“No, keep the money,” said Hans with an imperious wave of his hand.
Pitt produced a welcome glass of schnapps to fortify Hans for the return trek home.
36
On the morning of February 20, Gretchen spent two hours queuing for vegetables. She came away with two sturdy rutabagas and missed the postwoman on her rounds. Later, she ran into Frau Tannhäuser and Frau Carlson on the staircase. The undertaker’s wife was weeping into a voluminous handkerchief, sobbing and gulping air. Her husband and son were both with the Volkssturm, defending the eastern approaches to the city. Gretchen suspected that one or other had been injured or killed.
“What’s happened?” Gretchen asked Frau Carlson.
“Frau Niedermeyer was here earlier. Didn’t you hear the news?”
Gretchen shook her head. “No, tell me.”
“The Westwall has fallen. The Americans and the English are advancing from the west.” Frau Carlson seemed unaffected by the news.
“We are all doomed!” wailed Frau Tannhäuser.
Gretchen thought this was good news. Berlin would fall soon – nothing was more certain. Better that it fall to the Allies on the west than the Red Army.
“You’ve heard nothing from the eastern defenses?” she asked
“Nothing,” said Frau Tannhäuser, wiping her eyes.
“It’s not the worst news,” said Frau Carlson. “They still have to cross the Rhine. They will find that difficult. I’m sure our troops will hold them there.”
Frau Tannhäuser smiled weakly. “Do you think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“I’m hoping they’ll release my husband soon. The funeral parlor is full. Surely they must see the dangers of leaving so many bodies unburied, don’t you think?”
Gretchen patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure they will. Have you heard anything from him, or from Anton?”
At the mention of Anton’s name, she burst into tears again. Frau Carlson rolled her eyes before escorting the undertaker’s wife back inside her apartment.
That afternoon, Gretchen set out toward Grunewald, five kilometers away, where her friend’s apartment was located. Her path was obstructed by fallen masonry from several giant blocks that had been toppled. Row after row of others stood blackened and burnt out, their half-demolished walls pointing skyward. Small children played amid the debris.
Martha lived in a minor mansion in the middle of a cluster of affluent houses that had survived the bombing raids almost untouched. Gretchen knocked on the door and Martha opened it. Her immediate, warm, protracted embrace told Gretchen how pleased her friend was to see her.
Martha had a small gas camping stove in her kitchen. She made tea and they did their best to chat about the sort of inconsequential things that they would have chatted about before the war. Inevitably, every subject they chose brought them back to the war – and to Martha’s fiancé, Paul.
“I thought we might live in the country,” she said. “You know, when he comes back, when the war is over.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I’ve always loved Bavaria.”
“The mountains, the forests, and the beer.”
“Yes, and the Dirndl. I’d look good in a tight bodice, don’t you think?”
“You’d look spectacular in the Dirndl,” said Gretchen with feeling.
Martha giggled. “And Lederhosen for Paul. Let me show you something.” She opened an ornate blanket chest and pulled out a long white dress. “This was my mother’s wedding dress. I will wear it at my own wedding.” She held it up against herself, arranging the train behind her.
“It’s beautiful, Martha. You will make a stunning bride.”
“It is beautiful, but it will need a wash,” said Martha, looking closely at the dress.
As Martha folded the wedding dress carefully and put it back in the chest, Gretchen spotted Paul’s half-unraveled jumper and the ball of wool.
She pointed at it. “Have you done anything with that jumper?”
Martha flushed red with embarrassment. “Not so far. I’ve been practicing my knitting, but I’m not good enough to do anything with it yet.”
Finally, Gretchen broached the subject she’d come to talk about. “Have you given any thought to leaving the city?”
Martha shook her head. “I’ve thought about it, and I appreciate your generous offer, but I need to be here when Paul returns.”
“Have you heard the news? The Allies have broken through the Westwall.”
“I heard. Frau Niedermeyer was here earlier. They’ll never cross the Rhine.”
“We said that about the Westwall. It’s too risky, Martha. Please think about it some more. Better to stay safe and pick up the threads of your life when the war is over.”
The argument continued for a few minutes, but Martha remained adamant. She would remain in the city in readiness for her fiancé’s return.
As she was leaving, Martha opened the chest again and lifted out the jumper. She handed it to Gretchen. “You take it. I’m never going to do anything with it.”
37
February turned into March and the day for the escape, March 11, drew closer. Gretchen had goosebumps all over her body every time she thought about it. Would Inge’s papers be good enough to fool the SS? Could they make it out of the city? And would a horse and cart be able to take them 60 kilometers to safety?
And what about Oskar? What were his chances of living through the war, and would Hans know how to handle his moods?
Riddled with guilt at the prospect of leaving Oskar, she fretted over him, doing everything she could to shake his memory cells into life. He had occasional lucid moments when his old memories resurfaced, but he could recall nothing remotely recent.
