by Louise Fein
Tears work themselves loose from my eyes. I’ve shed so many, but they don’t solve a thing. I clench my fists and rub them away, knuckles hurting my cheeks, but I don’t care. I deserve it.
I walk bare-legged to my window seat, resting my back against a cushion and stretching my legs gratefully out in front of me. The cherry tree is in full blossom once again. It’s so full this year with pink-tipped flowers that some of the delicate ends of the branches appear to bow under their weight. I wish I could be that tree. It doesn’t suffer human anguish. It lives in blissful oblivion of mine, and of the German boots marching their way across eastern Europe. Vati says war is inevitable now. A war to annihilate the Jews.
My bowels shift. This threat to the life that scrabbles and squirms inside me. A mischling child, whose Jewish blood is considered to be so abhorrent that it would surely be in the greatest danger if it were to be born. And whose existence may also be the end of mine. I think of Hilda Müller. How I despised her for her poor morals and husband stealing. Now I am just like her. Only worse. Because there is no Vati in the background giving me a flat and money and love. Even if she does have to share him with Mutti, at least she has a part of him.
I wish Walter was here. I screw my eyes closed and conjure his spirit with every pore of my being. I can see his face, his hair, his smile. I feel the touch of his hand, the smell of his skin. I’m drifting in his arms. There is water swirling, but I’m safe; after all this lonely time, I’m safe.
I barely register the sound of the door. I open my eyes, turn my head. Mutti is in the room. She is speaking, walking toward me. It all happens in slow motion.
“I’ve called you three times, why aren’t you answering?” She stops. She is staring at me. Staring at my round, exposed belly.
My brain clicks. Everything speeds up. I tuck my knees in, wrap my arms around them to hide the bump. But it’s too late. Mutti is standing statue still, her mouth half open as if to speak, but no words come out. Her eyes are wide; she doesn’t blink.
The air is static. Time stops.
“Herta?” Mutti’s voice is a hoarse whisper. “Is that . . . Are you . . . in trouble?”
The clock ticks again and something releases. Like water through a loosened plug, all my suffering flows out. Freely, copiously, the tears come.
“Yes, yes, yes . . . I’m in trouble. Terrible trouble.”
At last. Someone knows, and the relief is infinite.
I SIT WITH my legs folded beneath me, enveloped between the cushions of the big armchair in the afternoon sitting room. I’m wrapped in my dressing gown and my fingers are curled around a warm, milky cup of cocoa.
Vera and Margot, our new cook, have been told I’m unwell. They both paint a look of concern on their faces, but really, they don’t give a damn. Not like Bertha. Oh, how I miss Bertha.
Mutti paces the room. Her eyes flicker about nervously. Some strands of her usually neatly groomed hair fall free and trail softly over her ears. Her waist beneath her slim-fitting dress looks impossibly narrow. The beautifully cut fabric of the skirt swings as she walks, caressing her long, slender thighs. I cannot imagine how Mutti could ever have been pregnant. Twice.
She grabs the packet of cigarettes and matches lying on the coffee table as she passes. Her movements are jagged, clipped. She walks the room, one arm up, holding the cigarette between her fingers, wrist cocked; the other arm is hugged across her waist. She hasn’t been this agitated since that doomed day last October that shattered our lives forever.
She stops in front of me and perches on the edge of the sofa.
“For heaven’s sake, Herta. Why? I mean, after all we’ve been through. How could you do this to us?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.” She thumps the arm of the sofa with her fist. “I just don’t believe . . . How could you . . . I didn’t bring you up to behave . . .”
“Mutti, I’m sorry,” I sob. “I really am . . .”
“You will be.” Her tone is harsh. “He’s going to have to marry you, you know. He does know that, doesn’t he?”
“Who?” I whisper.
“The goddamn father,” she says. “Who else? What a damned shame. You could have done so much better for yourself. Tomas—I take it, it’s him—is . . . not exactly what your father and I had in mind for you. Vati will be so disappointed. But it’s too late now. You can forget any dream of having a job. Taking your Abitur. You do realize that, don’t you?” Her hand trembles as she moves it to her mouth. She sucks hard on the cigarette, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t know who the father is,” I say softly.
