Chocolate Cake With Hitler (12 page)

It upset her that Papa wouldn’t go to church with her. She had great big odd-shaped knuckles, and if she wasn’t fiddling with her beads she would be rubbing her knuckles. Her hands were never still. When we were little she used to make us lots of itchy cardigans and jumpers, but now she complained that she couldn’t knit like she used to. Papa had this joke that it was because of Granny Goebbels’ sore knuckles that we were
winning
the war. He said that the real reason we lost the last war was because she had sent so many itchy socks to the front that the soldiers were driven crazy by their itchy legs. This war she couldn’t knit and the soldiers could concentrate on fighting without the distraction of her itchy socks.

Granny Goebbels was too stiff to come over to the Castle, but when Mummy was home Granny B.
usually
came over in the evening to play cards. They would often end up arguing. We could hear them from the nursery. Mummy’s voice would be like a low rumble of thunder; we could never hear her actual words, and then Granny B. would shriek like lightning: “You have ruined all our lives!” or “You should never have married
that evil little man!”

It was in Castle Lanke that I really realised how much Granny B. and Papa hated each other. I noticed that she never visited when Papa was home, but she had a habit of leaving things behind in the house – her shawl, her glasses, her tablets, her sewing – and when Papa got back from Berlin he would immediately spot these things and it would drive him mad. He would order them to be taken straight back to her lodge: “Look what the old bat’s left behind this time.” And Mummy would say “Josef!” in a
you-shouldn’t-say-that-but-I-know-what-you-mean
tone.

Day Eight in the Bunker

Sunday 29 April, 1945

I
asked Mrs. Junge about the music the other night and she said there’d been a wedding in the cellars of the Empire Chancellery. One of the kitchen maids married one of the drivers. They danced to the music of a small group of SS musicians playing Gypsy
wedding
songs. There always used to be Gypsy bands at weddings. It is supposed to bring good luck to the
marriage
. Papa’s sister, Auntie Maria, had a Gypsy band at her wedding. There were four of them, all wearing big white shirts and tall leather boots which they stamped in time to the music. The violins started mournfully and slowly, but they gradually got faster and faster, and this great stamping rhythm kicked in. Hilde and I held hands and swung out our bodies, whirling and
whirling
, until we fell on top of each other in a laughing sweaty heap. I haven’t seen any Gypsy bands since the
war started. People like Hubi have just been having very simple weddings, without the big parties. It will be so lovely when we can whirl and celebrate again. I heard some more music last night, but it was quieter. Thin, faint, ghost music. Violin and accordion, I think. Maybe another wedding, but smaller.

It feels like everyone has left. The corridors are
emptier
. I’ve been looking out for Upper Group Leader Fegelein to ask him about Gretl’s baby, but I haven’t seen him for days. And even the people who are here seem somehow absent. No one looks you in the eye. Nothing seems real.

I’ve been looking out for the soldier boy but I haven’t seen him either.

Liesl did my plaits again. I asked her what she thought happened when we die.

“We go to heaven.”

“Do you really believe that? Mummy believes in
reincarnation
. She says that we have lots of lives. If we lead a good life and die an honourable death, we will have an even better life next time.”

“Uh-ha. What kind of life would you choose next time?”

“Maybe I’d be a Red Indian brave and ride bareback across the plains. What about you?”

“I’d like a peaceful life. I wouldn’t mind where, so long as there was no war. I wouldn’t mind being a tree, so long as no one cut me down.”

“Do you think we can get out of here without being killed?”

She rubbed her eyes. She’s got that sort of soft loose skin that rolls under your fingers when you rub it.

“We’re all hoping that the Russians will surrender very soon.”

“But what if they don’t? I’m sure that the sound of the guns is getting louder, which means that they’re getting closer. How are we going to get out of here before it’s too late?”

“Helga, my lovely, I don’t know. We will just have to see, and when the time comes to get out of here, whether the Russians have surrendered or not, I will do all I can to help you.”

“You won’t go without us?”

“I won’t go without you.”

I lay my head back on her shoulder and she put her arm around me.

We were awake for ages this morning before anyone came to get us. Again I was woken by ceiling dust on my face. Hedda and Heide were already up with the light on, dancing in a circle and singing:

In the end we were really hungry and got ourselves dressed. It was ten according to the clock on the wall. We went to the kitchen and one of the orderlies gave us some bread and jam. There was a strange smell coming from the Leader Bunker. A bit like marzipan, but very bitter; it caught the back of your throat. Put us off our breakfast.

In the end Mummy appeared. She explained that all the grown-ups were very tired because Auntie Eva and Uncle Adi had got married in the middle of the night! So that’s what the music was, and Auntie Eva’s
mysterious
comment. We wanted to go and see Auntie Eva after breakfast, but of course she was still asleep, so we didn’t see her till teatime.

