sorry things are as they are, but I wish you well. Good-bye, Hetty.” He smiles and gives a half wave of his hand as he turns, shoves his hat on his head, and walks away.
I watch him walk three steps.
“Wait! When will I see you again?” I burst out. Then I shrivel and bite my lip.
Walter stops and turns.
“You really want to see me again?”
“Only if you want to. I know it’s probably not a good idea.”
“You can say that again!”
“I mean, we shouldn’t.”
“We definitely shouldn’t.” He leans against the rough wall of the bridge and slides his free hand into his pocket, crossing one leg in front of the other. “It would be very dangerous. Especially for me. A dastardly Jew caught with a beautiful young German woman? I know of a Jew who was recently dragged from his house and beaten for being too friendly with the daughter of a tax inspector.”
Beautiful. Young woman.
Can he really think me beautiful?
“But you’re worth the risk,” he continues with a broad smile. “How about we meet at seven, next Sunday morning, here by this bridge?”
“I’ll be away at camp with the Bund Deutscher Mädel. My parents never wanted me to join, but after it became compulsory last December for all Aryan children, they had no choice but to let me.”
“In two weeks’ time then?”
“In two weeks, yes.”
“But not a word to anyone.” Walter waggles a scolding finger at me, his face stern.
I nod and walk quickly away over the little bridge, turning toward the slowly waking city.
“Come on, Kuschi,” I call, looking back over my shoulder. Walter is walking away, square shouldered, basket at his side. He glances back and grins when he sees me looking. My heart skips and I am weightless, all the way back to Fritzschestrasse.
Twelve
August 3, 1937
Erna’s tread crackles on the rocky path behind me.
“Isn’t this glorious?” she asks. Her face shines with perspiration but her plaits are still neat, her uniform tidy.
The boulder-ridden path rises steeply ahead. The glory in these Bavarian hills has begun to pall after walking uphill for hours in a heat wave. I can smell my own rancid sweat. I wipe my handkerchief around the back of my neck, lifting away damp clumps of loose, frizzy hair from the remnants of my plaits.
“My feet are in shreds,” I reply. “New boots. Should have broken them in before we left,” I add, wincing with each step.
“Good for the soul. It’ll strengthen your character.”
“My character was doing just fine without blisters, thanks very much.” Tears prick at the back of my eyes.
Erna glances behind her, but the rest of the girls in our BDM schar are spread out and the leaders are up ahead, so there is no one to witness my moment of weakness. “Come on, Hett, we must be nearly at the top. Just one last push and we can set up camp. Remember, Herr Hitler wants us girls fit, brimming with health and vitality.”
“When we get there, I just want to lie down.”
“You are funny, Hett.” Erna laughs.
“I’m not joking!” With every step, the backs of my boots rub the raw skin on my heels.
“Come on, you moody old thing. Look happy; Fräulein Ackermann is up ahead. She might even award you a badge, if you put in some hard work and give her a dazzling smile or two . . .”
I follow Erna’s strong back as she strides up the narrow path. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I’m certain my breath is as sour as my mood. Not for the first time, Erna appears to read my mind and in her crisp, clear voice begins to sing “Wanderlied der Jugend.”
When we stride along side by side and sing the old songs that echo in the forests,
We feel it must succeed: with us, a new time comes . . .
The joyful melody lifts my spirit and my feet begin to move in time with the familiar beat that plays in my mind along with her words.
Birch leaves and green seeds.
How the old mother earth, as if with pleading gestures,
holds out her full hands to humanity, so that it becomes her own.
We scramble up the last steep slope, arriving at the top with heaving chests and sweat dripping down our backs.
“Good work, you two.” Fräulein Ackermann beams at us as we pass. “There’s a surprise up ahead. I’ll give you a clue; it’s refreshing and wet!”
“A waterfall.” Erna smiles as we leave her to hustle the rest of the girls to the top.
The campsite is on a wide, flat ridge. Grass grows sparsely between the rocks. The ground slopes down toward a large pool. Erna is right; it’s fed by a beautiful waterfall.
In dribs and drabs the rest of the group arrive. On the flattest part, after clearing away the worst of the stones, we pitch our tents, dig a hole for a latrine, and fetch water for cooking and preparing the food.
“Resilient. Tough. Independent. Girls worthy to be the mothers of the master race. That’s what our Führer wants you to be.” Fräulein Ackermann drills us once the work is done and we are all assembled, dusty and tired. “And never forget the BDM principles: purity, cleanliness, virtue, obedience, and compliance. Now, go and take a dip in the pool. You’ve earned it!”
Yes, and a good German girl never questions or complains. She always acts for the good of her community. Girls must be tall and strong and beautiful, without enhancement. We must be clean and look after our hygiene. We must be modest and demure. Above all, a girl must always put menfolk first and support them in their struggle. However tired we are, however hard we have worked, their needs must come before our own.
