January 7, 1939
It’s happening again. That tight ball in my stomach. I will it to relax. But there is too much saliva. I can’t swallow. I jump up and run down the corridor to the bathroom, retching bright yellow bile into the clear water of the toilet bowl. Shaking, I flush it away, then splash icy water over my face.
In the gloomy early morning light, my reflection in the mirror is ghostly pale. Eyes, dull and lifeless. Beads of sweat shine on my forehead, despite the chill. If the past few days are anything to go by, the vomiting will only provide temporary relief. The nausea will soon return and stay for the rest of the day.
Back in my room, I swing open the shutters and stare through the gray misty dawn at the empty street. The frigid branches of the cherry tree are bare. It looks dead. But deep inside its broad trunk, life slumbers, waiting for the warmth of spring to pulse sap to the very ends of each and every twig. Then the blossoms will come.
Nineteen thirty-nine. A new year. New hope. New life.
Still the relief of bloodied underwear evades me.
Please God. Please do not let me be pregnant.
“WHERE’S BERTHA?”
Mutti is in the kitchen, alone, stirring something in a pan on the stove.
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“She had to. After what she did, that night . . .”
“What? Please tell me you haven’t fired Bertha?”
Mutti doesn’t look at me. The rolling nausea in my belly intensifies.
“Vati and I discussed it. One has to trust one’s staff. Once that trust is broken, there’s no going back . . .”
“But why? It wasn’t Bertha’s fault . . . I told you! It was mine. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t even get the chance to say good-bye.”
“We’d have done it sooner, but it was hellishly difficult to replace Bertha just before Christmas. We agreed with her she could stay until we found another decent cook,” Mutti says, spooning egg from the pan into a serving dish. “Someone new will start next Monday. We shall just have to manage ourselves until then. I used to cook myself,” she adds, almost with surprise. “I’m sure I can remember what to do.” She picks up the dish and leaves the room. “Breakfast is served.”
How dare Vati get rid of her like that. It was my fault, and I’ve had no chance to say . . . what? Why didn’t she say anything to me, if she knew? It never occurred to me there might be a time Bertha wasn’t here. She’s a part of this house. A part of my life. Until this moment, I had no idea how precious she is. Will whoever comes next chat to Kuschi and throw him kitchen scraps? Will she be there, square and comforting, with cake, coffee, and a listening ear? It’s only now that I understand the void of quiet affection, gentle kindness, and understanding she has left. I am wretched with guilt.
“Where has she gone?” I follow Mutti into the dining room. “The least you can do is tell me. I want to apologize. Say good-bye.”
“I believe she’s found a position in the kitchen of a guesthouse. We gave her a good set of references and a month’s salary. We were most generous, given the circumstances. Oh, I almost forgot.” Mutti pulls an envelope from her pocket. My heart double flips, but the handwriting is unfamiliar.
“What is it?”
“It’s from Tomas,” she throws over her shoulder as she heads back to the kitchen.
Fräulein Hetty,
I tried to find the courage to ask you before, but found I lacked it. I thought a letter would be the right thing for someone like you. I should very much like it if you would come for a walk with me Sunday afternoon (tomorrow) at three p.m. for one hour. I know how you like to walk your dog. So maybe you could walk me, too?
I would also be most honored if you would come to the dance put on by my HJ schar in four weeks, Saturday. There will be girls from the BDM there you’ll know. Erna is invited too. But I would really like it if you would come as my personal guest.
With sincere best wishes,
Tomas Köhler
Oh, Tomas, what am I to say? I need you as a friend but nothing more. Is it possible to say that to a boy without offending him?
I think about Walter’s fierce instruction to find another love. And Bertha’s kindly advice. It seems impossible at this moment, but perhaps I should try. Not Tomas, of course, but maybe there will be a kindred soul at this dance. I shan’t know if I don’t go with an open mind.
All right, Tomas, I’ll walk with you tomorrow, and go to your dance.
As your friend, mind. Just as your friend.
