Max’s house in Berlin is nice. It is larger than ours and has a garden, and there is lots of pretty china and silverware, but it doesn’t have as many windows, and the rooms are dark, and the furniture, too.
I have made new friends, but Rosalind doesn’t approve. She says if Hitler doesn’t approve, then I can’t have them. But I see them in secret, Papa. Emmanuelle is my friend, but she is scared, and she worries that we may not be able to see each other for much longer. Rosalind has also said that we must distance ourselves because Jews are not like us. It is so difficult to do. I love Emmanuelle. She is sweet and funny, but she says her parents are thinking they will emigrate to America if they can get the money. They worry about their future. These are all because of Hitler’s rules.
Rosalind knows I write letters, and she has cannily guessed that I express my true feelings. She is always telling me not to put things in writing. That if someone found the things I write, I would be put in prison. Hitler doesn’t like people saying nasty things about him.
We stayed with Oma at her river house again in the summer. It is so beautiful there. Georg, our friend, lives next door, and he is wonderful fun. We have so many adventures with him. He is a fast runner, and, Papa, you would not believe how fast I can run and swim now, too. Next year, when I turn seventeen, I will begin training in typing, and here in Berlin I will get an office job and still see Georg in the summers. And the whole time I will wish for your release and hope that they realize they have made a mistake by putting you in prison.
I will add this letter to the others that I write, and one day you will read them all, Papa.
I love you.
Monique
CHAPTER 13
ERICH
Erich has slept well since he was a child, can cleanly break the connection between night and day. But last night the transition took longer. He was thinking of Stefano in the room above. He was thinking of his eyes, frighteningly dark, that rarely blink, that examine everything around him and follow Erich as he moves.
He tried hard not to think of him there, tried hard not to think where he’s been, if he has killed, if he is capable. It is not like Erich to second-guess his own instincts.
But today in the bright light, clearer now, he accepts Stefano is nothing to be feared. Stefano is a soldier with a peasant’s heart, he concludes. Harmless, dragged into a war he was reluctant to join. He has lost, though Erich’s loss is worse.
He opens the drawer where he laid some clothes the day before, laundered by Marceline. He takes out a crisp white shirt and beige trousers. He does up the laces of his shoes given to him by the Nazi underground, until they are tight and exact. He combs his hair. In the small mirror he takes in his appearance, and just briefly he can see his sister in his face, in the shape of the jaw and the nose that is straight and thin.
He hears no movement upstairs and proceeds from the front door.
Collecting a shovel that rests against a tree at the base of the hill, he walks upward and through the sparse trees above the houses. Over the rise he can see the damaged hamlet that is now empty, the occupants dead, crushed into the earth, then shoveled out again and placed in communal death holes dug in the hills.
The tip of his shovel hits metal, and with his hands Erich dusts off the last remaining earth from a tin box he had buried earlier. He checks through the papers kept inside the container, unfolds another piece of paper to add to these, then commences to rebury the box.
He stops, sensing he is not alone, and looks along the ridge to the thick cluster of trees that bars entry to the deeper wood behind. The wind picks up, and the trees begin swaying, taunting, perhaps whispering their secrets, his secrets. There is nothing there, he tells himself, just the wind and a past he has made disappear.
1939
Erich stood on the sidewalk and watched his father in a small group of other uniforms behind Hitler, who had just arrived to make a speech. The crowd cheered and saluted. His sister, Claudine, was complaining about the heat, her shoes, the crowds, while his younger brothers stood still, disciplined like him. Only the baby, destined for a few more months of life, whined slightly like his sister, reaching for her, waiting for her to take him. With her he always got the attention he was seeking. The grief that would come from his death had lasted much longer for Claudine.
His mother was beaming, he noticed, with adulation in her eyes. His father stood ahead of them, ahead of the crowd, arms at his sides, sweat dripping from under the shelf of hair above his forehead, a small smile, though not a wide one, from the shape of his eyes. Erich detected a frown, too, perhaps from the glare.
Erich felt proud of his father and marveled at the uniforms, at the order, at the control. The people loved him, he thought. The people wanted him.
Then out of the crowd an egg hit one of the soldiers standing off to the side of the selected people on the stage. Erich looked back to see who had thrown it but couldn’t, the sun too bright in his eyes. Several Gestapo rushed at the crowd, and someone was dragged to the back through the parting crowd. All the while Hitler kept talking. Erich was disturbed by the incident, insulted for the führer. How could anyone be so brazen, so disloyal? Then he heard a sound beside him. His sister was sniffling, crying. He turned his head not too far, not wanting to disrespect the speech, but his sister needed comfort. He touched her shoulder and then shrank back when he saw. The noises were not from crying but from fits of laughter. She covered her mouth and looked down at her shoes.
“Stop it,” hissed Erich.
“I can’t,” she said back. “It’s too funny.”
She composed herself eventually, but he was ashamed. He looked around to see if anyone had seen. One of Hitler’s security staff, dressed in black, looked directly at him, sneered at him, as if he were the cause.
Erich looked forward, away from him, focusing on the führer’s words, the only things that mattered. He talked about loyalty, about greatness, about a future.
Their town house in Berlin was magnificent, with a view of the Tiergarten, and only walking distance from the Reichstag where his father worked. The Steiners’ house had gas and electricity and a good heating system, several bedrooms, a foyer, and a sitting room.
“Let’s go and spy on Vati at work,” said Claudine as she entered Erich’s bedroom one night.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Why not?”
His sister was always doing things that were adventurous or dangerous or stupid, as his mother described.
“I can’t. I have to study.”
“It looks very dull,” she said, her eyes drifting across his mathematics books before she turned suddenly, flicking her wide skirt around her. “Wish me luck then.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going out.”
“Mutti won’t let you.”
“Mutti won’t know. She is too busy with the baby who won’t settle. Mutti will not even notice me gone.”
“All right then,” said Erich, exasperated. “We will go for a walk to Father’s work, but I am telling you that it is only for an hour, and then I must come home to finish.”
Erich told his mother they were going for a walk. She never questioned him. She trusted him entirely. Claudine, alone, would have been questioned and likely not have been given permission.
They walked past several people who milled on the sidewalk in a heated discussion. The people looked up at Erich and Claudine, then looked away quickly, as if they were guilty of something.
“It is stupid they wear an armband to show their religion.”
It was the first time he had heard his sister voice her thoughts on this.
“It is something the government believes is right to do. You shouldn’t question that.”