Chocolate Cake With Hitler (5 page)

Mr. Speer didn’t look angry now. But he looked tired. Everybody looks tired. The bare light bulbs turn skin a yellowish grey.

“Is Grete here?” Hedda asked. Grete Speer is one of Hedda’s best friends. They used to play together all the time before the Speers sold their house on Swan Island.

“No, I’m afraid not, I’ve come on my own.”

“Where is she?” asked Hedda.

“Oh, in the mountains, they’re all there with their mummy. So, do you have any paintings to show me?”

“Are they going to come here?”

“Ah, no. No. I don’t think so. Little Ernst isn’t very well, so they can’t really go anywhere for a bit. Have you done any pictures of those lovely daffodils?”

I went to get our pile of drawings and paintings
from the bedroom, but by the time I got back Mr. Speer had gone. Apparently he’d been called through for a meeting with Uncle Leader. I didn’t see him again, but in the evening I heard him outside our door with Papa.

“I had to come,” I heard Mr. Speer say. “I had to see him one last time. He’s looking tired. It’s all over for him. But it’s different for you. Your family. It’s still
possible
to leave.”

“We are staying with our Leader to the end,” Papa replied.

“I’d like to talk to Magda.”

“Indeed. I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need.”

“No, really, I’ll come.”

I heard them knock on Mummy’s door.

Afterwards Papa came to see us. He told us that Mr. Speer is leaving tonight.

“Can we go with him?” I asked.

“No, Helga. We’re staying here till the war’s over. It’s the best place for us.” 

1939

We’re in Berlin. Nanny has put us to bed and Mummy has kissed us goodnight and turned out the light. Suddenly there’s the sound of doors slamming. Mummy shouting, “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re asleep.” Papa bursts into the room. “Helga, wake up! I’ve got
something
to show you.” He picks me up. His coat is cold from the outside air. He carries me in my blanket downstairs, places me down on the sofa and goes to fetch the others. There’s a man I don’t know setting up a projector. Mummy is at the bottom of the stairs. “Josef, you’re crazy. They’ll be exhausted tomorrow! Helga’s only just getting over her sore throat. You’ll make her ill! And it won’t be you dealing with all the tantrums tomorrow!”

Once we’re all down, Papa squeezes into the middle of us and the man starts the film. It’s the story of Snow White. It’s in English but it’s quite easy to understand if you know the basic story. It’s not like any other film I’ve ever seen – it’s a cartoon but it’s very, very long and it’s in colour. It’s amazing. The Wicked Queen is so spooky and Snow White is so beautiful. It’s a bit different from the fairy story because Snow White comes back to life when the Prince kisses her, and they missed out the ending where the Wicked Queen
dances
to death in red-hot shoes. It’s an American film, but the original story is German. Papa says that at the
moment the Americans are the best film-makers in the world but in ten years’ time Germany will have
overtaken
them.

Later that year I had an operation which was supposed to stop me having so many sore throats. I remember getting ready to go to hospital. Mummy had bought me a little red suitcase, and a new nightdress, and a special bag for my toothbrush and flannel.

It was so exciting to be doing something just for me – none of the others were coming – and it was a really grown-up thing to do – Mummy and Papa often went to hospital, but none of us children had ever been to one except to be born, which obviously we couldn’t remember. Me and Mummy got into the back of the car. Everything seemed particularly clear that day. The smell of the leather. The smell of her scent. She held my hand tightly and her rings dug into my fingers but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to let go of her lovely big safe hands.

As we went through the hospital doors we were immediately hit by the smell of disinfectant. Everything was black and white: the chequered floor tiles; the white sheets and black blinds; the nurses’ black dresses and white aprons. We went up a big staircase to a small room with just one high metal bed and a little cupboard. Mummy helped me unpack my bag and
then I had to take my clothes off and put on what they called a gown – like a stiff back-to-front cloak – which was a bit disappointing because I was looking forward to putting on my new nightie. Mummy was very smiley and chatty with the nurses, admiring everything – the good-quality linen, the height of the bed, the view from the window – “Oh look at the horse chestnuts!” – the sunshine – “Aren’t we lucky!”

