Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
I know I should destroy this journal. But I just cannot bring myself to do it.
Perhaps one day it will be the death of me, but for now, somehow, it makes me feel closer to Karl and to you, dearest Walter.
I’ve barely seen Vati in days. When I do, he makes his anger with me very much felt, refusing even to be in the same room, as though he is disgusted by the very sight of me.
And it’s agony not knowing if he is going to help.
I try so hard not to ask. If I do, it will only antagonize him.
Mutti asked once if we had argued. I told her it was just a disagreement over Hausfrau school and she said no more.
She is so preoccupied with her own grief that she is oblivious to the tense atmosphere between us.
On Sunday morning, Erna, Tomas, and I went to watch the news at the cinema.
At least Vati doesn’t prevent me from doing that, yet.
Tomas is kind and attentive, making sure I am all right after what I witnessed that night.
But I’m disgusted and sickened. I don’t see how a nation that calls itself civilized can behave so brutally and thuggishly.
I don’t see how our great German state’s leaders, who talk of honesty and truth and peace and morality, can lie so blatantly to its people.
But it feels as though I’m almost alone in seeing the truth.
After days of waiting, Vati finally calls me to his study. I stand in front of his desk like a pupil called in front of the headmaster to learn her fate. Vati doesn’t meet my eyes and the evening meal curdles in my stomach.
“It’s been arranged,” he says flatly.
“Is... Do you mean Walter is being released?” I ask, leaning on the desk for support.
Vati is smoking a cigar. He breathes out a long stream of sweet, cloying smoke.
“I’ve had to pull strings.” His voice is bitter. “But it turns out there are too many of them clogging up the camps, anyway, which is helpful to you, I suppose. Those that have exit visas must leave now. So that means your filthy Jew can go, but as I said before, the father and uncle cannot.”
We stare at each other across the desk. There is no love. He controls it well, but I sense the rage rippling beneath his skin.
“He must leave before the end of the month,” he continues.
“That’s where my friend Judge Fuchs has been useful.
We’ve furnished him with the requisite papers, the passport, and affidavit confirming tax has been paid.
” He taps some ash into the ashtray and takes a drink from his whisky glass.
“Fortunately for you, Fuchs owed me a favor. I kept his name out of the papers not so long ago. An unfortunate incident with a young boy. It would gravely have damaged his career. But we all make mistakes, right?”
He takes another few puffs on his cigar, without taking his eyes from mine.
“Vati, thank you, I won’t—”
“Sit.”
My hands are shaking as I grasp the arm of the chair and sink into it.
“Did you know, Herta, that the only Germans being punished for what they did during the riots are SA men who raped Jewish women?”
I shake my head. He leans forward in his chair, his face reddening.
“Because,” he continues, “their crime is worse than murder. Do you know why?”
I stare at him. Shake my head again.
“No? Well, I will tell you. It’s because they broke the inviolable law against sexual intercourse between Aryans and Jews.
They jeopardized the single most sacred thing we have.
Our racial purity. And there is nothing more precious, more important than the cleanliness, the purity , of our blood.
It’s what we are here for. What we strive for each and every day.
It’s our most precious asset and they have dared to threaten its sanctity.
.. Those men have all been expelled from the National Socialist Party.
And that is only the beginning of their punishment, the treacherous, idiotic fools .
” He grinds the stub of the cigar into the ashtray.
“What will happen to the murderers?”
“They have all been released. Of course, they were only following orders.”
I wait for him to say more, but he is quiet. He takes a slug from his glass.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Oh, I think you know why. We understand each other, yes?” He smiles then. A smile of victory. He thinks he has the measure of me. It’s a warning, and he thinks he is safe to assume I won’t ignore it.
For a moment, Karl floats between Vati and me. Take care, Little Mouse. I can’t protect you any longer.
My cheeks burn hot.
“Yes, Vati,” I say. “We understand each other.”
“I T ’ S DONE, ” I tell Erna later, now that I’m, once again, allowed to attend BDM meetings.
There’s no fear that I’ll be sneaking off to visit any more Jews.
Erna, at least in Mutti’s and Vati’s eyes, has an untarnished reputation.
She’s still considered an acceptable influence. If only they knew the truth.
“Oh, thank the lord for that,” Erna says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I can’t believe you pulled this off.”
We’re waiting in Fr?ulein Ackermann’s sitting room for everyone to arrive.
Tonight’s meeting is to plan a pre-Christmas concert.
There is to be music from our schar’s band and from the local HJ troop’s too.
There is always an extra flutter of excitement when we combine with the boys’ groups.
Any opportunity to meet the opposite sex is greeted with enthusiasm.
A low hum of chatter, with the outbreak of occasional giggles, fills the room.
Erna and I stand by the window, away from the others.
“I’m walking on a tightrope from now on, though,” I tell Erna. “Vati will never trust me again.”
She nods. “When is Walter coming out?”
“In a couple of days. I’m forbidden to see him.”
“Of course.”
“I will, though.”
“Naturally.” Erna smiles. “Happy to provide cover.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Thank you.”
Fr?ulein Ackermann enters the room with a tray of sandwiches and jugs of juice. “I think we’ll make a start. Most of us are here.” She casts her eyes over the group. “Come and sit over here, you two.” She waves at us. “There’s room down here on the rug.”
We obediently take our places with the other girls.
“Let’s begin with a song,” she says, once we are all seated. She flicks through the pages of Wir M?del Singen! “We’ll start with ‘ Volk ans Gewehr .’” There is a shuffling of pages and clearing of throats.
Do you see the eastern morning glow?
It’s a sign of freedom, toward the sun.
We keep together, whether living or dead, whatever may come.
Why do you still doubt?
Stop the wrangling; in us still flows German blood in our veins:
Our people to arms!
Our people to arms!
I cannot bear to form the words. I stop singing, my mouth tight shut until Erna nudges me, hard, in the side. She frowns and shakes her head imperceptibly. Reluctantly, I join in for the final verse:
Young and old—man for man embraces the swastika banner.
Whether citizen, whether burgher, whether farmer, whether working man,
they swing the sword and the hammer for Hitler, for freedom, for work and bread.
Germany awake, end the suffering!
Our people to arms!
Later, as we walk home together, I tell her the vow I made to myself in that room, mouthing those words to the songs.
“Once Walter’s left, I want to help your father with the resistance. Please, tell me what I can do.”
She hooks her arm through mine.
“It’s too dangerous for you, given what’s happened.”
“I don’t care about myself. Not really, not anymore.”
“I don’t have much to tell, anyway. It’s not like there is an organization, as such, to join.
To have anything more than a few loose connections is pretty much impossible now.
The Gestapo have ears everywhere. The second there is a whiff of anything so much as an antigovernment whisper, they’ll make arrests. People are too afraid.”
“So what is it your father does?”
“He just has a few contacts. There’s an underground web.
No one person knows everyone in it, for safety.
Thus, if anyone is arrested, they can’t give the whole network away.
From what I understand, they pass information.
Try to help people leave Germany. Give them shelter, let them know where it’s safe to go. Especially children.”
“I want to help. In any way I can.”
And we walk the rest of the way home, in quiet contemplation.