Peter watched nervously as Franz crunched along the gravel drive to the large front door. On reaching it he put his hand on a metal ring and pulled it towards him. A bell rang inside. Peter shrank back out of view. It was almost dawn and one way or another he would have to hide from prying eyes.
There was no response, so after a delay of some thirty seconds, Franz pulled the bell cord once more. This time the door swung open and an elderly man in evening dress appeared in the doorway. He appeared to grimace at seeing Franz’s uniform.
‘May I help you?’
Peter could hear very little of Franz’s response and the ensuing conversation. The butler, for that was what he assumed he was, disappeared, closing the door behind him. Franz waited patiently outside. A minute or so later the door opened in a fast, sweeping motion, almost hitting Franz. A large lady in her late fifties or early sixties in a silk dressing gown and fur slippers had pulled Franz to her chest and was almost hugging him to death.
‘My little Franz! Oh my poor boy!’ she said over and over. She looked carefully around before they went inside, closing the door behind.
Peter remained stationary for a few minutes. He was on the verge of leaving when Franz rushed out of the door saying, ‘Peter! Wolfi! Come! It’s safe.’
Peter held back. Wolfi did not and dragged him towards the open door. Eventually Peter’s fear of what might meet him inside was overcome by his desire not to separate from his friends.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, they were sitting at a large, mahogany table eating powdered eggs with slices of meat and bread and ersatz coffee. Wolfi was chewing happily on a mutton bone with scraps of meat attached.
The house was enormous inside. Despite its size, it appeared that there was only the one servant, Albert the butler and more recently, cook. Aunt Berta had welcomed Peter as if he were her own child. An animal lover to the core, she had happily allowed Wolfi into her fine dining room.
Once they had eaten Franz recounted how he had met Peter and the sad events relating to his father and mother. Aunt Berta wiped away a tear and taking both boys to her chest, hugged them until they could barely breathe.
‘These are the terrible times we live in,’ she said. ‘Even my boy Kurt has been taken from me.’
Franz was curious at this remark as he had not remembered any children. Seeing his puzzled look, Aunt Berta enlightened them.
‘Kurt is the son of an old servant. Sadly he was orphaned before the war so we adopted him. Presently he is at a KLV camp in Elgersburg, Thuringia.’
Seeing Franz’s consternation she quickly added, ‘It’s not that sort of camp. Lots of children under the age of fourteen have been evacuated to the countryside to avoid the bombings. Officially of course the phrase ‘evacuation’ is forbidden. The KLV camps are staffed by teachers and senior members of the Hitler Youth who educate the boys in all things necessary for the ‘future well-being of the Reich’. This includes sports, war games and many other types of physical education. I did not want him to go, but unfortunately we had little choice.’
Aunt Berta did not sound very convinced by the official propaganda that she had heard so often. It clearly saddened her to think about it.
The phrase for the ‘future well-being of the Reich’ unsettled the boys when they heard it. It seemed somehow completely meaningless in their current environment.
‘As for Albert the butler,’ Aunt Berta whispered, ‘don’t worry about him. He is a Jew.’
Peter marvelled at this news. Here right next door to some of the top brass of the Nazi party, a Jew was hiding under their very noses.
‘Better than that, he has even served drinks to some of them,’ she giggled.
That first night in Aunt Berta’s house was idyllic. Her enormous wealth enabled her to buy many of the everyday essentials such as potatoes, powdered milk, bread, eggs and butter that few other Germans could afford or even find, as they were so severely rationed. As well as the staples of everyday life she could purchase some luxuries, but even the wealthy Aunt Berta struggled to find real coffee. On hearing this, Peter took great delight in producing the last sack of the beans that he had rescued from the water. Her face was a picture of shock and delight. Her face lit up even more when between them they unloaded their haul of champagne and cognac. She kissed both of them repeatedly on their cheeks, saying ‘You are my angels, my darlings.’
