by Louise Fein
“March next year,” I echo, for a moment allowing my mind to project further ahead than the next few days. What future has this Germany in store for me, without Walter, without Karl? It stretches ahead, like this forest: bleak, empty, desolate. It has to happen, I know, but the cold reality is a bitter poison on my tongue. “I want you to be safe, Walter, I do. But I can’t bear the thought of you and her—”
“I know. I can hardly bear it either. But I don’t see how I have any choice. I’m so sorry. Shit,” he says, letting go of me and burying his face in his hands. “Words are just so inadequate . . .” He raises his head, eyes watering, and pulls me by the shoulders to face him. His jaw is fixed, teeth clenched. “I feel like a traitor, leaving you and my parents behind. I’d give anything to take you with me. As for my parents, as soon as I’m in London, I’m going to work like hell to get them to England. I’ll do everything I can, work twenty-four hours a day if I must, to make it happen. Besides, if I don’t think of it as a rescue mission, none of it is bearable.”
I float my head onto his chest.
“I’ve already made some progress,” he says. “I’ve been in touch with contacts of Josef’s. We’ve registered a company, Keller & Co, London. The British are keen on new business—jobs, prosperity for them, too. If I can get things started quickly, and convince them it’s vital to have Vati and Uncle Josef to grow the business, it just might work out.” Even as he says it, I can tell he fears it’s futile.
I think of Ingrid and the Gestapo.
“How soon can you go?”
“I don’t know. We still have the exit tax to pay, that’s the hitch. My grandmother is trying to negotiate a gift of all her artwork, and the most valuable furniture, to try to keep the house. The rent on letting the upper rooms is our only income. Without it, our family will be destitute.”
We sit in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
“How I wish I could come with you,” I whisper, turning to him. “Walter? Could I? How can I stay here, without you? How can I be part of this”—I search for the right words—“Nazi thing when I don’t believe in it anymore? When I can see how the reality is so terrible, so wrong . . .”
Walter looks at me then, his eyes full of sorrow.
“Even if you could get a visa, which would be impossible as a start, you realize that you and I couldn’t be together? I can only go to England and stay in England as Anna’s husband. I have to register as an alien. I’m permitted to stay only for one year. I have to justify my presence annually for my visa to be renewed. Without Anna’s father sponsoring me, I will be sent straight back here, to Germany. And it’s the only hope I have to save the rest of my family. Our friend is hardly going to put everything on the line if you follow me to England, is he? Besides which, you wouldn’t be safe. The Gestapo will find you and punish you. They are keen to make an example of those who are anti-German, anti-Nazi. You of all people should know that.”
The grim trees press in; the clouds drop down and gloom pervades this deserted spot. He tries to kiss me, but I turn my head away.
“Hetty . . . look at me, please.”
The lump in my throat is huge and hard. “I’m going to miss you more than I can bear,” I mumble at last.
“One day, I hope, this madness will end. With luck, England, America, the Western world will fight for freedom. Hitler won’t stop here, that’s for sure. And then, who knows? We must have hope. For now, you must bite your tongue and pretend to go along with things, just as you always have. Nobody can know what you really think. Stay safe, and true to yourself.” He gently wipes my tears away with his fingertips. “I will love you always and forever. Every day for the rest of my life; if the worst happens and you never hear from me again, you must know this.” His voice breaks then, and there is no more to be said.
LATER, DURING SUPPER, Mutti barely eats a thing while Vati eats with gusto. I stir the greasy pork around my plate; its full, fatty flavor turns my stomach.
Ingrid brings assorted pastries and a small glass of sweet pudding wine. I gulp half a glass, swill it around my mouth to cleanse it of the sickly taste of pork. I stare at her, try to work her out. Is it her?
She carefully avoids my eyes.
Vati clears his throat and looks at me.
“Your mother and I have been talking.” His water-pale eyes are serious. Red rimmed. He exudes exhaustion. Like a shroud, the shadow of Karl’s death smothers us all.
“School will be over for you soon and we have decided what your next step should be.”