“What?” She sits up, staring at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Jesus. How can you not know! I just thought Tomas . . . How many other boys have you been with? You dirty little slut!” Her voice is high pitched, on the edge of hysteria.
“I don’t mean that. I mean I do know. I just don’t want to say.”
“Good God, what is this?”
“Oh, Mutti. I wish I could—”
“Well! You had better write and tell whoever-it-is. And fast. He will get a hell of a shock. But then”—she laughs a hollow laugh—“he should have thought about the consequences before he did it to you. Shouldn’t he? Stupid men. They never do, though, do they? Hmm? Think. Or at least, they think only of one thing.” She shakes her head and jiggles one leg up and down on her tiptoes.
I bury my head in my hands.
“Herta. You have to tell me who the father is.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hetty. This is serious. Don’t you realize? Are you so stupid . . . You have to tell me, and you have to marry him!”
“You don’t understand. I can’t, I just can’t.”
Mutti’s leg stops jiggling.
“Who the hell is the father?” she screams, leaning toward me, red in the face. “Do you have any idea what Vati is going to say when he finds out?”
She’s going to strike me. I lean away. I’ve never seen her so angry. We stare at each other, then she howls in frustration and jumps up, paces the room again.
I stare at the floor. The geometric patterns on the rug beneath the coffee table swim and merge. Rust red. Olive green. Burnt orange. Camel.
“Please, Hetty. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me. Come on . . .” Her mood changes; her tone becomes cajoling, pleading.
“I can’t.”
“At least tell me the reason why you can’t name him.”
I glance up at her. Her eyes have grown large. I shake my head, tears welling once again. A look of horror falls like a shadow over her face.
“Oh, Herta,” she says, “he isn’t married, is he?”
“No, Mutti . . .”
But he is.
Blood curdles in my veins. Vati, who is in Dresden until the weekend, could, at this very moment, be with his mistress and their newborn son, instead of being on the official SS business Mutti thinks he’s on.
Lie upon lie upon lie. The falsehoods gather and pile up, one on top of the other like a castle formed from layers of packed, wet sand, until one day the sand will dry, and the castle shall crumble and come tumbling down.
Fifty
April 16, 1939
Their voices travel from the dining room, unnaturally heightened, when I arrive home, midmorning, from Kuschi’s Sunday walk. The door is ajar, and I listen from behind it.
“Really, Franz, I have no idea who the culprit is. I’m shocked by her behavior, truly. But I can’t imagine why she won’t name him. She’s protecting him. I suppose he’s married . . .” There’s a pause. “It’s my fault. I should have been more careful with her. But I was so distracted with losing Karl . . .” Mutti’s voice breaks.
“No, Hélène. It’s not your fault. I’ve a damned good idea why she won’t name him.” Vati’s voice is acid, and my stomach turns over.
“You know who it is?”
“Oh yes, and it’s worse than you imagine
.”
“Franz, tell me! What can be worse than a married man?”
Vati grunts. I close my eyes. I’m in free fall. I prop myself against the wall, breathless with terror. Walter comes to me, behind my eyelids. His presence is calming. Strength returns to my limbs.
“For heaven’s sake, tell me!” Mutti pleads.
“It’s that Jew.” Vati’s voice is dangerously low. “That bastard who used to come here all the time. We showed him kindness and tolerance, back then, and this is how he repays us!” Mutti gasps and the vision of Walter is lost. I snap my eyes open. “Karl warned me . . . Herta swore it was nothing . . . I even helped the evil swine leave the country. If he were here, I’d murder him with my own hands. I can’t bear to think of him violating her. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
I draw a deep, deep breath and swing the door open.
They stare at me. Both of them. Rag-doll Mutti with her eyes popping out. And Vati.
Oh, Vati, with your lies and your deceit. You might not recognize it, but we are the same, you and me.
I hold my head up high and meet his eyes, full of hate.
His fury hits me with the force of a hurricane.
