November 10, 1938
I drift fitfully in and out of sleep. Every little sound jolts me awake, sending my heart thumping in case it’s Vati coming home. But as dawn emerges, it hits me. He isn’t coming home. I think back to that hateful letter on his desk. Operations against the Jews . . . Preparations for arrest . . . concentration camps. Of course, he’s been out on the streets all night, ensuring his orders are carried out—that Jewish males are locked up in jails, or, for those who resist arrest, are shot or, worse, kicked and battered to death and left in mangled heaps on the street.
I shudder and turn over, screwing my eyes shut, putting my hands over my ears to block out the world. But my brain keeps whirring.
If he isn’t home, where might he be?
I sit up properly, wide awake, my brain suddenly clear, despite the lack of sleep.
DURING BREAKFAST, A flustered Ingrid hurries into the room, tying her apron behind her back.
“So sorry I’m late this morning, Frau Heinrich,” she begins breathily. “The bus was delayed and there were all sorts of holdups trying to get across town. Didn’t even have time for breakfast.” She smiles, her cheeks flushed and her hair wispily disheveled. “Glad I don’t have to make that journey every day. So much easier to live in . . .”
Mutti invites her to have breakfast with us, as she sometimes does when Vati is away.
“Oh, thank you very much, don’t mind if I do!” She piles a plate with the food Bertha has laid out on the sideboard and sits down. Bertha herself is nowhere to be seen. Ingrid’s cheeks still have a high color and her eyes dart about. She is practically panting with excitement.
“Have you heard what went on last night?” she asks. She doesn’t wait for a reply. “Everyone was talking about it on the bus. They rounded up all the Jewish men, women, and children in Gohlis and brought them right down here, close to the zoo, then chased them down the steps into the water of the Parthe! Imagine that, at night, in November!”
She takes a breath and then a bite of buttered bread, her jaws sawing, lips pressed closed.
“They drove them, like a herd of sheep, right into the river itself, and kept them there several hours!”
“Goodness,” Mutti says and pours herself another coffee. She stubs out the remains of her cigarette into the ashtray and lights another.
“Some say freezing in a dirty river is what they deserve. For all the evil they do in the world.” She takes another bite of her bread, her eyes lingering on mine.
“And what happened to them then?” Mutti asks.
“They were shivering like mad, of course, so after a few hours of keeping them in the water, they let the women and children go home. The men are being taken to a camp, they said. Just imagine it, though. Herding up people and sticking them in the river! Who would’ve thought that up, eh?”
“Indeed,” Mutti murmurs. She gets up and switches on the wireless set. It crackles to life.
“I also heard”—Ingrid leans toward me in a conspirational manner—“that anyone caught . . . fraternizing . . . as it were, or helping one of them, would end up in the camp too! Fancy that, Fräulein Herta, eh?”
“I . . .”
But mercifully, the voice on the radio drowns out all other noise in the room.
“. . . The patience of the German people has been exhausted. The events of last night were neither organized nor prepared. In cities all across Germany they broke out spontaneously. The Jews were the instigators of this wave of violence. The long-suffering German people were merely responding in an outbreak of fury. The Jews have made a tremendous mistake. A very costly mistake. They must pay for the damage they provoked. One billion marks will be levied from them. It will cost the insurance industry six billion marks for the destruction of shops, synagogues, and homes, but not a penny of it will reach their criminal pockets. Twenty thousand of them remain incarcerated while they reflect on their misdeeds.”
I’ve heard enough.
“I’m going to school,” I announce.
“You are to come straight home, Hetty, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mutti, I promise.”
I grab my satchel, put on my coat, and hurry out of the house.
AT SEVEN FIFTY-FIVE, from my vantage point across the street, I watch the receptionist, bundled in a fur coat, unlock the double doors to the offices of the Leipziger Tageszeitung. The lights flicker on inside the building on the ground floor. After a few minutes, other members of staff begin to arrive, greeting each other and pushing their way through the doors.
Five minutes later, I enter the building myself. The young, blond receptionist fixes me with big blue eyes. She is still setting herself up at the desk facing the big front doors.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m looking for my father.”
She smiles indulgently at me.
“And who might your father be?”
“Herr Heinrich.”
