Halle an der Saale, Germany
January 1943
Karl’s footsteps rang on the cobblestones as he hurried across the market square under the long-drawn shadow of Marktkirche St Marien. The square was deserted, except for the pastor descending the church steps, the bells silenced and the lights extinguished for the night. A chill wind bit Karl’s cheeks, hinting of snow to come. It hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped to extricate himself from the family dinner and the sun was already low on the horizon. Nodding to the pastor, he quickened his pace as he strode past into Grosse Klausstrasse, heading towards the river. Grete would be waiting for him.
His mother had gone to a lot of trouble to make this day special. With food rations as low as they were, she must have been hoarding for weeks to put on a feast such as the one she’d laid out: rouladen, potato dumplings, red cabbage, even apfelkuchen with the coffee, or what substituted for coffee in the current times. She’d been complaining that she hadn’t seen apples at the market for weeks. Where she’d managed to find enough for the cake and a suitable cut of beef for the rouladen was a mystery. But if she was nothing else, Karl’s mother was resourceful. In all the time since the war started, he’d rarely gone hungry. The fare was monotonous, poor quality at times, supplies erratic and unpredictable, but she always managed to put food on the table, supplementing with vegetables from the small garden she’d scratched out at the back of the bakery, acquiring an extra hock of pork or a bag of onions from a local farmer in one of her many trips out of the city.
‘It’s not every day my son turns eighteen,’ she’d said, when he commented on the abundant fare laid out before him. She’d glanced at Karl’s father as she said it, and Karl saw a look of pride and sadness pass between them.
‘I’ll be all right, Mutter,’ Karl said, placing a hand on her arm. ‘By all reports, the war is going well. Once Stalingrad is taken, it will be all but over. I’ll be home before the end of the year.’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, for Franz had said the same thing three years previously. The war had lasted far longer than anyone thought it would, and taken the lives of too many young men. The empty chair across from Karl was testament to the dangers he would be facing. Karl glanced at his father for support. He smiled tiredly at Karl, but said nothing.
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Pfft,’ his mother said, pulling her arm from under his hand and fishing a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. ‘I will pray to God to protect you. It is in His hands.’
It was with a mixture of regret and impatience that Karl had left them, kissing his mother’s cheek in passing. She’d clutched his hand, reluctant to let go, and he’d assured her he wouldn’t be long. Time was precious, and he knew they were counting every moment they had with him.
He was, in truth, both fearful and excited about what lay ahead. He’d heard so many stories at the Hitler Youth meetings, stories of courage and bravery, of sacrifice in the face of the enemy, had been told again and again how it was an honour and a duty to fight for the Fatherland. He’d imagined this day since the beginning of the war, watched as first his brother and then his friends had received their marching orders and left for the front. Now it was his turn. He was departing for training camp in the morning and he didn’t know quite what to think, or to feel. He wanted to be brave, to defend his country as he knew he should. But deep in his gut was a nugget of fear that wouldn’t be denied. When it came to battle, when he was actually faced with firing his rifle, using his bayonet or succumbing to the enemy, would he have what it took?
The river came into view and Karl scanned the opposite bank as he hurried across the bridge, even though he had little hope of spotting Grete in the fading light. She was cautious, and wouldn’t stand in full view, if she was even there at all. He was very late, and it was cold. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d given up waiting for him.
The woods were quiet, the bare branches overhead seeming to insulate the small island from the noise of the city across the river. It was darker here than out in the open, a haze of indistinct shapes and shadows. Patches of dirty snow lay where the sun hadn’t been able to apply its meagre winter warmth through the trees. Karl moved eagerly along the path, heedless of the slippery footing. As he neared their meeting spot, his heart rate increased, and he found himself almost running in his haste.
He saw her before she saw him, and for a brief mad moment he wondered if the woman he was so rapidly approaching was really her. Her short hair, curling around her face, was almost black in the fading light, although in reality it was a lovely honey brown, with shimmering natural highlights in the sun. Then she looked up and a smile lit her face. It was her. Of course it was her. ‘You came.’
‘Of course I came,’ he said taking her hands in his. They were cold, icy. ‘I’m so sorry I kept you waiting. Mutter was—’
‘There’s no need to explain. I understand.’
