She took the bundle and shoved it into her handbag. ‘I…I don’t have anywhere to go. Do you have any ideas?’ She knew she sounded pathetic. He’d done his job and she wasn’t his responsibility, but she hated the thought of going back on the street, even with her fake papers.
He stopped his clearing away and turned to her, his face kind. ‘Look, you are one of the submerged now. You might feel alone, but you’re not. There are lots of Jewish men and women, just like you, hiding in plain sight. It’s not easy, but it can be done, but you must be on the lookout, never let your guard down. Some morons are still loyal, and they’ll report you for anything suspicious. Stay away from uniforms, all of them, and try to get out of the city – it’s too dangerous here for lots of reasons. People are offering information to the Nazis for money, for food, so trust nobody. You know about Stella, right?’ His eyes searched her face for a glimmer of recognition.
‘I…I don’t know who that is,’ she said quietly, and he sighed in exasperation.
‘Stella Kübler, she’s one of you, a Jew, but she’s getting three hundred marks a head for each one of you she gives up to the Nazis. She’s all over the city, and if she spots you, well, she’s like a vulture – she’ll get her prey.’
Ariella was shocked. How could someone of her faith do such a thing? For money? It was inconceivable.
The man noted her look of incredulity. ‘She’s been promised she and her family will be spared. They probably won’t, of course, but she thinks they will, so watch out for her. And it goes without saying that if you’re caught, you never heard of me, right?’ His tone was conversational, but she felt the note of sincerity in his voice.
‘She doesn’t know me, I don’t know her…’ Ariella began, as much to reassure herself as him.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged. ‘She has an uncanny knack for spotting Jews. I don’t know how she does it, but she can. So just watch out.’ He opened a drawer and extracted a photograph of a good-looking woman. She looked no more Jewish than Ariella did; in fact, she looked like a very glamorous Aryan. ‘That’s her. If you see her, get yourself the hell away as fast as humanly possible. Her handlers know to act quickly.’
He threw the picture back in the drawer carelessly and rooted around in it with his fingers until he found a small pin for the Nationalsozialistische Frauenschaft. It was a small triangle of black enamel with a white cross, in the centre of which was the omnipresent swastika. He pinned it to her lapel with a grim smile. ‘All right, you’re ready,’ he said.
She had hoped he might have more ideas about what she should do or where she could go.
‘Keep your head down. Try to buy some food, but be careful – there is almost nothing to buy except on the black market, so don’t betray yourself. And find somewhere to sleep. As I said, it won’t be long now, but the bombing will probably get worse before it gets better. And remember, trust nobody.’
‘I need to get out of Germany…’ she said.
‘Don’t we all, sweetheart, don’t we all?’ He placed his hand gently in the small of her back and ushered her towards the door. Their dealings were over.
Chapter 8
Ariella stood in the Tiergarten across the road from Nathaniel and Gretel’s house. Though she dreaded implicating or endangering her friends, she had no choice. They lived in a part of the city that had managed, inexplicably, to avoid the worst excesses of the bombing raids. How many times had she and Peter gone to supper there? They’d spent Christmases together, Ariella had taken care of their children whenever Gretel had an appointment, and the other woman had returned the favour too many times to count.
Nathaniel and Peter had worked together at the bank, and both started on the exact same day. They shared a sense of humour and a love of tennis, and it was to the men’s relief that their wives formed a firm friendship from the moment they met.
Gretel, like her, was from Berlin, but she said she envied Ariella her education and her ability with languages. Gretel had finished school at sixteen and was clever. However, she met Nathaniel at a church social, and once her parents were satisfied that he was a suitable husband, they courted for a year, were engaged for another year and married when she was eighteen. She became pregnant with Kurt and then the girls, and her family was her life.
