Letter from a Stranger (40 page)

We were being bombed by the Royal Air Force. Sporadically. We knew worse was to come. None of us cared. We welcomed it. The RAF would be our saviors. They had beaten the Luftwaffe in 1940 in the Battle of Britain. Churchill called it Their Finest Hour. Irina and I cheered when the Allies won.

Renata came and joined us. And I was allowed a glass of champagne when the toast to Winston Churchill was given. That was another ritual these days. Dieter Müller, Sigmund, and Irina were talking near the window. Prince Kurt was in deep conversation with Reinhard. It was usually like this. I was now certain they were all in the same resistance group. It scared me. But I knew I couldn’t influence her. She was stubborn. And a fighter.

Eventually we went in for lunch. I smiled to myself when I saw that the first course was Parisian eggs. After that we had rabbit and vegetable stew. Followed by a lettuce salad. Renata had made an apple pie. I knew all of this produce had been grown and caught on the estate.

Over lunch there was discreet conversation about the angry generals who were virulently anti-Nazi and plotting to overthrow the Führer. I heard that name again: Claus von Stauffenberg. I wondered who he was.

It was Prince Kurt who drove us back to Berlin. Dieter Müller was going to Potsdam. Irina sat up front with the prince. I sat in the back, closing my ears to their chatter. I did not want to know about the schemes they were hatching. I was growing more nervous by the day.

It was three weeks later that Irina and I went out to the von Tiegals’ Schloss again. We were taken there by Dieter Müller. He was as concerned as Irina about them.

Irina had telephoned to thank them for lunch, but since then we had not heard a word. And their phone just rang and rang. No one answered. We had not been able to go to their Schloss before. Princess Irina had been ill with bronchitis. She was still not well. But she insisted on going with Dieter. There was no one at the Schloss when we arrived. Only an old housekeeper. She told us the Count and Countess von Tiegal had gone to Berlin. A few days before. With the Westheims.

Immediately we returned to Berlin. We did not find them. Nor the Westheims. The four of them had vanished into thin air. They were never seen again.

Dieter Müller was certain that they had been taken by the Gestapo. Sent to the camps. The von Tiegals are not Jewish, Irina pointed out. But they harbored Jews, Dieter reminded her. They gave them a safe haven. And that was the truth.

Irina and I were devastated. We had no option but to believe Dieter. It was the only theory that made any sense. I wept often when I thought of Mummy, Ursula, and Renata. The three Roedean girls in concentration camps. Were they together? How could I know? I was relieved Arabella was safe in Zurich. I wished this war would end.

BERLIN

JANUARY 29, 1942

We welcomed the drone of the RAF planes as they flew over Berlin every night. Dropping bombs. The city had become a pile of rubble in some areas. Irina and I were afraid. But at the same time we were jubilant. We sat huddled together in our air-raid shelter. The Herr Baron had built it in the cellar of the house on the Lützowufer. We were thankful he had had the foresight. We were relatively comfortable. We had blankets and pillows. The baron had installed a small toilet and a shower. Irina’s stepfather had even put in a phone. These days it didn’t always work. But sometimes it did. When the air raids were over we came out of the cellar and lived in the house again. But one night we were unable to do that. The lovely old house took a hit. The whole of the Lützowufer did. Fortunately there was an outside door to the cellar. Eventually we were able to get it open. As Irina and I scrambled out, climbed over rubble and came up into the street, we saw an indescribable landscape. There was not a building standing. All had been flattened. We are lucky, Irina said as we stood there looking around in astonishment. We are still alive, Gabri. And we haven’t been injured.

We have no conception of what living through a war is like, Justine thought as she closed her grandmother’s book. No idea at all. America has never been invaded. I can’t imagine how Gran survived. What guts it must have taken to do so.

She went downstairs to make herself lemon tea, and she would drink it in the garden. Her Gran’s beautiful garden, which was a magnificent tribute to her miraculous survival. Her personal triumph, in a sense.

