by Louise Fein
Then I look into his eyes.
What have they done to you?
“I never thought I’d see you again,” the stranger says.
I step forward. Raise my hands to his face, his cheeks wet beneath my fingertips. I trace his gray skin upward and feel the fuzz of new hair growth on his head. His beautiful blond curls, hacked off. Gone.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no no . . .”
We sit on the sofa. Lena, her mother, and Felix are in the room. Lena’s hand is over her mouth and she stifles a cry at the sight of Walter. Her mother hands us tumblers of some sort of strong liquor. I take a gulp and shudder as the fiery liquid slides down my throat.
“Get him some food,” she instructs Lena. “Can’t you see he needs food?”
“No,” he croaks, “no food,” and his hand trembles as he raises the tumbler to his mouth and drinks the whole lot down. “More of this. Please.”
“Fetch the cooking brandy, Lena. Felix, come with me, the café needs our attention.” She shoos them from the room, and we are alone.
“Walter. What’s happened to you?” I whisper. I long to touch him, but he looks as if he might just break if I do.
He shakes his head. His eyes are wet but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“It isn’t fair,” he says finally. “It isn’t fair that I’m out here, and they are still in that . . . that . . . hell.”
“Tell me.” Gingerly I place my fingers on his arm.
He glances at me, wipes a heavily shaking hand across his mouth. “I can’t. I-I don’t have the words.”
“I’m so sorry I ever doubted what you told me was the truth. Walter, I’m so sorry.” I reach for his unbandaged hand and give it a gentle squeeze. How could I once have been so blind? I look at him, struggling to process what I’m seeing. He’s a shadow of what he was thirteen days before. My throat closes as a wash of emotion takes hold. How could they do this?
“I tried,” I begin, “I tried to get them out, your father and uncle.” It sounds so lame. So useless.
“I know. I know it was you who saved me. Friends in high places, they said, before they let me go. Thank you. It didn’t stop them giving me a final beating, though.” He lifts his shirt and shows me his bruised and battered body. “Twenty-five lashes for the road.”
“Dear Jesus.” I bite my fist.
Lena returns with the bottle of cooking brandy. She fills his tumbler, three-quarters full. She quickly leaves again, her cheeks pinched, eyes full of horror.
“What happened to your hand?”
He doesn’t answer. He just swigs great gulps of brandy. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead. Slowly, slowly the brandy seems to calm him. His breathing eases and the trembling subsides.
Tears brim in my eyes and Walter’s image swims. They wash down my cheeks, a flood of shame and pity.
“The camp . . .” He shakes his head.
“Tell me. Please.”
He looks down at the fat bandage covering his left hand. He takes another mouthful of brandy, then he begins to speak in a flat, low voice I barely recognize.
“The day I arrived, the eleventh of November, we were taken to the front of the camp on trucks. We were made to jump out and run through two lines of SS thugs to get to the gates. They were armed with clubs and iron bars to beat us with as we passed. There was a holdup at the gate, so many were trying to get through, to get away from the SS. I momentarily rested my hand on the wall, to keep steady as people were shoving to get past. A brute hit my hand, full strength, with an iron bar. He broke three of my fingers. Crushed them. The tip of the smallest was pulverized to not much more than pulp. The pain was . . . excruciating. I think I passed out, because I was on the ground, but they beat me until I got up again.” His voice is that of an old man.
“But why? They’re out of control. Surely once their superiors . . .” Even as I say it, I think of the order I saw on Vati’s desk, the beating to death I witnessed in the street, and I swallow my words of incredulity.
“Their superiors. The commander ordered them to do it. They beat us constantly.” He swallows hard. Looking down at the threadbare rug, his voice is scarcely above a whisper. “That first day . . . when we arrived. One man, his ear was beaten off his head. Another, blinded by an iron bar to his eye . . . then, when we got in there, the camp couldn’t cope. I’ve learned since, ten thousand of us were taken to that . . . that place . . . in just a couple of days. There was nowhere to put us all, so we were made to stand, all the rest of that day, then all night and all the next day, too. They gave us no food or water until the second evening. People were getting sick. My father, my uncle—I don’t know what happened to them. We got separated before we even arrived, put on different trucks. We weren’t allowed to move from our muster group. If we tried to speak, or escape, we were beaten, or worse.”