“I’VE BEEN CALLED to a meeting on Wednesday in Munich,” Vati tells us after dinner that evening. “This is it, Hélène.” He exudes an energy I’ve not seen in him since before Karl died. “They are going to promote me to Oberführer.”
“How can you be sure?” Mutti breathes.
“I’ve been informed, you know, on the quiet.”
“Oh, Franz, this is wonderful news!”
“The Schutzstaffel is expanding so fast, those who have proved their leadership must be promoted to ensure discipline and absolute authority at all times.” He relaxes back in his chair. Takes a swill of coffee. “I’ve been reliable and dedicated. Especially during the riots in November. Our men behaved in an exemplary fashion . . .”
I dig my fingernails hard into the skin on my arms beneath the table until it hurts.
“Will we have to move?” Mutti asks.
“For now, no. Indeed, I’ve been tipped off that if the next six months go well, I shall be moved swiftly up the ranks to SS-Gruppenführer. There are plans that those with such rank or above may head up not only their SS district, but also that of the police. I know they have me in mind. This way we can oversee everything in the region, within the SS, the police, the intelligence, and the administration. Brilliant of Himmler to streamline so the SS retains complete authority over all the agencies. That way there can be no competing or infighting among them that will distract us from our ultimate, and most important, goals.”
“Such wonderful news, Franz. Although I had been looking forward to a new start somewhere else . . .”
“I will have to give up the newspaper,” Vati continues with a frown. “My SS duties are too great to keep it on. I’ll promote Josef Heiden to run the paper for me. He already does so much of the day-to-day work; I trust him completely. And, my dear”—he leans over and pats Mutti’s hand—“I was thinking that perhaps we should take a place in the country? To escape to for the odd weekend. We can bring friends and entertain there. What do you say? To make up for staying on here.”
I see a pretty country house, smoke curling from the chimneys, a big garden, perhaps some chickens and a horse or two. Will he take Hilda Müller and his other children there? His two families, alternating weekends.
My stomach contracts and vomit rises, stinging my throat, but I force it down.
“Vera? Is that you?” Mutti calls as footsteps sound in the hall.
“Yes, Frau Heinrich?” Vera appears in the doorway in her coat. “I forgot to pick up the washing earlier . . .”
“Ah good, I have some letters for you to post,” Mutti says, leaving the room to fetch them.
“So, what do you think, Herta, eh? Your father, climbing to the very top of the ladder?”
“Perhaps,” I say before I have time to really think through what I’m saying, “in such a position you will think hard about some of the policies against the Jews—”
His chair creaks as he leans toward me, eyes as frozen and hard as glass.
“Don’t you ever say such a thing again,” he says, his voice gritty. “I will never forget what you have done, girl. How you blackmailed me. The more I think about it . . .” He presses his lips together, fists clenched. “Were it ever to get out, it would jeopardize everything. The stakes are higher than ever.” He opens his mouth to say more, but Mutti is back in the room. He shuts it and sits back. He doesn’t look at me again.
And all I feel is the quickening thud, thud, thud of my heart.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, at three p.m. exactly, Tomas knocks for me. Ingrid smirks as Kuschi and I leave the house. She doesn’t need to say a word; the look on her face is clear enough. In only a few days she leaves for her Lebensborn home, to become impregnated with the seed of a perfect SS officer specimen. Ergo, she is superior in every way to me. I cannot wait for her, and all that she knows of me, to be gone. I pray that she chooses never to come back.
Rosental park is deserted as Tomas and I walk side by side, Kuschi sniffing along eagerly out in front. A brief flurry of snow falls but fails to settle on the sodden ground.
“Damned cold,” Tomas comments, screwing up his face, digging his chin deeper into his turned-up collar. His breath momentarily steams up his glasses. “Sorry.”
“It’s January, Tomas, what did you expect?”
He shrugs. “Just not very pleasant, that’s all.”
“I don’t mind.”
He looks at me and his face brightens.
“Did you like my letter? Thought writing might get your attention. I know you like that stuff.”
