Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
I drift fitfully in and out of sleep. Every little sound jolts me awake, sending my heart thumping in case it’s Vati coming home.
But as dawn emerges, it hits me. He isn’t coming home.
I think back to that hateful letter on his desk.
Operations against the Jews... Preparations for arrest.
.. concentration camps. Of course, he’s been out on the streets all night, ensuring his orders are carried out—that Jewish males are locked up in jails, or, for those who resist arrest, are shot or, worse, kicked and battered to death and left in mangled heaps on the street.
I shudder and turn over, screwing my eyes shut, putting my hands over my ears to block out the world. But my brain keeps whirring.
If he isn’t home, where might he be?
I sit up properly, wide awake, my brain suddenly clear, despite the lack of sleep.
D URING brEAKFAST, A flustered Ingrid hurries into the room, tying her apron behind her back.
“So sorry I’m late this morning, Frau Heinrich,” she begins breathily.
“The bus was delayed and there were all sorts of holdups trying to get across town. Didn’t even have time for breakfast.” She smiles, her cheeks flushed and her hair wispily disheveled.
“Glad I don’t have to make that journey every day. So much easier to live in...”
Mutti invites her to have breakfast with us, as she sometimes does when Vati is away.
“Oh, thank you very much, don’t mind if I do!” She piles a plate with the food Bertha has laid out on the sideboard and sits down. Bertha herself is nowhere to be seen. Ingrid’s cheeks still have a high color and her eyes dart about. She is practically panting with excitement.
“Have you heard what went on last night?” she asks.
She doesn’t wait for a reply. “Everyone was talking about it on the bus. They rounded up all the Jewish men, women, and children in Gohlis and brought them right down here, close to the zoo, then chased them down the steps into the water of the Parthe! Imagine that, at night, in November!”
She takes a breath and then a bite of buttered bread, her jaws sawing, lips pressed closed.
“They drove them, like a herd of sheep, right into the river itself, and kept them there several hours!”
“Goodness,” Mutti says and pours herself another coffee. She stubs out the remains of her cigarette into the ashtray and lights another.
“Some say freezing in a dirty river is what they deserve. For all the evil they do in the world.” She takes another bite of her bread, her eyes lingering on mine.
“And what happened to them then?” Mutti asks.
“They were shivering like mad, of course, so after a few hours of keeping them in the water, they let the women and children go home. The men are being taken to a camp, they said. Just imagine it, though. Herding up people and sticking them in the river! Who would’ve thought that up, eh?”
“Indeed,” Mutti murmurs. She gets up and switches on the wireless set. It crackles to life.
“I also heard”—Ingrid leans toward me in a conspirational manner—“that anyone caught... fraternizing ... as it were, or helping one of them, would end up in the camp too! Fancy that, Fr?ulein Herta, eh?”
“I...”
But mercifully, the voice on the radio drowns out all other noise in the room.
“... The patience of the German people has been exhausted. The events of last night were neither organized nor prepared. In cities all across Germany they broke out spontaneously. The Jews were the instigators of this wave of violence. The long-suffering German people were merely responding in an outbreak of fury. The Jews have made a tremendous mistake. A very costly mistake. They must pay for the damage they provoked. One billion marks will be levied from them. It will cost the insurance industry six billion marks for the destruction of shops, synagogues, and homes, but not a penny of it will reach their criminal pockets. Twenty thousand of them remain incarcerated while they reflect on their misdeeds.”
I’ve heard enough.
“I’m going to school,” I announce.
“You are to come straight home, Hetty, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mutti, I promise.”
I grab my satchel, put on my coat, and hurry out of the house.
A T SEVEN FIFTY-FIVE, from my vantage point across the street, I watch the receptionist, bundled in a fur coat, unlock the double doors to the offices of the Leipziger Tageszeitung .
The lights flicker on inside the building on the ground floor.
After a few minutes, other members of staff begin to arrive, greeting each other and pushing their way through the doors.
Five minutes later, I enter the building myself. The young, blond receptionist fixes me with big blue eyes. She is still setting herself up at the desk facing the big front doors.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m looking for my father.”
She smiles indulgently at me.
“And who might your father be?”
“Herr Heinrich.”
“Oh!” Her expression changes. “I’m sorry, Fr?ulein Heinrich, but I don’t believe he is here yet.” She is flustered as she telephones through to Vati’s office.
