Chapter 3

When other inmates dreamed out loud about all sorts of miracles that could change the bleak course of their fate, Frank only smiled and said nothing. A coup. A new law. A powerful friend… He thought he was the last person to have a chance, and the Krausses were the last people he was expecting that chance to come from. In fact, he was ashamed to admit that he had almost forgotten his little Helmut.

‘How could this have happened? When I lived in America, I thought about him all the time. I wrote stacks of piano music imagining I was writing for him. But when hard times came, I never once remembered him… Our music lessons, our friendship… How could I have forgotten all that? A passing thought about that bouncy child would have been enough to get me through any misery.’

And there had been a lot of misery to get through. His story wasn’t extraordinary. After receiving the news of his father’s arrest, he hurried home to seek any help he could find to get his father out of prison. He knocked on every door, appealed to all the authorities. Some friends tried to help, but there was little they could do; others simply advised him to sail back to New York without delay. He kept trying to save his father, but all his attempts failed, and it wasn’t long until he himself was arrested. A mistake, he still hoped. Just as it was with his father. A ridiculous misunderstanding. ‘It will clear up soon enough.’ It didn’t. It only gained momentum downhill, and before he knew it he was no longer himself. Music – his life and soul – was something alien and distant. His past, filled with playing and composing, was now a chapter from somebody else’s biography. It was only a short matter of time before his physical death. He resigned to the idea the way he had resigned himself to everything since Sachsenhausen had become his home. As the camp routine dragged on, he found it increasingly difficult to attach any emotion to what was happening to him. When he came down with pneumonia, he wasn’t afraid of dying; when he recovered a little with the arrival of spring, he wasn’t happy to be alive. ‘I won’t survive another winter in this place anyway…’ And he had thought about it only yesterday.

Today he was standing in a sunlit, spacious kitchen and waiting for Frau Krauss to speak. It was late in the morning, past breakfast time. The dishes were already washed and dried, the staff had been sent away. An untouched cup of coffee was steaming on the table. She smoked slowly, avoiding looking at him. She had aged.

‘So, Herr Frankel. We meet again.’

Her eyes swept over him, up and down, down and up, and finally rested on his face.

‘You remember Helmut?’ she asked calmly. ‘Answer.’

‘I remember him.’

‘He hasn’t changed.’

She took her time, sipping her coffee leisurely.

‘How long have you been in Sachsenhausen?’

‘A year and a half.’

‘And you belong there, you know. You belong there…’

She shivered and reached out for another cigarette. The pack was empty.

‘Are you married?’ she suddenly asked.

‘No.’

‘My husband is worried that you might run away. Or do something stupid. Like make a call to somebody. Or put some ideas into Helmut’s head.’ She tore open a new pack of cigarettes. ‘If you do run, you’ll be caught of course. And sent back to the camp.’

Frank said nothing. She looked him full in the face.

‘If you compromise this family, you compromise Helmut, is that understood?’

‘I understand.’

‘You’d better. You wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for him.’

‘I understand.’

She leant back in her chair and gave him a long stare. Her face, Frank suddenly realized, expressed curiosity. Satisfaction and curiosity. She almost smiled.

‘Once you said he had a great future, and you wanted him to be happy. Do you still feel that way?’

‘I do.’

‘So I told my husband.’

She rose.

‘Follow me. There’s something you must see.’

They left the kitchen and went up a short flight of stairs, through a narrow corridor and a sun-drenched entrance hall to the part of the house where they had first met the previous day. The dining-room was cool and dim.

‘Open the curtains.’

Frank did as she said, turned around, and stood dead still.

The long dining table was paved with glittering rectangles of photographs. She watched him closely, savouring the effect.

‘Come here.’

The colour pictures were her greatest pride. She showed them first. ‘You don’t feel the truth unless you see it in colour. The way we, German people, see it.’

