Chapter 17
Clara had a few days off work now and was delighted that it tied in with Friedrich’s rest day. They spent a lazy morning, having breakfast at home and for a few hours just milling about the apartment, shutting themselves off from the world outside.
They sat by the window, a rare moment of peace between them.
She was mending one of his shirts. Friedrich had the Berlin Morgenpost folded on his lap, open to an article about ‘orderly relocation of unsuitable residents’.
Clara’s needle paused, as her moment of false normality was broken.
She looked across at Friedrich and his gaze moved to meet her own, before he looked down at the newspaper.
Then, silently, he turned it over and slid it down the side of the chair out of sight.
He cleared his throat softly. ‘Would you like some fresh coffee?’
Clara nodded, grateful for the change of subject, the small domestic ritual. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Friedrich rose and went to the kitchen. Clara heard the familiar sounds of the tap running and the clink of cups. She focused on her needle, pulling the thread through the fabric with deliberate care. In. Out. In. Out. A rhythm she could control.
A truck engine rumbled in the street below as Friedrich set her fresh coffee down on the table. He paused and she could sense the tension filling the room. He walked over to the window. Clara put her sewing down and followed him, standing at his shoulder.
Across the street, the street door of the Levins’ apartment stood open. Two uniformed policemen dressed in their unmistakable green uniforms, stood either side of the doorway. Another man, in a dark suit, carrying a clipboard, entered the building.
Clara’s gaze travelled up the building to the open windows of the first floor, directly opposite her.
She could see Frau Levin moving slowly, methodically, packing a small suitcase.
Herr Levin was holding their baby – the baby Clara had cooed over in the street just a few weeks ago and tried to warn them about the relocations of new mothers.
But Frau Levin hadn’t acknowledged the possible danger.
Clara had looked out for their name on the lists she’d passed onto Max but had never seen them and yet here they were, being moved.
Had she missed their name? Were there other lists?
She felt the panic rise inside her and her breathing quickened.
A few moments later, the family emerged onto the street. No shouting. No violence. Just quiet, bureaucratic efficiency. The man with the clipboard followed them out, making a note on his paper, while another policeman, who had been waiting by the truck, loaded the two suitcases into the back.
Frau Levin climbed into the truck, her movements wooden, her face blank. Herr Levin handed up the baby.
The baby.
Clara’s breath stopped. Those tiny fingers. That perfect face. So innocent and oblivious to the horrors of the world it had been born into just a few months ago.
The baby made no sound. Too young to understand. Too unaware to be scared.
Herr Levin pulled himself into the truck after them, and the canvas flap dropped, swallowing them whole.
Neighbours stood at their windows, watching the scene below them. No one protested. No one called out. For a brief moment, her gaze met with a neighbour’s across the road, whose child was the same age as the Levins’ baby, before the mother jerked the curtains closed.
The truck’s engine started.
Clara gripped the edge of the window frame. Then she was moving before she even realised. She was racing across the room and down the hallway, fumbling with the lock, her only thought to get downstairs, to get to the truck and do something.
Friedrick’s hand reached over her shoulder, encasing her hand within his, moving it away from the lock. He turned her to face him. ‘Clara.’
‘Let me go.’ She twisted against him, her hands clawed at his to release her. ‘The baby! Friedrich . . . the baby.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’ His voice cracked. ‘Not here. Not like this.’
She tried again to free herself from his hold, begging him to let her go. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘I can’t let you go.’
Clara’s legs gave way. Friedrich lowered them both to the floor by the door. Still holding her as she sobbed.
She heard the truck pull away, its engine fading into the distance.
Clara got to her feet and forced herself to return to the window. The street below was eerily quiet. It was as if the Levins had never existed. Their apartment door hung open, dark and empty.
Friedrich guided her to the chair by the window and sat down opposite her.
They sat in silence, watching the empty street.
After a while, a different man appeared.
Some sort of official with forms and went into the Levins’ apartment.
When he emerged several minutes later, he locked the door and hung a notice on it.
‘Confiscated’.