Forty-five

Later that same morning Justine settled herself in the chair in her bedroom. She was already aware that she did not have much more of her grandmother’s leather-bound book to read. She wanted to finish it by tonight if she could. Opening it, she began to read eagerly. Yet at the back of her mind there was a kernel of apprehension about what she might soon discover. These pages had been full of shocks and surprises.

BERLIN

MARCH 31, 1945

We lived in a hole in the ground, my lovely Russian princess and I. The hole was in a crater. To reach our hole we had to step into the crater. We then needed to maneuver ourselves down a half-shattered flight of steps with edges like jagged teeth. The steps stopped at another, smaller hole. We had covered it with pieces of wood. These we’d nailed together. Just beyond was a heavy oak door banded with iron. It was strong. It could be securely locked. Before the house had been bombed the steps had led directly from the Herr Baron’s kitchen to the wine cellar. The other end of the cellar had been used as a vault. It had housed valuable silver, antiques, and priceless porcelain. Long since shipped to Baden-Baden. With most of the wine.

This then was our home. My lovely princess said we were like the troglodytes of Tunisia who inhabited caves. And weren’t we the luckiest women in Berlin? I laughed. She enjoyed making such comments. Telling jokes to cheer me up.

We had been “troglodytes” for four years. Ever since the house on the Lützowufer had been hit by an RAF bomb and destroyed. The whole street had been badly damaged. But we had lived. Miraculously.

Irina and I believed the Allies would soon liberate us. The war would be over in a few weeks. Hitler’s ridiculous war that had killed millions. Shattered cities. Ruined countries. Taken its toll on people. Created chaos in the world. And what for?

Hitler said the Third Reich would last a thousand years, Irina remarked to me the other day. He was wrong, wasn’t he? It will be finished in a few weeks. In fact, it’s finished now. We have the last laugh, Gabri. I agreed with her.

When the Herr Baron had created the air-raid shelter in 1940 he had added a few essentials. A toilet and a shower. The telephone and radio. It had been furnished with simple things. A large sofa, armchairs, several chests. The big cupboards in the old silver vault were used to house our possessions. Such as they were. The sofa was my bed at night. Princess Irina slept on a narrow cot in the old vault adjoining the wine cellar.

Our years in the cellar had not been easy. The space was cramped, uncomfortable, and at times airless. But the brick walls and concrete floor had kept it dry. Free of damp. Irina and I were scrupulously neat. We gave each other as much privacy as possible. We were compatible. We laughed a lot. She had a great sense of humor. So did I. This helped us. It got us through the rough patches.

We were luckier than most. These days many Berliners carried their belongings in paper bags. People lived in hideous conditions. Wherever they could. In amongst the piles of rubbish. In the underground stations. Under public buildings. In alleyways barricaded by garbage bins. Some like us had the cellars of their ruined homes to camp in. We knew a local man who lived in a packing case. Another in a hole in the ground topped by a sheet of metal.

The air raids were now continuous. Nonstop. Ever since the Americans had entered the war. Their bombers flew over the city every morning. At exactly nine o’clock. Then at noon. The RAF came speeding in at night to bomb us. There had been nearly three hundred Allied raids up to now. The city was battered. Filled with high mountains of rubble. Bomb craters. Shattered buildings. Iron girders hanging like bits of floating ribbon from their crumbling walls. There was dust everywhere. In the air. On our clothes. On our skin. On everyone.

The casualties had been enormous. Thousands of people had been killed. Or seriously injured. Hospitals were filled to overflowing. There was nowhere to bury the dead. Bodies were rotting under debris for days on end. Fires constantly broke out. Pipes kept bursting. Spewing fountains of water. At any time a gas line might blow. And another fire would ignite and explode. Lighting up the sky. It was dangerous out there.

Yet somehow this city had managed to function amongst the ruins. So had the Berliners. The police were on duty every day. The mail was delivered. If the house, building, or office block remained standing. Food shops opened daily. But produce was scarce. The underground trains still ran. Telephone and telegraph services were operating. Unbelievably, my father’s orchestra, the Berlin Philharmonic, continued to play. People attended the concerts. They went to the theater. To the cinema. To the few good bars and restaurants that were open. They read the daily newspapers. They met their friends for coffee.

