The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘But if you can buy it from an apothecary, why is it difficult to come by?’

  ‘She makes him sell it to her. She knows things about him. She knows that his wife – ’ she whispered the next part, ‘is a Jew. She converted years ago when they married, but she can’t change her family tree.’

  ‘Oh,’ Alfred said, and added, ‘So she doesn’t want his wife to get into trouble?’

  Johanna shook her head derisively. ‘She doesn’t care about that. As long as it serves her purposes. Besides, she hates Hitler. She wants the k. & k. back.’

  Alfred frowned.

  ‘Kaiser & König. If she had her way, she’d reinstate the king.’

  Alfred lay down and put his head on the pillow.

  ‘But,’ Johanna continued, ‘I’ve been thinking about something else all day. We really need to get you some papers, Alfred. If you get stopped by the police, you have to have some identification. And besides, you need to go to school. I’m just not sure how to go about it.’

  And with this, she kissed him goodnight and left.

  Nineteen Ninety-Nine

  You tumble from the party into the bathroom. Giddy. Horny. Forget to put the light on. He locks the door.

  Here. He takes your hand and guides it to the front of his pants. A long, hard bulge, hot beneath your fingers. Yeah, he says in a thick voice and then leans his head forward and kisses you, hard, like he’s trying to suck your tongue out of your mouth. It’s dark; the tiles are cold on the back of your legs as he pushes you against the wall. There will be a line forming outside, but you don’t care. You’re not at the party now. You’re in here, with Michel, who wants you, who finds you sexy and wild, who says you look a bit like Mena Suvari from American Beauty. A slice of light at the bottom of the door.

  You’ve kissed before – a guy at a school dance six months ago – but never like this. You work your tongue around his mouth while your right hand rubs and squeezes the bulge in his jeans. The music pulses through the closed door. Not your kind of music. Too hard and thumpy. You’re into jazz, now. Found a vinyl copy of Blue Train at the flea market in the Mauerpark. Play it to death on your mom’s old record player. You’ve had three beers. You shouldn’t drink, really. Not when you’re taking meds. But you don’t care as his hand slips up your skirt and over and into your underpants. For a fraction of a second you’re embarrassed because they’re damp, and you hope he doesn’t think you’ve wet yourself, but –

  Aaah. It escapes your throat. You’re fizzing, zinging down there now. The sensation ripples up to your stomach. Down to your toes. So different from when you touch yourself. So – better.

  Yeah, he groans again, releasing his mouth from yours and breathing hotly into your ear. Yeah.

  What is she doing? What are you doing?

  A woman’s voice.

  You jump. Shit, who’s there?

  What? He unzips his jeans. Unhooks your bra. Expertly. One-handedly. The other hand rubs and pinches. But. The zing is gone. You try to push him away.

  There’s someone here, you whisper.

  No, shit. Come on, Bryn. There’s no one in here. He pulls you close, puts your hand back onto his cock. Yeah, good, like that.

  Then the voice splits into two. Talking at the same time.

  What are you doing, you dirty slut? You whore!

  You stop rubbing, look around. It’s dark, but there’s no one. Just the voices.

  I don’t –

  Shame on you!

  You panic, try again to push him away, but he holds you.

  No! I’m nearly done. Come on! His voice is urgent, angry. Then beseeching. Brynja, sweet Brynja. Don’t do this to a guy. Kisses you. Grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his cock. Yeah. Sweet Brynja. Breathes quickly, through his mouth. Then – holds his breath.

  Take your hands off his meat! You whore! You slut! You will be punished!

  A heavy groan. Hot stickiness on your hand, your skirt. A kiss.

  1939 - 1944

  Despite her open disdain of Adolf Hitler (‘that vulgar little Austrian’), Franziska von Markstein was surprisingly well-respected by the Nazi authorities. Alfred surmised that this had as much to do with her nephew’s standing and reputation in the party as with her immense wealth, which she distributed freely and generously to anyone willing to remove ‘unnecessary’ bureaucratic hurdles. But Johanna had taught him not to question such things too closely. He also concluded that Johanna played an irreplaceable role in Frau von Markstein’s life, because after a brief correspondence between Frau von Markstein and the registration authorities, Alfred was in possession of bona fide papers: a folded manila card containing his name (Alfred Franz Werner), place and date of birth (Löwenberg, Neubrandenburg, 18th August 1926), profession (school pupil), height (1.60 metres), colour of eyes (grey) and unchanging marks (- - -). A small photograph was attached on the right-hand side and beneath that, his signature.

