The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02]

by David L. Robbins

  “Listen. You hear me? You’ve got to leave. We can’t have you here. Get out!”

  The door was silent. Lottie feared the doorknob, what she might see if she turned it, moist and white, the Jew in the darkness, the Jew eclipsing her life.

  She put her hand on the knob.

  Freya laid her hand over Lottie’s. Her mother’s grip was shocking, hard.

  Her tone was calm, not just a mother’s words but a protector’s, firm and righteous.

  “Get away from this door, Lottie.”

  As strong as Lottie’s hands were, Freya pried her fingers from the door.

  She took Lottie by the elbow and towed her back to the sofa. With a yank the two women sat.

  “Mutti.”

  “No.”

  “Do you understand the danger you’ve put us in?”

  “Yes.”

  Lottie needed to explain it anyway to her mother, who couldn’t possibly understand, or else she wouldn’t have done this. “If we’re caught, we’ll be shot. Right outside in the street, in front of your house. The SS will shoot us, Mutti.”

  “And what will they do to him if he’s caught?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Freya was stricken. She wagged her head, solemn, almost a shudder.

  “That’s the worst of all possible answers.”

  Lottie stood. She wanted to look down on her mother, that was her mood.

  “Mutti. We’re not heroes.”

  Freya also stood.

  “We’re not monsters. Today, in Berlin and everywhere in Germany, that’s all there is. It’s a choice and every German makes it. Do nothing, know nothing. Or act. Monster or hero. That’s all there is for the whole world until this is over.”

  Freya put her hands to her hips. She spread her legs.

  “Lottie, Liebchen, I only put myself in this danger. I had no idea you’d be coming to live with me. You’re here now and you’re welcome, of course. But I’ve made my choice in this matter. You’ve got to make yours.”

  The arguments lasted for days. Lottie demanded to know how they could feed a third mouth when they could barely scrape by themselves? Their ration cards are already growing more and more useless, government stores are drying up. The few remaining shops are being burned out from the bombings. They have not enough money for black-market food.

  Who else knows about the Jew? Will Mutti keep her mouth shut and not tell her friends, not want to show off how good she’s being, how heroic? Who among her acquaintances will trade in Mutti’s and Lottie’s lives for an extra portion of horsemeat?

  How can the Jew be trusted? How does she know he’s not a spy, just waiting to grab her and some ring of imagined conspirators?

  Who’s to say how long he’ll keep his word and stay put? That he won’t go crazy in the dank basement and go out for a stroll? It’ll all be over then.

  What happens if the house is bombed and he’s found in the basement, moaning, ”Get me out, get me out.” After they rescue him, they shoot him. And then Lottie and Mutti. He’s a Jew in their basement.

  Why give a stranger such control over them?

  Freya held her ground. Lottie caved in. She had no choice. She has nowhere else to go. Like the Jew They are trapped in Mutti’s house together. But trapped or not, Lottie will not acknowledge him.

  She finds it creepy that he sits there on the top step, listening, waiting for someone to walk by, capture a word or two outside his barrier. He perches there probably even when the house is empty. What kind of human being is it who can tolerate such darkness, silence, hatred, danger, suspicion, fear? The Jew scares her for his power, not only over her life, but what it must take to withstand his own.

  At night Lottie awakes from nightmares and stares in the cold gloom at the door to her room. He’s down there, crouched on the top step behind the door. The nightmares must come from him. She’s afraid he’ll sneak out and touch her while she sleeps, that she’ll wake up and find him over her.

  Mutti says he’s a wonderful man. A teacher of history, he knows all sorts of tales. His own is a horrible story. If Lottie would only let him tell it to her, she would see there’s no choice but to help him. He’s alone. His people, all his people, terrible, terrible.

  For the two weeks she has been in Mutti’s household, the Jew has respected Lottie’s wish not to be seen or heard by her. She has never said it directly to him; she has not spoken one word to him since she demanded that he leave; but he has heard her say it to Mutti. Lottie thinks he might not even be real. He might be nothing more than an empty wish by Mutti, a fantasy that she could be so brave as to help a Jew.

  When Lottie is out of the house, she doesn’t know what he does. Does he come out and sip tea with Mutti? Do they chat on the sofa? No, he must stay hidden. If a neighbor happened by, if a curtain were left opened to the street ... no, the consequences of the smallest slipup will be awful.

  Lottie watches her mother move the soup kettle to the burner. The skillet begins to spit grease. The Jew behind the door can smell food coming, he rises like a goldfish to it. Lottie cannot stand the house, the malaise and tension, another moment. How can the Jew sit day after day, weeks without light, with such silence? How can a human being live like a rat? She wants to rap the door hard with her toe, make him jump, tumble down the steps.

  Lottie whirls away from the kitchen, arms bound around her. She stomps the long walk to the front parlor. She goes to the sofa and folds with a bounce. It’s quiet in the parlor, the kitchen is a long way back. The rooms in Mutti’s house are narrow, and there are a lot of them. The building is a two-story row house, with a face of fat gray stone. The Gothic facade has been marred by shrapnel and some windows have been shattered, but Freya has been lucky with the bombings. And fortunate with the authorities; there’s room here for three more families.

