Daughter of the Reich

by Louise Fein

  “Yes. Of course we do. I . . . I didn’t realize I’d be so nervous. How do you stay calm?”

  “Because . . .” He swallows hard, and for a moment I think he is going to cry. “This is my city, my girl, and I should have as much right as the next man to walk about, out in the open with her. I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve spent too long creeping in the shadows. This feels like the right thing to do. It’s defiance against a giant wall of despair. With you at my side, Hetty, I feel strong. You give me that.”

  People are bustling all around, but where we stand, his fingers tight around my arms, there is absolute stillness. As though we two, in the midst of this crowded city of strangers, are alone in an invisible oasis of calm.

  My thrumming heart slows. “It’s going to be fine,” I say with a nod.

  “Yes. It really is.” He releases my arms and smiles. “Now. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  “We’ll never find somewhere.” I look around the busy square. Every table is taken.

  “All two hundred thousand fairgoers are here, getting lunch,” Walter observes. “Come on, let’s go somewhere quieter.”

  We walk south, threading our way through the throngs, passing the imposing new government buildings and the law courts. We turn down unfamiliar backstreets where it’s quieter, poorer. I’m reminded of the street outside our old apartment block. Children play in the road, several without shoes. An old woman sits on a stool in a doorway, shelling peas. A man pushes a barrow, knocking on doors, trying and failing to sell kitchenware. Skinny, mangy dogs sniff in the gutters.

  “Time for a joke, I think,” Walter says. He checks behind us, then speaks quietly, so nobody else can possibly hear.

  “Hitler visits a lunatic asylum. The inmates are all lined up. He passes down the line and comes to a man who isn’t saluting. ‘Why aren’t you saluting, like the others?’ he barks. ‘Mein Führer,’ the man replies, ‘I’m the nurse, I’m not crazy!’”

  I swallow a snigger. “Walter, really, you shouldn’t tell such jokes,” I caution, “you’ll be sent to a camp if anyone hears.”

  “Sometimes,” he says, “a little humor is the only thing that makes it all bearable.”

  We turn into a wider, busier road. Across the street is a large department store. Salamander’s, I read.

  “Perhaps there’s a café in there,” I suggest.

  We walk through the revolving doors. Just inside the entrance stands a board with a store guide. We look down the list of departments and sure enough, there is a café on the ground floor. A shop assistant points us in the right direction. We wander through the rug and curtain departments. The shop floor is quiet.

  I try to ignore the creeping feeling that someone might be following.

  “Hetty?” Walter studies my face. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine,” I tell him, checking over my shoulder.

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I force a smile.

  “Good,” Walter says. He takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze, just for a moment, his skin warm and soft against mine.

  The café has rows of square tables covered with bright red linen and cheerful prints on the walls. A counter stretches across one end with delicious displays of cakes and pastries. There are a couple of empty tables and we choose the one near the window.

  I order kartoffelsuppe and Walter the goulash.

  “So, fräulein,” he says in a low voice when the waiter has gone. “Are you looking forward to the rest of our day?”

  He leans across the table, smiling into my eyes. I bury my fears, wondering what it is he has in mind. Thoughts begin to bubble. His coat spread beneath a tree and us lying on it, kissing. Window-shopping, arm in arm, laughing and joking together. A visit to a museum, perhaps, or even to the fair. The day stretches ahead with tantalizing possibilities.

  “Where do you want to take me?” I smile back at him.

  “I’ve arranged to give you something. You are going to love it.” And he rubs his hands together with delight.

  The waiter returns to the table with our drinks, setting down two glasses of chilled apple juice. The background chatter from the other tables rises and falls around us. Nobody looks or stares. Walter watches me over the rim of his glass.

  “Tell me! What will you give me?”

  “You’re going to have to wait. I want it to be a surprise.” He winks.

  The waiter returns with my steaming bowl of potato soup and Walter’s goulash and potato pancakes. The soup is deliciously salty; tangy, with chunks of bacon and sausage. We eat in silence.

