by Louise Fein
I move to the next drawer. A spare blotting pad, writing paper, and envelopes. The bottom drawer is empty. I sigh and lift my gaze. On the wall opposite the desk, deep in shadow, are the various framed accolades to Vati. His Nazi Party membership certificate. Number three thousand, two hundred and thirty-five. Above them, Hitler’s portrait, in pride of place in the room. We stare at each other, eyeball to eyeball.
I loved you once.
His eyes are piercing black. His voice resounds in my head, clear and deep. You have sinned in the worst way imaginable. You will pay a price. Your punishment will be of the worst kind . . .
Shut up, SHUT UP! I cover my ears and screw my eyes shut.
I sink into Vati’s big chair, slowly open my eyes, and concentrate on the papers in the trays. The top two sheets are memoranda to newspaper staff about timekeeping and behavior codes for journalists. Then an invoice for a repair to the car. The rest is a mixture of business correspondence and other invoices.
I move to the second tray. Right at the top is a letter marked, “To All Regional and Local SS Commanders: TOP SECRET. WITH UTMOST URGENCY.” It bears today’s date, 9 November 1938, and is signed by Herr Fischer, head of the Leipzig branch of the Gestapo, following direct orders from Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS. I snatch it up.
Operations against the Jews, in particular against their synagogues, will commence very soon. There must be no interference. Preparations must be made for the arrest of between 20,000 and 30,000 Jews across Germany. In particular, affluent Jews are to be selected. If any Jew is found in possession of weapons during the operations, the most severe measures must be taken. Further directives will be forthcoming during the course of the night. SS may be called upon for the overall operations. As soon as events permit, as many Jews from all districts, especially the rich, as can be accommodated in existing prisons are to be arrested. For the time being, only healthy males are to be detained. The appropriate concentration camps are to be contacted immediately for prompt accommodation of the Jews arrested.
The room spins. What sort of orders are these? I place the papers and trays carefully back in the right order with shaking hands.
Twenty to thirty thousand! It sounds like the size of an army. Is this an army of Jews about to attack Leipzig? But something about the wording doesn’t seem right. I retrieve the order and read it again. Operations . . . against their synagogues . . . in particular affluent Jews are to be selected . . . if any Jew is found in possession of weapons . . . the most severe measures must be taken.
None of it makes sense. My brain feels foggy and slow. Operations against their synagogues? That’s no order against a threat. I wonder again about the concentration camps. These shadowy places that shape-shift in my mind as misery-filled, medieval-style prisons; or a Roman model, with work gangs of slaves tied together with ropes and whipped if they don’t work hard enough. Such tales of atrocious conditions in these places that leak in from foreign press reports are denied as vicious propaganda. Radio coverage, just the other day, said that Germany is merely following this camp invention of the British, who maltreated women and children in the Boer War by incarcerating them. At least in our version of the camps, we only hold men. Which tale is true?
I must go straight to Erna, then find Walter. I am reaching out to slip the paper back into the tray, when the study door swings wide open.
“Franz?” Mutti’s voice is slurred with sleep. “Oh! Herta?”
“Mutti!” I quickly replace the letter and jump to my feet.
“What are you doing in here? I saw the light beneath the door . . .”
“I was looking for”—my mind races—“Oma’s address. I thought I would write to her. I’ve been very lax.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that,” she replies, sounding more awake. “You could have asked me for Oma’s address. Why are you snooping around Vati’s study?”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I was just trying to find out what was going to happen. You said something big was going to take place. I just wanted to know. I shouldn’t have. Please don’t tell Vati.”
Mutti takes a few steps into the room.
“You’re right. You shouldn’t be in here. Vati would be very angry. There are important, confidential papers in here. I would never dream of looking through them. It’s very wrong of you, Hetty. How could you?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise.” I snap off the light and move away from the desk toward her. “Please forgive me for being foolish and nosy.”
“I can’t ignore this.” She stands, stiff and straight, unyielding.
