“Even more than the Führer?”
“Even more.”
“Even more than the Vaterland?”
She nodded and he laughed softly, kissing her golden hair. “Silly Maus.” She was allowed to say these things. Götz and Georg weren’t.
The memories flooded Gerlinde once again, choking her with their power, threatening to drown her in her own tears. She wiped them angrily from her face and flipped another page.
These were taken at the Berghof; here’s her mother next to Herr Speer’s wife, both holding onto their hats as the wind threatened to carry them away and laughing carelessly. It was Herr Hoffmann himself who took the picture if she remembered correctly. Or was it Eva? Gerlinde gently caressed the face of the young woman who stood a bit aside from the rest of the flock. They always looked down upon her, the wives and Gerlinde understood it, even though she wasn’t big enough to understand these things but still, she did. She saw it in the ruthless looks, in their fake pity, glances of the women and in the way they hushed their conversations as soon as Eva would approach. Snubbed by the women and forgotten by the men, Eva was always kind to Gerlinde and let her play with her rabbits and dogs – perhaps, because Gerlinde, too, was snubbed and forgotten, a child who was brought to the party because the Führer liked her and she looked good in the pictures with him.
Here’s one, for instance, taken by Margot von Steinhoff for the calendar that Gerlinde successfully got Margot to sign. Here she was, eight-year-old Gerlinde, handing the Führer a small bouquet of flowers and he’s patting her cheek with affection as the others look on with faces dripping with adoration. Gerlinde Neumann. The Golden Girl.
Here she is, still very young – nine maybe, sitting on Onkel Oswald’s knee and putting some flower into his breast pocket with an air of grave seriousness about her. Onkel Oswald, her father’s immediate superior and his black, bushy brows and half-melted caramels he always kept in his pocket for her. He’s dressed in civvies in this picture. Gerlinde, in a Dirndl, her blonde hair in plaits wrapped around her head. Here’s Vati, half-turned in a chaise toward them, still in his black uniform – Gerlinde guessed it was taken sometime in ’38, at Herr Reichsmarschall’s hunting lodge – saying something to his boss, as Mathilde looks on with her arms crossed over her chest.
And here’s Reichsmarschall himself and his sweet, smiling wife and their new baby, whom Gerlinde carried around like a live doll until she got tired of her and left the girl in the arms of one adjutant or another. It was odd how she still remembered the smell of the cooking venison, the sound of Reichsmarschall’s laughter, the faint tobacco smell of Vati’s uniform, the soft wisps of baby Edda’s hair next to her cheek, dark burgundy polish on Margot’s nails as she was working her Leica, the rough tongues of Eva’s terriers and the Führer’s palm on her face. From now on, they existed in her memory only, the people who were no longer alive.
Reichsmarschall – cyanide.
Her mother – cyanide.
Eva – cyanide.
Der Führer – cyanide and a bullet, according to the Americans.
Onkel Oswald – still missing, presumed dead.
Margot – missing, also presumed dead. Killed by the Gestapo for treason at the very end, according to rumors.
Only her Vati was left.
Her Vati and her, the Golden Girl.
With them, the entire world – the only world that she had ever known – had disappeared. Suddenly, Gerlinde couldn’t get her breath for never before had she felt so utterly abandoned and alone. In their chairs, the Amis now sat. The Amis and the Pole, whom they’d dragged along like a dog would some roadkill. For an instant, a fleeting regret clenched at her chest. Gerlinde Neumann – cyanide. Wouldn’t it be better? Easier?
But even now, even with all this hopelessness around her, even with an entire world lying outside her window in ashes, her initial decision to live, seemed right. Gerlinde’s fingers gently caressed the hard spines of the books. Her eyes misted over with memories once again. Vati once told her, we must obliterate the entire old world to build the new one, a better one, on top of its ruins. They tried to obliterate the old world but it was the old world that obliterated them instead.
5
From downstairs, loud voices interrupted by boisterous laughter. Gerlinde pulled the pillow over her head to muffle them and squeezed her eyes shut as if it would help. They could never talk quietly, the Amis. For some inexplicable reason, they could only communicate by yelling.
Another burst of laughter – a woman’s voice.