  I place my spoon in the empty bowl and glance around at the other customers while Walter finishes his meal. A noisy family; a couple smiling into each other’s eyes; two ladies gossiping; the next table along by the window, a mother and daughter perhaps . . . I catch my breath. My eyes float back to the two ladies. One of them is vaguely familiar. Do I know her? Is she a friend of Mutti’s? One of her charity ladies, I think. Could she have seen me?

  “Shall we go? Let’s get the bill,” I urge, passing a handful of coins to Walter.

  “Thank you.” He wears a pained expression, shame, perhaps, as he slides the money across the table.

  “Hurry,” I urge.

  “Are you okay?” He looks at me with concern and signals to a waiter.

  “Couldn’t be better. Just want to enjoy the rest of the day.” I force myself to smile.

  The ladies are having a disagreement about something. They shake their heads and gesticulate. Fortunately, this keeps them from observing their neighbors.

  Walter counts out the cash for the waiter and I follow him out of the café. Once we are back in the crowded, narrow cobbled streets of the old town, I can breathe again. How stupid, how utterly reckless we’ve been. I long to be in the fields and woods where there is no chance of being seen. We head toward the outer ring road, where the old city walls would once have stood. There’s a chill to the air, but the sun is out, bathing the city in a rich amber gold that only autumn brings.

  “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?” Walter smiles at me as we walk arm in arm.

  “Frequently,” I reply, wishing he would lower his voice.

  We cross the tram lines and busy main road and he leads me into Gottschedstrasse, a quiet side street flanked with tall buildings and a few shops with awnings overhanging the pavement. We stop on the corner outside an imposing churchlike building, three stories high, with a huge iron door. Light shines from the glass windows above it.

  “What . . .” I begin, but my eye is caught by the large, gold Star of David on the wall beside the door.

  “The Community Synagogue,” Walter explains.

  I shrink away.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I look at him in disbelief.

  “It’s okay.” He smiles. “You don’t have to come in. But hidden in here is the thing I want you to have.”

  “But . . . oh, Walter, that’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not? You don’t know what it is yet.”

  Why not? A million reasons why not, but I can’t find the words. I look up and down the street. What if I’m caught, outside a synagogue?

  “Walter—”

  “Look, just wait here. I promise, I won’t be a moment.” His face is alive with excitement, and he jumps up the four steps to the door and hammers on it, looking around at me, grinning. I melt back against the wall of the building opposite. A few seconds later, a man opens the door and Walter is swallowed inside.

  I stare at the iron door. What goes on behind it? Strange, alien prayers; foreign ways and an exotic language I don’t understand? Or perhaps devil worship and evil plotting? There is a pounding in my head and the seconds stretch to minutes. Waiting is unbearable. I check the street countless times. I could run away, but my feet don’t budge.

  A man in an overcoat and hat suddenly rounds the corner. I panic. What should I do? I look so suspicious standing here in fron
t of this place. I push myself off the wall and begin to walk slowly along the pavement toward the man. I cross the street and pass him with my head bowed. A few more paces and I dare to look back. He’s gone. I exhale and slowly retrace my steps toward the synagogue.

  At last Walter appears again from behind the iron door.

  “Sorry! The rabbi wanted to chat . . . here.” He runs down the steps toward me, smiling, and places a book in my hands. “I know how much you loved Metamorphosis. I remember. Hopefully you’ll enjoy these stories just as much.”

  I stare at the mottled brown cover, slightly dog-eared at the edges, with Franz Kafka, Betrachtung stamped on the front.

  “It’s a rare first edition,” Walter says with pride in his voice.

  “But . . . what am I to do with it? What if someone at home finds it, or sees me reading it? Walter, how can I possibly take this thing home? Besides, I might lose it!” I hold the book out toward him. It feels dangerous in my hands, like a stick of dynamite that might explode at any moment. “Please, take it back,” I whisper.

