Frau Hübner stepped forward. “What did you say your name was?”
“Hans Klein.”
She and her husband exchanged a quick glance.
“We have something of yours,” he said.
She hurried into the shed and re-emerged with a tin box. She handed it to Klein. “This was buried in the plot. We found it when we started to dig.”
Klein took the box. He looked at it and frowned. “This is not mine.”
“Look inside,” said the woman.
2
Berlin, early July 1944
Gretchen settled Oskar in his chair, wrapping a light blanket around his legs.
“I’ll be home by one o’clock. There’s water on the table beside you, and I’ve left some food in the kitchen in case you feel hungry.”
He smiled his vacant smile at her.
Suppressing a tear, she kissed him on the forehead, picked up her bag, and left the apartment.
She had always loved the early mornings. Even now, with destroyed buildings everywhere and mountains of rubble in the streets, the birds sang. There was a time when Oskar would have shared her joy in the birdsong. That was before the war took his mind. She clung to her memories of those good times as if they were the crown jewels.
Yesterday’s warmth radiated from the ground. Above the towering apartment blocks, the sunrise painted the clouds red in the eastern sky. She shivered. The magnificent sight was tinged with menace; the Red Army was advancing through Poland…
The walk to the bakery took twenty minutes. A couple of early delivery drays rattled past, but otherwise the streets were deserted. When she arrived, a queue of five women was already waiting at the bakery door. They greeted Gretchen as she entered. She knew all their names.
Bäckermeister Korn, the master baker, had fired up the ovens and was measuring out the ingredients into the hoppers.
“You’ve increased the rye?” she said, putting on her apron.
He ran a hand across his face, leaving a smudge of flour on his bulbous nose. “Our store of wheat flour is getting low. I’m not sure when we might expect the next delivery.”
She could remember when they’d first started increasing the quantities of rye in the mixture, in the winter of 1942. The levels were strictly controlled by the Gauleiter’s office.
“How much?”
“Don’t concern yourself, Gretchen.” He turned his back. “A little more than last month, that’s all.”
She let the subject drop, but she was concerned. The levels of rye affected her digestion. She had to eat the bread like everyone else, and she had to feed it to her sick husband.
By the time the oven doors were open and the four trays of Kommissbrot lay shimmering on the benches, Gretchen’s dress was stuck to her body and sweat was pouring down her legs. Outside, it was a hot day; inside the shop, the heat was unbearable. She ran her eyes over the bread. Did it look a little darker than usual or was that her imagination?
“Are you ready, Gretchen?” said the baker.
She gritted her teeth, running her hands down the creases in her dress. “Ready, Herr Korn.”
He opened the doors and the women flooded in waving their money and their ration books. Each person was entitled to 500 grams of bread, but not everyone would receive their allowance; there simply wasn’t enough for everybody. The scene quickly descended into chaos. The noise was deafening. Korn and Gretchen struggled to keep order. As the bread supply began to dwindle, the women fought more and more fiercely to get served. There were indignant shouts, cries of pain and anger as the women elbowed one another out of the way in frustration, pushing and shoving, using their handbags as weapons.
Those with the sharpest elbows, the most body weight or the loudest voices got to the front and were served; those at the back went away empty-handed.
Within 15 minutes all the bread was gone, apart from four loaves hidden in an oven – two Herr Korn had set aside for himself and two for Gretchen.
Herr Korn ushered the last disappointed customers out of the shop. “I’m sorry, ladies. That’s all we have today. Come early on Wednesday.” He locked the door.
Gretchen glanced at the large clock above the bakery door. It was after ten o’clock. If she didn’t leave soon, she would be late getting home. Oskar would start to fret.
“You’re free to go. I’ll tidy up,” said Korn. “How is Herr Schuster?”
“He’s much the same, Herr Korn.” She removed her apron, dusted the flour from her hands, and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Take the foal and give it to your husband with my blessing,” he said. The ‘foal’ was the wizened half-loaf made from the last few grams of dough.
She thanked him and placed the extra small loaf in her bag.
He unlocked the door. She stepped outside and he locked it again behind her. Shielding her eyes against the blinding light, she set off across the street.
A grey-green Kübelwagen shot past, forcing Gretchen to jump back onto the footpath. Stumbling to her knees, she bumped into a young woman pushing a pram and dropped her bag.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.
The young woman rolled her eyes. “Did you see who was in that car?”
Gretchen shook her head, picking herself off her knees.
“Two of the Gauleiter’s officers. I saw his crest on the door. They were going much too fast for safety—” The woman glanced down at Gretchen’s bag. “What do you have there?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Gretchen picked up her bag.
The young woman’s eyes lit up. “You have fresh bread. I can smell it.”
Gretchen hurried away to cries of “Wait! Come back!” from the young woman.
A line of women waiting at a bus stop turned to watch as Gretchen hurried onward, her bag clutched tightly to her chest. The smell of fresh bread was enough to start a riot on the streets these days!
3
Gretchen’s first call on the way home was to an apartment block on Christstrasse. She knocked on the door and Franz opened it.
Gretchen was