He stops and swallows more brandy. I rub his arms, his legs, gently, careful to avoid his bruises, his dreadfully injured hand.
“The third day, some of us were rounded into a barracks, if you could call it that.” His voice is becoming slurred from the drink. “It was a cattle shed—no windows, no light or heat, no floor, just freezing, stinking mud. We were covered in it. There were lines of wooden bunks, well, planks, four layers high, for us to lie in, one on top of the other. There were no latrines nearby. It was so cold, Hetty. Bitter like I’ve never known before. If we weren’t in the sheds, we were lined up outside. They rounded us up, in at night, out in the day, like cattle. Worse than cattle. We were made to stand, for hour upon hour, while they barraged us twenty-four hours a day through the Tannoy system . . . messages about us Jewish pigs, how we cheated the Aryans. How we’ll be made to pay.”
He stops to take another drink, swaying slightly as he sits. It’s a miracle he’s even alive. A tableau of images flows through my mind. Articles from the Leipziger; Herr Metzger preaching the sins of the Jews; passages from Mein Kampf; Mutti’s warnings against the evil race, Hetty, stay away from them, stick only with good people, like us; the violence of the night of the riots. Hitler, spreading his words of hate.
All of it leading to this.
Guilt-ridden vomit rises in my throat.
“Shh,” I say. I don’t know why. Perhaps because there are no words. No words of comfort I can possibly summon for him. “Shh.”
“They humiliated us, utterly,” he continues. “The SS Scharführer in charge of our section thought it would be amusing to make several of us share our cabbage soup from one tin bowl with no spoons. We were made to stand for hours, then sit for hours, on the damp muster ground all day from morning until night and were refused permission even to relieve ourselves. We had to sit, walk, eat, sleep in our own piss, shit, and filth . . . My father won’t survive this. He isn’t strong. I was there only ten days, Hetty, and I know the person I was, the person I used to be, died in that camp. This person, this shell you see now”—he pats his chest—“I don’t know who this is anymore.”
Anger flares inside me. White-hot fury.
I take his face in my hands and look deep into his eyes. “I know you,” I tell him, fiercely. “I know you are good and kind. You are the most wonderful of humans. You will go to England and carry on being that person. You will do good in the world, I know it. Because you can’t let them beat you. You mustn’t let them . . .”
I’m not sure he believes me. But I’m certain that deep inside he is still there, my Walter. Injured, frightened, traumatized. But still there. I need no more convincing of who is right in our debate. Something is going deeply, crazily wrong in our country. I saw it that night of November 9. I see the result of it now, in Walter. Ordinary men and women, carried along by something huge and ugly—each other or some overwhelming hatred or fear. It makes them do unthinkable, unspeakable things.
“I’m so scared,” he says, “of what will happen to my family. My poor mother, my little cousins, my dearest old grandmother. I don’t even know if my father and uncle are alive. There were deaths in the
re, you know.” He stares at me with wild eyes. “In the camp. Two dead men in my shed, just left there, right next to the living, beginning to rot.”
“Oh, Walter . . .”
“You have to help them,” he says, becoming agitated. “You have to do anything you can to get them out of there. Out of that camp, and you must help all of them leave. You have to, Hetty.”
“Yes, yes, Walter. I’ll help.” The words spill from me with ease. I can’t bear to see him suffer. To know of the suffering without doing anything. “I’ll find a way to get them out. Shh, shh, don’t upset yourself. It’ll be okay. I promise you. This will calm down, sense will prevail, and it’ll be okay.” I try to reassure him, but I know that I’m utterly, sickeningly powerless in the face of something so vast.