“Yes, but Tomas, you don’t have to write . . .”
“And you’ll come to the dance?”
“Yes, but—”
“See, Hetty, I was so nervous. Actually, writing was easier.”
“You don’t need to be nervous, Tomas, we’ve known each other forever.”
“But not in that way, and, see, the person I used to be, you know, when I was a kid, well, I’m not like that anymore, and I’m worried that’s how you see me, still, like that useless little kid . . .” He picks up his walking pace, in time with his speech, which gets faster and faster.
“But I never thought you were a useless little kid—”
“Oh, but I was. I was pathetic. I got beaten up all the time. But now, I’m the one doing the beating. I’m strong, see, and when this stupid apprenticeship comes to an end this year, I’m joining the Heer and then you’ll see, Hetty, you’ll see what I am. What I’m capable of. I’ve got ambition, and I can’t wait to join the fight.”
“Tomas, stop, please. You’ve nothing to prove to me . . . especially after, well, you know, that awful business with Walter.”
He’s striding out in front now, and I’m not sure he’s heard. I’d been carefully planning what to say, so he isn’t under any false hope, but he’s hardly even looking at me, let alone listening.
“I know I’m not the right sort, not yet. But I promise you, I will be. I never dreamed . . . But you know, miracles can happen, right? I mean, there’s plenty of examples, aren’t there? And I know I’m better than the shit-brained idiots I have to put up with at the factory. I’m so much better than them all put together! Seriously, you’d be shocked, Hetty, at their conversations. The jokes—they tell the most dreadful jokes of poor taste and some are about the Führer. They don’t do it in front of me anymore, not since I shopped that pig, Bruno, to the authorities for his loose talk, but I know they do it. The dumb idiots.”
He stops to take a breath, his chest heaving.
“Tomas, it’s okay, I know you aren’t like them . . . you’ve nothing to prove to me.”
He shakes his head.
“You’re kind to say that, but you’re a sweet thing. I have to show you.”
“You don’t need to prove anything because we’re friends, Tomas,” I say quickly. “I mean, you don’t feel like that with Erna or other people, so you shouldn’t with me either . . .”
Finally, he stops and looks at me, properly, through those grubby glasses. His breathing calms and he nods, arms clamped to his sides, his body stiff.
“Yes, Hetty. Yes, I see. Sent from above,” he murmurs. “Not that I believe in that stuff, but . . . How’s your mother?”
“Um, she’s fine.”
Did he even get the message?
“Good. Good, that’s good.” He checks his watch. “I know they don’t want you out too long; shall we turn around?”
We have reached the far end of the wide expanse of grass. The dark woods are ahead of us, and dusk hovers. I shudder involuntarily.
“Yes, perhaps you’ll come in for a hot drink?”
He nods, looking pleased.
“Kuschi, we’re leaving,” I call.
There is no response, so we stand and wait, peering between the slim, naked trunks.
“Kuschi!” I call again, louder this time.
Finally, his black shaggy shape appears hurtling through the trees, ears flattened, tail streaming out behind, as though he is being pursued by the devil.
It doesn’t get any easier, my love, you not being here, and I wonder if it ever will. That day, March fifteenth, the day you are to marry, approaches ever closer. I wish you had never told me when it is to be. I read your letter over and over, I know it by heart! Sometimes my resolve weakens and I pick up pen and paper to write to you. But if I start, I’ll never stop. I must stay strong, so this journal is my outlet. I know you have been in touch with Erna. She told me you’re worried about me and how you think of me all the time. That you just want to know I’m okay. I’ve urged her to tell you I’m fine, just getting on with life, but I suspect you won’t believe it. Erna’s father met with an English volunteer who came here but they were inundated with requests from desperate parents. He didn’t manage to secure passage this time. I feel so useless and tired. How I would love to turn back time and be in your arms. I picture us walking by the river, you and me, with Kuschi happily bounding beside us. I imagine what you would say to me. You’d say: Hetty, together we can do anything. But it isn’t like that, is it? You exist only in my mind, a hazy memory.