The Girl I Left Behind

by Andie Newton

  Hoffmann put his hand to his forehead and sank into his chair. Defeat buttered on his face and his chin started to quiver. He really needs a drink.

  ‘The Verwaltungsbau document control will handle the audits of all document files,’ Erik said, ‘from all departments around the Königsplatz.’ He glanced at Louise who had been picking at her fingernail. ‘That includes administration meeting minutes, equipment and the personnel files under Louise’s control.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘But—’

  Erik tapped the table with one finger. ‘Documents shouldn’t be part of your duties anyway. Enough said. This meeting is over.’ He paused, and then glanced around the table. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ everyone shouted back. People hurriedly got out of their seats and headed for the door, thankful the long meeting and argument about documents had finally been resolved. A few of the elders rubbed their eyes and then slipped out the back door that led to the toilets. Louise slammed her notebook shut, shooting me a heated stare. I had the feeling she wanted me to say something, perhaps apologize, but for what I didn’t know—after all, I wasn’t the one who took her duties away. Erik did, and like he said, documents were documents, it didn’t matter what department they came from, they should have been under my control from the beginning.

  Louise walked away; the scratching between her thighs sounded as harsh as nails on a blackboard. Some of the men winced.

  Hoffmann patted my shoulder with downcast eyes. ‘Sorry, Ella,’ he said. ‘Appears you didn’t have a choice, no matter what I said.’ He paused, and I looked up. ‘I hope you don’t have plans for Christmas, because you’ll be spending them here. Filing.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m alone this holiday.’ I caught my reflection in a glass decanter and looked into my own eyes. The amount of information I’d potentially be exposed to was unfathomable. I rose from my chair, reached across the table for some whisky and poured it into a fresh highball glass. ‘Making sure the Reich has what they need is paramount. And if that means working over Christmas, so be it.’ I slid the glass across the table and he caught it with one hand.

  ‘You’re a good National Socialist, Ella.’ He held the glass up, toasting me.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  *

  I volunteered to organize the NSDAP Christmas dance held in a Party building at the west-end of the Marienplatz. Louise had been on my list of volunteers, but when she saw me with a clipboard in my hand and Nazi banner decorations at my feet, directing girls to the far corners of the room, she sat down in a chair and picked at her nails.

  The party was in full swing by a quarter past eight o’clock in the evening, the band playing requests from the musical Kora Terry, a film about twin sisters, one a wholesome nationalist, the other a sexy traitor. The air was warm, stuffy and full of sweaty young NSDAP-uniformed men and women who wore satiny dresses and thin ribbons tied in their hair. Some of the girls danced modestly, almost stiffly, while others swung their hips and danced like the sexy traitor from the film, which was strictly forbidden, and I had to reprimand them.

  Erwin watched me from the doorway next to a table loaded with cakes and glasses of champagne. His stare made me feel uneasy, and I wished I hadn’t worn my blue dancing dress. I kept the clipboard in my hand and thought it would be enough to deter him from asking me to dance, but then I saw him adjust his swastika cuffband and check his breath.

  I turned around, walking away, but ploughed right into Louise, her pillowy breasts bumping awkwardly into mine.

  ‘Watch yourself!’ She looked at me bitterly.

  I glanced over my shoulder; Erwin was getting closer. The last thing I wanted to do was to get trapped in his sweaty grip for the rest of the night. I had to think of something, and I had to think of it quick!

  I pulled out what reichsmarks I had in my pocket. ‘I’ll give you this if you dance with Erwin.’ She looked shocked initially, and then glanced over my shoulder.

  ‘Hoffmann’s nephew?’

  I nodded quick, my head practically bobbing, pushing the money at her. I could feel Erwin behind me, and I imagined he was weaving in and out of people and gaining speed.

  She scoffed after studying my face. ‘You’ll need to do better than that.’

  I searched my dress pocket, but it was empty. ‘I’ll give you double tomorrow.’

  She snatched the money from my hand, tucked it into her brassiere and then pushed me out of the way like I was a twig in her path. Erwin seemed annoyed at first to see Louise, but when she ran her fingers loosely over the collar of his NSDAP uniform he softened like a hunk of melted fat.

