It's You

by Jane Porter

  I’m regretting my haste in booking the palace tour. Being impulsive doesn’t always pay. But my frustration begins to melt as our guide takes the microphone and begins to tell us the history and significance of Dresden, the former royal residence of the Saxon kings, and a city famous throughout Europe for its culture and architectural splendor.

  But there’s a dark side to the beautiful baroque city. In February 1945 the Allied forces targeted Dresden, bombing the historic city for three straight days, unleashing nearly four thousand tons of explosives and incendiary bombs, destroying much of the city’s famed beauty, and killing nearly 40,000 of its civilian citizens.

  Suddenly Edie’s Germany comes into focus.

  I’m reminded all over again of why I’m here.

  To not just trace her steps, and support her story. But to find truth. And meaning.

  • • •

  We’re back in Berlin at seven that evening and I catch a cab for my hotel. It’s not yet dark so I could walk the thirty minutes back to the Mani, but I’m tired. I’ve had enough activity for the day. I’ve taken at least fifty pictures and I’m looking forward to getting back to my room, having some dinner, and downloading the photos onto my laptop.

  It was a good day. I’m glad I went to Dresden but I’m also glad to be back in my room to process everything I saw and learned today.

  The travesty of war weighs heavily on me. I feel for the people of Dresden, and then I catch myself—but what about the Jews?

  And the Poles and the Czechs?

  What about everyone who was different?

  Those that were disabled, homosexual? The very religious? They were all killed, too. The suffering staggers me. I can see why people do not wish to talk about the war. I can see why Germany is conflicted about its past.

  How does a country come to terms with its history? Its madness?

  I wonder how the passing of time affects the different generations. I wonder what the young people are taught in school. I wonder if they try to talk with their grandparents and great-grandparents about the war. About the Third Reich.

  There aren’t many who lived through the war that are still alive. Edie’s generation is almost gone. What does that mean for the future?

  Does it mean one can forget?

  I suddenly think of Andrew and our last day together. The run. The meal at the Yardhouse. Walking back home together, holding hands.

  Did he know all day what he was about to do?

  Or was it all impulse?

  But in the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because whether it was planned, or impulsive, it doesn’t change the outcome.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I know I’m not supposed to read Edie’s diary yet, but I’m tempted to open it and read just a little.

  I want to hear her voice. I want to feel her here with me.

  But she is here, I remind myself. She’s the impetus for this trip. Her passion inspired me.

  I slip the diary into my bag and dress, heading out for the half-day tour of Potsdam.

  Fortunately, I get it right today, it is a tour today of Potsdam and while I enjoyed walking through the palace of Sanssoucci, it’s the extensive palace gardens that thrill me. I wander beneath the big trees, around the fountains and lakes, through the grounds that are both serene and magical. My mother would love the gardens. As I walk I can almost feel her with me.

  Or is it Edie?

  Maybe it’s all of them . . . those that have loved this place. Maybe their spirit is still here, protecting. Loving.

  I like the thought. It’s a happy one.

  After the tour we explore historic Potsdam, have a break for lunch, and I go to a Konditorei and order a slice of plum cake and coffee, in honor of Edie, and sit outside eating slowly, watching the tourists cross the cobbled square. At noon the clock chimes and bells somewhere ring. A warm breeze rustles the leaves of the trees, lifting a tendril of my hair.

  I pause, fork in hand, and listen.

  And feel.

  Despite the tourists and the chatter, there’s a lovely stillness here, a sense of depth and time. I can see Edie and Franz at a table in the historic plaza, talking, laughing. I can picture him leaning forward to kiss her. I can see her hand reach up to cup his face.

  Love changes one. It transforms.

  Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes . . .

  Those last words aren’t mine. I recognize them from the passage my mother was going to read at our wedding, the popular passage from Corinthians that is often read at weddings. But that’s not why my mom wanted to read them. She said these were not just words, or good advice. They were the words that inspired her daily.

  Love keeps no record of wrongs . . .