“I’m sorry,” she says again after a few moments, “it’s as I thought. He isn’t here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just spoke with his secretary.” The receptionist replaces the receiver and gives me a nervous smile. “He’s left a message saying he won’t be here until lunchtime.” She hesitates. “Forgive me, but have you not just come from home?”
“Yes, but...” I look around me, then lean forward and whisper, “He’s been out on SS matters. Please could I speak directly with my father’s secretary?” I add, “It is an emergency.”
“Of course.” The girl snatches up the phone again.
If I’m right, Vati must have someone to cover for him. His secretary fields his calls.
Vati’s middle-aged, bespectacled secretary appears. We shuffle to the side of the entrance hall, away from the ears of the receptionist.
“I need to find my father,” I begin. “Something bad has happened.”
“I don’t know where he is right now. I can organize a car to take you home, Fr?ulein Heinrich, if that would help?” Her voice is gentle, kindly.
“Look,” I say quietly. Urgently. “I know about Vati’s mistress. I don’t care about all that,” I lie. “I just need to find him, as soon as possible. It’s very important. Just give me the address of the fr?ulein. Please.”
The woman freezes and stares at me.
“I won’t say it’s you who gave me the address. You won’t get into trouble,” I urge. “I just need to see Vati. It’s very important.”
Still she stares at me, and suddenly I’m gripped by panic. Have I got it dreadfully wrong? Her lips are a thin, straight line.
“She lives at flat 3, number 17, Schmiedestrasse. It’s just the other side of Konig Albert Park, toward Plagwitz.”
Exhale.
The first hurdle is overcome, but the bigger one must now be faced. Stay strong.
You can do this. For Walter.
I ARRIVE OUTSIDE the entrance of a newly built apartment block in a road filled with similar nondescript buildings.
There is no doorman, but one of those new intercom devices is fitted outside the front door.
I take a slow, deep breath then press the bell for flat 3.
There is a buzz and after a pause, a voice sounds through the intercom. “Yes? Hello?”
Her voice.
“Good morning, Fr?ulein Müller. I’m Herta Heinrich. I’m here to speak with my father.”
There is a long pause.
“It’s an emergency,” I add, into the crackling silence.
“He isn’t here”—her words are clipped—“I don’t know why you would think...”
“But he’s due here, isn’t he? Please may I wait for him?”
Another pause. I lean against the door, palms spread. There’s a buzz and the door clicks open.
Thank you.
“First floor,” she says, through the intercom.
Hilda Müller is waiting for me outside her front door.
She’s just as I remember her. The same light brown hair, tightly plaited and folded up around her head.
Little pink ears. Fat lips. She is young.
Very young, at least, compared to Vati. Midtwenties at a guess.
Certainly closer to my age than his. We stare at each other for a few moments, then she beckons me inside.
“Your father... he’s been out all night. But he’s on his way,” she says.
The flat is larger than I expected. Bright, tidy, and furnished in a modern, simple style.
Nothing like the fussy antiques filling our house.
I follow Fr?ulein Müller’s square and solid figure into the sitting room.
What can Vati see in this woman? Apart from her youth, she is nothing compared to elegant Mutti.
I sit on the edge of a patterned sofa while the woman hovers, not meeting my eyes. Awkwardness crouches between us like a nervous dog.
“May I have a glass of water please, Fr?ulein Müller?” I ask at last.
“Of course, I should have offered. And it’s Hilda, please.” She hurries off to the kitchen.
Her nervousness has the opposite effect on me. I’m suddenly calm and in control. After all, it’s Hilda who is in the wrong, not me. It’s as if I’m the adult and she the naughty child.
Hilda returns with a glass of water. I drain it.
“You were thirsty,” she says with a half smile. “Would you like another?”
Before I can answer, a little girl appears wearing a loose pink nightdress.
Her fine, blond curly hair is a creamy cloud around her face.
She rubs her eyes as though she has just woken.
She is bigger than I remember from that day at the station.
She must be, what, three or four years old now?
Given the ugliness of the mother, she is remarkably pretty.
The girl stops and regards me with suspicion in her saucer-size eyes.
“Who is this, Mutti?” she asks, not taking her eyes off me.
Hilda sits and lifts the little girl onto her lap.
“This is Herta,” she tells her, gently stroking the hair back from her face. “She has come to visit. I said she could wait with us until”—she throws me a glance—“until Herr Heinrich arrives.”