She tried to keep Oskar and Inge apart, but it was difficult in such a small apartment. Inge kept her nose buried in her books, doing her best to ignore the bearded monster who stared at her incessantly. Gretchen did her best to distract him, but she couldn’t be there all the time.
Dora called on March 3 to see if everything was going according to plan. Hans confirmed that the dray had been arranged, but Franz, the black marketeer, hadn’t delivered Inge’s new identity papers. “They were due by the end of February,” he said.
“You haven’t checked with him?”
“No. He lives on the sixth floor of an apartment block on Christstrasse. It’s hard work climbing all those stairs.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Dora cycled around to Franz’s apartment block on Christstrasse and climbed the stairs. She found the door to his apartment swinging open. Inside, the apartment had been ransacked, everything of value removed, the floors strewn with loose sheets of paper.
She got down on her knees and began to search the papers, going through them carefully, one-by-one, stacking them as she went.
“What are you looking for?” said a voice behind her.
She looked up to see a large woman glaring down at her.
She got to her feet and faced her, her eyes level with the buttons on the woman’s blouse, in the valley between her enormous breasts. “What’s it to you?”
“Answer the question.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you responsible for all this? Have you taken everything from my brother?”
“Your brother? I didn’t know he had family.”
“Where is he? What have you done with Franz?”
The woman splayed her hands. “Not me. The head-hunters took him. He’s been conscripted.”
“You’re lying. Someone must have killed him.”
The woman laughed. “Nothing so simple. He had a special arrangement with the Gauleiter’s agent. When Jungblutt died, the arrangement died with him. The SS had their eye on him. They picked him up as soon as Jungblutt died.”
The woman turned and left with a parting smirk. “Good luck with whatever you’re looking for, Franz’s sister. There’s nothing of value here.”
Dora’s search revealed
a piece of paper containing a name that she recognized. Petronella Mertens was a known forger, originally from Eindhoven in the Netherlands. She had done good work for Dora in the distant past but was no longer in the business. As it was the only lead she had, and she knew where to find Petronella, she pointed her bicycle north and set off.
It took Dora two hours of hard cycling to reach Petronella’s home, in Weissensee, to the north of the city. Petronella Mertens’s house was in a row of 100-year-old houses untouched by the bombing, although a huge crater in the street and a line of burnt-out cars was testament to how close one bomb had come.
She knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again, and then hammered on the door. The door opened a crack, and Petronella’s prominent nose appeared.
“It’s Dora Hoffmann. Let me in.”
Petronella opened the door and Dora stepped into the hallway.
Petronella was no chicken when Dora had had regular business with her. Now, a couple of years later, she had become a frail old woman, all skin and bone. She glared at her visitor. “What do you want?”
“Are you still in business?”
The old woman lifted a narrow shoulder. “Not really.”
“So you still do some. Have you done anything for Franz recently?”
“No, I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Then you’ve never heard of Inge Pitt?”
The light in Petronella’s eye told Dora she’d hit gold.
“You know the name. Do you have Inge’s papers?”
“Franz has them. I gave them to him.”
Dora swore and immediately apologized to the older woman when she made an unpleasant face. “I’m sorry, Petronella, but Franz has been taken. I suspect he may be at a barricade on the eastern fringes of the city by now, holding back the Red Army hordes.”
She cycled back empty-handed. How could Inge leave Berlin without papers? Then she thought: Thousands of refugees were fleeing the city. Surely some of them would have lost their papers in the bombings.
38
On March 5, Gretchen arrived home from a foraging trip to find Oskar lying on the floor. Inge was hiding in the bedroom, weeping.
Gretchen helped him back into his chair. Then she sat Inge on the bed. She gave the child a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
“What on earth happened?” she said, when Inge’s cries had reduced to sobs and hiccupping.
“He – he tried to…”
“What, child? Oskar did something to you?”
“He put his hand…”
Gretchen put an arm around Inge’s shoulders. “Oskar? You’re talking about Oskar?”
Inge nodded.
“He did something to you?” Gretchen couldn’t believe it.
“I was reading. I fell asleep. I’ve read the book so many times…”
“You fell asleep. Where were you?”
“In there.” She pointed. “On the sofa. He was in his chair, looking at me, the way he always does.”
“All right, and you fell asleep. Then what happened?”
“He put his hand…” Her voice faltered.
Gretchen turned Inge’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “That isn’t possible. He has hardly moved a muscle in a year.”
“It’s true! When I woke up, he was standing…”
“Where was he standing?”
“He was leaning over me. He had his hand on my leg, under my…”
Gretchen’s ears were burning. For months she had hoped for signs of life from a husband who was close to catatonia, but why did it have to be this sort of behavior?
“What did you do?”
“I pushed him. He fell. And I came in here.”
“He didn’t follow you?”
Inge shook her head.
“All right. I’ll sort this out. Until we can come up with a better idea, I want you to stay in the bedroom. I have a key for the door somewhere. You can sleep in here with me. Oskar can sleep on the sofa.”
