The Auslander (7 page)

.

CHAPTER 13

Peter's HJ squad marched through a blustery autumn afternoon to the local playing field. Today they were to take part in a boxing tournament. The boys had been drawn against each other beforehand and no match was more keenly anticipated than that between Peter Bruck and Lothar Fleischer.

Fleischer's schoolmates sometimes called him ‘westisch', because he looked like one of the ‘types' shown on the classroom race identification chart. There he was, among the six major categories of Germanic people, alongside the
nordisch
,
fälisch
,
ostbaltisch
,
dinarisch
and
ostisch
. Westisch he was. Dark hair. Thick dark eyebrows on a heavy brow. Oval face. Fleischer liked to think he looked like a boyish version of that American actor Cary Grant. But he kept quiet about it. After all, Grant wasn't German. But what he really wanted to look like was
nordisch
– they all envied the boys who were
nordisch
. That was closest to the Aryan ideal. And no one was envied more than Peter Bruck. Fleischer thought,
How could anyone have all the luck?
He was tall too – Fleischer was just average height. But today they were going to get even.

In the tradition of the
Hitler-Jugend
, the squad linked hands in the centre of the windswept playing field to form a wide circle around the boxers. One of the most senior boys acted as referee. It was a long afternoon, enlivened only by a few cruel mismatches when some of the toughest boys fought the slight and sensitive ones – the ones who usually found refuge from the rougher activities of the HJ in their district choirs and drum and trumpet bands.

Peter and Lothar were scheduled to fight near the end of the tournament and the group was growing restless when they squared up to each other in the fading afternoon light. Peter had been looking forward to this. In the two weeks since their first quarrel Fleischer had kept up a barrage of little digs, determined to never let Peter forget he was a Pole.

Peter had a good eight centimetres in height on Fleischer, but Fleischer had the bulk. He was nearly a year older than Peter – stocky and well developed for his age.

Fleischer started well with a couple of hard punches, but Peter took them in his stride. He had spent his whole life working on the farm – hauling carts full of fodder for the cows, lifting hay bales, scything crops. It made him a formidable opponent. Fleischer landed one or two more blows to Peter's right cheek, but this just spurred him on to fight even harder.

The circle of boys sensed his advantage and cheered wildly. When they grappled together, Peter grabbed Fleischer in an armlock and punched the side of his head until blood splattered over his leather gloves and they were pulled apart. Fleischer slumped to the ground and Peter could not resist another swift kick when the referee's back was turned. That got him back, for every insult and slur.

As the squad cheered him on, Peter was declared the winner. He felt a savage joy in his victory. Afterwards, it disturbed him that beating another boy like that could bring him so much pleasure. He wondered if this was what soldiers felt like after victorious combat.

After the fight, Fleischer moved away from the main crowd of boys, dabbing at his bloody nose. But Peter could still hear him talking about Poles to his cronies.

‘There is a whole gang of them down by Gleisdreieck U-Bahn, clearing up a bomb site,' he sniggered. A few buildings close to that underground station had been destroyed in an RAF raid shortly before Peter arrived in Berlin. ‘They say all the cats have vanished round there, because the filthy Poles catch them and skin them for their fur, then eat them. And they go out at night looking for old ladies to kill so they can steal their ration cards.'

If there was any truth in the gossip Fleischer was spouting, then it sounded like they were starving to death. Peter tried to suppress the impulse to go there and see if he could help them. He knew it was against everything he was being taught. He could imagine the sense of betrayal his new family would feel if he was caught. And besides, it could land him in terrible trouble.

Every night these thoughts tormented him. He remembered an incident at school, when he was ten and two older boys were beating one of his friends. Peter knew he should help but he was too frightened. He felt awful about that for months afterwards. As the days went by, that familiar guilty feeling crept back. He had been one of the lucky ones in Germany's New Europe, he told himself. Why should he not help some of those who had not been so fortunate? He made up his mind. He was going to go.

Gleisdreieck was a half-hour walk from Wittenbergplatz and when Peter got there it was a chilly early evening. A thin drizzle was falling. Work was still going on at the bomb site. Gangs of skinny-looking men and boys in filthy rags were lifting rubble into wheelbarrows. They were soaked and some were shivering with cold. Two soldiers with rifles oversaw them, and a German foreman, who shouted at the Poles contemptuously.

