“Quick, get the rifles,” Katja ordered unnecessarily, for Frederica was already on her feet and reaching for them. She slid one of them out of reach behind the cellar door and aimed the other one at the two Russian heads.
With guns pointed at them from two directions, the men remained immobile on the floor. Katja slipped to the side and rose. She pressed her foot on the backs of both soldiers, forcing them to lie flat. Then, with the ropes that had held the packing quilts around the statues, she tied their hands and feet. One of the soldiers struggled and tried to get to his feet, but Frederica pressed the tip of the bayonet of the man’s own rifle into his back, and he settled down.
As a last precaution, Katja stuffed a corner of the packing quilts into each man’s mouth. She stood up, panting from the exertion, then hurried to dress. “I wonder how they’re going to explain this to their buddies. Being tied up by two naked women.”
“They can shoot them, for all I care. I’m so tired of men trying to rape me,” Frederica said, throwing on her own still-wet clothes. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
In damp, chafing shoes, they scurried back to the carpenter’s workshop and clambered through their original entry window, onto the ground outside the Jägerschloss compound.
They ran, simply to be out of range when the alarm was sounded. Finally, winded, they slowed to a walking pace, trusting that the Soviet officer would see no value in tracking down two women.
“I’m trying to remember what the nearest village is before Potsdam,” Katja mused, shading her eyes against the early morning sun. “Any place where we can try to buy or beg food. I can’t go much longer without eating.”
“Well, we pass Schwanenwerder, don’t we?” Frederica asked. “How do you feel about stealing from the dead?”
“What dead do you have in mind? I’m not keen on exhumations.”
“Joseph and Magda Goebbels. They have a villa on the Schwanenwerder, right on the waterfront.” She tossed her head southward, as if she could already see it beyond the trees.
“And you’re sure they’re dead.”
“Quite.”
They were in a meadow now, resting, and Katja took off her shoes to relieve her blistered feet. “Then I’d have no problem at all stealing from them. I spent three months in a concentration camp because of his filthy Total-War laws, and he owes me a lot more than food. But how do we know the Russians aren’t there?”
Frederica glanced back in the direction they’d come. “It’s possible, but they seem to always be a little bit behind us. Besides, they won’t send a detachment there for military reasons. They couldn’t possibly know which summer house belongs to Joseph Goebbels.”
“But you do.”
“Yes, I was there for a couple of meetings right after the propaganda ministry was bombed. I doubt the SS will be guarding it. They’re all breaking their necks to go west to surrender to the Allies, so the most we’ll run into will be squatters and thieves. Like us.”
*
The house, with its large bay windows, was eerily quiet as they approached. Birds chirped and mosquitos buzzed around the garden as if unaware of the war and Germany’s reversal of fortune.
“It looks empty.” Frederica knocked on the door. No one answered. She knocked again, more aggressively, then tried the door. Locked. “All right, then,” she muttered as she stepped off the front porch and explored along the flank of the house.
As expected, the windows were all locked. She swung around to the rear of the house where a large bay window with side panels faced the water. She nodded once, as if agreeing with herself, then picked up a rock and tapped it against the glass. A crack appeared and she tapped along it until it reached to the top. A press of the hand, covered with her coat sleeve, broke open the window with a soft tinkling of glass.
“Very nice,” Katja said. “Do a lot of burglary?”
“Oh, yes. This is my second since yesterday. I’m apparently quite good at it.”
They pried out the remaining glass shards and climbed inside, into a well-appointed sitting room. A brown-and-cream carpet complemented a beige overstuffed sofa flanked by spare mahogany tables and spherical table lamps. “All modern. Who would have thought?” Katja observed.
“I wonder if there’s still food.” Frederica wandered toward the kitchen. “They have a real refrigerator, you know. Come take a look.” She patted the top of a waist-high, white metal container. “You know, according to Goebbels, the plan was to make ‘People’s refrigerators’ for everyone, but the war got in the way, so only the big Nazis got them.” Katja stood in the doorway, skeptical of the new gadget. “Nice, but you’d only need it in the summer, wouldn’t you? The windowsill does fine for most of the year.”