I asked Mummy about the smell. She said that she had no idea what it was and, anyway, it wasn’t polite to talk about smells.

We thought today would be a good day to do our Snow White performance, as a kind of wedding present. We rehearsed during our afternoon rest. It went quite well. No rows. However, tea turned out to be the most dismal yet. No play, but worse than that, no puppies. They didn’t even give us a chance to say goodbye to them.

Auntie Eva was twizzling her new ring. “I’m so sorry, darlings. You know this isn’t a good place for little
puppies
to grow up. They need lots of space and they need to be able to play outside. It’s not natural for dogs to be living underground like this. We’ve sent them to Berchtesgaden. They’ll be much happier. I know we’ll all miss them rotten, but I’m afraid in war we all have to make sacrifices and it won’t be long until we are all out of here and we’ll see them again.”

Helmut asked what we were all thinking. “Can we go to Berchtesgaden too?”

“Of course, my darlings. Uncle Leader would love that. We’ll all go there as soon as this horrible war is over.”

He meant now. Obviously. But we didn’t say anything else. There isn’t any point. I had a horrible closed feeling in the back of my mouth. I knew that if I opened my lips to speak I wouldn’t be able to stop myself crying. I don’t know why grown-ups think that if they don’t tell you about something then you won’t be upset by it.

What I wanted to know was how they got the dogs out. Flight Captain Reitsch and General von Greim have gone too, but I’m sure they didn’t take the dogs because Auntie Eva said that they flew off in the middle of the night. We didn’t get to say goodbye to them either. Apparently Uncle Adi has given them some
special
secret mission. I know the puppies were definitely
still here in the morning, because I can remember
hearing
them barking when I was playing patience. I’m furious that I was playing stupid patience, when I could have been cuddling Foxl.

Helmut had to try really hard not to cry but I don’t think that any of the grown-ups noticed. I forget that he does really mind about things, because he’s always pretending to be tough. We all felt too sad to suggest doing Snow White. None of the grown-ups said much. They perched quietly, sipping their tea, except Uncle Adi, who slurped loudly and took disgusting big sips of tea into a mouth full of cake.

After tea, Papa and Mummy took us to a party in one of the cellars of the Empire Chancellery. It was to say thank you to all Papa’s staff. Most of them are going to leave now. Mummy says it’s different for them. No explanation.

There were salami sandwiches, cake, of course, and champagne for the grown-ups. I wasn’t hungry. We sat around a table. One of the young soldiers sang old songs, mostly lullabies for some reason; I suppose that’s all he could remember. Lots of people were crying, but silently, which is strange.

The party carried on after we’d gone to bed. I lay in bed listening to distant music, but this time it was from a gramophone.

The corridor outside our room is very noisy tonight too. Soldiers.

Personally I think we should save the celebrations until we’ve won the war. 

1944

My memories have nearly caught up with me. Castle Lanke, the lawns, my birthday tea in the garden – milk and blackberries and the kind September sun.

Actually lots of bad things happened that year. Granny B. went mad. Not completely mad, but mad enough to be embarrassing: bursting into tears
unexpectedly
, making scenes. She would storm into the house, yelling for Mummy. I remember one afternoon – we’d just got back from school and were all in the hall taking off our coats – when she rushed in through the front door, looking half crazed with her grey hair tumbling out of its bun, screaming, “Where’s your mother? Where’s your mother?” Mummy came running through from her bedroom and swept Granny B. into the
drawing
room. We could hear her screaming at Mummy that she’d had enough and she was going to throw
herself
in the lake. She kept crying, “Why should I wait for a Russian bayonet?” Helmut thought she was saying, “Why should I wait for a Russian baronet?”, which made us all giggle but we stopped pretty quickly when Mummy came out into the hall and shouted for help. Mr. Naumann came and took Granny by the arms and escorted her back to her lodge. Mr. Naumann helps Mummy with everything; he’s taken over from Mr. Hanke.

Mummy came and went. Sometimes she was in
Berlin with Papa. Sometimes she was in the clinic in Dresden. Usually she went for treatment for her weak heart, but once because her face had frozen. It was really strange. She just woke up one day and she couldn’t move half her face. She could only do a
half-smile
– the other side was stuck in a miserable droop. I remember her trying to eat breakfast and dribbling her coffee down her chin. She went off in one of the official cars later that morning and stayed in the Dresden clinic until it got better. I can’t remember how long she was away, but even after her treatment I don’t think her smile came back completely. She spent hours and hours walking round the big hall listening to the gramophone. She played the same song over and over again. It was from an opera which tells the story of Orpheus and Eurydice – the song Orpheus sings when he realises that he has lost Eurydice for ever. She played it at full volume so the sad music floated through the whole house.