“You disgusting, filthy . . . How could you do such a thing? You are vile . . . make me sick . . . ruined us . . . downfall!” He yells incomprehensible words at me. He lunges and I step back, too slow, as he hits my face so hard I stagger sideways, lose balance. The corner of the dining table smacks the side of my head hard as I fall. I land awkwardly on all fours and roll into a ball to protect my belly.
Blotchy faced, he towers over me; his eyes are tiny blue-black holes in the furrows of his shaking flesh. Mutti is grabbing his arm and shouting, “Stop, stop, please, Franz . . .”
“It wasn’t Walter,” I scream. “He never touched me, I swear!”
“I don’t believe you, you lying little bitch.” He shakes Mutti’s arm off. “You’ve turned into one of them! Manipulating, scheming, and plotting. Blackmailing your own father! Look at you . . . nothing but a filthy whore . . .”
He aims a boot at me, but I roll away and he misses.
He will go for my belly, kick the baby from my body.
“What do you mean, blackmailing? Franz! Have you lost your mind?” Mutti grabs him again, both arms this time. “Get up, Hetty, get out of this room, NOW.”
Vati is trying to shake her off, but she is gripping him as though her life depends on it. I pull myself up holding the table. My head throbs. I stumble for the door. Someone is there. Standing in the doorway. Vera? Another nosy little cow. She’ll gossip with all her stupid maid friends and by tomorrow the entire neighborhood will know the shameful truth.
But it isn’t Vera. This person is too tall. A man’s silhouette. The door swings wider, and Tomas’s lanky frame comes toward me.
Could this get any worse? I wish I was dead.
So now he knows the truth, too, and he can confirm Vati’s suspicions. He gives me a long look, then turns to Mutti and Vati.
“Herr, Frau Heinrich. Heil Hitler.” He salutes, wearing his Sunday-best suit. “I’m very sorry to intrude. The front door was open. Nobody came when I rang the bell. I wanted to surprise Hetty, collect her early, and take her for lunch.”
He stares at me. I must look a disheveled mess, my clothes twisted around, my hair loose, and blood running down behind my ear. “Can I help, Hetty? Are you quite well?”
Vati deflates. He sinks to the sofa, head in his hands. “I’m done for,” he mutters.
Mutti turns to Tomas. “I’m sorry. This is not a good time. Herta has gotten herself into trouble . . . and . . .” Her voice fades.
Tomas’s eyes flicker over my stomach. He looks into my eyes. His expression is unreadable. What does it matter now, anyway?
“She refuses to reveal the father, you see, so . . .” Mutti stammers, rubbing her hands together and glancing at Vati as if for permission to say these things. He is mute, his head still buried.
There’s a moment of quiet and I tenderly touch the sticky lump that has formed on my temple. Tomas steps toward me and takes my arm.
“But, darling,” he says steadily, “why wouldn’t you tell them? The baby’s mine, see?” He speaks firmly, smiling broadly at us all.
Vati’s head shoots up. The three of us gape at him.
The sunlight in the room intensifies. The air stills. Mutti and Vati are silent. I cannot breathe.
I stare at Tomas, willing him to meet my eyes again, but he is looking at Vati now. His cheeks are pink and his smudged glasses sit halfway down his nose. He pushes them up, just as he did in the classroom all those years ago. He swallows and his Adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat. Tiny white pimples dot his cheeks. An unlikely hero, but right now, this is the sweetest, dearest face imaginable.
“I’m sorry you had to learn it this way, Herr Heinrich,” Tomas says. “It wasn’t how I planned it. We’ll marry as soon as possible, of course, won’t we, Hetty? I can prove my Aryan ancestry. I’ve got all the paperwork. Not a drop of Jewish blood runs in my veins, so we shan’t be denied permission on that test.” He turns to look at me. “I’d been planning to ask you over lunch, my dearest.”
Vati and Mutti are still mute. They glance at each other.
Mutti laughs nervously.
“But, Herta, I don’t understand. Why did you deny it was Tomas? Why the secrecy?”
Everything is moving too fast. I can’t think properly.
Tomas answers for me.
“It was my fault,” he says. “I told her not to tell. It came as a shock. Never expected to be a father at seventeen! I was ashamed but I’ve got my head around it all now, and I couldn’t be happier. I love your daughter with all my heart, Herr Heinrich.”
