EIGHT
Berlin-January 20,1942
To Kurt Bauer, the Folkertses’ house was a place of enchantment, and not just because Liesl lived there. Its pitched roof, gabled windows, and wooden shutters oozed Alpine charm, while the neighboring Grunewald provided a hushed backdrop of dark pines and fairy-tale beeches. Add a dusting of snow and a curl of chimney smoke, and you had the very essence of cozy German
That was the tableau Kurt came upon that morning as he pedaled his bicycle down a powdery trail with a pair of wooden skis strapped on the back.
It had been exactly a month since he had met Liesl, and already he had become a regular at her address on tiny Alsbacherweg, visiting at least four times a week. The route was happily familiar by now. He would haul his bicycle to his neighborhood U-Bahn station for the ride south to her stop at Krumme Lanke, where he would then pedal the final half mile to her doorstep in a rising bubble of anticipation. At times he went out of his way to pass by, even if it meant a detour of half an hour, simply so he could ping the bell on his handlebar to say hello, while taking a special thrill whenever Liesl flicked back the curtain of her upper window to wave.
Today he was expected. Neither Liesl nor he had classes this afternoon, and they were planning to ski the new snowfall on the mazelike trails of the Grunewald for as long as daylight permitted. Kurt had prepared for the outing as if for a minor expedition, using ration cards to buy bread and cheese, then tossing into his rucksack his last bar of Christmas chocolate, a vacuum flask of spiced cider, a first aid kit from his days in a Wandervogel youth group, and a flashlight for finding their way home after dark.
He needed a break like this. His father’s agenda of corporate visits had only gotten more hectic. In addition, his family was now preoccupied with the future prospects of Kurt’s sister, who on the previous weekend had accepted the marriage proposal of her SS boyfriend, Bruno Scharf.
His affairs at the university were also in turmoil. One of his favorite professors had just been arrested, or so rumor had it. The only official word was an ominous notice tacked to the classroom door, which said that Professor Doktor Schlosser would be “absent until further notice” due to sudden health problems.
That left Liesl as his only source of joy, although she more than made up for the rest. And today he would have her all to himself. No parents, no friends, and, best of all, no discussion groups to get everyone’s emotions in a lather. The last was Kurt’s only source of discomfort in this new romance. Not because he disapproved of Liesl’s views but because he cringed at the thought of their two social circles ever intersecting in some intimate setting. It was bound to happen, he supposed. But whenever he imagined, say, Erich Stuckart breaking bread alongside some of the earnest young men he had met at Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s house, he envisioned either a shouting match, a fistfight, or an arrest-and sometimes all three.
Liesl’s crowd had taken some getting used to. For much of that first evening at Bonhoeffer’s Kurt had said as little as possible, content to let Liesl conclude that he was shy around strangers. The truth was that he was a bit shocked by some of the talk, and while he wasn’t inclined to disagree, he hadn’t yet been up to the task of joining in.
Bonhoeffer himself had seemed welcoming enough. For someone who supposedly posed such a threat to national security, he was mild and kindly, even docile.
The music playing on his phonograph was another matter entirely. A choral selection in English, it was unlike anything Kurt had ever heard-strange, moaning voices of such high passion that the hair on his neck stood up. Soloists burst through hailstorms of rhythmic clapping like shots of adrenaline, evoking cats in heat or women in childbirth. It was one thing to experience the soaring emotion of opera, where all the power was channeled and focused, but in these recordings the energy was raw and untrammeled. Unnerving, but admittedly exhilarating. Kurt supposed that the propagandists who always railed against jazz and swing would have had a field day with this stuff, and he amused himself by imagining Goebbels flailing his arms in rage over this very record.
“Who is singing?” he shyly asked Liesl.
“It’s a Negro spiritual.” Her smile made it clear that she approved. “Pastor Bonhoeffer has a lot of them. He collected them while he was living in New York.”
“Herr Bonhoeffer lived in America?”
Was it wise to be playing such music from a country that was now their enemy? Especially on a Sunday when “quiet rules” were in effect on every street. What if the neighbors overheard?
Liesl must have noted his uncertainty, but instead of criticizing she sought to reassure.
“Don’t worry, it was years ago. But isn’t it silly, the idea that something like music could corrupt you, especially when it’s so full of life?”
Then she squeezed his hand, and as far as Kurt was concerned the matter was settled.
He was less certain about some of the other people in attendance. A few were downright strident, even boastful in their dissent. The most abrasive was a fellow named Dieter Bussler, who loudly told a coarse joke about why the golden angel on the Victory Column had recently been moved to a higher pedestal-to keep Goebbels from getting up her skirts. Dieter struck him as all talk, just the sort of fellow who might get everybody in trouble and then be among the first to run.
Others he liked immediately, such as the quiet-spoken Christoph Klemm. Christoph, too, told irreverent jokes, but his were more sophisticated, and cleverly refrained from mentioning their targets by name, as with the one that clearly referred to Gandhi and Hitler: “What’s the difference between Germany and India? In India, one man starves for millions. In Germany, millions starve for one man.”
Kurt laughed louder than was warranted, partly out of nerves. It was a bit like being back in grammar school and having the boy at the next desk show you a naughty drawing of the teacher. It intrigued him to realize there must be more of this racy material out there, in parlors and living rooms far beyond the sedate comfort of his parents’ house. But he sensed that he had best enter this new realm carefully, and should closely guard its secrets.
When his mother asked later how the evening had gone, he sanitized the description, making it as bland as possible. He didn’t dare mention Bonhoeffer’s name.
“But you were there for hours. What did you do?”
“Oh, you know, the usual sorts of things. Listened to music. Chatted with the girls. Nothing that exciting.”
But it
Liesl was putting on her skis when he arrived, and within seconds they were darting through the trees, scooting downhill on a trail that cut between the small woodland lakes of Krumme Lanke and Schlachtensee and then led straight into the densest part of the forest.
The sky was a metallic gray, and the raw air burned his cheeks. In only minutes it felt like they were miles from civilization. Long brown furrows cut the snow where wild boars had rooted for acorns the night before. The only sound apart from their breathing and the hiss of their skis was the wind soughing in the pines. It kicked up a crystal mist of blown snow.
Pausing for their first rest, Liesl bent forward awkwardly on her skis and nuzzled him with flushed cheeks. They kissed, and were so swept up that afterward they nearly tripped while disentangling their crossed skis, which of course made them laugh, a bright call of joy through the forest gloom. Kurt felt strong enough to ski all the way to the North Sea.
“I used to wonder why these woods always made me so cheerful,” Liesl said, as they got back under way. “Then one day I realized it was partly because of the bark on the pines, the way it is colored. Do you see what I mean?”
He did, now that she mentioned it. Most of the bark was a deep brown, but on every tree the southern exposure was a lighter shade, almost golden.
“It makes it look like the sun is shining,” Kurt said.
“Even on a day like this. The perfect illusion for the German winter.”
For Kurt, Liesl had a similar brightening effect, except her radiance was no mere illusion. He pulled to a stop
