Daughter of the Reich

by Louise Fein

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “A black coffee, if you please.” I speak carefully, trying hard with my pronunciation.

  “Sure. Anything else?” she asks.

  There is a huge array of cakes and pastries arranged on display behind the glass counter. My mouth begins to salivate at the sight of them.

  “And I’ll take one of those, too.” I smile at the waitress and point to a twisted pastry with blanched almonds on the top and something that looks deliciously sweet and creamy oozing from the middle. “And how much is the cost?” I hope I’m using the correct English grammar.

  “Don’t worry. Take a seat and I’ll bring it all over. You can pay at the end, when you’ve finished.” She nods toward the tables.

  It seems very self-indulgent to eat such a thing so soon after breakfast. Even though all the years of deprivation are long gone, there is an overwhelming urge to treat myself. Just in case it is all taken away again.

  Besides. It will help to pass the time.

  “Thank you. You are most kind,” I say.

  The waitress gives me a warm smile. The other customers don’t even look up. No one seems bothered by my German accent.

  But that’s silly of me. Why on earth would they be? The war was half a century ago. The couple by the window are too young to know anything of it. Perhaps the man did, though. I stare at his profile as he reads, engrossed in something. I certainly still flinch if I hear a Russian accent. Try as I might, it isn’t possible to block all they subjected us to from my memory. People might wonder why I let those soldiers do what they did to me. Why I never bothered to put up a fight. But it was survival. You did whatever you had to for a piece of bread.

  London is like a different planet. Foreign, full of wonder, and terrifying all at the same time. I’ve been locked behind the Iron Curtain for over forty years. Once the worst years were past, we settled into a day-to-day life that was pleasant enough. As long as we had food, and a roof over our heads, that was enough. It lacked luxury, but it was certain, cohesive, and everyone was the same. Here, life feels precarious and chaotic. I can imagine all this speed and freedom is exciting for the young, but for my generation, the crumbling socialist blocks are safe and familiar, like comfortable old shoes. Yesterday, I walked for miles around London, staring up at the shiny towers of metal and glass, the smart houses and shops full of stuff. So many big, expensive cars. So much noise and bustle. It’s frenetic. Bewildering.

  While I wait, I sip my coffee and will myself to eat the sweet pastry and its almond filling slowly. I take tiny bites to make it last longer, savoring each mouthful. I watch my own hands tremble at the thought of what is to come.

  I open my handbag and there, tucked between my purse and the folded, off-white square of Walter’s handkerchief, which, after all these years I still carry with me as though it is a lucky charm, is the envelope containing the response to that first letter I sent to England over a year ago. I needn’t take it out. I’ve memorized its contents. I leave the letter where it is and instead find my lipstick and mirror. I reapply the pink sheen to my lips, snap the mirror shut, and place both back in the bag.

  The café door swings open and the room fills with newcomers. An elderly woman with gray hair tightly wound into a bun on the top of her head comes in first. She is slight, with bright brown eyes and a long, narrow face, and instantly I know it’s her. Anna.

  Tucked beneath her arm is a book, the colors of its textured cover in faded, geometric patterns. It’s as much as I can do not to cry out at the sight of it. I swallow down the lump in my throat.

  Behind her is a slightly built, middle-aged man. His face is open and pleasant, and his light brown hair is flecked with gray at the temples and cut short. He glances around and I catch the light blue eyes and high cheekbones. My heart skips.

  My son.

  I might have passed him on the street and not known he was mine. All those missed years. My throat tightens and my eyes well up. Will I ever know him now? Properly know him? Will he ever call me Mutti and come to me when he has a problem? Unlikely. A lifetime of memories have been stolen from me, but he is alive, and he looks well and happy. That is all a mother could ultimately want for her child.

  He meets my eyes and we gaze at each other. I can’t read his expression, and no doubt he cannot read mine, either. We are strangers, my Stanley and me. Everyone here, the café, the clink of china cup against saucer, the smell of freshly ground coffee, the background chatter—it all fades away. It is just us. I have dreamed of the moment I would be reunited with my son for fifty-six years. That it is happening, right here, now, is too vast to take in. I’m numb, almost, with the shock of it. We are really here, in the same country, standing in the same room. This man, searching my eyes, just a few short feet away. What can he think of me, a daughter of the Reich, who abandoned him as a baby. I’m shaking with fear and emotion. But then he dips his chin into a nod and smiles, warm and unjudging, and I feel a rush of gratitude. We will be okay, Stanley and me. It may take some time, but we will be okay.

  He stands to one side to enable a boy of around fifteen to come through the door. Long-legged and already taller than his father, awkward in his own body and hiding behind a curtain of dark hair.

  My grandson?

  Now a girl, presumably the boy’s older sister. She glances around the café and her enormous blue eyes meet my gaze. My breath catches in my throat. The resemblance is extraordinary. She wears a big floppy sweater over ripped jeans and her long, dark curls bounce over her shoulders. It is as though I am looking at my seventeen-year-old self. Strange to think that at her age, I had already given birth to Stanley.

  I wish there was one more figure to come through that door. But there are no more. I think of the letter, written in an unfamiliar hand in my handbag, the contents of which are imprinted in my mind.

