Authors: John Anthony Miller
Amanda had just finished practicing when Manfred walked into the house, setting his suitcase on the parlor floor. She cringed and closed her eyes, wondering if she could ever survive the evening. She had somehow convinced herself she could flee Germany before she ever saw him again. Now she knew that wasn’t possible. But it had been weeks since she had seen him. Why did he come home now?
She put down her violin and took a few minutes to compose herself, sponging her face with a damp cloth. She came downstairs, even though she didn’t want to, listening as Hannah fussed over him.
He was sitting in the parlor like he had never left, drinking schnapps. The newspaper was spread out before him, and he was talking to Hannah as she prepared dinner, not visible and almost out of earshot, but occasionally voicing a reply. Manfred’s behavior was predictable; it seemed he had had several drinks before he got home.
Amanda realized how important it was to act normally, even though Manfred knew she despised him. But she could at least be civil, even though it would be the acting performance of a lifetime. She took a deep breath, struggled to slow a racing heart, and walked into the parlor.
“To what do we owe this honor?” she asked, unable to avoid being caustic.
He put the paper down and wrapped his arms around her, even though she resisted. It seemed to please him that she did. “It’s good to be home. And I know how glad you are to see me.”
“Has the Fuhrer given you a day of rest?”
“Hardly,” he said, frowning, and then sipping his schnapps. “There is no time for rest. I was in East Prussia for the last few weeks. It’s been frantic since the Allied invasion of Italy, especially with the problems on the Eastern Front. When I looked at my calendar, I saw that tonight was the only chance I had to come home before we go to Berchtesgaden next weekend.”
Amanda tensed with alarm, but fought desperately not to show it. “I thought it was two weeks from Friday?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, I’m not sure why you thought that. We leave Friday morning. The Fuhrer was talking about it yesterday. He’s anxious to hear you perform.”
She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, even though it did. “That’s fine. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“I’d rather stay in Berlin,” he grumbled, his eyes returning to the paper.
She waited a few moments, watching him, and then delicately spoke, searching for information. “I suppose you heard about Gerhard Faber,” she said softly.
His face showed disgust. “Vermin. I’m told he was selling secrets to the Russians. He should suffer a slow and painful death.”
Amanda’s face paled, even though she was relieved by his disclosure. Maybe she and Michael were beyond suspicion. “Manfred, he has three children.”
“He should have thought about that before he betrayed his country. The Gestapo is…” He paused, searching for the right word. “The Gestapo is extracting information from him now. As soon as they’re done, he’ll be executed.”
Amanda felt a wave of nausea, but fought to keep an interested look on her face. She mustn’t show weakness, or sympathy, or compassion. She pretended to agree.
“I suppose he should get what he deserves,” she said.
“And his punishment will discourage others.”
Hannah called them for dinner, and they moved to the dining room. The table was set with schnitzel and sauerkraut, served with a bottle of wine. Freshly baked rolls sat in a basket, still warm.
Amanda watched Manfred as he ate, and she realized just how much she hated him. He ignored her, reading the paper, looking up to flirt with Hannah when she came into the room. Any attempt Amanda made at conversation was met with grunts, an occasional word or two and, when he felt like it, a faint smile and vacant expression. But that was fine with her.
After dinner they sat in the parlor, listening to news reports and drinking more wine. Amanda knew where the evening would end, and she schemed and plotted, trying to invent a way to avoid it. The mere thought of Manfred’s body against hers, the stench of alcohol on his breath, his rough hands raking her body, made her feel faint with fear and disgust.
As the hours passed she had a glimmer of hope. He seemed more interested in drinking than lovemaking. She attempted casual conversation several times, but he only nodded as he finished reading the newspaper. She sat quietly, listening to the radio as the news ended and an Italian opera came on.
He withdrew some papers from his briefcase and was soon immersed in the reports, frowning as he read them. He continued drinking, switching back to schnapps, and, after another hour she feigned a few yawns, delicately spaced to seem genuine, and then stood.
