The English German Girl

by Jake Wallis Simons

  10 November 1938, Berlin

  1

  Rosa and Inga pass the day without daring to leave the apartment, moving quietly from room to room, keeping away from the windows, salvaging what they can of their belongings. Most of the customers’ laundry is found to be intact, dirty and crumpled, but intact. The day is dull and cold; an icy wind whistles through the broken windows and passes in chilly channels through the apartment. Inga boards up the windows with pieces of shelving, then spends a long time fixing the front door as best she can, painstakingly, using the tools that Heinrich keeps under his bed, which have remained somehow undisturbed. For a long time Hedi sits quietly in the corner of her bedroom, clutching her dolly Gigi, who has escaped, so far, unharmed. Rosa is able to find some bread in the chaos of the kitchen and they eat it together, sitting at the remains of the table, which they prop up with a stool and a pile of books. They talk: in hushed tones they exchange their stories, Rosa telling her mother about Frau Schulz, and Herr Krützfeld, and seeing Papa and Heinrich being taken away, and Inga telling her daughter about the railway station, the drunkard, the SS, about walking for hours on end around the concourse and the streets, snatching a few hours’ sleep in a broom cupboard, then, at dawn, finding a circuitous route home. And they worry about Papa and Heinrich, where they might have been taken, how to find out about their well-being. Once they discover that Papa is a Frontkämpfer they will surely release them at once, whatever could the Gestapo want with two innocent and law-abiding citizens? And they discuss, repeatedly, emigration, agreeing that as soon as it is safe to go outside they should start applying for visas, for the only choice now is to leave as quickly as possible, regardless of what Papa might say. The day wears on and nobody comes to visit them, none of the neighbours, Jewish or Aryan, and neither do they leave the apartment.

  Night closes quickly, and they dare not use the electric lights. What little bread is left is given to Hedi, who then is put quietly to bed and falls immediately asleep, clutching her dolly. Inga finds a box of Shabbat candles that haven’t been crushed and lights one of them in the kitchen, then she and Rosa sit at the table drinking water from cracked glasses, speaking again and again about Papa, about Heinrich, worrying what fate may have befallen them, whether it would be safe to enquire at the police station, when it will be safe to go outside, and their faces have the graininess of sandstone in the candlelight.

  An hour later, when their whispers have fallen silent, and they sit without speaking over the diminishing candle, there is the quietest of knocks on the door. They freeze for a moment; and then the knock is heard again, a little louder, and a high-pitched voice saying Inga, Inga, are you there?

  Inga crosses to the door and whispers, who is it? and the reply comes, Berta, Berta Krützfeld, please open the door at once. Inga ushers Berta in; she is carrying a cardboard box, she puts it down, and they embrace.

  —So you are here, says Berta, thank God you are here. Darling, you look so different, I almost didn’t recognise you. So thin.

  —Come through to the kitchen, we have a candle, says Inga.

  —Goodness, your poor little home, says Berta.

  In the kitchen she greets Rosa, embraces her and sits at the table, looking around in disbelief, not removing her shimmering fur coat and hat.

  —I cannot believe it, I just cannot believe it, she says. Do you mind if I smoke?

  —Pfui, of course not, says Inga.

  Berta places a cigarette holder between her painted lips and lights a cigarette with a match.

  —I can’t stay long, she says, too dangerous. But Wilhelm said I must come. We’ve kept away for five years, but last night changed everything.

  —Any news? says Inga anxiously.

  —Well, our dear Goering made a speech on the wireless this evening telling people to go back to normal, Berta replies. To stop rioting, I mean. And that’s excellent news of course. This whole episode has been horrid, from what Wilhelm tells me. Four Jews were lynched in central Berlin, I’m told, and lots of others were killed. The caretaker of the synagogue on the Prinzregentstraße was burned alive with his family. Many have committed suicide. And apparently over three thousand men have been arrested and sent away to prison camps. The city looks as if it’s been through a war or something, there’s broken glass and burned-out buildings everywhere, Israel’s Department Store on the Alexanderplatz is absolutely wrecked, I don’t know where I shall go for my perfume now. The shopkeepers have been cleaning it up today, but the Jewish community has been issued a fine of a billion Reichsmark to pay for all the damage.

