Leaving Hamburg in tears.
Chapter 25
Hilda looked at her wristwatch. It was approaching her normal lunch hour, but she was not hungry. The anger of Otto’s death changed her priorities, and it was as if grief took the place of food.
She looked around her at the ruins of her home. She could see nothing worth saving; everything she found as she poked around the rubble was damaged. Roof slates covered much of the debris; she looked underneath a few, but had neither energy nor incentive to lift up each one. Shards of crockery surfaced like an archaeological find; she spotted broken chair legs, a buckled bed. Things she had regarded as treasures now had no worth; even if she found her precious mantelpiece clock undamaged, nobody would be able to buy it. Money was worthless.
‘Hey, lady, get off the site. You’ll fall and break your leg or something worse.’
Hilda turned round to see a man probably in his eighties. He had done his good deed for the day and turned to go. She felt like a naughty child caught in the act, but she accepted his advice. She picked her way carefully back to the street below.
She sank down on to one of the more stable remains of a wall and covered her face with her hands, unsure what to do next. There was no point in pinning a note to a door, even if there had been a convenient door, Otto was not coming back. She tried to find a place for that knowledge in her mind; she could not afford to go around in a daze like so many other grieving mothers. There would be a place for Otto in her heart and in the forefront of her mind, wherever she found herself; she would never stop thinking about him. He was born at the wrong time in the wrong place. If only Willy had been Scottish, then Otto, or whatever he would have been called, might well have been alive today.
Her next task was to seek out the family she still had: Karl and Renate. She stood up, gave herself a little shake and turned in the direction of their house, although her hopes of finding them there were now low.
She passed a man stoking a brazier bright with dancing yellow flames. He hardly noticed her passing as he gazed into the glow, mesmerized. She saw a swallow darting and undulating over the uneven ground, seeking eaves that were no longer there. Then she heard a low grating sound, and as she turned right towards Karl’s house, a huge machine bearing the insignia of the American army came into view. It pushed a spiny metal shovel ahead of it, clearing rubble and carnage alike. The driver wore a facemask to keep out the rising dust and the stench of rotting carcasses. She watched it perform its duties and waited until it passed. She was grateful for an unobstructed route ahead; it seemed to be the start of Hamburg reclaiming its veins and making an attempt to come back to life. That was when she knew that Germany’s second largest city and main seaport would survive, given time; it would flourish as it had done before the madness of the war. It would take a while, but it would happen.
In days gone by, it would have taken her about fifteen minutes to reach Karl’s home. She had already been walking for twenty-five, and she was at least still three hundred yards away. She recalled the Pied Piper of Hamelin who played to drive the rats out of town; how Otto used to love Willy telling him that story. If she had had her oboe with her, she might not have had any effect on the multitude of rats, but perhaps she would have been able to give the city a moment of musical magic to take away the sadness on everyone’s face.
Many of the buildings in this part of the city seemed less damaged. She even saw a couple of untouched homes, their uncared-for gardens bearing witness to their missing occupants. Such was the indiscriminate destruction of the bombs that had hurtled to the ground.
Then she saw Karl and Renate’s house. The windows had blown in but the building seemed relatively lightly damaged. She approached, hoping she might catch a glimpse of either of them. Hope rose in her heart.
‘Renate,’ she called out three times.
A voice answered, but it was not Renate’s.
‘You are looking for Renate Richter?’
She glanced to her left to see a woman holding a young boy’s hand. Her blouse was dirty and her hair unkempt, but her son looked cleaner; his jersey was free of stains, and one sock draped down over a scuffed boot. She walked towards them, vaguely recognizing the woman as one of Karl and Renate’s neighbours.
Hilda returned her half-hearted smile.
‘Hilda Richter, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I am the sister-in-law of the Richters.’
‘Yes, I know. Where have you been? Where have you come from?’
Hilda wondered if her truth might worry her and prevent her from divulging what she needed to know. She chose her words carefully.
‘I was visiting my parents in Scotland when the war broke out. I was away for the duration of the hostilities.’ It was not entirely a lie.
‘You remember me? I am Martha Roth.’
She nodded. ‘I remember your face but I had forgotten your name. Your son is very young of course. I don’t remember him.’
‘No, he’s only three. He will grow up in peace. I had him at the right time, although he will have no father. My husband was killed in Italy.’
They gazed at each other in silence for a moment. ‘I am sorry for you,' Hilda said. 'My condolences.’
‘That’s all we are saying to each other, condolences, condolences, condolences.’
She beckoned Hilda into her bomb-scarred home. Hilda opened her bag and gave the little boy a biscuit. His mother smiled and placed a kettle on her battered kitchen stove.
‘This part of the city got off lightly. I am pleased for you,’ Hilda said.
‘Lightly perhaps, but not without pain, so much pain.’
The pain was everywhere; she had seen in everything she passed, but this was the first time someone had said the word.