  Two weeks after receiving his papers, Johanna took him to be enrolled in the nearby grammar school. It was very different here than at the Waisenhaus; boys and girls were taught together in one classroom – albeit strictly separated by the aisle – corporal punishment was a daily occurrence and anti-Semitism was ubiquitous, embedded into subjects ranging from mathematics (‘The Jews are taking up xxx m2 of living space in Berlin. How many German families, with an average of four family members, could be accommodated in this space?)’ to physical education (‘The Jew has weak legs. Thus he will always be inferior to the German sprinter’). But overall, Alfred wasn’t unhappy at school. He remained quiet and thus exempt from beatings, and excelled in most subjects, not least due to the high quality of education he’d received during the previous four years. Johanna beamed whenever he returned home with his school reports, clucking like a proud mother.

  ‘When this is over, you will go to law school,’ she would say. ‘Or medical school. You’re so good with your hands.’

  However, as he passed from grade to grade, becoming increasingly taller and outgrowing his clothes at a rate that frustrated his sister, the external events that had so far overshadowed their lives finally overtook them. Although the country was now at war with almost all of Europe, most of the city’s inhabitants attempted to live normal lives. Each of them had dug out their own narrow psychological tunnel, through which they would live out their daily routines: travel to and from work or school; gossip with colleagues, friends and neighbours; celebrate marriages; lament the breakup of relationships; cherish the birth of babies; and mourn the loss of elderly parents. Alfred and Johanna were no exception. They each hoped – silently, secretly, as though to share their hopes would render them invalid – for some kind of happy ending.

  But things were shifting around them. Notices appeared outside tobacconists (‘Juden sind Zigaretten oder Zigarren nicht mehr erlaubt’); posters on advertising pillars announced that Jews were to surrender their radios and telephones to the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda; rations for Jews no longer included bread and eggs; and rations for the general German population were tightened further to include marmalade and coffee. One day, Alfred came home after school to find Johanna standing at the door to the flat. Her face looked grey in the unlit stairwell.

  ‘Frau Lindenbaum’s gone,’ she said.

  ‘Is she?’ he replied. Frau Lindenbaum was their sour-faced neighbour, who only ever spoke to them to complain that they were making too much noise.

  Johanna pointed across the hall to Frau Lindenbaum’s front door. A newspaper was hanging out of the letter slot; several more papers and letters lay scattered on the mat below. ‘I knocked,’ she said, ‘but there was no answer.’

  Alfred brushed past her into the flat. He was hungry (he was almost always hungry, these days), and could detect the smell of bacon bean soup coming from the kitchen. Johanna followed him in.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ she said, pulling his arm back. ‘She’s gone. She’s been taken.’ This last word came out in a whis
per, as though she was afraid of being overheard.

  He shook his arm free. ‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast, Johanna. Taken where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She raised her arms, and dropped them again. ‘I don’t know where. But she’s gone.’

  Alfred could sense her distress, but couldn’t think of how to comfort her. Ignoring the growling in his stomach, he said, ‘Shall we call the police?’

  She let out an ugly laugh and looked away. But presently, her face softened and she reached out to brush some fluff off his shoulder. ‘No, Alfred. We shan’t call the police. I really don’t think there’s much we can do.’