After dinner they sat in front of a real fire, with real coal, sipping coffee and cognac. Normally such pleasures were denied the young generation in Aunt Berta’s household, until at least eighteen. After all the trials and tribulations that these two had gone through she did not have the heart to scold them. At Peter’s request Albert joined them, and for three hours or so, the war seemed just a dream.
When they retired to bed each had their own room with an adjoining door between them. Without hesitation or inquiry, Aunt Berta said that of course, Wolfi must sleep on Peter’s bed. In the event he slept on the floor by the door of the bedrooms, keeping a watchful eye on both boys.
Peter and Franz slept like never before. The sheets were crisp white cotton and lemon-scented. The pillows and mattresses were stuffed with goose feathers and were so soft the boys sank into them as if in the lake. For the first time in many months, neither boy suffered from the recurring dreams that had so often haunted them. Both slept soundly with full stomachs and a goodnight kiss from Aunt Berta.
In the morning Peter soaked in a hot bath. He could scarcely believe it. Hot water and soap! The bath was so large that Peter, Wolfi and Franz could have bathed at the same time, without ever bumping into each other. As he relaxed in the soapy water, Wolfi lay next to the tub, only looking up when some of the contents splashed onto him.
* * *
For the next few days life continued in the same wonderful vein. By the standards of the war, there was plenty to eat and drink, only the coffee being rationed to after dinner. There was always coal for the fire and, so it seemed to Peter, always hot water. The boys were kitted out in new clothing, some left behind by their servants. Peter even got a second new pair of boots. They had been bought for Kurt, a detail Aunt Berta withheld when she presented them to him.
‘You are very kind Frau Weiss,’ Peter said. ‘And very brave, harbouring three ‘enemies’ of the Reich.’
‘Nonsense. This is my house I will have whomever I like to stay. And please call me Aunt Berta,’ she replied.
He was pleased to call her ‘Aunt’. In spite of her defiance, Peter knew the penalty for a woman of her age would be fatal. Such was Aunt Berta’s nature that she did not allow any discussion about such matters.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, ‘let me show you something.’ Aunt Berta stood up and they followed her into the dining room.
‘By the time any unwanted visitors get from the front door to the drawing room, you will be hidden in here.’ She pressed an oak panel which opened to reveal a secret cupboard.
* * *
The greatest pleasure for all concerned was to sit after dinner, listening to the radio. In defiance of the regulations, and in common with most of Berlin, they would listen to BBC news bulletins.
‘It will all be over soon, my darlings,’ Aunt Berta would announce optimistically as each British success was reported.
After these bulletins, Albert would turn the dial to a music channel, where symphonies and concertos were the order of the day. On hearing one particular piece of music, Aunt Berta sprang from her chair. ‘Dance with me,’ she implored and danced a waltz with each in turn. Even Wolfi joined in.
* * *
The joy of life at Aunt Berta’s continued for almost two weeks, following the same routine. One morning, after breakfast, Aunt Berta became unusually serious.
‘My husband has been away on business for some time. He has visited Kurt at the KLV camp and he is bringing him home for a visit. I am sure you will all become good friends. Until I can be certain of Kurt’s reaction, it is best that Peter an
d Wolfi hide somewhere else.’
The news was an unwelcome shock. They knew that their stay could not last forever, but the idea that they might separate was completely unexpected.
‘We shall stay together, the three of us,’ Franz declared angrily.
‘No, no, you misunderstand, my darlings. No-one will have to go away. Peter and Wolfi will stay in a summer house next to the lake until we are sure it is safe. There is a heater in there and he will have plenty to eat.’ Franz was still indignant. Aunt Berta managed to calm him.
‘Kurt was a sweet, harmless boy when he left. He has changed. He seems hardened in his attitudes by all the indoctrination and full of hate. He did not even want to come home for Christmas or New Year. That was why we have decided to ‘bring’ him back for a while. To recover the old Kurt, if it is not too late. As yet he does not know anything about the two of you or even Albert.’
‘Then I cannot remain here either,’ Franz replied to Berta’s explanation.
‘You will stay as my nephew. I know you are an enemy of the state, but with the war and Hitler’s obsession with the Jews, no-one is likely to devote much time looking for you, my darling.’