Lately fear had become a most palpable thing. Fear of the Russian Army. We were surrounded. By British, American, and Russian troops. Berlin was about to fall. Irina and I prayed the Allied armies would reach us first. So did every Berliner. Some women had even planned their suicides should the Russians enter the city ahead of the Allies.

It was like a spring day. We decided to venture out. We must attempt to find food. Prince Kurt and Dieter Müller were coming to visit. We left the cellar at ten o’clock. We had been waiting for the Americans to bomb us at nine. But there was no raid. Perhaps it would be at noon. We would deal with that if it happened. Dodge the bombs. Get home.

Irina locked the door with the big iron key. Cautiously she climbed the shattered steps. I followed moving just as carefully.

It was a lovely day. Sunny. Blue skies. But a chill in the air. Fortunately there was no wind. The level of dust was low. We were in luck. For once there were a few fresh loaves at the bakery. We found four eggs, milk, and a piece of cheese at the dairy. Plus a small slab of precious butter. We had enough food stamps to cover these purchases. And some left over for a bottle of fruit. We were happy when we left the dairy.

We walked toward the Tiergartenstrasse. Irina seemed suddenly sad. This street was filled with memories for her. The Westheims had lived here. She had spent much time with them. In their beautiful house. So had my parents. The house was gone. Blown to smithereens. That had all been another time. Another safer world.

We crossed to the Tiergarten. I found my heart clenching as I thought of my mother. She had loved this park. Once it had been filled with trees. They had all been cut down. By the Berliners. They had needed firewood in winter. It had been bombed many times. The tree stumps were like strange charred objects in a blighted land.

The flower vendors were out on the street corners. The sight of them hawking their spring blooms created a curious air of normality. When I spotted the vendors I was carried back to my childhood. My mother had always bought little bouquets from them. To cheer Irina I went and bought her a bunch of flowers. This gesture made her smile again.

We hurried home to our little abode, as Irina called it. Once there I announced I would make an omelette for supper. If Prince Kurt and Dieter Müller were hungry. She smiled at me in her loving way. Thank you for the flowers, Gabri, will you put them in water, please? I did so. We had no vase. Only an old jam jar. But they looked nice enough.

I turned around. To put the flowers on the little table. Irina was looking at me thoughtfully. Just imagine, Gabriele, you will be twenty-one in June. Whatever has happened to the time?

We’ve been busy keeping ourselves alive, I exclaimed. We both laughed. We were feeling better. We were always refreshed when we had been out of the hole. In the city. Knowing other people were still around.

Kurt arrived first. Bringing with him a huge paper bag. In it were two bottles of Rhine wine. And a small bottle of cognac. The princess was surprised. And grateful. These little treats helped us get through the troubled days and nights. The prince told us he had been in Essen. At the Krupp factories. Then traveling for months on end. When Dieter Müller arrived he also came bearing gifts. Four sausages in a paper bag and a jar of mustard. We can have a veritable banquet, Irina said, after thanking him.

We all had a glass of wine. Exchanged what little news we had. Irina and I cooked the sausages. On our little stove. We served them with fresh bread and butter. And the mustard. We each had a plate on our knee. Picnic style. The sausages, the fresh bread and butter were a real treat. Next Irina served the lettuce salad and cheese. After that we declined the bottled fruit. None of us could eat big meals anymore. We had grown used to meager portions.

Prince Kurt insisted we each have a small glass of cognac after we had eaten. As a digestif, he said, pouring the brandy. Once we had our glasses he sat down on the sofa. Looked pointedly at the princess. And at me. He said, The Russians will be in Berlin in three weeks. The middle of April. You must prepare. Dieter will bring you more food next week. I want you both to remain inside this cellar. Once they’ve infiltrated the city, do not go out. Promise me. Irina. And you too, Gabriele.

We did. She went on, I know everyone expects a sexual assault. This is now a city of women. Except for small boys and old men. All the other men are dead or in the forces. The Russians will rape and loot. But mostly rape. I understand that very well.