Oxblood leather. The smell was fierce and overwhelming, the colour earthy and warm. Annie opened the packaging and peeked in at her new notebook. She could have chosen blue, but that seemed too ethereal; or green, too lush and verdant. And she could have picked out a more refined grain of material, one in which the animal skin had been beaten, stretched and treated until the cover was as thin and elegant as a lady’s glove. But the oxblood leather spoke to her as raw and down to earth – a reminder of how she wanted to write in her journal – with truth and straightforward honesty. Taking a quick look around at the other passengers to make sure no one was watching, Annie stuck her nose into the brown paper bag and breathed in the pungent smell.
Satisfied with her purchase, she lifted her face and re-tucked the ends of the bag around the book until it was hidden from view then, to be on the safe side, she wrapped her scarf around it twice and put it right at the bottom of her bag, under the apples and bread and beetroot. All of these precautions were necessary because if Fred saw the notebook he would be most upset. He would huff and puff and berate her for going into Munich against his wishes. Then probably, like any sensible person, he would dash the book into the fire if he thought for a minute she was going to use it to write about her thoughts and feelings now that Britain had declared war against Germany and their passage home was blocked.
Picking up the bag, she inspected it from every angle to make sure the outline of the large, red rectangle would not be a giveaway. If discovered, it would give Fred more upset and anxiety than he was already experiencing and she couldn’t bear that thought.
‘Why?’ he would demand. ‘Why did you defy me and take the train to Munich when I said you must – we must – stay as close to home as possible until we have decided and agreed upon our plan?’
Her stomach dipped and she felt a surge of nausea when she pictured how he would nurse his head in his hands and claw through his hair until he looked quite mad. Then he’d turn away from her and once again become immersed in the other problems that occupied so much of his thoughts. He hadn’t mentioned it once, but Annie felt sure he blamed her for both of them being stranded here when she had gone against his wishes that time, too and travelled to be with Oma when she had taken a turn for the worse.
Poor devoted Fred, he did everything he possibly could to protect and care for her, Oma and Viola and it must seem to him that she threw that loyalty and devotion back in his face. That was why she had to get the journal into the house and hidden before he discovered it. If they were well and truly stuck, and it did appear that every avenue to return home had been closed, then after this she vowed she would make it up to him with kindness and food and washing and tending the garden and reading aloud to him, which used to give him so much pleasure.
One woman, hunched in a corner seat, gave her a quizzical look, the deep lines on her forehead furrowing when she frowned at Annie’s endless fussing with the notebook and the shopping. In return, Annie flashed one of her best broad smiles and the woman deigned to turn up the corners of her mouth before being distracted by a barn swallow, gliding at a pace with the train window.
A small child sitting on the edge of his seat next to an older man, who was probably his Opa, shrieked out loud at the sight and watched as the bird turned its head to the left as if it was taking in the forest and then to the right, observing the passengers in their maudlin attitudes. Despite being shushed repeatedly, the child continued to loudly enjoy the flight of the bird until it flapped its wings frantically and dropped behind. The dear little boy rambled on, trying to tell anyone who might listen about the miracle he had observed, pointing towards the window and looking from one to other of the passengers as if they were insane not to celebrate such a sight with him.
His Opa grabbed his wrist and told him in a quick, sharp voice to be quiet. The boy’s eyes filled with tears, but he set his trembling mouth and stared down at his hands like the adults around him.
None of the other passengers looked haughty or self-righteous as they might in thinking the start of war was not the doing of their beloved Fatherland. Instead, a sense of foreboding pervaded the atmosphere like a huge, thick cloud bearing down on all of them and Annie felt the dread, too. She had expected that everyone would look defiant, their chins in the air, swastikas on their lapels, shoulders back. But, and she might put this in writing later if she dared, people looked defeated before any shots had been fired. Necks were rounded down into upturned collars and mouths followed suit.
Munich had been the same, but the emotions, or lack of them, were intensified by the swelling of the crowds. No one was wearing anything bright and cheerful; everyone was awash with grey, black, brown, the occasional splash of a white shirt. Trees drooped with rain and the first shedding of leaves. Clouds scuttled across a drab sky. She had no way of knowing, but Annie guessed people in England would mirror them here. None of them, here or there or, she presumed, anywhere in the world, were happy. How awful, she thought, a world full of wonderful things, like birds in flight and not a living soul able to appreciate them. They were too burdened and distracted by another hideous war and would have to put their lives on hold before they could view the world as it deserved to be appreciated.