“I want to go to university. You know I do. I want to become a doctor . . .”
“Herta,” Vati snaps, “we’ve been through this. It’s impossible.”
“I could go abroad.”
He snorts with contempt. “University is out of the question. You will go to Hausfrau school.”
“What!” I shriek. “I don’t want to go to Hausfrau school! I would only learn needlework, or to speak politely at a cocktail party, or plan a dinner for twelve. I have no intention of getting married, so—”
“Don’t talk to your father like that,” Mutti scolds. “You are being unspeakably rude.”
They both glare at me, and I close my mouth. Heat flares.
“You’ve been allowed too much free rein. Freedom has infected your mind. May I remind you”—Vati’s voice is low with warning—“that selfish desires, if allowed to perpetuate, spell the death of civilization. Duty comes first, above all and everything. Of course,” he continues, “you want to get married. Early marriage is good for the young. Curbs their natural inclination to be flighty and out of control.”
“I’m not . . . What do you mean, free rein? What am I supposed to have done wrong?”
Neither answers me. “I know my duty. I don’t understand—”
“Your duty is to marry and produce as many children as you can for our Führer, for the future of this country. That is all.” Vati is angry, red in the face. “Your brother did his duty. He was prepared to give his life to do his bit for the Reich. While you? You cavort around, more intent on entertainment and enjoyment, cultivating wild plans for . . . for . . . travel, and university and jobs and other ridiculous notions.” He thumps his fist on the table. Mutti and I both jump.
“Your mother has lost control of you,” he continues. “It’s not that I blame you, Hélène, given what has happened, but it isn’t right for a girl of your age, Herta, to be granted such freedoms. Always out and about doing heaven knows what, with heaven knows whom, and no brother to keep an eye on you.”
I look around for Ingrid, ready to throw daggers at her, but she’s left the room. Blood pulses in my temples. They cannot stop me going out. How I wish I could point out how Vati carries on.
“Franz, I’m sorry, she shouldn’t . . .”
Ingrid returns to clear away the dessert.
“Coffee?” she asks, her voice bright and cheerful as though she has been listening gleefully outside the door.
“In the sitting room, if you please, Ingrid.”
She leaves the room again, without bothering to shut the door.
Vati wipes his mouth on his napkin. “Your cousin Eva has just finished at a very good school in Halle. Or perhaps you could go to Dresden, or Berlin.”
Hausfrau school!
“Vati, I would like to take my Abitur.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Please. I’m a good student—I should get an excellent mark.”
“The Abitur is a waste of time, especially for girls. You can study teaching at Hausfrau school, if you are so set on a job. That would be acceptable to your mother and I.”
He places his hand over hers where it lies, limp and pale on the table. He smiles at her, then at me. His anger has evaporated. He has that look on his face that says, I’m being so very indulgent. I’m kindhearted but I don’t give in to hysteria or weak-minded women.
I look from one to the other. Mutti is closed off and I’m all alone. If Karl were here, he would know just what t
o say. He would make them see reason.
I collapse back in my chair. Words are useless. They won’t listen. Mutti and Vati move on, talk of something else. The air around me is leaden, pressing me down. Squeezing and suffocating. More than ever before, I’m aware of the confines of the walls of this house, solid and impenetrable as a prison.
I will not go to Hausfrau school, Vati. I simply will not go.
Back in my room I shove the linen aside in my cupboard and, with shaking hands, pull up the loose floorboard. Reaching into the void, my fingers brush the journal. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you. I pull it out and stare at the patchwork of colors on its cover. I remember, as though it were yesterday, when Karl sat on my bed, anxiously awaiting my reaction when he gave it to me. And how the light dazzled in his eyes when he knew the pleasure it gave me.
I imagine burning it. Watching the pages curl and blacken in the heat. Would the cover turn to ash, or would traces of it be left in the grate for Ingrid to find in the morning?
I smooth my hand back and forth over its cover, as if it were a precious pet. One day I’ll be old and my memories will be all I have. When they fade, what will there be to remind me? What if I should forget altogether?
