November 9, 1938
We assembled at Frau Schroeder’s home at the appointed hour. A butler saw us to the drawing room, where we waited for our hostess to join us. It was truly Friedrich’s home now that his father was gone, but his mother stayed on and kept house for him, and she took the duty as seriously as a dowager countess on some great estate in England. While her tastes were not as stylish as Aunt Charlotte’s, there was a timeless grace about the way she managed things. I recognized this effortless elegance in Friedrich, but knew I was hopeless to emulate it. Uncle Otto looked the picture of boredom, pacing the floor as we waited, but Aunt Charlotte was taking in the space and calculating each of Frau Schroeder’s meticulous choices in décor, staff management, and any other detail that might tell her more about our hostess and the way she conducted her son’s home.
“You’ll have your hands full with her until she dies, I’m afraid,” Aunt Charlotte warned me under her breath as she assessed the room. “She won’t like stepping down for a mere slip of a girl, but she’ll have to.”
Aunt Charlotte spoke as though the engagement was a done thing, and I felt as though I’d been doused by a bucket of ice water. It was clear she expected me to accept him without question and she was already envisioning my life as mistress of this household and having to manage an overbearing mother-in-law.
“Perhaps Friedrich would do well to choose a woman nearer his age that might be better equipped to keep his mother in her place.”
“I rather think he’d prefer a younger wife that he can mold to his liking. And to be frank with you, my dear, I’m not sure there’s a woman alive who can put Adelheid Schroeder in her place.”
“You make this marriage seem less and less appealing by the moment, Aunt Charlotte.”
“Best to go into things with your eyes open. I could pretend that life will be all champagne and roses for you, but I’d be cruel to deceive you.”
It was the closest thing she’d ever said to mirroring my own mother’s advice. Mama had always been truthful—relentlessly so—and it was one of the things I loved most about her. At least I always did in retrospect, after the sting of the truth gave way to the wisdom of it.
Frau Schroeder marched into the room, clad in a steel-gray evening dress that complemented, rather than attempted to distract from, the strands of silver in her dark brown hair. Though we were the only guests that night, she was dressed as though she were welcoming foreign dignitaries. It was likely how she viewed us: as a friendly, adjoining nation that might prove useful in forming an alliance. I silently thanked Aunt Charlotte for insisting I wear one of my nicest gowns in peacock blue with several pieces of the jewelry she and Uncle Otto had purchased for me since my arrival. My aunt was dressed in a fetching amethyst-hued gown that I’d thought a bit too extravagant for an intimate dinner at home, but clearly her instincts were finer than mine.
“You’ll have to forgive my son. He’s going to be quite late in joining us this evening. His duties are terribly important, you understand. I’m hoping he’ll be able to join us after supper with any luck.” Frau Schroeder spoke as though his profession in the SS were more of a religious vocation, and I suppose to her it was every bit as sacred as if he’d taken the cloth.
“Naturally,” Aunt Charlotte said. “I hope there isn’t any serious trouble.”
“Well, even if there is, Friedrich and his men will root it out quickly. Restoring law and order after far too long in chaos, if you ask me.”
“Hear, hear,” affirmed Uncle Otto.
Frau Schroeder ushered us into a posh dining room where we were served little plates of smoked trout that we ate slowly, waiting for Friedrich to join us. Uncle Otto and Frau Schroeder dominated the conversation, prattling endlessly about the buildup to the inevitable war, Otto proselytizing about the triumphs of the Führer and Frau Schroeder taking every opportunity to boast about Friedrich. Aunt Charlotte interjected the occasional witty commentary or charming remark, while I remained silent. No one seemed to mind my absence from the conversation, which was just as well. I studied the room, which was lined with a half dozen somber portraits of long-dead men and their families. Each of them had Friedrich’s proud nose and serious blue eyes, and many wore military uniforms. There was a family resemblance in more than one regard.
As I stared at the portraits, I wondered whether, if Aunt Charlotte’s plan worked and I ended up yoked to Friedrich, our children would have anything of me in them. The children in the portraits all seemed to strongly favor their fathers, while the mothers faded into obscurity. Perhaps our daughter might inherit the shape of my mouth or the point of my chin . . . or would my features and characteristics be swept away by the Schroeder genes, never to resurface again? There were probably some dutiful girls out in the world who would find it an honor, in some strange way, to have her children be mirror images of their father, but I did not want to lose all of myself. I wanted something of me to live on after I was gone.
Frau Schroeder kept looking at the clock as the courses were served and cleared. She lamented Friedrich’s absence about once every ten minutes. She heaved a great sigh when the last of the dessert plates was cleared and there was no sign of him. She had us adjourn back to the parlor where Uncle Otto enjoyed brandy and a cigar and the women sipped coffee or blackberry liqueur. The conversation continued for what felt like hours, though the clock betrayed the hour was only eleven.
Friedrich interrupted the animated chatter of his mother’s friends by bursting into the dining room. His usually impeccable uniform was muddy and torn. There was even a gash on his head near his left temple. Clearly there had been trouble and it had taken some doing for Friedrich to escape it.
“Gott im Himmel,” Frau Schroeder breathed as she took in the sight of her son. “Neumann, get some help for the captain for his injury.”
“No need, Neumann.” Friedrich waved dismissively at the butler, who had already taken several steps toward the doorway in search of a medical kit or to phone a physician. “It’s nothing but a few scratches.”
Friedrich took one of the starched white serviettes from the table and held it to the bleeding area on his forehead. His mother blanched at the sight of him ruining her linens but did not raise her voice in a rebuke.
“Really, Friedrich. It looks like you’ve been in a tavern brawl. Are you sure you aren’t in need of some help?” his mother pressed.
“And so I have, Mother. Several. Not just taverns, but shops, restaurants, and synagogues, too.”
“What on earth is going on, my boy?” Uncle Otto asked.
“Come to the window and see,” he said. We joined him at the large window in the adjoining drawing room that pointed toward the heart of the city. There was an orange haze on the horizon that slowly melded into one giant blaze. The longer we watched, the more fires we could see pop up across the skyline.
Berlin was burning.
Friedrich placed his hand on my shoulder, his chest puffed up with pride. “This, my dearest friends, is the realization of the Führer’s dream, and the night is just beginning.”