Away from the soldiers, on the other side of the block, Peter could see a young lad working alone, using a chisel to remove a broken windowpane. He was barely older than Peter and he looked terribly weary.

Close by was a baker's and Peter bought bread and cheese.

He crouched down by a car parked close by the bomb site and tried to catch the boy's attention. ‘Hey! I have food for you!' he called in Polish. The lad looked up, then studiously ignored him. Peter grew bolder. ‘Hey, my friend,' he said louder. ‘Let me give you something to eat.'

The boy did not look up, but Peter heard him say, ‘Fuck off, Adolfki.'

Peter was surprised and a little hurt. These were words he had not heard since he left Poland. They had often been used against him in the street after the Germans invaded. He called back, ‘I'm not an Adolfki! I'm a Polish boy like you.'

The boy was beginning to take an interest. ‘If they see me talking to you, I'll be beaten,' he said.

Peter crouched down lower so he wouldn't be seen. ‘I'll throw the bread over.'

‘Thank you,' said the boy. ‘Sometimes the German boys say they'll give us food, and then toss us paper bags with dog shit in them.'

‘I'll come back,' said Peter. ‘Look out for me. What's your name and when do you finish?'

‘I'm Wladek,' said the boy. ‘They march us back to the camp at nine o'clock.' He was getting nervous, looking around. It was time to go.

.

Although it worried him to distraction, Peter felt compelled to return to the bomb site. The whole journey there he would say to himself, ‘What will Onkel Franz say if I'm caught?' He felt so grateful to the Kaltenbachs for saving him from the orphanage and he hated the idea of disappointing them. But on the way back from Gleisdreieck he would feel light-headed with relief and at peace with himself. He had done a good deed. He liked that feeling.

He always came in the early evening and the boy would be there, close to the edge of the site. On one evening he saw Wladek with an older youth and they beckoned him over. Peter was surprised at their boldness, but he could not contain his curiosity. He had not had an actual, real conversation with anyone in Polish, since he'd left Warsaw. It would be marvellous to talk to people in the language he grew up with and not have to worry about his accent giving him away.

Before he knew what was happening the older boy had grabbed him and dragged him down to the remains of the basement. He held a trowel to Peter's throat. The edges flashed silver in the street light. They had been sharpened to a vicious point.

‘Give me your ration card,' said the older boy.

‘Don't hurt him, Antos,' pleaded Wladek. ‘You promised you wouldn't hurt him.' He sounded as afraid as Peter felt.

‘I don't carry a ration card,' said Peter. He was terrified. Was this boy going to slit his throat?

‘Money then. Give us all your money.'

Peter had a few Reichmarks in his pocket. He fetched them out.

‘Papers . . . you must have papers?'

‘I forgot.'

It was true. Peter was so anxious about coming to give Wladek food he had forgotten his identity papers.

The trowel pressed sharply against the soft skin of his neck.

‘Search him,' said Antos to Wladek.

Wladek ran his hands through Peter's pockets. The boy was red with shame and trying his best not to cry. ‘I'm sorry,' he said in a trembling voice.

‘Shut your face,' said Antos, and cuffed Wladek around the head.

‘Now, Adolfki,' said Antos, ‘tell me why I shouldn't kill you.'

Peter began to panic. He wondered if he should call out. But by the time the guards had arrived, Antos would have slit his throat.

‘Because I can help you, as I have been helping Wladek,' said Peter.

Wladek tugged at his sleeve. ‘When they find him down here, they'll have us all killed.' He was just as terrified as Peter.

‘You speak good Polish for an Adolfki,' said Antos. ‘Go. Go quickly. And come back tomorrow with food, or I'll hurt your friend here.'

‘Hey, Adolfki,' said Antos, as Peter climbed the stairs. ‘Enjoy the war, because the peace will be terrible.'

As he sat on the U-bahn home, Peter trembled with fear and anger. How could Wladek betray him like that? Perhaps the older boy had forced him into it? And would he really harm Wladek if he, Peter, didn't come back? No, he decided, he must be bluffing.