Whilst the woman next the window was busy tutting at the little boy’s every fidget, Annie checked her bag from the corner of her eye and decided that no one would discern a notebook hidden in its depths. When she arrived home she would take out the vegetables then run upstairs to her room with the bag, telling Fred if he asked that she had personal things to put in her drawers. Being such a gentleman, he would not enquire further. She congratulated herself on her plan and was determined to make it work as she had no intention of telling her brother that she meant to write with great candour about everything she observed and heard and experienced from today on. The announcement yesterday warranted her defiance as she wanted to give credence to the terrible magnitude of the news. It felt unreal and completely unbelievable. The two countries that were in her blood and that she loved and respected were at war – again.
How could this be? she wondered. The sun still rose and set, as it did before the announcement; the grass was patched with autumnal brown as it always was at this time of year; the kettle had not changed its position on the range; Oma was as bedridden as she had been these last seven months. Dogs barked, trains hooted and slid along the tracks, the aroma of fresh bread remained intoxicating. And yet Annie’s head told her that despite what she saw, heard, smelled, touched, everything had changed irreversibly and irredeemably.
After the announcement, Fred had gone to church as it was Annie’s turn to stay with Oma. But she wished it had been the other around as Fred stormed back into the house livid with anger. ‘Fred,’ Annie had said, ‘please calm yourself. Think of Oma.’
Fred had reached for the schnapps, even though it was before noon, and poured himself a large glass. Then he’d steadied himself. ‘How dare they, Annie. How dare they,’ he’d said time and again.
Annie had waited patiently, although her palms were clammy and she fiddled with the hem of her skirt.
‘You will not believe what Pastor Otto said, in church, where everyone could hear and where everyone, or so it seemed by the subtle nodding of their heads, agreed.’
Annie had waited another few minutes during which Fred became quieter then carried on, saying that now he’d had time to think, it was not so much what the pastor had said but what he hadn’t said.
Very interested to hear what was coming next, Annie could not contain herself any longer. ‘Well what did he say?’ she’d blurted out. ‘Or not say?’
‘He said that Britain had declared war on Germany.’
‘Yes, that is a fact,’ Annie had commented.
‘I know,’ Fred had continued, agitated again. ‘But what he failed to iterate was that Britain had no choice and had given Germany so many chances to divert this crisis by leaving Poland alone. But no, Hitler decided to invade and Britain and France were left with no other option open to them.’
Annie had agreed with Fred but was surprised that he thought the pastor would say any different. After all, no newspaper article or radio announcement would tell them that Germany was to blame. That was not what the people were meant to believe, although they must have known, in their hearts, what the truth of the matter was. Or perhaps they didn’t; they might know, or only want to know, what they were fed by the regime.
‘Also,’ Annie had reminded Fred, ‘the German Christian Group is aligned to the Nazi party.’
‘Along with many other organisations.’
They had read about a number of them over quite a few years, but had never worried, as they were known in the town for being as German as they were British, even though their visits to Oma and their cousins were confined to school holidays. Fred must have read Annie’s thoughts as he’d turned away and muttered, ‘Only during the school holidays. Until now.’ He’d then shaken his head from side to side like a poor lost puppy. ‘At this most dangerous juncture in time to be stranded on German soil,’ he said. ‘I cannot believe our terrible luck.’
All her life until now, Annie had felt comfortable and rather proud of her dual nationality, being equally enchanted with both German and British languages, culture and history. Perhaps she had also been a bit guilty of arrogance or pomposity in her knowledge of both countries. But she had always thought of herself as absolutely accepted by both sets of relatives, friends and authorities, as had Fred. A chill spread through her when she predicted that they would become abhorrent and suspicious to both countries, if they were not so already. That was indeed very worrying.
To change the subject, Annie had told Fred they should come up with a plan of action that covered their behaviour, their movements, the story that they would feed others about their presence in Germany. Fred had agreed that they would sit down together the following day and do that in great detail, but until then, he instructed her to stay close to home and try not to engage in conversation with too many people. But she had ignored him and could now, as the train pulled into Ulm, picture him watching the clock for her return so they could get on with that task. As soon as she was out of the station, she ran all the way home.
Out of breath and nursing a stitch in her side, Annie opened the front door and waited for a chastising call from her brother. Nothing reached her ears. He wouldn’t have gone out and left Oma, but he might be sitting with her upstairs. She kicked off her shoes and tiptoed towards the kitchen. Pushing open the door, she saw him on his knees, turning the dial on the wireless at the pace of a snail, listening as it crept from crackle to crackle, hoping to find a British transmission.
