by Louise Fein
We both smile at the thought.
A place I could become a doctor.
But I gave that dream up years ago.
The barn door creaks and we jump. It creaks again, but we are quite alone. Just us, the rain, and the wind. We smile again at each other.
I try to imagine what that might be like, to live in a place like New York. The way Walter describes it makes it sound enticing. But I wonder if, in reality, it isn’t just a little . . . frightening. With all that freedom, how do they control people? How do they stop criminals from wreaking havoc?
Perhaps Walter spends too much time with gloomy people. From what I gather, he creeps about all the time, on the outskirts of society. I need to show him that Germany isn’t so bad. That it is also vibrant and growing and that Adolf Hitler, aside from not liking Jewish people, or pretty much any foreigners, has the best interests of Germany at his heart. He is doing good things, too.
“We can’t go to New York,” I say slowly. “But we could catch a train somewhere. Where we wouldn’t be recognized. We could go shopping, stroll in the park. Nobody would suspect . . .”
He stares at me and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. Have I been too forward, or would it be too risky? He’s quiet for a few moments.
“You know, Hetty, you’re right. Walking in the countryside with you is lovely, but it would be nice to do something more. I’m fed up with hiding in the shadows. Why don’t we go into the city?”
“That would be too dangerous, Walter.” I sigh. “We might be seen.”
“It’s not likely, though, is it? Especially at the moment. The Leipzig Fair is on. There’s about two hundred thousand strangers in town. Everyone I know is busy working.”
“Everyone I know avoids the crowded city center at this time . . .”
“Exactly!”
“But . . . Why would we risk being seen, even if it’s only a small risk?”
I look into his pleading eyes. Such a trip seems foolhardy.
“There’s something I want to give you,” he says carefully. “We’d hide in plain sight. Nobody would suspect a Jew to brazenly parade so openly with a German in public. We’ll be completely ignored.”
I shake my head. “We can’t.”
“Look. We won’t go to any of the places anyone you know ever goes. I promise. It’ll make a lovely change from these fields.” He grins at me. “I wouldn’t risk this if I thought there was any chance we’d be seen,” he encourages. “I should be able to take my girl out for a day of fun, if I choose.”
My girl.
“We could go next Saturday,” I find myself saying.
“Don’t you have school?”
“I rarely go to school on Saturdays anymore. They prefer us to be with the BDM. I should be going on a hike, but there are six hundred girls going on this one. I’m not a leader, so they won’t miss me. I’ll get Erna to tell them I’ve hurt my foot.”
“That’s it. We can do this.” He nods. “I’m fighting back. In a small way. But it feels good. It feels so good. Hey,” he says as he nudges me. “How about a joke?”
“Okay.” I sigh.
“This one’s a bit naughty, so no telling your father, right?”
“Of course not!”
“So two men meet. ‘Nice to see you’re free again,’ says one to the other. ‘How was the concentration camp?’ ‘Great,’ replies the first. ‘Breakfast in bed, choice of coffee or chocolate, and for lunch, soup, meat, and dessert. We played games in the afternoon before coffee and cakes. Then a little snooze and a film after dinner.’ The second man was astonished. ‘That’s great! Funny, though, I recently spoke to Meyer, who was also locked up there. He told a different story.’ The first man nods gravely. ‘Ah yes,’ he says, ‘that’s why he’s back in there again!’” Walter looks at me and smiles.
“You seriously think that’s funny?” I stare at him in amazement.
“Ah well,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe the dark Jewish humor takes a bit of getting used to.”
He hugs me tight, tickling my ribs, and now we’re both laughing. Kuschi catches the light mood and becomes playful, yapping and pawing, hopeful we shall be on the move once more.
Seventeen
September 20, 1937
Two suitcases sit neatly side by side in the hallway.
It’s come so fast. Too fast.
Karl appears at the top of the stairs. He wears a long gray coat belted around his slim waist. Neat tie, a glimpse of an eagle, a splash of red, his infectious smile and warm brown eyes that glow beneath a smart Luftwaffe cap.