“I just want to know what’s going on. Please, Mutti—”
“Go to your room. Stay there until your father gets home.”
She ushers me out.
“Mutti, please. I’m sixteen! I’m not a child anymore. And I’m supposed to be at Erna’s this evening, for supper.”
“Don’t answer back! You’re going nowhere. Your father will deal with you when he gets home. And don’t for one second consider defying me on this.” She is quivering with rage, with sucked-in cheeks, and a thin, hard line to her mouth.
My cheeks burn hot as I thunder up the stairs and slam my bedroom door behind me. How dare she treat me like a child. How dare she keep me a prisoner in my own home.
Breathing hard, I stare out my window over the top of the bare limbs of the cherry tree, toward the corner of Fritzschestrasse. A ghost of Walter walks down the pavement toward our house, hands in his short-trouser pockets, satchel slung over his shoulder, on his way to walk to school with Karl. Preparations for arrest . . . Jews from all districts . . . How did it come to this? I can’t just sit here and let this happen. I must go to him.
Throwing open the window, I maneuver myself onto the sill. From here I can easily reach out and touch the tips of the branches of the tree. But they bow easily under the lightest pressure. There is no way they will take my weight. I cry out and slam the window shut in frustration. Pacing the room, I rub away my useless tears with balled fists.
“Fräulein Herta?” Bertha’s voice outside the door, accompanied by a soft knock. “What is it?” She opens the door a crack. “May I—”
“Oh, Bertha!” I fly to the door and pull Bertha inside. “It’s the most terrible thing . . .” I whisper, embracing her as though she were my mother. She freezes in shock, arms locked at her sides. Then slowly, gently she layers her arms around my back, patting between my shoulders as she might a small child.
“There, there,” she says soothingly. She is warm, her body solid against my own. I let myself melt into the comfort of her.
After a few moments, she gently takes my shoulders and holds me away. “Whatever has happened?” she asks, studying my face.
Watching the door and speaking in a hoarse whisper I quickly tell her that Mutti caught me in Vati’s study. I give her the briefest outline of what I read in that shocking command from Herr Himmler, and tell her I’m desperate to leave the house and warn Walter and his family of what is going to happen.
Bertha shakes her head and bites her lip. “You can’t do anything, fräulein,” she says after a pause. “This is too dangerous to involve yourself in. You must obey your parents, Herta. There are some things that are too big, too much to take on alone.”
She’s right. It is too big. But if I can do this one minuscule thing that might help, at least Walter’s family, then I must do it. He would do it for me, I know it.
My tears have dried and I’m calm.
“I’ve a plan, Bertha,” I say slowly, looking deep into her troubled eyes. “I just need two tiny favors. Please, will you help me?”
I scribble a note.
My dear Erna,
That matter we spoke of yesterday is much, much bigger than we thought. People must be warned that terrible things are going to happen tonight. They must not fight back. I hope your father can do something. It’s all I can say for the moment. I hope you understand.
Yours,
Herta
Bertha promises to have it delivered and reluctantly agrees to my second request.
When Vati comes home, I’m allowed downstairs, to learn my punishment. Sitting in his study, he pours himself a whisky and drinks it down in a few gulps. I watch as he pours another.
“I truly don’t know what’s happened to you, Herta. Upsetting your mother. Defying me. I’m giving you one chance. What is going on?”
“Nothing is going on, Vati.” I meet his pale eyes. He moves his gaze. He’s agitated, nervy. He walks around the room. “I’m sorry I looked at your papers. It was wrong of me, but Mutti told me something big was going to happen. Nobody ever tells me anything properly. I decided to find out for myself.”
He swings around to face me, red-faced and angry.
“What you did is unforgivable. There are state secrets in this room.”
I think of the little stack of letters, neatly tied together with a ribbon. Personal secrets, too.
“I’ve heard something,” he says, “a rumor, which troubles me. I refused to believe it. But if it’s true—”
The telephone on his desk jangles.