‘Ah, Annie,’ he said, not looking up from his task. ‘I gave Oma her soup, but she has been asking for you.’
Annie put the vegetables on the scrubbing board, ‘I will go up to her now,’ she said.
‘This blasted wireless,’ Fred said, giving the radio a good slam with his hand. He stood up and glanced at the clock on the sideboard. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked, looking at her at last.
Not telling Fred she had defied him, yet again, was one thing. But lying to his direct questions was something she could not bring herself to do. So she evaded the question. ‘Tonight, I am going to recreate a roast dinner for us with your favourite Yorkshire puddings,’ she said.
His eyes grew wide, then he wiped at them with his fist and Annie supposed his tears were for the idea of Englishness encompassed in the dish. She laid a hand on his arm and said, ‘Save your tears for the impending disaster when I try to cook them using the wrong flour and powdered egg.’
Fred smiled at that. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me take your bag.’
But Annie slipped it behind her back. ‘Personal things,’ she said, lowering her eyes. And it wasn’t a lie; the journal was and would remain her personal property. ‘I’ll take them upstairs then go in to Oma.’
‘Of course. Yes. You must.’ Fred nodded with his eyes closed. ‘We will get on with our plan when you come back down.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Annie said, heading for the safety of the stairs. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Burying the notebook beneath her undergarments in a drawer of the tallboy, Annie let out a sigh of relief. She felt sure that was the best hiding place as Fred would never go in amongst her private possessions and Oma was not able to do so. If warranted, she would come up with an alternative in the future.
She straightened her hair and clothes then went across the landing to Oma. Every time she opened her grandmother’s door and peered at her, she had to steel herself to be faced with the worst. Herr Doctor repeated every day that they should be prepared as the end could come at any time. But Annie didn’t know what she could do to prepare for that kind of heartbreak. Oma, once so robust and energetic, was becoming more frail and fragile before their eyes. It was often difficult to tell if there was breath left in the elderly woman, so Annie had to creep forward and, dreading not finding any evidence of life, place a hand on her grandmother’s chest or under her nose.
This time, Annie could detect the gentle rise and fall of Oma’s nightgown over her heart, so put her lips to Oma’s hand then placed it back on the counterpane.
‘Oh, Liebling Annie.’ Oma stirred and opened her eyes. Her voice was thin and sounded painfully rasping. ‘The market was busy?’
‘Not too crowded, Oma,’ Annie answered.
‘Fred brought me lunch and told me about the war. Terrible,’ she said.
Annie sat in the chair that was nestled next to Oma’s bedside. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘But you must not worry about it. We will do the worrying.’
‘It seems as if I have nothing left to do now but worry,’ Oma said. ‘Will you turn me, Annie?’
Annie leaned over her grandmother and placed one hand under her waist and the other on her shoulder, feeling the brittle bones and wasted muscles under her hands, nudging and adjusting inch by inch as Herr Doctor had shown her. Oma landed, with a sigh, on her side. ‘Are you quite comfortable, Oma, or do you need to be a bit more towards me?’
‘No, this is good. Thank you, Liebe. I will close my eyes for a moment or two.’ But Annie knew it was more likely to be hours, as the elderly woman couldn’t stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.
She sat and watched over Oma, curled on her side as if protecting herself from the suffering and outrage of the world, and longed to talk to her as they had done so often, about everything and anything. Now Oma was too feeble and infirm and besides, it would not be fair to burden her. What she needed and deserved was quiet calm, tenderness, patience, care and love. But that didn’t stop Annie from thinking of all the things she would dearly love to chat to her about.
What would Oma say if Annie admitted that she fretted about her identity and how it would now be viewed here in Germany, where she had felt accepted and safe for large chunks of her life? Or about how people would see her in Britain if she was there? With an intake of breath she realised she and Fred could be accused of being spies by either country or sympathisers to the other side from whichever country they were residing in. They had gone from having a foot firmly in each country to finding themselves with nowhere to place their feet and with their legs trembling in fear.
One thing she was sure about was that she did not want the Fatherland to count her amongst those who agreed with the pastor and the Nazi party. That was an aspect of this country she would always reject. And she refused to be brainwashed into believing that the ordinary, everyday, commonplace German, like Oma, wanted to be thought of in that way either. It was not within the scope of the German people she knew and loved. They were innocent of crime and wanted to do nothing more than get on with their lives.