Ariella tried to recall the last time she’d seen her friend. Perhaps a week or two before Peter intervened in the altercation between the Brownshirts and that old woman? They had gone for a picnic out to Potsdam – yes, that was it. They hadn’t discussed anything in particular. The children had played together happily in the park, and she and Gretel sipped hot coffee from the thermos she’d brought and nibbled gingerbread, fresh from Gretel’s oven. Gretel was an expert baker, and her figure was showing the signs of it.
Ariella smiled at the memory of Gretel bemoaning how her skirts were too tight and hoping it was the cakes and not another baby on the way. She’d had a hard time being pregnant with Elke and a long and difficult labour, so she confided in Ariella that she would be happy if Elke were her last baby, though Nathaniel would love enough children for a football team.
Ariella had wondered at the time about a relationship in which a wife couldn’t discuss her fears and preferences with her husband, leaving her fate to chance alone. She never said it, but she and Peter had the kind of relationship where they discussed everything. She would have liked to have had another child after Erich, but it wasn’t to be. But if she hadn’t wanted it, there were ways and means, and she knew that Peter would have supported her completely.
Nathaniel was a lovely man but very much the traditionalist. His wife and children were his responsibility, and he made all of the decisions. He probably had to join the Party; it seemed like everyone did. Nathaniel was a pragmatist, where Peter was an idealist. Even if her husband had survived, she could never imagine him sporting a Nazi pin; he just wouldn’t, regardless of the consequences. She looked down at the hateful symbol on her lapel but repeated her mantra: She would see Liesl and Erich again, whatever it took.
She watched for as long as she dared; she was very wary of acting suspiciously. No movement in the house could mean anything. It was coming up on 7 p.m. now, and people were home, eating whatever food they could get, praying they would survive whatever hell would fall from the skies that night. She’d seen, as she walked the streets of her battered city, mothers frantically ushering children along the streets. Everyone looked harassed, hungry, down at heel. This was not the chic, modern city she remembered. Was Gretel like that?
She forced herself forward. It was no good waiting any longer – she would have to just knock on the door. She had not one other soul she could call upon for help. She was an only child, as was Peter, and her parents were dead – at least they were spared this horror. They died in a house fire when she was pregnant with Liesl, from smoke inhalation in their sleep, so it was painless. She recalled wishing she felt more as they were buried, but she just hadn’t.
Her mother would have had no idea how to cope with this situation; her father would have buried himself in his books. They were observant Jews, but their faith was private and they never talked about it. Ariella had loved the synagogue since she was a little girl and chose to bring her children up joyous in their faith. She had two aunts living a couple of hundred kilometres away – her mother’s sisters, spinsters. They never approved of her father, thought him too old for their sister, and so relations were never warm. She wondered if they had survived. It was doubtful. Two old Jewish ladies against a well-organised regime determined to destroy them… Well, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Her father’s family were from Dusseldorf, and again, contact was minimal. Her father was an academic linguist at the university and was gentle and kind but far more concerned with the world of books than the world of his little daughter. His wife, Ariella’s mother, was a celebrated artist who smelled of linseed and spent most of every day and many nights in her studio. Ariella suspected their marriage was one of c
onvenience: Her father allowed her mother to paint and didn’t expect meals to be cooked or his shirts ironed, and she in turn made no demands on him. They were well off and so had staff to see to the running of the household, and to her recollection, her parents rarely communicated. How they conceived her was a total mystery. She spent a lonely childhood in the company of a governess, Mrs Beech, who insisted she spoke several languages fluently. Her father’s rare enthusiasm for his daughter was found when he heard her sing in French or recite Homer in the original Greek. To relish these rare moments of his love, she was a studious child. Her mother didn’t take any interest in her childish paintings, and when Ariella overheard her explain to Mrs Beech that she didn’t want her daughter wasting her time on art when she’d clearly not inherited her mother’s talent, it had cut her deeply.
She could not recall one single warm moment with her mother – not one. Sometimes she wondered if that woman had conceived and delivered her at all. They passed in the house occasionally, and if her mother addressed her at all, it was to tell her to tidy her hair or tie it back more. She’d hated her daughter’s red hair.
