Daughter of the Reich

by Louise Fein

  A numbness engulfs me.

  I’m sitting on the sofa, staring at Vati. Willing him to say something. Something that will make it all better.

  When I was little, Vati was the biggest, strongest person I knew. He was in command, and I was safe and secure. In my world, he had the power of God. But now, his big frame is crumpled. In the face of death, he is as helpless as the next man.

  “What happened?” I’m numb, trembling.

  Vati slides his arm from Mutti’s shoulders, collapsing forward as if he no longer has the strength to hold himself upright, and rests his forearms on his legs.

  “Not Karl,” Mutti sobs, mopping her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. “Not my boy. Anyone but Karl . . .”

  “What the hell happened?” I’m suddenly angry. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

  Someone slips a cup and saucer into my hands.

  “Have a drink, it’ll help with the shock.” Bertha’s voice, soft and gentle. “Come now.”

  I do as I’m told but my hand is shaking so much I can barely lift the cup to my lips.

  “I spoke with Hauptmann Winkler, just a few minutes ago,” Vati says; his voice is tremulous. Like an old man’s.

  He takes a slug of whisky, or brandy, or whatever is in the glass Bertha hands him. He nods to Mutti to do the same. She gulps hers and coughs.

  “He’d been on a routine training exercise, preparing for a test on aerobatic maneuvers,” Vati says, his features dropping as though pulled down by a great weight. “He had to learn how to handle an aircraft at high speeds. It was good and clear this morning. A little gusty, but Karl had flown in more difficult conditions before. It was all going very well, but ten minutes into the flight, Winkler said, Karl misjudged the speed of a steep descent and was unable to pull out of it in time. He crashed the aircraft into the ground.” Vati takes a deep breath. “He had multiple injuries, most seriously to his head. He arrived at the hospital in a coma. But the doctors were unable to save his life.”

  “He crashed . . .” I say, processing Vati’s words. My ears still buzz. There’s a growing pressure in my chest.

  “Why was he in the aircraft on his own?” Mutti asks, her voice rising. “I mean, he was inexperienced! What on earth were they thinking!”

  “Shh, my dear, don’t upset yourself even more.” Vati rubs his pawlike hand on her thin knee. “He’d been flying for over a year. It was a single-seat plane. A Heinkel He 51. According to Winkler, he’d flown one many times before and had impressed his superiors. A bright future cut tragically short, he said. The only consolation is, had he lived, his head injuries were so horrific it would have meant very severe disablement, so in the end, it was probably for the best.”

  “For the best?” Mutti’s eyes are wild. She turns to Vati and begins to shout at him. “Who the hell does he think he is, saying what was best for our son? It was that major’s fault our Karl is dead and he thinks he knows what’s best? He probably told the doctors to stop trying to save him. He probably ordered them to kill him—”

  “Hélène!” Vati says sharply. “You are overwrought. Hauptmann Winkler was devastated. I could hear it in his voice. You think he wanted to lose one of his most promising pilots in a stupid, senseless accident? Of course not.”

  “Oh, Franz . . . how can I . . . ?” Her eyes brim with tears again. “Not Karl . . .”

  Vati stands slowly. He looks sapped of all strength.

  “I’m going to call the doctor to bring you a sedative,” he says as he shuffles toward the door. “Look after her, Herta.”

  I move to sit next to Mutti and slip her hand into mine. It’s limp and delicate, like the foot of a bird. I squeeze it, but she barely responds. She stares into space, tears sliding one after the other down her cheeks.

  “I’ll take care of you, Mutti,” I tell her, trying not to think of Karl lying somewhere on a slab in an icy morgue.

  The crushing pressure in my chest intensifies, threatening to squeeze all the air from my lungs and strangle my heart until it stops beating altogether.

  KARL AND I are in the treehouse. I can smell his cologne, clean and crisp, mingled with his own warm, oaty scent. He smiles and the corners of his mouth fold up, revealing the white of his teeth. His deep brown eyes wrinkle, just a little, at the edges and his skin is sun-kissed and glowing. He turns slightly and I see the soft fuzz of baby-fine hair at the back of his neck.