“Oh!” Her expression changes. “I’m sorry, Fräulein Heinrich, but I don’t believe he is here yet.” She is flustered as she telephones through to Vati’s office.
“I’m sorry,” she says again after a few moments, “it’s as I thought. He isn’t here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just spoke with his secretary.” The receptionist replaces the receiver and gives me a nervous smile. “He’s left a message saying he won’t be here until lunchtime.” She hesitates. “Forgive me, but have you not just come from home?”
“Yes, but . . .” I look around me, then lean forward and whisper, “He’s been out on SS matters. Please could I speak directly with my father’s secretary?” I add, “It is an emergency.”
“Of course.” The girl snatches up the phone again.
If I’m right, Vati must have someone to cover for him. His secretary fields his calls.
Vati’s middle-aged, bespectacled secretary appears. We shuffle to the side of the entrance hall, away from the ears of the receptionist.
“I need to find my father,” I begin. “Something bad has happened.”
“I don’t know where he is right now. I can organize a car to take you home, Fräulein Heinrich, if that would help?” Her voice is gentle, kindly.
“Look,” I say quietly. Urgently. “I know about Vati’s mistress. I don’t care about all that,” I lie. “I just need to find him, as soon as possible. It’s very important. Just give me the address of the fräulein. Please.”
The woman freezes and stares at me.
“I won’t say it’s you who gave me the address. You won’t get into trouble,” I urge. “I just need to see Vati. It’s very important.”
Still she stares at me, and suddenly I’m gripped by panic. Have I got it dreadfully wrong? Her lips are a thin, straight line.
“She lives at flat 3, number 17, Schmiedestrasse. It’s just the other side of König Albert Park, toward Plagwitz.”
Exhale.
The first hurdle is overcome, but the bigger one must now be faced. Stay strong.
You can do this. For Walter.
I ARRIVE OUTSIDE the entrance of a newly built apartment block in a road filled with similar nondescript buildings. There is no doorman, but one of those new intercom devices is fitted outside the front door. I take a slow, deep breath then press the bell for flat 3. There is a buzz and after a pause, a voice sounds through the intercom. “Yes? Hello?”
Her voice.
“Good morning, Fräulein Müller. I’m Herta Heinrich. I’m here to speak with my father.”
There is a long pause.
“It’s an emergency,” I add, into the crackling silence.
“He isn’t here”—her words are clipped—“I don’t know why you would think . . .”
“But he’s due here, isn’t he? Please may I wait for him?”
Another pause. I lean against the door, palms spread. There’s a buzz and the door clicks open.
Thank you.
“First floor,” she says, through the intercom.
Hilda Müller is waiting for me outside her front door. She’s just as I remember her. The same light brown hair, tightly plaited and folded up around her head. Little pink ears. Fat lips. She is young. Very young, at least, compared to Vati. Midtwenties at a guess. Certainly closer to my age than his. We stare at each other for a few moments, then she beckons me inside.
“Your father . . . he’s been out all night. But he’s on his way,” she says.
The flat is larger than I expected. Bright, tidy, and furnished in a modern, simple style. Nothing like the fussy antiques filling our house. I follow Fräulein Müller’s square and solid figure into the sitting room. What can Vati see in this woman? Apart from her youth, she is nothing compared to elegant Mutti.
I sit on the edge of a patterned sofa while the woman hovers, not meeting my eyes. Awkwardness crouches between us like a nervous dog.
“May I have a glass of water please, Fräulein Müller?” I ask at last.
“Of course, I should have offered. And it’s Hilda, please.” She hurries off to the kitchen.
Her nervousness has the opposite effect on me. I’m suddenly calm and in control. After all, it’s Hilda who is in the wrong, not me. It’s as if I’m the adult and she the naughty child.
Hilda returns with a glass of water. I drain it.
“You were thirsty,” she says with a half smile. “Would you like another?”
Before I can answer, a little girl appears wearing a loose pink nightdress. Her fine, blond curly hair is a creamy cloud around her face. She rubs her eyes as though she has just woken. She is bigger than I remember from that day at the station. She must be, what, three or four years old now? Given the ugliness of the mother, she is remarkably pretty.