  She goes to her cello case. She takes out the Galiano, it is shiny and ancient. Placing a chair in the center of the room, she arranges the instrument between her knees. She hugs the cello, lays her head on its cool wooden shoulder. The Galiano is innocent, she thinks, perfect and good. In its big chest is nothing but the songs of maestros. Lottie knows how to caress it to bring them out, the music in the cello’s breath. She strokes its waist. Why are we here now, she wonders, you and me in this awful time and place? She’s ashamed that the Galiano—two hundred years old, it has cried and laughed on stages in Vienna, Rome, Paris, London, seen centuries of opulence and honor—must find itself today in Berlin.

  Lottie lifts her head. Her cheek wears the flat kiss of the cello.

  She flicks her glance at the kitchen, to her cooking, courageous mother. Then to the basement door, behind which an unknown manner of man suffers for deliverance.

  Fine for the two of you, Lottie thinks.

  Now, listen. This is what I can do.

  She inclines her head, her eyes half closed. Lottie descends to the place inside her where the music waits with its arms out, always, like a child to be lifted. She draws the bow across the strings, slowly, the opening strain to the first solo of Schumann’s Concerto for Cello in A minor, Opus 129. This is Lottie’s dream piece. She’s practiced it a hundred times. One day she will play the solo in front of the Berlin Philharmonic and adoring thousands. In her mind they’re in their seats in the theater now.

  Her playing builds with the work. This is not her private, rehearsal tone but full concert pitch. Her vibrato and bow stroke would fill the Beethoven Hall to the rafters were she there. Lottie lifts her chin, her head undulates left and right with the sound, the cello charms her as though out of a basket. Under lowered lids, Lottie sees her mother in the doorway.

  The music broods for many measures, exploring the lower registers of the cello, the sounds of a father weeping. Then the music becomes the keen of a mother, high-pitched, sweeping into a quicker lament, the beating of fists. Lottie surrenders to the pain and the selfishness of her genius. She is strapped to the passages and cascades with them. She is oblivious to all else b
ut the cello and her cause, to play as powerfully as the Jew, to play as loftily as anything Mutti might behold of herself.

  Lottie listens. She knows her performance is compelling. The cello is a treasure box she sweeps clean, the Schumann piece is her broom; she leaves nothing inside the instrument, bringing out every bauble and secret of it for her mother and the Jew to marvel at.

  When she is done, her eyes are fully closed. She lowers the bow gracefully, with flourish. By instinct of her imagination, she stands to the applause of the concert hall. She lifts her head and there is Freya clapping, a dish towel over her shoulder. Mutti’s eyes are red-rimmed.

  Freya says, “Bravo, child. Bravo.” She pulls the towel off her shoulder to dry her eyes.

  The clapping continues.

  It carries from far down the hall. From the basement.

  Freya beams at her daughter, but only for a moment. She turns away, walking a few steps into the dining room. She calls, “I told you she plays beautifully. Doesn’t she?”

  The single clapping continues, softened by distance and walls. Lottie wants it to stop. This is wrong, a violation of the rules. He should not become real. It was the bargain they all made. He’s clapping. He’s there. The Jew behind the door speaks to Lottie.

  Freya returns fully to the parlor. She has been moved.

  “Liebchen, that was magnificent. Was that for me?”

  Lottie fumbles with the bow and the cello, putting them in the case. The clapping does not die out. He’s there. A Jew in their house.

  “No.”

  “Well.” Freya folds the kitchen towel. “It was practice, then. Wonderful.”

  Make him stop, Lottie thinks. It’s ridiculous.

  Freya cocks her head backward, to the basement. “Listen to him.”

  “I have to get ready. There’s a concert at four.”

  “I didn’t know. Will you be playing the Schumann?”

  Stupid question. Stupid mother.

  “No.”

  The clapping stops.

  Freya stays in the room while Lottie stows the Galiano. Lottie replaces the chair and makes for the stairs. Freya speaks to stop her.

  “Liebchen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. You can see what that meant to him.”

  Lottie imagines the history teacher on his dark stoop. He probably cried too.

  Making no reply, she climbs the steps, aggravated. She did a self-centered thing. An awful thing. She played with all her might to humble them both, show them who was extraordinary among the three. Plenty of people suffer, everyone in Berlin. Millions are brave. But who possesses Lottie’s gift? A handful in the world.

  Mutti chose to see Lottie’s vanity as noble. Mutti warped her daughter’s egotism into generosity. The Jew clapped a full minute after the music stopped. He’s ludicrously appreciative. The two of them stole the music from Lottie. They wept and molded it into their own images, for their purposes, further proof that they’re the most special and good of anyone.

  Lottie changes into the tuxedo and puts up her hair. Twenty minutes later she lands in the foyer. The cello is by the door, beside a paper sack of salami sandwiches. Lottie dons her overcoat, and without saying goodbye takes both packages into the chill city afternoon.