“Can’t you find me somewhere else to live?”
“That may not be possible, Inge. And we’ll be leaving Berlin in less than a week.”
Gretchen searched everywhere, but she couldn’t find the key to the bedroom door.
Inge stamped her foot. “I’m not staying here. You can’t make me. I’m leaving.”
“Where can you go?” said Gretchen.
“I’ll find somewhere.” Inge started throwing her things into her suitcase.
Gretchen put a restraining hand on Inge’s arm. “You wouldn’t last an hour out there on your own. Give me a couple of hours to find you somewhere.”
Gretchen went to Hans’s apartment and told him what had happened. Hans’s first reaction was a broad smile. “So there’s life in the old dog!”
“It’s no laughing matter,” said Gretchen. “Inge’s threatening to leave. She’s already packed her suitcase.”
“Where will she go?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t know. I told her I’d find her alternative accommodation in the next two hours.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“You live alone… I thought…”
“You thought you could put her in with me! How is that going to work?”
“It’s all I could think of. I never wanted to take her in the first place.”
Hans scratched his chin. “Two hours, you say? That doesn’t give us much time. Did you remind her that she’ll be leaving Berlin in a matter of days?”
“Yes. She’s adamant. She won’t spend another night in the apartment with Oskar.”
Hans gave a low whistle. He scratched his ear. “There’s only one solution I can suggest.”
“What?” said Gretchen. “I can’t think of any.”
39
Inge stuck out her chin. “Why do I have to move again? Why can’t you find the bedroom key?”
“I’m sorry, Inge, my mind’s a blank. I can’t remember where I put it.”
“I don’t like it. Every time I move, I risk being seen by the Gestapo or someone who’ll tell the Gestapo where I am.”
“I’ll take you there at night. We’ll wait until everyone is asleep.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Wait and see. It’s a surprise. It’s not far.”
Inge didn’t like surprises.
It wasn’t more than 500 meters, but the many obstacles blocking their way forced them to take a roundabout route through the golf course – or what was left of it. A brisk breeze from the East rummaged through their clothes, seeking out their thin bodies.
A pungent smell of damp and mold greeted them as they stepped inside the cabin. It was too dark to see Inge’s face, but her posture told Gretchen what she thought of the place.
“Try the armchair,” said Gretchen. “You may be able to get some sleep on there.”
“This is crazy. It’s nothing but a garden shed,” said Inge.
“It’s only for a few days. Try the chair.”
Inge sat down. The wind ran a finger along a wall, creating a thin gap in the slats that allowed a strip of moonlight in that lit up her blond hair.
“The cabinet is full of books. You might find something to read in there. And there’s probably some food in those sacks.” Gretchen opened two of the sacks. “Carrots in this one, onions and potatoes in that one.”
Inge wrapped her arms around her chest.
Gretchen pulled off her overcoat and tucked it around the child. “It’ll be a lot warmer when the sun gets up.”
Inge pulled the coat closer around her.
“You’ll need to stay out of sight and make no noise.” Gretchen tried the radio and it came on. Beethoven. “You can’t listen to the radio.” She reached up and removed the lightbulb. “And you can’t use the light.”
“How can I read without light?”
“There should be some moonlight.”
Inge waved her arms about. “You told me to stay away from the window.”
Gretchen i
gnored that. “What do you think? Can you live here for a week?”
“What if I need to…”
“There’s a bucket over there in the corner.”
There was no reaction to that.
“I’ll leave you so. I’ll have to use the padlock to lock the door. Nobody must suspect that you’re in here. Try to get some sleep. I’ll come by early in the morning.”
Inge waited half an hour after Gretchen had left before exploring her new prison. This one was cold and dark. It smelled of mold and damp soil, but there were no bats, and no creepy old men. She opened the bookcase to examine the books and found nothing of interest. She couldn’t put a light on anyway. She tried the door. It was firmly locked.
What if there’s a fire? How would I get out? she thought. Is this what my life is to be from now on? Locked in a cold, moldy shed with no light, unable to make a sound, with no friends and nothing to do but read musty old books.
She longed for a normal life, to walk the streets without fear, to breath fresh air and look at the sky, to ride a bicycle, to have friends and maybe even meet some boys. To grow up and marry someday.
Is that too much to ask?
40
As soon as Gretchen awoke in the morning she remembered where she’d left the bedroom key. She fished it out of her tin box on the kitchen shelf and hurried back to the allotment. Surrounded as it was on three sides by the blackened skeletons of tall buildings, the cratered golf course appeared like a ghostly scene from Hades. A light frost covered the fairways, picking up the beginnings of dawn light from the sky. There was nobody about.
Blowing on her hands to warm them, she opened the padlock and slipped inside.
Inge was fast asleep in the armchair, still wrapped in Gretchen’s overcoat. She looked like a child half her age, a small fist close to her face, thumb extended toward her mouth, her hair scattered around her head. Her book lay on the floor by the chair.
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 59