Some of our relations
Many of whom dropped Gabi when Maria, her best if not her only school-friend, persuaded her to become a Christian. When she later married a Lutheran Pastor, nearly all the others dropped her too. She’d gone over to the Gentiles, she no longer belonged to them. All except her father and sister Frieda, who being agnostic didn’t care what she was, and her mother, who, being already dead, didn’t care either. And sloppy good-natured Aunt Hedwig, her mother’s sister. Apart from her father and sister, Aunt Hedwig was the only relative to call on her after her marriage, or write little letters to her as the years passed. Naturally Hedwig’s letters grew less frequent as the distance in time and space expanded. And once the Nazis got their claws into the Jews of Germany, they nearly dried up altogether. But a trickle still flowed, jerky and erratic like the passage of a single raindrop down a dusty window pane. Congratulations on the birth of each child, for instance. A note of condolence on Frieda’s death. And then another on her father’s. A letter to announce the funeral of a distant uncle in America, or the marriage of a still more distant cousin. Then came the war, and Gabi heard nothing more until the end of my first week in school, when this letter arrived, written on flimsy paper with little wood chips in it.
My dear Gabi,
It is such a long time since we have heard from each other, but your Onkel Moritz and I have been so busy with work and we are so tired when we get home that we hardly have the energy to write to any of our relatives now – those that are left – and keep in touch. Moritz has to leave at 5 in the morning and doesn’t get back till 8 or 9, and the physical work is hard on him as he isn’t used to it. His workplace is a long way off, so he’s already tired before he gets there. Mine is not so bad, in a factory quite near here, so I can walk, but still it is from 6 till 6, and the work is hard for someone who isn’t used to machines. And then there’s the walk home and cooking and cleaning etc. Besides, the nearest shop for our people is nearly two kilometres away.
Here in Berlin so many of our friends have gone that we would be quite lonely if we weren’t too tired to see people anyway. Your cousin Lotte and Solomon have had to move. Their apartment was confiscated and now they are living in a single room, in a building for our people only. They were told to go to Prenzlauer Berg, quite near your father’s old place, and that’s it. Of course, if they had more money, it might be different.
We counted up last night. About half or more of our friends or relations have left now, some for places where you need visas, others for places where you don’t. We always wonder who will be next. And then the regulations always changing, you just don’t know what to expect.
Write when you have time. Your life took a different path from ours long ago and it must be still more different now than it used to be. But how long for?
PS And now we’ve just been told we have to move too. To a single room in the same building as Solomon and Lotte. That’s all we can have now. At least we’ll be together, but where will it all end? Here is the address, in case you have the chance to write …
Naive as she is (she’s never read a newspaper all through in the whole of her life, and never known anything about the public world except as it affects her private one), Gabi doesn’t need much sophistication to grasp what realities lie behind the coy references to ‘our people’ and ‘the others,’ and where they have to shop. But the one about the places you don’t need visas for – what did Hedwig mean by that?
Martin, nearly fifteen-year-old Martin, who spotted at once that this letter’s been opened and resealed, can already read between the lines that Gabi never even sees, and he quickly guesses the truth. But that’s too much for her to believe, so she doesn’t, or at any rate tries not to. No, she answers at once, it means being sent to work in one of the occupied territories in the East, not what Martin said. That she cannot believe. For once she’s angry with Martin and shouts at him never to say such a dreadful thing again. But really the anger’s self-directed; she’s shouting down the rising murmur of her own deep-running tide of fears. However she may shout them down in the crowded daytime, though, she always hears their quiet insistence rising in the lonely night. Yes, then the flooding tide returns and beats remorselessly upon her darkened shore. Sometimes, when she just has to tell someone, she whispers her fears to Sara; Sara listens and keeps quiet. Everything settles in her – there’s no one she can tell, unless it is her notebooks.