That evening he was desperate to tell the Kaltenbachs what had happened, but of course, that would invite disaster. Sitting round the dining table, he felt suddenly detached from them all. None of them would understand. He went to bed as early as he could, leaving them all wondering why he was being so moody.

He bottled up his anger until the next day. When he told Segur what had happened, he couldn't believe Peter had been so stupid. ‘I saw a woman arrested in the street for giving Poles scraps of food,' he said. ‘Leave them alone.'

Peter wondered why they didn't run away. It would be quite easy to escape from a bomb site. Segur said they probably killed them all if one escaped. His father worked with the
Ostarbeiters
at his factory and had a very low opinion of them. ‘Vater says they're lazy and stupid, and only do half the work of Germans.'

Peter shook his head in exasperation but he thought he'd be wasting his time pointing out that they had been brought to Germany against their will. They had no reason to work hard. Besides, by the look of them, they were fed barely enough to keep them alive.

‘Vater says they work them till they're
verbraucht
– used up – then they pack them off to a concentration camp “for a rest”. None of them ever come back.'

Peter thought it best not to return to Wladek and the bomb site, but decided he would carry on helping the
Ostarbeiters
when he could, even if it was just to slip them a couple of boiled sweets when no one was looking.

.

CHAPTER 14

December 1941

.

The Kaltenbachs woke on the morning of 8th December to astonishing news. Germany's ally Japan had destroyed half the American fleet at Pearl Harbor the day before, and the two countries were at war. ‘The Führer has chosen our allies well,' said the Professor. ‘The Americans have been dealt a mortal blow. This will make them think twice if they are considering siding with the British against us . . .'

Later that day Peter and his HJ squad went to watch an athletics display at a sports hall in Charlottenburg. Everybody Peter spoke to seemed quite elated by the news, but they were quickly distracted when a troop of local
Bund Deutsche Mädel
girls came out to perform.

The boys in his squad loved the skimpy outfits the girls wore as they went through their routines, tumbling inside steel wheels or gyrating with wooden hoops, all in perfect formation. A few of the grown-ups in the crowd tutted, especially the grandparents. Such outfits were immodest, Peter heard one of them say. This made some of the boys in Peter's squad nudge each other and whisper lewd remarks.

One tall, dark-haired girl particularly caught their eye. Peter noticed her too. ‘Who is she?' he said to Segur.

‘Anna Reiter,' he replied. ‘Squad leader in the BDM. They live quite close to you. Father is a Colonel in the Home Army. Mother's a journalist on that women's magazine
Frauenwarte
.'

Peter was about to tell Segur that Frau Kaltenbach was an avid reader when Lothar Fleischer poked him hard in the back. ‘You can stop ogling, Bruck. Anna Reiter is too good for the likes of you.'

Peter wasn't going to be goaded. ‘She's a bit tall for you, isn't she, Fleischer?' he sniggered.

Although Fleischer flushed red with anger, he moved away. They both knew that a fight in a public place like this sports hall would get them into serious trouble. But Peter's jibe had hit a raw nerve. Fleischer had spent many nights thinking about Anna Reiter. That funny little smile she had. The curve of her back down to her waist . . . Anna was his idea of a perfect German female. When he'd asked her out, she'd haughtily told him she only went on dates with Nordic boys. She probably wouldn't even remember his name.

Peter saw Anna again outside the hall when the display was over. Some of the HJ boys made leering remarks. Peter liked the way she seemed utterly above them – as if they were a bunch of crows whose cawing meant nothing to her.

.

Three days later, Germany declared war on the United States. Professor Kaltenbach heard the news with a satisfied grin. ‘That mongrel nation,' he scoffed as the family sat around the dining table. ‘Any culture that gives the world
jazz
,' he spat out the word, ‘will be no match for the Third Reich.

‘I make a prediction. When we're done with the Russians, the Yankees and the Tommies will come begging for peace.'

Herr Kaltenbach's good mood continued for the rest of the month. His confidence was infectious. The German army were the greatest fighting force in history – that was plain to see. Peter and his schoolmates remained convinced that the war would soon be over. Some of them boasted of their disappointment in not being able to prove their fighting skills. Peter smiled to himself and said nothing. Playing at war was great fun – all the HJ boys enjoyed their war games – but the real thing . . . you only had to see the soldiers with missing limbs on the streets of Berlin, or read the long columns of death notices in the newspapers, to know the real thing was quite different.