“I’m going up to bed,” she said. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
He looked up from his papers, after having ignored her for the last thirty minutes. He put down his glass and smiled. “I’ll join you.”
She walked up the steps, praying for an escape, hoping something happened to avert what was about to occur. She went into the bathroom and washed, taking more time than normal, stalling, hoping he’d fall asleep before she was done. But when she emerged he was laying on the bed, stripped to his pants and undershirt, his red suspenders still wrapped over his shoulders.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said softly. He patted the bed beside him.
She knew resistance would not only be futile, but potentially painful. And to resist violently would earn her a place beside Gerhard Faber at his execution. She had to get through it, had to somehow separate herself from what was actually happening.
She fiddled with clothing in one of her bureau drawers, stalling. Then she picked up two magazines that were on a chair by the door, and laid them on a table in the hallway. But as the minutes passed, and Manfred’s eyes never left her, she realized she couldn’t delay any longer.
When she sat down on the bed, Manfred roughly pushed her to the pillows. He pulled her hands over her head, holding them in place with his left hand, and moved his body on top of hers, kissing her neck while his hand moved over her body, squeezing and pawing. She lay there motionless, not resisting, but not cooperating.
“Manfred, please,” she pleaded. “You’re hurting me.”
He continued, not even listening. The kisses turned to bites, playful at first and then rougher, bruising the skin. He pulled her nightgown down over her shoulders, exposing her breasts.
She resisted, gently trying to push him away. As she tried to slide out from under him, he held her tighter, squeezing her wrists more firmly, his body grinding against her.
She turned her face away, repulsed, her eyes misting. “Manfred,” she said, having trouble breathing. “Please. Let me go.”
He laughed, tightened his hold, squeezing, pinching, hurting her.
Just as she was about to scream, air raid sirens began to wail. Explosions were heard in the distance, coming closer. The Allies were bombing Berlin.
Eight-hundred RAF planes swarmed over the city, flying high in the clouds to evade anti-aircraft guns. The rumble from their engines sounded seconds before the bombs fell, leaving little warning or time to escape for those not in shelters. The targets, unlike the small, sporadic raids previously launched against the German capital, were residential areas west of the city center: Tiergarten, Charlottenburg, Schöneberg and Spandau. It was the second air raid in a week, the first focused on industrial targets, but it was the most intense of the war. It introduced a more aggressive strategy for the Allies, a further decline in Nazi fortunes, and a disaster for the residents of Berlin.
York survived the air raid, huddled in an underground shelter, worried frantically about Amanda, and concerned for Erika and the children she cared for. He spent the night with strangers as the ground above them shook, dirt falling from the ceiling, muffled explosions announcing that a new day had dawned. They tried to make the best of it, the room dimly lit with candles that cast shadows on the concrete walls. Strangers idly chatted, some tried to sleep, others quietly prayed, but all knew that the landscape above would never again be as they left it.
They exited just after sunrise, silently filing up the shelter stairs. York mingled among them, tired, anxious, and shaken, wondering what the new day delivered. When he reached the surface he was shocked by the devastation, standing motionless with the others, their mouths agape, staring in morbid wonder.
The entire block had been destroyed. Fires raged; structures were crumbling. Some buildings were just shells, the walls standing but roofs and interiors collapsed. Others were like paper waving in the wind, still standing but so severely damaged they would fall with the slightest provocation.
He walked down the street with crying children and stunned adults, leaning on his cane. Many had nowhere to go, and they wandered aimlessly, a vacant glaze in their eyes. Buildings once called home were now piles of brick and broken timbers, shards of glass covering damaged furniture, some of which sat serenely in a house with no walls. The street was passable, but barely; debris covered most of the pavements. Smoke hung in the air, gray and black, shielding the weak rays of the sun, the acrid stench of gunpowder stinging their nostrils.