  —A billion?

  —So I hear.

  —My God. But what of Otto and Heinrich?

  —Wilhelm has been making enquiries, says Berta, he has not given up hope.

  She blows a thread of smoke straight upwards. It winds in wisps around the pipes and pools along the edges of the ceiling in the honeyed candlelight.

  —Does Wilhelm have any idea what happened to them? asks Inga.

  —Sachsenhausen, says Berta shortly, but they are both still alive. That’s all he’s been able to discover for the moment.

  Inga gives a short sigh and crumples back in her chair; Rosa unfolds her arms and begins to rub her temples.

  —Has anything happened to Herr Krützfeld? says Rosa. I thought he might have been in trouble.

  —Oh that, says Berta, maintaining her insouciant manner, there was a meeting with old Graf von Helldorf. Wilhelm said that the tone was amicable. After all, Wilhelm has been privy to one or two of his indiscretions over the years. It’ll be fine.

  —I hope so, says Rosa.

  There is a pause.

  —Now, Berta continues, I should tell you this. Jews have now been banned from all grocery shops, so you won’t be able to buy any food.

  —No food? says Inga. But how will we live?

  —I’ve brought you some supplies – she gestures towards the box – but it’s going to have to last two weeks, I’m afraid, Wilhelm said to make a delivery more often would be too risky. So you’ll have to ration it, and I’ll see if I can’t bring a greater quantity next time.

  —Very well. Goodness, not allowed food.

  —Now, you mustn’t leave your apartment except on urgent business, for a week or two at least. I tell you, it’s horrendous out there. There are Jews crawling all over the city, creeping in search of food. They’re in the alleyways and back streets, cowering from every lighted corner. The men cannot return home for fear of being arrested, and they’re afraid to sleep under the same roof for two nights in a row, so they’re left wandering the streets and the parks. It’s just frightful. People are still being arrested and beaten and things. So you must lie low.

  —Yes, says Inga, we will. Thank you so much, Berta. You’re a real friend, taking such a risk on our account.

  —Nonsense, says Berta, you would do the same for me. Speaking of which, I think I should go. I mustn’t tempt fate. I shall see you again in two weeks’ time.

  —Do be in touch sooner, says Inga, if you find out more about Otto and Heinrich.

  —Of course, Berta replies. Goodbye, dear girls. Au revoir.

  Angling her cigarette holder in a clandestine sort of way she leaves the apartment, creeps down the stairs and slinks across the courtyard, making sure nobody is watching. When she is safely back on the street she breathes a sigh of relief and walks swiftly towards the tram stop, gathering her fur coat high about her neck, looking forward to the warmth of home.

  When Berta has gone, Inga opens the box. It contains a selection of gleaming tins of food, as well as bread, cheese, vegetables and dried meat; combined with the food that they can salvage from the kitchen it should be just enough for two weeks, if they’re careful. Inga and Rosa allow themselves to taste a little of the cheese before putting the box away.

  —I refuse to believe we can no longer buy food, says Rosa. Surely somebody will sell to us.

  —We should try to get a little sleep, says Inga, it must be ge
tting late.

  —I’m jangling all over.

  —Me too, says Inga, but we must try.

  —No matter what Frau Krützfeld says, says Rosa, we need to start applying for visas.

  —I agree, says Inga, so let’s get some sleep. We’ll start in the morning.

