by Louise Fein
‘Yes, Frau Heinrich.’ Bertha sniffs and heads for the stairs.
‘What did she tell you?’ I ask when she’s out of earshot.
‘That she sent you out to borrow some ginger from Frau Weber across the street because we’d run low and you didn’t come back. She was frantic with worry, but she should never have sent you out. Just because Ingrid wasn’t here – how dare she use you as a maid!’
‘It isn’t true,’ I say quickly. ‘She’s trying to protect me. I lied to her. I pretended we’d run out. I begged her to let me go and she didn’t want me to, but I needed an excuse to leave the house. It’s not her fault, Mutti. It’s entirely mine.’
‘Why?’ She rocks back on her heels in shock. ‘Vati’s right, you have become a wild thing. What with Karl… I should have paid more attention.’
‘No, Mutti. It’s not you.’ I twist the cloth in my hands. ‘I hate being cooped up in this house. I want to join in the fight for Germany. It isn’t fair that the boys have all the fun.’
Mutti regards me with a look of disgust.
‘That’s it? That’s why you ran off? Getting Bertha into trouble because you want to fight like some stupid boy? Vati forbade you to leave the house. You went directly against his orders, Herta. What on earth has got into you?’ Her eyes are full of anger again. ‘Go and get properly cleaned up and then go to bed. When Vati returns, he will decide what to do about you and Bertha.’
I shut myself in the bathroom and scrub at the filth until my skin hurts. Once alone, the enormity of the evening’s events hit me like the full force of a wave. The death of that man and the violence and destruction around Leipzig… I’ve done nothing whatsoever to help Walter. In fact, I’ve probably made his situation worse. The desperation on the face of his mother and his young cousins. What if Vati finds out where I’ve been? As for poor Bertha, what is to become of her? Whatever it is, it will be my fault. Whatever I touch, turns sour. I laugh out loud. I used to think I was chosen for great things. That I was somehow better. How foolish. People, good people, like Bertha and Walter, have risked so much for me and, in return, with blundering foolishness, I let them down when they need me most.
Much later, I creep up to the top floor. A slice of light shines beneath Bertha’s door. I knock quietly. There’s a pause, then the door opens a fraction and her face appears in the crack.
‘I’m so dreadfully sorry,’ I whisper.
‘Yes,’ she replies crisply.
‘They’ve taken him to a concentration camp.’
‘Then I’m sorry too.’
We stare at each other through the crack.
‘Go to bed, Fräulein Herta.’
*
I’m not sure I shall ever be able to sleep again. I’m haunted by what I saw tonight. How can men do such things to other human beings? Nature is harsh, but such brutality – this is the domain of humankind alone. Whatever our religion, race, where we are from; whatever our hair or eye colour, our nose shape or the size of our feet, we’re all just people. People who feel pain, joy, love, anguish. Who have hopes and dreams, families, friends and loved ones. How can one lot of people be so utterly blind to this and treat another lot of people as if they are no more than inert objects beneath their feet? And what of you, Walter? Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is you, being beaten to death and left, broken and rotting, on the hard, cold earth. Please, please, be alive.
10 November 1938
I drift fitfully in and out of sleep. Every little sound jolts me awake, sending my heart thumping in case it’s Vati coming home. But as dawn emerges, it hits me. He isn’t coming home. I think back to that hateful letter on his desk. Operations against the Jews… Preparations for arrest… Concentration Camps. Of course, he’s been out on the streets all night, ensuring his orders are carried out – that Jewish males are locked up in jails, or those who resist arrest are shot. Or worse, kicked and battered to death and left in mangled heaps on the street.
I shudder and turn over, screwing my eyes shut, putting my hands over my ears to block out the world. But my brain keeps whirring.
If he isn’t home, where might he be?
I sit up properly, wide awake, my brain suddenly clear, despite the lack of sleep.
*
During breakfast, a flustered Ingrid hurries into the room, tying her apron behind her back.
