by Louise Fein
“Vati . . .” Erna scolds. “You shouldn’t say such things . . .”
He ignores her and continues talking as he scans the print with the paper held out above his ample belly. He doesn’t seem to have noticed me. “What did we expect? To make friends with the British over a game of cricket, a beer, and a Berlin prostitute? Ha! The insanity of our leaders, beggars all belief—”
His words are so shocking I freeze in the doorway.
“Vati!” Erna tries again.
But Herr Bäcker rants on. “Still, I suppose if you put a bunch of stupid, crazy, drunken madmen, who have failed at all else in life, in charge of running our country, what else can one expect? Ruination and disaster, that’s what.”
Erna’s eyes are wide with alarm. “Vati, you mustn’t . . . Please stop.”
“Damned Nazis. Bloody Hitler,” Herr Bäcker says fiercely to the newspaper, shaking its pages in anger.
“Vati!” Erna’s voice cracks like a whip around the room. At last he looks up from the paper, openmouthed in surprise, and sees me standing there before him, in my BDM uniform. “You must not talk so,” Erna says more softly and tips her head toward me. “You remember my friend Hetty?”
“Eh, er . . .” He clears his throat and begins to fold the paper. “I . . .” He laughs nervously and peers at me through narrowed eyes as though I’m fuzzy and out of focus. “You’re a friend from school, are you?”
“Yes, Herr Bäcker,” I reply quietly, but my heart thrashes wildly and a sweat breaks out.
Who is this man spouting such vile talk? Is this what the enemy looks like? Not a red Bolshevist pushing the cause of Communist revolution. Not a rich, hook-nosed, pig-eyed Jewish conspirator. Just an ordinary, middle-class, nondescript nobody. The father of my best friend. In how many other houses, behind closed doors, are such attitudes held and whispered? How can we ever hope to overcome the treachery of ignorant fools like this?
“Hmm. Well, apologies, Helga, my tongue runs away with me sometimes.”
“Hetty,” Erna corrects him. “Hetty Heinrich.”
“Hetty Heinrich,” he repeats slowly, wrinkling his brow. He clutches the newspaper more tightly. “Ignore me, Hetty. I’m just . . . I don’t mean any harm by it, do I, Erna?”
“No, Vati.” Erna’s voice is low with shame.
There’s an awkward silence. Herr Bäcker smooths and folds the paper.
“We’re going out, Vati. I’ll be back in time for lunch, before this afternoon’s BDM meeting,” Erna says and shoos me from the room.
Out on the street, her face is pinched and pale. “My father doesn’t mean what he says. He’s old and silly. I don’t think he even knows what he is saying most of the time.” The air is stiff. We walk slowly, and in time. Heel, toe. Heel, toe, our rubber-soled shoes quiet on the pavement.
“It’s okay, Erna, there is no need to explain.”
. . . Insanity of our leaders. Damned Nazis. Bloody Hitler. The words jolt and jar in my brain. Is this what Erna has grown up listening to? Why has she never said?
“He’s just a stupid old man,” she cries out. Her words stop me in my tracks. Her face is puffy, red. She’s angry. Or humiliated. Probably both, but I’ve never heard her speak in ugly terms about anyone before, let alone her own father. Poor Erna. “Look, Hetty.” She turns toward me, pleading. “I know you, well, we, are under a duty to report such talk and all that, but . . .”
How can she, Erna the Enviable, the Perfect, say nothing! I think of Tomas and how brave he was to speak up about his father. Perhaps, if Erna doesn’t have the guts, I should do it myself. It wouldn’t be hard. Vati would be pleased with me. I picture him telling Karl and Mutti about how I am a true child of the Reich. But the glow is quickly extinguished by the thought of losing Erna forever as my friend. How bleak, how meaningless life would be without her.
I place my hand on her arm. “I won’t say a word.”
“He doesn’t really mean it . . .”
“Your vati’s secret views are safe with me, I promise,” I add, giving her arm a squeeze.
Her face relaxes and she flashes me a quick smile.
