February 4, 1939
The party is in full swing when Tomas and I arrive. Two large Hitler Jugend boys on the door check our names off the list and let us in.
We push our way through the smoke-filled room toward the bar. The smell of cigarette smoke is almost unbearable and I feel a rush of nausea. I spot Erna standing with a gaggle of BDM girls. She waves and we weave toward her. Tomas buys us a sherry each. I take a large gulp, hoping its sweet, medicinal taste will help bury the sickness. All around us, heads turn to look. Their eyes flicker over me and, as usual, come to rest on Erna—the beautiful objet d’art.
No wonder Karl fell so heavily for her. Poor, darling Karl.
Erna is impervious to the staring eyes. We stand and watch the dancers, careful to move correctly. No daring American moves under the critical eyes of several Gestapo officers who hover around. I drain my glass and am left with a warm and slightly fuzzy feeling. I feel a little better. Tomas smiles at me from where he stands, a little distance away, talking to a boy in the field-gray uniform of the Heer, cap at a rakish angle.
Would you like another? he mouths.
Yes please, I mouth back.
Tomas and the boy come over with the drinks and join Erna and me. The band strikes up a new tune. The dance floor is filling up.
“Dance with me,” Tomas says and holds out a hand.
He slips his arm around my waist and leads me around the dance floor, weaving in and out of the other couples. Our step is out of time and I keep bumping against him. Different from Walter whose body and step fitted so neatly with mine. I glimpse Erna over Tomas’s shoulder, her mouth close to the ear of the good-looking Heer boy, capless now, his blond hair tousled. I sense Tomas looking down at me, willing me to look into his face, but I can’t. I won’t.
I begin to feel dizzy. The drink, the smoky atmosphere, all these sweaty bodies pressing in. The band, the chatter and laughter. Suddenly it’s all too loud.
“I need some air,” I whisper to Tomas, leaning against him, fearing I might faint.
“Of course. Let’s go outside.” He grips me around the waist, drawing my arm around him, and leads me to the door. The fresh air hits me in the face, instantly reviving. We move away from canoodling couples clustered around the entrance and rest our backs against the wall. I take several deep breaths and my head begins to clear.
“Thank you.” I smile at Tomas.
“C’mon,” he says, “let’s find somewhere quieter still. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He looks at me intensely.
I nod, glad to be in the clear air. Glad not to be feeling ill. He leads me by the hand into a little park across the road from the bar. We sit on a bench between two trees. It’s peaceful and dark, away from the streetlamps and the noise of the bar.
In one swift movement, Tomas swings around and pushes me against the arm of the bench. He dives onto me, and his tongue, rough and probing, forces its way deep into my mouth. He stinks of beer and cigarettes. His body is heavy and solid on top of me, the arm of the bench digging hard into my back. I’m paralyzed with shock. This is nothing like Walter’s soft, light touch. Tomas is brittle and unyielding. I can feel a hard bulge swell in his trousers and he begins to grind his crotch against my thigh.
I want him off me. I’m suffocating and struggle against him for air, but he resists and presses harder. He slips his hand inside my dress and grasps my breast, pushing my legs apart with his. Panic rises and I try to push his tongue from my mouth, twist my face away. My arms are pinned down. He’s hurting my breast and I try to resist the weight of him parting my legs, but he’s too strong. He pushes up my dress and claws a hand up my thigh. No, no, no. Please don’t do this. I struggle harder, against the solid roughness of him. He’s tugging on my underwear, fumbling, pulling at it, scratching in his desperation to get it down.
I wrestle now with all my strength, wild with panic, screaming into his mouth. For a few more seconds he resists, pressing harder, then suddenly he releases me. Pulls away, sits up. Chest heaving, breathing hard.
We stare at each other. I curl up. Knees to chest. Arms wrapped around. A small, tight ball.
“What the hell. Shit.” Tomas slides away from me along the bench.
“Why didn’t you stop? You hurt me,” I say, sobbing.
I run backward in my mind. What did I say, what did I do to lead him on? What made him think . . . ?
He puts his elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. He’s shaking. “I’m sorry, Hetty, I got carried away. I never meant to . . . hurt you.”
I wipe a trembling hand across my mouth.
Was it me?
“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’ve had too much to drink. Forgive me, please. Can you forgive me?”
“It’s . . . it’s okay, Tomas.”
“Damn it. I just really like you. I mean. If you knew how much I like you. Love you. For so long. I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”
I’m trembling uncontrollably. I hug myself tighter. It wasn’t my fault.
“Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Thing is, Hetty, I’ve thought about this for ages. Realized I’ve approached it all wrong. So, I thought, it’s now or never, see?”
“Now or never for what?” I straighten my dress. My back hurts where the arm of the bench dug in. My breast is sore. I wish I could stop trembling. Wish we could go back to the bar. Wish I could go home.
I thought I knew you, Tomas. But it seems I got you wrong, too.
“I’ve been too much of a coward. Never been able to pluck up the courage.”
“What on earth do you mean? I thought we were friends. Only friends.”
“I thought about it and realized, I’d not been forward enough. I needed to show you how much I want you, see, and I thought that’s the sort of thing you wanted. You know, after I saw you with that . . . dirty bastard.” His fists are clenched and the muscles in his jaw contract. “It still haunts me, Hetty.”
Anger rises like bile in my throat.
