The Arms Maker of Berlin

EIGHT

Berlin—January 20, 1942

TO KURT BAUER, the Folkertses’ house was a place of enchantment, and not just because Liesl lived there. Its pitched roof, gabled windows, and wooden shutters oozed Alpine charm, while the neighboring Grunewald provided a hushed backdrop of dark pines and fairy-tale beeches. Add a dusting of snow and a curl of chimney smoke, and you had the very essence of cozy German Gemütlichkeit.
That was the tableau Kurt came upon that morning as he pedaled his bicycle down a powdery trail with a pair of wooden skis strapped on the back.
It had been exactly a month since he had met Liesl, and already he had become a regular at her address on tiny Alsbacherweg, visiting at least four times a week. The route was happily familiar by now. He would haul his bicycle to his neighborhood U-Bahn station for the ride south to her stop at Krumme Lanke, where he would then pedal the final half mile to her doorstep in a rising bubble of anticipation. At times he went out of his way to pass by, even if it meant a detour of half an hour, simply so he could ping the bell on his handlebar to say hello, while taking a special thrill whenever Liesl flicked back the curtain of her upper window to wave.
Today he was expected. Neither Liesl nor he had classes this afternoon, and they were planning to ski the new snowfall on the mazelike trails of the Grunewald for as long as daylight permitted. Kurt had prepared for the outing as if for a minor expedition, using ration cards to buy bread and cheese, then tossing into his rucksack his last bar of Christmas chocolate, a vacuum flask of spiced cider, a first aid kit from his days in a Wandervogel youth group, and a flashlight for finding their way home after dark.
He needed a break like this. His father’s agenda of corporate visits had only gotten more hectic. In addition, his family was now preoccupied with the future prospects of Kurt’s sister, who on the previous weekend had accepted the marriage proposal of her SS boyfriend, Bruno Scharf.
His affairs at the university were also in turmoil. One of his favorite professors had just been arrested, or so rumor had it. The only official word was an ominous notice tacked to the classroom door, which said that Professor Doktor Schl?sser would be “absent until further notice” due to sudden health problems.
That left Liesl as his only source of joy, although she more than made up for the rest. And today he would have her all to himself. No parents, no friends, and, best of all, no discussion groups to get everyone’s emotions in a lather. The last was Kurt’s only source of discomfort in this new romance. Not because he disapproved of Liesl’s views but because he cringed at the thought of their two social circles ever intersecting in some intimate setting. It was bound to happen, he supposed. But whenever he imagined, say, Erich Stuckart breaking bread alongside some of the earnest young men he had met at Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s house, he envisioned either a shouting match, a fistfight, or an arrest—and sometimes all three.
Liesl’s crowd had taken some getting used to. For much of that first evening at Bonhoeffer’s Kurt had said as little as possible, content to let Liesl conclude that he was shy around strangers. The truth was that he was a bit shocked by some of the talk, and while he wasn’t inclined to disagree, he hadn’t yet been up to the task of joining in.
Bonhoeffer himself had seemed welcoming enough. For someone who supposedly posed such a threat to national security, he was mild and kindly, even docile.
The music playing on his phonograph was another matter entirely. A choral selection in English, it was unlike anything Kurt had ever heard—strange, moaning voices of such high passion that the hair on his neck stood up. Soloists burst through hailstorms of rhythmic clapping like shots of adrenaline, evoking cats in heat or women in childbirth. It was one thing to experience the soaring emotion of opera, where all the power was channeled and focused, but in these recordings the energy was raw and untrammeled. Unnerving, but admittedly exhilarating. Kurt supposed that the propagandists who always railed against jazz and swing would have had a field day with this stuff, and he amused himself by imagining Goebbels flailing his arms in rage over this very record.
“Who is singing?” he shyly asked Liesl.
“It’s a Negro spiritual.” Her smile made it clear that she approved. “Pastor Bonhoeffer has a lot of them. He collected them while he was living in New York.”
“Herr Bonhoeffer lived in America?”
Was it wise to be playing such music from a country that was now their enemy? Especially on a Sunday when “quiet rules” were in effect on every street. What if the neighbors overheard?
Liesl must have noted his uncertainty, but instead of criticizing she sought to reassure.
“Don’t worry, it was years ago. But isn’t it silly, the idea that something like music could corrupt you, especially when it’s so full of life?”
