by Louise Fein
If only it were Walter here beside me, holding my hand.
But then, he wouldn’t be allowed to come in here at all.
It’s dusk when we get outside. We sit on a bench opposite Thomaskirche. Strains of the clear, high voices of the boys’ choir flow from the ancient church across the cobbled square.
“My father is dead,” Tomas suddenly announces, his voice a harsh monotone, breaking the amiable silence among the three of us. A bolt passes through me.
“What happened?” Erna gasps.
“He fell from a prison window,” Tomas answers, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “He was cleaning it, four stories up. Must’ve leaned out too far.”
“That’s just awful. How horrible,” Erna says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m not,” Tomas replies swiftly. “He was a terrible embarrassment. He didn’t fight in the war. He was a Communist. He was anti-Nazi. Truth is, he was a traitor and he got what a traitor deserves.” His cheeks are pink and his smudged glasses have slipped, just as they always used to, halfway down his nose.
Erna looks at him, wide-eyed with shock. “But you can’t be happy that your own father is dead!”
“I’m not happy. Of course not. But he only had himself to blame. He was selfish and we all suffered because of him. Never earned a decent wage. Now we have to live in a shithole in Plagwitz, and my poor mother has to do the work of a man and a woman. Slaving all hours in that goddamn factory, while we live on crap food and factory fumes. You never knew him, Erna, or anything about it. Hetty understands, don’t you, Hetty? We’re better off without him, that’s all.”
I squirm on the bench. If I hadn’t gone to Vati with Tomas, someone else would have, sooner or later. The whole family might have had to pay a price, so the reality is, I helped them.
“We did the right thing, Tomas,” I say softly. “I know it’s been hard for you. But everyone knows you are the hero here.”
Erna looks from one of us to the other.
“I’m sure you did,” she says at last. “But I hear that some of these prison deaths aren’t as accidental as they might at first seem. There are rumors, awful rumors, about what goes on in these prison camps.”
I close my mind to what Walter has said too.
“What sort of rumors?” I ask, irritation escaping into my voice. She’s been listening to her father’s rhetoric, I’m sure. It’s rubbing off on her. The perfect Erna, perhaps becoming less perfect? Was it a mistake not to mention Herr Bäcker’s views to Vati?
Erna’s face clouds for a moment. Then, with a frown she says, “I’m not saying that those who’ve done wrong don’t deserve to be in prison . . . It’s just that, many of the people who were taken into protective custody, due to their political opinions, have been transferred to camps. The conditions are apparently very bad. I heard that, when they are due to be released, those dates get pushed back, or there is a mysterious death, or someone has tried to escape and died for it.”
“And who told you this?”
Erna closes her mouth and gives her head a slight shake.
“Erna, you shouldn’t listen to such talk. You know that,” I say, looking hard into her eyes.
“It’s difficult to know what’s true, and what’s rumor,” she says carefully. “But surely Tomas’s family deserve to know how such an accident could have happened. It sounds suspicious—”
“What could you know about it?” I round on her. “Don’t make things worse than they already are for Tomas.”
“It’s all right, Hetty.” Tomas frowns. “There are a lot of rumors flying about. You mustn’t believe everything you hear, Erna. Bastard enemies of the Reich. They just want to cause trouble.”
Erna is quiet for a moment. “Well, I’m sorry anyway, Tomas.”
We sit in silence again, letting the news about Tomas’s father sink in. It seems like another lifetime when Tomas and I, aged twelve, stood shoulder to shoulder in Vati’s study that day. How much has changed since then. Even little weedy Tomas is becoming a man. Lanky, square jawed, and low voiced.
Through the branches of a tall plane tree, I watch colored light filter through the high, narrow windows of Thomaskirche, while the boys’ voices, honey sweet, crescendo to an impossible high, then abruptly stop. A hush descends over the square.