We say no more about it, walking in silence until we arrive at the tram stop where a man and woman wait. I sense there’s been a power shift between us. She isn’t so perfect after all. She’s been holding things from me. Her father’s allegiances are clearly not with Hitler, and she’s kept quiet about it. She isn’t as pure of heart as I’d thought. Does that make us equal? I wonder how many other clandestine secrets we each hold inside. Insidious truths hidden from each other like festering wounds, blackening our hearts and keeping us from the honest purity every good German girl should strive for.
Perhaps this is the reason she remains my friend. She’s not too good for me, after all.
Forgive me, Führer. I know what I should do, but this is Erna and she is my best friend. I can’t hurt her.
I picture the Führer’s vivid blue eyes staring into my own, searching my soul and seeing that my intentions are good.
Do not worry, he announces, this man is not of importance. I have bigger enemies to fight. Together, we shall beat them all.
WE MEET TOMAS and three of his HJ friends at a table outside Coffe Baum on Kleine Fleischergasse. The weather is still balmy as we sit and watch the people of Leipzig stroll along the narrow, cobbled street. A waitress brings a tray of water, hot coffee in silver pots, warm milk, and sugar.
Erna sits next to me. She is quiet and withdrawn. I feel her neediness. Her reliance on me to keep quiet. Wissen ist macht. Knowledge is power. It’s a new sensation, a reversal. I’m the witty one this morning, filling the air with chat and laughter. The boys are reveling in my company.
“I’ve started my apprenticeship at the machine tool factory,” Tomas tells us in a lazy drawl. “Only two weeks in and I’m bored as pig shit already. Pardon my language,” he says, looking at me. “I’ve barely set eyes on a tool, just swept the floor for fourteen days straight. Only three years of this before I get released to do my two years with the Wehrmacht. Can’t wait for that. Just hope the war hasn’t been and gone before I get there. Knowing my pig-sucking luck, it will have.”
Every boy’s dream is to fight for Germany.
“Surely it can’t be that bad. I mean, you won’t have to sweep floors for three whole years, will you? That wouldn’t be much of an apprenticeship,” I say, generously ignoring the second swear word. Inevitable, I suppose, mixing with foulmouthed factory workers.
“They like to start you at the bottom. So you feel like you’re working your way up. You know, from the toilet pit, to the rim, so to speak. I’m not staying there forever, though. I’ve got ambition. I’ll do better in the Wehrmacht.”
“Did you hear about Dr. Kreitz?” Erna suddenly asks.
“Haven’t heard his name in a long time.” I shake my head, remembering the crazy old literature teacher. “He was a teacher at our school,” I explain to the boys. “He got kicked out, ages ago. He made lessons . . . fun, interesting. There are no teachers like him left anymore.”
“Committed suicide,” Erna exclaims in a rush. “Hung himself by the neck!” She clasps her own throat and demonstrates the facial expressions of a dead Dr. Kreitz.
“Oh, but that’s terrible! Why would he do such a thing?” I picture Dr. Kreitz, all disheveled and enthusiastic. How could he be dead?
“Couldn’t get another job. Apparently, he and his wife were starving to death. The SS were after him, on account of his suspect political views.” There is discomfort in her eyes.
“That’s sad,” I reply carefully. “I liked Dr. Kreitz.”
Hermann, a sallow-faced boy with pockmarked skin, shrugs. “I hear loads of people are finishing themselves off these days. Especially Jews. They want to avoid a worse fate. But what could be worse than killing yourself?” He takes a sip of water and stares at me. There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“The SS must do their job, and they do it bloody well,” Tomas sud
denly growls. “I’ve personal experience of that, right? We should keep our noses out of their business.”
We all look at Tomas in surprise.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend,” Hermann says with a sniff.
“Anyway,” adds Tomas gruffly, “who gives a damn if a few Jews or other wastrels top themselves? A few less of the swine to worry about.” He glances at the clock on the wall of the tall building opposite. “We should go. We don’t want to be late for our HJ meeting.”
The other boys agree and there’s a shuffling and scraping of chairs as they make to leave.
Tomas’s eyes linger on me a little longer than necessary, then he turns his back and I watch him and his friends walk toward the tram stop on Markt. Poor Tomas, taller now, but still awkward and skinny, he’s hardly the Aryan ideal. But the way he just spoke up for me then, it seems he looks out for me now, the way I once looked out for him.