“It won’t, Hetty,” he says, shaking his head violently. “It won’t be okay. It’ll never be okay. You didn’t see it. You didn’t see what I saw.”
“No, no, I didn’t. But I’ve seen enough. I will do whatever I can to help your people. You have to believe me. I promise you, Walter. I promise.”
My words seem to calm him. He falls silent and his hand still shaking, he drains his tumbler. I watch him, still not believing that this gaunt creature is all that’s left of my Walter.
“Thank you,” he says, turning to me again. “I believe you will. I leave for England tomorrow. I’ve booked a train ticket. It will kill me to leave them here. But at least once I’m there I can try to help them. It’s their only chance.”
Will it kill you to leave me, too? How I wish I could go with Walter. Away from this place. Away from Vati and his mistress and his scheming. Away from my disintegrating life. I only want to be with you. To heal you, darling Walter.
“I’ll help in any way I can,” I repeat, choking on my tears.
“I know.”
“I’m not brave, you know. I’m terrified of the future.” I swallow hard. “I don’t even know if I’ll see you again. That’s what scares me the most. Walter, I couldn’t bear it if—”
Finally, he draws me in, holds me gently in his arms. I cling to him as though my life depends on it.
“We don’t know what the future holds,” Walter whispers into my ear. “But know this, as long as you are alive, as long as I am alive, somewhere in this world, that is a good thing. One day you will find happiness, I’m certain of it. That is enough for me. I will always hold a place in my heart for you. Always. You saved my life, Hetty Heinrich, and I shall never forget that.”
And you have saved me, Walter Keller, then and now.
You have opened my eyes and made me see.
Forty
November 23, 1938
I bury my head at the base of his neck and feel for the last time the softness of his skin against my cheek. He is so thin, I can feel his ribs through his clothes. I breathe in his scent. Try to commit it to memory. His arms are wrapped around me and we stay like this a long time, eyes closed, immersed in each other.
“I must go,” Walter says, pulling away from me. “My mother and grandmother are waiting on the platform. I can only disappear to the toilet for so long.” He smiles.
I nod, hardly bearing to release him. We huddle out of sight in our prearranged spot behind the station, away from the hurrying crowds. I couldn’t let him leave without saying good-bye.
“Take care of yourself,” he whispers, studying my face.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Take care of yourself, too,” I reply, holding tight to his good hand. “You’d better go.”
“Yes,” he says, slipping his hand from my grasp and picking up his case. “I’ll write, I promise. Just once, to let you know I’m safely there.”
“To Erna’s address.”
“Yes. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Make sure you get treatment for your hand.”
“I’m going to the right place for it.”
He takes a deep breath and walks away, turning just once, to blow me a kiss.
“I love you, Walter Keller,” I call recklessly after him as he rounds the pillar.
I follow at a safe distance onto the platform where the train waits, steam hissing.
I watch Walter embrace his mother and grandmother. He climbs onto the train, slams the door, and leans through the open window, his baldness covered by his hat. He waves to the two forlorn figures, clinging to each other on the platform as the whistle blows, loud and shrill. The engine puffs hard and the train inches forward along the track. Walter’s eyes begin to search the crowd. I will him to see me, to look at me one last time. I daren’t wave. At last, as the train, pulls away, his eyes find mine, and in them is my everything.
At least he will be safe now, my beautiful Walter, with his gentle eyes and kind heart. His body will heal, his hair will grow back, and hopefully his fingers will recover. But the loss of him, as he puffs farther and farther away, is overwhelming. It’s as if hope itself sits beside Walter, leaving me bereft. It will accompany him to Munich, across the border to Zurich, and stay with him as he begins his new life in England.
With Anna.
I have not allowed myself to think of it before. All that mattered, until now, was that Walter was safe. But standing on this deserted platform, I can picture it. Him running toward her. I watch them smile into each other’s eyes. Hold hands. Share a joke. Share a bed. I see his hands on her body, doing the things he did with me. I see them, laughing in the rain (because it always rains in London); heads together, they whisper to each other as they window-shop for their wedding.