Erna and I say good-bye to Tomas and walk home through lamp-lit streets, hand in hand, friends again, after our disagreement over the camps earlier. Rain begins to fall, light to begin with, then with full, soaking intent. There is a rich, earthy smell in the air. Cars swish through puddles and lights reflect on the newly wet black pavements.
“Everything is changing, but I want it to be how it was,” I say suddenly, thinking back to how uncomplicated life used to be, before we had to watch what we say to each other; before Walter’s family had to hide in the shadows. Before I knew about Vati and the girl-child.
Erna looks thoughtful for a moment. “Don’t you think the future’s bright then, Hett?”
“It doesn’t feel like it, at the moment.” How much to reveal? I wish I’d not been so defensive about Tomas’s father. Have I made Erna wary?
“Why not?” she asks, her voice falsely bright. “We have loads to look forward to. The Gewandhaus concert. The BDM dance. How about a kiss with a good-looking Wehrmacht officer?” She nudges me. “What more could a girl want?”
She makes me smile, despite the melancholy that has settled deep in my being.
“Really, what’s bothering you, Hett?”
“Oh. Nothing. I suppose I’m just missing Karl, that’s all.”
“Of course you are. How is he getting on?”
“Fine, I think. He doesn’t write to me much.”
“Bet you can’t wait to see him when he’s home.”
“Heaven knows when that will be.”
“Christmas, isn’t it? That’s what he said—” Erna stops mid-sentence.
“What?”
“I mean, I think it would be about that time, wouldn’t it?” She speaks quickly, rushing over her words, but her walking pace has slowed, and even in the dark and through the rain, I can feel she is blushing.
“You just said, ‘Christmas. That’s what he said . . .’” A mist descends. I stop walking. The sounds from the street are muffled, as though I am far away. Then, as if the fog has cleared, I see it. What I missed. How could I not have realized? Perhaps I did, but I didn’t want to know it.
“Hetty . . .”
“How do you know when Karl is coming home?” I snarl. “And I don’t?” Nausea stirs in my belly. The rain is soaking through my jacket, and my shoulders are damp. Water drips from my hair.
“Because Karl wrote it in a letter.”
“A letter? How many letters has he written to you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Three. That’s how many he’s written to me since he’s been away. Three. Is it more, or less, than three, Erna?”
“More than three,” she mumbles. “I’m so sorry, Hett. I knew I should have told you. Karl thought you might be upset, so I kept quiet. It was the wrong thing to do, I know that now.”
“Don’t you dare blame Karl!”
We stare at each other through the wet darkness.
“I’m not blaming him, I—”
“Why would you keep this from me? Why would Karl want to keep it from me? We tell each other everything! You and I tell each other everything.”
“Yes, we do. And I was going to tell you, honestly. I just couldn’t find the right time.”
“That’s pathetic, Erna. You coward.”
So it was Erna’s idea. Karl would never have kept a secret from me. She has talked about it with him. Persuaded him. I imagine her whispering in his ear. Them laughing together, at my expense. Turning him away from me. My own brother! My so-called best friend!
“So you’re his sweetheart then?” I try to keep my voice calm, even.
“Yes.”
I feel a sharp pain in my heart. Karl is
mine. I’m his Little Mouse. He kept it from me. She kept it from me. Excluded me. They don’t want any part of me in this thing.
“How long?”
“Not that long. A few months, that’s all.”
“A few months! And you never thought to tell me? What about Kurt? It was all a lie, wasn’t it? And you begged me not to tell your parents. For Christ’s sake . . . What about our friendship? Does it mean so little to you? Were you just using me, to get to Karl?” Rain, spit, and anger, ugly and bitter, spew from my mouth.
Vati. Karl. Erna.
Three of the most important people in my life, and they’ve all betrayed me.
“I’m sorry.” Erna’s voice is pleading. Her sodden hair is plastered to her head, her face shiny and wet. “I never meant to upset you this much. We were going to tell you, but there didn’t seem much point in the beginning, what with Karl due to go away; we thought it wouldn’t last. Then, after the summer camp, it started to get serious, but the time never seemed quite right . . .”
