Authors: John Anthony Miller
Amanda Hamilton was still shaken when she left the park, stunned that she had been approached, irritated at being compromised, anxious and afraid. She had suspected the Allies would contact her, since she was born in Scotland and married to a very influential German. But somehow she thought she could elude them, hiding in a cocoon of violin concertos and photographs of buildings and birds. Now she knew that was impossible.
As she walked home, she evaluated how exposed she was. Her mind raced, flooded with a million different thoughts, some jumbled, some clear. She realized that if she denied Michael’s request, he would only make it again. She would deny him again, and eventually he would go away. But a replacement would come and the process would start all over. But if she agreed to cooperate she risked her life, as well as Kurt’s and Manfred’s, even though she couldn’t really care less about him. Even Hannah, her domestic, was in danger. It didn’t seem worth it. It wasn’t her fight. Or was it?
She also realized that, if the British were smart enough to contact her, the Germans were shrewd enough to realize they would. They might start following her, if they weren’t already, or feed her with false information, something easily validated if the Allies acted upon it. It seemed no matter what she did, her life was about to drastically change.
She wondered if she should tell Manfred. It seemed the safest course. But now she despised him, and would rather not talk to him at all. If she did tell him, it meant the loss of any freedom she still had. German agents would watch her constantly, or escort her, like Klein did when they gave concerts outside of Berlin. And it meant Michael’s arrest and probable death; that was certain. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be responsible for that.
She had to admit she liked him. Mr. Becker, the wounded German soldier, classical music aficionado, amateur piano player who was really an Englishman with a photographic riddle to share. How much did he tell her that was untrue, other than his nationality? Somehow, and for no reason at all, she didn’t think he had lied about much else, including his attraction to her. She hated to admit it, but he showed more interest in her music during their ten-minute conversation at the café than her husband had in ten years.
Manfred had proven how despicable he was. Amanda wondered how long he had been unfaithful. How many women were there? Was it only the bank manager, and the red-haired woman she caught him with the past winter? Or were there many − multiple affairs juggled concurrently. He even had the audacity to tell her it would continue, and there was nothing she could do about it. What made it all worse, almost surreal, was that he was probably right.
Fortunately she rarely saw him; their paths never crossed except on Sunday. On the few days he was home, he left the house early in the morning, before she awakened, and returned late at night, well after she was asleep. Usually he didn’t come home at all, when some crisis caused him to stay in his office. That had become much more frequent, which was fine with her. She didn’t care if she ever saw him again.
She had a thought, fleeting, but alive long enough to plant a seed. Maybe Michael Becker the Englishman could help her. But what would he want in return, if he did. She had information she wouldn’t hesitate to provide, who influential Party members were, or the horrible treatment of Jews. She could disclose what she knew without compromising her family. Maybe there was a solution, maybe there was a way out.
When she returned home, she went to her music room, frantic and overwhelmed. She needed to practice; she needed to find refuge in the sweeping movements of the masters. It gave her solace.
*
The parade was that Saturday, highlighted by the German troops from France on leave before reassignment. The citizens of Berlin turned out in earnest, lining the Ku’damm and saluting or waving small hand-held Nazi flags. The troops goose-stepped past, their faces stern, their loyalty unwavering, keeping an appointment with destiny on the barren steppes of the Russian Front.
Amanda stood on the pavement, her camera raised to her eye whenever something caught her attention. In rapid succession she took photographs of a small boy saluting, a teenage girl who ran into the street to kiss a passing soldier, a stern policeman with a handlebar moustache, and a yellow bird on the limb of a sycamore tree, squawking at the commotion.
Her stepson Kurt stood beside her, his face flush with enthusiasm, his right hand raised in salute. He belonged to the Hitler Youth, membership in the organization was compulsory for boys and girls over the age of ten. His uniform, a long-sleeved tan shirt and dark tie, short pants above the knee, and long socks that rode high on the calf, mimicked dozens of other youths in the crowd. He studied the troops with fascination and envy, perhaps seeing his own future, dreaming of the day when he too marched to battle.
A thousand boots clicked in unison, the cadence even and ominous, thunderous and throbbing, echoing through the street and capturing onlookers in dream-like trances. People packed the pavement, waving, watching a nation that had emerged from ashes, beaten and humbled, now proud and strong and defiant.
Nazi flags were draped from the windows of public buildings, hung from flagpoles on streetlamps, and sprouted from the bumpers of public vehicles. The city was overcome with nationalistic fervor, caught in a kaleidoscope of victory and conquest with world domination as the ultimate end. But since losing the Battle of Stalingrad, cracks had begun to show in the nation’s armor. And those that watched wondered what waited on the horizon, if the Third Reich was destined to fade like the setting sun.