  “Come on, Hetty! I risked . . . I lied to the rabbi—told him it was for an ailing relative. I thought you’d be pleased . . . I’m sure you can find somewhere to hide it in your room. I remember how you loved to read, and these types of books, it’s impossible to get them anymore.”

  “Illegal, Walter, not impossible.”

  “Well, true. But so many have been destroyed.”

  “I know, and it’s kind and thoughtful . . .” I stare at his face, full of disappointment and hope; and my insides soften.

  I hug the book to my chest, then slip it into my pocket.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.” I reach for his hand and we walk away from the synagogue. “I will treasure it, I promise. You’re so good to me.”

  “I’d give you the world if I could,” he says tenderly.

  Haltingly, he moves me back against the wall of the adjacent building. And then his arms are tight around my waist, drawing me in, and he kisses me properly for the first time. Slowly, gently, until everything fades away and I no longer care about anything but him.

  SITTING IN MY window seat, I stare at the Kafka resting in my hands. Betrachtung. Contemplation. But will I be able to bring myself to read it? Perhaps I can skim it and then get rid of it. Walter really doesn’t understand. He can’t, or he wouldn’t have burdened me with it.

  I hear a knock at the door and quickly shove it behind my back as Ingrid’s face appears. Her eyes dart about more than usual. There is a slight flush to her pale cheeks.

  “I’ve come to lay the fire,” she says. “Before you need to change for dinner . . .”

  She kneels in front of the fireplace and sweeps yesterday’s ash into a bucket.

  “Your mother tells me I won’t have to do this for much longer,” she says cheerfully.

  “Oh?”

  “Herr Heinrich has ordered a special boiler that will heat the whole house,” she tells me. “It’s the new thing. For those who can afford it, anyway.”

  She puts the bucket to one side and begins to crumple up pieces of newspaper, arranging the balls in the grate.

  “Imagine that! Automatic heating in every room in the house. ’Cept ours, I suppose,” she adds.

  “It’s much colder in this house than it ever was in our flat,” I tell her, glancing out through the almost-bare branches of the cherry tree, into the night.

  She begins to pile kindling wood on top of the newspaper.

  “Ah, but your heart must be warm, even if your body is not.”

  “Sorry?” I stare at her as she bends over, the nodules of her spine forming a bony ridge beneath her black dress. She places the kindling carefully around the edges of the grate.

  “Love warms the heart, like nothing else can.”

  Panic seizes me in an icy grip.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I mean,” she says, straightening her back and turning toward me, her lips sliding down into a reverse smile, “wasn’t it you I saw with a handsome young chap in Salamander’s this afternoon?”

  One beat. Two beats.

  “You were mistaken,” I say. Our eyes lock. “I wasn’t in Salamander’s this afternoon. Why would I go to a place like that?” I snort.

  “How strange.” Her brow knits. “I could have sworn it was you.”

  “Not me. Must be someone who looks like me. There’s a girl, she used to be in my class, Freda. She looks a bit like me. Same hair. Must have been her you saw.”

  I grip the book tight in my fingers. Ingrid turns back to the fireplace. Strikes a match, cups her hand around the flame, and sets the paper balls alight.

  I try to breathe, but my chest is so tight I fear I’m going to choke.

  “I was with the BDM, marching in the countryside,” I tell her, even though, as I say it, it sounds lame.

  She rocks back on her heels watching the flames catch the paper and the kindling. The fire crackles and spreads.

  She stands, picks up her tools and her bucket, and turns to me.

  “My mistake then, Fräulein Herta. How silly of me. Ring the bell if the fire goes out. It’s a windy night, and I had terrible trouble with the one downstairs just now.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  We smile at each other, but there is no warmth in the gesture. From either side.