The family dog had been curled up in a corner; it lost its shyness and ambled towards her. She stroked the affectionate hound gently. Its eyes seemed to linger on her as if to say, ‘There is bad news coming and my duty is to stay with you to comfort you.’ She stroked it again, and it came even closer.
Martha Roth poured ersatz coffee into a mug.
‘I am sorry, there is no sugar or milk, of course.’
‘I am sure things will slowly get back together again. It will take time,’ Hilda said.
Martha joined her at the table. ‘You know about Gerhardt Eicke?’
Hilda wondered why that name had come up. ‘Yes, I know who you mean. He was my son’s Hitler Youth leader, and a Gestapo man, of course.’
‘Yes, that’s true, but he was also the man who cleared Hamburg of its Jewish population.’
Martha looked at her. She was clearly not Jewish. Hilda wondered where this conversation was going.
‘The early years of the war saw the Jewish community being rounded up and taken away in trucks. Now we know where they went, where they were killed in great numbers in gas chambers. It will live on our national conscience forever.’
‘What could have stopped it, though?’ Hilda asked. 'I don't think anyone could. That is the greatest shame.'
‘I did not know that Renate was Jewish.’
‘Renate? She isn’t Jewish. Her grandfather was, but two generations ago. Two Lutheran generations at that. Renate married Karl in the Lutheran Church here in Hamburg,’ Hilda replied.
‘That’s not how Eicke’s men saw it. Renate was accused of not wearing the yellow star.’
‘Of course she wouldn't wear it. She was not Jewish!’ Her voice rose, alarming the dog and bringing tears to the little boy’s eyes.
Martha picked up her son and comforted him, ordering the dog to return to its basket. ‘But her grandfather was Jewish and that to Eicke meant a direct line,' she said sadly. 'She was taken out of her house one afternoon in plain sight. Many of us saw her being taken away. I’ve never seen her since. That was about three years ago. But I think we both know what her fate was.’
Hilda lifted her cup from the table and took a drink. She nodded. There was no need to respond.
‘Muggi, come here,’ Martha said eventually.
She drew the dog closer to her. She rubbed its ears and patted its back. Its tail began to wag. Hilda smiled at the canine relationship. Hilda then laid her hand over Martha’s .
'My son dead, my sister-in-law gassed,' she said bleakly. ‘You wouldn’t know what became of Karl, would you?’
‘Are you sure you really want to know?’
‘Now I suspect the worst. Tell me.’
Martha took a step towards her and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course it’s hearsay. Everything is hearsay.’
‘No smoke without fire, isn't that what they say? If it’s hearsay in the present situation, it will contain more than a grain of truth.’
Martha looked up at a cobweb on the ceiling and followed the trail to the spider, which continued its weaving oblivious to the mayhem that seemed to have descended on the world.
Martha spoke slowly. ‘Karl was with the medical corps, a dentist, of course.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘He was with Field Marshal Rommel in Africa. From Libya in 1941 they made great strides through to Tobruk. However, the following year they ran out of supplies and fuel. They dug themselves in and laid mines to thwart General Montgomery’s advance. Rommel’s orders from Hitler were to stand firm to the end.’
‘To the end? Karl was not a fighting man. Maybe he’s a prisoner?’
Martha smiled as if that might have been possible, then looked down at the dog and continued. ‘The Field Marshal was taken ill and returned to Germany. But with such a lack of resources the German troops knew the war in north Africa was lost. Moscow in December ’41, November ’42 in North Africa: two major defeats. Most people knew Hitler was no longer invincible, but no one dared say that in public. The Afrika Korps and the 4th Army in Moscow were both lost, but Hitler was refusing to accept it. He was livid, we heard. Then the British broke through and secured the territory along the north Mediterranean coast.’
‘Yes, it was a turning point,’ Hilda agreed.
‘Karl was killed – not taking out teeth... but... but... He was blown up by a mine.’
Hilda’s mouth fell open. She felt a momentary stab of pain, just a shadow of what Karl must have suffered.
‘Some people around here wondered if he could have avoided it if he had chosen to – he had heard his wife had been taken into custody for being a Jewess, and his brother was already dead. Maybe he saw death as preferable. All we know is that he was killed by one of our own mines in the desert. I have no reason to doubt the story. I am sorry, Hilda.’
She now had no family left. She had never felt so alone. ‘What a day it has been,’ she said desolately. In the back of her mind, she had been afraid that this was exactly what she would find, but if anything that made it worse; the ray of hope which had buoyed her up since her arrival in Hamburg was now completely extinguished.
Muggi’s eyes looked up at her expressively. He raised his paw and placed it on her lap. He seemed to know her tears were about to fall.
It was late in the afternoon, after they had exhausted their memories, that she made her decision. She left Martha with a supply of tinned meat and the remainder of the biscuits and tinned fruit.