Our duty is to serve the Führer, Germany, and our future husbands. Boys learn to govern and be leaders; we must be compliant. The demands are constant; there is no time to follow my own path.
I cannot help but feel the essence of me is slowly being sucked out.
We gather our towels and hurry down the rocky slope, following the sound of rushing water.
Doing the right thing means personal sacrifice. Give up w
hat you want, for the good of all.
I shake my head, try to clear it. Still He lives inside my skull. The Führer who sees everything. My deepest fears, my hopes and dreams. And some of the thoughts I’ve had since that Sunday, I really don’t want him to know.
“Look around you, Hetty. We are truly on top of the world,” Erna says.
All around us are hazy mountains and deep green valleys. The glassy black curve of a lake lies in a basin thousands of feet below. Above, craggy rocks jut skyward, and thin strips of white cloud float lazily in a clear blue sky.
This is the land of the gods. There is something cleansing in the scenery.
“It’s sublime,” I admit.
“Now let’s swim,” she says, and I watch her as she walks toward the pool, her auburn plaits flickering gold, her back long and shoulders strong. She is the sun, a beautiful, golden orb drawing everyone toward her. I’m in her shadow. A little planet sucked into her orbit, resentful of her power, and yet I can’t help but love her. Her purity and honesty. Her positivity.
She is so much better than me.
I wish I could tell her about Walter. Ask her advice. Just five more days until we are due to meet on the bridge.
A dastardly Jew caught with a beautiful young German woman . . . I can see his mouth form the words. His lips pursing, eyes taking me in.
I cannot tell her. Or anyone. I promised not to. But it’s so hard. Boys only ever notice Erna. Never me. And Walter isn’t just any boy. He has good looks. He is brave, manly. He could be the epitome of the Aryan ideal. It would be so easy to forget what he really is.
I pretend he isn’t a Jew and imagine us together, figures lit up as if in a movie. There’s an intense look in his eye, then his lips are on mine. He says to me, Hetty, please be mine. I have never felt this way about a girl before. His hands are around my waist, but he begins to slide them lower and I say to him, Walter, stop. I am not that sort of girl. And, of course, he does stop, because he loves me, but—
“Hetty! What on earth are you waiting for? It’s so refreshing in here!”
Erna is treading water, her hair slick and dark as spray from the waterfall falls on her head like a torrential downpour.
“Coming!” I remove my boots and wriggle out of my skirt. The other girls fling off their clothes, right down to their undergarments, and leap into the water, shrieking and squealing, chattering and laughing. I peer into the black depths. You are a strong swimmer now. I remove my neckerchief, unbutton my sweat-soaked shirt, and pull off my woolen socks one by one, carefully folding everything and finding a spot to place them neatly on the rocks. You have no reason to be afraid.
I stand in my underclothes, puny and exposed, at the edge of the dark water. The granite rock, warm beneath the soles of my feet, is reminiscent of that sun-warmed jetty all those years ago. Terror hovers and my legs begin to quiver. I cannot let anyone know I’m afraid. I close my eyes and launch myself off the rock, far out into the center of the pool.
The shock of the icy water takes my breath away, as it once did before, and I plunge downward. I uncurl, fighting the panic, kicking frantically for the surface.
I shoot up into the light, taking huge gulps of air, still kicking hard. I can almost feel those strong hands, pulling me up, away from that hideous watery end.
“Hey! Move out of the way down there!” someone shouts from above. I look up, pulling my body vertical. Erna and three others are seated high up on a rock next to the waterfall, ready to jump. I swim out of the way and watch the four girls plummet through space and crash into the pool. The water swallows them, bubbling in the place they entered. A second’s pause and they shoot to the surface, laughing, gasping, and wiping water from their eyes. They have no fear, and suddenly I hate my own.
I flip onto my back and float, gazing into the azure sky, trying not to think about the terrifying volume of water between me and the solid earth. It laps around my head and seeps into my ears. The cold numbs and soothes my aching limbs. What I would give to be having a long soak in a mineral bath, then to fall naked into Walter’s arms . . .
Hell! What depraved thoughts are these? Give me strength, oh Führer, to banish this evil from my mind. My heart beats in double quick time.
The personification of the devil as the symbol of all evil assumes the living shape of the Jew. Hitler’s words rattle through my mind. By defending myself against the Jew, I am fighting for the work of the Lord.
It’s so hard. Dirty visions spring, unbidden, into my head. They are grubby and wrong.
I try to focus on the white clouds drifting high above me. A movement in the distance catches my eye. Three black dots in a “V” shape, traveling low and fast across the sky. Fighter planes. Perhaps they’re off to join the war in Spain. Deep in the peace of the countryside, that real war, happening so far away, is surreal. And what of this bigger war that Vati alludes to? One right here in Germany, and all over the world. A war to right the wrongs of Versailles and to restore Germany to its rightful place as leader of the world. A war to crush the ambitions of the Jews. My stomach twists.
