Franka lay back on the bed, knowing that it had already begun.
From then on, Franka did her best to ignore the intrusions into her life by the National Socialists. She immersed herself in her schoolwork, paying little attention to the omnipresent flags and the posters wallpapering the hallways proclaiming the greatness of the regime. There were things the Nazis couldn’t touch. There was music, art, the books she now kept hidden under her bed, and the wondrous playground of the forest and mountains that surrounded her. She took hikes every weekend with her friends and walked away when they referred to “handsome Adolf” with coquettish laughs and blushing cheeks. Women had been known to swoon in his presence. Franka found the attraction hard to see, in any circumstance. Some of the local boys grew tiny mustaches in tribute to the führer, but even the most fanatical supporters of the regime looked in the mirror once in a while. The cult of facial hair as a tribute to the demagogue didn’t last long.
Nazi ideology and paranoia permeated every human relationship, to the point where friends could no longer be trusted and family members informed on one another for the good of the cause. The old society crumbled piece by piece. Even the most committed supporters of the regime were under the Nazi microscope at all times. In Freiburg, as in every city and town in Germany, an agent of the National Socialists was put in every apartment block, and on every street. They were known as the Blockwarte. The Blockwart on Franka’s street was Herr Duken, a gardener who’d joined the party back in the 1920s when they were little more than a rabble of loudmouths espousing anti-Semitic propaganda and deriding the “November criminals” who had signed the armistice at the end of the Great War. Herr Duken was a licensed nosey neighbor, a paid snoop with terrifying power. He reveled in it. Now he was an important man, respected and feared by his neighbors. His job was to report any misconduct he witnessed or any hearsay that might be relayed to him. He reported on his neighbors for not putting out a swastika flag on gala occasions or for not contributing to the party with the requisite gusto. Franka, aware that the thoughts in her head were reportable as crimes against the state, smiled at Duken when she saw him on the street. Dozens of Blockwarte operated throughout the town and in the surrounding countryside. The summer cabin was the only place isolated enough that they could escape.
Daniel came back from his service to the state more committed than ever to the cause of the fatherland, and, seemingly, to Franka. His fumbled attempts to win her back proved little more than an annoyance, but she was wary of the advances of other boys now. She knew the power that Daniel held, and didn’t want to make trouble for any poor, unsuspecting boy that merely wanted to take her out for a beer or dinner. Daniel explained to her once, in a misguided attempt to impress her with his new connections, that the Gestapo was the real power in the German state. The shadow of the thousands of agents peppered throughout the country, along with the Blockwarte who reported to them, loomed over every German citizen. Soon Daniel would have the power to ruin lives on a whim. The critical analysis of the regime—even the mere expression of disapproval of it—was enough to merit arrest, imprisonment, torture, or even death. Franka was amazed at herself for ever being attracted to him and was determined never to let him touch her again.
She wondered what he could have amounted to if the Nazis hadn’t corrupted him. What would he have become if he’d dedicated his talents to a just cause? It was a tragedy, one of the concurrent millions happening throughout Germany.
She spent much of the summer of 1938 at the cabin with her family, and that was the place they spoke freely. Nowhere else was safe. Outwardly, Thomas Gerber was a loyal citizen, and although not a committed Nazi by any means, he paid his dues in terms of both money and respect to the party. Resistance was pointless—it would only mean enduring even closer scrutiny and possibly jail time. His responsibility was to his family, and some futile show of rebellion would only exacerbate their problems. Some family friends expressed the same views in surreptitious whispers. Not everyone subscribed to the Nazi ways, but no one spoke out. Those who didn’t agree with the National Socialists went about their daily business just as Thomas and Franka did. They tried to live independently from a regime that viewed independence as dangerous. They knew that punishment awaited any cross word. Hitler himself had stated, “Everyone must know that if he raises his hand to strike at the state, then certain death will be his lot.” There was nothing to do. All intolerance was internalized. Franka learned to maintain her composure outwardly while screaming inside. But her complacence was eating away at her. The brave words that she and her father spoke behind closed doors were just that—words. When she put it to him that they should try to execute some kind of change, he laughed in her face.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “The Nazis are nothing if not meticulous, and while they may be uneducated and backward, they have an innate talent for propaganda and suppression. The system they have set up is perfect in its dysfunctional functionality. Everyone is a spy. I could count on one hand the people I can trust in this entire world now.”
“But what use are we, then? Surely there is something we can accomplish, no matter how small.”
“Nothing good can come of protest. The notion of free speech is as dead as the kaiser. How can we accomplish anything when even publicly disagreeing with any decision the führer passes down is a treasonous offense? Last week a man was jailed for two years for refuting the notion of expelling all Jewish children from school. Two years!”
Seeing his daughter’s downcast face, he went on. “I’m proud of you for wanting to fight, Franka. But the best thing to do is just hold on. The National Socialists are not going to last forever. They’re steering us toward war. It’s as inevitable as the sun coming in the morning, or the dark at night. It’s going to take a lot to oust them, but they will lose in the end. And when they do, our victory will be our survival. As long as we remain true to ourselves and don’t let them scar our souls, then we will have won.”
“But at what cost, Father?” Franka shook her head. “I’m tired of feeling afraid all the time.”
“We will get through this, as a family. I promise you. Your mother is watching over us every day.”
Franka wanted to agree with him but didn’t feel her mother’s presence in her life anymore. The memories were slipping through her fingers.
The facade of Nazi civility crumbled when they unleashed their attack dogs on Kristallnacht. They used the murder of a German diplomat by a seventeen-year-old Jewish boy to unleash the full pent-up rage of their thugs. The Propaganda Ministry organized a series of demonstrations that spread throughout the country like a disease. From the roof of her house, Franka watched with growing horror the mobs and storm troopers attacking Jewish-owned businesses. Almost every local Nazi turned out to throw bricks or firebombs, to intimidate or even to kill. And she saw Daniel, a swastika on his arm, directing the mob into Greenberg’s bakery. Herr Greenberg was dragged onto the street and beaten until his body went still.