  A month after Alfred’s fourteenth birthday, the first bombs hit Berlin. Although the damage was slight, and Alfred only experienced it as a distant thumping – barely strong enough to make the chandelier crystals shiver – it frightened him profoundly. His voice-women, who had recently become little more than a gentle, hushed backdrop to his life, began chatting incessantly, offering running commentaries on his daily activities, waking him in the night with well-meant but ill-timed advice (Comb your hair while still wet to avoid it curling; Alfred, offer Gretl your rice pudding at lunch, then she’ll know you like her; a bar of soap in your gym bag will make it smell freshly washed). It troubled him greatly. Then, as the war drew on, and rumours of Nazi atrocities seeped through to the Allied forces, the bombing became vehement, relentless and seemingly indiscriminate. A normal life now meant a hurried, anxious journey to school. At mealtimes, Alfred and Johanna sat in silence with an ear open to the sound of sirens and more and more often, sleep was cut painfully short, to be spent in the cellar of their building, huddled up next to their neighbours in a state of terror. They continued living this way for a long time. Christmas and birthdays came and went, with celebrations conducted hastily and muted.

  Johanna became an expert in obtaining extras to their rations, eavesdropping on people on trams and buses for where bargains were to be had, visiting market halls all over the city to hunt out information on expected shipments of fabrics, soap, buttons, knives. Their rations weren’t bad, but it was difficult to acquire more than was expressly allocated, and Johanna had ceased to believe in a quick end to the war – despite Goebbels’ boastful speeches on the Volksempfänger – so she began carefully, secretly, hoarding everything she could get her hands on.

  One dark November evening in 1941, Alfred was waiting for his sister at the Arminius market hall in Moabit. The fish vendors there were under strict orders to destroy any unsold goods at the end of the day, to avoid mass food poisoning of those desperate enough to eat rotten fish. Johanna, however, who had learned from their Icelandic mother ingenious ways of curing and fermenting fish, had spent weeks becoming acquainted with one of the vendors – she never told Alfred exactly how – and had arranged to collect several kilos of herring, mackerel and anchovies (which would shortly begin to give off a heady, eye-watering stench).

  Alfred had come straight from school and stood waiting outside the market hall. He looked around impatiently; he had been given several pages of Latin and history homework, and failure to produce it the next day would result in smarting knuckles. There was a dusting of snow on the ground and the air was freezing.

  Heads up Alfred!

  Instinctively, he took this as a warning and backed into a doorway, pressing his body against the cold brickwork. He peered out onto the street, looking left and right as inconspicuously as possible. But all he saw were market hall shoppers busily and hastily streaming in and out of the entrance gate. No Johanna in sight. He remained where he was for a moment, then relaxed and stepped back onto the pavement. He was about to ask the voice-women what was going on, when he spotted a woman on the opposite side of the street. She wore a long threadbare coat and a felt hat, and had a large bag slung over her right shoulder. It was Fräulein Merz.

  Without thinking twice, Alfred bolted across the street and called out her name. A look of dread crossed her face and she picked up her pace, almost slipping on the icy pavement.

  ‘Fräulein Merz,’ he called again, catching up with her and laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s Alfred. Don’t you recognise me?’

  At this, she turned and scanned him from top to bottom. Then she laid a gloved hand across her mouth and shook her head very slowly. ‘Alfred,’ she said finally. ‘Look at you! You’ve grown so tall.’ And she gave out a small laugh.

  It was three years since Alfred had last seen her, in the lobby of the Waisenhaus. The sudden memory of his surreptitious escape – without a good-bye or excuse – flared up inside him, and with it, a feeling of tremendous shame.

  ‘Fräulein Merz, I . . . ’ he began, but his words got stuck before he could articulate them.

  She reached out and stroked his cheek. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘We were so worried when you ran away.’

  Alfred swallowed and looked down. It was then that he caught sight of a yellow star-shaped patch sewn onto the left side of her coat, just above her heart. ‘You’re wearing one of these,’ he said.

  Fräulein Merz followed his glance down to the patch. ‘Of course, Alfred. Why are you surprised? I’m a Jew.’

  Alfred mumbled, ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ because everyone knew about the decree that had come into force two months previously. But it was another thing entirely to see it on someone he knew personally.

  Fräulein Merz gave him a bitter smile. ‘They even issued instructions on how to sew it on neatly.’

  ‘The others,’ Alfred said, ‘the Waisenhaus.’

  She took the bag from her right shoulder and switched it to the left. It looked heavy. ‘They closed us down ten months ago. We’ve moved to Schönhauser Allee. It’s small, but there aren’t that many children left, anyway.’