As for Martin and the rest of us, Martin’s certain that if what he said is true, it’s never going to happen to him. He’s half-Aryan, to start with, and what’s more, he’s going to show them somehow he’s really one of them. Ilse? She puts her trust in God, much good that will do her. Sara keeps her own counsel, as well as her mother’s. And I? Fritzi Wimmer seems a more clear and present danger to me just now than anything that happens to people I’ve never met in far-away Berlin.
If Gabi wants corroboration of her daylight optimism, it comes in the sunny letters of Willibald’s nephew Erwin, who I’ve also never met. Erwin’s father Harald, Willibald’s older brother, is a middle-ranking Nazi near Lüneburg. He and his dutiful wife haven’t seen Gabi for years of course, that stands to reason. But Nazis or not, they do send her birthday and Christmas greetings, and what they really think about the Jewish Question nobody exactly knows. As for Erwin himself, he’s one of Germany’s gallant Luftwaffe heroes, a true knight of the air, and he sends us postcards and occasional letters from somewhere in occupied France. He’s busy bombing English cities like Coventry and London. Gabi doesn’t exactly like the idea of that, but still, haven’t the English bombed Berlin? And like it or not, it’s a far cry from …from what Martin suggested. How could you believe anything so monstrously barbaric as that is going on in the Reich when people like Erwin serve it? No, things can never be that bad! Look at this note from Erwin, for instance, written only a month after Aunt Hedwig’s.
Dear everyone at Heimstatt,
First of all, many thanks for the birthday card and parcel. I was really pleased to get them both.
I’ve been kept very busy on a night-flying course. It’s very interesting work, and I enjoy it greatly.
In my spare time, which is unfortunately pretty limited, I have made the acquaintance of a very charming mademoiselle, the daughter of a French air officer. We’ve been round as much as we can of this part of France (I can’t say where) together, and it certainly is almost as pretty as my companion. I’m beginning to improve my French as well. Not that I have forgotten Lerke, of course, who will always have first place in my heart.
I’ve also had one short leave on which I managed to get home to see my parents – the first time in more than a year. They asked me to send you their greetings.
(Later) I would have liked to finish this yesterday, but we were called out on duty. And I thought I would be able to write more today, but now we are on standby to fly off on some more exercises, so I had better close here, otherwise it may not catch the post for several days.
With all good wishes to you all,
Your
Erwin
Obviously only a dutiful courtesy note, even Gabi realises that. Obviously not very inspired. But then knights of the air aren’t supposed to be poets. The main thing is, he’s a decent person. And Gabi notices how she’s still included in the general good wishes, although Erwin’s father is a middling Party big-wig. They asked me to send you their best wishes. Good wishes to you all. Can she read that and believe people like Erwin and his father are out to kill people like Aunt Hedwig and herself?
Well, perhaps she can, but it’s very tempting not to.
But now comes more confusion for Gabi, in the shape of a letter from Heinrich Schmidt’s father (Heinrich, my idol), whom she worked with in World War One and recently met in Plinden. Poor Dr Schmidt never realised back then that Gabi was Jewish. Why should he have? She wore a crucifix and went to church and seemed just like all the other German nurses. Besides, in just those years everyone was too busy cutting off soldiers’ limbs or sewing up their bodies to bother with the dormant Jewish Question. And when Gabi ran into him outside the dentist’s in Plinden, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him then. He was pleased to see her, he would like his wife to meet her and he insisted on taking her back for coffee, where she met plump smiling Aryan Frau Schmidt and young smiling Aryan Heinrich, and was politely asked to call again. She didn’t, but then she ran into him a second time, on her way to the station. She mentioned her preparations for going up the mountain as an excuse for her neglect. The mountaineer doctor was delighted and at once suggested his son should join us. How could she refuse? Afterwards she avoided Plinden for several weeks, hoping we would slowly be forgotten. But something Heinrich said on his return set an alarm bell off in his father’s cautious brain, and he’d been making inquiries. This letter is the upshot.