“So you chose to lie about a made-up boyfriend. Why, Erna? What was the point of not telling me the truth?”
“I don’t know. It was stupid. I hated lying to you. Truly, Hetty. I was just worried it would ruin our friendship . . .”
“Well, it damn well has now, hasn’t it?”
I stare at Erna, her shoulders sunken in misery at my vicious words. I’m hurting her and it feels good. She’s the easiest one to take my rage out on. I can’t do it to Vati, or to Karl. But Erna? Eternally good and perfect Erna? I can get to her, all right.
But you haven’t exactly been truthful either.
That is different.
Walter is a secret for his safety.
A different situation entirely.
“Go away, Erna,” I say at last. “Just leave me alone. I hate you both. But mostly you. You’re nothing but a lying pig.”
I turn and run, hard and fast through the downpour. My chest hurts and I’m soaked to the skin, but it doesn’t silence the torrent of voices in my head.
What have you done?
YOU are the villain, for falling for a Jew.
VATI is the lowlife with his secret family.
You’ve just lost the best friend you have ever had.
Hetty Heinrich, you are the biggest fool in the universe.
Twenty-One
October 14, 1937
Everywhere I go, Erna’s there. She’s at school. She’s at BDM. She watches me with sad, puppy dog eyes. But I’m not giving in. I’m not ready to forgive her. The more I think it over, the more certain I become. I suppose it will make Vati proud of me again, not that I really care what he thinks anymore. Besides, Erna deserves it. Plus it’s insurance. In case Ingrid speaks. They’ll never believe Ingrid if I do this. There will be no doubt where my allegiances lie.
We have a big rally in Leipzig tomorrow. I need to be ready for it. I must feel cleansed. Deserving of the Führer’s praise.
Vati is working at home. I press my ear to the closed door of his study. All is quiet.
“Come in,” his muffled voice answers my soft knock.
“Please may I have a quick word, Vati? This won’t take long.”
He is a busy man. Two jobs and two families. No wonder he looks tired.
“Why, certainly, Miss Herta.” He smiles as I enter the room, waving me to the chair in front of his desk. He squashes the end of his cigarette into an ashtray full of other recently smoked butts. Despite the open window, smoke hangs in the air, constricting my throat as I take a deep breath. “Is something bothering you?”
I stare at him for a moment. His round face and baggy skin. His so-familiar pale eyes. I want to scream at him, You and your disgusting Fräulein Müller, and that child, that’s what! Is she your Schnuffel now?
“A little, Vati,” I say instead. “Something has been playing on my mind for some time.”
There is rot in my soul. I can feel it growing. Deep in my bones, seeping into my veins. But this will cleanse me. Put me back on the right path. The path of duty, correctness, and obligation. Hitler’s path of selflessness.
I clear my throat. “It’s about a friend of mine, Erna, and her father. I overheard something, and it worried me.” The words spill from my mouth with ease.
“Go on.”
“It’s . . .” A shadow flits. The body of Tomas’s father, falling from a high prison window. Was it an accident? Nobody will ever know.
“I’m never too busy to hear things that worry you, Herta. It’s important you feel you can come to me,” Vati is saying. “Without good girls like you, where would Herr Himmler and our beloved Führer be, eh?” He smiles again, warm and encouraging.
A ghostly Walter begs me not to do the right thing.
Bloody Hitler. Herr Bäcker’s words echo in my mind.
“I heard . . .”
“And what did you hear exactly, Schnuffel?”
“I heard them say . . .” Erna’s sloping green eyes swim across my vision. You can trust me to the ends of the earth, Erna. I swallow hard. Vati stares at me, waiting for me to speak.
A kaleidoscope of images flicker: Erna and me in the playground at school; lying on her bed talking endlessly; marching together in the BDM; sharing our deepest hopes and dreams as we huddle side by side in our tent on summer camping trips. Walter. Heavenly, Jewish Walter.