  My dear Hetty,

  I am writing this hasty response to catch the next post, so you do not have to wait a moment longer for a reply to your wonderful letter. I shall send you another, longer and more detailed, in the next day or so. I send this with mixed emotions—firstly of joy to find you are indeed alive. Walter never gave up hope of trying to find you, after the war. He spent years making fruitless inquiries, and only found dead ends. But then communication with East Germany became almost impossible for an outsider. We feared you had not survived the war. To find out you are alive and well is indescribably wonderful. And so now for the bad news. I am so sorry to have to tell you; Walter passed away three years ago, very suddenly, of a heart attack. Walter, as well you know, was the best of men. During the war, he played his part in fighting the Nazis. Suffice to say here that he was extremely brave. He ran a successful hat business until his dying day. He diversified away from furs as the world rather turned away from such material, into the couture world of ladies’ hats! He was always charming and the ladies, of course, loved him. But he was a good husband and we—Stanley, the cousins, and our own children (we have three)—remain devastated to have lost a wonderful husband, father, and uncle, and I hate to have to tell you such sad news by letter. But, Stanley, your remarkable son, is alive and well. He is a successful lawyer, married, and has two children of his own—teenagers now, one boy, one girl. I have been lucky to have been part of his life—he is a joy. It is inconceivable that you should not visit. We will make arrangements. Stanley has done well in life and we shall pay for your trip over. You are welcome to stay for as long as you like. I will write again soon.

  Yours,

  Anna

  Anna approaches my table and I stand. For a moment we stare at each other, blue eyes searching brown. There is no hint of hatred, only sadness. Understanding, perhaps. But there is something else, too. A glimmer I can read because it is this which has kept me going through the darkest of times.

  Hope.

  And Anna, the woman I have never met until now, who has haunted my dreams for half a lifetime, comes forward and enfolds me in the warmest of embrac
es.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe so many people, so much, for the existence of this book. Expressing my appreciation here seems a small and paltry return for the time, generosity, and support I have received from so many. In time, I hope that I may somehow repay you all. This book is as much yours as it is mine.

  First, enormous thanks to my wonderful agent, Caroline Hardman, and all at Hardman & Swainson, for believing in this book and in me as an author. You have made all my dreams come true. To Liz Stein and the team at William Morrow, and to Hannah Smith and the team at Head of Zeus, for your enthusiasm and insightful expertise, and for helping to shape this book into its better self. It has been an absolute pleasure to work with all of you.

  To Dr. Hubert Lang, Dr. Andrea Lorz, and Dr. Thomas Töpfer at the Schulmuseum, Leipzig, my heartfelt thanks for your patience and careful answering of my many and varied questions. Your generosity of time and knowledge was invaluable. Also, to the late Peter Held, who, as a true gentleman in his nineties, welcomed me, a total stranger, with open arms and entertained my sister and me at a memorable and wonderful lunch. You so kindly dug into painful memories from a very long time ago. I am sad that you never got to see this project of mine come to fruition.

  To Russell Schechter, David Savill, and Scott Bradfield, my MA tutors who helped me to write so much better and taught me the value of tough critiquing. Huge thanks also to my wonderful MA and writing group friends: Lara Dearman, Andy Howden, Jennifer Small, Magdalena Duke, and Gwen Emmerson, for your insightful commentary, the camaraderie, friendship, and ongoing support. You are all brilliant, and I’m not sure what I would have done without you. To the generous, supportive, and talented bunch that are the Savvy Writers’ Snug; what a wonderful group of colleagues and friends you are.

  Thanks to my early readers: Suzanne Miller, Karen Kelly, Brenda Fein, Julian Pike, Millie Pike, Josh Pike, Diane Pike, Jane Elliot, Shauna Bartlett, and Shannon Monroe Ashton. Your comments and support have been invaluable. To the truly fabulous Stephanie Roundsmith of Cornerstones, who rescued me when I was ready to throw this manuscript in the bin. Without you, this book would not have seen the light of day. You helped so much, in so many ways; I owe you one enormous drink!

  Finally, and most importantly, to my family. My wonderful mother and my late father, for igniting my love of reading, for gifting me self belief and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. You have honestly been the best parents any child could wish for. Special thanks, however, must go to my mother, who was widowed when I was just seventeen. Your constancy, love of life and learning, and incredible kindness and humanity have made you the best of role models.

  To my sister Kathleen, for your invaluable help with my research, your company, and your encouragement. Our journey together has been a wonderful thing in itself. I have gained so, so much from having you at my side. To my other sister, Sarah, for being an ear, and for always being there for me. To my mother-in-law, Di, for the chats, the meals, the sewing, the housework, the kindness; thank you! To my dog, Bonnie, for the company, every day, as you lay at my feet while I tapped away, and for the walks that helped solve plot hitches.