Then she squeezed his hand, and as far as Kurt was concerned the matter was settled.
He was less certain about some of the other people in attendance. A few were downright strident, even boastful in their dissent. The most abrasive was a fellow named Dieter Büssler, who loudly told a coarse joke about why the golden angel on the Victory Column had recently been moved to a higher pedestal—to keep Goebbels from getting up her skirts. Dieter struck him as all talk, just the sort of fellow who might get everybody in trouble and then be among the first to run.
Others he liked immediately, such as the quiet-spoken Christoph Klemm. Christoph, too, told irreverent jokes, but his were more sophisticated, and cleverly refrained from mentioning their targets by name, as with the one that clearly referred to Gandhi and Hitler: “What’s the difference between Germany and India? In India, one man starves for millions. In Germany, millions starve for one man.”
Kurt laughed louder than was warranted, partly out of nerves. It was a bit like being back in grammar school and having the boy at the next desk show you a naughty drawing of the teacher. It intrigued him to realize there must be more of this racy material out there, in parlors and living rooms far beyond the sedate comfort of his parents’ house. But he sensed that he had best enter this new realm carefully, and should closely guard its secrets.
When his mother asked later how the evening had gone, he sanitized the description, making it as bland as possible. He didn’t dare mention Bonhoeffer’s name.
“But you were there for hours. What did you do?”
“Oh, you know, the usual sorts of things. Listened to music. Chatted with the girls. Nothing that exciting.”
But it had been exciting, he realized, an exhilarating blend of sudden love and a fascination with the forbidden. The two ingredients now seemed inextricably bound, as if neither would be quite as exciting without the other.
Liesl was putting on her skis when he arrived, and within seconds they were darting through the trees, scooting downhill on a trail that cut between the small woodland lakes of Krumme Lanke and Schlachtensee and then led straight into the densest part of the forest.
The sky was a metallic gray, and the raw air burned his cheeks. In only minutes it felt like they were miles from civilization. Long brown furrows cut the snow where wild boars had rooted for acorns the night before. The only sound apart from their breathing and the hiss of their skis was the wind soughing in the pines. It kicked up a crystal mist of blown snow.
Pausing for their first rest, Liesl bent forward awkwardly on her skis and nuzzled him with flushed cheeks. They kissed, and were so swept up that afterward they nearly tripped while disentangling their crossed skis, which of course made them laugh, a bright call of joy through the forest gloom. Kurt felt strong enough to ski all the way to the North Sea.
“I used to wonder why these woods always made me so cheerful,” Liesl said, as they got back under way. “Then one day I realized it was partly because of the bark on the pines, the way it is colored. Do you see what I mean?”
He did, now that she mentioned it. Most of the bark was a deep brown, but on every tree the southern exposure was a lighter shade, almost golden.
“It makes it look like the sun is shining,” Kurt said.
“Even on a day like this. The perfect illusion for the German winter.”
For Kurt, Liesl had a similar brightening effect, except her radiance was no mere illusion. He pulled to a stop and leaned forward for another kiss.
Their plan was to have lunch around noon, but the skiing was so good and the daylight so fleeting that they kept going, pausing only for an occasional nip of the hot, sweet cider. Then, just as the lowering sun finally peeped through the clouds, Liesl cried out in dismay.
“What’s wrong?”
“My left binding. It’s broken.”
They stopped for a look. It wasn’t promising, and in resting they realized that the air was growing colder. Kurt got out the first aid tape and tried to rig a binding sturdy enough to get them home, but it snapped within a few yards.
“What now?” she said.
For a change, it was his turn to set the tone, and he relished the opportunity. He scanned the sky, the trees, and a nearby crossing to assess their probable location and their best options.
“We must be pretty close to the Wannsee by now. If we head southwest, we could have a bite to eat down on the beach, then walk to the S-Bahn stop. If it gets dark, I have my flashlight.”
“I like that idea. Lead the way.”
“You use my skis. I’ll carry yours.”
He half expected her to object, but she seemed touched by his gallantry. She slid along up front while Kurt kept pace at a brisk march, and sure enough they soon emerged from the trees at the south end of a strip of snow-covered sand along the waterfront. It was Europe’s largest inland beach, and on hot summer days it was packed with sun-bathers and umbrellas. Today, with an icy west wind blowing in off the water, the strand was empty.