Frederica opened the refrigerator door and winced. “Rotten vegetables. I guess they left in a hurry.” She closed it again and checked the cupboards. “Oatmeal for the children, good, we can take that. Dried prunes, good. Marmalade even.” She turned it in her hand. “Sour cherry, my favorite. Should we eat some now?”
Katja answered from the other side of the kitchen. “No. I found something much better for breakfast. Pâté de foie gras, caviar, and biscuits.” She opened the adjacent cabinet. “You’re not going to believe this. Real coffee. And here’s the coffeepot.” She held up something shiny, with a long spout.
“Ohmygod. Let’s make some. Is the gas turned on in the stove?” Frederica tried the burner. “Yes. Oh, I’m in heaven.”
While the water seethed and then boiled, they ground a portion of the coffee in a hand grinder and poured it into the sock attached to the coffeepot. The rich, frothy brew gave off an almost-forgotten fragrance.
They found two demitasses, poured the coffee over a cube of sugar in each, and sipped with something close to reverence. “I really love that this is all stolen from the second biggest monster in Germany. It’s only a pity we can’t share it with Rudi and Peter.”
“Well, we can. There’s lots more to pack up here, and we haven’t even checked the cellar yet.” Katja scooped out another spoonful of pâté and laid it in a lump the size of her thumb on her biscuit.
Frederica finished her coffee. “You unload as much as you can from the cupboards and I’ll go upstairs to look for something to carry it in.” Invigorated by the coffee, she mounted the steps two at a time, but halted at the top of the stairs. The door in front of her was open to one of the children’s rooms, and she felt a twinge of sorrow that six small children had to die for the fanaticism of their parents. Then she recalled that hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of other children had died for it as well, most in not nearly so peaceful a way.
In the second children’s room she found what she was looking for and took it up under her arm. A wagon, painted wood with a long handle and rubber wheels. She couldn’t have imagined anything better. “Thank you, Helmut,” she whispered to the dead child, and descended the stairs in a dance.
“I’ve got our transport,” she announced. Now let’s see what we find in the cellar to fill it up with. There’s got to be a few bottles of something.” She unhooked a canvas bag from the back of the cellar door.
They descended the steps in a crouch. “Not much of a cellar,” Frederica remarked, touching the low ceiling.
“Probably too close to the waterline to dig any deeper. But obviously it was just fine as a wine cellar.” She stood, admiring the shelves of wines and champagnes, more than they could ever carry away.
“I knew Goebbels and his wife had taste,” Frederica said. “How nice of them to share.”
“You know, Reichsmarks won’t be worth the paper they’re printed on now, so I suggest we take two or three of the champagnes, to barter with.” Katja blew the dust off some of the bottles. “Ah, Veuf Clicquot and Dom Pérignon. These will do nicely. You finding anything else worth pilfering?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Lots more tins of foie gras, and another jar of marmalade. For the children, I suppose.” Katja shook her head, rememb
ering Ravensbrück. “Thousands of us slowly starving to death, and those bastards were eating this.” She loaded her canvas sack and they trudged back upstairs to the living room.
She halted suddenly and heard her own sudden intake of breath.
A man with a pistol stood in the center of the room. In his brown shirt and riding britches, he looked like an SA man of the early thirties before the outfit became unfashionable. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Frederica strode past her to confront the SA man. “Oh, hello. You must be the block leader. I’m glad someone’s keeping an eye on things. I’m Frederica Brandt, Dr. Goebbels’ secretary. Don’t you remember me? I was here once when you stopped by.”
The man narrowed his eyes, as if trying to remember. “Let me see your papers.”
She held up her identification in front of his face. “Listen, Herr…excuse me. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Müller,” he muttered, not at all placated.
