April 1939
There were only two months left in the school year and I felt them speeding by as though the earth spun twice as fast with each succeeding day. I clung to each one, as I hadn’t yet been successful at keeping the grains of sand from trickling down the glass. I was fervently devoted to my studies, locking myself in my room with my books at every opportunity. Of course, Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Otto insisted I join them whenever Friedrich came calling, which was becoming more and more frequent. And though I wanted nothing more than to hole away from the world, I did attend the BDM functions at Aunt Charlotte’s insistence. And she was right in that. If I were to go missing, I would have been noticed. By the other girls, by our district leaders, and eventually by someone who would have passed word to Friedrich.
Aunt Charlotte might try to claim that he was kind and gentle in his heart, but I had more trouble accepting this truth. As in so many things, she was convinced her fervent hope would translate into reality, simply by wishing it so. To risk igniting his temper would lead to disastrous outcomes, and I would not be persuaded otherwise.
Because of this, I had to endure Klara from afar. I thought things might improve between us after she’d advised me before my retreat to Teisendorf, but she seemed keenly disappointed by my return. At first, when her anger was still fresh, she wasn’t able to control her countenance well enough to keep from shooting daggers at me whenever her gray eyes scanned the room and saw me there. I was a reminder of what she’d aspired to and lost, and she made no attempt to hide that she felt my arrival in Berlin had been the largest obstacle to attaining those dreams. Over time, her daggers grew smaller in number and rather less sharp, but I still saw the fire behind her eyes from time to time. Then after more time had elapsed, she grew indifferent. Her eyes did not stop when she saw me in a crowd. She only spoke to me when her mother pressed the issue. She did not acknowledge me in the halls at school. It was infinitely easier to bear when she openly despised me.
We were old enough now to be part of the voluntary Belief and Beauty group that served as a bridge between the BDM for the girls and Nationalsozialistische Frauenschaft for the grown women. And so it felt. Lingering between the innocence of girlhood and the responsibilities of womanhood. Our meeting today was precisely the sort that Klara liked. We were working on painting simple still-life scenes—a bouquet of roses on a sparsely set dinner table—with which to beautify our homes and impress our suitors.
Klara’s easel was set next to mine, and I dutifully kept my eyes pinned to the subject or my canvas to the point where I was sure I’d be able to recall the exact curl of each pink petal and the brown spot on one of the leaves. While Klara had exceptional talent for anything artistic, owing to her hours and hours of sketching fashions, I was helplessly mediocre. The curve of the vase was wrong, the shadows on the table were laughable, and though I endeavored to mix the proper shade of pink from the paints provided, I produced a puce color that was so vile that I was certain it didn’t exist in nature.
“Well, not every meeting can be a hike,” Klara finally said, breaking the silence.
“Nor should they be,” I replied, not meeting her gaze. “But I’d look less pathetic than I do now.”
“Let’s hope Captain Schroeder didn’t have his heart set on an artistic wife. I think he’ll be rather disappointed in his choice if so.”
“Oh, I’ll disappoint him, no doubt,” I said. “The only question is how long I’ll be able to delay that unfortunate day and how spectacularly I’ll mortify myself.”
Klara snorted. “Your aunt has you well trained. I’m sure you’ll make him the perfect wife.”
“It’s not what I wanted,” I said. “Though I could say it until I’m blue in the face, you won’t see the truth of it. I tried more than once to convince him he’d be better off with someone like you. Someone who’d be a far more charming hostess than I’ll ever be. Someone who only cares about rank and prestige rather than actual people.”
Klara looked at me, her mouth agape. It was a cutting remark, but no less than she deserved. I left my canvas behind and fled to find the washroom.
I washed the paint from my hands and took even breaths in and out, trying not to let my anger seize me. I wanted to lash out at Klara for being so deliberately cruel, but knew no good would come of losing my composure. I watched the red splotches of paint dissolve into crimson-stained water and swirl down the sink. I scrubbed until my hands were bright pink, then splashed my face with the cold water. As if I might somehow awaken from my own life.
I was, rather, summoned back to the stark realities of it by Aunt Charlotte barging into the washroom, the color high on her cheeks.
“What are you playing at?” she demanded.
“Leonardo I am not,” I said, opening the door and starting out of the room. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. What were you thinking, storming off like that?” Aunt Charlotte said, cornering me out in the hallway. “Frau Schroeder is watching, you know.”
“I had to use the washroom, obviously,” I said. I didn’t have the energy to control my tongue.
“You don’t have to make a scene to use the loo. There’s something else going on.”
“Klara—” I began.
“Klara Schmidt doesn’t matter,” she interjected. “She’s a jealous little chit and not worth your concern. But your leaving attracted attention. People will think you don’t take the mission of this group seriously. Do you know what the consequences of that might be?”
“Friedrich would lose interest,” I said, my tone dry.
“That would only be the beginning. It would be ruinous, not only to you, but to your uncle and me by association. You cannot afford to take any of this lightly.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Charlotte. I didn’t realize anyone would construe my behavior as anything more than a spat between two teenage girls. I assure you that’s all it was.”
Aunt Charlotte seemed to lower her shoulders by a fraction of an inch, but she was right. “One more petty outburst and this little pipe dream of yours about going to university will be just that—a dream.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Charlotte, I didn’t realize that anyone would pay attention to anything so insignificant.”
“Well, there’s your first lesson about Berlin society, my dear. Everything you do is seen, scrutinized, and usually painted in the worst possible light. Don’t expect charitable interpretations of your behavior from anyone. Most people are happy to believe the worst about you and will use that to their advantage in whatever way they can.”
“What a dreadful, cold world,” I said.
“Darling, it’s the one you were born into. There’s no sense in lamenting it.”
I nodded and followed her back to my sorry attempt at artwork, picked up my palette, and tried to paint something discernible on the splotched canvas.
“I’m sorry,” Klara whispered after some time.
I kept my eyes focused on my canvas and didn’t respond.
“Listen, you don’t have to forgive me or anything, but I’ve been a brute. It’s just that Mother and Father have been so beastly about Friedrich—you know how it is.”
“All too well,” I said. “Any step I take that they think might set him off is censured before my foot hits the pavement.”
“And I’ve been living with constant analysis of every move I made that turned him off to me. Every minute detail from my clothes and hair to my very personality.”
“My god, if only mothers would put such pressure on their sons to meet with our approval, we’d be happy wives, to be sure.”
Klara snorted with derision, causing a stern look from the woman conducting the class. We fought valiantly to control our giggles, and were largely successful.
“Listen, Hanna, I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been fair to you.”
“And I’m sorry it happened at all, Klara,” I said earnestly. “All of it.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I know,” I said, turning back to my canvas.
I knew our friendship wouldn’t be as it had been—perhaps ever—but maybe we could rekindle some cordiality. It wasn’t what I hoped for, but it was at least a small measure better than solitude.
As we left, Frau Schmidt smiled at Aunt Charlotte and me. I looked at the paintings our Belief and Beauty members had produced. A few were even worse than my own, but my attempt was among the feeblest in the group. It would seem that being seen socializing with the right people was far more important than creating anything of worth.