The girl stops and regards me with suspicion in her saucer-size eyes.
“Who is this, Mutti?” she asks, not taking her eyes off me.
Hilda sits and lifts the little girl onto her lap.
“This is Herta,” she tells her, gently stroking the hair back from her face. “She has come to visit. I said she could wait with us until”—she throws me a glance—“until Herr Heinrich arrives.”
The little girl gasps. “Is Vati coming here now? In the morning?”
An electric shock.
She called him “Vati.”
The girl twists around to look at her mother’s face. Hilda nods and stares down at the carpet. She squirms beneath my glare. She couldn’t know that I saw the three of them at the station that time.
“Yippee!” the child exclaims, then she turns to me and says, “Hello, I’m Sophie. Can you play cat’s cradle? I love cat’s cradle, but I’m not very good. I just learned it. Will you play with me? It’s fun.” She wriggles off her mother’s lap and runs to fetch some string. She returns, smiling broadly.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t know how to play.”
“I can show you,” she cries brightly.
She stands right in front of me, waving the string in the air.
“I really don’t want to play,” I say firmly.
“Don’t bother Herta, Sophie,” Hilda says. “Not everyone wants to play games in the early morning. I’ll go and make some coffee,” she adds, disappearing into the kitchen.
Sophie begins to dance from foot to foot in front of me, waving the string like a flag.
“Shall we play something else if you don’t want to play cat’s cradle?” she asks.
“I don’t want to play anything, Sophie. Sorry.”
She frowns then skips to the other side of the room and puts the string on a bookshelf.
I watch her. This child, who has been a specter, an evil, mocking spirit in my head. Now the real thing is here, in the same room, talking with me, smiling, wanting to play a game. She has a name. Sophie. In any other circumstance, I might think her sweet. Charming even.
She’s your sister!
I don’t want a sister.
I need to plan exactly what to say to Vati when he arrives. But this is all too much, and I can’t think properly. Sophie is prattling away to herself. She holds a doll in one hand and a toy dog in the other, facilitating an imaginary conversation between them. I try to see hints of me or Karl in her. Perhaps there is a resemblance, about the eyes. I look for signs of evil in her. But I can’t see the spirit that haunted me in this flesh-and-blood girl-child. That was an invention of my imagination.
I suppose the child in front of me is as innocent of the faults of her parents as I am.
“No, no, you naughty doggy,” Sophie is saying, “if you run off again, I shall have to punish you and you shan’t be allowed to play with your friends in the park . . .”
She looks up and sees me watching her.
“Do you like doggies, Herta?” She smiles.
“I—”
The intercom buzzes loudly and we both jump at the noise. Hilda appears and looks at me with nervous eyes.
“Vati!” Sophie shouts with glee, tossing the doll and the dog to one side and running to the front door.
Hilda and I stand together, frozen, as Vati’s bulk fills the doorway. He stares at us wordlessly with wide eyes, while Sophie reaches up to him.
“Vati!” Sophie tugs at his hand. “This is Herta. She is very nice and I want to teach her to play cat’s cradle.”
I search Vati’s face for horror or rage or shame.
But there is nothing. His face is as blank as a sheet of paper.
He simply looks tired. And old.
HILDA PUTS ON her hat and picks up her basket.
“Come along, Sophie. Let’s visit the baker’s. We can stop and feed the ducks on the way back, if we’re quick,” she tells a now neatly dressed Sophie.
Vati exchanges a look with Hilda as she passes. A private, intimate look. A chill runs down my spine. How they understand each other, these two. I never see Vati look at Mutti that way.
We are finally alone.
“How did you find me, Herta?” Vati asks as soon as the front door is shut. “How did you know?” He sinks onto the sofa and presses two fingers between his eyes. “Is this what you were looking for in my study?”
I remain standing, fighting the urge to physically hurt him. To assuage the rage creeping through my veins at the thought of how this happy little domestic setup with Hilda and Sophie would hurt poor Mutti if she were here now.
“I’ve known about this for a long time,” I tell him. “It was ages ago. I saw you once with Fräulein Müller and the little girl, Sophie. I saw . . . Well, I just knew.”
