Chapter 1 #2
‘They are going to invade, aren’t they?’ whispered back Clara. ‘All this is to try to justify an attack on Poland.’
Friedrich nodded, dropping his head as if ashamed. He looked back up at Clara. ‘I think you should contact your sister. The British embassy is right. It’s not safe for you to stay in Germany.’
‘No!’ Clara went to snatch her hand away.
Friedrich held her gently but firmly. ‘We knew this day might come,’ he said.
Clara was shaking her head before he’d even finished. ‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said. ‘Never. Besides, how can I go back to England? I’m married to a German, remember? I don’t belong there anymore. I belong here with you.’
She put down her coffee cup. ‘You ask me to go, but how could I?’ she said quietly.
‘Every part of this city is our life. The thought of waking up somewhere else and not knowing if you’re safe would torment me.
I’d rather face whatever comes here, beside you, than sit in England wondering if you’re alive. ’
Friedrich reached for her hand, his thumb traced the edge of her knuckles. ‘I’m just frightened I might not be able to protect you from what is coming.’
She took a deep breath. ‘England isn’t my home anymore.
I left because I couldn’t breathe there.
Far too many rules about what I should be doing, whether I should be working, the expectation of staying at home and making sandwiches and small talk with the vicar – that’s not me.
Here, I can work, pursue the career I love most in the world.
I can be myself. You know how much that means to me. Here, I have a purpose.’
There was a weariness to his expression. ‘And that is what I admire you so much for, liebling, but Germany is not the same now. Every day it grows darker and that is what scares me.’
Her gaze softened. ‘If I left now, it would feel as though everything I’d done here, all the women I’ve helped, all the years I’ve spent learning the language, building a place for us, means nothing.
And if war is coming, then women will still be giving birth.
They’ll still need someone to help them. ’
She picked up her cup, taking a sip, before buttering her bread.
She ignored the old feeling of being stuck between the two worlds of Germany and England.
She had felt like that when she had first moved abroad but she had immersed herself in German culture, learned the language, worked and done everything to be accepted.
‘So please don’t ask me to go,’ she added softly. ‘If the world is about to fall apart, I’d rather it fell around us together.’
Friedrich nodded slowly. ‘Then that is settled,’ he said after a moment.
‘But promise me one thing. If the day comes when they start detaining foreign wives, you’ll leave before they reach this door.
Because if they order me to stand against you, I won’t obey.
I’d choose you, Clara, no matter the cost.’
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The radio crackled faintly in the silence, a voice somewhere far away announcing troop movements as if they were the weather. Clara felt the weight of Friedrich’s words, they were both a comfort and a dread.
She reached for the coffee pot and refilled their cups, her movements slow and deliberate. ‘We should finish breakfast,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll be late otherwise.’
Friedrich gave a small nod, the conversation pushed away like a dish gone sour and best left untouched, though its taste lingered all the same.
As she cleared away the plates, the conversation didn’t return to the events in the country for which Clara was grateful, but it was with a heavy heart she said goodbye to Friedrich as he left for work at military administration headquarters Bendlerblock in the Tiergarten district.
A short time later, Clara was taking the tram to her own place of work at the Charité Hospital.
The city had fully woken by then, though the morning light did little to lift the grey mood that seemed to hang over Berlin.
Soldiers stood at corners, their uniforms crisp and their faces unreadable.
Posters bearing the Führer’s image were plastered on walls, proclaiming unity and destiny.
The passengers on the tram spoke in low voices or not at all.
Clara kept her eyes on the passing streets. Shopkeepers were just unlocking their doors, but few people lingered to talk. A boy in uniform marched past with a satchel of newspapers, the bold headline shouting about Polish attacks, poking out the top. She felt sick with both fear and disbelief.
The tram finally clattered to a stop outside the hospital.
Clara stepped off and looked up at the imposing neoclassical-style brick building, situated in the centre of Berlin near the Spree River.
It was a world-renowned teaching hospital whose reputation was as impressive as its physical presence.
Made up of several interconnected buildings, with its column entrance, large windows and dark slate roof, it was a formidable sight.
Clara took a deep breath as she entered the main entrance. She hated seeing the red Nazi flag hanging in the centre of the foyer, together with a portrait of Adolf Hitler. She hurried past and along to the labour ward where she was working.
‘Good morning, Marie,’ she said as she went into the staff changing room and hung up her coat. ‘How were your days off?’
‘Clara.’ Marie almost mumbled the acknowledgement. Looking down as she tied her apron, she avoided making eye contact.
