The Stranger From Berlin

by Melissa Amateis

‘Me too. But the worst part of all is accepting that he tried to kill you, Max. He circumvented the law after claiming for years to uphold it.’

  ‘I think he’d had enough and wanted to end it, then and there. He wanted to end me.’

  Jenni shuddered. ‘Thank God he didn’t succeed.’

  Max flashed her a smile. ‘But it is over now, ja?’

  Jenni grinned. ‘Ja.’

  Max turned back to the diary and Jenni closed her eyes. A nap sounded lovely. Too much had happened in the last few days and she was simply exhausted. The baby had begun to move more, and while she welcomed it, it did make it harder to get a good night’s sleep. Then there’d been the letter from Iris Anderson, the fiction editor at Ladies Home Journal, informing Jenni of how she loved the changes Jenni had made to the story, and would she please sign the enclosed contract to publish.

  Jenni had hugged the letter to her chest and danced around her kitchen table. Her first published story in a major national magazine! She wanted to knock on Mabel Grayson’s door and show that catty woman how wrong she’d been about Jenni’s writing talents, but Mabel wasn’t worth the trek across the street.

  Max’s loud whoop! startled her and her eyes flew open. ‘Gee whiz, Max, you scared me half to death.’

  Max jumped up from the chair and hurried to sit beside her. ‘Look, there it is.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  He began to read.

  ‘ “July 21, 1919: Dear Dietrich: Today I received a call from Frank Mitchell. He said he could no longer stay silent, that he needed to tell me the truth about the night you left me, but he was afraid. He told me he did not start the fire, that someone else did, someone I knew. But he would not give me a name. ‘My children’s life is in danger if I do,’ he said. Oh, Dietrich, my heart breaks for him. To protect your child from harm is a parent’s utmost concern. I cannot fault him for remaining silent. But his call lends credence to my belief that there is more to that night than what the ‘official’ record states. I will not rest, dear Dietrich, until I know the truth of what happened.” ’

  Max stared at the worn page. ‘But she never did find out the truth. She went through the rest of her life not knowing what Mayor Lowe had done.’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’ Putting herself in Tallulah’s shoes, thinking of the same happening to Marty or this baby… the mere thought of it sent a sharp stab of pain through her. ‘All those years of not knowing the truth behind her son’s death.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Max lit his cigarette and inhaled, blowing the smoke through his nostrils. ‘But I would say his death has been avenged.’

  Jenni shuddered. The horrific image of Lowe lying there, blood pooling under his head, would be forever branded upon her memory. That could easily have been Max. Thank God it hadn’t been. Now it was time to move forward, figure things out, and focus on Marty and the baby.

  Jenni reached for his hand and clasped it. ‘Well, it’s all over now.’ She remembered what he’d mentioned at the Macintosh residence about secrets. He’d said nothing more that day, but she knew, as much as she knew she loved her children, that he was holding something back from her.

  ‘Secrets can certainly destroy people,’ she said. ‘But let’s be done with secrets, Max. Please.’

  He went very still. Unease looped through her shoulders and when he let go of her hand, she asked, ‘Max? Are you all right?’

  ‘Jenni,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, ‘I need to tell you something. About Berlin.’

  November 9, 1938 Berlin

  Max is watching the Brownshirts outside his apartment in Berlin. They are drunk, loud and obnoxious. One smashes a brick through the window of a Jewish shop. Two of them hurl the owner onto the pavement where the rest proceed to kick and punch him until he no longer moves. Then they set fire to the building. The body lies on the street as they walk away to the next shop.

  The phone rings. It is Ilsa. ‘You must come! We are celebrating!’ she says. She doesn’t say what they are celebrating. But Max knows. Ernst has undoubtedly been enjoying the evening’s festivities.

  Max leaves his apartment and heads for Ilsa’s place in the affluent Tiergartenstraße neighbourhood. But on the way to the train station, he can barely take three steps without stepping on glass. It crunches under his shoes, like brittle bones.

  The party is already in full swing when he arrives. Black and brown uniforms crowd the floor. Women with sparkling jewellery and high-pitched laughter cling to the men’s arms, drinking from their champagne glasses. Ilsa is beside Ernst, a man with a bullet for a head, a grotesque and ugly individual who has used the Nazi Party to seek revenge on those who mistreated him throughout his life.

  Max grabs Ilsa’s elbow, takes her to a quiet corner. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Celebrating!’ she says. ‘The Jews are finished!’

  ‘People died out there tonight. I saw it.’

  ‘Do you want me to feel sorry for them, that they are dead? I do not. The world without the Jews will be a better place. You’ll see, Maxi.’ She takes a drink and leans in to kiss him. But her mouth tastes like turpentine.

  ‘Enough,’ he says, wrenching away. ‘I want no part of this.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I am done. With this. With you.’

  He leaves her standing there, in shock, and wends his way through the crowd. Back on the street, he hurries home, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wondering how he has reached this point in his life when nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing.