She had vowed to be a better mother to her own children.
It was her inheritance from her parents that they’d used to buy the American shares after the 1929 crash. Over the years, her money grew exponentially. The share certificates were still back in her old apartment, but Peter told her that in the event of ever needing them, the American broker had copies – Hervey and Goodbloom Investments, on 9th Avenue in New York. Funny, she thought, the things you remember. If she was going to make it out of this mess and reclaim her children, at least she wouldn’t be destitute.
Peter’s childhood had been the polar opposite. His father was a loving Irishman who adored his son and in turn his grandchildren. He’d worked hard all of his life but had no great fortune. He was lovely, and when his German wife died, leaving him with five-year-old Peter to raise alone, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the task. The only time she’d ever seen her husband cry was the day he buried his father.
Reminiscing wasn’t going to get her anywhere, she admonished herself. Now was the time for action. She crossed the road and all too quickly found herself at Nathaniel and Gretel’s door. With a trembling hand, she reached up and seized the heavy brass knocker. She rapped twice, her heart pounding.
No answer.
She tried once more; perhaps they hadn’t heard her. The kitchen was at the back of the house, and Gretel might be there, preparing an evening meal for the family; with the door closed, there was a chance she’d missed the knock. Ariella reached up and once again rapped the knocker – four times this time – as hard as she could.
She waited. Still nothing. Then, as she was about to turn away, she heard a faint shuffling noise from inside. Had she imagined it? Through the heavy front door, it was hard to hear anything, but she stopped and listened – there was the sound of the latch inside being pulled. The door opened a crack, then a little more, and soon enough, the opening revealed the face of her old friend.
‘Gretel.’ Ariella felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. Her dear friend’s face was no longer plump and jolly as it had been; the roses were gone from her now-gaunt cheeks.
The other woman made no gesture of recognition, just gazed at her.
‘It’s me, Ariella. Don’t you recognise me?’ she whispered. She should use her false name, she knew, but not with an old friend – that would be ridiculous.
‘Go… I’m sorry, I can’t… Please, just go.’
To Ariella’s astonished dismay, Gretel pushed the door closed.
Instinctively, Ariella reached out and stopped it from closing fully. ‘Please, Gretel, I don’t have anywhere else to go. You and Nathaniel are all I have…’
‘Nathaniel isn’t here, and I can’t… Please, it’s not safe! Go…go now…’ Ariella heard the panic in her friend’s voice.
‘But could we just talk…’ Ariella begged.
‘Come back tomorrow then, in the morning, after ten.’ Ariella could feel the desperation to be rid of her. ‘And come around the back. But now you must go.’ With a shove, Gretel closed the door, and Ariella stood on the pathway, stunned and distraught.
She knew anyone watching would have thought the scene odd and so decided she had no option but to do as Gretel said. She crossed the street and retreated into the Tiergarten once more. The large public park had been the site of so many picnics and walks in her life, it felt familiar and comforting.
She stood in the shadow of a large beech tree, watching Gretel’s house, wondering what to do. She mustn’t panic. This was her city, her home, and she knew it like the back of her hand. She would think of something if only she could stay calm.
Around the corner came Kurt, Nathaniel and Gretel’s son. She would recognise him anywhere. He looked just like Nathaniel, tall and handsome, blonde hair cut in a military style. He was wearing a uniform, and to her horror, it was the shorts, brown shirt and tie of the military, with an armband bearing the ubiquitous swastika of the Hitler Youth. At his waist, attached to his belt, was a scabbard from which poked the handle of a military-issue knife.
He walked with a swagger that she’d never seen in the boy before, and she was horrified to see him almost push an elderly man off the pavement for getting in his way. He let himself into the house and shut the door behind him. She’d escaped with moments to spare.
