The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  As she chants the prayers Inga wonders when would be the best time to tell her husband that she has written to the Kremers in London; and Heinrich wonders if it would be possible to change his name to Judah, after all Jizchak Schwersenz changed his name so why can’t he do the same; and Otto wonders how much asparagus the Krützfelds gave them, and if there is any left for another meal, and how on earth does Wilhelm, that coward, manage to grow it in the winter, even with a greenhouse; and Rosa wonders which route would be best to take to school tomorrow; and Hedi wonders if one were to collect all the melted wax that drips off the candles could one make an elephant, because elephants are big and they have sad eyes. And the night draws in, and the family draw their woollens around them, for they tend to feel the cold these days; and they very much look forward to the hearty meal that, for once, awaits them.

  9 November 1938, Berlin

  1

  Polizeiobermeister Wilhelm Krützfeld sits for several minutes, staring straight ahead, a troubled expression on his face, his head like a tortoise’s protruding from the steep collar of his jerkin. He consults his pocket-watch, replaces it, then continues stiffly to sit in his chair, at his desk, in his office, which is unremarkable save for the extensive collection of potted plants and flowers which cluster in the corners of the room. Flowers are, as one would imagine, an unusual feature in the office of a Polizeiobermeister, especially in such quantities. Each morning he arrives half an hour early to water them, talk to them, play them a little Mozart; but since last night, when the execution of Jewish prisoners at Buchenwald began, the Polizeiobermeister has had more on his mind.

  Silently he sits, his fists resting on the edge of his desk, his polished buttons glinting like berries. He is feeling his age tonight, one month from today he will be fifty-nine, just a hair’s breadth away from sixty. He seizes a pen and begins to tap it on a sheaf of paper nervously, end to end, end to end, end to end, leaving barely perceptible indentations, end to end, end to end, end to end. On the paper is typed a list of names and addresses, in alphabetical order, including: Familie Klein, Otto, Inga, drei Kinder, Beeskower Straße 53, Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin. The clock strikes the hour, the chimes syncopating with the taps of pen on paper, end chime to end chime to end chime to end chime to end. Still the policeman sits.

  Enough. He opens a desk drawer and retrieves his Luger, which he snaps firmly into his holster. Then he strides over to the hatstand, throws his blue-grey trench coat bat-like over his shoulders and presses his cap on his head, pulling its patent peak low, the police insignia glinting in the light. Then he sweeps from the office, folding the list of names smartly into his pocket.

  As he swings the car door open he notices passers-by reacting, notices the expressions on their faces, how they cast down their eyes and turn up their lapels and scurry furtively from him. Things were never like this, he thinks, before; we policemen used to be seen as the champions of the just, protectors of the defenceless, upholders of the law, yet these days people turn from us in fear; if he had known, all those years ago, when he first joined the force, that it would one day come to this! Last June he and his colleagues were informed by Doktor Goebbels that the common law no longer applied when dealing with Jews, and this evening they have been ordered to withdraw all officers from the streets, to stand aside, so that the Jews will, for once, taste the unbridled force of popular anger. And now here he is, alone, with a list in his pocket and bullets in his gun, the servant of an ever more maddening master.

  The Polizeiobermeister’s gun-handle presses awkwardly into his kidney as he sits in the driver’s smooth seat; he readjusts it with impatience, drops his hat roundly on the passenger seat, fires the engine and steers onto the Dircksenstraße. Afternoon is being overpowered by evening and it has been a dark afternoon at that, thinks the Polizeiobermeister as he guides the clattering black car north towards the Arbeiterviertel, through the Berlin traffic with its moisture-spotted windows. The city is a cauldron tonight, the tension simmering, almost unbearable, yet on the face of it everywhere it is business as usual: the pockets of SA men smoking their lung torpedoes, the groups of girls walking gaily to a dance, the children being led by the hand, the trams and newspaper vendors and vagabonds, the beleaguered shop assistants and shifty-looking Jews in threadbare felt hats, carrying bronze-topped canes.