Alert at once, Gerlinde was on her feet, listening closely next to the door. Like a sharp knife through warm butter, that familiar voice cut right through her strained nerves. Gerlinde pulled the door open and listened breathlessly. No, it couldn’t be.
Shivering against the morning draft – the temperature had plummeted the night before and fogged the windows this morning – Gerlinde stepped onto the landing. The wooden railing was freshly waxed and cool to the touch. She leaned over it, staring intently at the white marble of the grand hall downstairs. To be sure, there they stood: Morris, several of his men, Tadek, some unfamiliar fellow in civilian clothes and… Margot.
Margarete Gräfin von Steinhoff, the celebrated cinematographer and journalist; Promi’s (as the Reich Propaganda Ministerium was dubbed by the Berliners) former mouthpiece, supposedly executed by the Gestapo at the end of the war and yet very much alive and with a healthy tan, laughing at something Morris had just said.
Margot, with her signature burgundy nail polish and inevitable slacks, at which prim-and-proper Reich wives invariably threw sideways, disapproving glances. Not that it bothered Margot in the slightest. A feministic fashion statement? Gerlinde recalled her throwing her head back – just as she did now – and laughing at something Dr. Goebbels had said concerning them. Herr Minister, have you tried climbing countless platforms, on which the cameras are mounted, in a skirt? Gerlinde also remembered how she held her breath in admiration. From her early childhood, she’d been taught by her mother that girls and women in the Reich ought to be seen and never heard; Margot not only made sure that her voice and opinion – quite radical at times – was heard, she certainly made all of those uniformed men listen to it.
Gerlinde’s fingers clutched at the railing. More memories rushed in, agonizingly painful and tenderly melancholic at the same time.
Margot, with her signature camera hanging off her neck, squatting down next to young Gerlinde in one of the new Reich Chancellery’s halls. It was a New Year’s reception – or was it Christmas? Gerlinde only remembered the Tree and Reichsmarschall Göring turning to one of the children gathered around him and asking the child what that child wished to be when grown-up? And then, suddenly, a somewhat disappointed and dismissive, oh, you’re a girl. Reichsmarschall was not interested in her aspirations any longer. He was already smiling at the young boy and promising him that if he served the Reich faithfully enough, he would make a fine Feldmarschall and, who knew, perhaps a Reichsmarschall himself one day.
For some reason she couldn’t quite comprehend – she sharply felt the very injustice of this scene – Gerlinde backed away from her mother who was too absorbed in the conversation with another Reich wife, away from that room and hid behind the tall column in one of the corridors, deserted and smelling faintly of floor wax. It was there that Margot discovered her. She didn’t like crowds either, the photographer had confessed with the grin of a conspirator, wiped Gerlinde’s tears with the sleeve of her silk blouse – sorry, pet, I don’t carry handkerchiefs – and told her something outrageously rebellious that Gerlinde never thought possible for anyone to say, not in this building at any rate.
“You’re crying because that fat Arschloch Göring said that a girl can’t become a Reichsmarschall, or anything else for that matter, except mother or wife? That’s an utterly ridiculous reason to cry. Sod him.”
Gerlinde’s eyes flew open. She stared at Margot in horror.
“Sod him
and his opinion,” Margot repeated, gravely and deliberately. In her dark eyes, defiant light shone. She looked like a witch with her dark hair, bloody-red lips, and black eyes; a heretic, who comes at night and steals children. Curiously enough, Gerlinde discovered that she wanted for Margot to steal her and take her away to her witch-kingdom, where everything was upside down and where little girls like herself could command armies. “He’s not the master of the universe. And you,” her finger, with its burgundy nail, pressed against Gerlinde’s chest, against her wildly beating heart, “you can be whatever you want, pet. And no one, not Reichsmarschall, not the Führer, not God himself can tell you otherwise. I want you to remember it.”
Margot. The woman who never carried handkerchiefs because she never cried.
Margot. The woman, whom Gerlinde so desperately wished to be her mother, instead of Mathilde, who rarely acted like one anyway.
“Margot!” The name tore off Gerlinde’s trembling lips and she charged down the stairs, not caring a curse of what the Amis would make of it all.
