Love in the Shadows

1.

Berlin, July 1943

JOHANNA NEUMANN STROLLED THROUGH the rear doors of the grand mansion onto the stone patio overlooking the extensive lake and magnificently manicured gardens alive with the multi-coloured displays of dahlias in full bloom. She had a glass of chilled Riesling in one hand and Gisela Richter, their host for today’s luncheon, on her other arm as if they were best friends sneaking away from the party.

The sun tingled her fair skin, here on the outskirts of Berlin. The clear air revitalised her just a little, while the cracks of thunder echoed from the bombs striking her beautiful city. A distant crackle, dust balling into the sky.

But for a moment, she wanted to forget there was a war going on.

The scented geraniums brought back a vivid memory of the first time she’d seen an airplane, twenty-six years before, while she’d been playing in her grandmother’s garden. She shuddered now, as she had then on her twelfth birthday in the summer of 1917, the day she’d discovered that she wouldn’t see her grandfather again. Her mother had rushed her into the house and they, together with her grandmother, had huddled in the cellar for what had felt like an eternity.

The tiny hairs on Johanna’s arms rose as she glanced towards the blue sky. The haunting whistling, and the thunder of an explosion, caused her heart to race and her palms to sweat.

Years later, as her family tried to rebuild their lives after the Great War, it became evident that it would have been better for them all had her father not returned either. She hadn’t fully understood as a child, as she had come to realise since, the depth of destruction left by the war. Not just on the buildings, their schools, churches and infrastructures, and not just during the war years, but to their culture and the arts, their relationships, and fundamentally to the souls that became lost inside the shells of the men in the decades thereafter.

Her father had been changed by what he’d experienced, though he never spoke of the horrors that caused him to scream out in his sleep. He never spoke at all; he chose physical expressions to vent his anger. And he was angry at everything. She had kneeled at the side of her bed every night and prayed for peace, and yet here they were again, four years into another world war and with no clear sight of an end.

Gisela squeezed her arm, gaining her attention, then released her as the rest of the women from the luncheon spilled onto the patio as jovial as they would be turning out on the street after an opening night at the Berlin Opera House. It was expected that they would continue with their social engagements in support of the Reich, of course, bend to the will of Hitler, but it also suited them all to maintain the illusion of normality. And, although they still managed to acquire some of the finest wines from within the cellars of their esteemed group, the food now was of a much lesser standard. Not that Johanna had much of an appetite these days. Like most of the things she’d once enjoyed, the war had stripped it away from her. What she wanted – her husband and son back, the end of the war, her life as it was – she couldn’t have. The rest was immaterial.

Looking around the group of highly educated women – each of whom, like Johanna, having enjoyed a thriving career before the war – she was acutely aware of the unspoken differences in their views about National Socialism and the Führer. There were those whose loyalties towards the Reich remained unwavering, who appeared unmoved by the rumours of atrocities that had started to filter through to Berlin. There were those, like Johanna, who remained silent and did what was expected of them to protect themselves and their families from persecution, who were secretly disgusted. There were others who had become disaffected as the war had failed to deliver the promised swift victory and too many sons, fathers and husbands had already died. Some women remained passive, like Johanna; others, she suspected, were part of the German Resistance. One thing was true for all the women gathered here. They had changed.

“My husband tells me our divisions are too strong for any army in the world,” one said. “Soldiers surrender as soon as they hear us coming. They welcome us, wave our flag and salute. Isn’t it marvellous.”

Gisela smiled. “My husband tells me even the French are so scared of us they will do anything to help us win the war.”

Gisela’s husband, Dieter Richter, would say that. As Minister for Propaganda, it was his job to craft messages that presented their war in the most favourable light, to give faith to the people of Germany and inspire their children to want to join the Hitler Youth.

It was indoctrination, and in the six years that Johanna’s son had been drafted, she had only seen him a handful of times and not at all in the last eighteen months. Her heart ached.

Their son’s recruitment had been a significant point of dissent between her and her husband, Gerhard, not that she could have prevented him joining the Hitler Youth. But she would never forgive him for encouraging Ralf’s immature adherence to nationalistic principles.

“We need strong, brilliant men to lead the future of our great nation,” he had said. He had dismissed her response: that at ten years old, Ralf was just a boy. “It is best to teach them while they are young and keen to learn.”

“Impressionable” was the word she’d have used. Catch them while they’re too young to be able to make an informed decision, too na?ve to see the dangers in war, and too innocent to believe they would die. Or worse still, that they would survive and live thereafter as an empty shell of the person they might have become, like her father.