  If I loved Andrew as much as I say I do, then I can’t stay angry with him anymore. I can’t blame him for leaving me, or blame him for hurting me. I can’t blame myself, either.

  Love never fails . . .

  I did love him, and love—true love—never fails.

  Maybe it’s time to forgive him. Maybe it’s time to forgive myself.

  • • •

  The tour to Potsdam has energized me. I walk after the bus has dropped us off, map in hand, enjoying playing tourist.

  The Potsdam guide told me I have to go to the Fassbender & Rausch chocolate shop to see the incredible chocolate displays, including a giant teddy bear and some of Berlin’s most famous landmarks like a huge chocolate Brandenburg Gate. Apparently it’s a good place to pick up souvenirs and take photos, and if I do go, I must stop at the cafe attached to the shop since the hot chocolate and chocolate cake are to die for.

  The guide is right. Fassbender & Rausch is incredible and while I can’t find room for another dessert, I do buy gifts to take home, handmade truffles and chocolates for Dad, Edie, Ruth, and everyone at the dental office. I also take lots of photos.

  I nibble on some caramel-filled chocolates and start walking back towards my hotel with my guidebook in hand. I follow the sidewalk that parallels the river, which is the west side of Museum Island, passing first the handsome Berliner Dom, a cathedral that looks as if it’s hundreds of years old but actually only dates back to 1905, and then walking past gardens, before crossing the bridge at Schlossplatz, to end up at Hackescher Markt.

  It’s a gorgeous afternoon—sunny and bright but not too hot—and I’m in no hurry. I buy a bottle of water at one of the little stores and wander in and out of the various shops and boutiques. My attention is drawn to a black and neon pink T-shirt in a souvenir shop: Good Girls Go to Heaven, Bad Girls Go to Berlin. Don’t think I’ll buy it, but it makes me smile.

  My guidebook suggests I head over to the Hackescher Höfe, or courtyards. It’s a heritage site that has been restored, filled with shops and restaurants, along with several memorials, including the Otto Weidt Museum and further back in the same courtyard, the Anne Frank Center, the sister museum for the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam.

  I visit both exhibits, and they are sobering.

  I stop for dinner on my way home at a restaurant not far from the hotel. The evening is warm and everyone sits outside. I’m able to squeeze into a corner table. I order dinner and a glass of wine and while I wait, I pull out Edie’s diary. I’ve been here for four days now and I’ve seen Berlin—new and old, historic and social—and I’m ready to read the rest.

  I open the cover of the diary. A number of pages have been torn from the front.

  I smooth the first page, noting the date. July 1944.

  I’m just about to start reading when the woman next to me accidentally drops her phone which bounces towards my feet. I pick it up, and hand it back and she thanks me in German, “Danke schön.”

  I respond with, “Bitte.”

  She smiles. “You’re an American,” she says in English.

  I grimace. “Is it that obvious?”

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t born here, either.” She pockets her phone and smiles at me. “But Berlin is international. Everyone is here
. It’s the place to be.”

  She speaks flawless English, but there is an accent. I’m trying to place the accent. “You’re a tourist, too?”

  “No. I live here now. I got citizenship last year, but I was born in Israel.”

  “You’re Jewish?”

  “One hundred percent,” she retorts, raising her glass of beer. “There’s a lot of us in Berlin, now. A lot of Jews emigrating to Germany, mostly from Russia and Israel, but also America. One of my good friends is from Portland, Oregon. She moved here to study and stayed. Another friend is a photographer from New York. He’s become a German citizen, too. Higher education is free here, for citizens, and Berlin is very safe. We don’t feel threatened here. We aren’t persecuted.”

  My disbelief must show because she adds, “Look it up. You’ll see that under German law of 1949, any Jew, or the descendant of such a Jew, forced to flee the Nazis, has the right to become a naturalized German. And since 1990, Berlin’s Jewish population has grown by forty-five thousand to fifty-five thousand people, depending on your source. That’s a lot of people in twenty-five years.” She stands and places a handful of euros on the table, along with some coins. “Auf Wiedersehen. Bye-bye!”

