How have I ended up hiding in this horrid, dusty attic? My parents must be out of their minds with worry – if they’re still alive.
If only I’d gone with them.
She tried to remain positive, but there were times when she found that impossible. Her mind drifted back to the day, three years ago, when she was kicked out of school. Her secret ambition had been to study medicine. That had gone the way of all her dreams. She was a smart student, smarter than almost everyone at the school, and yet the principal did nothing. She enrolled in a Jewish school, miles away from their house. Jews were excluded from public transport, and she had to use her bicycle to get there. That was difficult enough, but then Jews were forbidden from using bicycles, and it became impossible.
It wasn’t long before her father’s business was taken away from him. And one horrible day she came home to find her whole family were gone. Both parents had been taken. No one knew what had happened to her two sisters. Dora said they were sent to a labor camp somewhere in the north. The whole thing made no sense. It was like one of Franz Kafka’s horror stories. What harm could a tailor, his wife and their three daughters do to the mighty Third Reich?
Dora was convinced the camps were unsafe, and there had been alarming rumors in the early years when the government first started stamping the identity cards of Jews and making them wear yellow stars.
Inge’s life was on hold.
I’m a prisoner here, she thought gloomily. There are no guards and no bars, but it’s still a prison. In a normal prison you get to walk around. I can’t even do that.
Her leg started to cramp. She stood up and applied weight to it. The pain eased. She remained on her feet for a while, going through her calisthenics exercises, making as little noise as possible and trying not to disturb the bats in the rafters above her head.
Her hair was greasy and she was sure it had bat droppings in it. She shuddered. She would have to wait three more days before Dora would allow her to wash it.
In a normal prison you can keep clean, and there are other prisoners to speak with. Here, there is nothing; just blank walls, a single lightbulb, boring books and bats. And my toilet is a bucket.
She shuddered again.
What sort of life is this? It’s too hot in the summer and freezing in winter. I have no one to talk to apart from Dora. And I have no friends. I think I’m losing my mind. How much longer must I stay here?
8
One day, shortly after sunrise, Hans made his way to his allotment. He planned to harvest what he could from his meagre crop to replenish his stores. He had had to contribute a significant proportion of his produce to the war effort, and the sacks in his cabin were almost empty.
By mid-morning he had three half sacks full, but his vegetable crop was sorely ravaged. He resolved to spend more time tending to the soil. He would need to dig over and fertilize the ground for replanting in the autumn.
The physical effort of the work he’d done had tired him out. It was impossible to work the land encumbered as he was by a heavy, unbending leg. He had removed the false limb and sat on the ground while he worked. It was humiliating, made him look like one of the common limbless beggars that shuffled about the street of the Mitte, but he didn’t care. He owed nobody anything. The youngsters could gawk and snigger all they liked; he had done his duty for the Fatherland; nobody could fault him or mock him for what he had become.
He struggled to an upright position, and, using his hoe as a crutch, hobbled across the soft soil to the cabin. Once inside, he collapsed into his chair, switched on the radio, and fell asleep.
He was awoken by a loud hammering on the wall. At first, he thought some of the youngsters were taunting him again, but a familiar figure appeared silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the open doorway.
Max Jungblutt, from the Gauleiter’s office, raised a hand in greeting, “Heil Hitler.”
Hans returned the greeting.
“I see you’ve been busy, my friend,” said Jungblutt. “You have some produce for me?”
Hans was shocked by the question. “I have nothing more for you. You were here just a few days ago.”
“It’s been three weeks, Herr Klein,” said Jungblutt, frowning.
“It can’t be. I don’t have anything more for you. Come back in a month.”
Jungblutt’s frown turned into a look of mild amusement. “We are fighting a war, have you forgotten? The Führer needs everyone to step up their efforts. The final victory will be ours, but only if every man pulls his weight.”
“I’ve made my contribution to the war effort,” said Hans.
“We all know what you sacrificed.” Jungblutt waved at the iron leg propped up against the wall. “But you mustn’t think that your role has ended. With diligent work here in this allotment you can still make a valuable contribution. Think of your comrades in the Heer, still fighting for victory on three fronts. They must be fed.”
Hans shook his head. “There’s only so much I can do. This is a small plot.”
Jungblutt’s amused expression morphed back into a scowl. “If you are not able to manage this plot, perhaps you should surrender it to someone who can.”
Hans shuffled forward on his chair, dropped his trousers and reached for his iron leg.
Jungblutt waved a hand at him. “I’ll leave you. No need to get up. Heil Hitler.” And he stepped out through the doorway and was gone.
Hans strapped on his leg and maneuvered his trousers on. He tied the cord around his waist and switched the radio off. Jungblutt had made snide remarks on previous visits and he’d always cast aspersions