Gisela attached a cigarette to a long filter and lit it. She drew down slowly, tilted her head backwards a little, and blew out a long, steady stream of contemplative smoke. “I do miss not being able to go to the opera,” she said. “It would have been a perfect way to spend the evening after such a delightful luncheon.” She took a sip of wine and smiled as she glanced around the group.

The opera house had been bombed by the British in 1941. The destruction of the building had caused quite a shockwave through the city, and it had broken Johanna’s heart. As a pianist for the Berliner Philharmoniker before the war, she had played alongside violinist Simon Goldberg, and under the conductorship of Bruno Walter before he’d fled to the United States.

She sighed. She hadn’t heard from either since they’d left Germany. She wondered where they were now and whether they were still free to play and conduct their wonderful music.

“Perhaps Johanna will play us some Wagner later.” Birgit Fischer, the wife of the Minister of Science and Education, and one of Johanna’s oldest and dearest friends, raised her glass in a toast, cheering her on.

Johanna could think of a hundred composers she would rather play, including those who were banned, such as Bizet, Chopin and Tchaikovsky. Wagner, however, was the Führer’s personal favourite, and playing it would be a demonstration of her allegiance.

“I’d be delighted,” she said.

Birgit came towards her. “Walk around the gardens with me first. It’s been ages since we talked.”

A rumble in the distance, in the direction of the city, smoke rising, caught Johanna’s attention. Another cultural site, or God forbid, a hospital. She placed her glass on the garden wall, linked arms with Birgit, and started towards the lake.

“Such a beautiful summer’s day,” Birgit said.

Johanna took in the still water that mirrored the cotton-wool puffs moving silently above, the sun’s heat tingling her face. A dragonfly darted from one lily pad to another. Insects hovered above the water, and flecks of pollen skimmed the surface closest to the bank. Beyond, linden trees defined the perimeter of the estate, and beyond that, the deep spruce forests. It was perfect, paradise, and she could assume it was as safe as was possible given the circumstances.

“The bombings are getting worse, Birgit,” she said.

“Do you think so?” Birgit was one of the women who fit the category of having blind faith in the regime.

“What will become of us?” Johanna sat on the grass and tugged a blade from the soil and ran it between her finger and thumb.

Birgit sat next to her. “We will win the war, Johanna. And everything will get back to normal. We will rebuild the opera house and dine together in the city again, just like we used to. Hitler will not be defeated.”

Johanna didn’t share her enthusiasm. What was normal? Everything had already changed because of the war. Whether they won or lost, she struggled to envision the future. She was sure they would win because Gerhard had said as much. And she trusted his word. But news was filtering through that Hamburg was under sustained attack from a “firestorm” that was sure to devastate the city, and worse still there were rumours that the German forces were retreating along the Eastern line and in Italy. If it was all true, the horror of what was to come was too much to think about – especially when she considered that her son would soon be joining the fight. She prayed to God that Gerhard could pull some strings and keep Ralf away from the front line.

“Have you heard from your boys recently?” she asked. Birgit’s sons had been conscripted at the start of the war and were now serving on the Eastern front, somewhere in Poland.

Birgit shook her head. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to protect our nation, as we all are. I think about them every day, of course, and if they lose their lives, not that I believe they will, then, as hard as it will be to live without them, they will have done their duty for our Fatherland.”

Johanna widened her eyes at her friend’s admission. Johanna could never be as charitable with her own children’s lives. At least her daughter, Astrid, would be spared from having to join the Bund Deutscher M?del for another year, and she prayed that by then the war would be over.

“You are very honourable,” she said, her tone lacking conviction.

With views regarding the war among the German aristocracy being divided, it was wise to say nothing that might be perceived as challenging someone’s loyalty to the Reich. Johanna had just tiptoed across the line and felt her stomach clench.

“I’m sure you would do the same. Ralf will be assigned soon, no?” Brigit smiled tightly.

Johanna sighed. “Yes, he will do his duty willingly. He loves Germany.” Neither were a lie. The last time she had spoken to him, he had been thrilled at the prospect of joining the 12th Panzer Division so he could fight to bring “order and calm to the Fatherland” once again. Johanna wished she could have the ten-year-old boy who’d left their family home back, rather than the one who spieled propaganda so passionately.

“It is something to be proud of.” Brigit got to her feet.

Johanna sensed the disapproval in Brigit’s tone and couldn’t look at her. The war had altered their friendship, and she knew that Brigit sensed it too. Better to say nothing and hold onto the fond memories of what they had done together, their boys playing together, joint family picnics by the lakes, theatre in the evenings, and horse racing for the adults while their children went to the cinema or built a tree house.

