Chapter 4
It was not without a great deal of trepidation that Clara arrived at the Charité Hospital for work the following morning. As she made her way to the staff changing room, she passed Marie coming the other way. They made eye contact, but Marie looked away and carried on without speaking.
The staff changing room was empty when Clara went in and she quickly put on her apron and nursing hat. She was just adjusting the collar of her dress, giving herself one final check in the mirror, when the door opened and as it happened yesterday, so it did again today, in strode Brandt and Krüger.
Brandt whispered something to her companion that Clara could hear and both women sniggered as they looked over at her, daring her to say something.
Clara steeled herself. She wasn’t going to start any confrontation but if those two horrid women said anything to her, then she was certainly going to defend herself.
She had nothing to lose anyway, she knew full well she was on borrowed time at the hospital.
‘We have to be careful what we say around her,’ said Brandt in a theatrical stage whisper. ‘We can’t trust the foreigners, especially the English.’
‘I heard there are spies in the hospital,’ said Krüger. ‘I suppose that is why the police are here talking to Matron.’
Clara’s heart missed a beat, and she felt a small surge of panic rise within her.
She had no idea if they were just saying that to frighten her or not.
Fortunately, her open locker door hid her face from the two women and Clara took a moment to try to regulate her breathing which had already picked up its pace.
All sorts of thoughts as to why the police were at the hospital raced through her mind. Had someone seen her go into the Rothsteins’ apartment? Had the two policemen on the tram reported her? Flagged her as suspicious? Had someone other than Marie noticed her take the address from the file?
Taking a deep breath, Clara closed her locker and headed towards the door.
Before she made it there, Brandt stepped in front of her, blocking her path. ‘You’re very quiet today, Miss Clara. Not quite so confident now, are you?’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ said Clara, thankful her voice came out strong and steady. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have my duties to attend to.’
For a moment she wasn’t sure if Brandt was going to let her pass, but with a scoffing noise the German woman stepped to one side. ‘Duties,’ she said as Clara opened the door. ‘You won’t have to worry about them for much longer.’
Clara let the door close behind her. As much as she would miss the Charité Hospital, she knew she couldn’t continue in such a hostile environment.
The realisation filled her with sadness.
She had come to Germany seeking the opportunity denied to her in England.
The daughter of a highly respected surgeon, Clara had followed in her father’s footsteps, as had her younger sister, Rose.
But in England, Clara had encountered an unyielding glass ceiling for women with her ambitions.
Germany had offered a way forward and a welcome distance from her former fiancé who had casually announced at a dinner party one evening that he expected her to abandon her career once they were married.
As Clara approached the nurses’ station any idea that Brandt had been making up stories about the police being here were dispelled. A uniformed officer was standing at the desk, talking to Matron and another gentleman in a suit who Clara recognised as the hospital director.
All three stopped talking and turned to look at Clara as she neared the desk.
She willed her legs to keep moving even though all her instincts were demanding she turn and run.
In that moment, she silently said sorry to Friedrich, but she still couldn’t condemn herself for visiting Hannah Rothstein.
She’d do it again in a heartbeat if needed.
‘Frau Bergmann,’ Matron said as Clara reached the desk. ‘Could you come into my office, please?’
Of course, it wasn’t a request at all. It was an instruction.
The police officer and the director followed on behind Clara as if to make sure she didn’t try to escape. Clara could feel the eyes of her colleagues and other staff members on her as she took what was essentially a walk of shame down the corridor.
Matron’s office was small at the best of times and with four people now occupying the space it felt claustrophobic.
Clara stood in front of the desk while Matron took her seat on the other side.
The director pulled a chair around to sit beside Matron while the policeman leaned against the filing cabinet behind Clara, too close, too deliberate.
Clara stood up straight. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and she could hear the blood whooshing through her ears as her heart thudded at double speed.
‘Frau Bergmann,’ began Matron, her voice clinical, her words clipped, ‘with immediate effect your employment at the Charité Hospital is now terminated.’
Despite knowing this would be her eventual fate, Clara hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She had assumed she would jump before she was pushed but it seemed the authorities had other ideas. She had a sudden and uncontrollable urge to make this as uncomfortable for them as possible.
‘May I ask on what grounds, Oberschwester?’ Clara kept her gaze fixed on the row of medical dictionaries on the shelf behind Matron.
‘This is a state matter,’ said the director before Matron could speak. Again, there was that clipped and efficient tone Clara was used to hearing in professional settings. ‘It is no longer permissible for foreign nationals to remain employed within key public institutions.’
‘Concerns have been raised,’ said Matron. ‘By staff and patients alike.’
‘As Oberschwester Werner has said, this is with immediate effect,’ continued the director. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Herr Direktor,’ replied Clara even though the words sounded like they belonged to someone else. It was actually happening. This was real.
