December 19, 1937
I dig my hands deep inside the fur-lined pockets of my coat and hurry toward our meeting place. It’s nearly the shortest day of the year and, as yet, it’s barely light. A keen wind lifts my hair and numbs my face.
He’s there, waiting, hunched inside his coat on the low wall of the bridge. As soon as I reach him, he gathers me into his arms.
He enfolds me inside his coat, and pressed against him, I’m safe and warm. He kisses me gently on the lips.
“I’ve been watching the sun come up,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the glow in the sky behind him. His face is so close I can smell his peppermint-scented breath. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, looking at me.
Kuschi begins to whine at my side. He pauses and whines again, louder. I pull away from Walter and bend down to stroke his head.
“Let him go,” Walter says, holding his coat open. “He can run around and have some dog fun. I need you in here. With me.”
I unclip Kuschi’s leash and he ambles off on the path by the river, waving his tail in happiness. What simple pleasures a dog has.
If only it were so with humans.
We walk, hip to hip, arms wrapped around each other. The wheat field ahead of us is winter bare, dark earth lying inert in frigid furrows and ridges, waiting for spring to warm and waken the hidden life slumbering deep inside. Beyond the field, slim skeletons of leafless beech trees extend away into seemingly endless forests. Kuschi’s moving shape merges and disappears against the black furrows.
Then Walter kisses me and the outside world fades.
It’s just his body against mine. The hard ground beneath my feet, and the smooth lining of the inside of his coat against the back of my hands.
Lost in his touch, the sound of a cough rips me from my entrancement.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“What?”
“A noise.” I’m frigid with fear.
Walter looks over his shoulder. Nothing moves.
“I didn’t hear anything.” He turns back to me.
I scan the landscape. The grassy bank. The empty path. The line of trees. We hold our breath.
Crack. The unmistakable sound of a twig breaking underfoot. Then movement on the riverbank.
Suddenly Kuschi’s running back from the field, barking furiously, as he disappears over the other side of the bank.
Walter’s eyes are wide.
“Who’s there?” he shouts.
No reply. No barking. Only the wind rustling dying leaves in the treetops and the river flowing behind us.
“Stay here,” I whisper, and, throat tight, I climb up the bank. On the other side is the little lane. My knees give way at the sight of a tall, gangly figure in a dark jacket with his collar turned up, walking briskly away. Kuschi runs in circles around him, inviting him to play. This is no stranger.
Bile rises in my throat.
“Get away, stupid bastard dog.” The figure bends and pushes Kuschi roughly. He half falls but goes back for more, perhaps thinking this is some kind of a game. The boy straightens and looks back. My eyes lock with his.
“Tomas,” I croak, but he doesn’t hear.
He shouts gruffly again at Kuschi and aims a kick at him. Then he turns and breaks into a run, his jacket flapping at his sides.
I stumble and trip back down the bank to where Walter is pacing.
“It was Tomas. He saw us—”
Walter’s face is drawn and pale. “We’re finished. Both of us.”
“No, it’ll be okay. Tomas wouldn’t . . .” I try to convince myself, as well as him.
“Heaven knows what’ll happen to you, but I’ll be convicted, Hetty, for sure.”
“Now you’re overexaggerating,” I say, but my throat tightens despite my confident words.
“Am I?” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t believe so.” He begins to follow the path back toward the bridge. He turns to me angrily. “You of all people must know what happens to Jews who seduce Germans. And don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Wait—” I run to keep up with his fast pace.
Back at the bridge, his face is tight, eyes full of fear. “I’m sorry, Hetty. I’ve been so stupid. I should have been more careful. Must get home. Must think.”
“Please. Try not to worry. I’ll make it okay. Tomas is a friend. You’ll see.”
I try to call out for Kuschi, standing on the bank, tail between his legs, but I have no voice.
Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be Tomas?
I DROP KUSCHI at home, then take a red-and-yellow tram south through the center of Leipzig. It screeches and winds its way around the edge of the old town and past the grand government buildings. Near the law courts I change trams and head west, out into the industrial grime of Plagwitz. Row upon row of grim tenement blocks with a few straggly trees and rough patches of grass punctuate the cityscape. Redbrick chimneys and the high rooftops of solid factory buildings tower over blocks of flats.