“Poor Herta.” He peers up at me. “That wasn’t the best way to find out. I always intended to tell you, and Karl, of course, eventually. When the time was right. I want you to have a relationship with your half sister. And Hilda is expecting again. Nothing will replace Karl, but it will be good for you to have more siblings.”
Karl is dead and Hilda is expecting again. You think that is good for me?
I fold my arms across my chest. Keep my distance. Keep the fire inside in check.
“Come,” he says, his voice weary. “Sit down.” He pats the cushion next to him.
I stay where I am.
“I need you to do something, Vati. For me.” My voice is tight. “Many arrests were made last night. Of Jewish people.”
“What of it?”
“Some friends of mine were arrested,” I say with a pounding heart. “I want you to help them. Walter Keller. Karl’s friend from . . . before, and his father and uncle are being transferred to Buchenwald. I want you to get them out.”
Vati stares at me.
“How on earth do you know . . .” His voice tails off. I can almost see his brain computing behind his eyes. “And just why would you want me to do that?” he asks, his tone acid.
“Because he used to be Karl’s friend. But mostly because he saved me, that time, from drowning. One good deed deserves another.” Finally, I smile at him.
Vati sits up straighter. Shuffles around to face me. He opens his mouth, closes it. Shakes his head. He seems to be struggling to put thoughts into words.
“I tolerated that boy hanging around our house far too long . . . Hélène was too soft . . .” He looks at me. His face changes, a shadow of something. “What does that boy mean to you?” His voice is low with warning. “Karl tried to warn me. Now I understand.” He seems to drift off. Shifts his gaze toward the window. He snaps it back to me. “Ingrid. She told me she’d made an allegation to the Gestapo. But then she withdrew it the next day. Said she was too afraid . . . Was that about you, and that boy?”
You sly snake, Ingrid.
“There was nothing between us,” I say firmly. “Karl, Ingrid, they got it wrong. But I bumped into him a few times, yes. And I went to tell him about Karl—”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because they’d once been best friends. Because I thought he would want to know.”
“Of all the goddamn stupid, ignorant, dangerous things to do! You foolish girl!” All softness is gone. Vati jumps up, rigid with fury.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“You damn well will be, girl! Can you imagine if this gets out?” He begins to pace the room. “My daughter, fraternizing with a Jew? This is my reputation at stake!” He jabs his finger into his chest. “How could you be so stupid?” He quickens his pace. “Pig-shit Jews. That boy has turned your head. I knew you had too much freedom. This was exactly what I was worried about. Let those vermin out?” He is clammy and gray. His face scrunches up. “No chance. That boy can rot in hell.”
I force myself to breathe slowly, make sure I don’t say the words screaming inside my head. You’re wrong! You are the vermin, not them! How can you talk about human beings like this! I remember Walter’s warning. I must not reveal my true thoughts.
“He has a visa for England. If you let him free and arrange to take care of the exit tax, he’ll go. That family have nothing left. Their house burned down—”
Vati is pacing, shaking with anger. “Over my dead body.”
Everything is going wrong, slipping out of my control.
He stops near the window. Looks out at the block of flats on the other side of the road.
“You know that Ingrid’s leaving us soon,” he tells me, his tone suddenly calm and quiet.
“What?”
“Yes. She’s going after Christmas. With my blessing. She wants to do her bit for the Reich.”
“Why are we talking about Ingrid?”
“She’s going to a Lebensborn home. Do you know what that is?”
I shake my head. I have no wish to talk about the sow, Ingrid, although I’ll be glad to see the back of her.
“It’s a state-sponsored program for providing the Führer with Aryan children. The children will be raised with one sole intention. To fight Hitler’s war against the Jews.
“Ingrid has passed all the medical and family history tests to ensure she is pure of blood and has no inheritable diseases. She has proved herself to be of good character. She will be matched to an equally good specimen of an SS officer. Together they will make a baby and when he is born, she will hand him over to be raised as a child of the Führer, along with many others like him. She is doing a marvelous thing. Selfless, and for the good of our country. When she has finished, she of course will be welcome to come back and work for us again or get married. The choice is hers.”
My insides curdle. “Why are you telling me this?”
Vati takes a few steps toward me.