Her eyes, almost level with his, were dark and unreadable. Her lips were trembling. No, not trembling. She was shivering.
‘Where’s your coat?’ he asked, finally noticing the short jacket she wore, more suited to autumn than winter. ‘You’re freezing.’
She tightened her grip on his hands. ‘It’s Ava’s first BDM meeting tonight. She needed it.’
Karl made a noise of impatience in his throat and removed his thick woollen overcoat, wrapping it around Grete and embracing her in its warmth. He held her until the shivering stopped.
‘Look at you. So handsome in your Sunday best,’ she said when he stepped back.
He held his arms out and twirled around, displaying the new coat and trousers he wore, his brother’s suit, cut down and sewed to measure by his mother, a grievous task that he’d watched with disquiet. But it was a good suit and could not be left to waste. When he turned to face Grete again, he saw the fear and worry in her face.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said, almost a whisper.
He took her hands in his again, enclosed them in his warm ones. ‘I must.’
‘I’ve heard things, Karl. I fear the war is not going as well as we’ve been led to believe.’
‘Who have you been speaking to? Who’s spreading these lies?’
‘They’re not lies, Karl. I heard it with my own ears.’ She glanced around, and lowered her voice. ‘The English radio. I’ve been listening—’
Karl caught his breath. ‘Grete, you mustn’t.’
Her gaze met his. ‘But I have. And, Karl . . . the things they are saying.’
‘You would believe the English over our own Führer?’
She sighed and her shoulders slumped beneath the drape of Karl’s coat. ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore. But it worries me. They say that Stalingrad will not fall, that our soldiers are dying by the hundreds, thousands. Freezing to death, unprepared . . .’
Karl pulled her close. ‘Shh. You cannot believe everything you hear.’
She struggled out of his arms. ‘And neither can you, Karl. War is not all that the Hitler Youth would have you believe. The soldiers who’ve come back from the front are but shells of themselves. I see them when they get off those trains. Their wounds . . . their eyes . . . I don’t want that to happen to you. Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t go out there seeking glory.’
‘You know that I won’t,’ Karl said seriously. ‘But you must promise me in return.’ He stroked her cheek; it was pink with the cold. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything foolish. No more English radio. No more sneaking extra food to Frau Bernstein.’
‘But her husband was arrested!’
‘And she will get by until his return.’ He tried to say it gently, but he couldn’t help the urgency in his voice. ‘You know what the consequences would be if you were caught.’
‘I won’t get caught, Karl. I’m very careful.’
‘Promise me you will stop,’ he said, gripping her arms. ‘If I am to risk my life on the Eastern Front, I must know that you are safe.’
She searched his eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘I promise I will stay safe.’
The change in wording wasn’t lost on him, and he shook his head helplessly. ‘Grete, my Gretchen,’ he murmured, sweeping her hair away from her face and planting a kiss on her lips. ‘I should know better than to try to tell you what to do. You’ve always been a free spirit. Stay safe, then.’
She smiled. ‘We should get back. You’re getting cold. Here, take your coat.’ She made a move to withdraw it from her shoulders, but he stopped her.
‘Keep it. I’m not cold.’
They turned and walked slowly hand-in-hand along the path towards the bridge. Across the river a quarter moon shone between the clouds onto the grassy bank where in summer children played and swam. Further downstream, boats were tied to a small wharf.
‘Grete.’ Karl stopped and turned towards her. ‘I want to ask—’
A droning wail sounded from across the river. Three short howls that were an all-too-familiar sound interrupting the night. They both glanced at the sky.
‘They’re early tonight,’ said Karl.
‘On their way to Berlin, perhaps?’
‘Or surprising us, as they did Leipzig.’
Without further discussion, they hurried across the bridge and into the dark streets of the city. Blackout restrictions made negotiating the cobbled streets challenging, the drop in temperature creating patches of ice on the wet stones. Karl held tight to Grete’s hand as they darted through the unlit laneways.
‘You won’t make it home,’ said Grete. ‘You must come to my apartment. The cellar is secure.’
‘I could go to the bunker.’ The cellar in Grete’s building would be crowded enough with residents.
‘It’s too far.’
