The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

  The car contained no compartments, only seats, and was half-full. The train would be packed in a few months with city tourists eager to take a summer trip to the Alps. Germans wanted to enjoy their country even in the midst of war. A young couple, who looked as if they were in love, sat a few rows in front of me near the middle of the car. They leaned their heads against each other. He whispered in her ear, adjusted his fedora and then puffed on his cigarette. Blue clouds of haze drifted above them. The woman lifted the cigarette occasionally from his hands and sucked on it as well. Soon thin gray lines of smoke trailed throughout the cabin.

  We pulled out of the shed in the semi-darkness of the rain. The train picked up speed as we rolled away from the city and past the factories and farmlands south of Berlin. I leaned back in my seat and pulled out a book of poems by Friedrich Rück-ert from my suitcase. My father had presented it to me several years ago thinking I would enjoy the Romantic author’s poems. I never took the time to study them. The gift meant more to me than the verses inside.

  I stared blankly at the pages and thought only of leaving my old life for a new life ahead. It troubled me to be going so far from home, but I had no choice thanks to Hitler and the war.

  I found the inscription my father had written when he gave me the book. It was signed: With all love from your Father, Hermann. When we’d parted last night, he seemed old and sad beyond his forty-five years, but relieved to be able to send me to his brother’s home.

  My father walked with a stoop from constant bending during his shift at the brake factory. The gray stubble he shaved each morning attested to the personal trials he endured daily, among them his dislike for National Socialism and Hitler. Of course, he never spoke of such things; he only hinted of his politics to my mother and me. His unhappiness ate at him, ruined his appetite and caused him to smoke and drink too much despite such luxuries being hard to come by. He was nearing the end of the age for military service in the Wehrmacht, but a leg injury he suffered in his youth would have disqualified him anyway. From his conversations, I knew he held little admiration for the Nazis.

  Lisa, my mother, was more sympathetic to the Party, although she and my father were not members. Like most Germans, she hated what had happened to the country during the First World War. She had told my father many times, “At least people have jobs and enough food to go around now.” My mother brought in extra money with her sewing, and because her fingers were nimble, she also did piecework for a jeweler. She taught me to sew as well. We were able to live comfortably, but we were not rich by any means. We never worried about food on the table until rationing began.

  My mother and father did not make an obvious display of politics. No bunting, no Nazi flags, hung from our building. Frau Horst had put a swastika placard in her window, but it was small and hardly noticeable from the street. I had not become a member of the Party, a fact that caused my mother some consternation. She believed it might be good because the affiliation could help me find work. I hadn’t given the Party much thought after leaving the Band of German Maidens and the Reich Labor Service, both of which I lazed through. And, I wasn’t sure what being a Party member actually meant, so I felt no need to give them my allegiance. War churned around us. We fought for good on the road to victory. My naïveté masked my need to know.

  I continued thumbing through the book until the train slowed.

  The SS man at the station appeared behind my right shoulder. He held a pistol in his left hand. He strode to the couple in front of me and put the barrel to the temple of the young man who was smoking the cigarette. The woman looked backward, toward me, her eyes filled with terror. She seemed prepared to run, but there was nowhere to go, for suddenly armed station police appeared in the doorways at both ends of the car. The SS man took the pistol away from the man’s head and motioned for them to get up. The woman grabbed her dark coat and wrapped a black scarf around her neck. The officer escorted them to the back of the car. I dared not look at what was happening.

  After a few moments, I peered through the window to my left. The train had stopped in the middle of a field. A mud-spattered black touring car, its chrome exhaust pipes spewing steady puffs of steam, sat on a dirt road next to the tracks. The SS man pushed the man and woman into the back of the car and then climbed in after them, his pistol drawn. The police got in the front with the driver. As soon as the doors closed, the car made a large circle in the field, cut a muddy swath through the grass and then headed back toward Berlin.