“Perhaps, Herta, we should consider enrolling you in the same program. Sadly, you don’t have the ideal hair color or stature, but perhaps they would make an exception for a daughter of mine.”
I swallow the bile that has risen into my mouth. “I’m too young. You can’t make me do this.”
He smiles at me. A thin smile, which doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Are you trying to frighten me, Vati?”
He doesn’t reply and I turn away. His words roll over in my mind, infuriating me.
His reputation.
“Why do you have Hilda and Sophie? Is Mutti not good enough? Am I not good enough?”
“Don’t be stupid, Herta. None of this is about you or Mutti. I love your mother very, very much, and she can never, ever know about Hilda. Her nerves couldn’t take it, especially after Karl . . . But sometimes a man needs more. You are a young woman. You couldn’t possibly understand. But we men, we have . . . needs. Needs women just don’t have.”
You have no idea about my needs, you brute. Nor any other woman’s, seeing as you aren’t one.
“And Germany needs children,” he continues. “Lots of them. It’s a man’s duty to produce as many as possible with good bloodlines. It’s too late for Mutti, but Hilda is young. Hopefully she will have many more children. Lots of sons. I know it’s a shock for you, but one day, perhaps, you will understand.”
I hold Vati’s gaze. “You’re right, Vati. Mutti would be devastated, destroyed, if she ever found out. But your secret is safe with me.”
He manages a weak smile.
“I promise you, I will not tell a soul about your mistress and other daughter if you arrange for Walter and his father and uncle to be released.”
“I’ve already said. That is out of the question.”
“Besides, if others were to find out, how would that look, against your Moral Crusade in the Leipziger? It would look especially bad, wouldn’t it, if it were to come to light that your own daughter had sullied her blood with a Jew? Those false rumors could be stoked . . .”
Vati’s eyes drill into mine. Small and ice blue. Pale and wet. I won’t be bowed by them.
“You’re blackmailing me,” he says at last, his face reddening. “My own daughter. That Jew boy is something to you!”
How I long to tell him the truth, ache to see the shock and horror on his face.
“No.” I speak carefully, using every ounce of strength to keep my voice steady. I cannot give away the turmoil inside. “He is engaged to be married to a girl in England. But it doesn’t matter what I say, does it? If you plan to punish me and send me to this . . . this Lebensborn place, then what choice do you leave me? I have to protect myself. They won’t want someone with sullied blood. And if that means telling Mutti, and the world, about you, as well as lying about myself, then I will.”
“You know what they would do to you, Herta, hmm? If they think you have had relations with this boy? They will shave your head and parade you through town. They will lock you up, throw away the key. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.” I grit my teeth and ball my fists. “But it wouldn’t do you much good either, would it, Vati? Especially when Mutti is so hopeful you will get a promotion. I’m asking just a small thing. Release them and arrange for the family to leave Germany. Then all this will be forgotten.”
Vati walks across the room, his eyes locking on mine. Beyond the pale gray of his irises, behind the pinprick black pupils, is that uncertainty? Fear? It’s definitely something. A weakness. Capitulation. I take a step closer.
“I will do nothing for the father and the uncle,” he says at last. “Without a visa, there can be no reason to release them. If I find a way to get the boy out . . .” His face creases in disgust. “If I find a way, then you will keep your bloody mouth shut and never say a word about this, or Hilda or Sophie, to anyone, ever. Do you understand me?” he says viciously.
I unclench my fists. “You have my word, Vati.”
“And if I do get him out, you stay away from that Jew boy. Should you disobey me this time, Herta, I will not protect you; I will not support you. I will have nothing to do with you ever again. Besides”—he fixes me with a look of pure malice—“we will get them in the end, you know. We will get them all, in the end.”
I walk slowly and shakily down the stairs. As I leave the building, Hilda and Sophie are returning, holding hands as Sophie skips along beside her mother.
As I pass them, a sudden anger toward Hilda hits. “How can you bear it?” I say to her. The words tumble out before I can think about them. “How can you put up with sharing a man who belongs to another?”
She regards me with sad eyes. “I do not expect you to understand, or to forgive,” she says quietly. “But we love each other very much.”
And with that, she clutches more firmly to the little girl’s hand and walks up the steps to her apartment block with her head held high.