Mummy being so bright made me feel nervous. The doctor was a serious-looking man with little round glasses like Mr. Himmler. He didn’t respond to Mummy’s horse chestnut and lovely day comments. He looked at me intently, “You’re just going to have a little injection to put you to sleep. You won’t feel anything when we do the operation.” Mummy squeezed one hand. The doctor took a firm grip of the other one. Suddenly I felt really scared – what if I was going to die? “Just a little scratch. There. Start counting to ten.”

It was too late. One. Mummy’s face dividing into squares. I didn’t like this. Two. The doctor’s glasses multiplying into bubbles. I never reached three. The next thing was a sudden sense of being awake and then opening my eyes and quickly closing them again against the bright light. A voice I didn’t recognise was saying “Hello, Helga, hello, Helga,” over and over again. Slowly I hauled myself up to the surface.

After the operation Granny B. looked after me at Swan Island. Granny B. is short for Granny Behrend.
That was the name she was born with, and she’s gone back to it after getting divorced twice.

I lay with my feet up in a big deckchair and ate jelly and ice cream while Granny B. told me stories about when she was a chambermaid in a big hotel and how she had to get up in the dark and wash in cold water and then light the fires and heat the water for all the guests. “You don’t know how lucky you are, young lady, sunning yourself in the lap of luxury.”

I loved listening to Granny B.’s stories. Her kind voice kept up a soothing, steady rhythm which made everything seem alright. At some point that changed, but much later.

“When I was a child my family were very poor. My father died when I was about three years old, and my older sister must have been seven. My mother took in laundry and our rooms always smelt so wonderful, of soda flakes and hot irons. I remember when I was very young I would sit under the table, white sheets draped down the sides, as my mother pressed and ironed, and I would imagine I was in a snow castle.

“As soon as I was old enough, I think at about
fourteen
, I went to work as a maid for a large family who lived in a beautiful house on Bulow Strasse. My room was in the attic and I shared it with two other maids. One was a lady’s maid, one was a kitchen maid and I was a chambermaid. In winter I was the first to rise, to clean out the fireplaces and light the day’s fires. I was
always afraid of oversleeping and I would lie in bed counting the chime of the church bells every hour.

“Your grandfather was a visitor to the house. He was a very elegant man, and very educated, a doctor of engineering. Immaculately dressed. I was particularly impressed that he wore a monocle in his left eye – all us girls considered a monocle to be a real mark of distinction.

“Of course, he travelled a great deal and when your mother was born he was living in Belgium. As you know he was a very generous man and for the first few years of your mother’s life he supported us. I didn’t have to work, I was able to look after your mother and we were very, very happy. She was a beautiful little girl with golden hair and big blue eyes. And very bright. I was so proud of her.

“It all came to an end when your mother was about five. I remember receiving the letter. Seeing the familiar handwriting, the thick cream envelope, the black ink, I expected it to contain, as usual, a generous cheque. But there was only a letter – thanking me for giving Magda such a good start in life. But now, the letter said, she was old enough to start her serious education and he had made arrangements for her to go to a convent school in Brussels. Would I please put her on such and such a train on such and such a day. From now on she would be his responsibility and I would be free to return to work.

“I felt sick. I remember just sinking down to the floor. I couldn’t believe it. My beautiful girl was going to be taken away. And I had no choice. Without the money from your Grandpa Ritschel, there was no way I could afford to keep her. I read his words again and again: ‘A good education will give our daughter the best chance in life. I know you would not wish to deprive her of this opportunity.’

“Anyway, the day came. I dressed her up warmly. Packed her food for the journey. I made a sign and hung it around her neck. Magda Behrend, Brussels. My name. He gave her money and education but not his name, not until later.