His hotel was intact, except for the collapsed roof on the side porch, but many of the windows were cracked or broken. Two large flower pots that flanked the entrance lay in pieces on the ground, dirt shadowing the sidewalk. The awning that protected the front steps still stood, torn and tattered, the frame intact.
York walked into the hotel, passed a few other stunned guests, and saw cracked plaster in the lobby, falling from the ceiling to form piles of white dust on the carpet. The striped wallpaper held the walls intact, but the damage beneath it was easily visible: bulges, depressions, small holes. He walked up the staircase, which still seemed sturdy, but noticed the windows on each succeeding elevation were cracked or broken. A light bulb in a hallway lamp had shattered, the small particles of glass lying on the maroon carpet.
He entered his room and saw that one of the panes in the window had broken, glass littering the table. He brushed the glass into a trash can and filled the hole with a towel. When he held the curtain back and looked out, studying the city of Berlin, he saw smoke spiraling to the clouds, marring the rising sun, dust hanging heavy on the autumn breeze. Although nearby buildings had sustained varying states of damage and partially blocked his view, he could still see that large sections of Charlottenburg had been destroyed or severely damaged.
He left a note on the table for Amanda, saying he was safe, noting the time, and that he would be back in a few hours. He went into the hallway and put his key in a plant that sat in an alcove beside his door. She would know to look for it there, should she come.
He went back outside. The streets were filling with response vehicles: ambulances, fire engines, and military transport trucks with troops to assist, all struggling to evade cars, buses and taxis that were stranded or trying not to be. Streets and pavements were still cluttered with those who had lost their homes, stunned and bewildered, knowing what they once considered sanctuary no longer existed.
York found a taxi parked on the side street. The driver stood outside, leaning on the side of the vehicle, his face pale, watching the horror unfold before him. When York approached, he looked at him strangely, almost as if he were living a nightmare.
“Can you take me to a few addresses around the city?” York asked. “I’m concerned for some friends.”
He was an elderly man, his glasses thick. “Are you serious?”
“I am,” York said. “I’m very worried and the telephone lines are down.”
“How far do you want to go? Some of the roads are blocked completely.”
“A few places in Charlottenburg, one in Tiergarten.”
“That will take all morning.”
“I have time.”
The man shrugged. “It’s your money.”
As they moved through the streets of Berlin, York found the landscape similar to the area near his hotel. Fires raged, buildings crumbled, smoke drifted on the horizon, choking those that wandered the streets, their faces telling a story of horror and despair. The buildings had sustained varying degrees of damage, from minimal to massive. Curiously, there were entire blocks that had been spared, while others had only a few residences impacted.
They continued down the boulevard, uprooted trees and downed streetlights impeding traffic, along with debris that had spilled into the streets. Several Nazi flags had been dislodged from their perches and now lay in the dirt, no different from other rubbish borne by the bombs, a forecast of the future.
York directed the driver past Amanda’s house. As he approached, he saw a crowd standing in front of the building, surveying the shattered pavement and front steps, a broken tree limb shattering a window on the first floor. Damage seemed slight, even though across the street three successive townhouses were piles of rubble, dust still drifting from the debris. He breathed a sigh of relief, assuming she was safe.
Next he passed the home of Erika Jaeger. There was little destruction on her street, only a corner property destroyed. Its outer walls still stood, the windows blown from their frames, but the roof and any semblance of an interior lay in a heap at the building’s base. Residents milled about the street, afraid and confused, but most appeared thankful that they had been spared. The war had been suddenly and viciously dropped on the doorsteps of Berlin’s residents.
He directed the driver to the end of the Ku’damm, where he found the city icon, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, in ruins, its steeple stunted, a tower destroyed. Many of the buildings around it fared worse, and York couldn’t tell by what remained what had been there before.
Fires and debris forced his driver to take a torturous path, each journey taking three or four times longer than normal. The Braun residence was near their route to Kaiser’s, so York asked the driver to stop there next. Most of the buildings were intact, the Chinese embassy among them, but others were in varying states of destruction, like most of the other neighborhoods.