“He’s sweet on you,” Erna remarks, watching him go. “What a catch!” She giggles for the first time since we’ve been here. “Secret sweethearts, eh.” She elbows me, teasingly, and I swipe her arm away, angrily, heat rising to my cheeks.
“I should go too.” I turn away. “I’m having lunch at home before this afternoon’s meeting. Sorry, Erna, I shan’t walk. It’ll be quicker on the tram.”
I hurry toward the tram stop with an odd sense of deflation. It’s an irritation, a discomfort. It could be Karl’s imminent departure. Or the revelation about Erna’s father. Or the news of Dr. Kreitz. Or Erna’s teasing about Tomas being my sweetheart. Or perhaps it’s because I decided I’m not going to meet Walter in the morning. Maybe it’s just the hot weather.
The carriage is crammed with sweaty workmen in overalls traveling home after their shift, through the city center toward the main train station. They’ve come from the factories and warehouses in Plagwitz and Lindenau. I squeeze into a space near the door and hold my breath as my nose slots under the armpit of a fat, hairy man hanging on to one of the leather straps dangling from the roof.
“Hey, miss!” calls a voice from farther inside the carriage. “There’s a seat just here, next to me by the window, if you fancy it?”
“It’s okay, I’m only going a couple of stops,” I reply, politely. The man is youngish. Dirty looking, with hungry eyes.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” His voice, tinged with anger, carries the clipped tones of a Berlin accent. There are more and more harsh Prussian voices around Leipzig these days. Compared with the lighter, softer Saxon, their accent grates on the ear. As Vati wrote recently in the Leipziger, the burgeoning industry and wealth of Leipzig is enticing all sorts of people from far and wide to come, sniffing the possibility of a sound job and prosperity. But they bring with them bad morals, crime, and disease.
I wish I’d walked after all.
“Girls aren’t what they used to be,” the man moans in a loud voice to another, standing in the aisle. “All full of their own self-importance, now they’re wearing uniforms. Girls in uniform? Pah! How ridiculous.”
The other man glances over at me. I stare at my feet, feeling my face turn the color of beetroot. My blue BDM skirt swings as the tram lurches around a bend. The men laugh and another says, “BDM . . . it doesn’t stand for Bund Deutscher Mädel. It stands for Bubi Drück Mich!”
Squeeze Me Laddie. How dare they?
“Let me give you a squeeze, girl, eh?” The first man, with the Berlin accent, laughs.
The other joins in. “I heard it was Bund Deutscher Milchkühe!” League of German Milk Cows. Half the carriage is laughing. I’m sweating now, burning with indignation, but I’m locked in a metal box with these dreadful, rough men. I peer out the window, trying to work out how far to the next stop, glad I’m still close enough to the door to make a quick getaway. Are these the sort of men Tomas works with? Please don’t let him turn into one of them.
“Girls these days. Take last night. Group of girls in the bar, alone, no men with them. I politely offered to buy a young lady a drink. She laughed in my face! Just because she’s in a uniform. They all laughed at me. Pff! Who the hell do they think they are? Young ladies? Nah, sows, the lot of them.” The man with the Berlin accent again.
“Hey,” he shouts to me, “you should be looking for a husband, girl, not strutting about in that stupid Nazi uniform!”
I long to yell something back at him. Something to put him in his place, like I wouldn’t choose you as my husband if you were the last man on earth . . . but I don’t dare. I just stare at my feet, willing the tram to go faster so I can get off it sooner.
“Oi.” The fat hairy man, whose armpit is in my face, addresses the other men. “Watch your tongues,” he says gruffly, “and leave the little lady alone. She’s only a youngster.” He turns and dips his big, round head toward me. He smells of beer and cigarettes. “You okay, girl?”
I nod, absurdly grateful to this rough gorilla-man for standing up for me. The tram slows for the next stop.
“I’m getting off here,” I say quietly, not wanting the others to hear. “Thank you.”
I jump out as soon as the tram screeches to a halt, thankful none of the men follow me. I take a long, deep breath of fresh air, delicious after the stale odor of male sweat and beer in the carriage. My legs are weak and I grab the spokes of a metal gate in front of me to steady myself.