  “Let’s play Roman soldiers,” he says, handing me a wooden sword. “Whoever wins can be the emperor and the other has to obey their orders for the rest of the day.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, sulking.

  “Why not?” He smiles at me, knowing exactly why, but he wants me to say it anyway.

  “Because you always win. You’re bigger than me.”

  “Then fight harder, and cleverer. It’s the cleverest who win,” he says, leaping up and tapping me with his sword.

  I try to hit him back, but I can’t reach him because Karl is at the controls of his bomber. I’m sitting behind him, but he doesn’t seem to know I’m here. I try to shout his name. To warn him, but no sound comes from my mouth. The plane is shaking violently and he is sweating, fighting to regain control. It lurches and rolls, dropping fast. The engines roar. I scream, silently. There is a stench of oil, gasoline, and hot metal. And something else: sweat and impending death. The ground rushes and then the dreadful crash and a screeching sound of metal being crushed.

  I jolt awake. Stare into the darkness, sweating and breathing fast.

  I switch on my bedside lamp and peer at the clock. Three-fifteen in the morning.

  Karl is dead. The last conversation we had was that awful one, full of distrust and accusation. Karl was the center of my universe when we were children. Where did it all go wrong? How can I live with that dreadful exchange being our parting words?

  Tears slide from the corners of my eyes, dripping onto the pillow. The room is so still and quiet it’s as if time has stopped and the world is no longer turning.

  But the clock still ticks on my mantelpiece.

  I turn toward Hitler’s portrait hanging above it. He looks smugly down at me, over his bristly mustache.

  You did this. How could you let this happen to my beautiful, dear brother?

  He stares back, his eyes stony black, arrogant and taunting.

  This is your punishment, Jew lover. It’s all your fault, for consorting with the enemy. You chose the wrong path. You chose evil, and this is your reward.

  But Karl was your perfect child. He gave you everything he had. His love, now his life. Not like me. Why didn’t you kill me instead?

  We all know what happens to those who make a pact with the devil . . . A wry smile plays on Hitler’s lips.

  A rush of heat and I cannot bear the sight of him any longer. I’ve made my choice. No matter that Walter is leaving and will soon be married to this Anna girl. No matter that I shan’t ever see him again. He has taught me things I never understood before, but I do now. You have lied, Herr Hitler. And Karl is dead. You bastard.

  I run across the room, ripping the portrait from the wall, pulling out the nail and a chunk of plaster. I throw the picture to the floor and I stamp on the Führer, cracking the frame and pounding his head, grinding my heels over his eyes.

  I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

  Now I’m certain. It wasn’t God who sent him. It was the devil himself.

  I shove the broken picture behind the wardrobe.

  Thirty

  October 8, 1938

  The next morning, Vati locks himself in his study to make the necessary phone calls. Mutti sleeps late after taking the sedative prescribed by the doctor. I sit in my window seat, Kuschi tucked next to me, pressing his shaggy black body against my thighs, comforting and steady.

  Life inexplicably continues on the street below. Cars trundle past. A boy on a bicycle. A couple walk arm in arm along the pavement; the woman’s shoulder-length hair is curled at the bottom, a shade lig
hter than Erna’s.

  Erna.

  Erna. My stomach drops. I must tell Erna what has happened.

  A soft knock at the door. Ingrid. Her face is drawn and pale.

  “Can I get you anything, fräulein?” she asks. “You’ve had no breakfast . . .”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I understand. It’s . . . it’s such a dreadful shock.”

  She stands close and for a moment I think she’s going to reach out and touch me, but she grips her own hands tightly instead, the whites of her knuckles showing.

  “It’s the worst thing that could ever have happened,” I tell her.

  “I . . . I know. I’m so very sorry. I mean, Bertha and me, we’re awfully upset too.”