Germany had nothing to offer her any more. Hamburg was not the city she had known and loved. The culture was gone, all the people she knew too; the city had a long way to go to resurrect itself and she saw no part for her in that process. She made her way back to the airport. A passing American jeep stopped and gave her a lift; the driver took pity on her, assuming she was a German widow.
‘So you’re not German after all,’ he said when she thanked him for the lift and told him where she was going.
‘No. I have no home. I’m Scottish, but that isn't home any more either.’
He took his eye off the road and looked at her sideways. ‘Stateless then?’
She turned to him and smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said as the stench of Hamburg cleared out of her lungs.
She found a seat on a plane heading to Northolt later that night. The pilot was Polish, and he asked no questions. His mind must have been as full of grief as hers, as Russia made its grim presence felt in his homeland. Darkness fell, and the North Sea was as black as the inky sky. Somehow, it seemed to make the flight back longer. Time moved slowly, and she had much to contemplate.
Hilda was recognized by the American contingent at the hut where she went to spend another night, but she chose not to socialize with them. She went straight to bed and cried until she slept. Her pillow was still saturated when she woke the following day.
‘Where to this morning, ma’am? We’re taking a platoon of boys home to the United States today. Fancy joining them?’ asked one of the airmen.
The unexpected offer made her smile. A pity it had come at the wrong time. ‘I'm certainly tempted, but a lift to the nearest bus stop will do. I’ll be heading back to the city once more,’ she replied quickly, before she allowed herself to consider it seriously. A new life in America was in truth appealing; but she needed to find a purpose once again, and that would be more difficult in an unfamiliar country where she knew no one at all.
When she arrived back at the MI6 offices, Dynes was at his desk. This time it was Thornton who was not around and she wasn’t told where he was.
‘It’s a pity Thornton is away,’ said Dynes. ‘I'm sure he’d want to discuss things with you. But I am privy to these matters anyway.’
Hilda was a little bewildered by this statement. What further use was she to MI6? Unless... ‘You mean my oboe?’
‘Your oboe? What about it?’
‘I asked Mr Thornton if I might leave it here while I was in Hamburg. If you open that tall cabinet, you will find it.’
Dynes did as he was asked, and found the stepladder. ‘Ah, that black case again. I presume that’s it.’
‘I’m pleased to see it is just as I left it.’
Dynes handed over the instrument. She tapped the box with a loving touch. ‘My comfort box,’ she said.
‘If you're offering a recital, I'm afraid I must decline this morning. I have some news for you.’
‘Really?’ All the news she had received recently had been devastating; she longed to hear something good.
‘Indeed, two pieces of news. The first will certainly be of interest to you. Your old friend Gerhardt Eicke, has been arrested and charged with crimes against humanity.’
‘Of interest? I should say so! That’s the best news I’ve had for some time,’ she said, a beaming smile spreading across her face.
Dynes gave her a speculative look, and a note of anxiety invaded the satisfaction.
‘You realize you will be seeing him again?’ he said.
‘What? Are you joking? There’s no way I’d want to encounter that man again. Heaven forbid.’
‘Hilda... I’m afraid you may have to.’
‘Why?’
‘You're going to be cited as a main witness in his prosecution.’
Her mind fought to make sense of this. Could she face him again? And if she did testify, would her evidence be enough to convict him?
‘So back to Germany some time?’
‘Yes, Nuremburg. The trials will start there in August.’
‘The sooner the better,’ she heard herself say bitterly.
There was a pause, then Dynes smiled at her. ‘My other piece of news is rather more pleasant. At least, I hope you'll think so.’ There was mischief in his eyes. ‘The Foreign and Commonwealth Office has close ties with MI6, as you can imagine.’
‘Y...e...s...’ Where was this comment going, she wondered?
‘We have heard from one man there who seems keen to meet you.’
‘Meet me? Are you sure?’
‘One Sir Francis Simpson.’
For a moment Hilda was speechless; she had to restrain herself from hugging Dynes. 'That is... absolutely wonderful,’ she gasped. 'But I thought... is he not in Central Africa?’
‘Oh, so you do know him. Yes, he was in Africa. He’s now been posted to Finland.’
‘You mean, ambassador to Finland? What a contrast.’
‘Indeed it is. They move them around quickly in that department. I’m sure he’s missing the heat of the Dark Continent. But he’s not in Helsinki yet.’ He paused, reminding Hilda of an actor about to deliver an important line. ‘He’s on leave... in London.’
‘Really?’ Suddenly things were looking up.
‘Yes. Now I have a meeting to attend to. But before I go,’ he said rising from his seat behind the desk, ‘I have something for you.’
‘I see,’ she said, not seeing at all.
He took a notepad from his drawer and produced a pen from his breast pocket. He glanced at a folder on his desk, made a quick scrawl and handed Hilda the sheet of paper.
‘Here, take my seat. This is Sir Francis’s telephone number. He is awaiting your call. I’ll send through a cup of tea for you.’
He began to make his way out of the room, and she called after him, ‘If you don’t mind, a glass of cold water might be better.’
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