“It’s quite romantic,” Liesl said. “A perfect place to watch the sunset.”
They ate their late lunch in companionable silence while seated on a large stone lapped by small waves. They saved the chocolate for last. Neither had eaten any sweets for more than a week. Kurt exulted in his weariness, feeling that the day had been a huge success. He cupped his hands around the last cup of warm cider and leaned toward Liesl’s lips as she snuggled closer.
Then his attention was drawn to the whine of an engine coming from across the water. A small boat was headed their way, its running lights already burning in the deepening shadows of 4 p.m. Whoever was at the helm was watching through a big pair of binoculars.
“Not the police, I hope,” Liesl said with a note of worry.
“We are trespassing, I suppose, even though we came onto the beach south of the fence. But it’s not like they charge admission this time of year. Still …”
He stood up and squinted across the water. A voice called out from the boat.
“Kurt? Is that Kurt Bauer?”
“Yes. Hello, Erich!”
“Erich Stuckart?” Liesl asked.
“His family has a villa just across the way. They’re probably visiting for the day.”
She tightened her grip on Kurt’s arm.
“He’s always seemed nice enough. Although I can’t say I’m a fan of his father’s.”
Erich swung the wheel around just before he would have run aground. He throttled back on the engine, and the boat settled into a gentle rocking motion a few yards offshore.
“And Liesl Folkerts, too, I see!” He said it with an air of revelation, reminding Kurt uneasily of what Erich had said about her at the party. “Skiing on the beach, are you? Can’t say I’ve ever heard that recommended. Of course, boating’s not the sanest activity on a day like this, either. I’ve got little tracks of ice on my cheeks from the tears the wind caused. All very masochistic. I could hitch you up to the stern and pull you across the Wannsee if you liked?”
That coaxed a laugh out of Liesl, and Kurt relaxed.
“Her bindings broke, so we came down for a rest,” he explained. “We were just about to walk over to the Wannsee Bahnhof.”
“The Nikolassee stop would be closer from here, but even that’s about a mile through the woods. Why don’t I give you a lift farther across the water, to shorten the walk?”
“That’s kind of you,” Liesl said.
“No problem. I’ll just beach this crate, and you can climb over the side.”
He gently maneuvered the boat into place, just close enough for Liesl to make it aboard without soaking her feet. Kurt handed over the rucksack and both pairs of skis, then joined Erich at the helm, where his friend pulled a leather-covered flask from inside his coat.
“A little fuel for the trip back,” Erich said. “Part of Dad’s secret stash of cognac from the Paris pushcart express. Not that you should breathe a word of it to him, of course.”
“My lips are sealed. So what brought you to the villa today?”
“The whole family’s here. My dad had some big appointment nearby so he decided we’d all make a day of it. Unfortunately it’s boring as hell. Nothing to do but sit there staring at the boar heads lined up on the wall. And it’s cold as a cave, or will be till he gets the fireplace going.”
“So you decided to warm up with a little dash across the waves?”
“Yes. I’m brilliant that way aren’t I?”
Erich flashed his goofball horsey smile, gritting his teeth into the biting wind as he revved the engine back to full power. They headed down the shoreline. New tears were already streaming from the corners of his eyes.
“You know,” he shouted above the noise, turning so that Liesl could hear as well, “if you two were interested, it would sure help warm the place up if you could stop by for a while. By now they should have a fire going, and afterward I could give you a lift home in my dad’s car. He’s got the ministry ration allotment, so gas isn’t a problem. It would be quicker than taking the S-Bahn.”
Kurt sensed potential trouble in the arrangement and was on the verge of saying no. But when he glanced at Liesl she nodded. Perhaps she was more tired than he had realized.
“I’d like that,” she said. “And thank you.”
“Splendid! Then let’s change course. Hold on!”
He turned the wheel sharply to starboard, and they leaned into the sweeping curve, heading west toward what remained of the dusk, a faint glow in the bare treetops along the far shore. So much for keeping his two worlds apart, although Kurt supposed they were bound to have collided sooner or later.
“I heard yesterday that congratulations are in order for your sister,” Erich shouted. “When’s the wedding?”
“No date yet. Depends on when he’s posted to the front, I guess.”
Liesl gave him a look, and Kurt felt like a fool.
