by Louise Fein
And there, nestled among them, is the journal Karl had given me the day of the Almost Drowning. I snatch it off the shelf. My only entry to date is the one I made three years ago, when I devoted myself to Hitler’s cause. I stare at my passionate words. For one impulsive moment, I consider ripping out the page. Instead, I turn it over, and on a new, blank page, begin to pour out my heart.
We couldn’t stay away from each other. Two Sundays after you said we mustn’t meet anymore, you were there, standing by the bridge. I thought it was a mirage, my imagination playing tricks. But when I touched your arm, you were solid and real and perfect. Last week, while everyone in the house was still sleeping, I packed a picnic breakfast and we went to the fields. Thank goodness Ingrid and Bertha had the day off! It was warm, and we lay among the sweet-smelling, freshly cut hay bales, completely alone, hidden from view. For a short time it was almost possible to imagine we hadn’t a care in the world. We talked and talked, not about politics, we steer clear of that, but about everything else. I’m amazed at the similarities between us—we both love spargel, sauerkraut, and brägenwurst. I couldn’t believe that you eat pig meat, but you say your family isn’t religious. Like us, I suppose. Being a Jew, I thought you’d be more different. But then, as you said, you are more German even than me. Everyone says Jews can’t be German. Now I’m not so sure. Until now, I’ve only heard one story. How strange it is to hear yours of hardships and restrictions. You know so much that I don’t. You quote poetry and know about philosophers (not just German ones), and you’ve read books I’ve never even heard of, about things and places I didn’t know existed. You talk of painters like Klee and Kokoschka and writers like Kafka and Mann. Everything about you is new and interesting and exotic and extraordinary.
After we ate, you folded your jacket into a pillow and lay back, eyes closed, arms folded across your chest. I watched as you drifted into sleep. The gentle rise and fall of your chest. Your eyes tight shut, sunlight playing over your skin. I could have sat and watched you all day, but suddenly you woke, your body tight, eyes wide open, tense, and, reluctantly, we both knew it was time to go home.
“Miss Herta?” A knock at the door. Ingrid.
I snap my journal shut and hide it beneath a cushion beside me on the window seat.
“Come in,” I say, arranging myself as though all I’m doing is staring out my window, contemplating the view.
She opens the door and stands there, giving me one of her looks. The insolent one. The one she wouldn’t dare give to Vati, Mutti, or even Karl. I wonder if she somehow senses I’m hiding something. She has a viper look about her: thin face, beady eyes, and a tongue she flicks out to lick her lips, a sort of nervous twitch.
“Yes, what is it, Ingrid?”
“Didn’t you notice it’s dinnertime? Your mother sent me to check you’re quite all right.”
“I didn’t hear the gong,” I tell her without moving from my seat. “Please tell Mutti I’ll be right down. I have to wash,” I add, waving her away.
“As you wish.” She bristles at my words and leaves the room.
I tuck the journal under the mattress and push it as far in as I can. With my deepest secrets in there, I can’t risk it being found.
AFTER DINNER, KARL goes into town for a dance organized by his HJ schar. We move to the sitting room where Mutti drinks strong, black coffee, and Vati cradles his cognac.
I sit at the far end of the sofa, away from Vati’s armchair. Smoke curls upward in the lamplight as Vati puffs on his cigar, spreading a thin cloud across the whole room. The sickly sweet, choking scent of it stings my nostrils and the back of my throat, making me cough.
“I’m starting a new venture in the Leipziger,” Vati announces, stretching out his legs and allowing his belly to expand as he leans backward in the chair. “I’m calling it The Moral Crusade!” he says, sweeping a grand arc with his arm. “While Hitler looks outward to expand our nation abroad, we cannot let the enemy take advantage and continue to corrupt our way of life at its very core.”
“It’s about time something was done about this lowlife,” Mutti mutters.
“I don’t see any lowlife around in Leipzig,” I say swiftly. I think of those brutes on the tram, but I don’t mention them. Vati might stop me traveling around on my own.
