by Louise Fein
Out on the street, Tomas heads in the direction of the tram stop. A truck rumbles by and a group of chattering women emerge from behind the factory gates, fanning out into the street on their way home after a shift.
Say something. Anything.
Suddenly Tomas turns to face me. The fury in his hazel eyes is magnified by the lenses of his glasses. “What the hell are you up to, Hetty? I thought . . . Shit. It doesn’t matter what I thought.” He hunches his shoulders and hurries away again.
We pass a dingy block of flats. A window on the ground floor has been broken and a fraying, filthy net curtain flutters pathetically in the breeze. I jog to keep pace with Tomas’s long stride.
“It does matter, Tomas,” I try as I come level with him. “But you see, Walter is just an old friend of my brother’s. There’s nothing in it. Nothing happened, nor will it ever—”
“I know exactly who he is. And I know that you must be out of your sane mind.”
“I didn’t plan it, honestly . . .”
“But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Hetty? You enjoyed that kiss. I saw”—he spits out the words—“the wonderful Hetty kissing a filthy Jew. You disgust me. How dirty, cheap, and low can you get?”
For a moment I think he is going to hit me and I recoil. He lets his fists fall to his sides. I take a step away from him, wipe my hand across my brow. It comes away damp.
Be brave.
“Have you . . . told anyone?”
But he just stares at me, pink cheeked and hostile.
“What will you do?” I press.
“Is that all you care about?” he snaps. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
He kicks at a trash can propped against a wall with such force it lands in the middle of the road with a loud clang. The lid clatters and rolls along the pavement.
“Get away from me, Hetty Heinrich. Go away and you’d better hope I never see your face again. You have no idea what you’ve done. No idea . . .”
And he runs, hard and fast, up the middle of the street, dodging a car and a bicycle before disappearing around the corner.
I collapse into a heap on the pavement, my back pressed against the brickwork, slouched in the dust and filth. What have I become? Tomas is right. I strayed from the path and look what I have turned into. But it’s too late now. I can’t go back, we’re doomed. I finally allow the tears to come, self-pitying, tension relieving. Perhaps running away isn’t such a bad idea, after all.
Twenty-Four
December 20, 1937
Groggy from lack of sleep, I fumble in my drawer for warm stockings. Somehow, I have to let Walter know about my disastrous meeting with Tomas. Perhaps I should go to the café, ask Lena where he lives.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Yes? Mutti, is that you?”
Ingrid pokes her head around the door.
“I’ve a message for you.” She holds out a small, sealed envelope.
“Thank you, Ingrid.” I take it, as though I receive hand-delivered messages like this at seven o’clock in the morning every day of my life. I drop it casually onto my bedside table.
Ingrid hovers, eyeing the envelope. “The delivery boy is waiting. He says you might want to send an immediate reply.” She cocks her head and stares at me long and hard.
I feel my face redden and turn my back on her.
“Oh. Right. I’d better read it now then,” I say lightly, tearing open the envelope with trembling fingers. I keep my back to her, shielding the note with my body.
My darling,
I’m in such a desperate state I had to get in touch. I hope it doesn’t make things worse for you. I’m sorry I was angry with you yesterday. I was just so afraid—I acted harshly. I hope you can forgive me. I’m worried for us both. How did you get on with our friend? Could we meet early in the morning, somewhere safe, to work out what to do? I was thinking perhaps the station? Can you get there at six a.m.? It would give us more time. We could even jump on a train somewhere away from all the prying eyes. Let me know if it’s possible.
All my love,
W xx
P.S. You can trust the messenger boy—he’s Lena’s son.
I ball up the note and put it in my dressing gown pocket.
“I do have a reply, actually, Ingrid. Just one moment.”
I hastily scribble my own note.
My dear,
I tried to speak with our friend, but his mind is made up to cause trouble. I am afraid for us both. Of course I forgive you. You were right to be angry and upset. Yes, let’s meet at the station tomorrow at 6 a.m. I will bring provisions and money.
Till then,
xxx
I seal the envelope, and, after a moment’s thought, I write “Lena” on the front.
Ingrid can barely contain her curiosity when I hand it to her. She fingers it as though she might work out its contents through her fingertips.
“It’s just a message to a school friend,” I tell her. I don’t like the gleam in her eye.
“Of course, Miss Herta,” she says primly. “I’ll give it to the boy right away.” She leaves the room without bothering to hide her smirk.
I stare at the closed door after she’s gone. Wringing my hands, I run to the window, stricken with paranoia. Is there really a delivery boy? But yes, a few moments later, the shape of a dark-haired boy of perhaps eleven or twelve passes beneath the cherry tree as he lets himself out onto the pavement. There’s a flash of white in his hand, but it does nothing to unravel the knot of fear in my belly.
“HELLO! ANYONE? I’M back.” Karl’s voice echoes up from the hall. My journal lies open on the floor, the pen and a smudge of ink next to it on the rug. I must have drifted off.
I scramble up from my window seat, shove my journal under the mattress. I run downstairs. Mutti is already there.
