Anne Blankman: Prisoner of Night and Fog

She said nothing. But she heard the laugh in his whisper—he guessed the truth. Her original intention had been to prevent an illegal street beating that might reflect poorly on the Party. Once she had seen the Jew lying on the ground, helpless . . . She had seen a person. Not a monster.

She gathered the dirty dishes in the dining room and went to the back steps, where she scraped the leftovers into the slop bucket. Summer sunlight sprinkled across the courtyard. Somewhere, someone had opened a window, letting classical music from the wireless spill across the warm breeze.

In the backs of the buildings opposite, flags hung from a handful of windows: the yellow hammer and sickle against the red background of the Communists, the dark green of the Social Democrats, the black eagle against the blazing yellow of the Bavarian People’s Party, the bloodred rectangle and white circle surrounding the black swastika of the National Socialists. Politics was everywhere these days, it seemed. Automatically, she touched the gold charm on her necklace; the Hakenkreuz , the hooked cross, had been last year’s birthday present from Uncle Dolf.

Would he think she had betrayed him, and everything the Party represented, when she had protected the Jew? How could she go on, if the one adult whom she trusted without reservation, the man who had grown into her second father, no longer thought her worthy?

Flies buzzed around the bucket, attracted by the nasty mix of day-old horse meat and rice pudding going bad in the heat. She felt sick.

She knew the answer. Without Hitler’s friendship, she could go on. But she might not want to.

GRETCHEN STEPPED INTO THE KITCHEN’S welcome coolness. After church, she had spent the afternoon hanging wet sheets on laundry lines strung across the courtyard and beating carpets on the back steps. As she poured herself a glass of water, she caught a low murmur that she instantly recognized. Uncle Dolf. No one else had such a lovely voice, dark and warm and rich, like melted chocolate. The sound pulled her into the front hall.

“I don’t want children,” he was saying, “and I think it would be irresponsible to marry when I can’t devote enough time to a wife.”

“The right woman would understand. Your dedication to the Party must supersede all else.” Mama sounded giggly and girlish.

Gretchen put a hand to her overheated face. She must look a fright.

“Is that little Gretl’s footsteps I hear?” Hitler asked. “Come in, my sunshine!”

He had called her by that pet name since she was a small child. Just hearing the phrase lifted her heart.

Hitler rose and kissed the backs of her hands. Beaming, he stepped back and surveyed her. Somehow, he always remained reassuringly the same.

In the twelve years she had known him, his appearance hadn’t altered: his lank brown hair still flopped over his forehead, even though he faithfully combed it flat every morning; his pale blue eyes were still clear and direct above his sharp cheekbones, his mustache still a dark smudge above his thin lips, and his face still angular and half-starved, as though he were continually hungry but didn’t care enough for his personal comfort to eat. Today he wore a brown pinstripe suit. The bulges beneath his jacket came from the items he always carried—a pistol and a cartridge belt. His whip lay on the table.

“Helping your mother like a good girl, I see,” he said.

Flushing, she slipped the kerchief off her head. “I was cleaning the carpets. Dust gets in my hair if I don’t cover it.”

“Never be ashamed of an industrious look,” Uncle Dolf said. “The true German woman works hard in her home.”

The elderly ladies perched on the flowered sofa nodded. Even Frau Bruckner, the human chimney. All of them were knitting, more scarves for Hitler, probably; Gretchen saw the beginnings of a swastika motif in one of them.

“Won’t you stay for tea, Herr Hitler?” Mama asked.

“No, no. An unexpected guest is an unwelcome addition at table.” As Hitler glanced at Gretchen, she realized they were face to face. Without even noticing, she had grown to match his five feet eight inches. Although she saw him at least once a week, they were usually sitting, chatting at his regular’s table in a restaurant or lounging in his parlor. How odd it felt, to see eye to eye with this man who always seemed so large that his presence filled a room as soon as he opened his mouth.

“It’s no trouble,” Mama said. “Feeding a man who appreciates his food is a true pleasure for me. What you need, Herr Hitler, is a wife to look after you. I declare, you are wasting away!”

“I can’t have a wife when Germany is my greatest love.” Hitler bowed. “As charming as you ladies are, I must excuse myself. I came to invite Gretl to join me at the Alte Pinakothek.” He extended his arm for her to take, and Gretchen smiled. Uncle Dolf always used such courtly gestures.

“I should love to go to the museum, Uncle Dolf.” She didn’t even need to look at her mother for permission. No matter how many chores remained, Mama always allowed her to go with Uncle Dolf, wherever and whenever he wished.

In the front hall, he waited patiently while she fetched her pocketbook and hat. As they stepped out into the slanting sunshine, he smiled and said, “Few things are as pleasant as a young lady’s company.”

He had often said those words to her, when he talked about music and painting, explaining how a girl’s mind was made of wax and needed to be molded into its proper shape. How soft and malleable she felt, sometimes, when his electric-blue eyes pinned her in place and his thundering voice stormed out endless words.

Just as a father would, he had told her. His mind touching hers, forming it into the right sort of brain for her, the National Socialist girl he always said would someday become a golden, shining example of womanhood for the other German ladies to emulate. She was so proud that he had chosen her to mold into that perfect girl.

As they headed down the front steps, Uncle Dolf tugged on her long braid. “Now, what is this nonsense I heard about you coming to a Jew’s aid?” he asked.

Shame heated her face. Who had told him? What could he possibly think of her?

He stood on the bottom step, a half smile pulling at his lips. At the curb, his chauffeur leaned against the red Mercedes, waiting, and farther up the avenue, a trio of middle-aged ladies, strolling in their Sunday best, nudged one another and nodded at Hitler, no doubt recognizing Munich’s most famous resident. To passersby, she and Uncle Dolf might have been a father and daughter, out for a pleasant afternoon together. Her dry eyes burned. Not a girl and her dearest idol about to part ways.

“Please don’t be upset.” Her voice split on the last word. “You said we must be a respectable Party.”

“I suspected it must be something like this.” Hitler patted her hand. “Yes, the National Socialist Party must appear very respectable; that is true. And I am shocked, simply shocked, when my followers misunderstand my meaning and resort to illegal behavior. You did the right thing, Gretl.”

Relief flooded her veins like blood. He still loved her. Her pity for the Jew was an aberration, or a typical reaction from a future medical student who hated seeing anyone in pain. That was all.

“Thank you,” she said.

Hitler kissed her hand. His lips felt dry and cool. “Not at all, my sunshine.” He smiled. “You are still my favorite child.” She smiled back. She had never been anyone else’s favorite, and each beat of her heart seemed to say she belonged, she belonged, she belonged.

WHEN THE SCHOOL DISMISSAL BELL RANG ON Monday afternoon, Gretchen, reluctant to leave, slowly slid texts into her leather satchel. The other girls hurried out, giggling and whispering. Home to their mothers, who would drink tea with them and ask about their day at school. Her heart twisted. To their mothers, who would listen to their answers.