the usual kitchen bustle but her room was quiet. Through the ceiling I heard voices, agitated and urgent. I caught only the edge of some words, muffled sounds – Fräulein Braun’s voice and the distinctive whine of Sergeant Meier.
‘I will have to … only the Captain can say …’ The words faded in and out.
‘I would be grateful … as soon as …’
I cocked my ear to tune further in to the sound, intently curious. I had never seen them in the same room before, and Sergeant Meier’s office and Eva’s room were on opposite sides of the house.
‘I will arrange …’
‘Thank you …’
A chair scraped overhead, that unmistakable click of heels and then silence.
I was returning to my room when Sergeant Meier caught up with me.
‘Ah! Fräulein Hoff.’
‘Morning, Sergeant Meier, and how are you?’ My amusement over the weeks had been in appearing as sweet and courteous to this odious man as I could bear to – my reward being his visible, sweaty discomfort.
‘I’m perfectly well, Fräulein. I have some news for you.’
‘Yes? My family?’ I was quick to presume.
‘Not yet, but I hope soon. It has been decided that you may write some letters, to your family if you wish. Or your friends.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That comes as a surprise. I thought my work here wasn’t to be spoken of.’ I smiled innocently.
‘There will be no mention of your work, of course,’ he said, forehead glistening. ‘Just that you are well. You could talk about the weather, or how well the war is going, but no details. Each letter will, of course, be reviewed by myself.’
‘I wouldn’t expect any less, Sergeant Meier. How many letters am I permitted to write, and what should I write on?’
Sergeant Meier had already driven home that the small ledger and some loose paper I had been given were to be used only for my clinical reports on Fräulein Braun. Keeping a diary was not permitted.
‘No more than two per week, and I will arrange for you to have ample paper and envelopes,’ he said, a tiny bead of perspiration snaking towards one eyebrow. ‘If you put the letters into my office, I will see that they are forwarded, and any replies are given to you. And I will expect your monthly report on my desk soon – Captain Stenz will be visiting to collect your copy.’
I virtually ran all the way to my room, stepped inside the door and hugged myself, a broad smile turning into a laugh. A letter! The prospect of some news in return was so exciting. I realised then how isolated I had felt in recent weeks, with no friends to confide in or physical contact with anyone. Clearly, Eva Braun had engineered this change, either as a genuine act of friendship, some pity on her part, or as a way to engage my favour. The truth was, I didn’t care. I wasn’t too proud to accept her help if it meant I could know my family were alive. And if they were dead I wanted to know, I really did. To stop the hoping, the endless, unknown void.
The paper and envelopes duly arrived in my room that same afternoon – sheets of thick, grainy parchment, each stamped with the eagle icon of the Third Reich. I sat down to write to my parents, a letter each since it was almost certain they weren’t together, likely in different camps. What on earth to write? How to describe my state of mind – that constant, fizzing thread of anxiety that jolts you out of sleep at three a.m., to stare at the ceiling for hours on end, when you wonder what on earth you are doing, and how you might survive? How to convey meaning in a message in which even the words have bars?
I concentrated on making the tone of my news positive, relaying that I was at least out of danger – for now. When our lives in Berlin had become ever more precarious, my father and I had created a loose code between us. We’d settled on two words to signal our wellbeing; any mention of ‘sunshine’ meant we were safe, in relative terms, but greying ‘clouds’ or a ‘flat horizon’ signalled the opposite.
I wrote that I was fine, eating well – very true at that point – and that the sunshine was making me feel upbeat. ‘The horizon is sometimes quite bright, Papa,’ I rambled on, desperate to convey something he could interpret, not quite safe yet not in imminent danger. The rest was padded out with, ‘I hope you and Mother are well, I think of you and Franz and Ilse every day.’ If my father’s mind remained sharp, he would find a way of reading between the lines. And I had to rely on his faith, to know that, despite the notepaper, I had not become a zealous Nazi. I had not turned.
I was wrapped in a blanket on my porch and fighting against the dying light when I heard footsteps. Engrossed in my novel, I didn’t look up.
‘Goethe? I’m impressed.’
‘Captain Stenz,’ I said in greeting. ‘Do you need to see me? Would you like me to come into the house?’
‘No, no,’ he said, taking off his cap, ‘I don’t want to disturb you. But I would like a brief talk. May I?’ He gestured at the second chair. His tone suggested I wasn’t due for any rebuke, and his manner seemed relaxed as he sat.
‘Of course.’ I was glad of the company and yes, I was actually pleased to see him. Was it merely because he wasn’t Sergeant Meier? The Captain wore the same uniform, and yet my reaction to the man inside was entirely different.
He sat, turning his gaze and squinting as the sun slipped behind snow-capped mountains to the right of our view. I watched his eyes glaze over for a few seconds, then heard a sigh slip from between his lips, before the noise pulled him to attention.
‘So, how are you getting on? Are you being treated well, and do you have everything you need?’
‘Yes, I am well looked after,’ I assured him. ‘I have everything I need to do my job.’ I watched him catch my meaning.
‘Fräulein Braun tells me she is very happy with the arrangement, and says she is feeling well, so we can be grateful for that.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s in good health. In fact, I feel rather underemployed. It’s not what I’m used to.’ We both seemed aware of exchanging niceties that said very little.
‘I wouldn’t be too concerned about that,’ he said, smiling. ‘Your value will be in the later stages, I have no doubt. It’s an important job.’
His eyes turned again to the horizon. The sun was dropping rapidly behind the peaks, white against the orange blaze. I fingered the pages of my book, looking at his blond hair cut neatly into the nape of his black collar, but which might have turned to curls if left to grow. From the neck up he looked like a boy from the country, and not a man who carried power in the threads of iron-grey below.
I wondered why he didn’t just up and leave, since he clearly had nothing else to say. It was me who sliced the silence, preventing his sudden departure.
‘Captain Stenz, can I ask you something?’
His fair head swivelled and he looked faintly alarmed. ‘You can ask, although I can’t promise to answer.’ Suddenly, he was SS again.
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