  By two o’clock she has arrived at the Beethoven Hall. Today’s concert is Mozart and Schubert. There’s plenty of cello in the Schubert, even for fourth chair. Outside the theater, people stand in line. The afternoon concerts are free, but there are limited seats available for the public. Large sections are blocked off for Nazi officials and servicemen. When the lights go up after performances, Lottie and the musicians look out over a lake of black uniforms, whitecaps of bandages. Sometimes there are no lights; ushers use lanterns to lead the audience out.

  Backstage, there is animated chatter. Whenever the musicians of the BPO gather, the first thing they do is weigh their fates. Lottie doesn’t take part in the discussions; she’s a woman, only a provisional member of the orchestra.

  The men lump into clatches of five to ten, often by instrument. What will happen to them? Will they be conscripted into the Volkssturm? Will Speer act to save them? Is Goebbels just going to throw them to the wolves after all they’ve done for Berlin? Lottie sits alone, her back to a wall, casting her attention left and right like a fishing lure. An oboist found some black-market bread, here’s the address. A French-horn player saw a Belgian worker crushed to death by a falling beam. Another string player was bombed out of his house; oddly, along with Lottie, the string section has been hit hardest. Someone in the percussion section has been listening to Allied broadcasts. This can get him executed so he whispers, though he is among men he can trust. They all have the same interest: survival, for themselves and the BPO. He says the Americans and British are ready to cross the Roer River, headed for the Rhine. They’re aiming at Berlin. He believes the German troops will lay down their arms and escort the Amis in. Then they’ll all band together and take care of the dirty Reds.

  The French-horn player hears this. He shakes his nose at his grouping of brass players. The Russians will be here first, he says. They’re only fifty miles away. He’s a sad, spongy old man, dripping of ugly tales and depressing news. Lottie avoids him and his clique.

  The Russians are brutes, he says. The things he’s heard, tsk. You don’t want to know. You may even have heard worse. And they’re getting angrier and more out of control with every step closer to Berlin.

  Pity the city, says a trumpeter.

  The French-horn player answers. Oh, Berlin can take it. We just have to keep our heads down and lie low. But pity the women.

  When several heads in the group tilt towards Lottie, they seem surprised to see her glaring back. Chagrined, they lean again into their circle, their voices ratcheted down. Lottie hears another tsk.

  The day’s performance is lackadaisical. The image of a Russian plague massing on the Polish border is a pall over the performers. Furtwängler is gone; the director until he returns is Robert Heger. He appears perplexed waving his baton, a jockey on a distracted horse. Heger beats the BPO but they respond with reluctant speed. The Mozart is mangled; Lottie cannot even muster much gusto for the Schubert. But the house erupts in applause when they are finished. Heger drops his arms and turns for his bow, he is snappy, badly hiding his anger. The orchestra stands and bows. To Lottie they look like an orchestra stretching their necks to a guillotine.

  The house lights come up. The musicians shuffle off the stage. Lottie hears low-slung curses from the men. Chairs skid out of the way, sheets of music flutter to the stage floor. Lottie holds her spot, focusing her eyes on the back of the auditorium, at the top of the aisles where Berliners queue to exit. The line on the right is slow, a few soldiers on crutches hobble as best they can. Berliners are patient behind them.

  The line on the left is also slow. Something unusual is going on. Two men in uniform are at the head of each aisle, handing out items from baskets. Lottie eases the Galiano to its side on the floor. She steps into the wings, then down the stairs to the house floor.

  At the tail of the right-hand line in the emptying house, Lottie accepts a few kind statements from an elderly couple. She bites her tongue and says thank you. They congratulate her for being a woman in the orchestra and admit surprise; from the audience they could not spot her for the tuxedo. Lottie explains it’s only until the war is over, they nod. Approaching the top of the aisle, Lottie discerns that the men in uniform are boys, Hitler Youth. From thirty feet away, she sees the blue of their eyes, like welders’ torches. Their paramilitary outfits are hard things, dark shells of leather and spiny creases, they look so wrong for boys of fourteen or fifteen.

  Lottie follows the slow gait to the boys. Ahead, some people dig into the baskets, then hurry away. Others halt and gaze down at what the two youths offer, seeming to fall into a spell until someone prods them and they either dig in or walk on, dazed. No one speaks. The two Nazi youths say nothing. They look everyone in
the face. They are stony, sober children.

  When the old couple in front of Lottie gain the top of the aisle, the two peer down into the basket. Their eyes stay in there for several moments, netted in what they see. Their glances rebound up together, and in the look they share Lottie reads the lives these two have spent by each other’s side. Fifty years or more, husband and wife. On their twin faces are love, children, tragedy, loyalty. Still as twins, they nod just slightly, never unlocking their eyes. The man reaches into the basket for both of them and takes two.

  Lottie steps up. The basket is held out.

  Inside are capsules, wrapped and labeled in tiny plastic packets.

  Cyanide.

  Lottie catches her breath. Her gut plummets.