I look up and see I’m standing at the entrance of a small Jewish cemetery. Someone has defaced a few of the gravestones. “Jewish Swine” is daubed over one. Another has been smashed into pieces. A third reads: “The only good Jew is a dead Jew!” and the one next to it, “Spill Jewish blood—the only way to solve the Jewish Problem.” Hairs stand up at the back of my neck.
I think of the whispers of a Jewish conspiracy. Of not knowing what they plan, and when. Because this is the way they work, underhand and secretly, through the medium of foreign governments. Through revolutionary movements and unrest. Dividing and unsettling. Maneuvering themselves into power in all spheres of life. A bead of sweat tracks down my spine. Hitler will lead us to victory. He must.
I hurry away from this ill intent among the gravestones.
A vision of Walter floats in front of me as I walk. His soft, curly blond hair. His warm blue eyes. That smile. How polite and proper he is compared to those brutes on the tram. And they have the audacity to call themselves German.
Walter is not a normal Jew. He cannot be.
I’m certain he isn’t part of this Conspiracy of International Jewry.
Where is his hooked nose and shifty eyes?
He is kind, handsome, and funny.
Perhaps he isn’t a Jew. Maybe he is a mischling, a mix with Aryan blood, too. This would explain his looks. Maybe he doesn’t even know it himself.
I turn into Fritzschestrasse and the thrill of rebellion suddenly flows through my veins. I shall meet him tomorrow morning. Just one last time, to say good-bye, and tell him we can’t meet again. Nothing terrible happened last time, and no one will ever know.
To simply not turn up would be rude.
And I have been brought up to have good manners.
Fourteen
August 8, 1937
I am standing on a high, narrow rock. Behind, a meadow of lush grass and wildflowers. Ahead, the rock falls steeply away into a deep emerald valley. Tight bands of conifers grow vertically on the steep slopes. At the bottom is the winding silver strip of a river, shimmering in the sunlight.
A tiny figure stands on the riverbank, waving both arms above his head. He is urging me to come down and join him.
Walter.
The breeze tugs my hair and the sun is warm on my face. The tang of freedom is in the air, and I’m giddy with it. I close my eyes and tip forward until I reach the point where I cannot change my mind. I begin to fall, slowly at first, then faster; the air rushes and roars. I’m arching forward, but something isn’t right. I open my eyes and Karl is there, in a glider, sailing toward me, blocking my way . . .
I wake with
a start. Pushing myself upright, I peer at the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece, but it’s only five thirty-five. I flop back onto the pillow, the vividness of the dream still with me. It isn’t too late. I could stay here, and everything will be the same. Or I can go, and everything will be different.
Be a good girl. Clean of mind and body. Don’t stray into the path of evil. Be meek. Act only for the welfare of others. That’s what He would tell me. I lie still and wait for his voice. Nothing. I prop up my pillows and recline against them, looking toward Hitler’s portrait over the mantelpiece. It’s fuzzy and unclear in the half-light seeping around the edges of the closed shutters. Still nothing.
My mind is blank. Empty. Quiet. Blissfully quiet. Could that be permission? Really, what harm can there be? It’s just a walk with an old friend. Nothing more.
I’M EARLY OF course. Ridiculously so. What will Walter think? That I’m too eager? I hope my long skirt, high buttoned blouse, and shapeless jumper will convince him otherwise. God forbid that he should know what thoughts have really crossed my mind.
I throw a stick for Kuschi. He brings it back, drops it at my feet, and whines until I throw it again. I hurl it into the river and he bounds in, swimming hard against the current to grab it before it floats away. He has no fear of water.
A sound on the road: a stone clipped by a shoe, scattering across tarmac.
It’s him. Striding up the lane with his hands in his pockets, hat pulled low over his forehead. He looks up and smiles.
A million butterflies flutter in my belly.
“You came,” he says.
“So did you.”
He laughs, I laugh, and everything melts. My insides, the nippy air, the trees and the hedgerows, the road, the bridge—all soften and bleed together, warmed and muted, running like wet paint on a canvas.
“Let’s walk,” he says, and we fall into step on the path. We follow the river through a wood where the roofs of scattered houses can be glimpsed through a dense tangle of branches, marking the edge of town. From here the river flows out into wide, undulating farmland. With each step, we put distance between us and Leipzig, and I feel a rising, glorious sense of liberty.