.

The third week of December brought heavy snow. In Wyszkow Peter had always dreaded getting out of his bed when the weather was like this. Feeding the animals at that time of year was always an ordeal and shovelling snow from the path from the farm to the road was a never-ending job. Here, in the warmth of the Kaltenbachs' apartment, he could just enjoy how beautiful the snow made everything look, without thinking of the consequences.

On Christmas Eve, Traudl and Charlotte insisted Peter go carol singing with them and some of their friends from the BDM. They asked Elsbeth too, but she refused. ‘I have duties to attend to,' was all she offered as an excuse.

As they tramped through the crisp snow and the early evening blackout, candles in jars lit their way. It looked magical. Without the city lights, the stars in the cloudless sky shone bright and clear. It was almost like the winter skies Peter had seen at the farm.

Traudl and Charlotte could not miss the chance to shake their Winter Relief boxes like tambourines as the group sang along to the traditional carols. The songs weren't all traditional. One of the older girls had brought a new version of ‘Silent Night' and passed along duplicated sheets, the mimeograph fluid still fresh on the paper.

.

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright

Adolf Hitler is Germany's star

Showing us greatness and glory afar . . .

.

Peter was glad Segur was not there. He would have started to laugh. Looking around at the earnest faces of the other singers, as they sang this peculiar version of the traditional carol, he could see they meant it to their very souls. All of a sudden, he felt very alone. The more he thought about it, the more it distressed him. Fleischer was right. He was always going to be an outsider – an
Ausländer
– with these people. But in his heart Peter knew that was right. Something in him could not accept this unquestioning worship, this unsettling blind faith they had in Hitler and the Nazis.

He felt a terrible disloyalty thinking these thoughts among people who had made him feel as though he was home at last – ‘reclaimed for the National Community'. They had helped allay the grief he felt for his dead parents. His mother and father had left him feeling that Germany was always the better place. Germans were always the better people. He desperately wanted to believe it, although the fate of the
Ostarbeiters
was never far from his thoughts. And he still wanted to be part of the Kaltenbach family. He had never really considered what would happen if they rejected him. Would he be sent back to Poland, or would they send him to one of those camps he had heard about? He began to sing at the top of his voice – as if to drive these troubling thoughts from his head.

When Peter and the girls returned home from their carol singing, collection boxes full to the top, Frau Kaltenbach greeted them with an unusually playful smile. ‘I have a surprise for you children,' she said. They gathered outside the living room and waited by the closed door. ‘Are you ready, mein Liebling?' said Frau Kaltenbach. Herr Kaltenbach asked her to wait a second, then called, ‘Come!'

The door swung open. The room was dark save for the lights of the Christmas tree, which had been both delivered and decorated while the children were out singing. The girls gasped with glee. Peter was speechless. Alongside the traditional baubles and tinsel, the tree was festooned with illuminated plastic swastikas. ‘Aren't they marvellous?' said Kaltenbach. ‘The KaDeWe began to sell them last Tuesday. They sold out in a day. I bought the last box in the shop.'

In the dim light Peter could see the presents under the tree, all wrapped beautifully, and wondered what he would be getting.

They all sat down at the grand dining-room table, with its candles, folded napkins, carefully arranged crockery and cutlery. Frau Kaltenbach had decorated it. She never let the maid near any job like that. Two weeks ago they had dispensed with Elsa, the surly German maid from Neuköln. Frau Kaltenbach was convinced she had been stealing spirits from the drinks cupboard. Now they had Yaryna, a surly Ukrainian who spoke only a few words of German. Traudl had wondered why they bothered to change. ‘They're both resentful little miseries. But at least you could make yourself understood with Elsa.'

Elsbeth, much to Peter's surprise, had asked what they should give Yaryna for Christmas. Liese Kaltenbach replied, ‘We shall give her the afternoon off. That will be quite sufficient. Besides, I don't want that sullen, moon-faced brat moping round here spoiling our family Christmas.'

‘Perhaps we could give her a little chocolate?' said Elsbeth.