Vati had been outraged at what was happening in Germany from the end of the Great War. He could have so easily up and moved them here, to be with his family when Mum died, but thank goodness he hadn’t as they might well have become entrenched in the Nazi way of life and become victims of their propaganda.
Annie vividly remembered Vati’s shock and contempt when Onkel Niklas suggested – no, strongly advised – that she should join the Young Girls’ League with her cousins when she was twelve or thirteen. Fred, exempt from Hitler Youth at seventeen, had dropped his jaw in horror. ‘I do not think so.’ Vati had sounded unshakeable.
‘But, Franz,’ his brother had said. ‘Better for Annaliese to join voluntarily than be conscripted.’
‘Enough,’ Oma had interrupted. ‘No such thing is about to happen.’ She’d dismissed the idea with a wave of her ringed fingers.
‘No, it will not,’ Vati had said. ‘I would not allow Annie to be conscripted. If such measures are taken, then we shall leave for home at a moment’s notice and not return.’
How wrong Oma had been. By December 1936, all eligible youths in Germany had to belong to either the Girls’ Leagues or Hitler Youth. As it turned out, Fred and Annie did not qualify as ethnic Germans so were considered ineligible. Instead, they were able to stand back and watch their cousins going off to their gatherings in blue skirts or brown shirts, heavy marching boots clumping their path to the meeting halls and back.
Amongst the photos on Oma’s dresser, Annie picked out various of those cousins during different phases of growing up. She spied Werner, who had refused to join any Nazi group. His parents had begged and scolded, pleaded and tried to reason, but he would not be drawn. They thought his resolve would cave when he began to be taunted by fellow pupils and one of his masters set him an essay entitled ‘Why am I not a Member of Hitler Youth?’ But he merely set out his arguments in paragraph form, handed in the essay and steadfastly dug in his heels; Fred and Annie both admired him for that. Then, the poor lad was told he would not receive his school leavers’ diploma unless he joined the wretched organisation and that would, in effect, bar his entrance to university. Their own dear Vati had stepped in and said he would ensure Werner could study at Oxford and live with them but, lo and behold, when Werner gave that piece of news to his school, it was confirmed that he would receive his diploma along with the rest of his class. They wouldn’t have wanted to lose a brilliant architecture student to Britain, although she would take bets he was being watched very carefully at the university in Hamburg.
Vati had taken such good care of them. He was so confident in himself and his beliefs that it seemed as if he didn’t have to think before he made what was always the best decision. Annie knew that Fred tried so very hard to be like him – strong, decisive, trustworthy and reliable – but sometimes she saw terror in his eyes, for a fraction of a blink, that she had never seen in Vati’s. But perhaps she would now, were he here with them in this situation.
Enough about the past, Annie thought. They must think about the future and to do that they must have their plan in place. Her eyes strayed to the door beyond which was her room and the brand-new notebook ready and waiting for its first entry. She knew Fred would not disturb her, so took the journal from the drawer and sat back down next to Oma. For a few minutes she chewed the end of her pen and deliberated about whether or not she was doing the right thing. If uncovered, the book could get all of them arrested, imprisoned, sent for trial or executed. But Werner stuck to his beliefs as did Vati and she felt compelled to do the same.
She dated the page then set down how she had disobeyed Fred’s decree, what she had seen in Munich and on the train, Oma’s struggle, her sympathies with both the German and the British people and her ever-increasing fears of alienation from both sides.
But now I am determined to give my brother as little cause for worry as possible, she wrote. I will tend to Oma and the house, the shopping and cooking. I will make a start by coming up with a plan for our safety, which I will present to him so I can take the pressure of that responsibility off his shoulders.
We must inform each other of our movements, intended destinations when we go out, who we are meeting if anyone, what time we will return and we must keep to this at all times. (The irony of this is not lost on me, but I do understand the necessity of adhering to this in the future.)
In public, we must appear to agree with the status quo. How we go about that in practical terms will have to be discussed. However, we will have to be prepared to wear masks of alliance and affiliation when our heads and hearts will be rejecting the regime in no uncertain terms. We will have to learn the jargon that goes along with being good, upstanding German citizens. We will have to practise the Nazi salute and use it. We will have to Heil Hitler in response to others and perhaps instigate the greeting if necessary. We must stay away from the truck and diesel factories, the barracks and depots in Ulm, which will be under heavy surveillance. We will have to avoid gatherings if we can or perhaps go to a few to show our faces.
In private we can vent our anger, frustration and antagonism. But what if we are asked to join the party? We will have to go along with whatever is required to save our own and Oma’s lives. I suppose. But I am not sure I would have the stomach for that if the situation arises.