“What did you think I wanted, Tomas? Exactly what kind of girl do you think I am? How dare you assume . . .”
I have to get away from him. He’s mad, unstable. I jump up and stumble away from the bench.
He rushes after me, catches hold of my arm.
“Wait! Look. I’m sorry, okay. I got it wrong. Badly wrong. I always seem to when it comes to girls. I can’t help being jealous—you’re all I’ve ever wanted. You’re better than every other girl. But you were always out of my reach. Living in that great big house. I mean, you were untouchable. Like some sort of angel. Even when we were kids you were different. When everyone else picked on me, you didn’t care. You ignored them all and stuck by me. But you did it from a great height. Like I was someone to pity. I mean, the bullying only stopped because of you. You saved me, and I could never match up. I’d’ve done anything to impress you. I did everything to impress you. But I knew I never had a hope in hell. A girl like you would never want to be with someone like me.” He takes a breath and jabs the toe of his boot into the ground.
My head whirls and I begin to feel sick again.
“That’s not true, Tomas.” I sigh, suddenly overcome with weariness. “I always liked you, as a friend. I never pitied you.”
“But then . . . that awful morning. When I saw you with him.” Tomas’s face twists in disgust. “It ate away at me. I kept seeing it. Couldn’t understand, couldn’t bear it. Then I realized—you aren’t so perfect. You’re tainted, like the rest of us. So that meant I did have a chance. The Jew brainwashed you, I know that—it meant I could forgive you, because it wasn’t your fault. But I didn’t tell anyone what I saw. Kept my mouth shut. And I’ve been bloody patient . . . So I deserve something in return for all that, don’t I?”
I stare at him. There is a sourness on my tongue.
I won’t be anyone’s reward.
“I still want to beat the hell out of him,” Tomas says, shuffling his feet, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Well, you can’t. He’s left the country, so you’ve no need to worry about him anymore,” I tell him coolly.
“Thank God for that.” Tomas exhales heavily. Then he grabs my hand and looks earnestly at me, his words a little slurred. “I’m sorry about earlier, honest. Won’t make that mistake again, but Hetty, please be my sweetheart. I shall go mad if I don’t have you.”
VATI IS ENTERTAINING when Tomas delivers me back to my front door.
“Herta, is that you?” I hear him call from the sitting room. I long for nothing more than to climb the stairs, sink into my bed, and disappear into the black oblivion of sleep.
“Yes, Vati, I’m back from the dance.”
Whatever happens, always be true to yourself. Walter’s words. I hang on to them, a lifeline to pull me from the waters of despair.
In the sitting room is a man I recognize from pictures in the newspapers. Theo Gratz, head of the Leipzig division of the Gestapo. Lord Mayor Schultz is also here, but I don’t know who the other two men are.
“Come on in, Herta, my darling. Don’t just stand there, come here, so I can show you off to these lovely gentlemen!”
Vati, rosy cheeked from an evening of red wine and good food, beckons me over, arms wide and welcoming. The men all stand and nod to me as I make my way over. Vati wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“My delightful daughter,” he announces. “Seventeen, and ripening nicely.” The men all chuckle. “Isn’t she pretty?” he asks, looking around at them.
I want to run far, far away, but I stand exposed in the middle of them all, like a brood mare, while they look me up and down.
Vati laughs and pats my hair. “A bit fiery, this one, but a spell at Hausfrau school should do the trick. Calm her down. She’ll make someone a good wife one day.”
The men nod and smile at me.
“Where’s Mutti?” I ask in a whisper.
“Gone to bed.” Vati mimics my whisper in reply. “And left us men to it,” he adds in a normal voice.
“Yes, I should get home myself,” says Gratz, looking at his watch. “I must send my report on all this to Dresden before nine tomorrow morning. Can we finish?”
“Of course.” Vati becomes serious. “Off you go, my dear. Get your beauty sleep.”
“Good night, Vati. Good night,” I say to the men.
In the hall, I collapse onto the bench to remove my shoes. I ache all over and wonder if I have the strength to do it. I sit for a long time staring at my feet, back resting against the wall, listening to the men talk through the open door.
“. . . estimated to be around fifteen hundred in the Leipziger Meuten alone. We’ve clearly not done enough. The resistance has spread to towns all over Saxony. Dresden knows only too well . . .” It’s the voice of Theo Gratz, I think. I listen harder.
“And you know where these pockets are operating from?” Vati now.
“The working-class areas primarily—Plagwitz and environs. Some are Communists. Some just troublemakers. But enough to be a worry. Most concerning is they are predominantly young. They pick fights with the HJ, calling them prigs and snobs. Actively seeking them out for attack.”
Silence for a moment. My heart beats wildly. Could this be what Herr Bäcker is involved in? He’s neither young nor working class, but it’s possible. Or is it another resistance group? Perhaps there are many, springing up everywhere. A glimmer of hope. A sign that everything may not be lost.
“Recommend to Dresden that we take swift and decisive action.” Vati’s voice again. “We cannot allow this dissent to continue. We should use the Marxist rhetoric as an excuse for prosecution, and fight this with full brutality. Stamp it out, fast. We should make an example . . . discourage others . . .”
Murmurs of agreement.
Someone clears his throat. “I must be away, Franz. Thank you for your kind hospitality . . .”
I’m spurred to action, quickly kicking off my shoes. I tiptoe to the stairs and dissolve into the darkness of the upper floors of the house.