Frau Brinkmann,
For reasons that I am sure you will appreciate, I regret that it is impossible for the acquaintance we have recently resumed to continue any further.
While I regret this personally, I must also express my surprise that you did not see fit to inform me of your racial background when we first met in Plinden. If I had not happened to discover this by chance, I might not have found out for months, and the consequences for myself and my family, not to speak of yours, could have been grave. I regard your failure to divulge the truth on this matter as a serious breach of trust.
G. Schmidt
‘Heinrich,’ Martin declares bitterly when Gabi guiltily informs him that young Heinrich will no longer be his friend, ‘Heinrich is in the Hitler Youth.’ He says that in the aggrieved tone of someone God has inexplicably turned his face away from and left a shadow on the land. Gabi is more worried that Heinrich’s father will report her to the authorities. But Dr G. Schmidt isn’t spiteful or malicious. He isn’t even a Nazi, however much of a Hitler Youth his son might be. He merely wants to make his way in the world, stay out of trouble and back the winner. Unhappily for him, he’s going to lose his shirt in the final race.
But what does Gabi make of all this? Her husband’s Nazi nephew sends her his good wishes, an acquaintance who isn’t a Nazi disowns her, and Aunt Hedwig writes mournfully of people going to places where you don’t need visas. Gabi simply doesn’t know what to make of it, and couldn’t do much about it if she did. Openly she hopes for the best, secretly she fears the worst. And all the time she lives from day to day – what else can she do? As for me, I feel I should have guessed that Heinrich Schmidt wouldn’t last. He was too good to be true.
Willibald’s been writing letters too, letters from the field. His letters though are about, not to, us. He’s been writing to the Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess for permission to teach religion again, and to the State Office for Genealogical Research to reclassify his wife and thus us children. That’s right, the State Office for Genealogical Research. The Third Reich takes genealogical research as seriously as Mormons do, only the Third Reich’s heaven and hell are both on earth.
It’s a frustrating correspondence.
Now that victory in Poland and France have been assured, the army is going to discharge the oldest n.c.o. in the regiment, but Corporal (recently promoted from Lance-Corporal) Willibald Brinkmann contemplates his return to civilian life with apprehension. How can he earn his living as a pastor if he still isn’t allowed to teach religion in the schools, one of the duties on the performance of which his salary depends?
As victory and release grow ever more certain, Corporal Willibald grows ever less so. He’s written to the church authorities, who’ve written to the education authorities to express the hope that Pfarrer Brinkmann will now be allowed to fulfil the terms of his employment. But they’ve had no answer and are vague as to what to do if the answer when it comes is no. He’s spoken to his Hauptmann, who’s as anxious as Willibald to see the stooping corporal returned to a field where his talents would be more fittingly employed, and the Hauptmann has promised to put a word in for him. He’s also casually suggested that if the corporal would only divorce his wife all his troubles would be over. But when Corporal Willibald respectfully reminds him there are the children to consider, and anyway his church doesn’t allow its pastors to divorce, the Hauptmann only shrugs his shoulders as though to say you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. But Willibald isn’t up to breaking eggs. However much the idea might appeal to him in theory, in practice he just cannot have his omelette. No, there’s nothing for it, he’s just got to plod along the strait and stony path he’s found himself on, and hope to make it a little wider, a little less stony.
He’s also written to Ortsgruppenleiter Franzi Wimmer, who’s going to put a word in for him too. He’s even written to the Upper Danube District Chief, who’s far too busy to put in any word, either for or against. But the ultimate decision on this sensitive matter can be made only by the Führer or his Deputy. Yes, the Führer or his Deputy have to decide who’s going to teach the Protestant religion in a few schools in a rural district of Ostmark. You’ve got to give them their due – they certainly are hands-on managers. It’s a wonder they’ve got time to plan their great campaigns. Or is that why the air war over Britain isn’t going so well?