Overhead a distant hum heralded the approach of the enemy aircraft. The air-raid siren sounded again, a long protracted rising and falling that triggered a reactive increase in Karl’s heart rate. He glanced up again, but could see nothing.
Grete turned down a side street and Karl let her pull him along. The citizens of Halle had been fortunate. While the air-raid sirens sounded every night, so far the Allied bombers had taken their deadly cargo to choicer targets – Berlin, of course, but also Magdeburg, Dessau and Leipzig, so close. No city, it seemed, was safe and it was impossible to tell what or who would be hit next. The uncertainty of it, the constant tension, was wearing on all.
Grete led him past the botanical gardens and on towards the block of apartments near the university where she and her mother lived with her aunt and uncle and their three children. Karl had only been there once before, while making a bakery delivery to the family in the early years of the war, before supplies had become so scarce. Grete’s Tante Gertrud was strict and didn’t welcome visitors to the flat, especially not boys.
‘This way,’ said Grete, ducking down an alley. Piles of rubbish rested alongside the curb and the smell of garbage and urine was almost overwhelming. Here, between the buildings, it was almost pitch black and Karl tightened his grip on Grete’s hand, allowing her to guide him.
Up ahead, a lightening of the blackness signalled the exit to the street. Grete slowed as a shadow darkened the path, then disappeared down a stairwell, a sliver of dim light flashing as the man slipped through the door at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s just here,’ she said.
The air-raid siren stopped as suddenly as it had started. The ensuing silence was punctuated by a buzzing, angry drone of propellers, almost overhead.
Karl started down the stairs but was pulled up short by Grete, poised at the top. ‘Wait, I hear something,’ she said. Her hand slipped out of his and she darted out of the alley into the moonlit street.
Karl hurried after her. ‘What are you doing? They’ll be here any second.’
Grete knelt in the street next to a small dark mound. ‘It’s Frau Bernstein,’ she said over her shoulder. Karl heard the woman groan as she struggled to rise.
‘Frau Bernstein, it’s me, Grete.’
The woman looked up at Grete, and slumped back to the ground. ‘Grete, dear. I seem to have slipped on the ice.’
The sound of the bombers was growing louder. Karl detected movement in the sky to the west, searchlights reflected off the clouds. He caught the flicker of a wing briefly silhouetted against the moon. They were coming in high and fast. The sound of flak guns sounded in the distance.
‘We have to get to shelter,’ he said.
‘Help me lift her.’ Grete draped Frau Bernstein’s arm over her shoulder and Karl bent to take the woman in his arms.
‘No, please, I’ll be fine,’ she protested. ‘I can make it to my apartment.’
‘Nonsense.’ She weighed less than a child, her bones frail beneath the layered thickness of her clothing. Karl set her on her feet and they moved towards the alley, the elderly woman supported between them. His gaze was again drawn to the sky.
Frau Bernstein’s voice was almost drowned out in the din. ‘But Herr Wagner said . . .’
Grete’s face was resolute as she glanced at Karl. ‘We’re not leaving you.’
~
The cellar was crowded when they pried the door open, and all eyes turned in their direction.
‘Close the door! Quickly!’ someone cried.
Karl and Grete shuffled in with Frau Bernstein, closing the door behind them, muffling the incessant drone of the bombers. Silence descended on the cellar; a sea of faces stared at them in the dim light. The air was thick and dank, rank with the smell of fear and perspiration.
‘What’s she doing here?’ The question came from a tall, elderly woman whose stern face reminded Karl of one of his teachers at the Gymnasium. There was a murmur of agreement through the crowd. Some rose to their feet, peering over the heads of those closest to get a better view. Two children pushed between the legs of the adults and stood staring.
‘She slipped on the ice,’ said Grete. ‘We couldn’t leave her on the street.’
‘She’s a Jew!’ A voice from the back. ‘No Jews allowed.’
The tension in the room was palpable, the muted noise of the planes heightening everyone’s senses, inflaming their emotions.
‘She’s not a Jew,’ said Grete firmly. ‘I know her. She’s a good Christian. She goes to my church.’
‘She’s married to a Jew.’
‘Yeah, she may as well be one.’
Frau Bernstein squirmed. ‘I told you, I’m not wanted here,’ she murmured to Grete. She tried to move back towards the door, but her legs gave out under her and she almost fell.
