September 8, 1937
I long to tell someone what’s happened. But I can’t. It’s too dangerous and must remain a secret. I need to occupy my mind. I scan the bookshelf opposite my window seat. Mein Kampf, of course; Volkstänze Lieder Spielmusik für Dorfabend und Fest, my BDM song book; my unread copy of Hans Grimm’s Volk ohne Raum. It should be read, I know, but it’s over one thousand pages long. Within its covers lies the simple message that Germans, the cleanest, most honest and hardworking people in the world, do not have enough space to live a decent, honest life. More land is needed. An empire, no less. I’m sure the author could have given his message in half, or better, a quarter of those pages. There is a poetry collection by Agnes Miegel and several copies of the monthly magazine passed to me by Mutti, Die Frau, together with a few assorted school textbooks.
And there, nestled among them, is the journal Karl had given me the day of the Almost Drowning. I snatch it off the shelf. My only entry to date is the one I made three years ago, when I devoted myself to Hitler’s cause. I stare at my passionate words. For one impulsive moment, I consider ripping out the page. Instead, I turn it over, and on a new, blank page, begin to pour out my heart.
We couldn’t stay away from each other. Two Sundays after you said we mustn’t meet anymore, you were there, standing by the bridge. I thought it was a mirage, my imagination playing tricks. But when I touched your arm, you were solid and real and perfect. Last week, while everyone in the house was still sleeping, I packed a picnic breakfast and we went to the fields. Thank goodness Ingrid and Bertha had the day off! It was warm, and we lay among the sweet-smelling, freshly cut hay bales, completely alone, hidden from view. For a short time it was almost possible to imagine we hadn’t a care in the world. We talked and talked, not about politics, we steer clear of that, but about everything else. I’m amazed at the similarities between us—we both love spargel, sauerkraut, and brägenwurst. I couldn’t believe that you eat pig meat, but you say your family isn’t religious. Like us, I suppose. Being a Jew, I thought you’d be more different. But then, as you said, you are more German even than me. Everyone says Jews can’t be German. Now I’m not so sure. Until now, I’ve only heard one story. How strange it is to hear yours of hardships and restrictions. You know so much that I don’t. You quote poetry and know about philosophers (not just German ones), and you’ve read books I’ve never even heard of, about things and places I didn’t know existed. You talk of painters like Klee and Kokoschka and writers like Kafka and Mann. Everything about you is new and interesting and exotic and extraordinary.
After we ate, you folded your jacket into a pillow and lay back, eyes closed, arms folded across your chest. I watched as you drifted into sleep. The gentle rise and fall of your chest. Your eyes tight shut, sunlight playing over your skin. I could have sat and watched you all day, but suddenly you woke, your body tight, eyes wide open, tense, and, reluctantly, we both knew it was time to go home.
“Miss Herta?” A knock at the door. Ingrid.
I snap my journal shut and hide it beneath a cushion beside me on the window seat.
“Come in,” I say, arranging myself as though all I’m doing is staring out my window, contemplating the view.
She opens the door and stands there, giving me one of her looks. The insolent one. The one she wouldn’t dare give to Vati, Mutti, or even Karl. I wonder if she somehow senses I’m hiding something. She has a viper look about her: thin face, beady eyes, and a tongue she flicks out to lick her lips, a sort of nervous twitch.
“Yes, what is it, Ingrid?”
“Didn’t you notice it’s dinnertime? Your mother sent me to check you’re quite all right.”
“I didn’t hear the gong,” I tell her without moving from my seat. “Please tell Mutti I’ll be right down. I have to wash,” I add, waving her away.
“As you wish.” She bristles at my words and leaves the room.
I tuck the journal under the mattress and push it as far in as I can. With my deepest secrets in there, I can’t risk it being found.
AFTER DINNER, KARL goes into town for a dance organized by his HJ schar. We move to the sitting room where Mutti drinks strong, black coffee, and Vati cradles his cognac.
I sit at the far end of the sofa, away from Vati’s armchair. Smoke curls upward in the lamplight as Vati puffs on his cigar, spreading a thin cloud across the whole room. The sickly sweet, choking scent of it stings my nostrils and the back of my throat, making me cough.
“I’m starting a new venture in the Leipziger,” Vati announces, stretching out his legs and allowing his belly to expand as he leans backward in the chair. “I’m calling it The Moral Crusade!” he says, sweeping a grand arc with his arm. “While Hitler looks outward to expand our nation abroad, we cannot let the enemy take advantage and continue to corrupt our way of life at its very core.”
“It’s about time something was done about this lowlife,” Mutti mutters.
“I don’t see any lowlife around in Leipzig,” I say swiftly. I think of those brutes on the tram, but I don’t mention them. Vati might stop me traveling around on my own.
