by Jan Casey
As she’d fussed with the coffee and cups, she’d managed to say that she had heard about the bombs dropped on London, but couldn’t bring herself to utter a jubilant comment. She wasn’t very good at putting on a front, as she and Fred had decided they must do. ‘So,’ Horst had challenged her, ‘great news for the Fuhrer, don’t you agree?’
Annie answered him in German with words to the effect of – it goes without saying. Perhaps she was getting better at hiding her true thoughts and feelings after all. That had seemed to satisfy him, although she had felt his huge blue eyes boring holes in her back, trying to see beyond her skin, bones and muscles into the heart and spirit of her being. By the time Horst had finished his coffee and bread and went upstairs to sit with Oma, she had felt drained of all energy.
But then she’d remembered her journal and the ensuing anxiety mobilised her again. He might be opening cupboards, drawers, dressers and presses upstairs; looking under the beds and in between the sheets; continuing his search for whatever it was he had been hunting for in the kitchen. There had been nothing downstairs to condemn them, she had known that, but upstairs there was the notebook. Hidden, or so she hoped, in between her knickers. Once upon a time, Horst would have been mortified at the thought of rooting through any woman’s private articles of clothing. But now? How could she have been so stupid, she’d chastised herself, to try to conceal the book in such an obvious place and then to let Horst go upstairs alone?
She had stood like a statue at the bottom of the stairs, holding her breath to see if she could hear the creak of the loose floorboard in her room, the scritch of Horst’s uniform as he crept across the landing. But there had been nothing until she caught his low resonant voice as he said a fervid, throaty goodbye to Oma.
He’d left soon after, saying he would return when he was next on leave. He had grabbed her in a hug and told her to let him know if Oma needed anything at all – extra rations, brandy, dispensation to have hot water more than the regulatory twice a week. Hanging in his arms like a rag doll, she had thought she would rather starve than ask him for a single thing, but perhaps for Oma she might. Feigning interest, she’d asked him if he knew where he would be posted. He’d touched the side of his nose in an oddly English gesture, then had said that all he could say was that the Fatherland need not worry about the Edelweiss Pirates any longer. She’d nodded as if she understood, although she had never heard of that appellation before.
The rain was slowing to a steady drizzle and the pavements outside Annie’s window were dark and slick. People under black umbrellas hurried past. Tears filled Annie’s eyes because she knew it was possible that Horst’s visit could have been his last with Oma. She could not imagine how she would go on without her beloved grandmother. How would she define her days without Oma to look after, to shop for, to wash, to read to, to worry about? Oma was the reason she and Fred were here in Germany and without the protection of her existence, would they become more susceptible to being searched and questioned or worse? Annie was frightened to think that, after Oma was buried, she and Fred would be looked upon with greater suspicion than they were now. She felt sure the authorities would and could find some other crime to pin on them – the journal for one.
She dried her tears and picked up her pen again, then began to write about her grandmother.
Oma’s life had been eventful and beyond Annie’s realm of understanding during her twenty years. Although she looked forward to adventures in the future, she also hoped that she would never have to experience some of the things that Oma had to go through. She married when she was eighteen and Opa was not her choice, but that of her father. It was so hard to take in that her love life, or lack of it, was set in stone when she was younger than Annie was now. That must have been so difficult for her.
Once, quite a while ago, when Oma could still communicate and was full of stories, she told Annie that over a period of time she did fall very much in love with Opa. And that love was built on respect, honesty and patience. ‘Let that, young lady, be a lesson to you on what to look for in a man before you agree to marry him.’ Annie wished she had asked how the transformation took place, and at what stage of their marriage Oma realised that the shift in their emotions had happened. She liked to think it had occurred when Oma told Opa she was expecting their first child, but perhaps that had been too much of a shock, so early on in their marriage, for it to be a moment of celebration for Opa. It might have had the opposite effect and caused him to resent her for tying him to a life that in all probability he hadn’t asked for either.
Or maybe it was after the birth of the baby, a little boy, that their love burgeoned – or when the child died at eleven days old. They went on to have nine living children, two more who died soon after they were born and another who lived until her teens. What an inventory of joy and despair. Each and every one of those incidents could have caused them to realise, as they drew strength and courage from each other, that they were in love. But equally the traumas could have severed them.
By the time Annie was old enough to be aware, Oma and Opa seemed almost to be one person, so alike were they in their opinions, their attitudes, their mindset and their values. They used the same vocabulary and even spoke with the same inflection and tone in their voices. Opa did well with his job at Kässbohrer, the diesel factory, clawing his way up from the factory floor to be a manager. He was respected by everyone in the vicinity, until a heart attack took him eight years ago. Oma had grieved for him every single day of her life since then, proving her love to the world.
And she lived through the War to End All Wars and was now in the middle of this one, although she didn’t know much about it or so they thought. During that war she worked in a factory that made army uniforms as well as tending to her own family. If only Annie could always remember Oma as she had been – a whirlwind of activity, pulling everyone into the cyclone with her where they felt cared for and loved and special. Even now, when she was so weak, Oma would caress Annie’s arm or reach out to touch her hair. One day last week, she had opened her eyes suddenly and said, ‘Annie, are you crying?’