The policeman stepped forward, the sound of his boots loud in the silent room.
He stood at the end of the desk, adjacent to Clara.
‘You will be required to report to the Alexanderplatz police station every Thursday at nine o’clock for security checks.
’ He handed her a folded document. ‘All the documentation you need to bring with you is listed there. Ensure you carry them at all times from now on.’
Clara took the piece of paper without comment. Her hands trembled, betraying the non-committal expression she was trying to convey.
The director cleared his throat. ‘You have thirty minutes to collect your personal belongings and to leave the building. Herr Inspektor will accompany you.’
Clara gave a nod of acknowledgement and turned to leave the room.
‘Frau Bergmann.’ Clara turned back at Matron’s voice.
Her gaze meeting the woman who had mentored her for the past seven years.
Matron’s face softened. ‘You have been an excellent midwife. Your clinical skills and patient care have been exemplary. I am sorry it ends like this.’
‘Thank you, Oberschwester Werner,’ said Clara. ‘It has been my honour to work at the Charité Hospital and to work on your ward.’
Matron gave a rare smile, albeit it small and fleeting. ‘Take care, Frau Bergmann.’
As the door closed behind her with a resounding click, Clara wondered how many more pieces of her would be stripped away. How much of her would be left?
Clara trudged away from the Charité, her dismissal letter and reporting instructions heavy in her pocket.
The tram was busy that time in the morning and she found herself squashed in a seat, shoulder against shoulder with another passenger.
Everything around her felt constricted and suffocating.
Once they had crossed the River Spree, Clara hopped off the tram.
She needed time and space to herself, she needed the fresh air, to feel the late August breeze on her skin.
The river’s surface rippled with the early morning light as it flowed through the city. A stark contrast to her own mood and her ability to wander freely through Berlin now she was to be monitored weekly by the authorities.
Around her, the city continued its efficient bustle. Trams clanged past, their yellow sides emblazoned with eagles and swastikas, while storefronts still displayed their morning newspapers citing the apparent latest Polish aggression against Germany.
Reaching Charlottenburg, Clara passed the bakery where the owner had once told her how charming he found her British accent when she spoke German. More recently, he had barely engaged in any type of conversation with her.
It was hard to believe that just a few years ago Clara had sung the praises of Berlin to her sister, Rose, when she came to visit, showing her how sophisticated the city was, how advanced its medicine and how cultured the people. Today, this was not the same Berlin.
Clara quickened her pace through streets that no longer felt like home.
Once inside her apartment, she went into the bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying her reflection.
She’d had to return her nurse’s hat and apron before she was escorted out of the Charité building, but she was still wearing her uniform dress.
This was to be returned within forty-eight hours she had been advised.
She ran her hands down the blue fabric remembering how proud she had been to wear her Charité uniform for the first time.
How different she felt now knowing this was the last time.
After changing out of her uniform, Clara tried to busy herself in the apartment.
There really wasn’t much to do with it being just her and Friedrich living there.
They had hoped that their marriage would now be blessed with children, but it had never happened and for the first time, Clara felt a sense of relief.
What kind of future would their children have had?
She went over to the window and opened it to let more fresh air in.
The day was already warming up, threatening to be in the mid-twenties again.
If Clara had not been working, she and Friedrich might have taken a stroll out along the banks of the River Spree or enjoyed some time in the gardens of the Charlottenburg palace. But not today. Not any day soon.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the directive she’d been issued with about reporting to the police station every week and for the first time that morning, allowed herself a moment of self-pity as tears tracked their way down her face.
She curled up in a ball on the bed pulling the bedspread over her as a shield against the outside world.
Clara must have fallen asleep on the bed as the gentle sound of Friedrich saying her name and the touch of his hand on her shoulder, woke her.
It took a moment for her to remember why she was on the bed, but then it all came rushing back with startling clarity. She looked at Friedrich and could see the sadness in his eyes. In his hands he held the reporting directive and her letter of termination from the hospital.
‘It’s happening,’ Clara said in almost a whisper. Friedrich rubbed his temple, a gesture Clara had come to recognise as his tightly controlled worry.
‘Something is coming, liebling. I can’t say any more, but the Bendlerblock is alive with activity . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘I’m scared,’ confessed Clara.
Friedrich shook his head. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said.
Then, letting the papers flutter to the floor, he climbed onto the bed beside her.
He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as if he never wanted to let her go.
His lips pressed against the top of her head, lingering there.
‘You came back,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘And today my heart is not broken.’
Clara pulled away, raising her head to meet his gaze.
‘I will always come back. I am never leaving you.’ The conviction in her words, the promise they suggested, felt both impossible and essential.
She kissed him and as they made love, she allowed herself to pretend that everything in the word was all right.
Just for those precious moments, suspended in time, she could believe it was only her and Friedrich, and nothing else existed.