“The underground music and art, the prostitution, the immoral literature. It’s not limited to Berlin,” Mutti comments.
“But here in Leipzig?” I ask.
“Yes, there is a blatant disregard for the law,” Vati says. “The local police know what goes on, yet they do nothing about it. They report to Party officials or the municipal government. Letters get sent back and forth, people can’t agree, and so nothing gets done.”
“What does Lord Mayor Schultz think about it all?” Mutti asks.
“He and I are totally in agreement on this. We need action. Decisive action.”
“Against what, though, Vati?” I ask.
Vati puffs on his cigar. “Moral degradation,” he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Leipzig is now Germany’s fourth-largest city. It’s a sprawling metropolis with workers from all over Germany. Plus more than our fair share of Poles, Russians, Slavs, Jews. They openly sabotage our laws, corrupt our young girls, drink to excess. A Jew was caught this week openly swimming in the city pool.”
“Is that really so bad?” The words are out and Mutti and Vati turn to look at me. I shrink back against the cushions and hold my breath. Walter’s smile. Those eyes. Dirty Jew. Is that what he is? Would everyone think the dirt, the smell has rubbed off on me? Why should it be so wrong for them to swim in the same pool, walk in the same park?
“We want Leipzig to continue to be a safe place for you to travel around alone.” Vati waves his glass vaguely in my direction. “We’ve afforded you a great deal of freedom. Perhaps too much. You go off walking that dog of yours, all alone in Rosental . . .”
“But I’m completely safe, Vati.”
“Herta.” Vati looks at me sternly. “Do you know how many Jews remain living in this district alone?”
I shake my head.
“Two thousand! In Gohlis alone. With their loud voices and dirty habits. Despite all our efforts to get rid of them, they persist. Like vermin.”
And they have never done me any harm, I want to shout at him. I’ve never once been approached. From what I’ve seen, they just go about their business, like anyone else.
“How can we be sure you’ll be safe?” Vati continues. “Berlin has managed to rid their parks of them, so there is no reason why we shouldn’t too. After all”—he puffs up and prods his chest with his index finger—“I’ve succeeded in ending the Jewish stranglehold on the press, a much bigger problem, so surely I can get them out of our parks, and make sure the police do their duty.”
And you’ve stolen their houses.
This house.
“So what exactly will you do?” Mutti asks, cocking her head.
“I shall run a weekly column in the Leipziger to highlight all the issues. I’ll remind the public of the law. Perhaps a different one each week. I’ll invite people to write in with any . . . behavior or issues the authorities are failing to deal with. Like this one.” He taps the newspaper and I catch sight of the headline: “Jews Disturb Quiet Leipzig Neighborhood to Conduct Religious Meetings in Empty Washhouse!” “I shall encourage every good German to keep their eyes and ears open for any hint of corruption or anti-German behavior, and to report it. Our journalists will investigate all allegations.” He smiles. “Otto Schultz is most impressed with my initiative. He’s invited you and me for drinks next Wednesday evening, Hélène. Party officials from all over Saxony will be there.”
“But that’s excellent news, Franz.”
“They’ll come forward in droves,” Vati says with a flourish. “Especially the women. Ha! Women and their petty jealousies. You should see the letters I get. Many have more than a grain of truth in them, but not all. Investigating keeps the men busy and employed.”
My stomach plunges at the thought of someone reporting Walter and me to Vati’s newspaper.
“Actually, Franz,” Mutti says, pouring another coffee from the pot, “I have a plan of my own that I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help,” Mutti says briskly. “And Otto Schultz, since he’s such a fan of yours . . .” He nods for her to continue. “I’ve been speaking with the Mothers’ Union of Leipzig. It seems there are too many . . . unwanted children. Good Aryan children—perhaps the offspring of young girls who’ve had a summer dalliance with those HJ boys.” She shakes a hand dismissively. “They are of good, pure blood and should be raised in the right way. The German way, rather than left to chance and sent to undesirable families.” She pauses for breath. “Similar state-run children’s homes are being established in other cities, Munich, for example. So I think we should provide a home for children of the Führer, here, in Leipzig. We can even add a school, all overseen by the SS, to ensure the correct procedures are followed. What do you say, Franz?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “The soldiers’ home is running well, and I need a new project. What could be better than children? After all, they are the future of the Reich.”
Vati nods his approval. “Good idea. Of course, we shall need to have each child tested for racial purity. Let’s discuss it with Schultz on Wednesday.”
I don’t want to hear any more. I want to be in my bed, in the dark, with my mind closed to all this. I want to be alone and free to think of Walter. I only want to think of him.