  Polizeiobermeister Krützfeld parks outside the cream-coloured tenements, sits for a moment with the engine running, one hand resting on his Luger, the other playing with his hat, rolling his tongue in his mouth, absentmindedly reading a billboard by the side of the road, Becker-Fiebig, Building Contractor, Berlin W 38. Then all at once he exits the vehicle, consults the list of addresses, pushes through the wooden doors of Block 3, strides across the courtyard towards the staircase and disappears into the shadows.

  The events that have led to tonight began just a few weeks ago. Thousands of Polish-born Jews were torn from their beds in the middle of the night, rounded up by the Gestapo and driven away, the streets black with crowds shouting Juden raus, Juden raus, Juden raus; they were driven into Poland and dumped in the wilderness of the borderlands. Having nowhere else to go, they have been there ever since, sheltering in disused barns, scavenging for food, deserted by the world. Amongst this unhappy group was an elderly grocer by the name of Zindel Grynszpan, who had lived in Hanover for twenty-seven years; he was beaten by a soldier and would have met his end had not one of his sons dragged him away to re-join the panicking throng.

  Zindel Grynszpan had another son by the name of Herschel, a narrow-faced seventeen-year-old boy with raven-black hair and a troubled manner. Unable to finish school and expelled from several institutions, Herschel had been mooching around Europe for years and was currently living in Paris. When he received word of his family’s fate, he was enraged. Armed with a gun that he had procured from a disreputable dealer on the south bank of the Seine, he took the Métro to the Champs-Élysées and paid a visit to the German embassy, where he told the gendarme at the door that he must deliver an urgent document to the ambassador. To Herschel’s surprise he found himself being ushered into the office of the hapless Third Secretary Ernst vom Rath. Herschel was instructed to wait, the five-bulleted gun lying undetected, heavy and silent in his pocket.

  Now Ernst vom Rath, despite working for the diplomatic corps, was no Nazi; indeed, he openly displayed Jewish sympathies, and the Gestapo had been trailing him for weeks. Yet as he entered the room, hand extended, Herschel drew his gun, screamed, you filthy Nazi Boche, and pulled the trigger. Two bullets hit, three missed, and then his gun was empty, the door burst open and a gendarme rushed clumsily in, pistol drawn. Herschel was dragged away, his slight frame buckling, leaving the Third Secretary slumped over the desk, his life-blood flowing from him. Back in Germany the Jews as a race were blamed, Berlin simmered with a lust for revenge and is due to boil over tonight.

  The Polizeiobermeister climbs the stairs to the Kleins’ apartment. People are closing their doors as they glimpse him, not as young as he was, these stairs will be the death of him, and these communal latrines really do stink, not too many more to go, ah so, apartment Klein, it smells of boiling laundry, the paint is peeling badly, my they have gone down in the world. Now to knock on the door, ha, knock is not the word, funny how he has got used to raising his fist like this and thumping on the doors of perfect strangers, it comes naturally to him now, to break the unspoken sanctity of another man’s door with heavy violent thumping – there, the scrape of chairs and hushed voices, now is the time to thump again, don’t give them a chance to hide or escape, and now is the time to shout, this is the police! Open the door immediately, Jews! and thump again. Now the door is creaking slightly beneath his fist, it is thin and worn, this door, not hardwood that’s for certain, and, as expected, a child starts crying within, their little daughter no doubt, in Krützfeld’s experience a child’s cries make the parents act unpredictably, so he must thump again, and again shout, open up, Jews, open up! Now someone is finally comi
ng, yes, the click of the latch, and—

  —Wilhelm?

  —Silence, Jewess, stand aside.

  Wilhelm Krützfeld strides into the Kleins’ apartment, shouts again at Inga and slams the door behind him, loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Then he stops, stands in the middle of the room and for several seconds gazes at the Kleins. Gradually his face, mask-like, changes, and he turns from one to the other, showing them each a faltering smile. Heinrich, is that Heinrich? Much older, sullen-looking, wiry; and that must be Rosa, emerging from her room, goodness hasn’t she grown, she is practically a woman now, rather sad-looking, aren’t they all these days, isn’t everyone; and little Hedi; and Inga, aged beyond her years, she never used to wear a headscarf, he almost didn’t recognise her; and finally Klein himself, tumbler of Schnaps in hand, some things never change. And all around them is hanging laundry.