“Erna,” I say urgently, “I need to talk to you about something. It’s private.” I glance at the bevy of girls bobbing nearby.
“Of course. Come on, let’s go and get dry. I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing.”
We dry ourselves beside the pool and dress quickly under the late afternoon sun.
“So what’s eating you, Hett? I knew you weren’t yourself.”
I check there is no one in earshot. Most of the girls are still in the pool. The few that are out are already dressed and making their way back to the campsite. Now is the time.
“The thing is . . .”
I remember my promise to Walter that I wouldn’t tell a soul. Erna is a BDM leader. Even if she didn’t want to report us, she has the duty to do so. And knowing how seriously she takes it . . . she would see Walter just like everyone else.
As the enemy.
“Hetty?”
“Oh. You know. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s . . . well, no, I’ve changed my mind.”
Erna spreads her wet towel, slip, and panties on the warm rock to dry.
“All right then. Suit yourself.” There’s hurt in her voice. “If you change your mind again, you know where to find me. I’m going to supervise the cooking.”
She strides toward the campsite and doesn’t wait for me.
Give me strength, oh great Führer, to resist temptation. I’m sorry for my depraved thoughts. Show me the way, and I will follow. Wherever that takes me.
I will not go back to meet Walter on Sunday. Consorting with a Jew is against every law and principle in the land. If we were caught together, Walter would risk being sent to a dreaded concentration camp, or worse, he might face a firing squad. Besides, I want to be good, honest, and pure. My thoughts about Walter are disgusting. They sicken me. I want no more of them.
LATER THAT EVENING, we sit around the campfire and sing songs. I sing with gusto, louder and louder, surrendering my soul to the music, closing my mind to all thoughts but the rhythm and words. By the time we reach the last, I feel cleansed. Refreshed. Filled with new vigor to be a better person and put the weakness I suffered earlier behind me, forever.
We all stay in solidarity under our shining flag.
There we find ourselves as one people.
No one goes alone anymore.
We all stay in duty to God, the Führer, and the blood.
Firm in conviction of faith, happy in work that each does.
We all want to be as one: Germany, you shall stay alight.
We will see all of our honor in your bright light.
Thirteen
August 7, 1937
Erna lives on the top floor of an apartment block just off Kirchplatz. The flat isn’t large, but it is light and airy.
“I’m so glad you could come!” Erna grabs my hand and pulls me straight up the stairs to her bedroom. The ceiling slopes on both sides and fou
r little dormer windows are punched through, peeking out under the overhanging eaves. I glance out at sweeping views over the treetops, roofs, and chimneys of Leipzig.
Erna flops onto her bed and holds herself up on one elbow, her chestnut hair falling like a curtain behind her. She beams at me.
“I’m in love, Hett!” she announces, her cheeks flushed. “Madly. I’ve not told anyone else, but I had to tell you!”
“So who’s the lucky man?” My heart beats a little faster as a vision of Walter’s keen blue eyes flashes unwanted into my mind.
“His name is Kurt. He lives on the other side of Leipzig. He’s a total dish. Impeccable manners, and he’s rich.”
“Heavens. He sounds perfect . . . does he have any friends?”
Erna laughs. “Maybe. But don’t tell anyone. Please. No one can know.”
“Why not? What’s the problem?”
“My parents would have a fit. They’re very old-fashioned, and I’m only fifteen. They wouldn’t approve of me cavorting around on my own with a boy. And he’s older—eighteen.” She sighs. “But oh, I’m bursting with happiness, Hetty. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Really. And such things always happen to you, Erna.
When she’s run out of things to say about the perfect Kurt, we go to inform her father, a round pebble of a man in the sitting room, that we are going to meet friends in town. He’s drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper—not the Leipziger Tageszeitung, but the Völkischer Beobachter, a national morning newspaper. Erna chooses not to mention that the friends are boys from the Hitler Jugend, even though they are just that. Friends. On the front cover of his newspaper is a full-page spread devoted to the seven-hundred-year anniversary celebrations of the city of Berlin. Pictures of the parades and displays of the mighty German army take up half the broadsheet page. He doesn’t look up.
“Listen to this, Erna.” Herr Bäcker chuckles, smoothing a hand over the shiny skin of his bald head. He reads out a section about the tour of a group of men from a place called Worcestershire in England who have traveled to Berlin to play a game called cricket. “The English team claim the Germans have been unsportsmanlike. They complain about German gamesmanship,” he says, wrinkling his forehead, “and yet they enjoy all the delights of the famous Berlin nightlife.”