Amanda Hamilton Richter watched the frenzy with ambivalence, her life intertwined with the Nazis, her past linked to the enemy. For the first time in her ten years as a Berlin resident, she felt like she didn’t belong. She was a misfit, out of place, and whether that realization was prompted by Manfred or Michael, the seed of discontent had been planted and was starting to nurture and grow.
Amanda and Kurt watched the parade for almost two hours, the crowds remaining, dwindling when the tail of the column became visible on the horizon. It was only when the last soldier passed, and the cars and taxis and buses and bicycles that normally filled the Ku’damm appeared, that the crowd dispersed, disappearing into homes and cafes and stores, and walking down the smaller streets that intersected the boulevard.
Amanda knew Kurt enjoyed the parade far more than she did. He was still talking about it when they sat down for an early dinner, since she had a Saturday night performance. Hannah served them steaming bowls of eintopf, a stew with cubes of meat, potatoes and vegetables in simmering gravy.
She watched him, devouring the meal like any teenage boy. She saw his Hitler Youth uniform with new eyes, tainted by the triumphant march of the troops, and an awareness provided by Michael Becker, or whatever his real name was.
“What are you doing in your Youth organization?” she asked, more curious than normal.
“We march, like the soldiers we saw today,” he said. “And we learn to read maps and how to survive in the forest. It’s good training for when we join the military.”
Amanda was starting to lose her appetite. “Let’s hope the war ends before you’re old enough. I thought you wanted to be a doctor. You do well in school, why give that up for the life of a soldier?”
“Father said I will be an officer. Maybe someday I’ll be a general.”
Amanda smiled at his enthusiasm. “Concentrate on your studies. You’re only sixteen. You’ll make a fabulous doctor.”
“I’ll be seventeen soon. And father said the age for service might be lowered. In a few months I could be in the army.”
Amanda feigned a smile, fighting the nausea that was creeping over her. Suddenly the impact of war was very close to her heart. “Surely you learn other things. Topics that help you further your education. There won’t always be a war.”
“We study history and politics,” he said. “And we learn about the Jews. The government pledged that Berlin will be free of Jews this year, even the few stragglers that remain, spouses of good German citizens. What a marvelous day that will be, when all the vermin are gone.”
Amanda excused herself from the table and went to her room. She didn’t want Kurt to see the tears streaming down her face.
Manfred Richter watched the troops march down the Ku’damm from the fifth-floor window of an Art Deco hotel near the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. He studied the crowds, waving and cheering, watching from windows and rooftops, the soldiers strutting down the boulevard with legs lifted in unison as Nazi flags flapped in the breeze. He looked away, glancing at his watch. He didn’t want to waste time watching a parade.
The bathroom door opened, the room steamy from the hot shower, and Anna Schneider emerged, her naked body still damp, wrapped in a towel strategically positioned to prevent Richter from seeing everything he wanted.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she said seductively. “I wanted a quick bath.”
“It was worth it. But I would wait for eternity, if you wanted me to.”
She smiled. “You’re such a sweetheart.”
She walked towards him, letting the towel slip just a bit, briefly exposing her breasts. It was only for an instant, just enough to torment him, before she covered again.
“I have something for you,” he said, enjoying the glimpse of her nakedness.
“What is it?” she asked, coming closer, toying with the towel.
He held his right hand behind his back, smiling. “You have to guess.”
“Manfred, I can’t,” she pouted. “Tell me what it is. Is it a present?”
“Just a trinket,” he said. He pulled her close and kissed her.
She playfully moved away. “Darling, stop teasing. Tell me what it is.”
He took his hand out from behind his back and handed her a necklace, the diamond pendant sparkling in the dim light of the hotel room.
“Manfred!” she exclaimed, holding it around her neck and turning to look in a mirror. “It’s gorgeous. Look how it sparkles. What did I ever do to deserve this?”
She kissed him, tentatively at first, and then more hungrily, letting the towel fall to the floor.
An hour later, Anna climbed out of bed and Richter heard the shower running. He looked at the necklace lying on the bureau and smiled, recalling how he got it.
A few years before, he had gone to the home of a wealthy Jewess with two Gestapo officers, demanding to see her papers. She was at first indignant, thinking money and pedigree entitled her to specific rights, privacy among them. She didn’t realize that she had no rights.
Her papers were reviewed and the house searched, with no reason given. Richter took most of her jewelry, some of her clothes and rare books, porcelain china, and two rare vases. The woman grew irate, claiming he was nothing but a common thief, but Richter only laughed. And then, just so she understood her place in society, he ordered her to scrub the cobblestone street for one hour, using her silk lingerie and fur coat as rags. To ensure she complied, he remained to observe, stubbing cigarettes out on the street and then making her clean them up.