At the tram stop I pull the map, with Tomas’s address scribbled in the top corner, from my pocket to double-check the route. It’s not far. I find the tenement block, one of several identical ones, just off Karl-Heine-Strasse and across the road from a two-story factory. A truck rolls out of the high iron gates with SA guards on either side. The barrier is lowered once the truck has passed through.
I turn and stare up at the flats. Beneath each small, square window hangs a swastika. For the first time, I see menace, not glory, in the rows of black, white, and red fluttering benignly in the breeze. I shudder and push the door open into a dreary entrance hall.
The caretaker, a shriveled old man with cloudy eyes, directs me to the third floor of the building, flat number eleven. The stairwell smells of urine and cigarette smoke. I climb the steps slowly.
I hesitate at the door of flat eleven. Faded red paint clings in patches to the dark wood. I scrunch my hand into a fist and knock firmly on the door.
I wait and the silence deepens.
The door opens a fraction and a young boy peers around at me.
“Is Tomas in?”
His head disappears and the door swings wide open. Tomas is silhouetted in the doorway, the room behind him dimly lit. Several of his siblings stare at me with big, questioning eyes. He steps into the corridor and quickly pulls the door shut behind him.
Anger radiates from him like heat.
“Tomas—I can explain. Can we talk?”
He shrugs and gives me a raw, hard stare.
“Please.”
“There is nothing to explain. I saw all I needed with my own eyes.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I watched you for a long time.”
The smell in the corridor is nauseating.
“Can we go somewhere else to talk?” I plead. “I can’t explain here.” I imagine ears being pressed up against the thin walls of the surrounding flats.
Tomas turns and leads the way downstairs without another word. Thoughts tumble: Tomas’s hand on mine in the cinema; his tawny eyes, owl-big through his smudged glasses, always watching me; his occasional calls to the house; his gentle, unwavering friendship. Tomas knows my movements. My early morning walks with Kuschi on Sundays. Stupid, stupid of us not to have varied our routine.
Out on the street, Tomas heads in the direction of the tram stop. A truck rumbles by and a group of chattering women emerge from behind the factory gates, fanning out into the street on their way home after a shift.
Say something. Anything.
Suddenly Tomas turns to face me. The fury in his hazel eyes is magnified by the lenses of his glasses. “What the hell are you up to, Hetty? I thought . . . Shit. It doesn’t matter what I thought.” He hunches his shoulders and hurries away again.
We pass a dingy block of flats. A window on the ground floor has been broken and a fraying, filthy net curtain flutters pathetically in the breeze. I jog to keep pace with Tomas’s long stride.
“It does matter, Tomas,” I try as I come level with him. “But you see, Walter is just an old friend of my brother’s. There’s nothing in it. Nothing happened, nor will it ever—”
“I know exactly who he is. And I know that you must be out of your sane mind.”
“I didn’t plan it, honestly . . .”
“But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Hetty? You enjoyed that kiss. I saw”—he spits out the words—“the wonderful Hetty kissing a filthy Jew. You disgust me. How dirty, cheap, and low can you get?”
For a moment I think he is going to hit me and I recoil. He lets his fists fall to his sides. I take a step away from him, wipe my hand across my brow. It comes away damp.
Be brave.
“Have you . . . told anyone?”
But he just stares at me, pink cheeked and hostile.
“What will you do?” I press.
“Is that all you care about?” he snaps. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
He kicks at a trash can propped against a wall with such force it lands in the middle of the road with a loud clang. The lid clatters and rolls along the pavement.
“Get away from me, Hetty Heinrich. Go away and you’d better hope I never see your face again. You have no idea what you’ve done. No idea . . .”
And he runs, hard and fast, up the middle of the street, dodging a car and a bicycle before disappearing around the corner.
I collapse into a heap on the pavement, my back pressed against the brickwork, slouched in the dust and filth. What have I become? Tomas is right. I strayed from the path and look what I have turned into. But it’s too late now. I can’t go back, we’re doomed. I finally allow the tears to come, self-pitying, tension relieving. Perhaps running away isn’t such a bad idea, after all.