  2

  Over the next two days Inga spends her time trying to trace her husband and her son, pursuing visas at various embassies, and struggling to revive the laundry business. She enlists Rosa to help; day by day they take it in turns to brave the streets, joining the hundreds of sombre Jews at the embassies, waiting for hours on end in dimly lit rooms, hoping against hope for a change of fortune. Jews cannot queue on the pavement any more, it is too conspicuous, so they are packed into waiting rooms, and when these are full the doors are closed and nobody else is admitted. Gradually Rosa and Inga discover the rules of the game; even if you are fortunate enough to obtain a visa for some far-flung place, that alone is not enough. An exit visa is also required, as well as a transit visa, a valid passport, a substantial sum of money and the tickets for the journey. All these documents have a limited period of validity, and some depend on others being issued first, and each member of your family must have a separate set of paperwork, and all must be presented together; Rosa and Inga fill out form after form, wait in unmoving queues, discuss endlessly the application procedures and requirements of different countries, the comparable merits of Mexico, Argentina, Shanghai; and all the while they are plagued by a constant anxiety, worrying about Papa and Heinrich.

  On 12 November, while talking in hushed tones to a woman in a queue at the British embassy, Inga finds out that a Jew was trampled to death near the Kurfürstendamm the day before. On the fifteenth, while in the waiting room of the Chilean consulate, Rosa hears a rumour that Paraguay has relaxed its entry restrictions; she hastens to their embassy immediately, only to find that the rumours are false and the doors to the embassy are closed. On the sixteenth, Inga writes again to the Kremers in London, appealing to their family bond, requesting their urgent assistance to get passage abroad, to England or to anywhere. On the seventeenth, they hear reports that almost twenty Jews have committed suicide since 9 November. At home, whilst restoring order to the bedroom, Inga stumbles across her husband’s Iron Cross 2nd Klasse, in a walnut display case lined with green velvet; and she finds his pipe and tobacco, places them back in the kitchen drawer for when he returns. A few regular customers begin to arrive with their sacks of dirty clothes, and a little money starts to trickle in. None of their letters to the authorities asking for information about Otto and Heinrich receive responses. Hedi spends hours playing with pots and pans under the kitchen table, day after day, never seeming to tire of it. Inga recommences her weekly appointments with Rabbinerin Regina Jonas, studying Hebrew and Torah and prayers and, despite the danger, starts to attend synagogue once a week. Night after night sleep remains elusive; they snatch an hour here and there, dream of queues and waiting rooms and visas, awake in fear at the slightest noise and are left sleepless for hours.

  On 21 November they hear that the last of the Jewish shops have been shut down permanently. Berta’s box of food is almost empty, the two weeks are almost up, still there is no sign of her and no news of Otto and Heinrich. By the twenty-fourth Inga is convinced that something has happened to them, and Berta as well, and that it is just a matter of time before the net closes in on them. But there is simply no way of knowing. She leaves the apartment first thing in the morning, for it is her turn to go into the city, telling Rosa that today she is trying Uruguay and will be back for supper, God willing. As she crosses the courtyard and steps onto the Beeskower Straße, rain begins to fall in dull sheets, her overcoat spills water from the shoulders as she walks, and her felt hat darkens by several shades. She takes the back streets, as usual, but instead of following her usual route, today she does not head west towards the embassy district; instead, praying, she walks south, in the direction of the Scheunenviertel.

  Inga has not been to the Scheunenviertel for many months as it is unsafe, an obvious target, she is afraid of what it must be like these days, how it must have changed, whether any Jews are left there at all. When she arrives, she discovers that her fears were well founded. The place is almost unrecognisable, deserted. Curtains are drawn, and many shops and buildings are boarded up. Avoiding the main thoroughfares, she skirts the Große Hamburger Straße and takes the Sophienstraße, where the gutters are overflowing and the water laps over her shoes, which are stout but sodden, waterlogged by now. She turns onto the Rosenthaler Straße, and her heart quickens as she catches sight of her destination: the square-windowed police station at Hackescher Markt.