  Without a word Krützfeld removes his hat.

  —Wilhelm, is it really you? says Inga. I can’t believe my eyes.

  —I’m sorry for the crude entrance, says the Polizeiobermeister awkwardly, but these days, you understand. My wife sends her best regards. She talks of you often.

  —Have you lost your mind, says Klein, banging on our door like a madman? Scaring the children?

  —My apologies, Klein, but things have changed. It has been a long time.

  —Indeed, says Klein, I almost didn’t recognise you. You’re looking very well.

  —I need to speak to you as a matter of urgency, says the Polizeiobermeister.

  —Sit down, says Inga. Let me get you a drink. Brandy?

  —I shouldn’t. I’m on duty.

  —Pfui, nonsense. Our brandy is cheap, but nevertheless.

  Inga crosses to the drinks cabinet. Krützfeld sits at the table and looks at Klein, stretching a smile across his teeth.

  —So, Klein, he says. You look well. Older, but well.

  Klein does not reply. He turns to Rosa and Heinrich who are standing uncomfortably side by side:

  —Rosa, go and play with Hedi in her room. Heinrich, go to your room as well.

  —Why not let them stay? says Krützfeld.

  —Yes, I would rather stay, Vater. I am eighteen, says Heinrich.

  Klein gives his son a piercing glare, and Heinrich stalks from the room saying ach, very well, very well.

  There is a pause.

  —That is a grand uniform you have, says Inga, handing Krützfeld his brandy. Are you a major now?

  —Polizeiobermeister, says the Polizeiobermeister, chief of the sixteenth precinct at the Hackescher Markt. I was promoted in the spring.

  —Berta must be very proud.

  —Indeed.

  —Naturally, says Klein.

  The three of them sit at the table in awkward silence. There is the sound of water gushing noisily through the pipes, and shadows cast by haphazard rows of laundry move drearily on the ceiling. A threadbare pair of trousers hanging on the side of a door drips regularly on the floorboards.

  —It has been ever such a long time, says Inga, at last. How many years? Three? Four?

  —I’ve lost count, says Krützfeld.

  —Five years, says Klein. Now enough of this charade. If this matter is so urgent, spit it out.

  —They have been sending us food parcels, says Inga.

  —Look, Klein, I have come with your welfare in mind, Krützfeld interrupts. If anyone knew I was doing this, my career would be destroyed.

  —We wouldn’t want that, says Klein.

  —Liebling …

  —Just tell us why you’re here, says Klein. We don’t owe you anything.

  —Direct as ever, says Krützfeld. Very well. You will be aware, of course, that Herr vom Rath died this evening.

  —Goodness, says Inga, alarmed.

  Krützfeld is inscrutable.

  —And this does not mean good things for you, he says carefully. I must tell you, the police are being withdrawn from the streets tonight.

  —Withdrawn? Why? asks Inga.

  Krützfeld says nothing, and through his silence Inga understands the answer to her question.

  —I have come to help you, says Krützfeld.

  —You are a little late, says Klein.

  —I don’t have much time, says the Polizeiobermeister, I must be

  frank. Your family is in danger. Your names are on the list.

  —There is a list? says Inga.

  —Come now, says Klein. Do you expect us to die of fright just

  because of the feeble threats of a second-rate policeman?

  —This is not a threat, says Krützfeld, it’s a warning.

  —It is quiet outside, Klein replies, gesturing generally towards the window, there is no sign of disturbance. I have the distinct impression we are being lied to, Herr Polizeiuntermeister, the distinct impression.

  —Liebling, says Inga, her voice wavering.

  —You’re seeing a liar where there isn’t one, Klein, says Krützfeld, displaying a professional patience. You can trust me. Vom Rath is dead, you can confirm it yourself by listening to the wireless. See, I have no men with me. Nobody knows I am here. As I told you, the police have been withdrawn.