“The underground music and art, the prostitution, the immoral literature. It’s not limited to Berlin,” Mutti comments.
“But here in Leipzig?” I ask.
“Yes, there is a blatant disregard for the law,” Vati says. “The local police know what goes on, yet they do nothing about it. They report to Party officials or the municipal government. Letters get sent back and forth, people can’t agree, and so nothing gets done.”
“What does Lord Mayor Schultz think about it all?” Mutti asks.
“He and I are totally in agreement on this. We need action. Decisive action.”
“Against what, though, Vati?” I ask.
Vati puffs on his cigar. “Moral degradation,” he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Leipzig is now Germany’s fourth-largest city. It’s a sprawling metropolis with workers from all over Germany. Plus more than our fair share of Poles, Russians, Slavs, Jews. They openly sabotage our laws, corrupt our young girls, drink to excess. A Jew was caught this week openly swimming in the city pool.”
“Is that really so bad?” The words are out and Mutti and Vati turn to look at me. I shrink back against the cushions and hold my breath. Walter’s smile. Those eyes. Dirty Jew. Is that what he is? Would everyone think the dirt, the smell has rubbed off on me? Why should it be so wrong for them to swim in the same pool, walk in the same park?
“We want Leipzig to continue to be a safe place for you to travel around alone.” Vati waves his glass vaguely in my direction. “We’ve afforded you a great deal of freedom. Perhaps too much. You go off walking that dog of yours, all alone in Rosental . . .”
“But I’m completely safe, Vati.”
“Herta.” Vati looks at me sternly. “Do you know how many Jews remain living in this district alone?”
I shake my head.
“Two thousand! In Gohlis alone. With their loud voices and dirty habits. Despite all our efforts to get rid of them, they persist. Like vermin.”
And they have never done me any harm, I want to shout at him. I’ve never once been approached. From what I’ve seen, they just go about their business, like anyone else.
“How can we be sure you’ll be safe?” Vati continues. “Berlin has managed to rid their parks of them, so there is no reason why we shouldn’t too. After all”—he puffs up and prods his chest with his index finger—“I’ve succeeded in ending the Jewish stranglehold on the press, a much bigger problem, so surely I can get them out of our parks, and make sure the police do their duty.”
And you’ve stolen their houses.
This house.
“So what exactly will you do?” Mutti asks, cocking her head.
“I shall run a weekly column in the Leipziger to highlight all the issues. I’ll remind the public of the law. Perhaps a different one each week. I’ll invite people to write in with any . . . behavior or issues the authorities are failing to deal with. Like this one.” He taps the newspaper and I catch sight of the headline: “Jews Disturb Quiet Leipzig Neighborhood to Conduct Religious Meetings in Empty Washhouse!” “I shall encourage every good German to keep their eyes and ears open for any hint of corruption or anti-German behavior, and to report it. Our journalists will investigate all allegations.” He smiles. “Otto Schultz is most impressed with my initiative. He’s invited you and me for drinks next Wednesday evening, Hélène. Party officials from all over Saxony will be there.”
“But that’s excellent news, Franz.”
“They’ll come forward in droves,” Vati says with a flourish. “Especially the women. Ha! Women and their petty jealousies. You should see the letters I get. Many have more than a grain of truth in them, but not all. Investigating keeps the men busy and employed
.”
My stomach plunges at the thought of someone reporting Walter and me to Vati’s newspaper.
“Actually, Franz,” Mutti says, pouring another coffee from the pot, “I have a plan of my own that I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help,” Mutti says briskly. “And Otto Schultz, since he’s such a fan of yours . . .” He nods for her to continue. “I’ve been speaking with the Mothers’ Union of Leipzig. It seems there are too many . . . unwanted children. Good Aryan children—perhaps the offspring of young girls who’ve had a summer dalliance with those HJ boys.” She shakes a hand dismissively. “They are of good, pure blood and should be raised in the right way. The German way, rather than left to chance and sent to undesirable families.” She pauses for breath. “Similar state-run children’s homes are being established in other cities, Munich, for example. So I think we should provide a home for children of the Führer, here, in Leipzig. We can even add a school, all overseen by the SS, to ensure the correct procedures are followed. What do you say, Franz?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “The soldiers’ home is running well, and I need a new project. What could be better than children? After all, they are the future of the Reich.”
