Tante Marianne opens the door, tall, slim, wearing an immaculate apron. Her face breaks into the biggest, sweetest smile they have ever seen on anyone. She opens the door wide and then her arms.
“Girls, Girls, what an incredibly happy day! Wait ‘till your father sees you, wait, I just wish I could bring him here this minute!”
She hugs them, swings them around even, calls her own children, ages four and five, and Grandmama!
“Uncle Robert has gone out with Father, but—”
So it is true! Father is here and is safe. The relief is all too much just now.
The table has been set for their dinner in the dining room. An extra leaf is added on, and the table cloth replaced, cutlery added, more glasses.
It looks to them as though they had been expected and their aunt had robbed the pantry of the last precious goodies. The girls observe platters with smoked fish, pickled fish, radishes, hard boiled eggs, cucumbers in sour cream, sliced pickled beets, fresh rolls and butter. There is a bottle of their uncle’s customary Cinzano as well as mineral water and herb tea for the children. Anna and Nadja look at the table and right there, for the first time, they feel pangs of pain, of deep guilt to be so lucky, so fortunate to be here, safe, about to be fed royally, with a promise of an absence of anxiety about food that they cannot remember. And the others back home will be eating boiled potatoes tonight, if they are lucky.
It is all too overwhelming. They have had a bath, washed their hair, changed into clean clothes, but have conveyed little more than a few words of information to say that yes, Mother and Korinna and Foffie were all alive. Grandmama, who has lost her extraordinary, unforgettable house in Hannover and everything in it, sits contented on the sofa, with Anna and Nadja on each side, holding their hands. She looks peaceful, turning from one to the other.
“This is all I need,” she says, “to have my family around me. Safe and sound. Material things mean nothing in the end. And these little ones will learn that too.” There is a commotion at the door.
“Quickly,” says Tante Marianne, “hide in the winter garden.” And they run. They hear their uncle’s voice in the hall.
“Sorry to be late,” he says. “There was a huge detour. They found an unexploded bomb, were evacuating the entire neighbourhood.”
“Doesn’t matter. Robert, Phillip, I have, WE have, the most wonderful surprise!” She whispers in uncle’s ear. And uncle takes over.
“Guess who has come this afternoon? Go into the dining room, Phillip, but first, calm yourself. Calm yourself, Phillip, and look around.”
The girls hide behind the glass door and it is just as well, because their father doesn’t see the shock on their faces when they spot him. He is looking under the tablecloth now, has moved the sofa away from the wall, is impatient to hear, and so they walk out and embrace him, and cry and cry, and so does he. And then they sit around the table, laugh and giggle. And even the little ones are allowed to have a tiny sip of Uncle Robert’s bubbly that he saves for very special occasions. And they giggle even more than the grown-ups and then fall asleep at the table and are carried off to bed by Anna and Nadja, who miss Foffie already.
Until late into the night they sit and talk and talk, answer questions, but they don’t tell everything, have to leave some things for later, and some for never. Anna has yet to discover that the story of the boys and girls on Stolpe Field will haunt her all her life, and that she won’t be able to talk about it. Except with Lilly. Lilly who was there. Father can’t sit still. He paces back and forth as they speak.
Later, they ask how he got out without being caught by the Russians. And father tells how he took his bedraggled unit of veterans, supplied with arms but no ammunition, through the woods, leaving a few of them in each village they passed, with discharge papers and no other orders than to lie low until they had all been taken care of. They could hear the Russians, the artillery, of course, but he knew those woods like his pocket from the old days when he was riding the horse, or exploring with the girls. The T34s didn’t come along until several hours after he and the men had slipped through. Then he doubled back to the highway, trying to return to the family, but the SS had wired the bridges with demolition charges and chased everyone back who attempted to cross. When it looked as though he and his lone remaining companion, a Lieutenant, armed with pistols and no bullets, would be gathered into a hastily assembled unit to guard a flimsy tank barricade, they broke away, and decided to try and escape the imminent encirclement of the city by making their way once again through the familiar woods, heading north. Traveling only by night, hiding in barns by day, they eventually managed to cross the river Elbe. He spares them harrowing details of narrow escapes, of the near drowning when their flimsy boat was pushed away from the shore several times, guns pointed at them by enemy sentries on the other side. They learn about such close calls only years later, when the Lieutenant comes to call on the family.
Still later that evening, Uncle Robert comes upstairs with the toolbox to see about the beds that have just collapsed in a loud crash. His nieces, fourteen and sixteen years old, have been jumping on them like kindergarten kids. To their relief he laughs and Tante Marianne appears in the door grinning.
“Was that fun?” she asks. “Your father has finally gone to sleep,” she says. “It’s about time.”
The next morning they come downstairs from the guest room and find their aunt and a household helper in the kitchen, preparing very small food packages to enclose in a modest sack for Mother. A Berliner, stranded in the neighbourhood, will make his second attempt to cross ‘the green border’ to get home to his family. He has promised to deliver the butter, cheese, bacon and rice. The girls, in turn, have given him tips as to what works and what doesn’t, in the city. The S-Bahn runs on certain lines, so do a few buses. But most of the rolling stock has been destroyed.