  At his apartment, he packs a bag, puts the ticket to America, which he purchased a month ago, in his pocket. Ilsa doesn’t know he is leaving. He kept it secret, not wanting her to follow him, to find him. For thirty days, he’s tried to summon the courage to end it with her. He has found the courage tonight.

  He grabs the framed family photo off his nightstand and shoves it into the bag. It is time to leave. He will go to the airport, curl up in a corner, wait for the call for his flight to Hamburg, the first leg of his journey. In Hamburg, he will board a ship for America and a new life.

  But suddenly, there’s an angry rap at the door. He knows it is Ilsa. He lets her in, because if he doesn’t, she will find a way inside. Ilsa has her ways, so many ways. She is connected to the highest Nazi Party members and he would do well to remember it.

  ‘You coward!’ she says, wobbling on her feet, schnapps on her breath. She slaps him there in the hallway. He doesn’t retaliate, lets her vent. ‘You cannot leave me. Do you understand? You can’t leave me!’

  ‘We are finished,’ he says, trying to stay calm, trying to keep his head. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

  Ilsa sways into the room, still stunning in her red silk gown, and goes straight for his whisky. She pours too much, spills it, but does not care.

  ‘You should know something,’ she says, her words slurring. She takes a long sip, then points the glass at him. ‘I found out I was pregnant.’

  For an instant, joy blots out his anger. But then he picks up on the past tense. Was pregnant. A miscarriage so soon? He’s heard it is common in the very early months, but—

  ‘I got rid of it.’

  The words send flames of anger licking along his skin, and he advances towards her. ‘What do you mean, you got rid of it?’

  She backs into the wall, but in those icy blue eyes of hers there is amusement, not sadness. ‘An abortion, Max.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I found out two months ago. I had the procedure done shortly after.’

  Two months ago? And she’d kept it secret from him? That she didn’t tell him nearly sends him into the abyss. His child. Killed.

  ‘Why?’ The question comes out as a wail of grief.

  ‘Do you think I want to be a mother? I did not want the brat. It is that simple.’

  ‘Simple? You killed our child!’

  Her utter callousness enrages him so much that he turns away from her, terrified h
e will do something he will regret. He had a child. He was going to be a father, something he’d always desired. And this… this monster killed it.

  ‘Leave.’

  She stares at him. ‘You want me to leave? Me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He yells the word. He can’t stand the sight of her.

  But she doesn’t move and instead switches tactics. ‘Oh no, Maxi,’ she purrs, ‘I will never leave you. And you will never leave me. You want me too much. You need me too much.’

  ‘I don’t need you anymore.’ He grabs her by the wrist, pulls her away from the wall and shoves her towards the door. ‘I said get out.’

  She whirls around, snatches a heavy ashtray from a table, and hurls it at him. He ducks and it smashes against the wall.

  ‘You can’t get rid of me!’ She’s sobbing in terror or fury – he can’t tell which. And then suddenly, she pushes him on the couch. She punches him, kicks him, her rage hotter than the fires of Hades. He tries to dodge her blows and subdue her. But she is like a maniac, unable to be controlled.

  ‘Stop it!’ Desperate, he kicks her legs out from underneath her and she falls back, smashing into the glass coffee table, shattering it.

  Silence. She lies there on the floor, unmoving, a jagged piece of glass piercing her chest, her beautiful face frozen in shock. He stares in horror.

  ‘Ilsa?’ he cries. He touches her wrist, tries to feel for the throbbing vein, but there is nothing. She is dead.

  Then he hears sirens in the distance, panics. Grabbing his suitcase, he leaves the apartment and runs out into the night. If he stays, he will be arrested, interrogated, tortured. No one will believe the truth. No one.

  * * *

  Max finished talking and slumped against the couch. The memories of that awful night pull at him like arms reaching from hell itself. He remembered the Jews’ shrieks of terror, the broken glass, Ilsa’s unmoving body. He’d killed her, and living with that guilt and shame all these years had nearly torn him apart.

  But his confession left him feeling relieved, the weight of guilt no longer so heavy. At least he had that.

  He didn’t want to see Jenni’s reaction, but like the proverbial moth to the flame, he could not look away. ‘That is my last secret,’ he murmured. ‘My worst secret. I am sorry.’

  He braced himself for the inevitable. Jenni knew the truth, and it was an ugly one, but he accepted that there were simply some things a person could not forgive. He might lose her forever.

  ‘Max,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to apologize. It was an accident.’

  Instead of overwhelming relief, incredibly, he felt anger. ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘I could have restrained her somehow, done something different. It is my fault that she is dead. I killed her. Perhaps I should tell Agent Williams. He wanted to know my secret so badly. Well, now it is out! I am a murderer! Can they prosecute me for a murder committed in Berlin?’

  ‘Stop it. You were protecting yourself,’ Jenni argued. ‘How were you to know she would fall on the table?’