Her mother would have stopped her at once with an outstretched arm in front of her. Now, go back upstairs and come down slowly and like a proper lady should. Margot only opened her arms and scooped Gerlinde into the tightest of embraces.
“Now, now, pet! What’s with the tears?” Margot was stroking her hair and kissing her wet cheeks with great emotion. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“I am! Oh, I am!” Gerlinde managed between the sobs and buried her face on Margot’s shoulder once again.
She didn’t even care about Morris, who observed the unraveling scene with the greatest of interest, whatever doubtful benefit there was in inviting a former Promi member under his roof for him. To Gerlinde, Margot represented something dearly missed and familiar, a safe refuge in the ocean of hostility. Whatever Morris’s reasons were for allowing her here, Gerlinde was infinitely grateful to him.
Margot let her cry her fill and led her, with her arm around Gerlinde’s shoulders, into the drawing-room, where Frau Henke was pouring the coffee for everyone present.
“Have you met my husband?” Margot gestured toward the stranger – the only unfamiliar face among the uniformed Amis.
Gerlinde regarded the tall man in surprise. She remembered quite a different husband that always accompanied Countess von Steinhoff to official gatherings; blond, exceedingly handsome, and in a field-gray uniform.
“Paul Schneider.” The stranger in the civilian suit offered Gerlinde his hand, palm up.
She shook it cautiously. The name sounded vaguely familiar but she still couldn’t place him. He must have been in his late forties or even early fifties, Gerlinde guessed but belonged to the fortunate type of men who aged well. His dark hair was graying at the temples but the eyes, of some extraordinary reddish-brown color, were alert with fiery intelligence and the face was remarkable and had that chiseled, Rodin’s quality to it, which made it even more appealing.
“I don’t believe we ever met.” Gerlinde tried to smile, still far too shaken up.
“No, I don’t believe so. I left Germany in 1933. You must have been a very small child back then.”
Now, she remembered his name. It flashed before her eyes from the list of banned journalists and directors, which their BDM leader made them study by heart and write up articles on how they betrayed their Fatherland in the name of the Jewish decadence.
Paul Schneider. The enemy of the state.
Instantly alarmed, Gerlinde turned to Margot and searched her face. The latter lit a cigarette and pulled on it with the same enigmatic smile on her face.
“You must have a lot of questions,” she spoke at length.
That was one way to put it. What happened to your first husband? How come the Gestapo didn’t execute you? Why are you married to this man? What are you doing here, in Germany, in my house, with all these Amis around?
“Vati said they executed you for treason.” Gerlinde cursed herself inwardly as soon as the words flew off her lips but there was no going back now. May as well wait for the explanation.
“Is that what the rumor was?” Margot appeared almost amused.
“You left the Ministry without any announcement and disappeared from the city without any proper authorization issued in your name by the headquarters. Goebbels himself issued the warrant for your arrest as the Reich Commissar for the Defense of Berlin. Defeatism…” Not quite sure of how to proceed, Gerlinde receded and looked at her shoes.
“Oh, that.” Margot laughed carelessly. “When rats began jumping ship, one of them took me along for a ride.”
Gerlinde winced at such a blunt characterization but Margot continued without appearing to notice the effect her words had produced. “Fortunately for me, his rank held enough weight for the Feldgendarmerie chain-hounds to let us through and not bother us all the way to Austria.” Her head cocked slightly, she regarded Gerlinde with sudden interest. “Did they indeed say that I was executed?”
“Yes. Minister Goebbels announced it himself on the radio.”
Paul Schneider snorted softly and grumbled, “what else is new,” under his breath.
“All he ever did was lie to people,” he explained to Morris, who’d observed the entire scene silently, only taking small sips of his coffee from time to time. “I knew he was a liar, without any conscience, from the very first time I met him at his headquarters, to which he summoned me right after they won the elections, to discuss my professional future.”
Morris pulled forward, interested. “What did he offer you?”
“In short, to sell my soul,” Paul jested but the playful grin slid off his face almost at once. His brow furrowed. “He was very explicit in his wishes: I film his Nazi propaganda and get paid handsomely for it or else. To that, I brought up the idea of freedom of artistic expression and my principles of self-determination as an artist or some such. He warned me not to be a fool. I told him to go hang himself.”