  Before entering she waits for a few minutes across the road as the rain raises millions of watery flowers on the pavement around her, existing only for a moment and then gone, tiny watery flowers that appear and disappear in the blink of an eye, again and again, mesmerisingly. Then she steels herself and steps through the rain to the concrete entrance, her hands in the pockets of her overcoat, approaching metre by metre until, all at once, she is inside, feeling out of place, a dripping wet female in a bustling police station of uniforms, brusque voices, comradely laughter.

  She follows the signs on the wall, ignoring the glances, trailing a double line of water-spots from her overcoat along the narrow floorboards. She arrives at the door of an office inscribed Erkundigungen, enquiries. Without giving herself the opportunity to lose her momentum she knocks firmly, and immediately a voice calls for her to enter. The office is exactly as she would have expected, with its filing cabinets, notice boards and photographs of men in police uniforms along the wall. Behind the desk is a balding officer with a steep collar that looks a little tight. He raises his eyebrows and beckons her in.

  —Name?

  —Inga Klein.

  The officer peers at her closely, framed by the map on the wall behind him as the rain beats against the window.

  —Do you have identification?

  —Please, I wish to speak to the Polizeiobermeister Krützfeld.

  He smiles.

  —On what business?

  —A personal matter.

  —Well, I am sorry to tell you that Krützfeld is not here today.

  Inga looks at the officer, startled. She has prepared herself carefully but failed to anticipate that. An ambiguous expression is masking the officer’s face, and she cannot read his eyes.

  —Please, when will the Polizeiobermeister be here? she says.

  His face shifts into another, equally ambiguous expression; Inga looks away, trying to organise her thoughts, to think of something to say. When she looks back the officer is leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

  —May I help?

  Inga takes a deep breath.

  —I wish to enquire as to the well-being of my husband and son, she says, who were interned in Sachsenhausen on the ninth of November. My husband is a Frontkämpfer. He was awarded the Iron Cross. And my son is only eighteen.

  —Juden, says the officer enigmatically.

  —I’m not lying, he’s a Frontkämpfer, says Inga, rummaging in her bag. Just a moment.

  She places a walnut display case symmetrically on the desk, and opens it. The officer leans over and peers into the glass; the reflection of his face falls over the medal pinned onto green velvet.

  —Impressive, he says in a tone of voice that is impossible to decipher, then he slides the medal back towards Inga and sits back in his chair. Do you have an exit visa for your family, he says, or a ticket on a ship bound for a distant land?

  —We have applied for many, says Inga, I am sure that something will be issued soon.

  —But nothing has been issued yet?

  —Not yet, but—

  —Then nothing can be done, he says abruptly. He leans forward and lowers his voice.

  —Frau Klein, if you want your husband back, secure him a visa. Juden are not wanted here in Deutschland. So do please come bac
k when you have a visa for a distant land. Now let us end our conversation here, on good terms.

  Inga backs away from the desk, turns and hastens out of the office, her shoes making a squelching sound, closing the door a little too hard behind her. As she hurries along the corridor, pushing past blue-grey policemen’s shoulders, the Erkundigungen door opens and the officer’s head appears.

  —Frau Klein, he calls after her, grinning, your medal! Inga hears him but does not turn back. She reaches the entrance to the police station, turns up the collar on her overcoat and plunges out into the rain.

  3

  In the evening, when Inga arrives home, still soaked through, frustrated by another day spent in vain in an embassy waiting room, carrying her hat and running her fingers through her rain-tangled hair, she is surprised to see that Rosa is in a better mood; she welcomes her mother into the apartment with something approaching her old enthusiasm.

  —Hello, Mama, did you have any luck today?

  —I’m afraid not. You look cheerful.

  —Berta visited earlier.

  —Berta?

  —Yes. She and Herr Krützfeld are both fine. Look.

  Rosa gestures behind her to the kitchen where another of Berta’s boxes stands, its bounty spread all over the table, meat and bread and vegetables. Hedi is sitting on the floor, carefully eating a small piece of bread.