  And, most of all, thank you to my darling husband, Julian, and my three wonderful children: Millie, Josh, and Lottie. Each of you are my inspiration every day. You make me utterly proud, and I love you all so much it hurts. Thank you for your steady and unshakable belief in me, for encouraging me to “go for it.” You are all my everything.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  * * *

  Meet Louise Fein

  About the Book

  * * *

  A Note from the Author

  Q&A with Louise Fein

  Reading Group Guide

  A Select List of Sources

  About the Author

  Meet Louise Fein

  LOUISE FEIN was born and raised near London. After earning a law degree at Southampton University, she worked in Hong Kong and Australia and enjoyed traveling the world before returning to London to settle down to a career in law and banking. She holds a master’s degree in creative writing from St. Mary’s University, London. Louise lives in the beautiful Surrey countryside with her husband, three children, and small dog. Daughter of the Reich is her debut novel.

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  About the Book

  A Note from the Author

  My father’s family were Ashkenazi Jews, originally from Brody, which is now in the Ukraine but was formerly in Galicia, a province in the northeast of the Austrian empire. During the nineteenth century, the Fein family business, in common with many other Jews at the time, traded hides and skins. They traveled back and forth from Brody to Leipzig, an important center of European fur trading for the fairs that had operated there since the Middle Ages.

  Changes to the laws in Saxony in the late 1830s paved the way for the establishment of Jewish settlements, and in March 1870, the Fein family officially became Saxon citizens, settling in Leipzig. The Feins fully integrated into German life. Well educated and ambitious, they built up a successful fur trading business (established in 1904) in the Brühl, at the heart of the Jewish fur trading quarter, and owned property. All of this was ultimately to be stolen by the Nazis.

  My father became a doctor of law in 1931 and established his legal practice in the summer of 1932. On June 30, 1933, my father was banned from practicing law in Germany because he was a Jew. He applied for positions all over Europe, but to no avail. Anti-Semitism was on the rise all across the continent. Having read Mein Kampf a few years earlier, my father was only too aware what danger a newly elected Hitler posed. Toward the end of 1933, he left Germany (his young wife, who was expecting their first child, followed a few weeks later) on a temporary visa to England, a status that remained until he was finally granted citizenship in 1946. Until then, he had to apply annually to the Home Office to remain in the country. He was permitted to do so—without ever being interned—on the basis of providing evidence of the success of his business, and therefore his ability to support himself and his family financially.

  Unqualified to practice English law, he set up the London branch of the family business, which dealt mainly in rabbit skins for hat making. Once in England, at home and beyond, he and his family spoke only English and adopted all things British. In 1943, he was given permission to serve in the Home Guard; was elected onto the Executive Committee of the Export Group in London, working closely with the Board of Trade, an honor for a refugee from enemy Germany; and even made a wartime broadcast on BBC radio on the varied uses of rabbit skins. My father embraced English life absolutely and completely, grateful to the country that had given him shelter and enabled him to create a successful business and home for his family. From him I learned to value liberty and freedom as the most precious of ideals, and to appreciate the paragon of democracy that was England.

  During the remainder of the 1930s, other members of the Fein family left Germany and went to either London or New York, where another branch of the family business was established. Some left as late as 1938, following Kristallnacht and after their arrests and short stays in the Buchenwald concentration camp. One of my father’s uncles was so badly damaged by his three weeks of incarceration there that he died just a few years later. Other members of the family waited too long to leave and were eventually murdered at Auschwitz and Theresienstadt.

  My father, who was sixty-one when I was born and died when I was seventeen, never talked about his life in Germany or the experience of living under Nazi rule. He refused to buy German goods and never spoke German. As a child, by some sort of osmosis, I assumed a sense that my father’s Jewish background should be kept a secret, fearing that if someone found out, we would be in danger. Occasionally, I would lie awake at night and imagine being taken away and put in a camp. I planned escape routes and how we could save one another. I never admitted to anyone my father’s Jewish roots until
only a few years ago.

  I cannot remember exactly when the idea of a novel inspired by my father’s past first came to me, but it fermented over a long period of time. I knew so little of his life in Leipzig that I felt instinctively it should be a work of fiction. Ideas mulled, characters came to me, and I began to read and research in earnest. The book, though inspired by what I learned about my father, is not about him. In writing this story, I hoped to show parallels between the early 1930s Germany in which he lived, and the Western world since the crash of 2008. Economic hardship of the 1920s led to the rise of nationalism and its extremist views and actions. New forms of mass media (radio and film) enabled the delivering of messages directly into homes and cinemas. All media, old and new, were used in highly effective propaganda across the nation. By these means, and by silencing voices of discontent, an entire population could be controlled and manipulated. Today, we potentially face a similar trajectory with the resurgence of nationalism; the fast-developing far right and far left sentiments; and extremism in many awful forms. Populist leaders stunning the world by winning elections. Brexit. Calls for closing borders and increasing racist sentiment. Anti-Semitism rearing its ugly head once more, including in once-centralist political parties. Ludicrous rumors of a Jewish conspiracy again circulating. People learning their news increasingly through the false bubbles of their social media networks.

  With all this happening around me, writing a book of fiction seemed, often at times, a ridiculous, self-indulgent game when there were so many more important things going on out there in the real world. But stories—fiction—have a power. A good book can reach out and pull a reader into a world they know nothing about. It can emotionally engage in a way that facts—news—often cannot. Characters from a great book can live on in the minds of the reader.