Liese snapped. ‘Kindness is not something we show to
Untermenschen
. You give these Slavs presents and they start thinking they can steal from your cupboard. When you have your own home to look after, you can make your own rules. But take this advice from your mother. Servants should be treated like dogs. You should always make them feel you are the top dog.'

Elsbeth took this advice with a blank face, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her mother. Peter watched, intrigued. He never quite knew what Elsbeth would do or say next.

Singing carols out in the cold had given Peter and the girls a ravenous appetite. The stuffed goose, roast potatoes, peas and parsnips were delicious. The adults drank the finest French wine. Peter was allowed a little too. The girls both had a sip and Charlotte wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Why do you drink it? It's horrible!'

Kaltenbach gave a little chuckle. ‘The French would be delighted to have such fine wine for their own table,' he said to her. Then he stood up and raised his glass. ‘We are living at a time when Germany's future will be decided for centuries to come. This war must end with victory. So let us drink to that, my dear ones. To victory in the New Year! Victory against the Bolsheviks, and to a Europe safe in the hands of Adolf Hitler.'

Afterwards, as they sat around the light of the coal fire and Christmas tree, Professor Kaltenbach read a passage from Hitler's autobiography,
Mein Kampf
– In the home of my parents, where the Führer wrote of his earliest years.

Then Traudl said, ‘Papa. Can we hear the story we used to hear when we were little? The one about the baby Jesus and the stable and the three wise men.'

Kaltenbach had her come over and sit on his knee. ‘My darling Traudl,' he said as she perched there awkwardly, ‘“
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things
.” Who said that?' He turned to Liese. ‘Was it Goethe? Kant?'

She shrugged and shook her head.

‘Saint Paul. Letter to the Corinthians,' said Elsbeth acidly.

Traudl, who was much too big to be sitting on her father's knee, looked confused and uncomfortable. Liese Kaltenbach clapped her hands together. ‘Now we shall open the presents,' she declared.

Traudl was given a lurid book on the perils of relationships with Jews. She sat in the corner, reading it avidly. Peter sneaked a look over her shoulder. A picture showed a leering fat Jew, cigar in his mouth, monocle in his right eye, in a smart business suit. He was leaning over his secretary, a young, beautiful Nordic girl, who appeared distressed by his close attentions. The caption beneath read:

.

Ignorant, lured by gold,

They stand disgraced in Judah's fold.

Souls poisoned, blood infected,

Disaster broods in their wombs.

.

Traudl noticed Peter behind her. ‘Hey,' she protested. ‘Girls only!'

‘We have something for you now, Peter,' said Frau Kaltenbach, and handed him over a brown paper parcel. He knew at once they were books. Peter's mother had always encouraged him to read. He liked his books, but he hoped these weren't
all
about the Nazis.

They had given him six books from the same series –
Kriegsbücherei der deutschen Jugend
– War Library for German Youth. They certainly looked exciting enough. There was
Flammenwerfer vor!
– Flamethrowers in Action – and
Schlachtschiffe im Atlantik
– Battleships in the Atlantic. Peter settled on
Vorwärts, immer vorwärts!
– Onwards, ever onwards! – an account of the opening weeks of the invasion of Russia. He opened a page at random and lost himself in the excitement of battle.

At 5.30 the silence ends. The German side comes alive. Along the whole front, the heavy guns open up. As the sound reaches the bank, the explosions are already visible on the far side. Then the thunder is on the far side. The individual shots can no longer be distinguished. There is a single loud crashing, whirring, banging and whistling. Earth and rock fall into the river. Splinters whizz . . .

Elsbeth handed her father a small parcel that was so heavy she had difficulty holding it with one hand. ‘What
is
this?' he said curiously.

The wrapping came off. It was a hefty doorknocker of solid black iron. The hinged circular knocker itself was decorated in embossed oak leaves with a swastika at its centre. Beneath the swastika, where the knocker actually knocked, was a grotesque caricature of the head of a Jew – broad Hebrew features, a huge nose, face screwed into a grimace, supposedly at the pain of the knocker knocking on his forehead.

‘Delightful,' said Professor Kaltenbach. He was trying to be polite, but the whole family could tell he didn't like it.