As if a life could be confiscated. As if a four-month-old baby was property of the state to dispose of at their will.
‘How many families have just disappeared like that?’ she whispered.
Friedrich didn’t answer. He dragged his hand down his face. There was a sense that this was only the beginning.
That night, Clara couldn’t sleep. She kept seeing Frau Levin’s blank face, kept seeing the four-month-old baby wrapped in a blanket being passed up onto the truck.
Finally, careful not to wake Friedrich, she slipped out of bed and went across the hall to the living room.
She sat down at her desk and pulled out a piece of paper and began to write.
Dearest Rose,
I know I cannot send this letter, but I can at least pretend everything is normal and the distance between us is merely miles and not this impossible chasm of war.
Do you remember when you said I was too serious, always trying to fix everything?
You were right. But Rose, I’ve found myself in a position where I cannot fix anything, and yet I cannot stop trying.
I deliver babies into a world that has gone mad.
Four months ago, I looked down at a newborn little girl, healthy, beautiful, full of promise.
I tried to warn her parents about things that were happening, but they thought it was just rumours.
Tonight, I watched the rumours become a reality, I saw with my own eyes things I’d only heard about – I watched that baby and her parents disappear.
I don’t know what will happen to them. And I could do nothing but stand at my window and watch.
Some nights I lie awake wondering if you’re doing the same at the hospital – holding someone’s hand through the darkness, pretending you have more control than you do.
I miss you terribly. I miss being able to tell you the truth. There are things happening here that I cannot write down, not even in a letter I’ll never send.
I hope you’re safe and that this wretched war ends before it takes any more from us.
All my love,
Clara
She read the letter again, the tears filling her eyes and the hopelessness she felt and the deep yearning to be with her sisters and parents again.
‘Clara.’ It was Friedrich.
She turned to see him standing in the doorway, uncertainty in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, getting up from her chair and picking up the letter. ‘I needed to get my thoughts down.’
He said nothing, just watched as she crossed to the fireplace. She tore the letter once, twice, the sound of ripping paper sharp in the quiet of the room. The match flared and she touched it to the torn edges. The words she could never send curled and blackened turning to ash.
‘Come back to bed,’ said Friedrich softly.
Clara watched the last corner of paper catch fire, then turned to him and nodded. He took her hand, his grip warm and steady. As he led her from the room, she glanced back once at the fireplace.
It held so many secrets now. One more wouldn’t matter.
The week rolled on with an underlying tension.
The small respite of Saturday morning long forgotten about.
Clara tried her hardest to remain cheerful and positive, but the fate of the Levins was never far from her thoughts.
Friedrich too was putting on a positive face but they both knew neither of them felt the outward appearance.
‘I’ll make some enquiries and see if I can find anything out,’ he’d told her when he left for work the following morning, but so far, he had no news.
Clara knew it wasn’t just a case of Friedrich turning up at the Bendlerblock and asking outright about their neighbours. He had to be more discreet than that.
It was when he returned home from work on Wednesday evening, that Clara could immediately tell there was something wrong.
‘I’ve had some news about the Levins,’ he said, meeting her gaze. He never shielded her from the truth, he was always honest with her, and she knew it was not good news.
‘Tell me,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know much, but I do know Frau Levin and the baby have been separated from Herr Levin. They’ve been sent to a facility north of the city. Neuruppin.’
Clara gasped and held onto the door frame to steady herself, the name standing out in her mind from the lists she’d seen in Herr Müller’s study. ‘What happens at Neuruppin?’
‘It’s a medical facility for mothers and babies.’
‘A maternity clinic?’
Friedrich closed his eyes momentarily, before opening them and speaking. ‘The details are classified but the rumours . . .’ he looked away ‘. . . the rumours are not good, Clara. The women and babies, they are never relocated.’
Clara’s stomach turned and she felt physically sick. ‘What happens to them?’
‘I don’t know.’
Did he know and just not want to tell her?
The sense of dread and fear was heavier than ever. Clara felt trapped by her helplessness. Getting the lists seemed such a small act against such enormous cruelty. She wanted to do more. She needed to do more.