The Braun mansion still stood, but a bomb had landed in the new garden, leaving a large crater and shredded shrubs covered with dirt and shattered stone from the borders and walkways. Every window was cracked or broken, the front steps had collapsed, the iron railing bent and twisted. As they idled past the house, closer to the garden, York could see clapboards on the side of the house were damaged and peeling away, exposing studs that supported the roof. But he suspected the women were safe, and were already searching for a new benefactor.
York directed his driver to Potzdamer Platz, hoping to pass the apartment block owned by Albert Kaiser. The first route attempted was blocked by debris, with horrific damage to adjacent buildings. They diverted a few blocks and tried an alternate, but met the same results. Two more attempts, each from the north, were also unsuccessful. Given the extent of damage, the obliterated landscape and mounds of debris, York had doubts whether Albert Kaiser or his friend Captain Klein had survived the attack.
York told the driver to return to the hotel, but asked him to pass Max’s boarding house. It had survived the bombing, along with the café, but not much else on the block stood. York knew that Max was all right. He always managed to come out on top, always the winner while others lost. His life had always been charmed, fated for few challenges, unlike the rest of mankind.
When he got back to the hotel he found the key missing from the potted plant. He rapped on the door and, a second later, Amanda let him in.
She hugged him frantically, kissing his face and neck and ears.
“I was afraid something happened to you,” she whispered.
He kissed her, enjoying her embrace, smelling her perfume, feeling her hair in his face.
“I left you a note.”
“I know, but I’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”
“It would take more than an air raid to keep me from you.”
“I was afraid,” she said. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. Not after it took my whole life to find you.”
He smiled, kissing her again.
“The bombing was horrible,” she said. “I could have never imagined destruction like that.”
It was the first time she had seen the total devastation war delivers. Her face was pale; she was still in shock. It’s hard to watch buildings and belongings that have been part of your life suddenly vanish. Not to mention the injured, or the dead.
“It’s only the beginning,” York said, warning her of what was to come.
He told her about his drive through the city, and the areas inspected. He didn’t mention knowing Kaiser or Erika, but described their streets and neighborhoods so she could reach her own conclusions.
“I suppose Erika is safe,” she said, relieved. “Or at least her neighborhood suffered little damage. But I’m worried about Albert.”
“Hopefully he survived,” York said. “How about Manfred? Was he home?”
“Yes, he arrived just before dinner. It’s the first I’ve seen him in weeks. I was a wreck, trying to act normally, even though he knows I hate him. We had dinner and talked, and then he started to make advances. It was the first time he’s done that since the weekend I met you.”
York felt as if his heart had been ripped from his body, so severe was the hurt. He stared at the ceiling, an empty ache consuming him, dwarfing any other emotion.
Amanda smiled. “The air raid started before he got very far. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear bombs falling.”
He laughed and hugged her tightly.
“I do have bad news,” she said, burying her face in his neck. “Manfred said we’re going to Berchtesgaden next Friday. That’s ten days away. Not three weeks like I thought. Can we be ready before then?”
York had already decided, after witnessing the devastation from the air raid, that the sooner they left Berlin, the better. Regardless of what London said.
“I’ll make sure we’re ready,” he said. “We should target next Wednesday. I just need to make some final arrangements.”
“Manfred left this morning, but I’m not sure how long he’ll be gone. I would give anything to never see him again.”
“I understand,” he said, knowing how difficult it must be. “But don’t worry. The bombing will have him occupied for a while.”
She sighed and released him. “Michael, I don’t know what makes me feel this way, but I think he knows about us.”
York’s face tightened. “If you have any doubt whatsoever, then we have to leave as soon as possible. We can’t take the chance.”
She looked at him somberly. “Then we had better go.”
He was silent for a moment, pensive, calculating risk and reward. “You’re right. We have to leave in the next few days, before he gets back.”
She hugged him. “That would be so wonderful.”
He pulled away, remembering a final detail. “Are you absolutely sure you have petrol?”