  She leaves the room and I’m alone with my thoughts. Terrifying visions of what she saw. Would she remember Walter? It’s years since he came to the house, and he’s changed so much. Besides, even if she did recognize him, would she even know he’s a Jew? I rack my brain, trying to remember if there was ever a conversation at home when his Jewishness was discussed, but I can’t think straight. Did she follow us and see me outside the synagogue, or even see us kiss? Why else would she have said the word love? Was it so obvious? I pace the room. What if she makes inquiries or tells Mutti? Should I have said something different? Well, it’s too late now. I will simply have to stick to the story. She is mistaken, and it’s her word against mine. I push the book under my mattress, next to the journal.

  I think about a recent lesson with Herr Metzger. The one where he spoke of his relief at the implementation of the 1935 Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor. The law that will save the German people from the poisoning of our blood by the bacterium of the Jew. Before the Führer took power in 1933, the body of the German people had been severely ill. At last, the infection of minds and bodies is being cured. We are becoming racially healthy once more. The punishment for relations between Jews and Germans is severe. Racial defilement is a heinous crime.

  Oh, Walter, what the hell have we done?

  Nineteen

  October 10, 1937

  I have a terrible headache. A thick black snake has slid inside my skull, squeezing and twisting my brain until I could scream with the pain. It’s been getting worse all morning, and finally, I give in to it, excusing myself from lunch to go lie on my bed.

  I should have met Walter by the bridge last Sunday, as well as this morning, but the conversation I had with Ingrid after meeting Walter in town has rattled inside my head on and off ever since and I daren’t go.

  My throat tightens at the thought of him returned to Hindenburgstrasse not knowing why I didn’t come last week or this. He’ll be worried. Perhaps he’ll think I don’t want to see him anymore, after our audacious city adventure, and he won’t bother to go back to the bridge next week. I toss and turn, doze and wake.

  Damn the headache and damn Ingrid. After a couple of hours, the headache reduced to a dull throb, I go downstairs and find Mutti in the afternoon sitting room. In the days after Karl left, she became abstracted, as if when he went, he took a chunk of her with him, too, and I began to worry if she was quite all right.

  Now, to get over his absence, she’s thrown herself with renewed vigor into getting her children’s home up and running. She sits at the writing bureau, head bent, her pen scratching fur
iously as she writes letters to the Party, to the mayor, to the newspapers. A faint, rapidly speaking foreign voice comes from the new radio Vati has installed next to the gramophone. Sometimes, when Vati has left for work in the mornings, Mutti finds a French station and listens, as now, with her head inclined, a smile twitching on her lips. I cross the room and snap the machine off.

  “What did you do that for?” Mutti jerks around and gives me a hurt look, as if I’ve roughly woken her from a pleasant dream.

  “Vati will be angry and forbid it if he catches you.”

  “But he won’t be back from Berlin until this evening.” She sighs. “Working on a Sunday, too.” She arches her back and stretches her arms out behind as though she’s been hunched over her writing desk for many hours already.

  “What about Ingrid? Is she here?” I stare at the doorway, in case she’s hovering just outside.

  “No, I’ve given her the whole day off. But what’s Ingrid got to do with it?”

  I sigh with relief. The book will be safe beneath my mattress, for now anyway. “Why don’t we do something today, Mutti? Go out together. We could both do with some fresh air.”

  She looks back to the letters on her desk. “I must finish these . . . Perhaps later.” She gives me a quick smile. “There’s so much work to do, setting up one of these ventures. All the paperwork. And finding the children. One must do it right.”

  “What do you mean, finding the children? If they’re orphans, wouldn’t they just . . . be handed in?”

  “I should say, finding the correct children. It’s sorting the desirable from . . . the others. They are developing tests, physical assessments, to check the purity of the children. They’re very thorough—sixty-two separate checks to be made on each child. It’s most rigorous. But it means we have to look far and wide to find appropriate children.”

  “What about the ones who don’t pass the tests?”

  Mutti regards me vaguely. “Well, they . . . go to other places. Oh,” she says, turning to me fully. “I nearly forgot, that boy called for you early this morning. I told him you usually walk the dog in the park on Sunday mornings, but that today you are unwell.”