  I closed my eyes and wondered what the couple had done to be yanked from the train. Were they Allied spies? Jews attempting to get out of Germany? My father had told us once—only once—at the dinner table about the trouble Jews were having in Berlin. My mother scoffed, calling them “baseless rumors.” He replied that one of his co-workers had seen Juden painted on several buildings in the Jewish section. The man felt uncomfortable even being there, an accident on his part. Swastikas were whitewashed on windows. Signs cautioned against trading with Jewish merchants.

  I thought it best to keep my thoughts to myself and not to inflame a political discussion between my parents. I felt sad for the Jews, but no one I knew particularly liked them and the Reich always pointed blame in their direction. Like many at the time I turned a blind eye. What my father reported might have been a rumor. I trusted him, but I knew so little—only what we heard on the radio.

  I looked for the black sedan, but the motorcar had vanished. I had no idea what the couple had done, but the image of the woman’s terror-filled eyes burned itself into my memory. My reading offered little comfort as my journey continued. The incident unsettled me. I wondered who might be next and when it all might end.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Berchtesgaden train station was smaller but grander than Berlin’s. The Nazi banners hung in strict vertical rows, offsetting the large columns inside, giving the building a formal Roman look. Off to one side, a gold door glittered. It appeared to be reserved for dignitaries. A black eagle perched on a swastika was rendered in bas-relief on its surface. Perhaps it was the entrance to a reception room for important people visiting the Führer; after all, this was the final stop for those invited to his mountain retreat.

  I looked for my uncle Willy and aunt Reina and saw them standing near the entrance. We exchanged Nazi salutes. My uncle seemed happier to see me than my aunt. He was a pear-shaped man with a potbelly, who still retained the red hair and freckles of his youth. Some of the spots had blossomed into brown blotches that spread across his face. He held his police cap in his hand. My aunt’s smile seemed forced, as if I were the unwanted stepchild who had come home for a visit. She was elegant and cultured, compared to my more affable uncle. My father had told me that he found my aunt and uncle a strange match. I was young then and never questioned their attraction, but now as I stood before them their differences showed clearly.

  After we swapped greetings, my uncle loaded my bag into their small gray Volkswagen. I took my place in the backseat. I could see little of the mountain scenery as my uncle drove, with the exception of dark peaks that shot up through the broken clouds into an ebony sky. I had only been to Berchtesgaden once, when I was a child.

  My aunt and uncle lived in a three-story Bavarian-style chalet wedged between a small restaurant and a butcher shop on a crowded street not far from the town center. The Alpine influence was everywhere. Their home was tall, but not as wide as a chalet you would find perched on a mountainside. I got out of the car and breathed in the crisp mountain air. It was hard to believe I was in the same country as Berlin.

  We took off our coats and left my luggage near the door. Uncle Willy was dressed in his local police uniform with the swastika on his left arm. Reina wore a cobalt blue dress with a fastened collar. A diamond brooch in the shape of a swastika was pinned above her heart. A large black-and-white portrait of the Führer hung over the fireplace, where his solemn, solid figure brooded over the dining room. My aunt had sewn a table runner covered with swastikas. Re
ina was Spanish and a supporter of Franco, and Italy’s Mussolini as well. Everything in their house was fastidious according to the Nazi ideal of Germanic perfection. Nothing was out of order. The furniture was polished to a brilliant shine and symmetrical in its placement. I felt as if I had stepped into a fairy tale, something out of the ordinary and surreal in its effect. It was like being at an art exhibition—beautiful, but not home.

  The evening was cool, so my uncle stoked the fire. Aunt Reina served a beef stew and bread, and we enjoyed a glass of red wine. The stew was light on meat and vegetables, more broth than anything, but it tasted good. I was hungry from the trip. The meal was heartier than the vegetable dishes my mother cooked these days. Eggs and meat were scarce all over Germany, especially in the cities.