How unbearable that he is leaving home.
Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies blare from the sitting room. Mutti is trying to be cheery. The volume is at its highest.
Karl runs down the stairs putting his finger to his lips.
“Don’t spoil the surprise, Little Mouse,” he says with a wink. “I’m going to give her my best twirl.” Ingrid sidles next to me, throwing admiring looks at him.
“Hi, Mutti,” I call above the music. “I’m home from school.”
Mutti appears in the doorway, slender and beautiful. She’s dressed in emerald green and wears the rich red lipstick she would not dare to wear out of the house. Earrings dangle and sparkle in her ears, and a single diamond pendant glitters at her throat.
“You look wonderful, Mutti,” I tell her, but she neither hears nor sees me. She only has eyes for Karl and slaps her hand to her mouth as tears well up in her eyes. She opens her arms and a sob escapes as he steps forward to hug her.
Later, when Vati is home, we eat dinner in silence, the only sound being that of a knife on fine china and the clink of a glass as it’s set down. Bertha has prepared Karl’s favorite meal, fried chicken with onion and roasted potatoes.
I can hardly believe this is our last meal as a family. Now, lunches and dinners will be without him. School will be without him. The house, vast, echoing and empty.
Stolen.
The walls lean in, oppressive and gloomy. Does Karl know how our father got this house? Would he even care? After all, it was Karl who turned his back on his friend. Or perhaps he simply had no choice in the matter. He had to give him up.
I stir the greasy chicken and potato around my plate. The smell of it is nauseating. I push the potato to one side and quietly slip some chicken to Kuschi, lying beside my chair, who thumps his tail on the floor in thanks. I stroke the soft fur on his head.
“Herta?” Vati’s voice slices through the silence. “I do hope you are not feeding that dog under the table.”
“No, I was scratching my leg.” I give Karl a pleading look, and he immediately turns to Vati. After a lifetime’s practice, he’s a master of diversion.
“How soon do you suppose they will let me fly?” Karl asks.
“I have no idea about the inner workings of the Luftwaffe, but you will have to work your way up from the bottom. They will need to toughen you up for a start. You’ve led a privileged life so far, my boy. They have to turn you into a man.”
“Hey, come on! I’ve proved myself already in the HJ. You don’t rise to the rank of Oberscharführer by being a soft layabout.”
Vati nods his big head and leans back in his chair, wiping his greasy plate clean with a hunk of bread. He rings the little bell on the table.
“True, but believe me, you’ve seen nothing of the world yet, boy. The Hitler Jugend is merely children playing. This will be for real. One day soon there is going to be a war. You will have to be harder than you believe possible. Total brutality is the only way to win. Anything less will fail. And such a failure is unthinkable.” He takes a wooden toothpick from the pot in the center of the table and pokes pieces of food from between his teeth.
Ingrid enters the room, and we fall quiet again. She stacks the plates and leaves.
“Well,” says Mutti, breaking the silence once more with a false cheerfulness in her voice. “Let’s not put the boy off before he has even started, eh?”
“I�
��m not put off,” Karl says, his eyes fixed on Vati. “I’m more of a man than you think me, Vati, and I will make you proud. You’ll see.”
Vati grunts and Karl’s shoulders slump a fraction.
“I want to play my part, too,” I chip in. “Karl, do you remember how I dearly wished to be a doctor when I was younger?” Karl nods and smiles. “Well, I was thinking, if there really is to be a war, then surely we’ll need as many doctors as possible, to treat the injured?” Mutti, Vati, and Karl all stare at me. “So”—my voice falters but I push on—“perhaps I could study medicine abroad?”
Vati’s mouth tightens and Mutti raises her eyebrows. Nobody speaks.
“It’s possible,” I press on, “to do this in other countries, and my grades are good—”
“Don’t be preposterous, Herta,” scoffs Mutti. “That’s absolutely out of the question.”
“What Hetty means—” Karl begins.
“But why?” I cut in, frustration and anger surging up, like an unstoppable wave. “I want to do something important.”
