by Louise Fein
“What on earth do you mean, Bertha? Has Ingrid said something about me?” My heart beats in double time.
Bertha sniffs and wipes her nose and mouth with her hankie. Her plate is clean.
“She says she knows you have a young man. She thinks it’s serious. But she won’t say how, or what she knows. Says she once saw proof of something . . . sensational. I’ve more than an inkling who the young man is, and I’m certain she does too. So far, I think she’s only talked to Karl and me, but it wouldn’t be hard for her to make trouble for you. I’ve warned her, but she’s not interested in authority, not from the likes of me. Just be careful, fräulein, that’s all.”
She saw us together, that time in Salamander’s. Her word against mine. It has to be more than that. Proof? Of what? My mind jumps about wildly. The notes we pass between us via Lena. Tomas. Places Ingrid could have seen us. And what about the broken picture of the Führer? She’s bound to have noticed it missing from my wall. Perhaps she even found the pieces shoved behind the wardrobe. I’ll tell Vati it fell down and broke. Ask him for another. My heart swoops. The diary. What if she found that? The thought of her fingers turning the pages, her eyes hungrily reading my innermost secrets, makes me want to scream.
“But . . .” I put my fork down and give up the pretense of trying to eat. “How did you know?”
Bertha fingers the tea towel. “I saw the two of you together, some weeks back at the tram stop. Recognized him straightaway. Don’t forget, this was once his second home. I always had a soft spot for him. I recognized how it was between you, that look, of being, well, lost in each other. Reminded me how I felt once, a very long time ago.”
I look at her properly for the first time. Bertha, who has always been here, like the furniture. I’ve never once given her more than a passing thought. And yet here she sits, soft and round and simple and kind. She knows so much and yet has never spoken a single word of it. In her eyes, I see worry and weariness. As though the weight of what she knows is too much. A sudden wave of fondness washes over me.
“Thank you, Bertha. He saved my life once, you know. A long time ago. Did you know?”
Bertha shakes her head.
“Anyway, there is nothing more to worry about as he’s leaving Germany. For all I know, he could have left already . . .”
Bertha nods slowly. This time, she puts her hand on top of mine.
“Just be careful, Fräulein Herta. Given who your father is, and keeping that sort of company . . .” She hesitates. “Things could be very bad, especially for him.”
“As I said, it’s nothing to worry about. He isn’t part of my life anymore.” But with these words comes a deep, physical pain. “I’m going to take Kuschi for a walk,” I say, pushing back my chair.
I attach his leash and give Bertha a quick wave as I head out the back door. Still sitting at the table, she lifts her hand in reply.
It’s good to be out in the blustery wind, buffeting my body, chilling my face and hands. Perhaps it will help to clear the jumbled chaos of thoughts and ease the agony of grief that stubbornly sits, a permanent, unwelcome visitor, deep within my soul.
Thirty-Two
October 23, 1938
After the funeral, Mutti flees to stay with her sister, Adèle, in Weimar.
“She needs to be cared for,” Vati tells me firmly. “She’s in no fit state to look after anyone else. Time away from prying eyes and gossipers will help her heal.”
“But I could take care of her. I could go with her to Weimar.”
“No, you must stay in Leipzig. Oma Annamaria is coming this afternoon from Berlin to keep an eye on you, and the household. Tomorrow you return to school. Life must get back to normal.”
“But it isn’t normal anymore.” My heart sinks at the thought of Vati’s strict mother—a true Prussian, with her sucked-in cheeks and ramrod straight back, dressed as always from head to toe in black—in place of Mutti’s soft, perfumed presence.
“A new normal. We must be strong, Herta. Strong for your mother and strong for the Fatherland.” Vati stares into space, as if seeing visions of all he must achieve. “I have to work. It’s the best way to cope.” He heads toward the study. “I may have to be away a good deal, so don’t give your oma any trouble.”
How very convenient. Send Mutti away and go to your mistress for comfort.
