January 29, 1938
Tomas, hunched in a threadbare coat, blows on his hands to keep them from turning blue. Snow still lies on the ground. Winter is never going to end, or so it seems.
“Don’t you have any gloves?” His fingers look an alarmingly blotchy red blue.
He avoids my eyes. “Stupidly left them on the tram. Wasn’t thinking straight, you know, coming to meet you.”
“Look, Tomas . . . come on, let’s get you some gloves.” I sigh. “I can pay. I think I should. You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you did.” I lead the way across the road to the Breuninger stores. I have to find a way inside his head. Drill behind his skull into his mind. Tomas is a child of Hitler. He cannot ignore what he saw.
Since Lena wrote back that my message had been safely delivered, I’ve had no contact with Walter. I’ve not dared. At any moment I was ready with my rehearsed speech for Vati’s interrogation, but it never came. It seems Karl was as good as his word. No more Sunday morning rendezvous, and he keeps his mouth shut. Since he returned to the Luftwaffe he has written once. A friendly, chatty letter, but between the lines, I sense a distance that wasn’t there before.
“Men’s outfitters, second floor,” I read off the store guide.
We travel up in the lift without speaking. At the glove counter, Tomas takes his time sifting through the options, trying on the samples the shop assistant presents him with.
“I think I’ll take these,” he says at last, pointing to a pair of sheepskin-lined leather mittens. They are the most expensive option, but I don’t flinch at the price, and I tell the assistant to put them on Vati’s account. I’ll tell Vati they were for my birthday, perfectly believable as I celebrated my sixteenth only last week.
“Now,” Tomas says, walking out onto the street and brandishing his gloves with a flourish, “you must let me buy you a coffee.”
“Absolutely. That would be lovely.”
In a cozy corner of a coffeehouse off Nikolaistrasse, we sit opposite each other at a little wooden table, Tomas’s tall frame hunched over the table. He thrums out a rhythm with his fingers until a waitress appears.
The coffee, when it arrives, is hot and bitter. I add two lumps of sugar and stir, smiling at Tomas, wondering how to start. Which words to use.
“I forgive you,” he blurts out suddenly, his eyes finally meeting mine.
“Pardon?”
“I mean, as long as what you said is the truth, and you won’t see that arschloch again, then I can forgive you.”
He sits back in his chair as though a great weight is lifted, but there is tension in his jaw and his fingers twitch constantly.
“I haven’t seen him again, honestly.” I lean forward to emphasize the point. “And I won’t. I meant it. I’m truly sorry. I would never want to hurt you, you of all people, Tomas.” I place my hand on top of his, just for a moment. It flaps like a dying fish.
His face crumples. “It’s tormented me, Hetty. Like living in some sort of hell. I thought I was going mad. But I get it now. I was wrong before. It wasn’t your fault. He twisted you. I see that now.” His face is shiny with perspiration. “He tricked you—forced you—into falling for him. It’s what they do, the scum.”
“Tomas—” I fight the anger rising inside me at his words. His hateful references to Walter. I want to tell him all of it was my own free will. Walter didn’t trick me. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. That all this about the evil, scheming Jews is made-up nonsense. But something stops me. I have to work out the consequences of everything I say. I can’t risk him knowing how I really feel.
“No. Wait.” The toe of his shoe drums the floor. “I need to know you aren’t still in his hold—you know—that you’re free of his influence. Then I’ll try to forget what I saw. And I shan’t make any trouble for you.”
“Any more than you did already by telling Karl,” I say before I can stop myself. Slow down. Breathe. “I mean, you had every right . . . But it’s made things difficult for me. With Karl.”
“What do you mean, telling Karl?” His shoe stops drumming. “I didn’t tell him.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, Hetty, I’ve not told a soul. I swear it.”
“Oh . . .” My mind is racing. I try to remember the details of that awful conversation in the kitchen. Karl never mentioned Walter’s name. Neither did I. Perhaps he doesn’t know. If Tomas didn’t tell, well then, perhaps Karl is just guessing, and my mysterious “lover boy” could be anyone.
“I mean,” he says, “I should report him. I want to. I’d love to see the filthy scum punished, but”—his face puckers—“I can’t see how to do it without making trouble for you.”
“Can’t we just forget all this, Tomas? It was just a stupid kiss. In a moment when I lost my mind. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . But I promise, I’d never do it again.”
“That’s good, Hetty, yes, that’s good.” He tap, tap, taps his shoe on the floor and nods his head. “It’s been tearing me up, this whole thing. I couldn’t bear to think . . . See, I thought of reporting him anonymously. Writing to the paper even, telling them what I saw him do. But, of course, he’d just deny it.” He leans forward. “He’d lie. Do anything to save himself, including naming you. I couldn’t take that risk.”
We stare at each other across the table for a few moments. The pupils in Tomas’s tawny eyes are huge and round, magnified as ever, through his glasses. I swallow hard. How do I reply to that? “Thank you,” I whisper finally. I take a sip of coffee and hope he doesn’t see how my hands tremble. A new worry stirs in my belly.
“So,” Tomas says. “Let’s talk of other things.” His expression changes. “Hetty, I wanted to tell you”—he becomes animated, excited—“I’ve signed up to join the Heer, once my apprenticeship is finished. The army will need trained mechanics like me. Loads of them. I’ll have a job for life. What do you think, Hetty, eh?”
“I think that’s great. Yes, really great.” I smile at him over my coffee cup.
But if you didn’t tell Karl about my secret Sunday morning meetings, then who did?