  I watched them dance with both hands wrapped around my clipboard, glad I had avoided him and taken care of her. Then a deep voice whispered in my ear and a heavy hand curled around my waist. ‘Dance with me.’ It was Christophe. He was dressed in a loose-fitting NSDAP uniform, as if he had worn it all day and hadn’t bothered to have it cleaned or pressed. I paused for a second and searched his face for an explanation; he hadn’t mentioned he was coming to the dance. ‘Now,’ he said before I could answer him.

  He took the clipboard out of my hands and set it on a nearby table as he walked me out to the dance floor. Just as the band was winding down their set, Christophe pulled me close and talked directly into my ear. ‘There’s a man near the door dressed plainly in a brown suit. He’s from General Halder’s office. He’s been working in the NSDAP offices upstairs for two days. I need to know what he’s been doing.’

  I glanced toward the door and saw who he was talking about. He had short dark hair, chiselled cheekbones, and was as attractive as he was tall. I wondered what exactly Christophe had in mind. ‘How do you expect me to get into his office?’

  ‘You can find a way.’

  My head jerked, and I looked directly into his eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said. ‘You look suspicious, dammit. You know how many informants are walking around this city?’ He paused. ‘A lot. Some are probably here right now.’ He sniffed the crook of my neck. ‘What’s that smell?’

  I snarled. ‘It’s perfume!’

  ‘You’ll need to smell good for this one. He’s not like the fellows in the NSDAP. You’ll have to promise him more than a dance or a kiss to get him to unlock his office.’

  The song ended and everyone stopped dancing. ‘I don’t know about this. Alone with a man in his office…’

  ‘You’re crafty. Think of a way not to compromise yourself—if it means that much to you.’ He tugged on my ear, pushing his lips right into it. ‘I have information for you about your friend, Sascha. You help me, and I help you.’ He turned to walk away and I grabbed his hand, twisting his fingers back.

  ‘What is it?’

  He chuckled slyly. ‘We can exchange information after the dance.’

  I watched the man drink a glass of champagne as if it were water. I probably could get him drunk enough to take me up to his office. All I had to do was get inside. I took a deep breath. Girls seemed to avoid him, as if they knew he wasn’t from around here and not worth their time—the dances were designed to promote marriage, what good was he if he was only visiting?

  I walked up to him. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

  He offered me a glass of champagne he’d just taken from the tray. ‘I am.’ His dark hair looked as shiny as his face. ‘How can you tell?’

  Christophe questioned me from afar with a serious stare, and I took the man’s glass and drank what was inside in one gulp. Flat champagne. Ick. ‘You’re cuter than everyone else.’ I swallowed hard, tasting every bit of the rancid flavour.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ he said.

  He had a nice smile. Watching the other men dance with so many beautiful women while he stood singly must have weighed heavily on his mind, and it occurred to me he might have thought something was wrong with him. It won’t be so bad, I thought.

  The music started up again. ‘I’d love to,’ I said, and he
took my hand.

  His name was Michael and we danced the rest of the night together. I made sure that when the music stopped we drank another glass of champagne until he was happily intoxicated. Most of the time I’d turn my back and switch my full glass out for an empty one.

  Sometime between our dancing and drinking, Max had walked in. He wore a crisp NSDAP uniform with shiny, knee-high black boots, a polished silver belt buckle and pointed lapels with a brand new swastika cuffband wrapped around his arm. He’s a member of the Party.

  He held his drink casually and swayed and laughed to the chatter of a woman wearing a skimpy, gold-coloured dress. Her face was crudely painted with makeup and every time she laughed her chest bounced as much as her blonde, wavy hair. I wondered where she came from—girls like that didn’t come to NSDAP dances. Did they come together? She took a long drink of champagne, spilling some of it on her ballooning chest.