Vati nods his approval. “Good idea. Of course, we shall need to have each child tested for racial purity. Let’s discuss it with Schultz on Wednesday.”
I don’t want to hear any more. I want to be in my bed, in the dark, with my mind closed to all this. I want to be alone and free to think of Walter. I only want to think of him.
Sixteen
September 19, 1937
I wait in the gray light of dawn on the bridge. Steady rain is falling and Kuschi and I are quickly soaked through. I turn up the collar of my trench coat and tighten my belt. Kuschi regards me with sullen eyes, his head bent low, tail tucked between his back legs. He isn’t a fan of the rain and would have preferred it if I’d left him curled in a tight circle in his basket.
“Sorry,” I say to him as I stroke his head, “but you’re my cover.” He gives my hand a half-hearted lick.
By the time Walter arrives, Kuschi and I are shivering. He kisses me gently on the cheek and brushes a damp strand of hair out of my eyes.
“You both look miserable.”
“Better now you’re here.”
He smiles, and all the doubts crowding my mind are rinsed away.
“Let’s find somewhere dry. I can see you need warming up . . .” He frowns in thought. “There’s that old hay barn on the far side of our wheat field. We could shelter in there. On a morning like this, we’ll be sure to be all alone.”
The thought of Walter warming me up makes me giggle, and I no longer care about being soaked to the skin. What is it about him that brings this lightness, this frivolity, this downright recklessness to my spirit? It’s a side of me I never knew existed.
We take the path by the river. Around us, the trees and fields are distilled through a glistening, rain-wet filter as the morning light grows stronger. Everything appears more beautiful than before. I curb the urge to break into song.
We reach the barn and Walter pushes open the door. I hesitate in the entrance. There’s a musty, damp smell in the air and it’s gloomy inside. I make out some bales of old hay in one corner and piles of rusting farm machinery in front.
“It’s fine, Hetty. I’m not going to . . . take advantage, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Walter says softly. “I mean, we don’t have to go in. I just thought it’d be nice to be out of the rain.”
“Oh.” I look down at my shoes, mortified that he should think that I might think . . . “I trust you.”
“Good.”
I follow him inside. Take advantage. Is that what it’s called? But what if I want it too? Are those images of the two of us that play in my head normal? I’m not supposed to want it. Not the way a man does.
Walter climbs up on the hay bales and spreads out his coat. He leans down with a grin and offers me a hand, helping me up next to him. Kuschi whines at us from below.
“Oh come on, you, too, dog.” Walter pats the hay next to him and in three bounds, Kuschi is up and nestling himself next to Walter. I sidle closer on the other side, and Walter slips his arm around my waist, pulling me in tight. “Relax.” I feel him smile. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes.” I rest my head on his shoulder.
After a moment’s pause, he says, “I never thought sitting on moldy old hay, in a falling-down barn damp from the rain, could feel like a piece of heaven. But it does. Anywhere with you feels like that.”
I laugh. “Don’t tease!”
“It’s true. I can forget who I really am.”
“What do you mean?”
The air stills. We breathe. In, out. In, out, in harmony with each other.
“I don’t know where to start,” he says.
I reach for his hand. “Start from the beginning.”
“I miss our flat,” he says. “I miss home.”
I remember the first time I went to Walter’s flat, not long after the Almost Drowning. Coming from our run-down apartment, where the stench from the outside toilet was so bad you could smell it from the street, Walter’s flat had seemed like a palace. Behind the smart, white façade was an elegance beyond my then imagination. As a treasured only child, Walter had always been destined for the gymnasium. He’d befriended Karl, really because the two had been the brightest in the class at volksschule. Had Vati not done so well at the newspaper, enabling him to afford gymnasium fees, Karl and Walter’s friendship might have ended there.