As she made this observation she took a card from her silk purse and handed it to Franz. Franz gazed at it in disbelief, for on the front was his photograph. An old picture, yet unmistakeably a picture of him.
‘It’s an identity card. It describes you as my nephew,’ Berta explained. ‘It took me some time to get it. It was all done through a church. The congregation is opposed to the Nazis. It is quite clever. One of them leaves their genuine identity card in a basket outside the church. Someone, known only as ‘the forger’, takes the genuine card and returns it altered with a new photograph. Luckily I had an old photo of Franz which he used.’
Aunt Berta stopped whilst Franz absorbed the news. The significance of the moment was not lost on Peter or Franz. Franz had been ‘legalised’ by forgery and could come out of hiding.
‘Kurt will not suspect anything,’ she said. ‘Prior to his adoption I often spoke of my wonderful nephew Franz.’ Franz blushed.
‘I had intended obtaining papers for Peter as well. Understandably the church members are nervous as so many have reported lost papers. I will find another way,’ she said apologetically, ‘although it will have to wait for now.’
Peter rose from the table and kissed Aunt Berta tenderly on the cheek. She placed her hand on his and held it there for a few minutes.
* * *
And so Peter and Wolfi moved into the summer house by the lake, forty minutes away from the house that had become so comfortable to them, awaiting the arrival of the adopted son. The summer house was less luxurious than the main house, and still, a great deal more comfortable than Peter’s previous hideouts. To describe it simply as a ‘summer house’ did not do it justice. It was more spacious and well-equipped than the dwellings occupied by most Berliners, and was very secluded, set within its own grounds of several acres, with a huge lawn fronting directly onto the water. It even had an old Blaupunkt valve radio. It was a small miracle that the property had not been requisitioned or confiscated by some Nazi official or other, especially as the Weiss family had not used it for years. It was to them just another of their many houses.
‘Aunt Berta must have really powerful friends,’ he thought.
Once again Peter was living with Wolfi by the side of a great lake, this time the Havelsee, and on his own, fending for himself. In the few weeks in the Weiss mansion he had grown fond of the conversation and shared moments of laughter. Hopefully it would only be for a short while until they could be sure of Kurt’s attitude. At least each day he would be visited by Franz and Aunt Berta when she could manage it, he comforted himself. And he was well-fed.
So Peter remained in the summer house taking advantage of its many books. He had forgotten how much he had missed simple pleasures such as reading. For some reason he had found himself drawn to Robinson Crusoe, a book he had once rejected as too childish. With reading, listening to the radio and exercising Wolfi, the hours and days passed quite quickly.
It had been almost five days since he had moved to the summer house. Kurt had returned three days ago and yet there was no indication as to when or whether they would be able to move back to the house with Aunt Berta, Franz and Albert. Since Kurt’s homecoming, Franz had only managed to sneak away and see Peter and Wolfi once.
Meanwhile at the Weiss house, Franz was unhappy and deeply concerned. Herr Weiss had briefly deposited Kurt at the house, shaken hands enthusiastically with Franz and wishing both well, departed on his war duties once more, only stopping to whisper in Aunt Berta’s ear.
From the very first Franz had taken an instant dislike to Kurt. He tried not to show his feelings. He just did not trust him. As always Aunt Berta saw the best in everyone and encouraged them all to get along, as they were now related.
Kurt was a boy of fifteen. He had striking blonde hair with deep blue eyes. He was tall and thin, but athletic. He looked like the perfect image of the Nazi youth.
However when he disliked or disapproved of anything his face took on a hideous sneer that transformed an otherwise normal countenance into something resembling a gargoyle. Worst of all he talked as if he were Goebbels himself, constantly referring to ‘hideous Jews’, ‘filthy communists’ and ‘enemies of the state’. Great Britain and her Allies were the ‘Western terrorists’. Not yet a fully fledged member of the Hitler Youth (Berta had prevented him being press-ganged), he nonetheless always wore the emblems and badges of the movement. Whenever a senior party leader such as Goebbels or Göring or Hitler spoke on the radio, he would stand right arm raised in the Nazi salute, paying homage to the wireless set. Often when a broadcast finished he would sing the ‘Flag Song’ of the Hitler Youth, or worse still the hated ‘Horst Wessel Song’. His prized possession was an authentic Luger pistol with real bullets.
