Chapter 29 Less Than Perfect
LESS THAN PERFECT
My tea had gone cold while I read, and I realized, when I got up to make myself another cup, that there were tears on my cheeks.
They weren’t for me. They were for Joe. For his courage and his sweetness, his intelligence and his thoughtfulness, even at nineteen.
What a man he’d been! And how lucky I’d been to find him!
I have so many nouns for Joe, so many adjectives. What I don’t have is Joe. And I miss him like a piece of myself has been torn away.
I let myself have a good old-fashioned cry—who was here to see me, and what rules did I have to follow anymore? I’d be strong and brisk and practical again tomorrow, but if I was here to remember, it was time to remember.
I started with my next diary entry. Oh, how long those final weeks of the war were!
How endless, and at times how hopeless! People tell me, these days, that I’m strong, that I’m optimistic.
I want to say, “That’s because I have no real problems anymore.
I’ve already been through the worst things.
” But I don’t, of course. People don’t enjoy having their problems measured and found wanting, and there’s no Suffering Olympics.
Nobody’s going to win any gold medals, so we all just do the best we can, and comfort those who need it along the way.
1 April 1945
I haven’t written yet about what happened later that day.
We didn’t meet Frau Langbein’s sister-in-law, Elsa Biersack, and her daughter Karin until the next day, at dinner.
They’d gone to Bayreuth for market day and had stayed overnight with friends there.
It seems they’ve been helping Herr Langbein with the cows, as there’s nobody else to do it—there are no young men on the land anymore.
When I heard that, I offered to help myself, but Herr Langbein—one of those jolly kinds of fellows—looked shocked and said, “Certainly not, Princess.” (Obviously, I’ve been completely unsuccessful at staying anonymous).
Frau Biersack looked sour at that, but her daughter Karin, a sweet girl a year older than me, said, “I don’t mind the cows.
They smell so good when you milk them, and I like going to market and seeing people. ”
“They smell the last thing from good,” Frau Biersack said.
“And a person could catch their death hosing them down in that barn on these cold days.” As she was putting away a quantity of Sauerbraten at the time—how long it seems since I’ve tasted Sauerbraten and red cabbage!
The rich meat sat poorly in my stomach that night; I must restrain myself in future.
Anyway, an odd thing to say as she was enjoying the kind of meal almost nobody could get anymore.
I wanted to tell her that there are worse places to be than a cow barn, but I held back.
The last thing I want to do is to cause friction in the house.
I attempted a diversion by saying to Frau Biersack, “Your husband is serving, I understand.”
“Isn’t everybody serving now?” she asked. “Yes, Fritz is in the SS, with Katya’s husband. They’re stationed in the same place. It’s called Auschwitz, in Poland.”
Beside me, Dr. Becker went rigid. I wasn’t sure why. I said, “They stay in the same place all the time?” I was confused. The Army seemed constantly on the move. Wasn’t that what war was all about?
“It’s a prison camp,” Frau Biersack said. “For Jews and other undesirables, so they can be properly dealt with. The senior officers have their families living there, but the others? Their families can lump it. That’s always the way, though. If you’re not an aristocrat, here’s a kick for you.”
I was still trying to work out an answer to that—was it meant for me, or a general complaint?—when Frau Biersack said, “And why aren’t you serving, if I may ask, Herr Becker?” Her tone was sharp.
“I’m afraid I have a bad heart,” he said. I glanced at him. His face was even paler than usual. He’d been thin before but was nearly gaunt now, giving too much of his food to the children.
“He’s a doctor.” That was Andrea, who knew better, and Dr. Becker and I both stared at her. She was looking mutinous.
“A doctor?” Frau Biersack again. “A doctor of what?”
“A professor,” Dr. Becker said. “At the University in Dresden, before I had to give it up for my heart.” Which was true—he’d taught at the medical school, and from what little he’d said, I suspected that leaving his work had broken his heart.
“So we have a princess and a Herr Doktor here,” Herr Langbein said.
“How fortunate we are!” That reminded me of the way it used to be, when knowledge had been venerated and professors among the most esteemed of men.
For that matter, when Dr. Becker himself had been among the most esteemed of men.
If I felt out of place now, how far had he fallen?
“A professor of what?” Frau Biersack demanded, as if Herr Langbein hadn’t spoken.
“Physiology,” Dr. Becker said calmly. “Necessitating, I’m afraid, a good deal of, ah, dissection.
” He sliced a piece of meat with his knife, and Elsa stared at it as if it were a human heart.
Dr. Becker ate the bite he’d sliced, then said, “Dissection is quite strenuous, you know. Saws and so forth.”
“Oh, my,” Frau Langbein said. “But if one of us should break a bone …?”
“Heaven forbid,” Dr. Becker said. “In such a case, of course, I would do my modest best.”
“And you left your palace?” Frau Biersack asked me, possibly because her attempt to bully Dr. Becker had failed. “Why?”
“If I had a palace,” Karin put in, “I’d never leave it. I’d sew dresses of silk and satin—purple dresses, and red, and pink, too—and wear my jewels to do the washing.” I was beginning to suspect that Karin was rather simple.
Andrea shot an alarmed look at me—I’ve nearly forgotten about the parure, somehow, though we keep carrying it around.
It’s not as if there’s anything to buy! I said, as lightly as I could manage,“Oh, being a modern princess isn’t nearly so glamorous as all that.
I spent my days going to school and BDM meetings like everybody else. ”
“Except that you lived in a palace,” Frau Biersack said. “And of course a princess doesn’t do the washing, Karin. She had servants for that. Like your late aunt, for example. Ten servants, was it, to look after three people? Or was it twenty?”