  ‘But—’

  His words died on his lips when Jenni tenderly took his face between her hands. ‘Listen to me, Max. No matter how many times you try to convince yourself otherwise, it was not your fault. You cannot go back and change it. You must learn to accept it and forgive yourself. If you want to keep living, keep moving forward, there is no other way. Believe me, I know.’

  And she did.

  The anger, the fear, the guilt, it drained away. Oh, it wouldn’t vanish, not entirely. He’d always carry it. Such was his burden. But being with Jenni would make it so much easier to bear.

  He kissed each of her hands, murmuring, ‘Cold hands, but such a warm heart.’

  She smiled at him, those beautiful blue eyes so accepting, so forgiving. He never wanted to let her go.

  The front door flew open, and Marty and Katya tumbled inside, bringing clumps of snow and cold wind with them. Katya ran over to Max, licked him full in the face, and then did the same to Jenni. There was nothing to do but laugh, nothing to do but savour the joy the four of them had at this moment in time.

  With snow seeping into his shirt from Katya’s wet fur, Marty regaling them with tales of the fort he’d built outside, and Jenni’s hand firmly in his, Max let the lingering shreds of guilt and fear slip away.

  After years of wandering, Max Koenig had finally found home.

  A NOTE FOR READERS

  Being a novelist and a historian gives me the wonderful opportunity to both educate and entertain through storytelling. I can take a little-known historical event and create a vivid, detailed world and, using my characters, try to understand why history unfolded the way it did.

  The Stranger from Berlin grew out of my research into anti-German sentiment prevalent across the United States during the Great War. Due to the large influx of immigrants to America in the latter half of the nineteenth century, it became popular to use the term ‘hyphenated Americans’ to describe German-Americans, Irish-Americans, Italian-Americans, and others. However, by the time World War I broke out in Europe and Americans were divided over whether or not to join the fight, these same ‘hyphenated Americans’ faced questions of loyalty. If the United States went to war, would they be sympathetic to the nation that gave them refuge, or their country of origin?

  German-Americans in particular came under scrutiny, and when America entered the conflict in 1917, a fever of anti-German sentiment spread throughout the United States. Nebraska, with its large German immigrant population, was not immune. The harassment ranged from small acts, such as using ‘Huns’ as a slur, to acts of violence, such as tarring and feathering. Some mobs burned German churches and dragged people from their homes, forcing them to kiss the American flag or sing the national anthem. Towns with German names were renamed. Laws restricted the publication of German newspapers. German churches could no longer deliver German-language sermons. In Nebraska, it was illegal to teach the German language in private and parochial schools. People renamed German foods: hamburgers became liberty steaks; sauerkraut became liberty cabbage, German measles became liberty measles. As a result of this wave of intolerance, German-Americans no longer felt safe enough to celebrate their traditions and took their culture ‘underground’. They became ‘Americanized’ and effectively assimilated into mainstream America.

  What propelled this anti-German sentiment? Quite simply, it was xenophobia, i.e. fear of the other.

  As a novelist, I wanted to probe deeper. What are the consequences of suppressing your culture? How would another war with Germany affect you? I decided to create the fictional town of Meadow Hills, give it a tragic past, have them overcompensate for their persecution by becoming the most patriotic town in Nebraska, and then, for good measure, throw in a bona fide ethnic German from Nazi Germany. Since small towns can often be insular and suspicious of newcomers, and yes, sometimes xenophobic, how would this town react to a stranger who reminds them of all they’ve lost?

  But I needed to dig deeper to understand the heart of the issue: fear. I decided to throw in an elected official determined to use fear to manipulate and control his citizens, using the same tactics the town’s citizens suffered more than twenty-five years ago.

  Why, you might ask, would I wish to focus on these sensitive issues? Because, as Mark Twain said in his own unique way, ‘History doesn’t repeat itself; but it does rhyme.’ Around the world, we’re experiencing events similar to those of the two world wars: xenophobia, manipulation and control of the masses through fear and propaganda, anti-immigration rhetoric, intolerance and nationalism over patriotism. Why do these particular themes continue to emerge over and over in our history? Can humankind ever learn to embrace our differences instead of fearing them? These are tough questions.

  Perhaps through storytelling, we can find some answers.

  Melissa Amateis

  October 2020

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Melissa Amate
is grew up on a farm near Bridgeport, Nebraska. She holds a BA in history from Chadron State College and an MA in history from the University of Nebraska–Lincoln (UNL). She is an editorial assistant for two academic journals at the Center for Great Plains Studies at UNL, and has authored two non-fiction books, Nebraska POW Camps: A History of World War II Prisoners in the Heartland (2014) and World War II Nebraska (2020), both from The History Press. Amateis lives with her daughter in eastern Nebraska.

  www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Melissa-Amateis

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  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021

  Copyright © Melissa Amateis, 2021. All rights reserved.

  The right of Melissa Amateis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-3985-0404-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.