The girls eat porridge for breakfast, with butter and brown sugar, as in the old days, and drink tea.
They have all been invited to the house of family friends that evening, friends who want to share in the family celebration. It is almost too much happiness to take in all at once. But they stand at sunset, arms around their father’s shoulder, and feel completely at peace.
He will have to gain some weight, their aunt says every day. Slim to begin with, he has lost thirty-five pounds and it shows in his face.
Late at night, as they return and have gone upstairs, Nadja remembers that she has brought a letter from Mother! It slipped under some of her belongings still in the backpack, and so she goes downstairs now to hand it to Father.
And says good-night.
Grandmama is the only one left at the breakfast table when the girls come down in the morning. They kiss her and pour her tea, and wonder where everybody has gone. Well, Tante Marianne has taken the children to a dental appointment, it seems. (A DENTAL APPOINTMENT? Can this be real? It is.) And Father and Uncle Robert have gone into town to see someone.
When Tante Marianne returns, they gather in the kitchen, talking about Mother.
“Your Mother has done something very strange,” says the aunt.
“She isn’t coping very well,” says Anna, “hasn’t really been coping for quite a long time.”
“I’m aware of that,” says Tante Marianne, “this isn’t anything new.”
“Mother has been through terrible, terrible hell,” Nadja says, “just six weeks ago she thought we were all dying, she wanted to die herself! I don’t think you can ever imagine what it was like for her.”
“And you? Did the Russians -?”
“No, we were lucky, so lucky. They threw me against a big planter, and I hurt my head, but they didn’t, you know, they left me alone. And Anna was able to escape from one and hide at the neighbours’ house. Just Mother.”
“Look, we’ll talk about this tonight, when your Father and Uncle Robert will be back. Let’s save it ‘till then.”
The girls take the little ones out to build another castle on the sand pile.
Anna has spied two bushel baskets of potatoes through the cellar window.
“Do you like potato pancakes?” she asks the wee cousins.
“Yeeeeeees,” comes the answer, “but Robert likes them only made with lots of onions, and WE like them covered with apple sauce.”
“Don’t say ‘Robert’,” warns the big sister, “Grandmama gets upset when you do that.”
“HE doesn’t mind.”
“Just say ‘Dad’, okay?”
Sand in their shoes and hair, their Berlin cousins carry them on their backs for a quick stroll through the woods up the hill. They gallop and they canter until they are all out of breath. They chase butterflies, and pick columbines. And bring them home to Mother.
There is a delicious lentil soup, with frankfurters floating in each plate, and buttered rolls on small plates beside the soup bowls. And there are strawberries. STRAWBERRIES.
The reason Tante Marianne and Uncle Robert have so much to eat in the house is quite simply explained: before their fabrics store was bombed out, they had already moved a fair number of wool, gabardine and linen bolts to their garage, just in case, as well as tulle and silks, buttons, buckles, zippers and accessories of every kind. And now after nightfall come not only the thieves but also — the suppliers! At night people would arrive at their door and bring a smoked ham in exchange for three and a half metres of fine suit fabric, or a duck for a cotton dress for a young girl. Country people always have easier access to food stuffs, even though they are required to deliver most of what they raise to the official distribution centres. So now it continues, the barter system of old.
Tante Marianne believes that those who have must share. Their night watchman was killed in the air raid. Now she sends butter, bread or meat to the family every week.
In the evening, after the children have been bathed and put to bed, a serious-faced group has come together in the living room. No games are on the table today, no glasses. Grandmama has left her knitting in her room.
Father’s eyes are red with fatigue. He looks unshaven.
“Anna, and Nadja,” he begins, “I know that you are aware of how much I love you all, and love your mother, but in the present circumstances I am unable to take care of my family, here or anywhere. I have no income. What’s more, I have no idea when I may be able to realistically count on a new beginning. We are working on solutions, with the help of your Aunt and Uncle, and Grandmother. In the meantime, we believe that you girls should remain here and go back to school as soon as possible. Aunt Marianne and Uncle Robert have generously offered to put us all up until we are able to stand on our own feet again.”
“What about our mother, what about the little ones, Korinna and Foffie, how-?” “We were just coming to that,” says Tante Marianne quickly.
“As soon as the mails starts moving again, we are going to make arrangements to send your mother small parcels of food stuffs each week, as well as some money, so she can pay for the few things to be bought on the ration cards.”
Anna sits with her elbows on the table, hands covering her face.
“I can’t stay here,” she finally says. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. She’s simply overwhelmed. As long as Tatyana was there she had a kind of young sister, a trusted helper. But now she really needs me again. Korinna isn’t even twelve yet. We just have to figure out a better way to cross that border. There has to be another way.”
“I won’t let you go back to that dangerous border situation,” said Father loudly, “It’s out of the question. It’s not worth the risk. I—”
“Your Father has been beside himself in these weeks of uncertainty,” interrupts Grandmama. “You can’t imagine what he went through, believing you might all be dead.”