“Wedding?” she said. “Traudl’s getting married and you haven’t told me?”
“Well, it’s not really a sure thing until the background check is finished.”
“Nonsense,” Erich said. “He was probably just afraid you wouldn’t approve of his new in-laws. Bruno’s an SS man. Spit-polished and shiny, with all the lightning bolts. Very fearsome. Except to Traudl, of course.”
Leave it to Erich, even in jest, to zero in on the real reason Kurt had kept the news from Liesl. He didn’t dare look at her.
“Well, I’m sure that if he’s all right for Traudl,” she said awkwardly, “then he’s probably a fine young man.”
Later, when Kurt would look back on the progression of the whole disastrous evening, he would decide that this was where events had begun to veer off course. Not only did it wreck their earlier sense of ease, it primed them for what turned out to be their most fractious disagreement.
“So what was your dad’s urgent business?” Kurt asked, hoping to change the subject.
“See that big white villa on the far shoreline, dead ahead?”
“The one with the huge lawn?”
“That’s it. Normally it’s some sort of guesthouse for visiting security police, but this morning there was a big powwow there. Or boring powwow, I should say. Invitation only—not that anyone would have wanted to crash it. Especially since the host was the even more boring Reinhard Heydrich. Talk about someone who loves to hear himself speak. My dad said he hardly shut up the entire morning.”
Heydrich was the chief of the Reich Main Security Office, which made him boss of both the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, and the Gestapo secret police. Rarely, if ever, did anyone toss around his name as lightly as Erich just had. Liesl shifted uncomfortably at Kurt’s side.
“I don’t know about boring,” she said, “but he’s certainly dangerous. Supposedly he’s the reason Professor Schl?sser’s been detained. Another faculty member complained to Heydrich’s office about something Schl?sser said in a lecture. Three days later he disappeared.”
“Yes. He can be meddlesome that way.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Erich glanced back at her, then broke into an awkward grin.
“I suppose you’re right. I’m too used to hearing about him from my dad’s perspective. To him, Heydrich’s just a power-crazy bureaucrat nosing into everyone else’s business.”
“What was the meeting about?”
“Jews, of course. My poor father had to go because the minister wouldn’t. Frick is such a milquetoast. My dad doubts he’ll even last out the war. But maybe it was all for the best, because Frick doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground where the Jews are concerned, and ever since the Nuremberg laws everyone assumes that my father is some kind of expert. He’s not, of course. He just knows how to write an airtight law.”
“Airtight,” Liesl said. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Her face was stony, which made Kurt nervous. His earlier fears were right on the mark. Mixing these two in close quarters was volatile. And while Kurt sympathized with Liesl’s views, he believed there was a proper time and place for expressing them, and this wasn’t one of them.
“So you think my dad’s too hard on the Jews?” Erich said it with an amused air, which Kurt knew would only provoke her. “Believe me, he did them all a great favor by keeping their big noses out of certain places. The best thing a Jew can do right now is lay low, and with those laws in place they have to play it safe.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that all that cold weather in Russia is actually good for our boys at the front, because bullets don’t hurt as much when you’re numb.”
“Very good!”
Erich laughed, apparently oblivious to just how close he was to pushing her into an explosion. To him this was all in good fun. For all of Kurt’s love and admiration for Liesl’s boldness, there were times when he wished that she, too, wouldn’t take things so seriously.
For whatever reason—Erich’s laughter, perhaps, which may have showed Liesl the folly of arguing further with a buffoon—she lowered the volume of her next remark, which Kurt recognized as one of Bonhoeffer’s statements from the previous Sunday.
“The Apostles were all Jews, you know. And if they had all just decided to ‘lay low,’ as you put it, then none of us in Germany would ever have become Christians.”
Erich smiled again.
“My father’s bosses wouldn’t necessarily see Christianity as a good thing, you know. I’m not even sure my father would, sorry to say.” Then, after the briefest of pauses, “So what are your plans for later, you two? Because I’ve been thinking, maybe it would be easier for everyone if you both just stayed for dinner. As long as Liesl didn’t hound my father too much about the Jews, of course.”
That was Erich all over, careening from glib to serious and back again in the blink of an eye, as recklessly as he piloted the boat. Nothing seemed to matter very much to him apart from girls, a stiff drink or two, and a roaring good time.