“Yes, Herr Blockleiter Müller. I’ve just come from the Führerbunker under the chancellery and I have some very bad news for you. Herr and Frau Goebbels are dead. Suicide. Their children too.” She dropped her voice. “Homicide. Oh, the even worse news is that the Führer shot himself too. Two days ago. Obviously there has not yet been a general announcement, but I can assure you, there will be.”
The block leader’s eyes oscillated back and forth between them, uncertainty obviously paralyzing him. Finally he waved the pistol at them, trying to aim it at both of them at once. “You are under arrest until I get further orders.”
“I don’t think so, Herr Blockleiter,” Katja said, pointing Erich Prietschke’s Luger at him. “You see, we have a gun too. From an SS man. But we don’t want to use it. Because there’s no point, you see. The war really is over, and you won’t be getting any further orders. All the big shots are dead. Or captured. Or fleeing westward hoping like hell to surrender to the Allies. I’m telling the truth, but even if I weren’t, you already know that the Russians are swarming across Germany and will be here shortly. Probably today, and when they take a look at that stupid SA uniform, they’re going to blow your head off. You can pretend it’s not true and be a good Nazi, or you can protect yourself and your family by throwing it away and collecting food for the next few months. The peace is going to be very, very hard.”
Müller said nothing, but his hand dropped to his side and he backed toward the door, where he turned away. Frederica called after him. “No need to hurry off. There’s expensive champagne in the cellar. You might want to claim some of it before the Russians get it.”
He left without closing the door.
Katja frowned. “I’m sure he’s coming back with reinforcements, so let’s load up and get out of here. Is there anything else worth taking?”
“How about tobacco? Also good for barter.” Frederica opened the door to what appeared to be an office. A quick perusal uncovered only a few packs of cigarettes in the desk drawer. They would do.
“Look here,” Katja said, opening a wardrobe door. “There are some of Magda’s sweaters. It makes my skin crawl to wear their clothes, but it’s better than freezing. Here, swallow your pride.” She tossed one of the thick cable-knit sweaters over her shoulder and put another one on.
Frederica grimaced but yanked off her still-damp shirt and drew the thick pullover over her head. “You’re right. It’s warm and feels very expensive.”
They loaded the wagon with their canvas bag full of champagne, foie gras tins, and the miscellany they had found in the cupboards. Frederica tossed in the cigarette packs on top.
It was still early in the day when they left the house that Joseph Goebbels built. With a certain cheerful maliciousness, they left the front door wide open.
Chapter Thirty-seven
They finally arrived at Potsdam at dusk but found little to be cheerful for. Palaces filled the centuries-old residential city of Prussian kings and emperors, almost all damaged and their royal parks pitted with craters.
They migrated toward the main station as they had agreed, though when they came within sight of where it should have been, they saw only rubble. Apparently some of the railroad lines still functioned and a few trains came through, but the principal building had been bombed. Women and old men gathered around the ruins dragging their life’s possessions. Hundreds camped out waiting for a train, any train, to take them westward.
“We’re not going to find them here tonight,” Frederica said, “but look, there’s a message board over there.” She pointed toward a portion of wall where a dozen people clustered trying to make out messages. They hovered at the periphery of the group, but the darkness hindered reading without lantern or matches.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?” a man’s voice asked. In the dusk, the figure in an SS uniform was ominous.
Katja stiffened. “No, we’re just looking to see if we know anyone.”
“I saw you come into town. Are you looking for your husbands? Brothers?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we caught some deserters today. In civilian clothes, of course, on a bicycle, but one was wounded. All the evidence we needed. We strung them up.”
Katja felt suddenly sick, but Frederica replied calmly, “No, we’re not looking for anyone. Where did you hang them?”
“In front of the old town hall. Should be a lesson to others.” He strolled away, as if he had just announced the next day’s weather. They waited until the SS man was out of sight, then rushed, as fast as their blistered feet and the clattering children’s wagon would let them, to the town hall.
