Thirty-Five #2
“I’ll... do what I can. I’ll try.” I think of Mutti and the strange conversation we had this morning. “What do you think of this story about vom Rath?”
“My father said Grynszpan did it out of frustration at the expulsion of the Polish Jews from Germany. A couple thousand of them had to leave Leipzig alone. Apparently, they were hauled from their beds, shoved onto trains in the early hours of the morning, and sent back to Poland. But Poland won’t let them back in and so now they’re stranded on the border with nowhere to go.
His parents are among them. That’s why he did it.
I’m not saying it was the right thing to do, but I guess that’s why he was so angry. ”
“How does your father know these things?”
“He has his sources,” Erna says and winks at me. “It’s probably just a big fuss over nothing,” she continues. “It will fizzle out over the next couple of days, or until the newspapers are filled with some other scandal.”
I remember Vati’s warning about things not being safe.
“I’m not so sure about that. I think something big is brewing. I’ll try and find out what.”
“Thank you, Hetty. You are a true friend, you know that?”
We exchange a weak smile and make our way back into the school building.
F OR THE FIRST time since I’ve been at the gymnasium, Mutti meets me at the school gates. It reminds me of when I was small and she’d be there, every day, outside the gates of the volksschule, waiting for Karl and me.
She hooks her arm through mine and steers me along the pavement toward the old town.
“I felt restless at home,” she explains. “I thought we could go to the Fürstenhof Hotel for lunch. It’ll be a nice change of scene. Oh, and Tomas telephoned for you. Asked if you would like to go for a walk on Sunday afternoon. Does he have designs on you, Herta?”
“No, Mutti. He’s just a friend. That’s all.”
As we walk, I can see nothing about the day that seems different than usual.
In the Fürstenhof, waiters, aloof and unsmiling in black, with pristine white aprons tied around their waists, serve us cold meat and salad followed by delicate cakes and dainty cups of strong coffee.
A pianist plays soft Bach melodies; the clientele relax at neat little tables arranged at discreet distances around tall ferns in the glass-domed café.
Mutti eats well and even manages some strudel for dessert. She is calmer than she was this morning.
“Did Vati tell you anything after his meetings?” I ask.
She leans across the table, eyes widening. “He has spoken directly with Herr Himmler today. Your father really is moving in the highest circles now.”
“Circles?”
“Well, you know. I’m no politician, but surely if he has the ear of such people of importance , who trust and rely on him, then.
..” She glances around and whispers, “... promotion may soon be on the way. We could move to Munich, or Berlin.” She leans back.
“You know, Herta. I think perhaps that is what I need. A change of scene. Somewhere new. This city, our house. There are just too many memories of Karl. It’s so hard.
..” Her voice trembles. “Hard to move on.”
“And me? What about me?”
“Well,” she says brightly, “soon you will leave school, go to Hausfrau school. Get married, perhaps even have a job for a while. I mean, you said yourself you wanted to travel. There is nothing to hold us here, is there?”
“I suppose not,” I mumble, wondering fleetingly if Fr?ulein Müller and the child will move with us.
Then I think about Erna and the resistance she spoke of.
I do want to help. I want to do more. With Vati’s promotion, perhaps I’ll have access to information that might be of use to Herr B?cker, but I shall need to take care.
Be vigilant. How on earth can I do any of this if we move away?
But that’s all in the future. I’ve spent too long living in a dream of what my future may hold; if I’m to make any difference at all, I shall need to act now .
I swill the last of my coffee around the cup.
We leave the Fürstenhof and weave our way through busy streets, full of shoppers, hawkers, and workers heading home for their evening meal. The story from this morning’s papers is everywhere. Hastily pasted to billboards. Screaming from headlines on newspaper racks.
VOM RATH FIGHTS ON!
GERMAN HERO REFUSES TO GIVE UP!
COLD-HEARTED JEW, SPLATTERED IN THE BLOOD OF OUR brAVE COUNTRYMAN, brAZENLY TRUMPETS HIS GUILT!
“And what of this story?” I ask Mutti. “What did Vati say about that?”
“He said nothing more on the telephone. But he can’t be expected to tell us all about important matters of state.”
It’s an isolated incident, in another country. The papers are making a big issue of it to improve their sales. But I can’t shake a feeling of unease.
“I’ M GOING TO rest,” Mutti says when we arrive home. “I still don’t sleep well, and I feel so tired now.” She smiles thinly.
I sit on the bench in the hallway, listening to her soft tread on the stairs. There is a distant click as Mutti closes her door, then silence settles, cloaklike, over the house.
And then a rustling. I creep toward it and see the door of Vati’s study is ajar. Peeping through the gap, I spy him sitting at the desk, head bent over a stack of papers.
He puts the papers down and stares for a moment into the middle distance. Then he clears his throat and picks up the phone.
“Operator, yes, put me through to Obergruppenführer Heydrich, please. His private line.” A pause. “Yes, he is expecting my call. Tell him Obersturmbannführer Heinrich is on the line. It’s important.”
There is another, longer pause.
“Ah.” He sits up straighter, his voice loud.
“Obergruppenführer, thank you for taking my call. Heil Hitler.” His tone is deferential, not one I’ve heard Vati use before.
“Yes. I’m reporting in, as requested. All local units are ready to go.
We have briefed the police, the mayor, the fire service. We await your orders.”
He is quiet again. His eyes dart about. Can he see me in the crack of the door? Slowly, I pull back and move to the side, breathing shallow and fast. I pin my ear to the door.
“Of course,” he is saying. “No, it blatantly hasn’t worked.
.. absolutely, a change of strategy is needed.
.. it is indeed the perfect catalyst..
. the German people are ready, as you say.
We are more than ready, believe me, the men are itching for it.
.. those Jews need to realize the full force of feeling against them.
.. Certainly, just as soon as I have your word to go. ..”
This sounds like more than a fuss about nothing.
Fingers of fear crawl up my back.
Walter. I must go to him. Warn him something terrible is about to happen.