  We talked about my parents and our relatives. We spoke briefly of the war, a topic for which Willy and Reina had only smiles. Like my mother, they were convinced we were winning and Germany would be victorious over our enemies, particularly the Jews. My life had been so sheltered, with people of my own kind, my own few friends, that I had never thought much about the Jews. They were not part of my life. We had no friends, no neighbors, who were Jewish. No one we knew had “disappeared.”

  Uncle Willy said the right to our Lebensraum was as indelible as our heritage. When the Jews and the Bolsheviks were removed, the land would be Germany’s to populate. The East would produce the food, the minerals and the raw materials the Reich needed for its thousand-year reign. His face beamed as he talked.

  Aunt Reina surveyed her perfectly laid table like a queen. “This crystal came from my home in Spain.” She tapped the side of the glass with her nails. “When it’s safe to travel, I will take you to my birthplace; it’s such a beautiful country. The Allies are doing their best to flood us with propaganda. Despite that, we know the Führer cannot be wrong.” She glanced at the portrait over the fireplace and smiled. “We will be victorious. Our men will fight until the final battle is won.”

  I nodded, having no taste for the topic, because I was an ordinary German girl with little of the sophistication of my aunt. She was unlike any woman I had ever met—more opinionated than my mother, and with a soul of tempered steel. Nothing I could say or do could influence my aunt’s and uncle’s thinking or the outcome of the war. Even my few girlfriends were more concerned with their jobs, making money and getting along. We hardly ever talked of the war except to note, with longing, the misfortune of boys being shipped off to battle.

  After my aunt and I cleared the dishes, we sat up for another hour in the living room until Uncle Willy nodded off. Reina declared the evening at an end when my uncle began snoring. I carried my bag to my second-floor bedroom, which looked out over the street. The third floor housed the attic, a room my aunt used for storage.

  The town lamps were out, but a few muted window lights shone underneath the blackout shades. Past the buildings a mixture of dark and light fell on the terrain. The mountains displayed varying tones of black: the rock dun and dense, the forest lighter in its darkness. The clouds swirled overhead and sometimes a shaft of light shot through them like a luminous arrow. I couldn’t tell if it came from the ground or the heavens, but it momentarily lit the clouds as if an electric torch had been placed inside them. I stood at the window and found it hard to pull myself away from the view. Magic and myth filled the air in the Obersalzberg. No wonder Hitler had decided to construct his castle on the mountain above Berchtesgaden, his Berghof.

  I unpacked a few things and then sat on the bed. As much as I admired the beauty of Berchtesgaden, I was a stranger in my aunt and uncle’s house. I went to bed thinking of my comfortable room in Berlin and my parents. They would be in bed now, the shades down, the lamps out. Frau Horst would still be awake, smoking a cigarette and sipping her cognac. She never went to bed without having a drink.

  The silence in my room was eerie. In Berlin, particularly before the war, when the wind was right, I heard trains and their lonely whistles. I always wondered where they were going, but I was content to stay in my bed, rather than dream about travel. Cars rumbled by, horns blared, at all hours. The city hummed. I would have to get used to the quiet. Quite unexpectedly, I missed my tree-lined street and the hellos and small talk from our neighbors.

  * * *

  By the next morning, all pleasantries with my aunt had dissipated.

  “You must get a job if you want to live here,” Reina told me in a voice filled with the heaviness of iron. The comforts of the previous evening evaporated as she served me a bowl of porridge with a little goat’s milk. There was no butter on the table and I didn’t dare ask. “We can’t afford to feed another mouth, and your parents aren’t in a position to send money. You must work or find a husband. The Reich needs strong male babies for future service.”

  I was shocked by her demands, but they weren’t entirely unexpected. “What would you have me do?” I said. “I can’t walk the streets looking for a man.”

  Creases formed around Reina’s mouth. “I am not suggesting you be a whore,” she said matter-of-factly. “Wanton women damage the Reich and pervert our soldiers. A man’s seed should be saved for children. You must find a job—something you can do, or have talent in. Do you have any talent?”