‘So sorry I’m late this morning, Frau Heinrich,’ she begins breathily. ‘The bus was delayed and there were all sorts of hold ups trying to get across town. Didn’t even have time for breakfast,’ she smiles, her cheeks flushed and her hair wispily dishevelled. ‘Glad I don’t have to make that journey every day. So much easier to live in.’
Mutti invites her to have breakfast with us, as she sometimes does when Vati is away.
‘Oh, thank you very much, don’t mind if I do!’ She piles a plate with the food Bertha has laid out on the sideboard and sits down. Bertha herself is nowhere to be seen. Ingrid’s cheeks still have a high colour and her eyes dart about. She is practically panting with excitement.
‘Have you heard what went on last night?’ she asks. She doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘Everyone was talking about it on the bus. They rounded up all the Jewish men, women and children in Gohlis and brought them right down here, close to the zoo, then chased them down the steps into the water of the Parthe! Imagine that, at night, in November!’
She takes a breath and then a bite of buttered bread, her jaws sawing, lips pressed closed.
‘They drove them, like a herd of sheep, right into the water itself, and kept them there several hours!’
‘Goodness,’ Mutti says, and pours herself another coffee. She stubs out the remains of her cigarette into the ashtray and lights another.
‘Some say freezing in a dirty river is what they deserve for all the evil they do in the world.’ Ingrid takes another bite of her bread, her eyes lingering on mine.
‘And what happened to them then?’ Mutti asks.
‘They were shivering like mad, of course, so after a few hours of keeping them in the water, they let the women and children go home. The men are being taken to a camp, they said. Just imagine it, though. Herding up people and sticking them in the river! Who would’ve thought that up, eh?’
‘Indeed,’ Mutti murmurs. She gets up and switches on the wireless set. It crackles to life.
‘I also heard,’ Ingrid leans towards me in a conspiratorial manner, ‘that anyone caught fraternising or helping one of them, would end up in the camp too! Fancy that, Fraülein Herta, eh?’
‘I—’
But mercifully, the voice on the radio drowns out all other noise in the room.
‘… The patience of the German people has been exhausted. The events of last night were neither organised, nor prepared. In cities all across Germany they broke out spontaneously. The Jews were the instigators of this wave of violence. The long-suffering German people were merely responding in an outbreak of fury. The Jews have made a tremendous mistake. A very costly mistake. They must pay for the damage they provoked. One billion marks will be levied from them. It will cost the insurance industry six billion marks for the destruction of shops, synagogues and homes, but not a penny of it will reach their criminal pockets. Twenty thousand of them remain incarcerated while they reflect on their misdeeds.’
I’ve heard enough.
‘I’m going to school,’ I announce.
‘You are to come straight home, Hetty, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mutti, I promise.’
I grab my satchel, put on my coat and hurry out of the house.
*
At seven fifty-five, from my vantage point across the street, I watch the receptionist, bundled in a fur coat, unlock the double doors to the offices of the Leipziger Tageszeitung. The lights flicker on inside the building on the ground floor. After a few minutes, other members of staff begin to arrive, greeting each other and pushing their way through the doors.
Five minutes later, I enter the building mysel
f. The young, blonde receptionist fixes me with big blue eyes. She is still setting herself up at the desk facing the front doors.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m looking for my father.’
She smiles indulgently at me.
‘And who might your father be?’
‘Herr Heinrich.’
‘Oh!’ Her expression changes. ‘I’m sorry, Fraülein Heinrich, but I don’t believe he is here yet.’ She is flustered as she telephones through to Vati’s office.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again after a few moments, ‘it’s as I thought. He isn’t here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I just spoke with his secretary.’ The receptionist replaces the receiver and gives me a nervous smile. ‘He’s left a message saying he won’t be here until lunchtime.’ She hesitates, ‘Forgive me, but have you not just come from home?’
‘Yes, but…’ I look around me, then lean forward and whisper, ‘He’s been out on SS matters. Please could I speak directly with my father’s secretary. It is an emergency,’ I add.
‘Of course.’ The girl snatches up the phone again.