I follow Vati into the hall, wondering what to do with myself, when there is a knock at the front door. Another visitor.
Tomas is on the doorstep holding a bunch of yellow roses. I usher him inside and put the flowers in a vase; they are cheerful. Full of hope, like spring.
We sit opposite each other in the morning room. He looks awkward and uneasy in the armchair. His hair is neatly slicked back, glasses cleaned. His best jacket on.
“Thank you for coming to see me. It’s kind of you.”
“I’ve wanted to come for ages. Soon as I heard. But it’s hard. Long shifts, you know. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to . . .”
He uses the same soft, low voice as everyone else. It’s unbearable. Suffocating, like air turned to water, it’s hard to breathe.
“Such a fuckin’ awful thing to happen. What a shitty waste.” He speaks harshly, through gritted teeth. The change of tone, the swear words make me smile.
“Would you like coffee?”
“Please.”
I ring the bell and ask Ingrid to bring us a fresh pot. She looks from Tomas to me and back again. Is that a hint of surprise in her eyes? Perhaps I should get Tomas to visit more often.
“You look worn out. And thin,” he says, studying me.
“It’s hard to sleep. And eat.”
“Of course. How’s your mother?”
“Inconsolable. She’s gone to stay with her sister in Weimar for a while. I’ve got the pleasure of my oma, Vati’s mother, coming to look after me. She’s awfully strict.”
“I’m so sorry, Hetty. Truly. If, you know, there’s anything I can do. Just ask, yeah?”
So everyone says. But really, what can they do?
“It’s very nice to see you, Tomas,” I say, meaning it.
AFTER OMA HAS arrived and settled down for her afternoon nap, I change into my BDM uniform. My palms are clammy and I fumble at my buttons with clumsy fingers. I know I shouldn’t go, but the desperate need is too strong. Karl’s voice sounds loud and clear in my brain. Stay away from him, Little Mouse. Stay away.
“It’s fine, Karl,” I say out loud to the empty room. “He’s as good as gone anyway. This will be the last time I see him. I promise.”
I head toward Walter’s uncle’s warehouse. The Brühl is packed with people heading back to work after lunch. Grand stone buildings run the length of the street. The heart of the Jewish business quarter. Or at least, it had been. Many of the department stores, fur businesses, and law offices have changed hands now. The street is becoming Aryanized. Walter’s uncle’s firm, Keller & Co., Furriers, est. 1878, stands at number 24, and is one of the few still run by its Jewish owners.
I stand on the opposite side of the street and watch people walking back and forth in front of the double doors to the building. I recognize no one. I cross the street and try turning the iron handle. It’s locked. Peering through the glass, I see a tiled passageway running straight toward the back of the building. I can just make out the shape of the iron cage of an elevator at the end. There are no lights on. All looks deserted.
I walk to the end of the building and find the entrance to a covered alley running back from the street. A little way along the alley, set back into the wall of the Keller & Co. building, is a door. Surely this must be the warehouse. I take a deep breath and try the handle. The door opens smoothly, the room beyond, dimly lit.
“Hello,” I call cautiously, hovering on the doorstep. “Hello?”
The door swings wide open and there he is, standing in front of me.
“Hetty!” His face is drawn and pale.
“I came to say sorry. I was ghastly
to you and—”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for. It was my fault . . .” He looks over my shoulder into the gloom of the alleyway.
“Can I come in?”
“Quickly.” He raises an arm and I duck underneath. He shuts the door behind me, looking uncomfortable. “I’m down here on my own, doing a stock inventory,” he says. “But it isn’t safe, coming here.”
My eyes are slow to adjust to the darkness of the vast warehouse. On one side, I make out bales of something piled to the ceiling; on the other are lines of dark, inert shapes hanging down. There is a strange, cloying odor. The atmosphere is so still, it’s as if the air inside the warehouse is frozen.
“I had to see you.”
“Oh, Hetty . . . It’s been so hard to stay away from you. Every little thing that happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. Every idea, every feeling, every doubt. I want to share it with you.”