“It is important”—Vati’s voice is caustic, silencing the rest of us—“that you learn to be quiet and know your place. No daughter of mine will have a job, let alone travel abroad. We will find you a worthy husband, but first you need to curb your tongue, or no man will want you.”
“But—”
“Hetty . . .” Mutti gives me a warning look.
The air in the room thickens and it’s hard to breathe. Perhaps I could run away with Walter. Out of this stifling house where Karl will no longer live, and away from Vati, his Moral Crusade, and his big, fat hands, squeezing the life out of me.
“A toast!” Vati says, lifting his glass of wine, blood red under the light of the chandelier. “To Karl, at the start of his career in the Luftwaffe.”
“To Karl and the Luftwaffe,” Mutti echoes, raising her glass, too, and they both take a mouthful of wine, their eyes never leaving their son.
LATER, KARL GOES out to say good-bye to a friend. Mutti suspects he has a secret sweetheart, but I know this cannot be true. He would have told me if he did. We’ve always told each other everything.
Except one thing.
I go to my room, pull my journal from beneath my mattress, and curl up on my window seat to wait for Karl to return. I draw a simple picture of a red heart, split and broken in loneliness. Still smarting from our conversation over dinner, I can’t fathom the will to write anything. There is an enormous gulf between the possible world painted by Walter’s optimistic strokes, and the one I know to be real.
Oh mein Führer, give me the strength to know right from wrong. Good from evil. Please help me.
Individualism is stupid and obstinate. His voice pounds my brain. That path leads to ruination. Everyone must obey orders. I was an ordinary soldier for six years and I never once answered back. Each and every one of us must complete our own struggle. Provided you always have Germany at your heart, and you are pure of soul, you will know what you must do.
I stare at his portrait. Usually it calms me, but not today. It’s as though a tiny fraction of my soul has broken off and flies free with Walter and I’m certain I will never get it back. That part shall never obey. I finally understand that.
A couple of hours later, I hear Karl return and I creep into his room. I don’t want to sleep, knowing he will be off first thing in the morning. I smell beer on him and wonder when it was that he started drinking. I lie on his bed and watch him collect his shaving brush and razor, alarm clock, books, and writing things and place them neatly in a small case.
“Well,” he says, sitting down with me on the bed. “This is it. I shall miss you, Little Mouse.”
“Me too. Just look after yourself, you.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about me, schatz. It’s you I worry about.” He digs me playfully in the ribs.
“But will it really be as bad as Vati says? All this toughening up?” I don’t want Karl to change. I want him to stay as he is. Kind. Protective. Gently teasing. All the things an older brother should be. I’m afraid of what he might still become.
“No, of course not. You know what Vati’s like. He thinks everyone is a big softy. Not like they used to be in his day. In the war.”
“I suppose you’re right. Let’s hope your Luftwaffe superiors are not like Vati then.”
“God forbid!” Karl rolls his eyes and laughs. I wrinkle my nose at his beer-laden breath. He pats my hand. “Shouldn’t you be going to bed now?”
“I’m not tired yet. Karl—I need to ask you something.” I swallow.
“Well, ask away.”
“Do you ever think of Walter Keller? I mean, do you ever miss him?”
Karl’s body stiffens.
“No,” he says. “Why on earth would I?”
“You used to be so close. Inseparable. Surely you must—”
“That was years ago. I was just a kid. I didn’t know anything back then. I had no idea he was a . . .” His voice peters out. He twists hand over hand.
“Jew.” I finish his sentence for him. “Does it really matter so much? That he is one?”
“You are kidding me, aren’t you?” He gives me a hard stare. “What’s this all about? Why are you bringing it up now?”
He gets up and walks over to his case. Picks it up, puts it down again. He moves to the window, his back to me. “Have you seen him, Hetty?”
“No!”
“Then why are you asking these questions?”
“I just wondered, that’s all.” I change tack. “This house? Did you know . . . I mean, I heard a rumor, about how Vati came by it. Do you know that story?”
He turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What did you hear? Who have you been talking to?”
“No one.”
“So how did you hear a rumor then, if you’ve been talking to no one?”
“It was just kids at school. You know, chatter.”
“What the hell! What were they saying?” He comes back to the bed and sits next to me.
“Stuff about how it was a Jew who lived here. How Vati took him to court on trumped-up charges to do with the newspaper, and then he got the house from him too. Is it true, Karl?”
Karl’s face relaxes. “Oh, that old gossip again.” He laughs. “The Jew part is true, sure, and the court case. But not the trumped-up charges. That’s ridiculous. That is classic Jew-fed rumor. Look, they’ve been ousted from all their positions of power. They’re bound to be angry. They’ve had their big fat noses put out. So what do they do? They choose a cowardly way of revenge. Rumors and falsehoods. Do not believe a word of it, Little Mouse. C’mon. You’re better than that.”
It sounds so logical when Karl puts it this way. But it seems every story has two sides. Which is the right one?
“Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours one moment longer. It really isn’t worth it. They have a nerve, those kids, speaking about Vati like that. Perhaps you should remind them of their duty, next time, eh?” Karl continues, patting my hand.
“Yes, you’re probably right. You know, I think I will go to bed now, after all.” I smile at him. Secrets, like a veil, float between us, translucent, but a barrier nevertheless.
“See you in the morning, schatz,” he says, and I leave him to sleep one last time in his boyhood bedroom.
Back in my own room, I switch off the light and climb into bed, unease creeping like a cold draft across my skin. I pull the blankets closer around me, tucking them beneath my chin.
He has no reason to be suspicious.
Eighteen
September 25, 1937
We take a tram to the city center and sit near the door, squeezed together on the wooden bench, my leg touching his. The Reichsmarks I’ve been saving since my birthday sit heavily in my skirt pocket. He slides an arm around my shoulder. I freeze. Is this too much? I risk a glance behind, but most people in the carriage are staring sightlessly out the window, lost in their own worlds.
Walter convinced me it would be fine when we discussed it in the soggy, deserted barn. Now we’re here, I’m not so sure.
“You look . . . beautiful,” he says, sending a warm rush from my head to my toes. His breath tickles my ear.
An elderly lady, sitting behind us, tuts at Walter’s outrageous attentions. I spring away, my heart pounding so hard I feel sick.
“Relax,” he whispers, pulling me closer.
The lady huffs, louder this time.
He leans in, placing his mouth right up to my ear. “You must join in. Look like you’re enjoying this, or she might become suspicious. Please.” He speaks so quietly I can barely make out the words.
I swallow, then turn to look at him, forcing myself to smile. Our heads are close together and for an instant I think our lips might connect. The lady taps her stick on the metal bar at the back of our seat. We jump at the shock of the sound, but Walter just laughs and pulls me close again.
“Young people today, there is no decorum anymore,” we hear the lady say to her neighbor.
My body fizzes. What the hell are we doing? How can Walter be so calm? He’s staring out the tram window, humming a tune, tapping a hand lightly on his thigh. But his other hand holds mine, and I can feel his palm is clammy. Act natural, I will myself firmly, just like we agreed. Surely, in my BDM uniform, with this attractive blond young man at my side, nobody can suspect a thing. But my nerves remain on edge all the same.
We jump off the tram in Hindenburgstrasse, not far from the House of Nations. I exhale a slow breath of relief. Ahead, the huge building housing the fair is festooned with flags from every nation, flanked by tall flagpoles from which swastikas flutter in the breeze. It’s a beautiful day and the square opposite is teeming with visitors. Tables and chairs have been set up outside and waiters in long white aprons rush from one customer to the next carrying trays piled high with tankards of beer, pretzels and sausages.
As soon as the tram has rattled away, Walter catches my arm. “Hetty, you must act like we do this every day of the week. That way we really won’t attract attention. Remember, we deserve to be together. Just like everyone else. Don’t we?” His jaw is fixed, his expression fierce.
