Letter from a Stranger (37 page)

Arabella worried about her. She was unusually tense, anxious when Irina was away. Taking chances, she would mutter to herself. Doing God knows what. Arabella was schooling me in English literature. My mother had always loved books and reading. She had encouraged me. Over these last months I have read many stories by Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, and Shakespeare’s plays. Arabella also introduced me to her own favorites, the Brontë sisters, who had lived in Yorkshire in the nineteenth century.

Irina focused on geography. Gretchen invited me to join the children when she taught them mathematics and gave them painting lessons. She was a talented artist. She encouraged me to work at my art. She thought I had a good eye and a great sense of color. They all encouraged me. They wanted the best for me.

There were times when I wanted to go to Berlin with Irina. She refused to take me. She said it was safer here in the country. At the Schloss. I realized she was right. But I still longed to go to the city I had always loved.

I had just finished working on an essay about Emily Brontë and
Wuthering Heights
when Gretchen came into the library. She asked me to go for a walk. Suggested we take our sketchbooks with us. I agreed. It was such a lovely day for sitting in the sun, drawing.

Princess Irina had instituted a rule when we had returned to the Schloss last December. She insisted on knowing where everyone was when she was in charge. When the von Wittingens were away. I found her in the small study. Asked her if I could go sketching with Gretchen. She said, All right, but please come back in time for tea. I promised we would.

Gretchen and I walked down to the forests. There was a secluded glade near a small lake where we often sketched. We set ourselves up on our folding stools and were soon at work.

The sudden roar of motorcycles invaded the peacefulness, brought our heads up. Startled, we stared at each other. Gretchen exclaimed, I think there are trespassers on the estate. I nodded. Glanced around nervously. So did she. I was instantly on guard. Fully alert. Concerned. Wondering if the motorcycles spelled trouble.

A moment later two soldiers in the field-gray uniforms of the Wehrmacht came rolling down the dirt track on their motorcycles. They saw us, glanced at us, drove on. But a moment later they came roaring back, and braked. Instantly, I stood up. Nervous. Ready to flee. They were both smiling. Looked harmless enough. But instinctively I knew they were not. One of them said, Hello girls, hello there!

Gretchen was still seated. She said, What are you doing here? This is private property. So what? the other soldier retorted, grinning. You are trespassing. Leave this estate at once, she ordered.

I said, Come on, let’s go. I began to edge away. Gretchen sat on the stool as if frozen there. Let’s go! I hissed. I was filling with dread. Go where? the other soldier said, and got off his motorcycle. He walked over to me. I took a step back. He grabbed me. Not so fast, blondie, he whispered, pulling me closer, staring into my face. I struggled with him. Fought him. Protested. Shouted at him. He held me tighter in his grip. Laughed in my face. He had been drinking. There was the smell of liquor on his breath. I kicked him on the shin. Pounded my fist on his shoulder.

I must have hurt him. He suddenly let go of me. I ran. Gretchen was running too. Unfortunately she tripped. Fell to the ground. I turned back. Helped her to her feet. I felt a hard blow on the back of my neck. I was felled to the ground. The soldier who had called me blondie pulled me by my arms, dragged me closer to the lake. Was he going to drown me?

Run, run, I shouted to Gretchen. She tried to do so. But she was obviously hurt. The last I saw of her she was being thrown down by the younger soldier. She was fighting. Screaming.

I could not move. I was pinned down. He began to slap my face. I managed to claw his cheek. Blood spurted. He yelped. Angry, he hit me harder. Then he punched me in the face with his fist. Like a boxer. He grabbed my blouse, ripped it down the front. Suddenly he slid on top of me. I couldn’t push him off. He was far too heavy. I was reeling from the blows. Dazed. Helpless. I screamed. He covered my mouth with his hand. I couldn’t breathe. I thought he was going to kill me. He didn’t. He raped me instead. Violently so.

Unexpectedly he was suddenly finished with me. I felt a lessening of his weight. I opened my eyes. He was standing, buttoning his trousers, straightening his jacket. He walked away nonchalantly without a backward glance.

