She helped him into his spare pajamas; the ones he was wearing were wet and muddy. And there was a button missing. Once she’d fed him and put him to bed, she reached for her needle and thread. She kept them on a shelf above the kitchen sink in a small tin box with a picture of Charlottenburg Castle on the lid. Inside the box were all her personal treasures: Three photographs, a bundle of Oskar’s letters, a banknote from the 1930s with a value of one hundred million marks, Oskar’s Iron Cross, and the official letter discharging him from the army. The bedroom key was in there too. She had put it in there a year earlier when Oskar had accidentally locked himself in the bedroom. There was a linen bag full of buttons, some spools of thread, needles and scissors. She selected a button and set to work.
12
Oskar seemed more distant than ever. Even when the bird landed on the windowsill to feast on the breadcrumbs, he showed no spark of interest. She was losing him. Day by day, He was retreating into his shell. She took their wedding photograph from the tin box, showed it to him, and spoke to him of times long past. Hitler was a minor political figure then, a criminal rabble-rouser, head of an obscure party with no hope of ever making it into power.
“We were happy in those days. We had our lives ahead of us, everything to look forward to and anything was possible. Then the German mark became worthless, and everything changed.” She shook her head.
Oskar’s eyes lit up. “Your mother exchanged clothes for food.”
Gretchen patted his arm. “And furniture. Our credenza kept us all well fed for a whole week.”
“We had to burn our furniture to stay warm…”
She was pleased to hear her husband talk. He recalled occasional snippets of their early life together after the last war.
Why can’t he remember what day it is today, or how to put on his socks?
Martha Engels and the two neighbors turned up in the early evening, as usual.
Frau Carlson was struck dumb when she heard the news. Martha wrung her hands. “I feared this would happen, Gretchen. I never thought it would happen so soon.”
Frau Tannhäuser was indignant. “I hope you stood up to them, told them about your special circumstances.”
“What special circumstances?”
“Herr Schuster, your husband, his condition…”
“Herr Korn knows all about Oskar. There was nothing he could do. The Gauleiter has made a decision and that’s that.”
Frau Carlson said, “You could appeal to somebody in the Wehrmacht. Point out that your husband lost his mind in the service of the Fatherland. He deserves better treatment than that.”
Martha Engels snorted. “What good would that do? Honestly, Gertrud, you’re such a Dummkopf. The Wehrmacht is too busy fighting the war to spend time on such a trivial matter. You could try the Führer’s office, Gretchen, the Führer is the champion of the people. If he gave an order in your favor the Gauleiter would have to obey.”
Gretchen shook her head. “I’m sure the Führer has a lot on his plate. He wouldn’t have time to listen to my complaint.”
“So that’s it, then?” thundered Frau Tannhäuser. “You will just accept the ruling, and we will all have to live with the consequences?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Gretchen.
Frau Tannhäuser snapped her fingers. “You can give me back my earring, so.”
Gretchen gave her the earring, and Frau Tannhäuser flounced out, followed by Frau Carlson.
“I’d like my Paul’s jumper back,” said Martha.
“That’s not possible, I’ve started unravelling it,” said Gretchen.
“Show it to me.”
Gretchen fetched the half-unraveled garment and the ball of wool. “Leave it with me and I’ll knit us a warm jumper each.”
Martha put it in her bag. “I’m sorry, Gretchen. I’ll take it the way it is.”
“But you don’t know how to knit,” said Gretchen.
“I could learn.”
13
Thursday July 20, 1944
The postwoman, Frau Niedermeyer, ran into the block at midday, flapping her hands in excitement.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gretchen.
Gasping for breath, the postwoman was unable to speak.
Gretchen helped her to sit on a low wall bordering the property. “Take your time. Catch your breath.”
A crowd gathered. The postwoman was never short of a news story, and whatever she had to say this day must be something extraordinary.
When she’d regained her breath, Frau Niedermeyer staggered to her feet. She waved her hands to gather the people closer.
“I have news, amazing news. Can everyone hear me?”
The people all said they could hear her. One young man said, “I wish she’d get on with it,” in a voice loud enough for Frau Niedermeyer to hear.
“Adolf Hitler,” she said, “our beloved Führer…” she paused, wiped a tear from her eye, then raised her voice, “The Führer is dead!”
The people gasped. Someone said, “That can’t be right.”
Gretchen called out above the hubbub, “How? Tell us how he died.”
“He was killed by a bomb.” There was a catch in her voice. “The SS are being rounded up and arrested as I speak. The Third Reich is no more.”
Anton Tannhäuser stepped forward out of the crowd. “Don’t listen to this woman. This is defeatist talk. Lies intended to fool us all. Don’t believe any of it. The Führer can’t be dead.”
“But he is, I tell you,” said the postwoman. “He’s been blown to pieces by a bomb.”
Anton stomped off, shouting over his shoulder, “How can the Führer be dead? This is crazy talk.”
By mid-afternoon the news had been confirmed from other sources. A massive bomb had been planted in Hitler’s headquarters in Rastenburg, Prussia. Everyone in the room had been killed. There was no official confirmation on the radio, but the non-stop somber music on the radio told its own story.
At first, no one said anything. Then, the people in the apartment blocks began to speculate on what might happen next. Who would take over from the Führer?