  When the music stopped, Michael walked up to the band to request a song. I stood alone in the middle of the dance floor and stared at Max. He held my gaze for a moment, then walked straight up to me and asked how I was. He stood so close I could smell the tobacco on his shirt. The room suddenly felt very small, too small for Max and me to be in it at the same time, and I murmured something that sounded like a hello back. Then Michael barged in between us, grabbed my hand and twirled me around—the tune he requested had started to play, more Kora Terry.

  I laughed and pretended to enjoy the dance, but my gaze kept shifting toward Max, who was still standing in the middle of the dance floor watching me. The woman, realizing Max had walked away from her, drunkenly shuffled onto the dance floor for a dance. They moved very close to Michael and me. When the moment was right, Max switched partners and I found myself in his arms. He put his cheek to mine and whispered in my ear as we spun away from Michael and the buxom blonde.

  ‘I miss you.’

  The music moved as fast as we did, his hand moving up my warm back, our bodies touching, eyes locked on each other.

  ‘You know this is just a uniform,’ he said. ‘I don’t really believe.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  Michael cut back in, ripping me from Max’s grasp and we danced away. I watched Max’s date bump into him with her chest. She laughed loud, loud enough for me to hear her, before she planted a kiss on his lips. I looked away when they headed for the door, together.

  The lingering smell of Max’s cologne on my clothes affected me in a way I didn’t think was possible, and I had to sit down for a moment before I could continue with Michael. I felt my own arms, thinking about his touch, wishing that damn Kora Terry song had lasted longer.

  The dance floor had thinned, and guests had gathered around the refreshment tables, but the champagne was nearly gone, and so were the cakes. I felt Christophe’s watchful eyes still set on me, telling me to get up and get going.

  He must have something good to tell me about Claudia.

  I stood up from where I was sitting. ‘Michael, is there someplace close by we can go?’ I was sure he had drank at least three bottles of champagne himself. ‘Someplace private?’

  He hiccupped. ‘I have an office upstairs.’

  I smiled.

  *

  Michael barely got a foot inside his office before he pushed my face into his and kissed me. I could taste the champagne on his lips and smell it on his breath. He backed me into the wall, trying to pin my wrists with his hands, but he could barely stand and felt really heavy.

  ‘Michael,’ I said. ‘You’re drunk.’

  He backed up into the flagpole behind the door, lost his balance and fell violently to the floor with a loud clang. I froze, watching him wrapped up with the Nazi flag, waiting for him to move. Then his head flopped backward and he snored.

  I locked the door, and immediately opened up all his desk drawers, but they were completely empty. Aside from a cup of pencils, there was nothing to make me believe the room had ever been used as an office. My heart raced, glancing at Michael’s drunken body, feeling the pressure of a ticking clock made worse by not knowing how long he’d be out.

  Damn! I had to find something to give to Christophe. I pounded my fist on top of a knee-high filing cabinet behind his desk. The bottom drawer jittered and squeaked; its lock wasn’t engaged. I opened it slowly. Inside was a brown leather bag stuffed full of handwritten letters.

  Gasp.

  I crouched down like a child on the floor behind Michael’s desk and read them as fast as I could.

  Michael was the personal courier of Franz Halder, Chief of General Wehrmacht Staff. The papers were secret correspondence between Halder and Walther von Brauchitsch, Commander-in-Chief of the Wehrmacht. Halder wanted to form a conspiracy to overthrow Hitler, said they couldn’t win a two-front war. Brauchitsch was still undecided.

  My eyes rolled over the words so fast it felt like I had inhaled them. When I came to the last page I took a deep breath and tried to absorb what I had just learned. That was when I heard footsteps coming down the corridor. I thought about moving but I was paralyzed, save for my eyes, listening to the clip of heels getting closer and closer until suddenly they stopped just outside the door.

  I heard a thud against the frosted glass set in the door, as if someone had pressed their face to it and was trying to get a peek inside. The lock clicked over, and blood pumped in my ears.

  ‘Michael?’ The voice was a man’s. A voice I didn’t recognize. The doorknob turned, and then creaked open. Michael lay motionless on the floor behind the door, still wrapped in the flag. ‘Michael,’ the voice said again.