And I suddenly loathe this Anna. This faceless girl who has stolen my future.
I turn my back on the empty platform and walk all the way home. It’s a raw, damp morning. I think of those still incarcerated at Buchenwald on that freezing, lonely hill in Ettersberg, probably at this moment numb to their bones in their lines, or sitting in the mud and filth. My hands are toasty warm in the fur-lined pockets of my coat and a rash of guilt engulfs me. Walter was in a horrific state after less than two weeks. What must it be like for those still there? What can I do? The authorities—the government, the police, the law—they are all on the side of the jailers. My mind searches through wild solutions—sending anonymous letters to foreign governments, begging for help; pleading with Vati or his cronies; marching to the Party headquarters to protest. But nothing I can think of would make a jot of a difference. I’d only end up joining them in that camp. I am wretchedly useless.
When I get home, I tell Mutti I’ve been taken unwell and cannot cope with school today. Schoolwork has no value for me anymore. She pats me on the head and suggests I lie down. I take my diary from its hiding place, plump the cushions in my window seat, and, with Kuschi beside me, I begin to write.
I made you a promise before you left. I shan’t forget it, but I know now that I won’t be able to keep it. I promised I would do everything in my power to help your family. You’ve only been gone a few hours, but I’m confessing already that I will let you down. I cannot help them. Vati loathes the sight of me. I’ve disgraced myself in his eyes by making him help you. I suppose he is at least glad you’re out of my life. But he won’t do anything else, and if I threaten him again, he will simply pack me off to a Lebensborn home to make children for the Führer. So what can one helpless girl, with no influence, do? I’ve heard that some men are now being released from the camps; with luck your father and uncle will be among them. As for the women and children in your family, other than beg Herr Bäcker for help, I have no clue what I can do. When I think back to the early days of the Reich, all the hope and excitement that such good things were to come, I wonder how, in just a few short years we went from that, to this. A monster was unleashed that nobody fully understood. It was allowed to grow until, now, it’s an uncontrollable force, and we are powerless to stop it. The fact is, I’m not the person you thought I was. I’m not the person I thought I was. It turns out I’m nobody special at all. It turns out I was never destined for great things. I’m just me
, and I’m infinitely smaller than I ever thought possible.
Part III
Forty-One
December 20, 1938
It’s a crisp afternoon and Erna has come to see me.
“How are you?” she asks, watching me warily.
“You know,” I reply, shrugging.
She smiles. “I have something for you.”
My heartbeat quickens as she takes the envelope from her pocket.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, putting it quickly into my skirt pocket.
“Visit me soon,” she says, buttoning her coat. “You need to get out more.”
I fetch Kuschi from the kitchen, pull on my warm coat, and, fingering the letter in my pocket all the way, walk down to the river near the allotments. It seems like a fitting place to read it. I sit on the still frost-covered bank and pull out the envelope, smoothing the creases with my fingers. Erna’s address, written in Walter’s neat script. My heart dips and twists, as though it were the real person here, in my hands. I look at it for a long time before I allow myself to tear it open.
My darling Hetty,
Well, here I am. I’ve arrived. I’m safe, which I suppose is a good thing. But I’m also numb and empty. Of course, I miss my parents horribly, but there is also a massive, Hetty-shaped hole inside me, which I doubt can ever be filled.
It is strange to be here, to put it mildly. As you know, my English consists of only a few words. It is a baptism of fire, and I shall have to learn quickly. Anna and her family speak only English now, even to each other at home. They are so keen to be English that German is forbidden. But they have been kind and welcoming. The very first thing her father did was to attend to my fingers. I needed surgery, which I have now had. They had to amputate my badly injured finger. The other two are saved, although misshapen. So my hand is still bandaged up. I suppose I will learn to manage with four fingers on that hand. It could have been much worse.