“I was having my afternoon nap!” she says, smoothing her dress. “How lovely that you’re here at last! Now we can properly celebrate Christmas . . . I’ve no idea where your father is . . . some mysterious errand. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, you’re home!” She beams at Karl and he gives her a kiss.
“Ah, Little Mouse! Good to see you, oh scruffy one. What’s happened to your hair?” He ruffles it and laughs.
“Shut up! I fell asleep, too. My hair got messed—”
“So did Mutti, but she doesn’t look like that . . .”
“Karl—”
“It’s okay, schatz, I’m only teasing. You look as lovely as ever. How about a drink?” He takes off his coat and throws it on the rack. “Ingrid? Could you fetch me a beer?”
We follow him into the afternoon sitting room where a fire burns brightly in the grate. I curl up next to him on the sofa while he drinks.
“Hauptmann Winkler is terrifying,” he tells us. “Sometimes he carries out room raids at five in the morning. Our beds must be perfect, boots shining, uniform in good order. We have to be dressed and ready to fly in seconds. He’ll shout orders and yell technical questions about Junkers and Messerschmitts and the weather and the most obscure aspect of flying or fighting when you’re muzzy headed and half asleep . . .”
“He sounds awful . . .”
“But Kunz, Wolfy, and Greg—my good friends—we have each other’s backs. You need to, with Hauptmann Winkler around.” He finishes his beer. “It’s good to be home.” He smiles at Mutti and holds his glass out for Ingrid to refill it.
I am sleepy and warm in the fireside fug, and his voice washes over me like bathwater. But my stomach knots when I think of Tomas. I picture him with Vati, right at this very moment. Herr Heinrich, I have reason to believe your daughter is having illegal relations with a Jew . . .
“Hetty?”
“Hmm?”
Karl is staring at me. “I said, do you want to come with me to meet up with Stefan, Frank, Claus, and the others for a drink this evening? Erna will be there. We could go by the Christmas market. What do you say?”
“Sorry, I was . . . that would be lovely.
Yes, please, Karl.”
“Well . . .” He stretches and stands. “I must unpack and wash.”
Mutti and I smile at each other once he has left the room. It is good to have him home, but even Karl’s presence can’t shift the fingers of dread creeping around my neck, threatening to strangle me.
LATER, I WANDER into Karl’s room where he’s stretched out on his bed, a half-drunk bottle of beer in his hand.
I sit on the end of his bed and he moves his feet to make room for me.
“So what’s it really like in the Luftwaffe? C’mon. I want the real, not the Mutti-filtered, version. Is it all you dreamed it to be?”
“Oh, Hetty, it’s . . . Well, yes and no. The flying is indescribably wonderful. Just me, and my machine, up there.” He points out the window into the night sky. “The pure, raw power of it. Me at the controls, her responding. And boy does she respond! The speed, the maneuvers. It makes gliding seem like child’s play, although now I understand the value of it. I’ve learned so much about the wind, currents, weather, physics. All valuable stuff.”
“And what else?”
He swallows hard. “Truth is, it’s pretty harsh. And because I went to a gymnasium, the superiors think I’m just an overeducated arschloch. I’m always singled out for punishments. For . . .” He stops, his lip quivers a fraction, then he closes his mouth tight and swallows.
“Karl?”
“It’s fine. I’ll get through it. I’ve a couple of decent friends now. They’ve got my back, like I said. And last week, Hauptmann Winkler actually pulled me aside and grudgingly told me I’m a natural pilot. I just need to . . . make sure I’m one of the boys. That’s all. I’ve got a handle on it. It’s going to be fine.”
I watch his face as painful memories appear to pass through his mind.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” I ask, touching his knee.
“Yes, of course I am,” he replies firmly. “But here, what’s been going on at home? I want to know everything.” He smiles.
How I wish I could tell him about Walter and Tomas. Ask his advice. Once I might have, but now I don’t dare. Besides, it sounds as though he has been having a difficult time as it is.
“Come on, what is it?” he pushes me. “It’s about you and Erna, isn’t it? That letter you wrote me . . . You were pretty upset.”
“I’m sorry. I was a goose,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. I watch his face carefully to see if he’s angry with me, but he smiles and slaps my knees playfully.
“Erna’s been inconsolable—she thought she’d lost you as a friend.”
“I feel such a fool.”
“Typical of you, schatz. Shouted before you thought it through. I promise, we didn’t set out to hurt you. It was . . . complicated. We didn’t want to make it a big thing. Especially as it might not work out, with me going away and everything. And then when it got more serious, I couldn’t risk Mutti and Vati knowing in case they told Erna’s parents. They’d never have allowed her to have a boyfriend. It wasn’t that we were trying to upset you . . .”
“I know that now.”
“You’ve made up then?”
“Yes. We’ve made up.”
“Great. I’m pleased. I’m really quite smitten, you know.”
“That’s good,” I say, not able to meet his eye. How I wish I could talk about Walter like this.
“Hetty?”
“Yes.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there? I know you too well. You can’t hide anything from me, Little Mouse.”
Well, I have hidden something. Something huge.
I sigh and instead tell him about the other plague on my mind, Vati, Fräulein Müller, and the girl-child. He listens quietly, his face solemn.