  ‘Where have they . . . ’ Alfred began, but was interrupted by the sound of his sister’s voice.

  ‘Alfred! There you are. I’ve been waiting over – ’ She stopped as she noticed Fräulein Merz. Her eyes flicked briefly across the Judenstern and back to Alfred. ‘Where have you been?’

  But before Alfred could introduce the two women, Fräulein Merz said quickly, ‘It was nice to see you, Alfred. I’m sorry, but I have to finish my errands before the curfew. Look after yourself.’ Then she rushed off and disappeared into the crowd of shoppers.

  A month later, on the first day of his Christmas holidays, Alfred travelled across the city to Schönhauser Allee, where he spent several freezing cold hours walking up and down the street, in the hope of spotting Fräulein Merz or any others he knew from the Waisenhaus. But it was in vain; he never did discover the fate of any of those who had helped save his life.

  In the year Alfred turned seventeen, a bomb struck their apartment building. It was almost a relief, as though they had been holding their collective breaths for it to finally happen and release them from the sickening anticipation of disaster. At some time after midnight on a cloudless night, Alfred woke to a voice.

  Alfred. Wake up. Alfred!

  Expecting to hear some advice on how to shave without creating a rash, or the perfect recipe for coleslaw, he groaned and turned over in bed. Seconds later, a siren began to wail. Automatically, and still half-asleep, he swung his legs out of bed, using his feet to search for his slippers in the dark.

  Alfred. You must go to Johanna.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he mumbled, but Johanna was already at his door, holding the front of her dressing gown closed with one hand.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  No! Stay here!

  ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s go and get her up.’

  Alfred stood up. He was confused, wasn’t sure if he had just dreamt the voices. But Johanna had already left to rouse the old woman.

  Listen to me, Alfred. This is important. You must not go to the cellar.

  ‘What?’ Alfred rubbed his face. He was so tired, he couldn’t think clearly.

  ‘Alfred!’ Johanna was calling him.


  He joined her in Franziska’s bedroom, where she was gently coaxing the woman out of bed. Although she had become increasingly thin and fragile, Frau von Markstein was too heavy for either Johanna or Alfred to lift alone.

  ‘Come over here,’ Johanna urged. ‘We’ll take an arm each, like this.’ She slipped Frau von Markstein’s arm up and over her own shoulder. ‘You take the other side.’

  Suddenly the siren stopped. In its place, they heard the terrifying drone of a plane’s engine. Alfred and Johanna caught each other’s eye.

  ‘Oh God, quickly, Alfred!’ Johanna said. ‘Otherwise we’ll never make it.’

  No, Alfred! You mustn’t!

  Alfred hesitated, but then rushed forward and took Franziska’s free arm. He stood up straight and effortlessly took the woman’s weight on his shoulder.

  No! No no no!

  ‘But I don’t want to die!’ he roared at them.

  Then listen to us and do as we say. You must remain here. Here it is safe. And if you wish to save your sister, you must prevent her from leaving, too. Use force if you must.

  Alfred dropped the old woman’s arm. She sank onto the bed, lopsided, and let out a soft groan.

  ‘Alfred!’ Johanna screamed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t – ’ he began. The siren outside started up again.

  ‘Then I’ll take her down myself,’ Johanna said. She was choking back tears.

  ‘Please, Johanna, stay here.’ He grabbed her wrist, but she wrenched her arm out of his grip.

  ‘Let me be!’ she said, sobbing freely now, hardly able to catch her breath.

  ‘No!’ he shouted, and as he made another attempt to grab her arm, the world turned silent for a second. And then the bomb fell.

  For several minutes, Alfred felt as if he’d been thrown out of his body. At the moment the bomb hit the adjacent building, the floor heaved and shook and the windows shattered inwards, as though they had been sucked in by an almighty breath. Alfred could see neither dark nor light as he lay on the floor, ears ringing, and it was only when his sight returned after a long few minutes that he realised he’d been thrown several feet across the room. The air was full of smoke, and the sound of Franziska wailing.