Kurt should have said no right away. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of his father, who would have dearly wanted him to say yes. Currying favor in the Stuckart household was high on the Bauer agenda, mostly because Erich wasn’t the only person who thought so little of the current Interior Minister, Wilhelm Frick. Stuckart was the real power behind that throne.
So Kurt paused, and the lapse proved fatal.
“We’d love to,” Liesl said. “As long as I can phone my parents from your villa to let them know I’ll be late. It will be interesting to hear what your father has to say.”
Her answer seemed to surprise both young men, although Erich recovered quickly.
“Splendid,” he said. “And my mother will be thrilled. She hasn’t seen Kurt in ages. As for my father, well, if he can endure four hours of Heydrich, then he can damn well put up with whatever any of us has to say.”
Erich pulled out his flask for another quick swallow, and roared with laughter into the icy breeze. Kurt’s stomach began tying itself into knots.
THE WANNSEE WATERFRONT had become quite the enclave for Nazi bigwigs over the past several years. Goebbels had a place there. So did his undersecretary, Hermann Esser. Economics Minister Walther Funk was another neighbor, as was Hitler’s physician, Dr. Theodor Morell. The Reich Bride School had set up shop nearby. And it was only fitting that Stuckart had a villa, too, since his Nuremberg laws had helped free up some of the properties from previous owners at such reasonable prices.
The size and scale of the Stuckart place was fairly modest, but inside the decor was that of a Bavarian hunting lodge. Just as Erich had said, the heads of trophy animals stared down from the walls of the vaulted main room—elk and boar mostly, a procession of antlers and tusks that seemed fearsome and predatory, especially when you were already worried sick that your girlfriend would wander heedlessly into a field of fire.
Erich’s mother answered the door and took their coats while Erich introduced Liesl and announced that they were all staying for dinner.
“My apologies that none of our servants are here,” she said. “I’m afraid that we only brought a cook, and even at that I must apologize in advance for what will be a very simple dinner.”
She hustled down a hallway with their things. Erich’s father must have already returned—Kurt spotted a brochure on a side table promoting the villa where the meeting had been held. The cover featured a handsome black-and-white photo of a grand room with polished wood floors and a splendid view of the lake. The sales pitch referred to its “completely refurbished guest rooms, a music room and billiards room, a large meeting room and conservatory, a terrace looking onto the Wannsee, central heating, hot and cold running water, and all comforts.”
Not exactly a terrible place to have to spend a morning, he thought, no matter what Erich said.
They gathered by the fire along with Erich’s two older sisters and an elderly uncle. The flames were roaring by then. Liesl warmed her hands, her expression unreadable. She had been very quiet since they arrived. Soon afterward Erich’s father joined them. Presumably he had changed out of his work clothes. He wore a tweed hunting jacket and heavy wool pants, and he smelled of pipe smoke.
“Good to see you, Kurt,” he said heartily. “I could have used your father with me today. Lots of questions about railway logistics and hauling capacities. All quite baffling to me, really. I’m afraid none of us was quite up to the challenge.”
“I can ask him to phone you, if you’d like.”
“Please do. I’d like to tap his expertise on some of these matters.”
Liesl gave him a cold look, which only went to show how little she understood about the business world, he supposed.
Stuckart offered everyone a drink, and to Kurt’s relief Liesl accepted. Maybe things would be all right after all. He wondered idly where Erich had put the flask of cognac.
The “simple” dinner was anything but. There was venison roast and cold duckling, served on Dresden china with the finest silver. Somehow the Stuckarts had even found green beans, perhaps from the larder, along with shredded winter greens and mounds of potatoes dripping with fresh dairy butter. For dessert, a red berry compote, Rote Grütze, served the traditional way, with vanilla sauce. Each course came with a different bottle of wine fetched from the villa’s cellar. Conversation was cordial and blessedly dull, and by the time everyone had moved on to coffee Kurt was feeling unguarded enough to believe the worst of the danger had passed.
Liesl, in fact, was looking quite healthy and inviting after their strenuous day in all that fresh air. She seemed refreshed, too, as she sipped from the china cup.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner,” she told Erich’s mother. “I can’t tell you how luxurious it is to taste real coffee again.”