The bright pictures showed a big celebration in the centre of Berlin. ‘May 1st,’ she explained. ‘I took them last year.’ The streets and avenues were bathing in the blood-red drapery of the Nazi regalia. Frank recognized the Lustgarten Park, the Stadtschloss, Friedrich Wilhelm University. There were many other streets and parks that didn’t look familiar.

He was drawn to the photographs of people’s faces. She noticed his interest and became more excited and talkative. ‘I knew you wouldn’t miss these. I took them during the parade. Look carefully, they are very important.’ Nicely dressed women carrying flowers. Cheering children. Close-ups of grinning faces. Families, companies of friends, many were not aware of being photographed. Moments of carefree joy, triumph, togetherness.

Their eyes met for a second. Hers were shining with infinite pride.

She motioned for him to go to the other side of the table. ‘The new Berlin. The Berlin of the future,’ she announced and pointed at a large laconic building: ‘This one was completed not so long ago. You haven’t seen it of course.’

‘No,’ Frank thought. ‘But I might have made bricks for it…’

‘I like the clean lines. And the proportions,’ she said. ‘I like the simplicity of the new architecture.’

Then there were idyllic scenes of the countryside.

‘Bavaria,’ Frank recognized the landscapes. She nodded.

‘Our friends invited us last autumn. I had planned the trip as a welcoming present for Helmut, but he stayed in England for another year, so we went without him.’ Frank looked at the pictures of ordinary people doing ordinary things: a woman digging in her garden, a vegetable vendor chatting with a postman, a family picnic by a lake. A small Kneipe. A group of rejoicing elderly men raising their mugs of foaming beer to the camera. That one came out particularly well. The wrinkled faces expressed roguish, schoolboy camaraderie, and each in a different way – a curious display of human characters. Frank smiled.

‘I don’t know these people,’ she said, ‘but at the same time I know them very well. My fellow Germans. Over the years we’ve been through thick and thin.’

She took a pause before introducing the next series.

‘The Olympic Games. The only time in seven years that Helmut came to stay with us.’

There was indeed a picture of Helmut with a stadium in the background. He stared past the camera with a sour, toothache expression on his face.

‘The best picture I managed to take of him that summer. You can always count on him to spoil a holiday.’

The remaining photos were of Hitler youths standing in rows and doing some sort of drill. The same group having a rest in the shade, chatting, eating their snacks. Then they apparently agreed to pose: the last picture showed them lined up in front of the camera and performing the Nazi salute.

‘Helmut could have been one of them.’

She walked over to the central window and straightened the curtains.

‘I blame the Auldridges. It’s their fault. He could be a completely different person if he hadn’t insisted on staying with them. They never disciplined him. He always did what he wanted. Had he been in the Hitler Youth, he wouldn’t have turned out like that… He needs to be reminded that he is German, Herr Frankel.’

She had visibly softened. Her face was relaxed, her movements were calmer. There was no trace of mockery in her tone now; she put ‘Herr’ in front of his name with emphasized politeness.

‘He has been brainwashed by his uncle. He has been told lies about this country – his own country. And he has some preposterous ideas about our Fuehrer and his policies. He refuses to see that we are a young state surrounded by enemies. He… he sides with these enemies. It hurts to even say that.’

She offered him a cigarette.

‘Thank you, Frau Krauss, I don’t smoke.’

‘Helmut does. You must tell him to quit.’

She opened the French window and they stepped outside. It was the beginning of a warm, sunny day, but the terrace was still in the shade of the house. Frau Krauss shivered with chill and leant on the railing.

‘There are many cures for arrogance. Alfred says a Hitler youth camp is still the best option; a few months of discipline and training will knock sense into him. But I don’t think it’s that simple, Herr Frankel. It’s what on Helmut’s mind.’

She plucked a dry leaf and chucked it away.

‘Has he told you about his plans to go to America?’

‘Yes, he has.’

‘I hold you responsible for that.’

She narrowed her eyes, looking at something in the distance. She had long curly eyelashes and a beautifully carved profile.

‘You are responsible for a lot of damage, Herr Frankel. It’s time for you to make amends to this family… You’ve been to America. Now look me in the eye and tell me what prospects my son might have in that country.’

