Franka nodded. She remembered the lines glittering on the page, dancing from her father’s lips to her ear.
He rifled through the pages. “Were you planning on having a bonfire, like the Nazis do?” He found the page he was looking for and pointed at a line as he stared at her.
“No, Father. I was going to put them under your bed.”
“Does it not seem absurd that suddenly a great poet is no longer a great poet, because he belonged to the wrong race, because he was a Jew? The man’s been dead for almost eighty years.”
“Of course it’s absurd, but it’s also his political views they’re concerned with. I was just trying to protect you, Father.”
“Read out the line I’m pointing to. Read it.”
Her eyes found the words. “‘Where they burn books, they will also, in the end, burn people.’”
“Perhaps they’ve already begun,” her father said. He handed her the book and left without another word.
Later that night, after Fredi had gone to sleep, she was sitting on her bed when her father brought the rest to her.
“These books are precious now. You are privileged to read these words so many are barred from. And why are they barred? Because the Nazis know that their real enemy is the independent thinker, the true German patriot who questions their ways and speaks up against their injustices. I’m not suggesting you go around preaching the writings of Heine, but keep the ideas he speaks of in your heart, and use them. Analyze what’s going on, and remember that he never knew of Hitler or the National Socialists. He understood human nature and the nature of the German people, and that’s why his writings still matter. That’s what the Nazis are afraid of.”
Two weeks later Hitler marched his troops into the Rhineland, an area of Germany on the French border that had been demilitarized by the Treaty of Versailles, in a flagrant snub of international law. That night, Franka sat on her bed, reading the words Heine had written almost a hundred years before. The poet said that once the moral rule of law was broken in Germany, the savagery of the ancient berserker warriors that the Nordic bards sang of would blaze up once more. And this new fury, this thunderclap of German rage, would be like none that the world had witnessed before.
Franka lay back on the bed, knowing that it had already begun.
From then on, Franka did her best to ignore the intrusions into her life by the National Socialists. She immersed herself in her schoolwork, paying little attention to the omnipresent flags and the posters wallpapering the hallways proclaiming the greatness of the regime. There were things the Nazis couldn’t touch. There was music, art, the books she now kept hidden under her bed, and the wondrous playground of the forest and mountains that surrounded her. She took hikes every weekend with her friends and walked away when they referred to “handsome Adolf” with coquettish laughs and blushing cheeks. Women had been known to swoon in his presence. Franka found the attraction hard to see, in any circumstance. Some of the local boys grew tiny mustaches in tribute to the führer, but even the most fanatical supporters of the regime looked in the mirror once in a while. The cult of facial hair as a tribute to the demagogue didn’t last long.
Nazi ideology and paranoia permeated every human relationship, to the point where friends could no longer be trusted and family members informed on one another for the good of the cause. The old society crumbled piece by piece. Even the most committed supporters of the regime were under the Nazi microscope at all times. In Freiburg, as in every city and town in Germany, an agent of the National Socialists was put in every apartment block, and on every street. They were known as the Blockwarte. The Blockwart on Franka’s street was Herr Duken, a gardener who’d joined the party back in the 1920s when they were little more than a rabble of loudmouths espousing anti-Semitic propaganda and deriding the “November criminals” who had signed the armistice at the end of the Great War. Herr Duken was a licensed nosey neighbor, a paid snoop with terrifying power. He reveled in it. Now he was an important man, respected and feared by his neighbors. His job was to report any misconduct he witnessed or any hearsay that might be relayed to him. He reported on his neighbors for not putting out a swastika flag on gala occasions or for not contributing to the party with the requisite gusto. Franka, aware that the thoughts in her head were reportable as crimes against the state, smiled at Duken when she saw him on the street. Dozens of Blockwarte operated throughout the town and in the surrounding countryside. The summer cabin was the only place isolated enough that they could escape.
Daniel came back from his service to the state more committed than ever to the cause of the fatherland, and, seemingly, to Franka. His fumbled attempts to win her back proved little more than an annoyance, but she was wary of the advances of other boys now. She knew the power that Daniel held, and didn’t want to make trouble for any poor, unsuspecting boy that merely wanted to take her out for a beer or dinner. Daniel explained to her once, in a misguided attempt to impress her with his new connections, that the Gestapo was the real power in the German state. The shadow of the thousands of agents peppered throughout the country, along with the Blockwarte who reported to them, loomed over every German citizen. Soon Daniel would have the power to ruin lives on a whim. The critical analysis of the regime—even the mere expression of disapproval of it—was enough to merit arrest, imprisonment, torture, or even death. Franka was amazed at herself for ever being attracted to him and was determined never to let him touch her again.
She wondered what he could have amounted to if the Nazis hadn’t corrupted him. What would he have become if he’d dedicated his talents to a just cause? It was a tragedy, one of the concurrent millions happening throughout Germany.