Carefully, I fold the journal in a pillowcase, place it in the void, and drop the floorboard back into place. If Ingrid hasn’t found it yet, she is hardly likely to before Walter leaves this country for good. And I’m going to make damned sure of that.
Thirty-Four
November 7, 1938
The concierge calls up to Erna’s flat. I wait outside in the dank air. Woodsmoke hangs, mingling with the scent of molding leaves.
“I’m so happy to see you.” Erna smiles, as her flame-gold head appears in the doorway.
“I need your help,” I begin, once she joins me on the pavement. If I wait, I might lose courage.
She loops her arm through mine as we walk.
“Ask away,” she says cheerfully.
“It will shock you. You probably won’t like me anymore.”
“Gosh, how intriguing. Can’t wait to hear . . .”
“No! It’s serious, Erna. Really. You can’t repeat this to anyone. Do you hear?”
“Okay, okay! No need to be quite so fierce. I won’t, I promise.”
“Really promise?”
“Yes, I really promise! For heaven’s sake, what is it, Hett?”
I take a deep breath.
“I . . . I’ve fallen in love with someone. I mean, really, properly, fallen in love.”
Exhale. My breath, a foggy stream, mingles with the winter air and evaporates.
“Wow . . . well, that’s wonderful.” She smiles, then frowns. “It’s a bit sudden, though, I mean with Karl and everything.” She looks uncomfortable, then rushes on. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t. It’s a good thing, to take your mind off—”
“It isn’t sudden. It’s been going on for over a year.”
“What? A year!” She stops walking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I keep walking and she jogs to catch up.
“I know what you must think after I was so ghastly to you and Karl. I’ve been a terrible friend, and trust me, I feel utterly wretched about it. But there were good reasons I couldn’t tell.” I can’t look at her. Head down, I keep my eyes fixed on the wet pavement, stepping between piles of soggy leaves.
“Yes. You’ve been a terrible friend. The worst kind.” She pokes me in the ribs and laughs. “But seriously, who is he? Tell me, and I’ll forgive you everything.”
We walk a few more steps. Do it now.
Deep breath. “He’s a Jew, Erna. I’ve fallen in love with a Jew.”
“You’ve . . . oh, ha ha, Hetty. What a hoot.”
“No, it’s the truth. His name is Walter Keller. Perhaps you remember, that day at school when he and Freda . . .” Erna has stopped smiling. She nods. “A long time ago, he was a friend of Karl’s. That’s how I knew him. I bumped into him during the summer, last year, when I was walking Kuschi. I tried to stay away from him, but I couldn’t. You see, there is no one like him. No one I’ve ever met. I couldn’t help but fall for him, and him for me. It feels like we’re meant for each other, even though we aren’t.”
“For heaven’s sake . . .”
We reach Nordplatz. The wide green square and tall handsome church are ahead of us. Like a river, I can’t stop the flow, now I’ve started.
“I tried to stop seeing him so many times. He tried. But we just couldn’t. I know that if we get caught—we almost have a few times—it will be disaster for us both. My crime will be equal to his. But I love him so much, Erna.”
I can feel Erna’s fierce gaze at my profile. “So why are you telling me this, now?”
“Someone has reported us. It could have been our maid, who might have seen me with him. She watches me, Erna, and I have to be so careful. Anyway, the Gestapo want him for Rassenschande. He has a visa to go to England, but only if he marries a girl there . . .”
“Jesus.”
“But,” I rush on, “he can’t leave Germany without a passport and his exit tax paid. I need to help him. And I need an ally.”
“This is . . . a lot to take in.”
We stop by the church. Near the spot where I declared myself to Walter so long ago.
At last I dare to take a look at Erna’s face. Her eyes are wide. Her skin pale with shock.
“Well, what do you think of me now?” I ask, looking into those deep green pools, where her soul, pure and clean, meets, perhaps in her eyes, my filthy, tarnished one.
For a few ticks, she says nothing. “I can hardly believe it,” she says at last.