If I’m right, Vati must have someone to cover for him. His secretary fields his calls.
Vati’s middle-aged, bespectacled secretary appears. We shuffle to the side of the entrance hall, away from the ears of the receptionist.
‘I need to find my father,’ I begin. ‘Something bad has happened.’
‘I don’t know where he is right now. I can organise a car to take you home, Fräulein Heinrich, if that would help?’ Her voice is gentle, kindly.
‘Look,’ I speak quietly, urgently. ‘I know about Vati’s mistress and I don’t care about all that. I just need to find him as soon as possible. It’s very important. Just give me the address of the Fräulein. Please.’
The woman freezes and stares at me.
‘I won’t say it’s you who gave me the address. You won’t get into trouble,’ I urge. ‘I just need to see Vati. It’s very important.’
Still she stares at me, and suddenly I’m gripped by panic. Have I got it dreadfully wrong? Her lips are a thin, straight line.
‘She lives at Flat 3, Number 17, Schmiedestrasse. It’s just the other side of König Albert Park, towards Plagwitz.’
Exhale.
The first hurdle is overcome, but the bigger one must now be faced. Stay strong.
You can do this. For Walter.
*
I arrive outside the entrance of a newly built apartment block in a road filled with similar nondescript buildings. There is no doorman, but one of those new intercom devices is fitted outside the front door. I take a slow, deep breath then press the bell for flat 3. There is a buzz and after a pause, a voice sounds through the intercom. ‘Yes? Hello?’
Her voice.
‘Good morning, Fräulein Müller. I’m Herta Heinrich. I’m here to speak with my father.’
There is a long pause.
‘It’s an emergency,’ I add, into the crackling silence.
‘He isn’t here.’ Her words are clipped. ‘I don’t know why you would think—’
‘But he’s due here, isn’t he? Please may I wait for him?’
Another pause. I lean against the door, palms spread. There’s a buzz and the door clicks open.
Thank you.
‘First floor,’ she says, through the intercom.
Hilda Müller is waiting for me outside her front door. She’s just as I remember her. The same light brown hair, tightly plaited and folded up around her head, little pink ears, fat lips. She is young. Very young compared to Vati. Mid-twenties at a guess. Certainly closer to my age than his. We stare at each other for a few moments, then she beckons me inside.
‘Your father – he’s been out all night. But he’s on his way,’ she says.
The flat is larger than I expected. Bright, tidy and furnished in a modern, simple style. Nothing like the fussy antiques filling our house. I follow Fräulein Müller’s square, solid figure into the sitting room. What can Vati see in this woman? Apart from her youth, she is nothing compared to elegant Mutti.
I sit on the edge of a patterned sofa while the woman hovers, not meeting my eyes. Awkwardness crouches between us like a nervous dog.
‘May I have a glass of water please, Fräulein Müller?’ I ask at last.
‘Of course, I should have offered. And it’s Hilda, please.’ She hurries off to the kitchen.
Her nervousness has the opposite effect on me. I’m suddenly calm and in control. After all, it’s Hilda who is in the wrong, not me. It’s as if I’m the adult and she the naughty child.
Hilda returns with a glass of water. I drain it.
‘You were thirsty,’ she says with a half-smile. ‘Would you like another?’
Before I can answer, a little girl appears wearing a loose pink nightdress. Her fine, curly blonde hair is a creamy cloud around her face. She rubs her eyes as though she has just woken. She is bigger than I remember from that day at the station. She must be what? Three or four years old now? Given the ugliness of the mother, she is remarkably pretty.
The girl stops and regards me with suspicion in her saucer-sized eyes.
‘Who is this, Mutti?’ she asks, not taking her eyes off me.
Hilda sits and lifts the little girl onto her lap.
‘This is Herta,’ she tells her, gently stroking the hair back from her face. ‘She has come to visit. I said she could wait with us until…’ She throws me a glance. ‘Until Herr Heinrich arrives.’
The little girl gasps. ‘Is Vati coming here now? In the morning?’
An electric shock.
She called him Vati.