Tadek snorted with laughter in his corner, from which he kept observing the unexpected guests. Gerlinde shot him a glare full of daggers.
“Naturally, after that exchange of courtesies, we had no other choice but to part ways,” Schneider concluded. “I ran before he ordered my execution but it appeared, he was too busy recruiting people who weren’t as burdened by principles as I was, to bother with—” He stopped abruptly, suddenly mortified with what had just come out of his mouth. His extraordinary eyes were fastened on his wife’s face, from which a previously-careless smile had vanished, as though wiped out by his harsh words. Paul made a move to her. “I didn’t mean you. You’re an entirely different case altogether; you had different reasons for staying. You know that I never held it against you and even praised you for your bravery… Any fool could get himself in an uproar at the injustice and leave the country in a huff but to stay, to stay and to try to fix it all, little by little, from the inside out—”
“A whole lot of good it did.” Margot’s tone was cold and embittered. “In the end, none of it mattered one iota.”
“But it did, Margot!” Paul had just opened his mouth to bring up more seemingly useless arguments that appeared to only upset her but Margot waved him into silence.
“Don’t try to justify my decision to stay. I should have left with you, then. I shouldn’t have nursed that ridiculous hope that I would somehow change anything for Germany.” She made a vague gesture of frustration. “I’m just as guilty as Leni, like Heinz, God rest his soul. We all are. Whatever our motives were, we should have left with you and Erich and Fritz… But why talk about it now? What’s done is done and it’s on my unclean conscience.” She suddenly turned to Gerlinde, a practiced, brilliant smile replacing the expression of mortal weariness that had been in its place mere moments ago. “Enough about me. How have you been faring, pet? I’ve heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”
“She made her choice.” Gerlinde’s voice was cool, hollow. She kept staring at Margot in the hope of understanding her presenc
e here, to decipher the entire situation and couldn’t. “What are you doing here?” she asked instead.
“Paul and I are trying to organize the first newspaper for the American sector in Berlin. As of now, Berliners have no other means of getting their news but from the grapevine. We’re hoping to create something more official for them, even if it’s only a single-page edition as of now.”
“Are you allowed to?” Even though she was addressing Margot, Gerlinde shot Morris a look of suspicion.
No former members of the Nazi Party were permitted within a walking distance of anything remotely resembling a position of influence. Out of sheer habit, her gaze fell to Margot’s lapel. She suddenly couldn’t remember if she ever saw the Party badge on it. But surely Margot used to be a Party member. She ought to have been; the Führer invited her personally to the Berghof to take photos…
At first, Margot made no reply. Instead, she threw a quick glance at Morris as well. Some silent exchange was going on between the two, which resulted in Morris nodding his encouragement to some unasked question and Margot grinning as if in relief.
“I was helping the Allies with gathering intelligence ever since Hitler came to power.” Margot’s simple explanation still came as a shock to Gerlinde.
To be sure, the rogue cinematographer and Leni Riefenstahl’s best friend was rather outspoken in her liberal views, but this? Outright treason? And in such an insolent manner? The Führer himself admired her work. He trusted her fully to allow her into his residence so often. Gerlinde felt the blood draining from her face.
“You betrayed the Führer?” It came out as a mere whisper but one of the Amis still heard it and rolled his eyes.
Margot only took her hand and held it firmly, even though Gerlinde made a move to pull it away.
“I did.” There was not a trace of guilt in Margot’s voice. If anything, some cruel, defiant pride was audible in it. “I did because it was the only right thing to do. You are too young to understand it, Gerlinde but with time, I hope you will see my reason. I know that you’ve never been one of them in the true sense of the word. I know that inwardly you’ve always rejected their worldview, no matter how much they tried to school you otherwise. You’ve always been an intelligent and ambitious girl, Gerlinde. You’ve always wanted to make something out of yourself – well, this is your chance now! You’re absolutely free to do whatever you wish with your life. The tyrant is gone now and along with him, the hateful regime that did away with everything that even slightly resembled freethinking. And yes, I am proud to say that I betrayed the dictator who only brought hatred and death to the country I loved most of all.”
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 19