“Yes,” Stuckart’s father chimed in from the head of the table. “I simply can’t stomach any more of that fake stuff. Roasted barley mostly, but I’m told some brands even have ground-up acorns! Like we’ve been reduced to boars, rooting through the forest. What is it I heard you calling it the other day, Erich? ‘Nigger sweat’ or something?” He chuckled. “That sums it up pretty well, I’d say.”
Liesl set her cup down with an unnerving rattle, although only Kurt seemed to notice. When Mrs. Stuckart offered a refill, she shook her head.
Talk then turned to the war, as it always did. As was also customary, the women mostly stayed out of the conversation, speaking in asides to each other about other matters. Except for Liesl, who leaned forward and followed closely as the elder Stuckart led the way.
“Field Marshal Leeb has been removed from command of Army Group North,” he said. “The word just came down today.”
“Isn’t he the third one to lose his job?” Erich asked.
“All since the first of December. But Kuchler has taken his place. A good commander. He’ll buck them up for sure. It may take some doing, maybe even a little more juggling of commanders, but the Führer will have us back on the right track in the east. By the time the spring thaw is here, we’ll be ready to go back on the offensive. Winter in wartime is always about waiting things out, anyway.”
“Did you hear about that poor man, von Reichenau?” Mrs. Stuckart asked, in a rare interjection.
“Old news, dear,” Stuckart said, indulging her with a smile. “He was appointed weeks ago. The new commander of Army Group South.”
“Yes, I know. But he just dropped dead of a heart attack. Right there at his headquarters.”
That wiped the smile off her husband’s face.
“You’re certain of this?”
“Lotte heard it from his wife only this morning. And he was so young, too, as these things go. A terrible tragedy.”
Everyone was still digesting that bit of news when Liesl spoke up.
“I am afraid that the war in the east is lost,” she announced. “I have heard that almost anyone who is realistic now believes there is virtually no way that we can win.”
The response was shocked silence. Kurt stared at his saucer. The fire popped, and a log dropped with a thud and a shower of sparks.
Mrs. Stuckart glanced uneasily around the table, as if gauging how much the comment had upset everyone. She dabbed her mouth gingerly with a napkin. Even the glib Erich managed only a cough.
Kurt felt compelled to speak up, to somehow try to limit the damage. It was bad enough that the Interior Ministry’s second in command was sitting right there. He, at least, was probably used to hearing such candor from others in government during guarded moments, so maybe he would overlook it as a mistake of youth. But you never knew when someone else—even one of Erich’s sisters, for example—might feel compelled to pass along a defeatist remark to the wrong kind of policeman.
Everyone there had probably heard the story of Karlrobert Kreiten, the talented young concert pianist who had remarked to a friend of his mother’s that Hitler was “a madman” for ordering the invasion of the Soviet Union. His mother’s friend turned him in the next day and he was now awaiting trial in Pl?tzensee Prison.
“It is easy to be discouraged these days,” Kurt said haltingly, “but we are all doing what we can. Liesl does volunteer work for wounded soldiers, you know. She collects cloth for bandages, and reads to them in hospitals in Berlin. The very ones who have been serving on the eastern front. I can see how that kind of experience, day after day wouldn’t leave you feeling very hopeful.”
No response, not even from Liesl. Kurt sensed his fruitless words drifting up through the chimney and off into the night sky.
Stuckart then rose from the table, his big frame suddenly menacing. He stepped over to the fireplace to toss on another log, levering it into place with an iron poker. Then he addressed Kurt without looking back toward the table.
“Speaking of the front, young Kurt. Erich will soon be turning eighteen and reporting for officer’s training. What about you?”
“Of course. As soon as I am eighteen.”
“When is your birthday?”
Liesl took his hand beneath the table and squeezed it.
“Late October, but I am still sixteen. I skipped a grade to enter university early.”
“Next October is a long way off. By then the conscription laws may have changed. You may be eligible earlier than you think, especially if, as your friend believes, we continue to fare so poorly in battle. As that date approaches, I urge you to try and be as judicious as possible in what you say out in public. You should also take care in the company you keep. Because when the time comes for your father to secure a favorable appointment on your behalf, all sorts of things will be weighed and measured.”
Kurt knew at that moment that if he did not somehow speak up on her behalf she would be deeply disappointed. But with almost everyone at the table seemingly imploring him to be on his guard, he was unable to come up with the right words. Instead, he simply nodded and said evenly, “Yes, sir.”