It was when she came back from the clinic that I realised that there was some mystery about Harald. When he first went off to war he wrote us long letters and all six of us snuggled up on a sofa with Mummy and she would read them out. But there hadn’t been a letter for ages. I asked Mummy if she’d had a letter in Dresden – maybe there was one we’d missed – or perhaps Papa had received one in Berlin. But she just shook her head in a “no”, almost a twitch,
clenching her neck so the thin bones at the front stood out.

Naps were her other big thing. She spent hours with her bedroom door shut and the curtains drawn, resting. And hours sitting in the yellow winged chair in her bedroom, reading the Buddhist books that Grandpa Ritschel had given her. We weren’t to disturb her. I remember on her birthday we waited and waited for her to get up so that we could give her her presents. Hubi had helped us make things. I’d cross-stitched a handkerchief with a big “M” and we’d all picked
flowers
from the garden. We laid a beautiful breakfast table, but she didn’t come down and she didn’t come down. In the end Hubi said it would be alright to take her presents up to her bedroom. It was nearly lunchtime. We went in and Hubi pulled back the curtains and Mummy sat up against her pillows, covered up to her neck by the pale pink flowers of her eiderdown, sipping the coffee that Hubi had brought, and we sang her the birthday songs we’d been practising. It seemed strange that Mummy, with her big strong hands, had become so weak and delicate, while Hubi, with her skinny legs and round shoulders, was now the person who could cope with anything.

A happier memory is Hubi getting married. It was exciting even though we didn’t get to go to her wedding and we were worried that it would mean that she would have her own children and leave us – we didn’t know
then that we would end up leaving her. We gave her a lamp with a china stand and a china shepherd and shepherdess holding hands. They were meant to represent her and Mr. Leske. He sometimes came to stay at Castle Lanke. He was very tall, so tall you got the
feeling
that he was a bit embarrassed to take up so much space.

Because we couldn’t go to her wedding, Hubi put on her wedding dress to show us, and she looked really beautiful, though she would have looked even better if she didn’t stoop forward so much, and personally I’d prefer a dress that went down to the ground, but you can’t really have one like that in wartime. The dress was white but Hubi only had her normal black shoes to wear with it, which ruined the look, so Mummy said she could borrow a pair of her shoes, because they have the same size feet. We all went to Mummy’s shoe
cupboard
to help her choose. She tried on about 50 pairs before she chose a really lovely grey silk pair with thin high heels, and she kept saying, “Oh Mrs. Goebbels, this is so kind of you! What if I spoil them? Oh Mrs. Goebbels!” But of course, she didn’t spoil them.

I only went to Berlin a couple of times in the whole year. Once was to go to the dentist and once to the military hospital.

Papa wanted to make a film of me and Hilde taking
flowers to wounded soldiers. We went in one of the official cars, and all the film people followed. The
hospital
was in an enormous building, surrounded by parks and gardens. It was a beautiful sunny day. There was a line of soldiers standing on the lawn to greet us. We all waited whilst the cameramen set up their
cameras
. Then we followed Papa, walking along the line, shaking hands.

It wasn’t that easy. Several of them didn’t have hands to shake. Three of them didn’t have arms at all; some had lost their right arm, so had to shake with the left. Lots of them were on crutches – missing a leg – and so shaking hands was a bit of a balancing act. The ones who had no legs and were in wheelchairs were the
easiest
. We each had a bunch of flowers that we gave to the nurse standing at the end of the row, because she had the hands to hold them.

Then we went inside. Up big stone steps, through huge tall doors and into a vast pillared hall that stank of disinfectant. There was a team of white-coated
doctors
to take us on a tour of the wards. We set off down a long corridor, the doctors in front, the film crew behind, our shoes clattering on the brown and yellow floor tiles, the sun streaming through the big windows on one side.

There must have been about 100 beds in the ward. We started on the window side. Papa went first and introduced me and Hilde. We shook hands, as far as
possible, smiled and moved on. It was very hot. Our light summer coats suddenly felt much too warm and heavy. There was a terrible smell, which the disinfectant failed to hide, that reminded me of the smell of the dead rat we found in the cellar at Castle Lanke. I
started
to feel sick. The whole room seemed to be groaning. We came to a man who had most of his face hidden by a bandage. He put out a hand to shake hands and Hilde took it without noticing that he had only got one finger. She didn’t mean to scream, but that was it. “Switch off the cameras!” Papa swung out of the room. We had to run to keep up with him in the
corridor
.