  I look at her properly. Straight into her pale gray eyes, trying to see into her soul. But she’s as impenetrable as steel. Anger flares. Who does she think she is, with her snide comments and stealthy manner? Her smirks and her flirtation with Karl. Was she the one who told him about Walter? How dare she presume to understand what it feels like to lose my brother. “Why should you care?”

  She takes a step backward.

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to offend . . .” She’s blushing.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” I press her coldly. “Why should you care so much?”

  “Karl was always kind to me,” she stammers. “I mean, he is . . . was . . . so handsome, and kind. But the best thing about him, he listened. Took time to talk and get to know me, like he cared—”

  “Just how well did he know you?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” she says, shaking her head and looking miserable. “What are you implying?” She flushes deep red.

  I stand, square up to her.

  “Nothing. I’m not implying anything.”

  We stare at each other.

  “I don’t want any food,” I tell her, turning away. “I just want to be alone.”

  “I only wanted to help,” Ingrid says, her tone clipped. “That’s all.”

  I hear the door click shut behind her and return to stroking Kuschi. I should speak to Vati and get her fired for spying on me. But if she knows what I’ve been doing, what then? What would Vati do if she were to tell him?

  Wissen ist macht. There is nothing I can do about her.

  I lean my head against the shutter. Drained and exhausted, I shut my eyes.

  I have lost my brother. Life will never be the same again.

  THE LATE AFTERNOON air has a chill to it as I make my way to Erna’s flat. Autumn has arrived without me noticing. Or perhaps the cold is coming from inside. Hunger gnaws at my belly. I haven’t eaten a single thing all day.

  Erna greets me with a welcoming smile at her front door.

  “Oh, Erna.” I grab her hands to stop mine from trembling. “I have some terrible news.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  Erna’s arms are around my shoulders. Her warm green eyes search mine and I begin to cry. The pressure in my chest spreads, until my whole body is gripped and wrenched cell from cell by the realization Karl will never again come home.

  “Come inside,” she says, guiding me up the four flights of stairs to her flat.

  Before she opens the door, I turn to her. I imagine her parents still don’t know about her relationship.

  “It’s Karl.” I choke out the words. “There was an accident.”

  She freezes and in the gloom of the hallway, the whites of her eyes grow.

  “He died yesterday morning.”

  “Dear God, no,” she whispers. “It can’t be . . .” Her disbelief mirrors my own.

  We step inside Erna’s comfortable flat and climb the narrow stairs up to her attic room.

  “Tell me,” she says, her eyes filled with tears, “exactly what happened.”

  I don’t have much detail. The last twenty-four hours have been a blur, but I tell her what Hauptmann Winkler told us.

  Erna sinks onto the bed, her eyes moist, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, listening while I talk.

  “Oh, Hetty . . .” She holds her arms out, and we hug each other for comfort.

  “I’m sorry for you, too, Erna. I know how much you meant to each other.”

  We lie next to each other on Erna’s bed, my head rested on her shoulder, her auburn hair fanned around us both.

  “It makes no sense,” she says after a long silence. “It just makes no sense at all.”

  “Mutti blames Hauptmann Winkler. Vati blames the Jews. He vows revenge.”

  Erna shifts. “How can he blame the Jews?”

  “It’s because of them that we have to build our armed forces. Not altogether rational,” I say with a sigh, “but he has to direct his anger against somebody.”

  I don’t tell her that his ranting is making me sick. That Mutti’s flopping about like a wringing rag makes me want to scream and shake her. And I don’t tell Erna that I honestly cannot see how we are all to live anymore.

  Thirty-One

  October 12, 1938

  The more people who arrive here, the lonelier I become. The more family who gather, the more obvious is Karl’s absence. He was the beating heart of every party. He breathed life into the dullest room. Everyone creeps around, talking in hushed tones as though speaking loudly or smiling will somehow offend the dead. It makes me mad. I remember how it used to be, long ago, when we were children. When all three of us—Walter, Karl, and I—could play and laugh together without a care. Before we knew about death and anguish and forbidden love. If only we could go back to that time.