  Everything got quiet. Even Michael’s drunken snore had stopped.

  The blurred reflection of the open door glimmered off the metal filing cabinet, and I saw what looked like a hand searching the wall before I heard a palm patting for the switch. The door opened wider and pushed against Michael’s foot. I squeezed my eyes shut as if the harder I squeezed them the more invisible I would become. Then the light went out and the door closed just as noisily as it had opened. ‘Wasting electricity,’ the man mumbled, walking back down the corridor.

  I breathed heavily, face buried in my shoulder, thanking God I wasn’t caught, until at last I was able to get up and leave.

  Christophe was waiting for me across the Marienplatz under a very dark eve. He hooked my arm and we walked down the street as if we were a couple, whispering into each other’s ears. I had to tell him my news before he’d tell me his.

  ‘The Hinzert prisoner who escaped was a girl. Number six.’

  I put my hand to my mouth, stopping. ‘Are you certain?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s still on the run. There were agents in Nuremberg looking for her but now,’ he said, pausing, ‘they think she’s in Munich.’

  ‘Munich?’ I turned to him, breathless from this information. ‘Did you get a name?’ I thought that if he could give me a name that sounded like Claudia or her codename I could be certain.

  ‘A name will be difficult. Night and Fog is the most secret program I’ve come across. Even those who know about it act as if it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, savouring the news he did give me. ‘What you’ve told me is good.’

  ‘It was a good night for both of us, Sascha. This news about Halder could be the shift we’ve been waiting for.’ Christophe let go of my arm and walked away into the night.

  The blare of air raid sirens erupted out of nowhere. The heavy hum of multiple RAF bombers rumbled along the city’s edge, their bombs dropping willy-nilly and nowhere near the industrial centres or railway lines. Civilians. I ran past the wood and hat shop near my building, but then stopped dead. The shop was dark and empty; just a few hats had been left on display in the window along with a handful of wood shavings where the boxes used to be, and a string of silver garland on the floor. Pasted to the front door just above a Merry Christmas greeting, was the death card of a young man dressed in a Wehrmacht uniform—killed in action. His dark hair looked
white from weathering and he had vacant, sun-bleached eyes. Below the image was his name—he was eighteen and Herr and Frau Haas’ son.

  A man knocked my shoulder, shouting something I couldn’t hear over the whirring sirens and the blasts of the bombs. I ran away feeling the boy’s ghostly stare on my back, but then smiled, not caring so much, because of the news of Claudia and that they were looking for her in Munich.

  18

  It was the day after Christmas, a Saturday, and I was outside, along with hundreds of other people standing in the winter sun, admiring three of the newest style of Panzer tanks on display in the Marienplatz. The tank’s long-gun turned in circles—the heavy clinking noise of its mechanisms locking into position—aiming at the heads of the people who were ahhing and ooing. Wehrmacht soldiers marched in a line, some holding guns, others holding Nazi flags.

  A man with one eye and a missing hand watched me from the side of a building where he stood lifeless as a flagpole. When he saw me notice him, he turned on his heel and walked away, dragging a sweeping foot.

  ‘Don’t mind the wounded,’ a second man with a cane said. ‘We want to see the Panzers, but don’t want to be seen.’ He winked, and then hobbled on after him.

  I pulled my collar up, more interested in the crowds than the tanks, when I saw a woman not that far away with auburn hair. I could hear her laughing, saying something about the tanks, as she walked away with another girl on her arm. I followed her, straining to catch a glimpse of her face, reaching out for her shoulder when she turned around—and I saw her brown eyes.

  My hand recoiled. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  She looked at me strangely, and then snuggled up against her friend and walked away.

  I watched her disappear into the crowd with her hair bouncing, deeper and deeper until there was nothing left of her, when suddenly Herr Speer, the building manager, tapped my shoulder. ‘Fräulein Strauss!’ He wore oversized reading glasses that magnified his eyes to the size of gigantic green apples. ‘We have a problem. The flag! Under your window.’ He pointed. ‘It’s crooked—what a disgrace!’