  “Good-bye.”

  I watch her walk away until she disappears into the crowd spilling out onto the pavement, and then I return to reading.

  July 15, 1944

  Franz has put me on the train to Munich, and from Munich I’ll continue to Zurich. The train is very crowded and uncomfortable. Many people stand or sit on their luggage since there are not enough seats. It is very hot and with so many bodies crowded into such a small space, the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies is overpowering.

  I knew there would be soldiers on board but these men are not the arrogant soldiers I first encountered in 1937 and 1938. They are mostly silent, and still, leaning against the wall, watching the world pass without saying a word.

  But then, almost no one speaks, and there is certainly no laughter.

  People are tired, and hungry. Hitler’s masses are still loyal, but they are exhausted by the years of rationing and bombings and blackouts.

  July 17, 1944

  Missed my connecting train in Zurich after an intense border crossing where the SS scrutinized my passport before finally allowing me to leave. In Zurich I needed another train and then I had to take a bus. The hotel in Ascona gave away my room when I didn’t arrive yesterday as scheduled.

  They recommended the villa just above the lake, which rents rooms but it is very expensive and I can’t afford more than a night there. I will stay a night so that I have somewhere to sleep but must find something else.

  July 18, 1944

  The villa was very lovely as one might imagine, quite luxurious with many foreigners. Ascona is part of Ticino, the Italian-speaking region of Switzerland and located at the northern end of picturesque Lake Maggiore. Ascona is very serene and pretty, and as far from the chaos and conflict of Berlin as one could desire.

  Hard to believe that war consumes the rest of Europe. And while food is still rationed here, it is of much better quality and quantity than one could find anywhere in Germany.

  July 19, 1944

  Have switched to a smaller hotel on the lake. It is much more affordable and quieter, too. There are no grand spaces here, but I am quite fond of the small but lovely terrace overlooking the lake with chairs for sunbathing.

  After checking in, the hotel front desk allowed me to use their phone to call Franz’s office, but his secretary said he was out. I asked her to let Franz know I’d made it safely but changed hotels and I’d call again tomorrow.

  July 20, 1944

  After breakfast I tried to reach Franz again at work. I’d just missed him. Apparently he’d been in this morning and had just stepped out for lunch.

  His secretary, who is not the friendliest woman in the first place, sounded annoyed to hear from me again. She was rather sarcastic when I mentioned that I was in Switzerland on holiday. She said it must be nice to be on holiday while everyone else is being bombed to bits.

  I hang up, not at all convinced that Egbert will do anything.

  I didn’t hear the radio announcement myself. I was in my room, in bed resting, when the German woman on my floor pounded. She’d come to tell me that there had been an attempt on der Führer’s life today but he’d survived—thank God.

  I didn’t know what to think, my mind was a whirl and I immediately turned on my radio. The neighbor stayed for a while, talking nonstop. She is very emotional and cried, saying how lucky we are that Hitler survived. She says God must have His hand over Hitler’s head. The whole time she sat with me, I was in agony.

  Who was part of the assassination attempt? Was this what Franz was working on? Or is this something else?

  Please God let this be something else . . .

  July 21, 1944

  Didn’t sleep last night. Couldn’t. Haven’t eaten, either. Can barely sip some watery tea. Another radio announcement saying something about Hitler returning to work with just some cuts and superficial burns. The enemy was behind the attempt. Finally, after one, in the middle of the night, Hitler himself speaks. He talks of a small group of stupid soldiers behind the attempt, as well as a larger government coup, and mentions Count von Stauffenberg. Everyone associated with the attempted coup would be ruthlessly hunted down and “exterminated.”

  I think I must have fainted as I opened my eyes and I was lying on the floor, not far from the radio. I didn’t get up for a long time. My arms and legs wouldn’t move. It was as if I had no bones. No muscles or tissue. I was nothing but panic and the roar of blood in my ears.

  Franz is in trouble. Franz must come and join me now before it’s too late.