She spent much of the summer of 1938 at the cabin with her family, and that was the place they spoke freely. Nowhere else was safe. Outwardly, Thomas Gerber was a loyal citizen, and although not a committed Nazi by any means, he paid his dues in terms of both money and respect to the party. Resistance was pointless—it would only mean enduring even closer scrutiny and possibly jail time. His responsibility was to his family, and some futile show of rebellion would only exacerbate their problems. Some family friends expressed the same views in surreptitious whispers. Not everyone subscribed to the Nazi ways, but no one spoke out. Those who didn’t agree with the National Socialists went about their daily business just as Thomas and Franka did. They tried to live independently from a regime that viewed independence as dangerous. They knew that punishment awaited any cross word. Hitler himself had stated, “Everyone must know that if he raises his hand to strike at the state, then certain death will be his lot.” There was nothing to do. All intolerance was internalized. Franka learned to maintain her composure outwardly while screaming inside. But her complacence was eating away at her. The brave words that she and her father spoke behind closed doors were just that—words. When she put it to him that they should try to execute some kind of change, he laughed in her face.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “The Nazis are nothing if not meticulous, and while they may be uneducated and backward, they have an innate talent for propaganda and suppression. The system they have set up is perfect in its dysfunctional functionality. Everyone is a spy. I could count on one hand the people I can trust in this entire world now.”
“But what use are we, then? Surely there is something we can accomplish, no matter how small.”
“Nothing good can come of protest. The notion of free speech is as dead as the kaiser. How can we accomplish anything when even publicly disagreeing with any decision the führer passes down is a treasonous offense? Last week a man was jailed for two years for refuting the notion of expelling all Jewish children from school. Two years!”
Seeing his daughter’s downcast face, he went on. “I’m proud of you for wanting to fight, Franka. But the best thing to do is just hold on. The National Socialists are not going to last forever. They’re steering us toward war. It’s as inevitable as the sun coming in the morning, or the dark at night. It’
s going to take a lot to oust them, but they will lose in the end. And when they do, our victory will be our survival. As long as we remain true to ourselves and don’t let them scar our souls, then we will have won.”
“But at what cost, Father?” Franka shook her head. “I’m tired of feeling afraid all the time.”
“We will get through this, as a family. I promise you. Your mother is watching over us every day.”
Franka wanted to agree with him but didn’t feel her mother’s presence in her life anymore. The memories were slipping through her fingers.
The facade of Nazi civility crumbled when they unleashed their attack dogs on Kristallnacht. They used the murder of a German diplomat by a seventeen-year-old Jewish boy to unleash the full pent-up rage of their thugs. The Propaganda Ministry organized a series of demonstrations that spread throughout the country like a disease. From the roof of her house, Franka watched with growing horror the mobs and storm troopers attacking Jewish-owned businesses. Almost every local Nazi turned out to throw bricks or firebombs, to intimidate or even to kill. And she saw Daniel, a swastika on his arm, directing the mob into Greenberg’s bakery. Herr Greenberg was dragged onto the street and beaten until his body went still.
The next day the newspapers spoke of the justified vengeance of an outraged people. The journalists gloated that at last the Jews were receiving the punishment they deserved for years of unspecified abuses against the German people. The editorials warned against the squeamish opinions of people who disapproved of the heroic actions of the mobs. Such liberal opinions were dismissed as delicate and sentimental. The journalists warned their readers to report to the proper authorities any cross attitudes and decried any German who could not recognize the glorious times that they were living in.
Two days later the government levied a fine of one billion marks on German Jews for the destruction of Kristallnacht.
Tens of thousands of Jews were sent to concentration camps—mysterious prisons known in whispers as KZs by the Germans who dared to speak about them. Franka’s father reminded her of the stories he’d heard about the first camp, at Dachau, stories that seemed beyond doubt now. The Nazis had revealed their savage nature but did not lose support. The Hitler Youth still sang their songs as they jogged through town. The members of the League of German Girls still sowed their swastika flags and giggled about “handsome Adolf,” the monster in chief. The lackeys of the National Socialists still strutted through town with their heads held high and their Nazi badges shining in the sun. Millions throughout the country still greeted one other by saluting the führer. The German people still seemed entranced by the hold the Nazis had taken of them.
Life went on, despite the injustices and horrors that were now the daily currency in Germany. Franka had finished her training and been offered a job in Munich. Somehow, people were still graduating college, looking for jobs, and contemplating moving between cities. With everything that the Nazi regime had imposed upon them, the Gerber family was still trying to function, but even that was about to change.
Fredi was getting worse.
At the end of that summer in 1939, they talked to him about the hospital—they couldn’t avoid the topic any longer. The sun was setting, beaming ethereal light over an infinite horizon, casting the leaves of the forest all around them in gold. Fredi was in his wheelchair. He was almost as tall as Thomas now, but his limbs were thin and bent, his legs almost beyond use. He was playing with a toy train, running it on his thighs. His choo-choo noises were interrupted every few seconds by the sounds of his own chuckling.
“Fredi?”
“Father, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“It’s because I love you so much, Fredi.” He turned to look at Franka. “We both do.”
“More than anything else in the world,” she said.
“And I love you,” he said.