  —As you told us, as you told us, says Klein. We Jews have been told a lot of things recently, Herr Polizeiuntermeister, by people like you. But be careful, change your clothes before you go drinking with your Gestapo friends. I have heard that we Jews have a stench.

  —Liebling! Inga exclaims.

  —You are drunk, says Krützfeld. Please. When they are breaking

  down your door, it will be too late.

  —Breaking down our door? says Inga. What shall we do? What

  can we do?

  —Don’t panic, says Krützfeld, I have prepared everything. You must split up, it’s only logical. Inga, you take Hedi and go to the railway station, as inconspicuously as possible. There you must mingle with the crowds until the morning when you can make your way back home.

  —Will the violence be over by then, asks Inga, are you sure?

  —So I believe. And if it is not I will come and give you further instructions. Now, Heinrich and Rosa must hasten to my house. The address I have written here. There is a shed in the garden where they can hide until morning, or whenever it is safe. It can be accessed by a side entrance. It is small but there should just be room for two. For goodness’ sake tell them not to show their faces, or come anywhere near the house itself.

  Krützfeld passes a scrap of paper to Inga, on which his address is

  written.

  —So you expect us to run away and hide like rabbits? says Klein, his eyes piercing points of steel.

  —Not at all. I have a different plan for you, Klein: I will arrest you.

  —Arrest me?

  —Yes. I will take you to the station and lock you in a cell for the night. You will come to no harm. Then, in the morning, or whenever it is over, I will release you.

  —Have you lost your mind?

  —Not at all. We must act. Quickly now. You must all be out of the apartment within ten minutes. Get your coats and hats.

  —I suppose you wish to handcuff me as well?

  —That would be sensible, yes.

  —Ha ha ha! He takes me for a fool!

  —I must get you out of harm’s way, Klein. I promised my wife.

  —Do you really think I would be tricked so easily? I thought you knew me better than that, Herr Untersergeanten. Do you think I haven’t realised this is nothing more than a ploy to seize our apartment, our property, our silver? Ha! You will not arrest me without a fight. You are nothing but a common thief.

  —Liebling, says Inga, if Wilhelm wanted to arrest you he would have done so already.

  —You’re not punishing me, says Krützfeld. You’re punishing yourself.

  —Oh, now a sermon from a greedy policeman, says Klein. You are humiliating yourself, Wilhelm, you are debasing yourself. A common thief.

  —Klein, don’t make me use force, says Krütz
feld.

  —There’s a snake in this room, a reptile in a uniform, says Klein. You will never seize my property without a fight. I am a Frontkämpfer. You will have to shoot me first.

  Krützfeld rolls his eyes and thumps the table in frustration.

  —We are both Frontkämpfer, Klein, in case you have forgotten. I cannot dally here forever trying to win your trust and I am too old to be insulted by a drunk. If I stay any longer I will be in danger myself. Just remember our friendship and come with me. He presses his hat onto his head.

  —All my friendships are dead, says Klein, you have shown that over the last five years and you are showing it again tonight.

  Krützfeld softens his voice.

  —Klein, I am asking you one more time. No, I am begging you. Come with me. Once I have gone your fate will be sealed.

  —Nothing would please me more, Herr thief, says Klein.

  —Mein Gott. Inga, if your husband does not regain his sanity, at least you and the children may be safe. Do as I have instructed, it is for your own good.

  —I will, says Inga.

  —You will not, says Klein, draining his glass.

  The Polizeiobermeister avoids Klein’s eyes, pulls his cap down on his brow, pushes his way past the hanging laundry and strides out of the apartment.

  It all happened so quickly, yet as Krützfeld crosses the courtyard, rubbing his hand across his face, he tells himself that he has done everything humanly possible, everything within his power, to help these people, that no more could reasonably have been done to protect them. He dreads what his wife will say, she was very fond of the Kleins, especially her old friend Inga. He tosses his hat onto the seat and slips behind the wheel of his car. His Luger presses into his kidney and he adjusts his holster irritably. Before pulling away he lights a cigarette and inhales, deeply, to the bottom of his lungs.

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