He had done the same thing to dozens of other Jews. Now, next to his office, he had an entire room filled with what he had stolen: gold, silver, jewelry, clothing, books, and paintings. He only wished he had stolen more.
He was in a generous mood, so he decided to give the diamond necklace to Anna. He even got a fox wrap for Amanda, a potential peace offering, and a leather-bound volume of
Faust
for Kurt. He would give Hannah, his housekeeper, an opal bracelet.
“I have to go,” Anna said. “I’m taking the children to see their grandparents. They’ve been visiting friends, but they’re probably home by now.” She had two children, a boy and a girl.
“You’re leaving so soon?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I promise to make it up to you.” She kissed him and started for the door.
“I heard your song on the radio today.”
She stopped, spinning around to face him. “My song?” she asked with disbelief.
“Yes, the record you made.”
“It was on the radio?”
“Yes, it was.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s true. Listen to the radio. You’ll hear it. I’m sure it’ll be on again.”
She walked back and gave him a last kiss. Then she skipped out the door, a broad smile pasted on her face.
Richter took a quick shower and left the hotel. He didn’t feel like going home, he rarely did, so he browsed in some shop windows and then went to a restaurant for a late lunch. When his meal was finished he had a few drinks, lingering until he knew Amanda would be gone for the concert.
When he arrived home he went to Kurt’s room, glancing for a moment at the bottle that contained the miniature ship. The room was empty, clothes stacked neatly on the bottom of the bed, waiting to be put in the bureau. A pair of leather boots sat beside the desk, dirty socks stuffed inside them. He put the leather volume of
Faust
on his bed, attaching a brief note:
a
small
gift
for
you
,
love
,
Father
.
Richter went to the lower level of the house, down a set of stairs to an area that contained a bathroom, a small parlor, and a bedroom. He waited at the door, listening for a moment, before he lightly tapped on it.
A moment later it opened, and Hannah stood before him.
“I brought you something,” he said softly.
She glanced nervously up the stairs.
“It’s all right,” he said. “No one is home.”
“What is it?”
“I have two things, actually.” He took his right hand from behind his back to reveal a bottle of wine. Then he removed his left, handing her the opal bracelet.
“Oh, Manfred, it’s beautiful!” she said.
“I thought you would like it,” he said smugly. He walked in to her suite, closing the door behind him. “Let’s open that bottle of wine.”
*
Amanda didn’t like the fox stole, even though she pretended to. Manfred gave it to her just after dinner on Sunday, with Kurt watching. She didn’t want her stepson to know that she despised his father. But she also hoped Manfred didn’t think a trinket would make her forget his latest affair.
He made a big fuss about it, how he had carefully selected it, going from one store to another, not satisfied until he found just what he wanted. Then, after rambling about the precious gift he had purchased for his devoted wife, he left to smoke a cigar with the man down the street.
It gave her an eerie feeling, reminding her of a helpless animal’s death. After she looked at it for a moment, and searched her memory, she realized there was another reason why she didn’t like it.
It was very distinctive, the crimson color, the white spots, and it seemed familiar to her. After thinking about it for a moment, she recalled where she had seen it. It was on the shoulder of Gertrude Rothman, a prominent Jew and benefactor of the Berlin String Quartet. Amanda could have been mistaken, and her fur could simply resemble another, or Manfred could have stolen it.
She wondered what had happened to Gertrude Rothman. She had vanished, with all the other Jews, supposedly resettled outside the German borders. But somehow Amanda doubted anyone had been resettled. She suspected something horrible had happened to them; she just didn’t know what it was.
She was asleep when Manfred returned, but he made so much noise he woke her. When he crawled into bed she kept her eyes closed, but he snuggled next to her anyway and started caressing her back.
“Are you awake?”
She smelled schnapps on his breath. Apparently he had done more than smoke cigars. “I am now,” she said softly.
He continued to caress her, his hands traveling down her back and across her buttocks. His lips trailed along her neck, nibbling on her ears, the stench of alcohol stinging her nostrils.
“Please, Manfred,” she said softly. “I don’t want you to touch me. Not now and not ever.”
“You’re being silly,” he scoffed, and returned to kissing her neck. “It was just a lapse in judgment. Nothing you should be concerned with. I don’t care about her. I only care about you.”
“I mean it,” she said firmly. “Don’t touch me.”
“Everything will be all right,” he said, his words slurring. “You’ll see. The first time will be the hardest. Then it will be just like it was before.”
He rolled her on her back and kissed her on the mouth.
“Manfred, no,” she pleaded, trying to push him away. “I mean it.”
He pinned her hands over her head, holding them tightly with his left hand. As his right hand roamed across her torso, he kissed her again, forcefully. Then he climbed on top of her.