So now Corporal Willibald has written to beetle-browed, ape-jawed Rudolf Hess, whose prognathous chin displays five o’clock shadow at all hours of the day and night, and who’s soon going to flip his lid and fly off to England – although it would be big-headed of Corporal Willibald to imagine his letter will have much to do with that.
Herr Rudolf Hess
The Deputy Führer of the German Reich
Berlin.
Sir,
I hereby respectfully apply for reinstatement as teacher of religion for Protestant students in the state schools of Heimstatt and neighbouring villages in the Upper Danube District of Ostmark.
In 1939 the district school authorities prohibited me from giving religious instruction on the grounds of my wife’s non-Aryan descent. Since religious instruction was an essential part of my duties, it thereby became impossible for me to act as Lutheran minister for Heimstatt and neighbouring parishes, and as the father of four children who were otherwise unprovided for, I had to reckon with the loss of my livelihood. This was only postponed by my volunteering to join the army, from which, on account of my age, I am shortly to be discharged.
The ground of this request is R. G. B1. I. S. 607, which states: ‘The Deputy Führer may in exceptional cases permit those who are married to a Jew to remain in service.’ I therefore earnestly request the Deputy Führer to grant me such an exception. In support of my request, I respectfully draw attention to the following:
1. My military service for the Reich
2. My wife’s service as a nurse during the World War
In addition I would mention that my wife’s baptism in the Christian faith occurred before I met her and caused many difficulties for her with her relations.
Notarised copies of the following supporting documents are enclosed:
1. Ancestry Certificate
2. Marriage Certificate
3. Baptismal Certificate
4. Military Service Certificate
In the hope that my request will be granted, especially for the sake of my four unprotected children, and with an assurance that if I am allowed to resume religious instruction I will prove worthy of the trust placed in me, I remain
Heil Hitler!
W. Brinkmann,
Evangelical Minister
Presently Corporal, Army no. 13859
It doesn’t take Hess long to chew that one over. Request denied, the message comes promptly back. And the documents come back promptly too, neatly stamped and initialled. Come what may, the Deputy Führer’s going to hold the line on racial purity. But Willibald isn’t finished yet. No, he sends a different and more portentous letter now, this time to the State Office for Genealogical Research. His ultimate aim is the Aryanisation of us children, but the immediate object is pollution-dilution. He wants to get us reclassified as quarter Jews. Quarter-Jews have it better than half-Jews, and meritorious service to the Fatherland might even achieve them the status of honorary Aryans. Imagine that! Sara and me, who might well be full-Jews, becoming proper – well, nearly proper – Aryans! Considering Willibald’s doubts about our legitimacy, this really is pretty magnanimous of him. But to get us reclassified as quarter-Jews, he has to first get Gabi reclassified as a half-Jew, which is at least better than being a full one. And it would certainly make his life easier as well as ours. The means he chooses for achieving this reflect his chronic preoccupation with paternity. (But then what other means does he have?) If he can’t publicly accuse Gabi of adultery, he can at least officially accuse her mother.
State Office for Genealogical Research
Schiffbauerdamm 26
Berlin N. W. 7
Re.: Clarification of parentage of Gabriella Brinkmann, née Brandt.
I hereby respectfully submit a request for the revision of my wife Gabriella Brinkmann’s parentage record.
According to the records, she is a full-Jew. But there are good grounds for the belief that she is only a half-Jew. She was born on the 29th August 1896. Thus the date of her conception must be between the beginning of the last week of November and the end of the first week of December 1895. But at that time the supposed father Friedrich Brandt, a cloth merchant, was away meeting clients in Russia. He cannot therefore be my wife’s father. As, according to the supposed father (now deceased), the marriage was an unhappy one, there are strong reasons to suspect that the true father of my wife was Herr Brandt’s Swedish business partner, Herr Morning, of Stockholm, who was known to have an intimate relationship with my wife’s mother, and was in Berlin at the relevant time. Herr Morning was a Nordic Aryan.