  July 22, 1944

  My German neighbor returns today, gloating. News reports today say that Claus von Stauffenberg’s entire family has been arrested, and his wife and children have been murdered. The reports so far are unconfirmed and I pray it is just rumor. I can see Nina’s face and the children now. They have the most beautiful children. The boys were all so loving and I remember how just last year I bounced Valerie on my knee. She was just two at the time and the sweetest of things. I can’t believe they’re all gone. I refuse to believe it. The secret police can’t be that cruel. But why doesn’t Franz contact me? Why can’t he send word that he’s safe? I need to know he’s safe and has a plan to escape.

  German papers in the reception today, headlines shout that the German revolt is over. I read and reread the lines: “The attempt of the small clique of conspirators to seize power in Germany was nipped in the bud without difficulty . . .”

  There are other reports swirling around Rome. The Stockholm press claims that the attempted coup took place at Obersalzberg, during the regular afternoon staff meeting. The bomb apparently went off before Hitler had fully entered the room.

  July 23, 1944

  Had a message from the hotel reception that a Marion von Wartenburg telephoned. She didn’t leave a message. I tried to phone her back but there was no answer.

  July 24, 1944

  Haven’t been able to reach Marion yet. Afraid to call anyone else. Can’t get information here in Ascona. Want to call Missie but I don’t know where she’s staying. I’ve thought of ringing the Adlon—she might be there—and possibly they could get a message to her. Missie would know what’s happening. She’s very close to Adam, too, and would know far more than Clarita, whom Adam has shielded from the discussions, planning to protect her and the children. Am terrified though that I will just make things worse . . . can’t arouse suspicions. But don’t understand why Franz hasn’t contacted me. Makes me fear the worst. Please God, let me know he’s okay.

  July 26, 1944

  Reached Marion this morning. She was very calm on the phone, but very vague, referring to the past few days as “distressing events” and how Berlin was a very sad place right now. It wasn’t until the very end of the call that she mentioned that Peter and a num
ber of others had been arrested July 21st and 22nd, and more arrests had taken place that day. The men were to be tried soon and she planned to attend Peter’s trial, if she’d be permitted. Marion studied law, has a doctorate degree in law and training as an assistant judge. If she is not allowed in court, then the court is a mockery. But perhaps it is better if she stays away. Peter was Claus’ cousin and if the Gestapo apply Sippenhaft . . .

  Marion doesn’t say that Peter is doomed, but it’s understood. He was too close to Claus, which makes me think of Claus’ older brother, Berthold. He is doomed, too. Now it’s impossible not to race through the list of friends who gathered this past year at Peter and Marion’s apartment. Are they all doomed, then?

  Instead I ask about Franz.

  Marion is silent a moment. “I’d hoped you’d have news for me,” she says. “Nobody has seen him in days.”

  It’s as I feared. He’s either been arrested, or he’s . . . dead.

  I don’t remember the rest that was said. My mind went blank.

  July 29, 1944

  Missie phoned from the Adlon. She sounded so cheerful during the call. She’s still working at the office but had a lovely lunch with the girls. Melanie is in the city on her own, which I grasp to mean that Gottfried’s been arrested. She chatters about nothing and yet in her chatter is everything. I tell her I’m very much on my own, too, so I hope she’ll have a cup of tea for me. She promises to call if she has news but it might be difficult since Goebbels has declared Totaler Krieg on those who are disloyal, and now that it’s all-out war, there probably won’t be opportunities for the girls to get together the way they used to.

  I hang up and lie on my bed and wish, oh how I wish, I’d never let Franz put me on the train two weeks ago.

  August 1, 1944

  More arrests in Berlin today, Melanie among them.

  August 4, 1944

  Missie phones. She casually mentions an embassy dinner years ago where we first met and were introduced to Ambassador von Hassell. She’s only mentioned him because something terrible has happened to him. She doesn’t say that, but I know it. That’s how this works now. Every name, every friend, every connection is a casualty. What were we thinking, believing we could change things? What brash, naïve folly was this?