Vati is becoming impatient. He drops his pen onto the paper in front of him and grunts.
“Heard what?” he presses.
I sit up a little straighter. A promise is a promise, Erna. You might have betrayed me, but I shall never do that to you.
“Sorry, Vati . . . That try as they might, they cannot get front-row tickets for the Annual Celebration of the Hitler Youth.” I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. “Herr Bäcker admires the Führer so very much. It would be the biggest thrill for them if you could, perhaps, pull a few strings and . . .”
I watch Vati’s face change. He guffaws. “Is that all?”
It’s the best I could do in the moment.
“Well, could you?”
“No, Herta. I cannot pull favors for your friends. The front row is reserved for men of importance and their families.”
“That’s a shame.”
“He really admires the Führer, eh? And the daughter, Erna, isn’t it? I hear good things about her. I asked your brother about this Erna, as you seemed to be spending a lot of time with her. He said she is very highly regarded in HJ circles. These are the sort of friends you should be spending your time with. Well, I could probably swing an invitation for the evening party. Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Vati. They will be so grateful.”
“Yes, yes, but no promises. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Then you must let me get on. I’ve urgent matters to deal with.” He waves a hand dismissively at me and goes back to the paperwork on his desk. I stare at the top of his head, bent over as he studies his half-written letter. He picks up his pen, the nib scratching as it moves across the page.
You failure, Herta Heinrich. You are no better than a worm, putting your own interests before that of the Fatherland. Once, you pledged yourself to me. And now? Are you a deserter?
A sickness settles at the base of my belly. The rot remains. And I know of only one way I can properly rid myself of it, for good, though I dread it.
Mutti has gone to visit a children’s home in Burghausen. She hopes the SS-run home and school will be a model for her own venture. With Vati working behind the closed door of his study, there is no one; Karl’s absence is stronger than ever.
Restless, I wander into the garden room. Outside, the colors of summer have gone. The huge tree has shed its leaves, exposing the great bulk of the treehouse I never visit anymore. For a moment, I ache to see Erna, but we’ve not spoken since my harsh words in the street over Karl. I should go and apologize. Come clean and tell her about Walter. But I can’t, I’m not
brave enough. I pick up today’s Leipziger from the table and turn the pages, hoping for a distraction as I scan the headlines.
COUNTRY-WIDE TOUR FOR DUKE AND DUCHESS OF WINDSOR!
NEW CAR COMPANY, VOLKSWAGEN, PLANS AFFORDABLE CAR FOR EVERY MAN IN GERMANY!
BRITISH DELEGATION VISIT LEIPZIG, TO ADMIRE SPEED AND EXTENT OF MOTOR-ROAD NETWORK
Then:
ACCLAIMED GERMAN ACTRESS SET TO ROT IN JAIL AFTER CONVICTION OF RASSENSCHANDE
This catches my eye.
The well-known and previously highly regarded actress Dora Heck has been tried and convicted of the heinous crime of Racial Defamation. It is unusual for a woman to be convicted of such an anti-German crime, given that women are usually the victims of rape or sexual coercion by the perpetrator. In this case, however, the actress, who was close, our reporters believe, to some of those in the higher echelons of the Party, had traveled to London, under the guise of promoting her latest film. The Gestapo officers, who secretly followed her having received a tip-off from a concerned member of the public, discovered she was having unauthorized sexual relations with a German Jew now living in London. Upon her return, she was arrested, tried, and found guilty. Before she was sent to prison, Fräulein Heck was subjected to the humiliation of having her head shaved and being paraded through the city center as a warning to others not to repeat her mistakes . . .
Dear God. Panic rises and I drop the paper on the table as if it had bitten me. True, Walter and I haven’t had sexual relations, but we’ve kissed. Does that count? I’m certain it would. Imagine if Vati were to find out. What if Ingrid alerts the Gestapo to follow me?