“I took her to the station. I told her she was going to see her father, and that I would see her soon. I couldn’t bear to wave her off. I gave her to the guard, and he promised to find her a good seat, beside the window. She had been full of excitement that morning. Unable to eat her breakfast. But now she suddenly looked
fragile
, so tiny beside the burly guard. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want her to see me crying.

“I didn’t see her again for two years. And it was much longer than that before I knew about her journey. I had given her a basket of food – apples and porridge and milk. I always insisted that she drink milk, because she was a skinny little girl and she needed building up. But she never liked her milk and apparently as soon as the train left the station she took the lid off the container
and hurled the milk out of the window. It left a white streak which stayed there for the rest of the journey. If only I’d known that, I would have known she was alright, my brave little girl.

“Of course, I missed her terribly. And looking back I think I made a terrible mistake. I should have hidden my grief from Grandpa Ritschel, but I was desperate. I wrote to him almost every day, begging him to let me know where my little girl was. He wouldn’t tell me the name of the convent. He thought I was going to steal her away. It was Grandpa Friedlander who made it
possible
for me to find my little girl again.”

But I never met Grandpa Friedlander – he moved away before I was born. I don’t know where.

It is only Grandpa Ritschel that I can remember. I was eight when he died. He used to send us little parcels of milk chocolate bars and pocket money. I
remember
him coming to tea in Berlin. It was a warm day and tea was served in the garden. He was very tall and he wore a straw hat, which he took off to eat. He told us about people in India who believe that we have many lives and that when we die we come back as someone or something else. He said he wanted to come back as an eagle. Mummy says he probably did.

Anyway, to keep herself busy, when she was missing Mummy so much, Granny B. got a job in a smart hotel. It was there that she met, and married, Grandpa Friedlander – he was the manager. He was a very kind
boss, even though he was Jewish, and particularly kind to her. “Both my husbands were real gentleman,” Granny B. always says.

Work at the hotel was very hard, the hours were very long, but at the end of the evening, when they finally went off duty, Granny B. and Grandpa Friedlander would go dancing.

“He was a beautiful dancer. For an hour or two I would forget my unhappiness. But it always came back and of course, Grandpa Friedlander realised. I
remember
the day I poured out my heart to him. We were walking around the lake at the zoo and I told him the story of your mother and how she had been taken from me. He didn’t say anything at first. That was his way. He held my hand, and we walked and I cried. I don’t think he had any words of comfort for me that day. But he took his time and quietly thought about it. A few days later, he had a plan. He would write to Grandpa Ritschel as my husband. He would give his assurance, man to man, that we would not take Magda away from him, nor would we deprive her of an
education
, but that if he would allow us to know where she was, we would move to Belgium, so that she could enjoy the love of both her parents.

“It was a brilliant plan. And he wrote a wonderful letter, full of confidence. He did not beg; he made a proposal. We posted the letter and we waited. I could hardly bear it. I was a bag of nerves, dying to hear
the response. At last it came. Grandpa Ritschel agreed. If we moved to Belgium, he would let us know which school Magda was attending.

“I will never forget the day I saw my Magda again. The convent was a forbidding building. Huge. Grey stone. Pillars and columns. I immediately knew it was the wrong place for her. A nun opened the door and led us silently up a great wooden staircase to the Mother Superior’s office. Your mother was waiting for us there and she was as thin as a stick. Instinctively, I rushed over to hug her but she shrunk back – and that broke my heart. She had been so starved of love in that cold, hard convent that she’d forgotten how to hug and be hugged. And then all she said, in a small voice was ‘
Bonjour, Madame. Bonjour, Monsieur
.’

“I had been dreaming of taking her in my arms and holding her, but I felt frozen.

“The Mother Superior invited us to sit down. She remained in the room. I immediately began to speak in German, telling Magda how I loved her, how much I missed her. Asking her how she was, how she found the convent. I probably burbled. The Mother Superior coughed. Magda remained silent.

“‘All the girls speak French here.’ The Mother Superior spoke hesitant German with a strong French accent. ‘I think you will find that Magda has forgotten the language of her childhood.’