“What things? What have you heard?” I brace myself for the accusation.
Vati stares at the ringing phone, snatches up the receiver, listens intently, and grunts, “I’m leaving immediately. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ve no time for you now,” he says, replacing the receiver. “Events are moving too fast. We’ll discuss it in the morning. In the meantime, I forbid you to come in here again, and I forbid you to leave this house until we’ve spoken, and that’s the end of it.” His face is serious and unsmiling. “Vom Rath has lost his fight for life. Our nation has been attacked and we must act now to ensure worse will not follow.”
My guts squeeze thinking of Walter.
I follow him out to the hall where Mutti hovers.
“Take care, Franz. Please be careful tonight,” she says, her voice tremulous.
“I’ve been handpicked to do the Führer’s work,” he tells Mutti as he shrugs his coat on. “If Herr Himmler trusts me, you must too. Don’t wait up,” he adds, striding from the house, leaving behind him a faint aroma of liquor.
Mutti and I stand staring at each other.
“It’s all ready, Frau Heinrich,” Bertha says, hovering in the dining room doorway. “Shall I go ahead and serve the soup?”
AFTER A DINNER where Kuschi lay across my feet as if trying to protect me, Mutti and I go to the afternoon sitting room in silence. She knits ferociously, her lips pursed, brow furrowed. I hold a book in my hand but cannot focus on the words. Bertha won’t let me down, I’m sure. But with each minute that passes, whatever is happening outside on the streets of Leipzig puts Walter in danger.
Unable to sit still, I go to the window and gaze out at the dark, empty street as if in some vain hope he might be standing out there, beneath the cherry tree, leaning nonchalantly against its trunk, his hat pulled low. He isn’t there, of course, and I return to the edge of the sofa. The empty space in the house grows. Room after room filled with priceless objects and the ghostly shadows of long-departed inhabitants. Mutti’s needles click, click, click together, louder and louder until I want to scream at her to shut them up.
Bertha comes in with the coffee and gives me a long look. She carries a crease in her forehead. I meet her eyes and I know she won’t let me down, even though every fiber in her body is against my idea.
She places the coffee cups carefully on the table.
“I’ve told Ingrid to get off home to her parents,” she tells Mutti. “She’s no good to me, getting under my feet, stressing and worrying. You know how she is.”
“That’s fine, Bertha.” Mutti sighs, not looking up.
“So I was thinking,” Bertha continues, throwing me a look, “as we’re getting so close to St Nicholas’s and Ruprecht’s Day, perhaps Hetty could help me make the gingerbread house?”
Mutti finally looks up from her knitting.
“Yes,” she says finally. “Domestic chores will do her good. Herta, be so good as to put something on the gramophone before you go to the kitchen. Some Wagner, I think. It feels appropriate for tonight.”
“Yes, Mutti,” I say, picking out a record and placing the needle into the groove with shaking fingers. She settles back into her chair and waves me away with a dismissive hand.
I follow Bertha to the kitchen. She bangs the door shut behind me.
“God, help me, I don’t know why I’m doing this . . .” she begins in a low voice, beads of sweat appearing on her brow. “Go warn that boy. I’ll collect the coffee cups in an hour or so and tell her you’re knee deep in flour. That’ll buy you a little longer. After that, though, she’ll be wanting to go to bed and she’ll come in here, so you’d better be back. It’s my neck you’ll be risking, too, you realize,” she adds briskly.
“Are you sure about this, Bertha?”
“Damn well get out of here before I change my mind. And by God, you’d better be back in an hour, two at most, or I’ll skin you.” She wipes the palms of her hands on her apron, and breathing heavily, she pulls the big mixing bowl, flour, and butter from the cupboard.
I don’t wait to see any more. I’m bolting out the back door, wondering where I should look for Walter first.