Frank stared at the ground, unable to move or say a word. His insides cringed, breathing was painful again. The question caught him off guard. He could only wish he had more time to come up with a helpful answer.

‘Helmut… Helmut doesn’t fear the unknown,’ he stammered. ‘Quite the opposite: it thrills him. I heard him play yesterday. Your son is a very talented and accomplished musician, Frau Krauss, but I’m sure you have been… told that many… I mean… America holds a wealth of opportunities… Everything’s possible there…’

He stopped in the middle of the sentence; he simply knew that whatever he said didn’t matter. She waited, smiling a condescending smile.

‘You finished?’ she said after a pause and raised her head proudly. ‘Germany is the country where only one thing is possible – common well-being. You’ve been in a labour camp, you have first-hand knowledge of what the modern Germany is about. Hard work. We all work hard here, Herr Frankel, to raise the country to the heights of unrivaled power and prosperity. Make him see that. He may go, but one day he will come back – just like you did – and he will regret every minute wasted away from home. Because Germany will be a completely different country: an immense power, towering over the world. Imagine how disappointed he will be when he realizes he has contributed nothing to the common cause. He will have matured by then… But right now he’s young and stubborn… He doesn’t understand many things, he refuses to understand. The future of this land rests on the shoulders of the boys of his age. He must take his place in their ranks and do his duty. He is German, Herr Frankel and he is rooted here, in German soil.’

She shivered again. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up a shawl from the back of a chair. She declined his gesture with a dismissive shrug.

‘Let’s just walk a little,’ she said abruptly.

He muttered apologies and put the shawl back.

They stepped off the terrace and took a path along freshly trimmed bushes. Frank got goose bumps when he felt the sun on his skin and smelled the unripe aroma of cut twigs.

‘I understand that the Auldridges’ influence was very strong,’ she was saying. ‘I don’t expect overnight changes. You may tell him that I don’t mind waiting. But little by little he must reconsider the lies he has been told and agree to give Germany a chance.’

His silence was beginning to annoy her.

‘He should be back any time now,’ she said, finishing her cigarette hurriedly. ‘We must put the photographs away.’

Frank followed her back to the house, feeling helpless and awkward. Fortunately, the tension thawed when she started sorting through her photographs, providing detailed comments about each. This time he tried to respond and ask questions so that they could have some semblance of a conversation. The Hitler Youth series had a special place in her heart. ‘Fine young men, very industrious, very respectful. The Fuehrer’s pride and joy.’ When she asked Frank directly about his opinion, he told her the truth: he thought she had the perception and skill of a professional photographer.

She was silent for a moment.

‘I am glad you said that,’ she said slowly. ‘Not because I am flattered. I am not a professional and that’s the point. You are looking at Germany through my eyes, Herr Frankel, the eyes of an ordinary woman who lives in this country. Nothing’s staged or beautified here, this is the truth. Look at these people. They are not posing in front of important-looking journalists, they are completely sincere. Look how happy they are. There was a time when they had no jobs, no prospects, no means to raise their children. It has changed. Germany has changed, it’s a new country now… Remember you said that Helmut deserves a great future.’ She swept her arm encompassing the table: ‘Where is a better place for him to have this future? He is German. He belongs to…’

She broke off, thinking she had heard Helmut come home. She was mistaken.

‘He doesn’t like my hobby,’ she explained. ‘He thinks that photography is a form of taxidermy… It would be best if he didn’t know about this little exhibition. Give me that folder, please. We’d better hurry…’

But Helmut was back earlier then she expected. His bright voice blasted outside like a signal flare:

‘Where’s Frank?’

The incoming tide of his brisk step flooded the hall and corridors until he stormed into the room with a strident ‘There you are!’ His smile vanished in an instant, he surveyed the scene with distaste.

‘Jesus, Frank,’ he drawled. ‘She’s been showing you around her cemetery, hasn’t she? Come on. My father bought you a violin. The best I could find in such a short time.’