Now our plan is going to get more and more complicated. For what about all of the above in regard to other members of the family? Those, for example, who happily sent their children, our cousins, to the wretched Hitler Youth Clubs. My deep concern with this is that amongst them there might be some who have willingly joined the party and would be delighted to give our names to the authorities as dissenters and troublemakers. In other words, should we trust anyone at all? Probably not. And that includes, and here I have to steel myself, the very handsome and charming Walther who will be taking over from his father, Herr Doctor, when he has completed his studies. The thought of that makes me fume with anger.
We must not purchase anything that is likely to cast aspersions upon our loyalties, for example books or newspapers or pamphlets that do not toe the party line. It causes me great dismay, though, to know that if one so desired, it would be beyond difficult to get one’s hands on any books other than those approved by the Nazis since they have either burned or banned any type of literature that goes against their regime. All my favourites are no longer available: DH Lawrence, Upton Sinclair Jr, James Joyce, Trotsky, Tolstoy, Vicki Baum and Hermann Hesse; they are ash. Ash that has by now dissipated into the air or been ground into the earth. I like to think that some of the powdered embers have lodged themselves in the cracks of walls and pavements, or in the roots of trees that continue to grow strong, still nourishing the world we live in. It’s an idealistic hope, but even if it were true it could never make up for the ideas that were razed to the ground when those tens of thousands of pages were set alight. I remember verbatim Helen Keller’s response that Vati read aloud at the time: ‘You can burn my books and the books of the best minds in Europe, but the ideas in them have seeped through a million channels and will continue to quicken other minds.’ How we clapped and cheered, never imagining that we would be in the position we’re in now where we have to live without the freedom of reading what we want when we want.
We must take care of our health – eating the right foods, taking exercise, sleeping well. We must take care of each other.
Annie snapped the book closed and placed it on the dresser behind her when Oma stirred.
‘Annie?’ Oma’s voice quivered.
‘Yes, Oma, I’m here. Do you want to be turned again?’
‘A sip of water, please.’
Annie helped her grandmother to sit up and held a glass to her mouth. A sip was all she could manage, then she fluttered back, exhausted, against the pillows. ‘Annie…’ Oma reached out her hand. ‘You do know I loved your mum, don’t you?’
Annie was taken aback. Why would Oma ask that now? Because Mum had been British? ‘Of course,’ Annie said, finding it as painful to utter her words as her grandmother did.
‘She was like a daughter to me and to your Opa. Our very own English rose.’
‘Yes, she was beautiful,’ Annie said. ‘Everyone loved her.’ Oma slept again, and Annie added that exchange to her journal. Then she returned the book to its hiding place under her knickers and vests and went down to Fred.
Lining up potatoes, cabbage and carrots to peel, Annie started to tell Fred about the plan.
‘Where is it then?’ he said. ‘I’ll read through it whilst you do that.’
Annie pointed to her temple. ‘In here,’ she said. ‘So you’ll have to put up with me reciting it.’
Fred popped a round of carrot into his mouth and studied her. ‘Why were you such a long time today?’ he said. ‘Buying a few items from town never usually takes you that long.’
Annie turned to the sink on the pretence of rinsing the vegetables.
‘Did you meet Walther?’ Fred asked.
Annie felt her face turn as puce as the beetroot she’d bought earlier, but she knew this turn in the conversation would detract from the truth so let her brother see her chagrin. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t meet Walther today.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know about every single time we’ve seen each other.’
‘And I’m begging you to keep it that way.’
Annie sighed. ‘Yes, I will, even though I was never privy to the same information about you and Vi.’
‘Don’t be childish,’ Fred said. ‘You know the situation is completely different.’
She did, but felt aggrieved regardless. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I think Walther must have returned to university.’
‘Without saying goodbye to you?’
Annie shrugged and thought that perhaps this was the beginning of being alienated by people they had known and been friends with all their lives.
‘I am sorry, Annie,’ Fred said. He sighed and gazed into the distance, a glaze covering his eyes that Annie guessed meant he was thinking about Viola.
Fred agreed with all the points Annie had thought about to keep them safe and was grateful to her for devising them, but the Yorkshire puddings were not such a success, as they were flat as pancakes and would have been inedible if they had been living in a time or place or position to waste food.
Oma managed a bit of gravy and mashed potato, then Annie settled her before going to bed herself. She lay awake and listened to Fred pacing the floor below, as he did most nights, and was so grateful that the notebook was secreted away and could not add to her brother’s restlessness and disquiet.