‘No, Oma,’ Annie had said, although she had been.
Oma’s gnarled finger had brushed a tear from her granddaughter’s cheek with pressure that Annie could barely feel. ‘No more tears,’ she’d said. ‘There is not much in this life that is worth it.’
You are, Annie had thought, before smiling as best she could.
From across the hall there was the soft click of Oma’s door. With well-practised efficiency, Annie replaced the notebook in its hiding place, opened her reading book and studied it as if she had been doing so all along.
‘Come in, Fred,’ Annie called in answer to his knock.
‘Annie,’ Fred said, his head appearing in the doorway. ‘There is no milk to heat for Oma. And only a heel of bread left. Will you bake a loaf?’
Annie thought about these small requests that had become huge missions to fulfil. Shopping for anything could take hours and then, more often than not, she would come home with nothing she went out for. They were told by the regime to take heart from the fact that as a nation they had copious amounts of food, in comparison to the Allies. What they did have was bread, potatoes and preserves and more bread, potatoes and preserves. The party line was that as they had been victorious against France, they had access to the wonderful French cuisine. Well, someone might be getting escargot and champagne and foie gras, but it wasn’t them or anyone else they knew. She suspected that if it existed, it was saved for those high up in the Gestapo or Wehrmacht. And their floozies, of course. Well, good luck to them. None of it would pass her lips. All the indoctrination and brainwashing. She wondered how many German citizens, in reality, believed in this Nazi regime, or if they, like she and Fred, had one side of their faces for the authorities and another for the truth deep inside them.
All they knew about how the Germans were bombarding Britain was from the German point of view. An article in the newspaper sai
d that the destruction of Parliament was extensive, but the one and only photograph they had seen showed minor damage so they had no way of verifying that what they were told was the truth. The radio told them that the British were on their knees, crumbling and collapsing as a result of the bombing, rationing and blackouts. Then always in the next breath they were told to compare themselves to the Allies and be grateful. Germany, allegedly, had taken very little damage. Well, that might be true here in Ulm, but she knew from other reports that Cologne, Dresden and Berlin were devastated.
‘Annie?’ Fred stepped into her room, taking in the open book and his sister, sitting with her chin in her open palm.
‘I will go and get some.’ Annie sighed, dreading the queues and the downturned look on the other shoppers’ faces. ‘Just let me kiss Oma goodbye.’
*
Annie headed straight for the dairy and could not believe her luck when she saw the dairyman’s wife, in a dirty white coat, arranging a row of full milk bottles in the shop window. She raced to be third in the queue outside the door but was soon joined by a long line of women who stood behind her. They alternated between gabbling to each other and gawping at the display through the window. The woman in front of her, who was wearing a stained pink cardigan and a shawl around her shoulders, nudged Annie over and over saying, ‘Look, what a wonderful sight. Is it real?’
‘I hope so,’ Annie said, noticing a thin stream of drool escaping from the other woman’s mouth.
But it wasn’t. They were told the bottles were full of salt and being used for decoration only. Annie could feel the excitement drain from the crowd like smoke from a bomb. They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Before they went their separate ways, the woman who had dug Annie in the ribs said, ‘You can’t trust anyone or anything these days.’
No, Annie thought, nothing is what it seems.
Although the rain had stopped, Annie walked with head down like all the other women searching for rations. She passed the Minster, looming in shadow, and remembered Oma and Mum swinging her between them in the sunshine on a visit to the cathedral many years ago. They had been happy, laughing and chatting about which cake they would choose from the bakery, how Annie’s socks wouldn’t stay up, the stories Vati told from his school days. Then the mood shifted when they saw Fort Oberer Kuhberg in the distance and Oma whispered to Mum that it was a concentration camp for political dissidents. Annie didn’t know what any of that meant then – and she didn’t have much of an idea now. But what all of them sensed was that something sinister was going on in the depths of the party and that people had been feeling intimidated by the authorities for some years. She’d seen the yellow stars sewn onto the heart side of Jewish people’s coats and the stamps in their ration books that meant they were given less than others. She’d seen those things and averted her eyes, much to her shame. But what could she do? Confront the authorities and risk her tenuous freedom and that of the poor starred people?
Anyway, she had milk and bread to find. Bread was easy enough and she bought a loaf of rye with her rations from the bakery that nestled in the gloom of the Minster. Milk was harder and after trying five different shops, she had to settle for the less than satisfactory powder. Wondering if she should try to get a bit of fruit from the greengrocers, she came face to face with Walther’s mother.
For a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she felt flustered and tongue-tied. ‘Frau Wilhelm,’ she said. ‘I beg your pardon. I was so busy looking for milk or fruit or… Oh no.’ She made to brush water from Frau Wilhelm’s otherwise immaculate coat. ‘Was that from my hair? Here, let me…’
Frau Wilhelm laughed. ‘Annie, don’t worry. There is rain everywhere. It is a rainy day. Are you well? How is your Oma?’
‘I am quite well, thank you, Frau Wilhelm.’ Annie tried to stop fidgeting. ‘But Oma is very weak.’