I remained afraid. I decided it was wisest to play dead. I lay still. I hurt all over. My face felt raw. It was stinging. I dared not touch it.

He was suddenly shouting for the other soldier. Heinrich! Heinrich! Let’s get going! There was no response. Where
was
the other one? What had he done to Gretchen? Oh my God, was she still alive? Or had he killed her?

I heard the sound of a motorcycle revving. I pushed myself up. The soldier who raped me was smoking a cigarette. Preparing to leave. Then I saw his partner in crime. Crossing the dirt road, buttoning his jacket, grinning. He got onto his motorcycle. They roared off together. Shouting at the top of their lungs:
Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Long live the Third Reich! A thousand years! The Third Reich forever!

I tried to get up. I thought I had been ripped open. I could barely walk. There was blood on my skirt, on my blouse. I stumbled away from the lake. Slowly I made it to the glade. There was no sign of Gretchen. Only two overturned folding stools. Sketchbooks on the ground.

The soldier had walked over from the other side of the dirt track. I limped across. Gretchen must be somewhere there. No sign of her. Then I heard a low moaning. I managed to make it up a short incline. I spotted her lying in a dell below me. I knew I couldn’t walk down. I sat on the ground, slithered down into the dell on my bottom. Her face was a bloody mess. Her skirt was around her waist. There was blood on her legs. I touched her hand. She trembled. Afraid. It’s me, I whispered. She opened her eyes. Tried to speak. I leaned closer. I can’t move you. I’m going for help. She looked scared. I said, They’ve gone. Just stay still. I’ll be back.

I crawled out of the dell, pulling myself up by clutching at grass and roots. Slowly I made it back to the Schloss. I had taken the path that led me to the back of the house. Just as I arrived at the kitchen door, it flew open. It was Lotte, the cook, putting garbage into the dustbin. When she saw me she cried, Oh my God! Gabri! Gabri! What has happened to you? She rushed to me, put an arm around me, helped me into the kitchen. Trudi, the maid, screamed when she saw me. Stop it! Shut up! Lotte shouted at her. Go and fetch Princess Irina, she instructed.

Lotte helped me to a chair. I told her Gretchen was outside. Injured. Badly injured, I thought to add. At this moment Princess Irina came rushing into the kitchen, looking alarmed, her face stricken. She was horrified when she saw the state I was in. I told her what had happened with the two soldiers. I said we had been raped, Gretchen was still outside. That she would have to be carried back to the Schloss.

Irina was in a fury. But she controlled herself, sent Trudi to find the gardener, Klaus. His hut was in the wood across the backyard. She dispatched Giselle to the caretaker’s cottage at the main gate, told her to bring the caretaker, Stefan, at once.

While the maids were gone, Irina took a wet towel and gently wiped my face. She began to ask me more questions, but then Stefan, the caretaker, was suddenly there. A moment later Klaus, the gardener, arrived. I insisted on taking them to Gretchen. The princess came with us. She was carrying one of Kurt’s shotguns. I was certain she knew how to use it. Lotte stayed in the kitchen. Boiling water, taking out towels, first-aid kits, herbal medicines of her own concoction.

Klaus, the gardener, was strong. He brought Gretchen back to the Schloss. He carried her in his arms like a baby. He was angry. Stefan, the caretaker, was equally as furious about the soldiers. And angry with himself. How had he not heard our screams? I told him we were deep in the forest. Too far away from the gatehouse.

The princess asked him how the soldiers could enter the estate without him knowing. He had no answer. Neither did the gardener. Klaus said we must put a fence around the edges of the estate. A high barbed-wire fence, the princess added. I will tell Prince von Wittingen when he returns from Switzerland.

Klaus carried Gretchen up to her room. Princess Irina helped me get to mine. She tended to my wounds. Lotte and Trudi cared for Gretchen. Once she had helped me the princess phoned the doctor in the village. He arrived fifteen minutes later. He examined us, treated our wounds with salves, said he would return the next day. He, too, was flabbergasted by this attack, and outraged.

When Arabella returned from Berlin that night she was stupefied. How could this have happened here? This was her home. The family had lived here for centuries. The von Wittingens were prominent landowners, had position. Standing. That this had happened alarmed her.

