Tania Blanchard: The Girl from Munich

Munich

July 1943

‘Times have changed, Mutti. The war has made sure of that. Look at all the women who work to help the war effort – Heidi von Schmitt and Catherina Dollmann are both working for the Wehrmacht and their parents haven’t died of embarrassment. I want to make a contribution.’

My mother stared at me with frosty blue eyes. She was beautiful, her wavy blonde hair glinting with auburn highlights in the sunlight, even though she sat there unmoved, sipping her coffee. I jumped up from my seat and went to the window, wishing I had her poise, her elegance and her tight control. I always thought better when I was moving.

I gazed out at the tree-lined street. It was hard to believe that war raged in affluent, cosmopolitan Schwabing. It wasn’t far from the centre of München, where now the ravages of war could not be missed. A couple strolled past, holding hands, oblivious to anything but each other as a woman dressed in a tailored skirt and jacket moved briskly towards them, no doubt on her way to useful employment of some kind. I shook my head and turned back to face my mother. Why couldn’t I have what I wanted? Time for a more forceful approach.

‘I’ve heard the Ministry of Labour wants to change the conscription laws again. Unless I take action and choose what I want to do, I’ll probably be drafted into cleaning the toilets at an army office somewhere like Poland. Is that what you want for your daughter after all her hard work to qualify as a photographer?’

‘Charlotte Elisabeth, stop!’ My mother put her cup down and the sharp clink it made told me her patience had reached its limit. ‘When your father comes back from Berlin, I will discuss the matter with him and Heinrich’s parents.’

‘ Muttilein ,’ I pleaded, sinking into the chair again. ‘All I want to do is take photos and help the war effort. Karin Weiss graduated last year and got a job as a photographer with the army straightaway. I’ll get a job easily.’ I knew I sounded like a petulant child but I couldn’t help it. The Bavarian State Institute for Photography had the best reputation in the country. Students came from all over Germany and from abroad to study there.

My mother’s thunderous look stopped me in my tracks. It was no use continuing with her.

‘Fine, we’ll see what Vati says.’

I stomped up the stairs to my room and slammed the door. Already I was thinking how I would intercept my father before my mother could speak with him. I flopped on my bed, feeling deflated. After spending three years with artists, scholars and patriots and a year before that in Hamburg completing my land year helping on the local farms, I had learnt more about myself than I had in the previous fifteen years of privileged upbringing and stiff social conventions. I desperately wanted to be a photojournalist and follow in my beloved brothers’ footsteps by joining the Luftwaffe taking photos for the military, recording the lives of the soldiers. When I was feeling especially patriotic and daring, I dreamed of going to the front as a photographic officer, taking photos of strategic importance, even getting involved in reconnaissance.

I reached for the photo on my nightstand of my two handsome brothers. It was taken the last holiday we all spent together – the last holiday before the war. We had been swimming in the lake and our bare limbs were browned from the days outdoors, our hair bleached white from the sun. My brothers were tall, strapping youths with easy dispositions, their lives in front of them. I missed them so much.

My oldest brother, Ludwig, was a pilot. He had died on the Eastern Front in Stalingrad, shot down by the Russians nine months earlier, only twenty-one. He was my idol. Tall, strong, handsome, with a winning smile that would melt any heart; he was the perfect pin-up boy, a soldier who embodied everything good that Germany stood for. I had thought he was invincible. It took days for my tears to come after we received the news. Even now I was unable to believe he was gone.

Willi was seventeen months older than me and I had always been closest to him. At nineteen, he was already a paratrooper, recently deployed to France with a new parachute division. He had been home for a few weeks in April, the first time we’d been together since losing our brother. I couldn’t get enough of being by his side, touching him to make sure he was really there, remembering Ludwig through him. It was almost unbearable to say goodbye to him again, the silent fear that he would be next gnawing inside me. After he left, my mother was inconsolable for days. Mutti clung to me, kept me near in any way she could. The loss of Ludwig had hit her so hard that Vati and I feared that the strain of another loss would kill her. I knew all the begging in the world wouldn’t give me their permission to go anywhere. If I hadn’t had my fiancé, Heinrich, during those terrible days, I don’t know how I would have coped.

Heinrich understood. He had lost his older brother in the early days of the war and was all his parents had left. His elderly father kept him close on the pretext of helping him manage their vast estate. Sometimes Heinrich seemed like the only ally I had. We had known each other most of our lives and were best friends, kindred spirits. He was handsome and strong – and I was curious – but we had not dared to become intimate, despite being engaged. Naturally, we had fooled around a bit but the maiden’s prized virtue of purity had been drummed into me since I was small, at school and through the BDM, the League of German Girls. I thought it was best to wait. Besides, the last thing I needed was to become pregnant before I was married. My parents would die of shame and if anything happened to Heinrich… heaven help me.

I rolled off my bed and sat at my writing desk to send a note to Heinrich. He was working a few long shifts at the hospital and I knew I wouldn’t manage to talk to him in the next couple of days. At least with my note I could let him know of my mother’s resistance to my plans and warn him about the upcoming conversation regarding our wedding. He would think of the best way to support me when the matter was raised with our families and explain why it was so important for me to get a job as a military photographer, even if I had to compromise by staying closer to home. ‘ Liebe Heinrich,’ I began, the heavy Sheaffer fountain pen, a gift from my father, balanced perfectly in my hand. I soon lost myself in the flow of words as I poured my heart out, sharing my frustration with my best friend. Still feeling anxious and strung out, I decided not to give my note to our servant to deliver. I would walk to the hospital myself. I knew Heinrich would receive it during his next break.

I made sure I was presentable, examining my image in the mirror and straightening my polka dotted dress, adjusting the belt at my cinched waist and smoothing my shoulder length blonde hair. Before the butler could object or my mother could call me, I ran down the stairs and out the door onto the street.

‘Did you send a note to Heinrich asking him to help you find a way to get a job as a military photographer?’ asked Vati in a low voice. My father had been away in Berlin for a week. If only I had got to him before Mutti did, I could have explained to him.