The girl twists round to look at her mother’s face. Hilda nods and stares down at the carpet, squirms beneath my glare.
‘Yippee!’ the child exclaims, then she turns to me and says, ‘Hello, I’m Sophie. Can you play cat’s cradle? I love cat’s cradle, but I’m not very good. I just learned it. Will you play with me? It’s fun.’ She wriggles off her mother’s lap and runs to fetch some string. She returns, smiling broadly.
I shake my head. ‘Sorry. I don’t know how to play.’
‘I can show you,’ she cries brightly.
She stands right in front of me, waving the string in the air.
‘I really don’t want to play,’ I say firmly.
‘Don’t bother Herta, Sophie,’ Hilda says. ‘Not everyone wants to play games in the early morning. I’ll go and make some coffee,’ she adds, disappearing into the kitchen.
Sophie begins to dance from foot to foot in front of me, waving the string like a flag.
‘Shall we play something else if you don’t want to play cat’s cradle?’ she asks.
‘I don’t want to play anything, Sophie. Sorry.’
She frowns, then skips to the other side of the room and puts the string on a bookshelf.
I watch her. This child has been a spectre, an evil, mocking spirit in my head. Now the real thing is here, in the same room, talking with me, smiling, wanting to play a game. She has a name. Sophie. In any other circumstance, I might think her sweet. Charming even.
She’s your sister!
I don’t want a sister.
I need to plan exactly what to say to Vati when he arrives. But this is all too much and I can’t think properly. Sophie is prattling away to herself. She holds a doll in one hand and a toy dog in the other, facilitating an imaginary conversation between them. I try to see hints of me or Karl in her. Perhaps there is a resemblance about the eyes. I look for signs of evil in her. But I can’t see the spectre that haunted me in this flesh-and-blood child. That was an invention of my imagination.
I suppose the child in front of me is as innocent of the faults of her parents as I am.
‘No, no, you naughty doggy,’ Sophie is saying, ‘if you run off again, I shall have to punish you and you shan’t be allowed to play with your friends in the par
k.’
She looks up and sees me watching her.
‘Do you like doggies, Herta?’ she smiles.
‘I—’
The intercom buzzes loudly and we both jump at the noise. Hilda appears and looks at me with nervous eyes.
‘Vati!’ Sophie shouts with glee, tossing the doll and the dog to one side and running to the front door.
Hilda and I stand together, frozen, as Vati’s bulk fills the doorway. He stares at us wordlessly, with wide eyes, while Sophie reaches up to him.
‘Vati!’ Sophie tugs at his hand. ‘This is Herta. She is very nice and I want to teach her to play cat’s cradle.’
I search Vati’s face for horror or rage or shame.
But there is nothing. His face is as blank as a sheet of paper.
He simply looks tired. And old.
*
Hilda puts on her hat and picks up her basket.
‘Come along, Sophie. Let’s visit the bakers. We can stop and feed the ducks on the way back, if we’re quick,’ she tells a now neatly dressed Sophie.
Vati exchanges a look with Hilda as she passes. A private, intimate look. A chill runs down my spine. How they understand each other, these two. I never see Vati look at Mutti that way.
We are finally alone.
‘How did you find me, Herta?’ Vati asks as soon as the front door is shut. ‘How did you know?’ He sinks onto the sofa and presses two fingers between his eyes. ‘Is this what you were looking for in my study?’
I remain standing, fighting the urge to physically hurt him. To assuage the rage creeping through my veins at the thought of how this happy little domestic set-up with Hilda and Sophie would hurt poor Mutti if she were here now.
‘I’ve known about this for a long time,’ I tell him. ‘I saw you once with Fräulein Müller and the little girl, Sophie. I saw… well, I just knew.’
‘Poor Herta.’ He peers up at me. ‘That wasn’t the best way to find out. I always intended to tell you – and Karl, of course – eventually. When the time was right. I want you to have a relationship with your half-sister. And Hilda is expecting again. Nothing will replace Karl, but it will be good for you to have more siblings.’