This view is further supported by the fact that my wife of her own will converted to Christianity before I knew her, although this was against the wishes of her supposed father. Moreover, it is a remarkable sign of her moral disposition that she served the Fatherland as a nurse in the 1914-18 War. Finally, the appearance and character of our four children strongly supports the view that my wife is not a full-Jew. None of them displays any of the recognised features of that race.
I therefore request a re-examination of my wife’s parentage which would lead to a reclassification of her as a half-Jew. I hope that my service in the military will be taken into account in the consideration of this request.
Heil Hitler!
Poor Willibald. This tissue of inventions won’t get him anywhere either. Whatever else Friedrich Brandt was, he was the father of Gabi. Did Willibald make up the Swedish Herr Morning as well as his adultery, or was there really a business partner of that name? Gabi has never heard of him, nor of the branch in Stockholm, but she plays along. As for Willibald’s children displaying none of the recognised features of Jewry – you’ve only to apply to the primary school principal in Heimstatt to get the goods on that. Mark you, the primary school principal himself might not pass those skull-calibrating tests, and nor might Hitler, Goebbels, Hess or half the Party members for that matter. But then they don’t have to.
You can imagine Willibald’s application being handed round the desks at the State Office for Genealogical Research, the widening ripples of derision ruffling the holy silence in that Temple of the Aryan Race. When they’ve had a good chuckle they send back their negative answer, and Willibald plunges headfirst into the slough of despair. That, as usual, generates muffled echoes of Schiller, the model for all his literary productions. Here, for instance, is a sentence from one more letter that he writes to the Church authorities:
Whatever becomes of me, I shall always have the consolation and pride of this one thought: I was allowed to play my part as a soldier in the greatest victory of my Fatherland’s arms.
Yes, that patriotic heart still thumps inside his narrow chest, even if his spirits are down in the dumps. That greatest victory by the way (which you would hardly expect a clergyman to single out as his consolation and pride) consisted in twenty-ton Panzers rolling over outnumbered lance-wielding cavalry whilst Stukas bombed undefended Warsaw into smoking heaps of rubble. Not that Willibald got any closer to the action than checking the accounts in the officers’ mess of that reserve regiment well in the rear.
But after all that is not the end of things. Willibald’s children aren’t going to starve, his wife isn’t going to be dragged off to a concentration camp. Not yet, anyway.
He gets his discharge from the army in the autumn of 1940. He lifts me up in his arms as I come unsuspectingly home from school. Feeling the rough sweaty texture of his uniform against my cheek and smelling the heat of stale schnapps on his breath, I turn my head away from his slobbery kiss.
‘Won’t you give Papa a kiss?’ Willibald asks with accusation flaring in his eyes.
I shake my head.
‘He’s shy,’ Gabi says quickly. ‘Give him time to get used to you again.’
But Willibald has already dropped me and turned away, muttering something about unnatural children, as Ilse, who has just entered the room, dutifully offers her chaste cheek for the full wet paternal smacker. At least he has no doubts about who sired her. I feel ashamed but relieved at the same time. How could I kiss that uniformed stranger?
Willibald can’t teach religion to thoroughbred Aryan schoolchildren, but the church does somehow continue to pay him a diminished salary, and the local Aryan children do somehow continue to get instruction in religion, if not from tainted Willibald. So though we’re worse off than we were, it’s not the end; the worst is still to come.
However, though things aren’t as bad yet as they might and will be, something’s happened to Willibald. Whatever stomach he might have had for the fight, it’s gone out of him now. He’s given up trying to get round the Nazis, and now he’s merely going to drift with the current, wherever it takes him. That is, when he isn’t railing against his fate and the wife it’s brought him. He’s still got stomach for that all right. In fact, now that he can’t fight on the Eastern front in the Wehrmacht any longer (not that he ever really did), he’s got more energy for fighting on the home front. His first campaign, if we discount the incessant guerrilla warfare of his marriage, is going to be against –