“About that,” I said, “lately. Where would they have gone, otherwise? Herr Kolbe, my father’s valet, was quite old; the underbutler, Franz, had lost a leg in Russia; and our butler—” I stopped here in confusion, for I’d just realized that Dr. Becker was meant to be ‘Herr Kolbe.’ Except that he wasn’t, because he was Dr. Becker again now.
Oh, this was too confusing. How would the children ever keep it straight if I couldn’t?
I went on, “Anyway, I loved them all very much, and it's terrible”—I became overcome, then, and it wasn’t an act.
I raised my chin, though, steadied my voice, and went on.
“It’s terrible that they’re gone. I left the palace because it burned.
All of Dresden burned. There was nothing left. ”
“All those rooms burned,” Frau Biersack said flatly.
“I don’t know.” I kept my voice steady with an effort. “I couldn’t see all of them. When I tried to get through the palace, it was on fire, and I nearly burned to death myself.”
“And you escaped—how?” Frau Biersack asked. She was staring at Dr. Becker instead of at me, which made me nervous.
“With Dr. Becker’s help,” I said. “He managed to get me out, and I survived.” Close enough to the truth. “Do you feel I should have died as well?”
I knew I shouldn’t have said it the moment I did. Frau Bierstein’s lips compressed so tightly, they nearly disappeared, and Frau Langbein stood and began to clear the table. I jumped up and said, “Let me help.”
“Nonsense,” Frau Langbein said. “You’re our honored guest.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “I’d prefer to help.”
“With your illness?” Frau Langbein said. “Certainly not.”
“What illness?” Frau Biersack asked.
“The family has that bleeding disease,” Frau Langbein said. “What’s it called?”
The heat was rising in my neck, my cheeks. “Hemophilia. But women are carriers only. I bruise a bit more easily than others do, that’s all.”
“Your poor brothers, though,” Frau Langbein said. “Maria told me. Oh, those dear little boys. It broke her heart when they died. It must have broken your mother’s, too.”
“You have a genetic defect?” Frau Biersack asked sharply. “And you haven’t been—”
“Elsa!” That was Frau Langbein, and her voice was sharp.
I didn’t move. “I haven’t been what?” I asked, although I knew. Sterilized as unfit to reproduce. Or maybe she meant “killed.”
Frau Biersack said, “Never mind. Although what the Führer would say …”
“Considering that half the royal families of Europe inherited this disease from Queen Victoria,” I said, “that would be a great deal of regicide, don’t you think?”
“Well, the Bolsheviks did it, right enough,” she said.
“Ah,” I said, my temper well and truly up now. “And have the Bolsheviks become the Nazi model now?”
She turned so red, I thought she would pop. I pulled myself together—how hard it is, at times like these, to remember that I’m not a princess anymore and have no privilege!—and said, “I’m sorry. That was terribly rude of me, and as a guest in your house, too. Please forgive me.”
Frau Biersack nodded stiffly and walked out, back rigid, and I knew I’d made an enemy. Why, why can’t I control my temper? After all this time—why?
I felt ashamed even now reading those words, remembering that night.
Mostly, during that numbing, wearying period of homeless wandering, I’d felt much older than my years, hardly able to recall the time when I’d been heedless and carefree and trusting.
At times like that, though, I’d been uncomfortably reminded that I was sixteen, and still much too impulsive for somebody in my precarious position.
I’d apologized to Dr. Becker, of course, and he’d said, “Never mind. Andrea and I slipped ourselves. We’ll all do better now.
” He’d looked so weary, though, and I’d spent a troubled night on my couch.
Partly for that reason, and partly because of all that meat.
Joe’s perfection, too, slipped a little that week—if one can call drinking champagne imperfect.
April 6, 1945
Dear Dad,
Well, we’re across the Main River and have taken a place called Westheim, but boy, has it been an effort to get to this point.
Faced our most bitter resistance yet here, with civilians joining in with the military, and the police and firemen lending a hand to the battle too.
Every house and building had at least one sniper in it.
You get kind of a crawling sensation on the back of your neck, knowing those rifles are trained on you.
They’d dug tunnels under the streets, too, and you bet you had to watch your back.
We made it to the railway line by the time night had fallen, though, and once we took some prisoners, I found out why they’ve been fighting so hard.
The SS told the troops to fight to the last man, then left five thousand of them here to do it and skedaddled—but first they hanged three men who admitted they wanted to surrender!
Imagine still executing men when you’re down this far on the board. No wonder they’re losing.
No rest for the wicked, though—we’d no sooner taken the town than we were sent off again.
Remember how I complained about that march to the camp after we landed in Marseilles?
That seems like years ago, yet it’s only been a few months.
Well, this time we marched ten miles at night over rugged terrain to encircle yet another city, where the Germans were supposed to be well dug in.
We got a little morale boost to cheer us on our way, though—Westheim was some kind of winery town, and we found a whole cellar full of champagne!
Every Jeep carried a case, and I don’t mind telling you that I drank my share.
Easier to get than water! We brushed our teeth with the stuff.
If that’s looting, I guess we’re guilty.
One more thing the Germans don’t have now, besides champagne, is air power.
Part of my job is to call in our flyboys to smash their artillery, and do they ever get it done!
The Germans fire at the bombers, of course, but that just tells us where they are so our own artillery can wipe out their antiaircraft guns.
It’s been working mighty well so far. I guess the reason they’re sending all those V-2 rockets over to England is because they don’t have any bombers left.
They blew the bridge, which won’t make things any easier, but that cut off their retreat, too. So now we mop up. And on we go.
Love to Mom. And remember—charmed life.
Joe