“Dear God,” Katja murmured as the scene came within view. A crossbeam nailed over two upright stanchions served as a grotesque impromptu gallows. Two bodies dangled on it, swaying slightly with each gust of wind. Katja slowed her pace, trying to delay the appalling verdict. The faces were bloated and not clearly identifiable, so they had to move closer, but revulsion fought with the need to know.
When they finally stood directly beneath the pitiful victims, Katja breathed relief. It wasn’t them.
They stood awhile beneath the gibbet. “So, what now?” Frederica asked, though the answer was apparent.
“Back to the station. It’s the only place they’ll know to look for us.”
Katja felt a tug on her coat and looked down. A girl of about five looked up at her, then glanced back at the wagon Katja held. “Do you have bread, Fräulein?” she asked in a tiny child’s voice.
“No, darling. No bread. I’m sorry.”
Frederica called the child over. “I’ll give her the marmalade. It’ll bring her a little happiness.” She knelt down and rummaged through the canvas bag, finally pulling out a small glass jar. She placed it into the little hands and asked, “Did you see men on a bicycle yesterday, a big green funny bicycle? One man riding working the pedals and a sick man riding on the back?”
The little girl nodded yes but couldn’t take her eyes from the canvas bag that obviously held more treasures.
“Yes? You did see them? Where?” Frederica suddenly brightened. But the question seemed to puzzle the child. In a ruined city, with few streets remaining, “where” had little meaning.
“Look, sweetheart. If you help us find those men with the bicycle, we’ll give you some oatmeal. Your mommy can cook it, to go with the jam.” The child nodded again without speaking, then ran off.
“I don’t think we should get our hopes up. Lots of people are fleeing on bicycles, and she was probably agreeing with you just because you had food.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Let’s go back to the station and see if anyone’s willing to share their campfire.”
Campfires, as it turned out, were rare, and no one was willing to share with newcomers unless they brought their own firewood. Defeated, Frederica and Katja dropped onto the ground beneath the message wall. Katja ached in every muscle and bone, but leaning back against the wall, she managed to doze fitfully until a soft tu
g on her sleeve awakened her. She opened her eyes to see the little girl.
“Oh, hello,” was all she could think to say.
An elderly man stood over the child, his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. Without kneeling, he said, “Thank you for giving my granddaughter the jam.”
“She’s quite welcome. It belonged to someone who doesn’t need it any longer.”
“I understand you’re looking for a man with a green bicycle?”
Frederica was awake now too. “Yes, two men, in fact, one of them was bandaged and the other blond with glasses and a scar on his chin. Have you seen them, perhaps?”
“You are Frederica?” the old man asked.
“Yes, how did you—”
“Come with me then.” The old man made no effort to help them to their feet, and when they caught up with him, they saw why. Just above his shoe, the ankle of a wooden foot was visible, supported by metal braces on both sides that allowed mobility but no cushioning. He could walk, but only with effort and a limp.
Once they were well away from the people at the message wall, he spoke. “They’re safe. In my barn. The deputy Gauleiter is hunting down deserters, and any man under sixty isn’t safe on the street.”
“Yes, we saw some of his work. Are you Peter’s grocer friend?”
“I was. That is, I was a grocer, but I closed the shop when I was inducted into the army. I came home only a few months ago, with one hand and one foot missing. Oh, sorry. Oskar Kahl, at your service.” He held up his right hand, in polished wood and slightly curved, with fingers a centimeter apart, as if it were about to grip an object but could never close around it. She didn’t shake hands with him and he didn’t seem to expect it.
The grocer’s house was quite far, and it was bright morning when they arrived. The barn was more in the nature of a garage, but with straw and a goat. As soon as the grocer had locked the gate behind them, he called out and Peter appeared from behind the barn door. He ran toward them and embraced them both fervently. “We were sick with worry!” he complained. “You were supposed to come yesterday. What happened?”
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 26