He is quiet for a few moments and stares absently out the window. He shakes his head and says slowly, “All you saw was Vati greeting the fräulein and hugging a little girl. It might have been the first time he set eyes on her in years. Perhaps they bumped into each other and she was showing off her child?”
“I know what I saw, and it was not that.”
“You know what you thought you saw. But you might be reading something into it that just wasn’t there.”
“Why don’t you ever believe me? Besides, it proves I didn’t dream up what I saw that night outside my window all those years ago.”
“It proves nothing but that you have a vivid imagination, still working its magic, that’s all.”
“Karl . . .” There is heat in my throat and a desire to slap him. Make him listen.
“All right. Let’s assume for a moment you are right. That you saw what you thought you saw. So Vati has a mistress. Big deal. Loads of men have mistresses. Especially important ones. Herr Himmler for a start. It’s life. It’s expected of successful men. Vati would never leave Mutti, I’m certain of that. And, so long as he is discreet, well, what’s the problem with it?”
His words are astonishing. I stare at him with an open mouth. He thinks it’s okay for Vati to have a mistress and a secret child?
“How can you say that!” I choke. I kick him with my bare foot. “What if it was a boy I saw Vati with, not a little girl. Would that bother you more, to think he had another son?” I take a deep breath. “Perhaps there already is one. How would you feel then?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Hetty. It’s not true.”
“How do you know that?”
“Jesus. What’s happened to you?” He takes a long slug of beer.
“What’s happened to me? What’s happened to you, Karl?”
“I’m not going to listen to any more of this nonsense, Hetty,” he says, unfolding himself and getting up.
“Are you just going to deny it, then, that’s it?”
“It’s time to get ready to go into town,” he says, ignoring me. “You can still come if you want.” And with that, he leaves the room.
I stare at the door for a long time, my eyes filled with tears. How could he be so harsh? This isn’t the Karl I know. I worried so much before he left that he would change, and he has. A deep, gaping hole has opened up inside. Vati has his mistress and new child. Karl has Erna. I cannot openly be with Walter, and Mutti is so involved in her new school project that she is rarely home, and when she is, her head is buried in paperwork. Besides, I can hardly talk to her about any of this.
And I have never in my life felt more heart-achingly alone.
Twenty-Five
December 21, 1937
I’m up well before dawn. I pack my knapsack with two outfits and my raincoat. With shoes in one hand, I tiptoe downstairs in stockinged feet.
I flick on the light switch in the kitchen. Kuschi is curled in his basket. He opens one eye and thumps his tail a few times.
“Go back to sleep, darling Kuschi,” I tell him, scratching the loose skin on his neck.
I take some money from the housekeeping jar, solely meant for Bertha’s use, and stash it inside the knapsack, hoping she doesn’t keep track of her spending too carefully. I lift the bread from the bread bin and begin to cut slices for sandwiches.
The door creaks. Of course Ingrid would be up extra early this morning! I turn around to greet her, preparing an explanation, only it isn’t Ingrid. It’s Karl standing in the doorway, hair ruffled, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even from here, he stinks of smoke and liquor.
He leans on the doorframe and curls his lip at me.
“And just where do you think you’re going at this time in the morning?” His speech is slurred, accusing.
I turn away from him, my mind racing. I begin buttering the bread.
“I’m making sandwiches for the BDM. Where have you been?”
“None of your business.”
“Weren’t you with Erna last night?”
“Took her home nice and early so her parents wouldn’t worry. Then some of the boys and me went for a couple more drinks . . .”
“A couple? A dozen more like,” I say with a snort. “I wonder what Erna
would think if she saw you like this?” I cut slabs of cheese and place them on the bread.
He weaves toward me and leans on the counter. “She loves me, whether you like it or not.” Up close, I can see his eyes are cloudy and bloodshot.
“You should go to bed,” I tell him. “Get a couple of hours’ sleep before Mutti sees you. What would your Hauptmann Winkler make of you now? I can’t imagine you’ll last long in the Luftwaffe in that condition.”
“What would you know about anything anyway?” Karl sneers. “Living like a spoiled princess. I always tried to protect you. Take care of my little sister . . . and what do you do? Huh? Abuse us all with your wanton disregard for everything—”
“What are you talking about? Go to bed, Karl, you’re drunk.”
“Oh no, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything.”
“Word is, you have a secret lover boy.”
The knife slips from my hand and clatters on the board. I snatch it up.
I slice off some butter and force my fingers to keep moving, trying to spread the butter but it’s too hard and the bread crumbles beneath it. “Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter who told me. That’s not the point. The point IS . . .” He waggles his finger at me again. “The point IS, why’s he a secret? Eh? After all the scrapes I got you out of . . . you owe me some honesty.”
“There is no secret. There’s no lover boy.”
Karl fetches a glass and fills it with water. He guzzles it down and refills.
“Not good enough, Little Mouse,” he says. “You need to tell me what’s going on.” He pulls out a chair and sits languorously on it. “See, I’ve got all morning. I’m not in any hurry.”
Perhaps he’s not as drunk as I first thought. What does he know? I wrap the sandwiches in newspaper. Whatever the case, there is a mistrust between us that was never there before.