Franka hugged him, felt his spindly arms gripping her and his soft kiss upon her cheek. She tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out. She couldn’t believe they were giving charge of Fredi to an institution. She couldn’t fathom that this would have happened if their mother were still alive.
“How do you feel?” Thomas said.
“I feel great.” Fredi smiled.
“Your arms—they don’t hurt?”
“No, I feel good.”
Fredi was always happy. It was all he knew. The world could not sour the wonder of his spirit. His smile remained through the pain, and through the hospital stays, through things that almost no one else could endure. His smile never left. Everyone knew him on his all-too-regular visits to the hospital. The nurses adored him. Some of the doctors—the ones with Nazi badges on their lapels—stopped just short of openly dismissing him, of expressing their resentment at having to treat someone that the government had deemed an “idiot” and “unworthy of life.”
Franka knelt beside him. The sun was still warm, even as the dusk settled in. He seemed to know something was going on. His intuition was sharper than hers. She went to speak, but he beat her to it.
“Franka, I love you. You’re so beautiful. You’re the best big sister.”
“We need to talk to you about something,” she managed.
Thomas knelt beside her.
“You’ve been getting sick more and more lately,” she said, “and Daddy doesn’t have the time that he needs to look after you anymore.”
“I’m so sorry, Daddy.”
“Oh no, don’t be sorry, Fredi, never. It’s not your fault. You’re the best boy in the world—the best son a father could ever have. We’re so lucky to have you, our own angel on this earth.”
“You love the nurses, don’t you?” Franka said.
“Oh yes, they’re so nice.”
“And you know that I’m going to be a nurse, just like they are?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been offered a fantastic opportunity—a job in a hospital in Munich. You know Munich, where Mummy was from?”
“Yes, I remember the lollipops we bought there.”
Thomas laughed. “Yes, when we visited two years ago. We bought lollipops and ate them as we sat in the park.”
“Well, I’m going to work there.”
“It’s far on the train.”
“Yes, it is—too far from here. I’m going to have to find somewhere to live there.”
“You’ll be the best nurse in the whole hospital. You’re going to help so many people.”
“I hope so.” It was hard to get the words out.
Thomas spoke up. “The nurses and doctors in our hospital want you to come and live with them, in a special house, where they can take better care of you.”
“Daddy can’t look after you alone anymore.”
“Will you visit?” Fredi asked. “You’re not going to leave me there?”
“Oh no. Never. I’ll come every day, and Franka as often as she can, whenever she’s home.”
“Nothing’s going to change,” Franka said. “We’ll still love you just as much as we always have. We’re still going to be together. We’ll all live together again soon, and forever.”
Franka thought about those words many times after she said them. Fredi accepted them, as he accepted anything she said, with a smile and an open heart. But time and circumstance made her a liar, and that was the last thing she ever wanted to be, especially to him. Fredi moved into the home the week after. They left him with the nurses and walked away empty and alone. Franka moved to Munich on the third of September, the day Britain and France declared war on Germany. By the time she arrived at the platform in Munich, her father’s prophecy had come true, and the mad berserker fury of the ancient warriors was unleashed on Europe once more.
Chapter 7
The hurricane of agony had reduced to a gale-force wind. It was still the first thing he felt when his eyes opened with the coming of the morning. He reached across for the bottle of aspirin, popping a couple of tiny white pills into his mouth before downing them with wate
r so cold that he was amazed it didn’t have a layer of ice across the top of it. He wondered about the bottle. Was it some kind of Nazi truth serum? It hardly mattered. Submission to her was the only option. He needed her. There was no other way.
The snow painted a spiderweb of ice on the windowpane. The door was open, but there was no noise from the living room. He thought to call out, to ask how she was, or to inquire about the fire, but he didn’t. He brought the covers back over his face until only his eyes were exposed. He thought back to the story she’d told him the night before, and the haunted look in her eyes as she told it. If she was Gestapo, she was one hell of an actress. He brought a hand to his face and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The decision to tell her the truth would have to come soon. His legs still rendered him immobile. He’d be stuck here as long as the snow took to clear, and that could be weeks. What could he do while he was laid out in bed? He was miles away from his target. He was useless and possibly being prepared for torture and a grisly death.
He reached back under his pillow, feeling for the cold metal of the gun. She had saved his life. No matter what else, that much was true. Killing her would be tantamount to murder. But what was murder in war? He had killed men, had seen the look of terror in their eyes as they realized that they were about to draw their last breath. It was easy to dismiss what he’d done, to lose the sense that he’d ended their lives, to veil his actions in the fog of war, but he thought about those men often. Most days. They were enemies. They would have killed him. The only reason they hadn’t was that he was faster, stronger, better. He thought of the man he’d killed when his pistol had jammed, the feel of warm blood running over his fists as he plunged the knife into the man’s chest. He remembered the noise as he pulled the knife out. He knew that there would be no escape from that horror. Not now. Not ever.
Sounds from the living room jarred him back into the present—logs being stacked in the fireplace, the popping and cracking of the unseasoned wood struggling to ignite. What if she was who she said she was? But what were the chances of being found by someone who’d been immune to Hitler’s mass hypnosis?
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