Could it be that sweet little Kurt, Liesl’s playmate and the boy Erich looked up to as a wonderful footballer, was an enthusiastic follower of Hitler? Surely not. Nathaniel and Gretel would not have allowed their son to go down that road!
Though he was gone, she retreated further into the woods. No wonder Gretel had been so anxious to get rid of her. The idea that her dear friends had gone over to Hitler’s side hurt her, but she couldn’t dwell on it. Survival had to be her only concern. The war was almost over; all she had to do was hold on – the forger’s words rung in her ears. She had not survived this long to fall at the last fence.
Her stomach growled painfully, and she wondered where she could go to get something to eat. She could possibly go to a café, but she had so little money that she wanted to keep it for a real emergency. She would hold on until the next morning. A thought struck her – was it safe to go back to Gretel’s house now that Kurt was one of them, maybe Nathaniel and Gretel too? Maybe the pressure to join, to be part of Hitler’s way of life, had been too much. Would her old friends feel like it was their duty to betray her? She refused to accept that idea. The baker and the bicycle repairman were one thing, but Gretel and Nathaniel were her and Peter’s dearest friends. They wouldn’t turn on her – they just wouldn’t! But the niggling voice in her head urged caution.
She forced herself to go over her options. She could start walking out of the city, towards the west. She could sleep rough, try to get to France. The man with the papers said the invasion by Allied armies would be soon, so maybe she could get across the lines, get to Liesl and Erich that way?
She racked her brain, tired and woolly from aching limbs, hunger and a sudden chill that came in the air now that the sun was going down. She’d never spent a night outdoors before. On and on she walked through the Tiergarten, hands by her sides, deep in thought. Apart from their investments, she and Peter had money in the bank, but she had no way of getting it. She knew from before she went into hiding and through the subsequent newspapers that Jewish bank accounts had been frozen and seized. But Peter wasn’t Jewish, so it was most likely their bank account was just sitting there untouched, but it was still useless. She had no identification now – Ariella Bannon no longer existed. She was Marta Weiss, Aryan, in Berlin without a friend.
Perhaps there was a charity she could go to. She remembered there was a place that she and Peter used to donate to, a place for down-and-outs, a hostel of some kind. It was beyond the zoo on the far end of the Tiergarten, on Burggrafenstraße. She would try there, admit she was destitute.
She hel
d her breath as two uniformed men walked past her. Did she imagine it or did they give her a funny look? She strode on purposefully, repeating over and over in her head that her name was Marta Weiss, she was from Fallersleben, the address on her card gave an apartment on Brandenburg Platz, her father was called Otto, her brother Fritz was killed, he was in the Luftwaffe, she was searching for her aunt and uncle. What if someone asked for their address? She panicked – she had no idea about that. She passed the zoo and came out at the other end of the huge public park. There in front of her was a gaping hole where several buildings once stood. She remembered the name of the street – Budapester Straße. Her mother used to frequent a shoemaker there, but he died a few years ago… What was his name? Hans something. She forced her brain to remember. Hans Froegel, that’s it. Hans and Marine Froegel. They were her aunt and uncle, she decided. Marine was a sister of her mother, Margareta Schmitt, and she was there in Berlin looking for them. If anyone checked, they had been real people and had lived over his little cobbler’s shop.
As she walked, she fleshed her story out more. She used to come to Berlin as a child on holidays, and she used to go to the zoo and for ice cream at the café there. Slowly, Marta Weiss became a real person, not just a name on an identity card. She spoke in her mind with the broader vowels of the Fallersleben region. She could do this.
The incessant bombing of the city surely must mean that the authorities had other things on their minds than single women searching for family? The entire city was in chaos.
She passed the Johanneskirche, the Catholic church she’d attended once for a funeral of a friend of Peter’s. The square tower of the church had taken a hit, but the building was still standing. As she looked up at the grey façade, she noticed a man in cleric’s garb go in the door.
The Emerald Horizon (The Star and the Shamrock Book 2) Page 5