Both me and Hilde had nightmares. Limping men stretching out mutilated hands. Mummy was furious with Papa for taking us there. I don’t think they ever finished the film.

It was on a separate trip to Berlin that Hubi took me and Hilde to the dentist. I find it hard to remember the order in which things happened but I know exactly the date of our appointment because it became famous: the 20th of July.

I had to have a filling, which was agony. The dentist told me to make an elephant’s mouth. He said I should raise my hand if it was too painful. Some people have gas, but he didn’t think a brave girl like me would need gas. Hubi said I’d feel better afterwards if I didn’t have gas and we were going to meet Papa for lunch. So I
didn’t have gas and I didn’t lift my hand and the dentist screeched his drill into my tooth and it was hell. Hubi gave me a boiled sweet afterwards for being such a good girl and not making a fuss. I hadn’t seen a boiled sweet for ages – I don’t know where she got it from.

Papa was late for lunch, and I remember we ate all the bread as we waited for him and then we were
worried
that he’d be cross that we hadn’t left any for him. He wasn’t – he shook out his white napkin and tucked straight into the roast beef. He ate very fast, teasing me for being such a slowcoach. He was pleased I hadn’t had gas. He wanted to know all about Wandlitz school and what we’d been learning. He polished off the beef, wiped the gravy off his plate with his potato and was just about to attack a huge slice of apple strudel when he was called to the telephone. He was gone ages and so we went ahead with our puddings, because Hubi said that otherwise we might miss our train home.

When Papa came back he was as white as a ghost. He said he had terrible news. A traitor had tried to kill the Leader. Luckily they hadn’t succeeded, but the Leader had been injured and others had been killed. We were to tell no one. He had to leave
immediately
.

We sat in silence for a moment. Then Hubi leapt up from the table. “Come on, girls, finish up. We must go.” She told us not to say a thing on the train, so we looked
out of the window and watched the houses and the bomb sites turn into fields. You’d think it felt nice to know something that no one else knows, but it didn’t.

At one point, we stopped at some signals to wait for another train to go by. The heat was unbearable. My thighs stuck to the leather seat. Hubi had brought some water to drink, but it was as warm as bath water and completely undrinkable. At last we heard the chug of the passing train. It was going really slowly. I thought I was dreaming. It was just like how I imagine the train that Granny B. and Mummy and Grandpa Friedlander took from Brussels to Berlin. The carriages had been designed for cattle rather than people and there were air gaps above the doors but no proper windows. There were faces – mostly of women, but also of little children who they were holding up – staring out of all the gaps; and hands holding out cups and jugs as if we might be able to fill them with water as they passed. Hubi told us not to look. I pretended to look at the floor but watched out of the corner of my eye. As soon as we were in the little cart heading back to Castle Lanke, I asked her who those people were. She shook her head. “Refugees? Criminals? Jews? I really don’t know.”

I don’t think they were criminals, because criminals are usually men.

At about this time, actually it must have been in the
autumn as the weather had turned, Papa made an appeal on the radio for everyone to donate any clothes they didn’t need, so that people who had lost all their things in the bombing would have something warm to wear. The British have been bombing our cities and killing thousands of innocent people and destroying their homes. I don’t know how they could do it. Papa says it’s because they are cowards who are scared of our soldiers and prefer to murder defenceless women and children.

We all wanted to give something to help the poor children who had lost their clothes and we talked to Hubi about what we could give and we decided that the best things would be our spare winter coats because we really didn’t need them. Mummy was rather
reluctant
at first because they were very expensive and had been made in Norway and were real lambskin, but in the end we persuaded her that we ought to be a good example, like Papa always says, so we made up a big parcel and Mummy sent it off.

Another part of being a good example was sticking to our rations. Mummy was the worst at it. One time she even stole Heide’s butter. She said she didn’t, but I know she did. It must have been the end of a week, and Mummy had finished her butter ration and only had margarine left, and unexpectedly she had a visitor. It was teatime and because, of course, we didn’t have any cake or biscuits, she wanted to offer her guest a
little bread and butter. She sent her maid to ask if Hubi could give her a little butter from the children’s rations. Hubi couldn’t believe it. She told the maid that we couldn’t possibly spare any butter because we had carefully planned out what we needed for each meal until the next ration came. Which was true. So the maid went back to Mummy empty-handed. We didn’t think more about it, but at suppertime, when we went to get our rations from the fridge, Heide’s little portion of butter was missing. Mummy said Heide must have forgotten she’d eaten it, but I know she hadn’t. We each gave Heide a scrape of ours, which really meant we had so little it was like pretend butter, though at least we had plenty of jam because Cook made loads from the blackcurrants in the garden. I don’t know why Mummy didn’t give that to her guest, and be done with it.