“And we thought we would never see HIM again. Mother said she was sure the Russians had caught all of his unit and sent them to their death. She was so very happy when the neighbour came and said he had seen you, Father. I just know I have to go home. For now. Maybe I can go back to school there.”
It was decided late that night that Anna would stay until a laissez passer could be obtained from the British Military authorities, who were in charge of this part of the country. Uncle would keep his eyes open.
Tante Marianne was keeping her eyes open as well. She was on the prowl for a pair of fine stockings, fit for a wedding. The bride and groom, he a former mine sweeper, she away in the “Arbeitsdienst”, had never been in the same place long enough to tie the knot. Years ago, they both started working life as young employees at Uncle Robert’s and Tante Marianne’s fabrics store. After weeks of kissing between the gabardine bales and the display box of buttons and buckles, the groom popped the question, presented the ring, and was off the next day to serve ‘our beloved Führer.’ A slim, sleeveless wedding dress was now found, that unfortunately hid Tante’s absolutely magnificent shiny beige silk stockings from the twenties. A treasure.
The big day arrived. Uncle Robert and Tante Marianne were invited, (and had sent a presentable basket with edibles — still a hugely welcome choice). Anna and Nadja stood outside the church with other young people to cheer and throw little flowers in the couple’s path. The bride was tanned, the groom looked flushed, but they displayed nervous smiles for everybody who had come to the small church, overflowing with well-wishers and invited guests, the organ braying, bells tolling and signaling a happy ending, rather than a happy beginning, Anna mused. Oh, the movies, of course.
Then she and Nadja noticed the blood. The bride raised her arm, bouquet in hand, to wave to a friend, and the girls saw a fine red trickle emanating from the bride’s right armpit. In fact, her underarm looked as though the newly-weds had been engaged in a saber fight. The dress had been catching the droplets, but a fine red hue was already curving around to the bodice.
Mystified, they went home. Tante Marianne and Uncle Robert returned three hours later than planned, Uncle singing, Tante laughing. The wounded bride notwithstanding, it had been such enormous fun. Dissolving into uncharacteristic giggles, Tante explained that the bride’s sister, working for the Americans in southern Germany, and a model of sophistication, had persuaded the bride to shave her armpits, the only available tool being a razor blade. The groom would be surprised, the sister had said, and he had been. Not pleasantly, but surprised. The other armpit remained intact, Tante reported, blonde fuzz and all.
Three days later Father returned from a small flea market in a church yard, minus his good watch, but bearing an ancient travel typewriter, named Admiral, plus a little sack with water-colours and two paint brushes.
Anna had been drawing portraits of her siblings in soft pencil since she was ten years old, was always doodling, and painting small images, the stuff of children’s books, and occasionally cartoons.
Now a small table was set up for her in the winter garden and she began creating small items, gift cards, thank you notes, bookmarks and other entirely useless articles, considering the times in which they lived. These were offered for sale at a drug store near the main railroad station, and they sold like the proverbial hotcakes.
When she brought in a fresh batch one day, a lady had just enquired who the artist was, and Anna was promptly introduced.
“I like what I see here,” the lady had said. “This is fresh, appealing work, you know. Would you like to come for some lessons? I teach art, and I wouldn’t charge you much. You could join a small class, if you wish.”
Anna liked the idea so much, she ran all the way up the hill to tell about the offer.
Tante Marianne was at the door.
“Guess who is here?” she said. “Uncle Robert plays cards with some old friends from the tennis club, twice a month. One of them has a surprising idea that will interest you, I think.”
The dining room was very smoky. Around the table sat four rosy-cheeked men in their shirt-sleeves, clutching cards and taking turns slamming something on the table every other moment. Anna and Nadja had never seen their father playing cards. The Berlin household had never contained a deck, let alone two. Yet here he was, with a sly smile on his face, waiting his turn to do something naughty and loving it.
“Come in, come in, Anna,” said Uncle Robert, “this is my wife’s godchild, and my niece.” And then he introduced one of the players, who worked in the regional railroad administration.
Father’s face turned serious and apprehensive.
“So there she is,” said Mr. G., “the other border-crosser. Lucky girls, to have made it. So few people actually get through.” And he beamed at her.
“Shall we finish this hand, and then talk, or?”
“Nono, we can play on later. Just set out what you talked about earlier. It’s so important, we want to all hear it while you’re sober,” said Uncle Robert, sucking on a cigar. Anna sat down, very excited.
“I play with trains,” chuckled Mr. G. “Have you ever visited a railway yard?”
“Yes, I have, in Berlin, not long ago,” said Anna. “It was a kind of garage and supply depot, with water and coal shoots, with a small ramp for freight trains originally.”
“I see. Excellent. Did you ever pay attention to those engines? Really look at them?” he asked. Anna hadn’t that she could remember.
“First, Robert, Phillip, we are not having this conversation. I never said what I am about to tell you, and I wasn’t even here to begin with. Is that clear?”
They nodded and Anna stared at him. Nadja wanted to come into the room but was asked to wait outside.