“You promised you wouldn’t tell . . .”
“No! Hetty, never!” She grabs both of my hands. “I love you, you silly old thing. I love you more for this. More than ever . . .”
An exhaustion engulfs me. I feel so tired, my limbs leaden. As if letting out this secret has finally released me to feel the weight of it.
“You see, Hett . . .” Erna drops her gaze. “I have a confession of my own.”
“What?”
“I should have confessed before. My father is no blithering old fool. He can be, of course, but he’s much more than that. He’s a vehement, secret anti-Nazi. He loathes Hitler and all he stands for. We all do.” She looks around the nearly empty square, dropping her voice to a whisper. “There is a small network of us in Leipzig. Just a handful. Not enough to make any difference. Everyone is too afraid.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Keep it thinking straight, the implications of all this.
“It’s why my father wanted me in the BDM. Encouraged me to do well, to avoid suspicion. He’s convinced the Gestapo are watching.”
“But what about Karl? Why did you walk out with him?”
“Yes. That’s the other part of my confession. I liked Karl, of course. He was hard not to like, so handsome and sweet. But I didn’t love him, not the way he loved me. He was so good to me. I feel ashamed. But I was worried about my father, he can be . . . indiscreet. I was afraid for him, and I thought, if I was with Karl, it might protect him. Keep suspicion away . . .”
The ground shifts; the world twists and turns.
Is there anyone who is truly as they appear?
“Being close to Karl and your family has helped,” Erna goes on, but her words spin around my head unheard. She has used us. Both of us. Karl and me, for her own ends. I don’t mean any more to her than that, never have. I always found it hard to understand why anyone as charming, sophisticated, accomplished as her, would want to be my friend.
Well, now it’s clear.
“And don’t go thinking I only became friends with you because my father wanted me to.” She seems to be able to read my mind. “That simply isn’t true. I was friends with you long before I understood any of these things. That’s the truth.”
Is it? I glance up at the tall tower of the church, climbing up into a thin spire, dark against the low, s
late-gray sky. Once, I believed in God. I felt blessed by him and could see my place in his universe. But I was guided away from church and God. Mutti and Vati frown on religion. So I grew an unwavering faith in Hitler, and the absolute, indisputable righteousness of our glorious new Reich. But first Walter and now Erna have shaken the ground beneath my feet. Karl is gone. There is no perfect German. Where is my faith now? I’m stripped bare. Rootless.
“We’ll be late for school,” I say at last. Unable to process my jumbled feelings, I don’t know what else to say.
“Hett.” Erna grabs my hand and squeezes it. “I’m telling you this to show you that your secret is safe with me. I’d do anything to help you. I don’t judge you, and I hope you won’t judge me, either. Karl and I never did ‘it.’ He said he would wait. That I wasn’t ‘that sort of girl’ and he hoped one day we could even be married. He said there were plenty of those sorts around, and he would rather spend time with me, just enjoying my company. So I did nothing to hurt him, and he never knew I felt differently than he did. He didn’t suffer. Not one little bit.”
Perhaps that’s true.
Perhaps Karl was getting his kicks with Ingrid instead.
I bite my lip and we both hurry into school.
Oh, Erna, I hope I have not made a terrible mistake opening my heart to you. Can it really be true that you’ve always hated the Nazis? I can picture you, at every BDM meeting; at school; with Karl and me. You always sang the loudest, saluted with the most vigor. You led the younger girls in the way only a perfect German could. How could you be so convincing if you didn’t believe in it? Or are you the best actor in the world? If it’s the former, then how can I trust that you will not inform on Walter and me? And if the latter, I’m relieved, but can I truly trust that you are my friend? Either way, you’ve lied all along. Time alone will prove which of these is the truth.
Thirty-Five
November 8, 1938
There’s a wild storm raging. Driving rain splashes against the windows, and rivulets track their way down the panes. The bare branches of the cherry tree bend at an alarming angle and thrash against the iron railings in violent gusts. Doors rattle and slam in the wind. The house groans and creaks.