She stood up. “I think it’s time for a little Wagner, don’t you?”

“When are you joining Gerhard?” Brigit asked as they walked back towards the patio.

Johanna sighed. She hated the thought of leaving her beloved city. “In the autumn. He’s worried that Berlin is becoming too dangerous. But there’s also his promotion.”

“The war will be over by Christmas, and you’ll soon be home again.”

Johanna hoped so, for the sake of Berlin, though they’d been talking about the war being over by Christmas every year since it started. She’d been happy staying in their town house in the beginning, but since being evacuated to the outskirts of the city earlier in the spring, and now with Gerhard’s new job, he’d insisted his family join him in Erstein. Aside from their protection, it was her duty to support him by hosting events for senior officers and distinguished guests.

“Kommandant Neumann. It has a good ring to it,” Brigit said and took Johanna’s arm again.

It was something friends did, and it felt strange.

“I can imagine him with that quiet intensity he has. He would be quite a fearsome leader.”

Johanna thought of Gerhard as more of a philosopher than a commander. At least that’s how he had always been. They had known each other as children. Their families had been close, with their fathers sharing their stories of the Great War. Gerhard had studied politics and economics while she’d followed her studies in music. He had been a friend long before she’d agreed to marry him, and she hadn’t seen him in more than two years now. The differences in their thinking had been highlighted by the advent of war and awoken her from the fairy tale. It was expected in any marriage, her mother had said, but when she thought about Gerhard it wasn’t a pleasant form of anticipation that caused her heart to race. It was the scars etched in her mind by her father’s return, and that the war would do the same to Gerhard that she feared.

She searched for a hint of the fairy-tale feeling, but it remained concealed by the darkness that had formed inside her. “I’m sure he’ll be amazing.”

“The Alsatians are more German than they are French. He’s done well to get that position.”

Johanna wasn’t sure whether that was a pointed comment to say that her husband would have an easy time of it. She couldn’t say nothing; he was her husband after all. “It’s the most important supply route crossing the border, so I’m sure it will keep him very busy. And I have every faith that our soldiers will be well fed and stocked of ammunition while he is in command.” She gave Brigit a thin-lipped smile. “Then, we will win the war, and we can all get back to normal,” she added, for the sake of appearances, believing it would be impossible to revive some relationships after the war ended.

They picked up their drinks from the wall and made their way into the house. Johanna went to the piano and started to play, while her thoughts drifted to her son and her husband, and to her move to Erstein with Astrid, and to having to leave her mother and her beloved Berlin behind. It left a bitter taste that worsened when she considered what they might return to. She closed her eyes as she played, and prayed Brigit was right – that the war would be over by Christmas.

***

Fabienne Brun studied the German soldiers’ arrival from the living room window of the farm cottage across the yard from the main house, the house that had once been theirs, while Mamie prepared lunch in the kitchen at the back and her cousin, Nancy, played in her bedroom upstairs. A black car with black-and-red swastika flags, devils’ horns, on its front wings, and two dark-grey army trucks with swastikas emblazoned on their sides, approached the house from the main road.

The familiar rumbling of hard metal tracks grinding against the tarmac on the road into town faded as the tanks continued their route. The car and trucks came down the long driveway taking the left fork, towards the main house and around the far side of the dry fountain. They came to a stop in front of the main door. Half a dozen soldiers climbed out of the back of the trucks. They offloaded boxes and carried them inside. They came back out with different boxes and items of furniture and loaded them. The process of one kommandant out and another one in was over within the half-hour. The soldiers returned to the trucks, which were then driven around the fountain and back towards the main road.

Fabienne continued to watch, the lights in the rooms coming on and going off, hoping not to see a soldier walking in their direction. They had lost the big house to the fucking Boches; she wasn’t going to give up the cottage without a fight. At least that’s what she told herself. In her heart, she knew they would do whatever was demanded of them. They had no choice.

This would be the second kommandant to move in since the start of the war. Would there be a third? Would they ever get their home back? Even if they did get it back, it wouldn’t be like it was. It was forever tainted, haunted even, by ces Boches’ appropriation of it. Deep down, she worried that the place she’d been born and raised in would never be returned to its rightful owners. Clenching her fists and inhaling deeply did nothing to stem the profound sense of powerlessness, or the rage she felt towards these people.

The front door of the main house opened.

A soldier stepped outside, looked towards the cottage and lit a cigarette.

As he marched towards them, her heart thundered.

Maybe it would all end here.