The atmosphere in the flat had been warm and welcoming. I can picture Frau Keller, petite and pretty, with her light blue eyes and fair hair, cut to just above her shoulders and neatly curled in a fashionable style. In the high-ceilinged sitting room, I’d perched on the edge of a big armchair, scared to touch anything that might break. Frau Keller even had a maid who brought lemonade and delicate biscuits on a flowery tray. I remember Frau Keller playing the piano and laughing, her fingers dancing over the keys and the jolly tune she played. She had asked if I wanted to have a go at the piano. But I was much too shy and I’d just buried my head in Mutti’s chest, hiding my eyes. I remember following the boys to Walter’s room. The shelves of books, his neatly made bed. The old-fashioned furniture and the tall clock that ticked and chimed in the quiet of the elegant hall.
“I mean, I love my grandmother, and my extended family,” Walter is saying, “but we don’t have our own space anymore. To make ends meet we have to take in lodgers—it’s our only income, really, as the business makes no money anymore. So I share a small room with my three cousins. They’re children, noisy and annoying at times. Not their fault, but it’s hard. And my grandmother is always on edge about having things just so for the lodgers. Besides, we never really know the views of those staying. Most people are fine, but it only takes one to make some sort of official complaint. So we are rarely able to speak freely at home. Sometimes the strain of it is unbearable.”
“That does sound . . . difficult.”
“And my father, he’s a shadow of what he used to be. It’s like he’s aged and shrunk. Given up. Sometimes, I hate him for it. Hate him for not getting us out while we still had the chance.”
“Why can’t you go now? Find somewhere better to live?”
His face crumples and for a moment I think he might break down. But he pulls himself upright. “It’s impossible. Too damned late. No country will take more Jews. They all say they have too many. Besides, we can’t afford the exit tax—I told you about it before. We can’t get our passports back without parting with a lot of money, which we don’t have, even if we could get a visa somewhere else.”
“And your mother? What about her?”
“She’s the strong one now. She keeps going, even though my father’s lost his will. And my grandmother. Without them . . .” He sniffs. “I’m not sure where we’d be. Everyone just keeps hoping and praying things will get better. But they’r
e burying their heads in sand. They need to see the reality. Things will only get worse.”
“Worse? It already sounds awful, Walter,” I say, squeezing his fingers where they lie next to mine. “How could it possibly get worse?”
“We’re being banned from more and more places. There’s even talk that the city’s Jews be banished to one area in just a few buildings—like a ghetto from the Middle Ages.” He snorts. “People wonder how we got to this place, in just a few short years. But it’s because we’ve let it happen. We’ve just sat back and taken it. Nobody has been brave enough to speak out. To stand up and fight.”
I remember what Vati said about all the Jews who still live in Gohlis. How they persist, like vermin. Anger stirs inside me. These are people, like us, not rats. We listen to the rain, thudding now, on the roof of the barn.
“I read letters from friends in London and New York,” Walter continues. “The things they’re able to do. And me? What sort of future do I have?” He tenses, turning toward me. “Oh, Hetty, if only you and I could leave tomorrow, on a steamship to New York. If only that were possible!”
“And then?” I whisper.
Walter paints a picture with his hand in the air. “We could live in a high-rise—one thousand feet tall. With a view over Central Park. Or Broadway. I’d work in a smart office, instead of a dirty old warehouse.” He pauses. “We could go to restaurants and cinemas, theaters and libraries. Together. Nothing is banned. You can buy any book, listen to any music, watch any film. You can do any job, Jew or gentile, black skinned or white.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So . . . I could be a doctor. They have women doctors?”
“Probably. Certainly.”
“And you could go to university too?”
“I could. And, better still, we’d be able to be together, openly, instead of having to hide in fusty old hay barns.”