“I know—”
“I came looking for you.”
“You did?”
“The other day, outside school, but I didn’t see you. Then I walked past your house. But there seemed to be a lot of people coming and going.”
“I thought you might already have gone to England.”
“If only it were that easy.” He sighs.
“I wasn’t there. At school, I mean. Walter, the most dreadful thing has happened. I’ve been desperate to see you for days, hoping against hope you were still here.”
“Come with me. Tell me . . .” He places a hand between my shoulder blades and guides me toward a brightly lit office at the back of the warehouse.
“Rabbit skins,” Walter explains as we walk, pointing at the bales, “for making hats.”
He points at the shapes dangling from hooks in the ceiling. Through the gloom, I can see they have heads and tails. Even the little feet are still attached.
“These are raw skins. Silver fox and mink. Once they’ve been treated, they’ll be sold to be made into coats and jackets.”
The smell in the warehouse is overwhelming. It makes my head spin and stings my throat.
“Whatever is that stink?” I ask, covering my mouth and nose with my hands.
He chuckles, looking more relaxed. “Naphthalene,” he explains, “to kill the moths. They would destroy the skins otherwise.”
“How can you stand it?”
“You get used to the smell. I don’t even notice anymore.” He turns to the rows of dead creatures. “Aren’t these beautiful?” He runs his hand along the silvery white fur of the fox skins. “I wish I could dress you, head to toe, in a coat made of these.”
I stare at the dead creature hanging directly in front of me, trying to imagine it draped over my body. Its four little paws hang down forlornly. The inside of the skin is stained red where the flesh has been peeled away and the eyes are a dull, milky white.
I shudder.
Walter grabs my hands, pulling me close. “Tell me, what happened?” His face is serious. “Hetty, you look exhausted. Whatever is it?”
“Karl . . .” The tears begin to flow, and Walter’s face swims and dissolves before me.
We hold hands across the table in the little glass office, surrounded by this warehouse of the dead. My head aches from breathing in the chemical stink and from the effort of retelling the story of what happened to Karl. Even though he is holding my hand, Walter feels a long way away. A table between us, when I want to be in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “What a terrible shock for you all.”
He seems distant. There is something stony about the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes. It isn’t the reaction I’d expected. Perhaps he’s come to terms with the thought of marrying Anna. Perhaps he’s even looking forward to it. Or maybe he’s secretly happy Karl is dead. I pull my hands from his.
“This is my brother. I don’t know how to exist without him.” How can I make him understand? “While you and I were together that morning, talking about your plans for England with your new wife”—I spit the word at him—“Karl was being rushed to hospital fighting for his life, and losing it. You don’t give a jot whether he’s alive or dead, do you?” There is heat in my neck. It rushes to the top of my head like a boiling wave, erupting from my mouth. “You stupid, unfeeling bastard! I was an idiot to come here, to think you would even understand.”
“I do care, Hetty. I care that you are so upset.”
He tries to take my hand, but I fold my arms across my chest.
“You don’t care he’s dead, though, do you?” I shout.
“Shh! Someone will hear.” Now he stands, leans on the table, body bent toward me. “Karl rejected me and treated me like a piece of dirt.” His lips are thin, drawn back; his face taut, like skin stretched over a drum. “He could have been like you and valued me as a human being. So, in all honesty, yes. I’ve been angry and hurt. More than you could ever know. But I didn’t wish him dead. And I’m sorry for your loss. That’s the truth. What more do you want me to say?”
“You really don’t understand what it’s like for us, do you?” I want to shake him. Make him see. Make him feel as I do. “Karl didn’t have a choice. He had to reject you. What people secretly think, it doesn’t matter anymore, don’t you see? We have to be this way. Why do you imagine it’s easier for us than it is for you?”
Walter straightens and turns away. “Then you are blind, Hetty Heinrich. People see what they want to. We all have a choice. Each and every one of us. We choose how we treat each other. You chose, didn’t you? Karl simply chose differently.” His face is hard, eyes angry, words acid.