‘Is everything all right, Marie?’
‘Sorry. I’m not supposed to speak to you,’ said Marie eventually, her hands nervously fiddling with the key in her locker.
Clara put her hand over the key. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Marie glanced furtively around the cloakroom. ‘We’ve been told not to speak to you.’
‘What?’ Clara’s hand dropped away. She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘You were told not to speak to me? Who told you that?’
Clara couldn’t deny it hurt to be made some sort of outcast like this.
Even Marie, who she regarded as a close friend, who had shared many a night duty with her, brought countless babies safely into the world together, shared coffee breaks, had dined at each other’s houses, even she was turning her back on Clara.
Marie closed her locker. ‘Look, you’re my friend. I don’t agree with what’s happening, but I have to be careful.’ She squeezed Clara’s arm reassuringly. She looked like she was about to say something else but at the sound of the door opening, she dropped her hand and took a step back.
The changing room door swung open and in walked two midwives. Clara’s stomach tensed as she saw it was Greta Brandt and her shadow, Erna Krüger. Clara knew them only professionally but that was more than enough. She didn’t like them, especially Brandt, who had been openly hostile before.
Brandt stopped at the end of the bench, her hardened stare fixed on Clara.
The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant, thick and unwelcoming, making the skin on Clara’s arms prickle with unease. She glanced at Krüger who was standing alongside Brandt, her expression one of uncertainty which she was trying to mask with a smirk.
Clara nodded at her colleagues. ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Brandt, Frau Krüger.’
Brandt frowned and cocking her head to one side, looked up at the ceiling. ‘For a moment there, I thought I heard something.’
Krüger looked uncomfortable. ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Bergmann,’ she said almost apologetically.
Brandt tapped Krüger sharply on the arm and shook her head in mock disapproval, before fixing her gaze back on Clara. ‘Oh, look, it’s the Englishwoman. What are you still doing here? Has your wonderful England abandoned you, Miss Clara?’
Clara caught the deliberate insult, using her forename, denying her married title, treating her like a single and insignificant outsider. Here in Germany professional formality was strict where Frau Bergmann was the proper address.
Clara straightened her spine and lifted her chin. ‘I’m married to a German. Of course, I’m still here.’ As she said the words, Clara heard the waver in her own voice and hated herself for it. Berlin was her home albeit her adopted one.
Brandt dropped her bag onto the bench with a loud thud, making Clara flinch.
Then, with slow deliberate paces, the German woman approached Clara, coming to stand within just a few inches of her.
Close enough that Clara could smell the coffee on her breath.
‘You think you’re safe just because you’re married to a German officer. You won’t be protected forever.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Clara. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, I think I do,’ sneered Brandt. There was a glint in her eye. ‘Pity about your husband. It would be such a shame if someone suggested he has questionable loyalties.’
‘That’s enough, Fr?uleins,’ said Marie, stepping forward. ‘We all have to work together.’
But Clara was riled and ignored her friend. She glared at Brandt. ‘Don’t you bring my husband’s loyalty into question.’
‘Keep running your mouth off and see what happens,’ put in Krüger as if emboldened by her colleague’s stance.
‘It only takes one word to the right person, and people might start to ask what you’re really doing here,’ said Brandt.
‘The Reich has no patience for traitors or their little foreign wives.’ Krüger folded her arms across her chest.
This was too much for Clara, she couldn’t hold her tongue now. ‘You talk about loyalty. Germany must be so proud of you both. Threatening and bullying other professional women.’
‘Watch how you speak to a German citizen,’ warned Krüger.
Brandt looked Clara up and down with contempt. ‘One rumour is all it takes. Mind your step, Miss Clara.’ She made a scoffing noise and returned to her bag where she proceeded to get ready for her shift.
Clara turned to Marie, looking for some sort of support, but Marie just shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she said quietly, as if anticipating Clara’s response. ‘Don’t make things worse.’
Clara’s heart plummeted. It was bad enough they were openly threatening her, but to make such threats about Friedrich was outrageous. Much as she wanted to shout and scream at Brandt, she daren’t. She couldn’t risk the vile woman carrying out her threat and reporting Friedrich.
The tears burned behind her eyes, and she blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. She would not give Brandt the satisfaction.
With as much composure as she could muster, she closed her locker and after fastening the belt of her apron, with her head held high, she walked across the changing room to the door.
‘Remember,’ came Brandt’s voice. ‘One rumour is all it takes, Miss Clara. Just one.’