  I snap my journal shut and hide it in its usual spot. It’s midafternoon and Mutti and Vati are napping. The last few days have been a blur of unwanted visitors and funeral preparations and we are all exhausted. The house is full of extended family. Like Christmas, but without the cheer. This week is the autumn holidays, but I’ve been excused from school for next week, too.

  I leave my room and pad through the hushed house to the kitchen where Bertha is stuffing a chicken for the evening meal.

  “Dear Fräulein Hetty,” she says when I come in, “I’ve barely seen you these last two days. How are you bearing it all?”

  “Not great.”

  “Come, have a seat. I made cookies and an apfelkuchen. You must eat. Keep up your strength.” She clicks her tongue. “What a dreadful business.”

  She washes her hands and puts the big cake on the table, cutting us both a slice. She sits down heavily and sighs.

  “I’m not complaining, but goodness, with all these extra people in the house . . . Ingrid and I are rushed off our feet.”

  “They’ll all be gone after the funeral,” I say, picking a few crumbs from my slice. The cake is both sweet and tangy. “Then the house will be deathly quiet again.”

  “Such a terrible waste of a young life.” Bertha shakes her head. “And there’ll be plenty more casualties like him. Should’ve learned our lesson in the last war. And here we are, sending our young men off to Spain, and goodness knows where else.” She clucks again.

  “Did you lose anyone close in the war, Bertha?”

  “Did I just.” She gives a snort. “I lost my two brothers and my intended.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right. Why would you? I suppose I’m telling you because I know how you must be feeling.”

  “Your intended?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t much older than you in 1915 when we got engaged. Twenty-one—farmer’s son. He was kind and had a wicked twinkle in his eye. I know you might find it hard to believe, but I was pretty enough back then.” She smiles at the memory. “He never came back. Missing, lost in action, they said. I kept hoping, thinking one day he’d just walk through my door. Wouldn’t have cared if he was deaf or blind or missing his limbs. Or all three. Just so long as he came back.”

  I reach across the table and squeeze her fingers. She smiles sadly at me.

  “Oh, it’s a long time ago no
w. Anyways, he never came back, of course, and nor did my brothers.”

  “Did you not meet anyone else?”

  “No.” She shakes her head and sighs again. “There weren’t enough men to go around all the girls in my village after the war. So many young men lost. I wasn’t much interested anyway, I was that heartbroken. So, when my parents suggested I go into service, I snapped up the chance. I went to Halle first, but then the family I worked for moved to Leipzig, so I moved with them.”

  “Where was that?” I ask out of politeness.

  I take another small forkful of cake, but it sits in my stomach like a stone.

  “Here,” Bertha says, matter-of-factly. “With the family who lived in this house, before you.”

  “The Druckers?” I look at her in surprise. “You worked for the Jewish family who lived here?”

  Bertha nods her gray head and drops her eyes from mine.

  “I never knew that, either.”

  “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t suppose you would.”

  “But . . . I mean, how . . . What I’m trying to say is”—I turn to check no one else is in the room and then—“what were they like?”

  “Years and years, I was with them.” She hesitates.

  We stare at each other, trying to work out how much to reveal.

  “Look,” I say at last, “I’ve heard the rumors. About how my father came by this house. But I know nothing of the people. How can I judge what is right or wrong—”

  “It was a terrible business,” Bertha whispers. “They were good people, but I don’t get involved in politics. I keep my nose out of it all. It’s safest that way. That’s what I try to tell Ingrid, but she’s a tricky one. She doesn’t want to listen to an old crank like me. She’s full of this new Germany and thinks that the youth rule. She’s certain she has ‘right,’ whatever that is, on her side. She likes to gossip and get herself in the good books of . . . certain people.” She looks at me. “You’re an unusual one, Fräulein Hetty. You keep your allegiances with people who matter to you. Since you were young—always stood up for the underdog. Even if they are . . . not who you should be mixing with, if you follow my meaning. I suppose that makes you brave, not like the rest of us. But it’s a dangerous thing.”