“I hate you, Walter Keller,” I sob. “I hate you.”
I should walk out now, leave. Slam the door. Never see him again, but I can’t make my feet move. I just sit, sobbing, my shoulders heaving, my wretched heart aching like it has never ached before.
“You don’t mean that,” Walter says at last. “I know you don’t.”
There is a pause, a teetering on the edge of something, and then, somehow, I’m standing and he’s holding me. I’m crying from the inside out, and he is whispering “Shhh,” softly in my ear, rubbing my back, and I am saying, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, because I mean it more than anything.
“I’m sorry, too. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I love you, Hetty Heinrich.”
We collapse into the chair, together, and slowly everything calms. We don’t speak; there is no need for words. He kisses my hair, my cheek, my neck. Then he kisses my mouth and a hunger grows inside.
Suddenly, from somewhere upstairs, there is a loud banging of doors. We stare at each other and a few seconds later, more bangs. The muffled sound of footsteps.
“I think it’s a raid.” Walter’s whisper is barely audible.
“Why?”
“About the taxes. It’s just an excuse. Hurry, they might come down.”
He grabs my hand and leads me toward the back of the warehouse.
“Why don’t we leave?”
“There’ll be Gestapo crawling around outside. Quickly.”
He pulls me into a dark corner. Bales are piled high but behind them, between the mountain of rabbit skins and the wall, is a narrow gap. We can just squeeze in sideways.
We hear the outer door crash open. Shouts. Clipped footsteps. We freeze in horror. Walter nudges me to keep going and we edge inch by inch along the gap, between the bales and the wall, right to the end in the pitch blackness. With luck, torchlight won’t penetrate far enough in to see us.
“What if they find us . . .” I hiss to Walter.
“Shh. Don’t think . . . just be silent.”
The gap is so narrow. The wall is hard against my back and the weight of the bales press in front and above me, Walter to the side. Boots pound across the floor. The bark of an order. The darkness is impenetrable. My eyes strain against it, trying to make out pinpricks of light, but there are none. Someone shouts, nearer now. I’m suffocating. Terror overwhelms me. Walter f
umbles for my hand.
“It’s okay. Stay calm.”
There’s a rasp of metal on concrete. Footsteps. Close. Very close. My ears strain. I try to stop shaking, stop the sound of my heart crashing in my ears, still my breathing.
The men are in the office, slamming open drawers and doors. One or two, it’s hard to tell. Another door bangs open, this time the inner, not the street door. Clipped footsteps and voices. Walter stiffens.
“Vati and my uncle Josef,” he whispers.
I press myself hard against the wall, trying to increase space between my face and the rabbit bales; its surface is rough against my back. I wish it would absorb us, envelop us in the brickwork.
“Leave my son out of this.” I hear Walter’s father’s voice clearly. “He has nothing to do with anything. If you must take someone, take me. But he is not responsible. He’s just a lad—”
“How old?” barks a voice.
“Nineteen,” Walter’s father replies.
“Old enough to know right from wrong. We’ll arrest all three of you.”
“For what?” a plaintive voice now. “Come on. There is no need for this . . .” That must be Josef.
There is a shuffle, a heaving sound, then a cry.
“On your knees, you Jewish filth.”
“I don’t understand . . . we’ve paid all your exorbitant taxes—” Josef’s voice again.
“Shut up!” The Gestapo man’s voice is low with threat. “Where is your son? We will confiscate this stock . . .”
“No!” Walter’s father shouts. “It’s all we have! Check the papers—look. It’s all in there, please!” I imagine him pointing at the little glass office.
“How dare you.” The Gestapo man’s voice trembles. Just listening, I can pick up every nuance, every emotion in the words they are saying. “Are you calling me a liar?” the Gestapo man continues, his voice loaded with threat.
“I didn’t—”
Thwack. A crack, like gunfire, but not. The sound of something solid, metal perhaps, connecting with flesh. A cry and Josef, “You bastards! You didn’t need—”