‘Yes.’ Frau Wilhelm nodded slowly, her eyes hooded in sympathy. ‘Herr Doctor has kept me informed. I am so sorry.’
‘She loves warm milk with cinnamon. It is one of the only things she will swallow. But you know that it’s almost impossible to find.’
Without hesitation, Frau Wilhelm put her hand in her shopping bag and drew out a bottle of pure white milk with a plug of thick cream on the top.
Annie felt her eyes widen.
Frau Wilhelm pushed the bottle towards her. ‘Give this to your Oma with my love.’
But Annie hid her hands behind her back and shook her head, more rain showering around them. ‘I couldn’t possibly take it.’
‘I insist,’ Frau Wilhelm said. ‘You would be surprised at what people keep under the counter for the local doctor. It fills me with chagrin. Please, save me from embarrassment.’
Tentatively, Annie took the bottle saying, ‘Well, for Oma. Thank you. I am so grateful.’
Frau Wilhelm patted her arm and left her standing, rain dripping from her hair onto the bottle of milk she held as if it were priceless.
*
Annie would probably never know whether it was on the strength of that meeting that a few weeks later, Walther came calling. Fred was out and she had been feeding bedsheets through the mangle when there was a knock at the door. Oh no, she thought, hoping it wasn’t Horst again. Still wiping her hands on her apron she pulled open the door and there stood Walther, holding a small bunch of flowers that must have been from his mother’s garden.
‘Annaliese,’ he said, drawing out the last part of her name. He presented the flowers to her with a huge smile on his face.
‘Oh, thank you, Walther.’ She looked down at her apron and indoor clothes. ‘As you can see, I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
They shuffled around and looked at each other for a few minutes before Annie asked him in and he looked very happy when he crossed the threshold. He followed her into the kitchen and watched her put the flowers in a vase and make them both a cup of coffee. Walther told her he had returned from university the day before, but would not be going back there for some time as he would have to continue his medical studies in the army. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I have had to trade my white coat for a uniform.’
He didn’t look or sound proud about that, but Annie was reluctant to question him in more detail. Instead, she enjoyed looking at him whilst he talked. He wasn’t very tall, but his muscular frame lent him presence, as did his dark hair and pale hazel eyes. The ridge between his nostrils and the deep dimple in his left cheek made him appear playful and boyish.
She liked everything she saw very much, but more than anything she loved that they shared the same sense of humour. The last time they had met in Ulm for a walk and a drink, he’d told her that he thought her laugh infectious.
‘That,’ she had said, ‘is good use of vocabulary for a doctor’s son.’ And they’d both laughed until tears ran down their faces.
As always he was gracious and gentlemanly, other attributes she found extremely charming. He asked after Oma and Fred. They talked about the weather, football and swimming, the beautiful tree his neighbour had chopped down for firewood. His voice became hoarse when he told her that his beloved dog, Ulfie, had died. They laughed about a couple of things, but not as heartily as they had a while ago and they never mentioned the war.
Walther was awkward when he stood to leave and Annie felt stiff and artless, not knowing where to put her hands or how to position her feet. She knew what was coming, but still his question caused her to feel deeply unsettled. ‘May I call again, Annaliese?’ he asked softly.
In her mind she stamped her foot in frustration. She was a young woman who was possibly under constant surveillance and suspicion, neither wholly rejected or accepted. And he was a young man who was about to join the military, albeit the medical corps, but perhaps he had been asked, or been commanded, to get close to her – to them. Annie stuttered and faltered and had no idea how to answer him for the best.
He looked so hopeful and eager standing there waiting for her reply, but the longer she hesitated the more his
face fell. Eventually, his hands hung limp at his sides and he looked as though his balloon had been popped.
She didn’t like this turn of events at all, so without thinking any further about the myriad of possible consequences, she said that yes, yes of course he could call again. She would look forward to his next visit.
He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. When he bent and kissed her on the cheek they bumbled and shifted and somehow ended up with Annie against the wall and Walther leaning into her, their mouths open and their tongues pressed hard together.
When they prised themselves apart, Walther said, ‘Thank you, Annaliese, I will see you very soon.’
‘Why,’ Annie said, wanting to clear up a mystery, ‘are you calling me Annaliese all of a sudden? You know everyone calls me Annie.’
For a beat he looked shy, then said, ‘I don’t want you to think of me as just anyone, Annaliese. I want to be someone different to you.’
When he left, Annie thought the soaking bedsheets could wait. She raced upstairs, checked on Oma, then put everything down verbatim in her journal.
*
That evening, she related almost the whole episode to Fred. Instead of being angry or worried, he said she should encourage Walther to call on her. ‘He is your childhood friend and an upstanding citizen. I think it will be good for others to see him coming and going.’
Annie nodded, but hugged close the thought of her and Walther’s kiss, knowing that his visits would be about much more than a good word around the town for her and Fred.
Of course, there was a lot more she worried about after that meeting with Walther. She knew she would have to ascertain whether or not he had allegiance to the party. If he did, she would have to try, if she could, to rebut him. It would be very difficult to do, but the image of him in that abhorrent uniform and clumpy boots would help her to reject him if she had to. But oh, how she hoped it would not come to that.