  I thought hard before answering. I’d never had to do much around my parents’ house except clean and mend. Sometimes I cooked, but rarely. My mother commanded the kitchen. “I can sew,” I finally replied.

  “Not enough money. And work here would be scarce. All Berchtesgaden women know how to sew, probably much better than you.”

  My aunt’s lack of confidence in me stung. However, her tactic was succeeding. I sank into my chair and questioned my own lack of initiative. My parents had never forced me to work and I assumed that the small jobs I did around the house paid for my keep. Perhaps I was wrong.

  “What good are you to the Reich?” My aunt placed her hands on her hips and stared at me. “Every citizen must be productive. You should be ashamed and so should your parents for raising such a worthless girl. Perhaps it would have been better if you’d stayed in Berlin. Your father is such a worrywart.” She shook a finger at me.

  Whatever fondness I held for my aunt was rapidly diminishing. We had spent little time together and the prospect of more than a few days portended disaster.

  “I will look for work after breakfast,” I said.

  My aunt’s eyes brightened. “That’s a good girl. There must be something you can do.”

  I was not convinced.

  I helped my aunt with the dishes, then took a bath and unpacked the remainder of my things, although I felt no certainty about staying. Wanting to look smart, I picked out my best dress. I hadn’t applied for a job in several years and felt woefully unprepared. My aunt presented me with a writing pad and pen, both covered in swastikas.

  The clouds had cleared overnight and the sun’s rays bore down in full spring strength; still it was cool enough to wear a jacket. The mountain air and dazzling light quickened my step after the unpleasant conversation with my aunt. I looked to my right and was thrilled to see the Watzmann, whose beautiful serrated peaks loomed over the valley like shark’s teeth protruding from the earth. The white snows of winter still clung to the heights of its rocky face. Everywhere I looked there were forest and mountains. Berchtesgaden was so different from Berlin, where everyone felt on edge.

  I wandered down the street, past shops with empty windows. Many were shuttered or boarded up completely. I even stopped to read a local broadsheet for employment news, but no jobs were listed. How did my aunt expect me to get a position with so many shops out of business or selling only rationed goods and services? No window signs seeking job hunters were visible, except for the butcher’s next to my aunt and uncle’s. A few measly bird carcasses hung on hooks behind the counter. The butcher wanted a helper with strong shoulders, to help clean and lift. I couldn’t see myself gutting birds or cleaning up bloody messes. Besides, it only made sense that the shop owner w
ould want a man who could haul heavy slabs of beef, as scarce as they might be.

  My parents had given me a few Reichsmark to pay for necessities. They expected my aunt and uncle would feed and house me at no cost. That, of course, was wishful thinking and only partially true. I guessed it was my uncle Willy, the head of the house, who allowed me to come to Berchtesgaden over the objections of my aunt.

  I stopped at a restaurant and looked at the menu. Sausages, which probably came from the local butcher shop, looked good to me. The savory meat was a special treat and was hard to get anywhere now. I sat at an outdoor table and wondered whether I should use my parents’ hard-earned money for such an extravagance. I needed something to cheer me up, so it didn’t take me long to decide. The owner took my order for one sausage and fried potatoes. The sausage was served bubbling in its own juices on a warm plate. The smell of the fried potatoes reminded me of the way my mother used to cook.

  After I ate, I was unsure what to do. In two hours, I had scoured most of the town with no luck. I walked aimlessly for a while, enjoying the scenery until I saw my uncle walking toward me.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked, and rubbed his belly.

  I pointed to the restaurant where I’d had lunch. “The sausage was excellent.”

  He pulled me aside into the shade of a shop’s awning. “I talked to your aunt after you left.” He frowned. “Don’t pay attention to her. She can be gruff at times. She’s trying hard to protect us from the war.”