That part, at least, seems to be true.
Vati, who had been lost in thought watching Tomas, suddenly seems to snap awake. He looks once more at Mutti, then steps forward and shakes Tomas by the hand. He begins to smile. Mutti too.
“Well!” Vati exclaims. “This is indeed wonderful news. Herta had me worried for a few minutes, but never mind that now. I’m sure I can speed up the permission process. A doctor will need to examine you, Herta, but with Tomas guaranteed as the father, that won’t prove a problem. This calls for a celebration. My daughter married and the first of many children on the way. A drink! It isn’t too early for a drink at eleven forty-five, is it? Tomas, what will you be having?”
I have to sit down; I’m shaking all over. Mutti sits beside me and rubs my back, fusses over my head. She rings the bell and asks Vera for ice, cloths, and iodine to wipe the wound.
Vati and Tomas smoke cigars and toast each other with champagne.
The soon-to-be father- and son-in-law.
An unexpected life begins to float in my mind like a weird, surreal dream. A little flat with Tomas. Me a wife. A baby. Walter’s baby. I shall always have a piece of Walter with me. I place a hand on my belly and for the first time, I can begin to imagine a future where this new being inside me will be okay. Hetty and Tomas. Tomas and Hetty. It sounds all wrong.
Can he really want me this much?
The thought makes me shudder.
But he is giving Walter’s baby and me a chance. I cling to that thought with all my might, to stop myself from drowning.
MUTTI INSISTS WE stay for lunch instead of going out as planned. Vati’s mood, fortified by champagne and plenty of wine, is jolly.
“Listen, young man, I had humble beginnings. There is nothing wrong with that,” he tells Tomas. “You have proved yourself to be a good, upright German, despite the . . . difficulties caused by your father. That shows determination. Moral courage. I’ve no doubt you will do well in the Wehrmacht. We need many more young men like you. I’m fortunate I have all this.” He gestures to the grandness of the room. “I’ll help with the rent on your first flat. Until you can stand on your own two feet. With a wife and child to support, you’ll need it.” He looks at me. “And Mutti will be close by to help wi
th the baby—it will be good for her to have something to distract her from, you know. Something positive . . .”
After lunch, Tomas and I walk together in Rosental. I’m nervous to be alone with him. It’s so strange. To passersby we must look like a nice young couple, strolling hand in hand. In love, baby on the way. A perfect little German family.
If only they knew the truth.
“It’s warmer than I thought,” I comment as we walk. “I should have worn my shawl, not my coat.” Tomas doesn’t reply.
“The trees are in full leaf already,” I try. “Do you think it will be hot this summer?”
I prattle on, banalities, barely knowing what I say, to fill the void.
We sit down on a bench facing the lake. The matter has hovered, unspoken, since we left the house.
Filth. Slut. Ruined. Destroyed the purity of your blood. A long-silenced voice awakens.
Tomas is deep in thought and picks up a pebble from the pathway in front of the bench. He turns it over and over in his hands, smoothing his fingers over its flat, gleaming surface.
“I know how much I’ve hurt you, Tomas,” I say, breaking the silence, “and I’m sorry for it. I will try to be the best wife I possibly can. I will be so good to you, as you have been to me. But I want to understand. Why are you doing this?”
He exhales long and forcefully, clutching the pebble tightly in his hand. “Because I must save you. You are a fallen angel. This thing that has happened. It doesn’t change that. In fact, you need saving more than ever.” He lifts his gaze to the sky, as if he can see angels circling gracefully above him.
“Tomas, come on. This angel thing . . . you don’t really believe . . .”
He looks down at the stone in his hand, stroking it with his fingertips. “I tried so hard not to love you. I really did. But it’s impossible. And I realized, a greater force is pushing me to do this. To save you.”
“Save me from what?”
“The Jew. He forced you. He must have. It cannot have been your fault. That way, I can bear it. And I won’t let anything bad happen to you again. I will protect you.” He raises his arm and flings the pebble out across the lake. It arcs over the water and lands with a deep splash.