I START WITH the café. Lena is taking an order at one of the tables. She glances up as I rush in. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Come with me,” she says, passing close with a tray. No need for any pretense. She leads the way behind the counter and through a small kitchen where an elderly lady, probably her mother, is working. A wireless sits in one corner from which the voice of Zarah Leander is singing “Eine Frau Wird erst schön durch die Liebe.” I follow Lena into a tiny sitting room at the back. A dark-haired boy of eleven or twelve is doing his homework at a table, books spread around him. This must be her son, who has delivered messages between Walter and me.
“He isn’t here . . .” she begins.
“Do you know if he would be at home? I need to find him, quickly. He . . . could be in danger . . .” My voice is shaky and Lena nods quickly.
“My boy will fetch Walter for you,” she says, leaning over him, gently rubbing his shoulder and speaking softly into his ear. He nods eagerly, dropping his pencil, and tears out the back door. “It is best. Nobody will notice a child. It’s safer than you going yourself.” Lena shakes her head and sniffs. “Sorry, but I must get back to the café. You can stay in here.”
“Thank you,” I whisper and perch on the edge of a narrow green sofa pushed against the back wall of the room. A threadbare rug covers the floor in front of the blackened fireplace. A draft floats in from the open back door. There is a clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen and the warbling voice of the singer crackles from the wireless. Presumably Lena has a husband, too. Where is he? She looks too young to be married, or even to have a child. Until now, she’d just been a girl. A person to pass messages. But like so many other ordinary folk, she must be full of fear for her son, for her mother toiling away in the kitchen. Perhaps I should tell Lena what I know? I owe her at least that for sending her son out onto the streets for me. Will he be in danger too? I chastise myself for my own paranoia. How ridiculous. Nobody would want to hurt a child, would they?
A news bulletin comes on after the song. I can’t make out the words above the sizzling and clanking. The voice drones. I study a broken nail on my thumb; cross and recross my legs.
There is a rush of cold air and the boy is back, breathing heavily as though he has been running. I stand up, expecting Walter, but the boy shakes his head.
The old lady appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her hand, strands of gray hair drifting loose from her bun. The boy whispers into her ear. She nods and places a hand on his shoulder.
“He says Walter wasn’t home. He went into town earlier this evening with his uncle and father. There has been some trouble. Jewish shops targeted
by youths. They went to help friends defend their property.” She shakes her head and purses her lips.
“I think worse might be to come. Take care, all of you. Perhaps its best you go home soon.” It’s the most I dare to say.
MY STOMACH SOMERSAULTS as I take a tram toward the city center. The clock is ticking. I must have wasted twenty minutes. The dark pavements outside the brightly lit tram seem strangely quiet.
Please, God. If you are there, let me find him, unharmed and safe.
The tram winds its way around the outskirts of the old town. There are more people here. Shouts and cries in the distance. Has it already started? Four workmen jump on and stand near my seat. They talk in low, gruff voices.
“What’s goin’ on then, Wilhelm? What d’ya hear?”
“Riots.” The man sniffs and shrugs.
Another man says something I don’t hear, but the others laugh. I catch the word Jew, and my skin contracts. The tram screeches around a bend and I can’t hear any more. It stops at the top of the Brühl. Should I get off here? He could be anywhere in the city. I decide to wait. The workmen leave and the tram moves off toward Dittrichring.
I jump off at the next stop. The street is busy and I turn to cross the road to head toward Thomaskirche. A crowd of young men pass me, heading in the opposite direction, down Gottschedstrasse. On a whim, I follow them. The air becomes heavy. My throat stings and my lungs heave.
Smoke.
I reach the corner of Gottschedstrasse and Zentralstrasse and stop. I’m facing the building Walter took me to that first time we came into the city together. I remember how I stood outside the synagogue, feeling such shame and anger as I waited for him. I see his face as it was then, proud and excited, filled with love, as he presented me with the Kafka from beneath his jacket. I let out an involuntary sob. People turn and stare at me.
