October 12, 1938
The more people who arrive here, the lonelier I become. The more family who gather, the more obvious is Karl’s absence. He was the beating heart of every party. He breathed life into the dullest room. Everyone creeps around, talking in hushed tones as though speaking loudly or smiling will somehow offend the dead. It makes me mad. I remember how it used to be, long ago, when we were children. When all three of us—Walter, Karl, and I—could play and laugh together without a care. Before we knew about death and anguish and forbidden love. If only we could go back to that time.
I snap my journal shut and hide it in its usual spot. It’s midafternoon and Mutti and Vati are napping. The last few days have been a blur of unwanted visitors and funeral preparations and we are all exhausted. The house is full of extended family. Like Christmas, but without the cheer. This week is the autumn holidays, but I’ve been excused from school for next week, too.
I leave my room and pad through the hushed house to the kitchen where Bertha is stuffing a chicken for the evening meal.
“Dear Fräulein Hetty,” she says when I come in, “I’ve barely seen you these last two days. How are you bearing it all?”
“Not great.”
“Come, have a seat. I made cookies and an apfelkuchen. You must eat. Keep up your strength.” She clicks her tongue. “What a dreadful business.”
She washes her hands and puts the big cake on the table, cutting us both a slice. She sits down heavily and sighs.
“I’m not complaining, but goodness, with all these extra people in the house . . . Ingrid and I are rushed off our feet.”
“They’ll all be gone after the funeral,” I say, picking a few crumbs from my slice. The cake is both sweet and tangy. “Then the house will be deathly quiet again.”
“Such a terrible waste of a young life.” Bertha shakes her head. “And there’ll be plenty more casualties like him. Should’ve learned our lesson in the last war. And here we are, sending our young men off to Spain, and goodness knows where else.” She clucks again.
“Did you lose anyone close in the war, Bertha?”
“Did I just.” She gives a snort. “I lost my two brothers and my intended.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right. Why would you? I suppose I’m telling you because I know how you must be feeling.”
“Your intended?”
“Yes. I wasn’t much older than you in 1915 when we got engaged. Twenty-one—farmer’s son. He was kind and had a wicked twinkle in his eye. I know you might find it hard to believe, but I was pretty enough back then.” She smiles at the memory. “He never came back. Missing, lost in action, they said. I kept hoping, thinking one day he’d just walk through my door. Wouldn’t have cared if he was deaf or blind or missing his limbs. Or all three. Just so long as he came back.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her fingers. She smiles sadly at me.
“Oh, it’s a long time ago now. Anyways, he never came back, of course, and nor did my brothers.”
“Did you not meet anyone else?”
“No.” She shakes her head and sighs again. “There weren’t enough men to go around all the girls in my village after the war. So many young men lost. I wasn’t much interested anyway, I was that heartbroken. So, when my parents suggested I go into service, I snapped up the chance. I went to Halle first, but then the family I worked for moved to Leipzig, so I moved with them.”
“Where was that?” I ask out of politeness.
I take another small forkful of cake, but it sits in my stomach like a stone.
“Here,” Bertha says, matter-of-factly. “With the family who lived in this house, before you.”
“The Druckers?” I look at her in surprise. “You worked for the Jewish family who lived here?”
Bertha nods her gray head and drops her eyes from mine.
“I never knew that, either.”
“No,” she says quietly. “I don’t suppose you would.”
“But . . . I mean, how . . . What I’m trying to say is”—I turn to check no one else is in the room and then—“what were they like?”
“Years and years, I was with them.” She hesitates.
We stare at each other, trying to work out how much to reveal.
“Look,” I say at last, “I’ve heard the rumors. About how my father came by this house. But I know nothing of the people. How can I judge what is right or wrong—”
“It was a terrible business,” Bertha whispers. “They were good people, but I don’t get involved in politics. I keep my nose out of it all. It’s safest that way. That’s what I try to tell Ingrid, but she’s a tricky one. She doesn’t want to listen to an old crank like me. She’s full of this new Germany and thinks that the youth rule. She’s certain she has ‘right,’ whatever that is, on her side. She likes to gossip and get herself in the good books of . . . certain people.” She looks at me. “You’re an unusual one, Fräulein Hetty. You keep your allegiances with people who matter to you. Since you were young—always stood up for the underdog. Even if they are . . . not who you should be mixing with, if you follow my meaning. I suppose that makes you brave, not like the rest of us. But it’s a dangerous thing.”
“What on earth do you mean, Bertha? Has Ingrid said something about me?” My heart beats in double time.
Bertha sniffs and wipes her nose and mouth with her hankie. Her plate is clean.
“She says she knows you have a young man. She thinks it’s serious. But she won’t say how, or what she knows. Says she once saw proof of something . . . sensational. I’ve more than an inkling who the young man is, and I’m certain she does too. So far, I think she’s only talked to Karl and me, but it wouldn’t be hard for her to make trouble for you. I’ve warned her, but she’s not interested in authority, not from the likes of me. Just be careful, fräulein, that’s all.”
She saw us together, that time in Salamander’s. Her word against mine. It has to be more than that. Proof? Of what? My mind jumps about wildly. The notes we pass between us via Lena. Tomas. Places Ingrid could have seen us. And what about the broken picture of the Führer? She’s bound to have noticed it missing from my wall. Perhaps she even found the pieces shoved behind the wardrobe. I’ll tell Vati it fell down and broke. Ask him for another. My heart swoops. The diary. What if she found that? The thought of her fingers turning the pages, her eyes hungrily reading my innermost secrets, makes me want to scream.
“But . . .” I put my fork down and give up the pretense of trying to eat. “How did you know?”
Bertha fingers the tea towel. “I saw the two of you together, some weeks back at the tram stop. Recognized him straightaway. Don’t forget, this was once his second home. I always had a soft spot for him. I recognized how it was between you, that look, of being, well, lost in each other. Reminded me how I felt once, a very long time ago.”
I look at her properly for the first time. Bertha, who has always been here, like the furniture. I’ve never once given her more than a passing thought. And yet here she sits, soft and round and simple and kind. She knows so much and yet has never spoken a single word of it. In her eyes, I see worry and weariness. As though the weight of what she knows is too much. A sudden wave of fondness washes over me.
“Thank you, Bertha. He saved my life once, you know. A long time ago. Did you know?”
Bertha shakes her head.
“Anyway, there is nothing more to worry about as he’s leaving Germany. For all I know, he could have left already . . .”
Bertha nods slowly. This time, she puts her hand on top of mine.
“Just be careful, Fräulein Herta. Given who your father is, and keeping that sort of company . . .” She hesitates. “Things could be very bad, especially for him.”
“As I said, it’s nothing to worry about. He isn’t part of my life anymore.” But with these words comes a deep, physical pain. “I’m going to take Kuschi for a walk,” I say, pushing back my chair.
I attach his leash and give Bertha a quick wave as I head out the back door. Still sitting at the table, she lifts her hand in reply.
It’s good to be out in the blustery wind, buffeting my body, chilling my face and hands. Perhaps it will help to clear the jumbled chaos of thoughts and ease the agony of grief that stubbornly sits, a permanent, unwelcome visitor, deep within my soul.