Karl tightened his grip, supporting her weight. ‘Where is the warden?’
The group looked around at each other, as if the man would appear from beneath their feet, then a diminutive, matronly woman spoke up. ‘Herr Wagner and his wife are my neighbours. They went to visit family today.’
‘Then there is no one in charge here?’
‘We’re all in charge,’ said a man, stepping forward. He had small eyes and a fleshy, round face despite the food rationing of the last few years. ‘And she’s not welcome.’
Karl frowned at him. ‘You would turn an elderly woman out in the middle of an air raid? She’s injured. She would never make it to another shelter.’
The man scowled. ‘Who are you to tell us what to do? You have no authority here. You’re just a kid.’
‘He’s with me,’ said Grete quickly. ‘Herr Schneider, please. You know Frau Bernstein. She is a good, charitable Christian. You used to shop in her husband’s leather shop.’
The man pointed a finger at Grete. ‘That was before the Führer opened our eyes to what the Jews were doing.’
‘Herr Bernstein wasn’t doing anything—’
There was movement from the back of the shelter and a woman pushed her way to the front of the group, her greying brown hair pulled back into a bun, her hands wrung tight together. Frau Strauss, Grete’s mother.
‘That’s enough.’ She placed a hand on Grete’s arm and turned to Herr Schneider. ‘Let’s not start talking politics, Herr Schneider. I can vouch for Frau Bernstein. She attends St Marien every Sunday. And she works with me at the Red Cross. Does she not, Gertrud?’ Her gaze turned towards another, taller woman who had been standing next to her at the back of the cellar. The woman pressed her lips together, but nodded.
Herr Schneider’s eyes narrowed as he turned to contemplate Grete’s aunt. Her face remained impassive.
‘We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves,’ said Grete’s mother. ‘It’s the Allied forces who are the enemy, not an old woman or a boy. We must rally together if we’re to defeat the true enemy.’
Herr Schneider’s eyes flicked to Karl. ‘Looks old enough to be out there fighting if you ask me,’ he muttered.
‘You’re right, sir, I am,’ said Karl. ‘My training starts next week. I leave at first light.’
Herr Schneider glared at him a moment and then inclined his head and turned away. Seating himself at a wooden bench along the wall, he glanced upwards, as if he could see the enemy planes flying overhead through the reinforced ceiling of the cellar and the six storeys above. ‘Damn Brits. Can’t they give us a break? Just for one lousy night?’
There was a murmur of agreement, as the others moved away. Some grumbled as they returned to their positions sitting along the low benches or leaning against the wooden shelving, but the attention had largely moved away from Frau Bernstein to the more immediate danger. Karl eased her onto a bench next to Herr Wagner’s neighbour, who clutched her hands together and began to pray under her breath.
The planes droned on overhead, several squadrons by the sound of it, passing over the city. Standing next to Grete, their fingers linked, Karl strained to hear any change in the engine noise, the tell-tale whistle of bombs being dropped, the blast of an explosion. What would it be like, out in the open with only the trees or a dugout for shelter, knowing that the enemy was there, not dropping bombs at random in a city, but targeting him, Karl, with a rifle or a machine gun, a grenade or even a tank? The thought made his gut clench and he swallowed down the fear that rose in his throat. He glanced over at Grete and took a deep calming breath.
Gradually the sound of the planes diminished, and a hum of conversation started up, everyone relieved, exhausted. Another night, another city. Someone else’s nightmare.
When the all-clear sounded, Karl helped Frau Bernstein up the stairs. At the top, Frau Strauss took her arm.
‘Margarete, don’t be long,’ she said to her daughter.
‘I won’t, Mutti. I’ll be right in.’
Frau Strauss gave Karl a small smile before escorting Frau Bernstein in the direction of her apartment.
Karl waited, hand-in-hand with Grete, while the others quickly dispersed to their homes.
‘I must get back,’ he said. ‘My parents will be worried.’
She swept his coat off her shoulders and folded it over his arm, then took his face in her hands, her gaze roaming over his features as if to memorise them. ‘You are my hero, Karl. Come back to me.’
‘I will.’ He kissed her, savouring the taste of her lips. Then, with one last look at her face, he turned and walked quickly away.