It’s the times we live in, Irina said. We thought we were safe here. But are we? I don’t think so. This government is run by criminals, gangsters. Most of the ordinary soldiers are ignorant louts, thugs. We live under the rule of evildoers. At the mercy of dangerous men. Men without principles or humanity.

I thought of her words that night in bed. I usually cried myself to sleep. Thinking about my family. I did so again. But tonight I cried because I’d been raped. I felt violated, humiliated, dirty. My body ached all over. I was sore. My face had been punched. It was cut and bruised. I was worried that the soldier had made me pregnant. What would I do? How could I have a baby at fourteen? How would I bring it up? I had no money. I had nothing. I was alone in the world.

But the following morning I knew I had my two loyal princesses. They were both concerned for me. They talked to me about my rape, endeavored to counsel me. They were soothing, loving, understanding. They helped me to feel better. They told me they would always be there for me. I believed them. I knew they were true blue. My mother had told me they were.

Justine put the book down and leaned back against the pillows. She was overwhelmed by emotions, filled with sorrow. The knowledge that Gabriele had been raped at such a young age affected her deeply. She could hardly bear to think about it. Had Gran been pregnant? If so, what did she do? Had she had a child? So many questions filled her head, and she wanted to know the answers. But she knew she had to get some sleep. She turned off the light and closed her eyes. Sleep evaded her. She was unable to get those violent images of the rape out of her head.

Forty-two

Light drifting in through the gauzy curtains awakened Justine early. She had been so exhausted the night before she had forgotten to close the blinds.

Glancing at the bedside clock, she saw that it was only five. When she noticed the leather-bound book on the other side of the bed, she roused herself. She knew she had to keep reading. But first, she needed a cup of coffee.

There was no one else up. She found the kitchen deserted when she went downstairs. Ayce and Suna were nowhere in sight. After preparing the coffee, she made herself a slice of toast; it was a meager breakfast but it was all she wanted.

Fifteen minutes later she was back in the bedroom, propped up against the pillows, reading
Fragments of a Life.

BERLIN

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939

The first day of September was a bad day for Irina. A day of doom, she called it. Germany was at war. In a sudden lightning strike at dawn, Hitler had attacked Poland. By land and air. The Poles were unprepared for the invasion, according to Irina. She had stayed glued to the BBC broadcast from London. She listened to the radio all the time. So did many Berliners. Everyone believed it was the best source of genuine news.

The mightiest army ever created in the twentieth century had been hurled at them, Irina had explained to me. She said the Poles were finished. They had not had the armor, the guns, or the planes to defend themselves.

She had cried for hours ever since she had heard this news about the mighty and overwhelming invasion. She continued to weep, her head bent close to the radio. The BBC nine o’clock evening news had just started.

We lived alone at the house on the Lützowufer. Except for Hedy, the cook, and the young maid, Angelika. Walther, the butler, had joined the Luftwaffe. Princess Natalie and the Herr Baron had remained in Baden-Baden.

Hedy and Angelika were both off today. I had attempted to get Irina to eat. But she would not. We had ration stamps. Some foods were scarce. But the local stores opened daily. Even if the shelves were empty. I had been to the bakery. I was too late. All the bread was gone. There was nothing at the dairy. Most of the other stores had only meager supplies.

I had left Irina listening to the radio. In the kitchen I made tea, added lemon and the last spoonful of sugar, poured the tea into two glasses. She liked hers in a glass.

When I returned to the library Irina had stopped crying. She was calmer. I offered her the tea. She took a glass. Thanked me. I’m sorry, Gabri, she murmured. I let my grief get the better of me. I believe most of my dearest friends in Warsaw are going to die. If they’re not already dead.

Perhaps they’ve been lucky, I murmured. I wanted to cheer her up. Perhaps, she agreed. But only for a short while, she then said, Hitler will get them in the end. His hatred for the Poles is a well-known fact. He thinks of them as
Untermenschen.
I gaped at her. He thinks they are subhumans? I gasped. I was staggered by this statement.