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As Leila translated the bulletin, she remembered her last conversation with Michael Sullivan at the Foreign Office. He had assured her that the Americans would have joined in the war effort by Christmas, and he had been right. It was almost eerie to think that he had such foresight. It gave her a small sense of optimism that the tide might finally be turning.
Leila left the office soon after five. The fog had descended once again, and her bus crawled slowly back up Haverstock Hill towards Hampstead. When she finally arrived home, the house was in darkness. The children were normally home by this time and, for a moment, she panicked. She let herself into the hall, calling their names. ‘Sofia…Axel, are you there?’
The sound of sniggering reassured her that all was well. ‘Where are you?’
The children burst out of the sitting room, laughing. ‘Come in here, Mutti…we’ve got a surprise.’
Sofia turned on the light, revealing a Christmas tree in the corner next to the fireplace. ‘Da-dah!’ she exclaimed.
‘We bought it on the way home,’ said Axel excitedly. ‘We didn’t have enough money, but the man at the stall said you could pay him tomorrow. Isn’t it lovely?’
‘Yes, darlings, it’s beautiful.’
‘Can we decorate it now?’ asked Axel.
‘I suppose so, although I’m not sure how many decorations we’ve actually got…’
‘We made some at school, look,’ said Sofia, revealing a handful of papier mâché balls, painted in garish colours. ‘Oh, and there’s a letter for you on the hall table.’
‘Thanks, darling. I’ll read it in the kitchen while I make supper.’
Leila rarely drank alcohol these days but, noting that the letter had an Augsburg postmark, she felt the need to prepare herself for bad news. She tipped the remains of a bottle of sherry into a glass and took a large gulp.
Nervously, she slipped a knife through the envelope and opened Minki’s letter.
My dearest Leila,
I hardly know where to begin.
Firstly, I must tell you that my angel child Clara, who was taken from me so cruelly, has died. As I write those words, it seems quite incredible and I can scarcely believe it. What makes my grief even more unbearable is that I found the hospital where she had been taken – in a town called Hadamar in Hesse. Here the mentally disturbed are incarcerated, and to think that my little child – who was full of so joy and happiness – spent the last weeks of her life in that awful place is unendurable. What she must have seen and suffered there. They told me she died after an epileptic fit. But how could a child die of epilepsy, particularly in a hospital? It makes no sense.
I stopped briefly in Berlin to give Max the news, before returning to my father’s house in Augsburg. I had arranged for Clara’s remains to be returned to us – to be buried next to my mother in the family plot. On the day of her funeral, I received another piece of terrible news. Max had shot himself.
It was an awful shock, of course, and the boys are devastated. To them, their father was a talented, powerful man, and they adored him. But as far as I was concerned, Max was no longer the man I had once loved. He had become weak and ineffectual – the ‘creature’ of Goebbels – and ultimately he represented all that is wrong with Germany. I have asked myself why he took this way out. Ultimately, I believe it was the guilt. After all, if he had kept Clara’s secret, she might still be with us. I know it must sound harsh, but in many ways I feel it was the only decent thing he could have done. I will never forgive him for his betrayal, and so I cannot mourn his passing. I play the part of grieving widow for the boys’ sake, but inside I feel nothing.
The loss of Clara is so profound that I too briefly considered ending it all myself. But who then would be here for Willie and Felix? So I must go on, my dear.
This tragedy has focussed my mind, and I have decided I must take a stand against the regime. I have made contact with people locally who are doing what they can to fight back. What I reproach myself for is that it has taken the death of my own precious child to give me the courage to act. I feel such guilt for all the years when I ignored what was in front of my own eyes; when I refused to see the evil that was growing in our country. You saw it from the first – can you ever forgive me?
I have not forgotten your concern for your parents. You are right to be anxious. Are they still living at the same apartment? If so, I shall visit soon and see what I can do.
Write, if you can, my darling friend,
Minki
The sound of Leila’s sobs brought Sofia and Axel running through from the sitting room.
‘Mutti…what’s the matter? Is it Grandma, or Grandpa?’
Leila shook her head, and pushed the letter across the kitchen table towards Sofia. She too had tears in her eyes when she had read it.
‘Oh, Mutti. How awful. Poor Minki – and poor Felix and Willie.’
‘What will you do?’
‘What can I do?’ said Leila, wiping her eyes. ‘We are a thousand miles apart. I feel utterly helpless. But my God, Minki’s bravery is amazing. I worry though…it sounds like she has joined some sort of resistance group. I hope she doesn’t take too many risks – the boys don’t deserve to lose their mother as well as their father and sister. I’ll write back after supper.’
That evening, once the children were in bed, Leila took a spare Christmas card from her desk drawer and wrote a brief note to Minki. It was vital that she didn’t say anything that might attract the interest of the authorities, so she couched her message carefully.
