Thirteen #2
“Committed suicide,” Erna exclaims in a rush. “Hung himself by the neck!” She clasps her own throat and demonstrates the facial expressions of a dead Dr. Kreitz.
“Oh, but that’s terrible! Why would he do such a thing?” I picture Dr. Kreitz, all disheveled and enthusiastic. How could he be dead?
“Couldn’t get another job. Apparently, he and his wife were starving to death. The SS were after him, on account of his suspect political views.” There is discomfort in her eyes.
“That’s sad,” I reply carefully. “I liked Dr. Kreitz.”
Hermann, a sallow-faced boy with pockmarked skin, shrugs. “I hear loads of people are finishing themselves off these days. Especially Jews. They want to avoid a worse fate . But what could be worse than killing yourself?” He takes a sip of water and stares at me. There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“The SS must do their job, and they do it bloody well,” Tomas suddenly growls. “I’ve personal experience of that, right? We should keep our noses out of their business.”
We all look at Tomas in surprise.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend,” Hermann says with a sniff.
“Anyway,” adds Tomas gruffly, “who gives a damn if a few Jews or other wastrels top themselves? A few less of the swine to worry about.” He glances at the clock on the wall of the tall building opposite. “We should go. We don’t want to be late for our HJ meeting.”
The other boys agree and there’s a shuffling and scraping of chairs as they make to leave.
Tomas’s eyes linger on me a little longer than necessary, then he turns his back and I watch him and his friends walk toward the tram stop on Markt.
Poor Tomas, taller now, but still awkward and skinny, he’s hardly the Aryan ideal.
But the way he just spoke up for me then, it seems he looks out for me now, the way I once looked out for him.
“He’s sweet on you,” Erna remarks, watching him go. “What a catch!” She giggles for the first time since we’ve been here. “Secret sweethearts, eh.” She elbows me, teasingly, and I swipe her arm away, angrily, heat rising to my cheeks.
“I should go too.” I turn away. “I’m having lunch at home before this afternoon’s meeting. Sorry, Erna, I shan’t walk. It’ll be quicker on the tram.”
I hurry toward the tram stop with an odd sense of deflation.
It’s an irritation, a discomfort. It could be Karl’s imminent departure.
Or the revelation about Erna’s father. Or the news of Dr. Kreitz.
Or Erna’s teasing about Tomas being my sweet heart.
Or perhaps it’s because I decided I’m not going to meet Walter in the morning. Maybe it’s just the hot weather.
The carriage is crammed with sweaty workmen in overalls traveling home after their shift, through the city center toward the main train station.
They’ve come from the factories and warehouses in Plagwitz and Lindenau.
I squeeze into a space near the door and hold my breath as my nose slots under the armpit of a fat, hairy man hanging on to one of the leather straps dangling from the roof.
“Hey, miss!” calls a voice from farther inside the carriage. “There’s a seat just here, next to me by the window, if you fancy it?”
“It’s okay, I’m only going a couple of stops,” I reply, politely. The man is youngish. Dirty looking, with hungry eyes.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” His voice, tinged with anger, carries the clipped tones of a Berlin accent.
There are more and more harsh Prussian voices around Leipzig these days.
Compared with the lighter, softer Saxon, their accent grates on the ear.
As Vati wrote recently in the Leipziger , the burgeoning industry and wealth of Leipzig is enticing all sorts of people from far and wide to come, sniffing the possibility of a sound job and prosperity.
But they bring with them bad morals, crime, and disease.
I wish I’d walked after all.
“Girls aren’t what they used to be,” the man moans in a loud voice to another, standing in the aisle. “All full of their own self-importance, now they’re wearing uniforms. Girls in uniform? Pah! How ridiculous .”
The other man glances over at me. I stare at my feet, feeling my face turn the color of beetroot. My blue BDM skirt swings as the tram lurches around a bend. The men laugh and another says, “BDM... it doesn’t stand for Bund Deutscher M?del. It stands for Bubi Drück Mich !”
Squeeze Me Laddie. How dare they?
“Let me give you a squeeze, girl, eh?” The first man, with the Berlin accent, laughs.
The other joins in. “I heard it was Bund Deutscher Milchkühe! ” League of German Milk Cows.
Half the carriage is laughing. I’m sweating now, burning with indignation, but I’m locked in a metal box with these dreadful, rough men.
I peer out the window, trying to work out how far to the next stop, glad I’m still close enough to the door to make a quick getaway.
Are these the sort of men Tomas works with?
Please don’t let him turn into one of them.
“Girls these days. Take last night. Group of girls in the bar, alone, no men with them. I politely offered to buy a young lady a drink. She laughed in my face! Just because she’s in a uniform.
They all laughed at me. Pff! Who the hell do they think they are?
Young ladies? Nah, sows, the lot of them. ” The man with the Berlin accent again.
“Hey,” he shouts to me, “you should be looking for a husband, girl, not strutting about in that stupid Nazi uniform!”
I long to yell something back at him. Something to put him in his place, like I wouldn’t choose you as my husband if you were the last man on earth ... but I don’t dare. I just stare at my feet, willing the tram to go faster so I can get off it sooner.
“Oi.” The fat hairy man, whose armpit is in my face, addresses the other men. “Watch your tongues,” he says gruffly, “and leave the little lady alone. She’s only a youngster.” He turns and dips his big, round head toward me. He smells of beer and cigarettes. “You okay, girl?”
I nod, absurdly grateful to this rough gorilla-man for standing up for me. The tram slows for the next stop.
“I’m getting off here,” I say quietly, not wanting the others to hear. “Thank you.”
I jump out as soon as the tram screeches to a halt, thankful none of the men follow me. I take a long, deep breath of fresh air, delicious after the stale odor of male sweat and beer in the carriage. My legs are weak and I grab the spokes of a metal gate in front of me to steady myself.
I look up and see I’m standing at the entrance of a small Jewish cemetery.
Someone has defaced a few of the gravestones.
“Jewish Swine” is daubed over one. Another has been smashed into pieces.
A third reads: “The only good Jew is a dead Jew!” and the one next to it, “Spill Jewish blood—the only way to solve the Jewish Problem.” Hairs stand up at the back of my neck.
I think of the whispers of a Jewish conspiracy.
Of not knowing what they plan, and when.
Because this is the way they work, underhand and secretly, through the medium of foreign governments.
Through revolutionary movements and unrest. Dividing and unsettling.
Maneuvering themselves into power in all spheres of life.
A bead of sweat tracks down my spine. Hitler will lead us to victory. He must.
I hurry away from this ill intent among the gravestones.
A vision of Walter floats in front of me as I walk. His soft, curly blond hair. His warm blue eyes. That smile. How polite and proper he is compared to those brutes on the tram. And they have the audacity to call themselves German.
Walter is not a normal Jew. He cannot be.
I’m certain he isn’t part of this Conspiracy of International Jewry.
Where is his hooked nose and shifty eyes?
He is kind, handsome, and funny.
Perhaps he isn’t a Jew. Maybe he is a mischling , a mix with Aryan blood, too. This would explain his looks. Maybe he doesn’t even know it himself.
I turn into Fritzschestrasse and the thrill of rebellion suddenly flows through my veins. I shall meet him tomorrow morning. Just one last time, to say good-bye, and tell him we can’t meet again. Nothing terrible happened last time, and no one will ever know.
To simply not turn up would be rude.
And I have been brought up to have good manners.