‘This weapon was presented to me by an officer of the SS. It was a prize for my brilliant recital of the Nazi ideology. It has already been put to good use against our enemies,’ he boasted. ‘The Oberleutnant told me himself.’
Often, ignoring Aunt Berta’s pleas, he would wave the gun about, pointing it at Franz and screaming ‘Are you an enemy of the Reich?’
In the midst of conversation, Kurt would interject with tit-bits of ‘important detail’. ‘The Führer is a hero. He was wounded in the First World War. At his birthday parade in 1938 the Führer stood arm aloft for five hours without any break whatsoever; the Führer is an animal lover who has decreed humane conditions for transporting cattle by railway; only the Führer foresaw the betrayal of the Reich by the November Criminals in 1918.’
Worst of all, Kurt, who enjoyed all the comforts that Aunt Berta could bestow on him, repaid her kindness by berating her for ‘undermining the war effort’.
‘Don’t you know how the heroes at the front are making sacrifices for all Germans? All you do is complain about shortages of this and that. It will be different when we are victorious.’
For Franz disguising his repulsion was impossible. He winced whenever Kurt railed against the ‘enemies of the state’ and clenched his fist when the Jews were similarly denounced.
The main reason Franz detested Kurt was that he seemed to spy on him wherever he went. He could not leave the room to go to the toilet without finding Kurt waiting for him at the door. And though he had no proof, Franz was certain that he had been into his room and searched through his property. His precious new ID card was moved from where he had left it.
It was soon obvious to Aunt Berta and Franz that with Kurt in the house they could never divulge Peter or Albert’s religion. In fact Franz was quite clear that Peter must never meet Kurt. As yet he had not had the heart to mention any of these fears to his friend.
* * *
It was near the end of February and for Kurt the only topic of conversation was the impending victory for the Greater German Reich and how it would be great to celebrat
e it on the Führer’s birthday. Berta, Franz and Kurt were in the drawing room after dinner. Music was playing in the background, Berta was embroidering a tapestry, Franz was reading and Kurt was dispensing his wisdom on why Germany would inevitably win the war.
‘We Germans are the master race. The lesser nations of the world cannot possibly hope to overcome us.’
Franz bit his tongue. ‘The master race lost the last war. Goebbels has a club foot and Himmler is short, fat and virtually blind. Some master race!’ he thought. Casting a quick glance at Aunt Berta, Franz got up.
‘I feel a little unwell. I think I will go to bed,’ he said.
Kurt looked at him with contempt. The new German superman was not permitted to feel unwell.
Once in his room, Franz peaked through the gap in the door. As suspected, Kurt was at the top of the stairs. He waited for fifteen minutes and then looked again. This time the sneak was gone so he locked the door to the bedroom and proceeded to climb out the window, over the large balcony and down the ivy onto the drive.
It was many days since he had seen his friends and tonight more than ever he wanted sane company. On tiptoe, and as silently as possible, he crept from the drive out into the street. It was a little after nine o’clock. It was dangerous to go out at night, although he was comforted by his new identity papers. Within half an hour he was at the summer house. He gave the signal of his arrival by hooting like an owl and waited for Peter to open the door onto the verandah.
‘Franz!’ Peter was thrilled, if surprised to see him.
Inside they talked for hours with Wolfi lying at Franz’s feet. He missed both of his friends so much. The house was wonderful, yet occasionally he thought they would be better off in the woods.
Finally, Franz came to the real purpose of his visit.
‘I’m afraid with Kurt around it is not safe for you at the house.’ As Franz told his friend about the detestable Kurt, Peter was not surprised. He had suspected as much when he had heard nothing about his return.
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