Liesl gently released his hand and looked down at her lap.
“More coffee for you, my dear?” Mrs. Stuckart asked.
She shook her head, saying nothing.
A few moments later, Erich cleared his throat and began talking about his foolhardy boat trip. Within seconds both his parents were chiding him companionably, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and not long afterward they all rose and placed their napkins on the table. Erich offered to drive Kurt and Liesl home.
Because of the blackout, the car’s headlights were covered in dark felt with tiny slits, meaning even the reckless Erich had to go slowly. To make matters worse, the roads were icing, and they poked along at an agonizing pace in awkward silence. After dropping them off at Liesl’s house, Erich sped away, the car fishtailing so much that he nearly struck a tree.
For a moment neither Liesl nor Kurt made a move. They just stood on the sidewalk, holding their skis, as if trying to fathom what came next.
“Well, I suppose you tried,” she said finally, wearily. “But I can’t say that you tried very hard.”
“And you,” he said, suddenly aggrieved, “tried much too hard! It is one thing to express your deepest feelings at Dr. Bonhoeffer’s house. But at the villa of someone who is practically a cabinet minister? Liesl, what were you thinking?”
“It was a harmless remark. And only an opinion.”
“Nothing is harmless to these people if they don’t agree with it. What you said may be true, but it won’t do your cause much good if people in power decide to silence you.”
“It may be true? My cause? Is it not your cause as well? Or is your only cause to unbutton my blouse and then run away at the first sign that someone disapproves of me? What does it matter if you are ‘silenced’ if you have nothing to say to begin with?”
“Of course I share your cause. Of course! I only want you to be more careful.”
“Your kind of careful is the way of cowards.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, it is. Why, you can’t even speak the truth to me.”
“That is simply not so!”
“Then why didn’t you tell me Traudl was engaged? The single biggest event in your family, maybe all year, but I don’t hear about it because, what? You think I’ll disapprove? Erich was right, wasn’t he?”
His silence told her all she needed to know.
“You are too careful in this way, Kurt. Too busy hiding pieces of yourself because you think it will please me, or worse, please some awful person in a red armband. You think you are doing it to build a safe foundation for your future, but can’t you see that the time for real action is now—or there might not even be a future?”
This kind of talk scared him even more, but he tried not to show it. So they went on in this fashion several minutes longer, fighting their way to a stalemate, until gradually their remarks began to lose some of their heat. But just as Kurt started to think they had weathered the storm, he made what would turn out to be a fatal error. Concerned that her parents might overhear them, he glanced nervously toward the windows of the Folkertses’ house, and Liesl saw the worry in his eyes.
“Look at you!” she said, her fury renewed. “Scared that my parents might have their ears to the keyhole. Even now you can’t stop worrying that someone will disapprove instead of trying to get to the heart of this trouble between us, this terrible split.”
He was alarmed by her words, and the worst was yet to come. When he reached out a chilled hand to take hers, she slapped it away. Then her eyes flared, as brightly as if she had struck a match in the darkness.
“This can never work!” she said. “Never! I kept waiting, kept thinking you would come around, and that your better instincts would prevail. But you are becoming exactly what your father wants—just another person to say yes to whoever he needs to please.”
“That’s not true. I—”
“I can’t see you anymore, Kurt. I don’t want to see you anymore. Not with all of the growing up you still have to do. Because some people never grow up, or not in a way that allows them to develop the courage of their convictions. And I am afraid that you are one of those people. I am sorry, Kurt. Good-bye.”
He felt like she had kicked him in the stomach, and he was momentarily incapable of answering as she turned to go. Instead of protesting, or pleading, or running after her, he just stood there in the snow, rooted to the spot, mutely confirming every terrible thing she had just said.
He would think of plenty of suitable answers later, of course, such as, “I’m only sixteen. Give me time to grow into this.” Or, “Please, don’t mistake foolhardiness for courage. If we don’t fight battles only of our own choosing, then they will pick us off, one by one, on the grounds of their choosing.”
But by then he was alone on the U-Bahn, staring gloomily at his skis and his dripping bicycle. When she slammed the door to the house he was still stranded on the sidewalk, a strangled cry of protest dead on his lips, with no company to console him except the moon, the forest, and the chill darkness of a winter night in Berlin.