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1932–1941
Clara’s grave lay next to the Sommer family tomb. An austere granite sarcophagus, the tomb had long ago been placed in a prominent position in the cemetery, between a pair of ancient yew trees. Generations of Minki’s family had been buried there, including her mother, but Minki didn’t want her child hidden away inside the tomb. She had insisted that her grave be placed outside – ‘where she can breathe’ – and had planted wild cyclamen on the surface of the grass all around. Her hope was that these tiny pink flowers would spring to life in the winter months in celebration of Clara’s birthday. As she looked around now, Minki’s heart lifted slightly to see the pale-pink flowers spreading across the surface of the grass like a blush.
‘I’m glad to see you visiting the cemetery each week,’ Gunther had said that morning as Minki stood at the kitchen sink, preparing flowers for the grave. ‘I’m sure it gives you great comfort. Don’t forget to say a prayer.’
‘No, Papa…I won’t forget.’
But the truth was, Minki didn’t find comfort at Clara’s graveside. Instead, she felt only fury – a white hot anger that burned inside her – that a child with such promise could be cut off in her prime, destroyed by the evil policies of her own government. As she stood alone in the wintry cemetery, she wept salty tears of regret. ‘Forgive me, darling…I should have stopped them, I should have kept you safe…’
Back home, she tidied the house and prepared dinner. Her father’s old housekeeper had died at the start of the war, and since then domestic staff had been thin on the ground – most had been sent to work in the armaments factories. And so Minki had finally taught herself to cook. ‘If little Clara could master it, I’m sure I could,’ she told herself. Now, she actually enjoyed it.
Late in the afternoon the boys, now aged eleven, arrived back from school, bringing energy and joy into the house. Minki hugged them tightly, reluctant to let them go, enjoying the life force they emanated – such a contrast to the silent, cold grave she had visited earlier.
‘Ow, Mutti,’ said Willie, ‘you’re hurting.’
‘Sorry,liebling.’ Minki handed them a plate of home-made biscuits. ‘Take these upstairs. Supper won’t be long.’
She heard them running noisily up to their nursery, eager to play with their model railway. Her father had unearthed it from his attic soon after the boys arrived.
‘My parents bought this for me,’ Gunther had told them. ‘It was one of the first model railways to be built – and was invented by a German – so take good care of it.’
Now the railway covered more than half the floor area of their nursery. No one was allowed entry except ‘Grandpa’ – not even for cleaning – so drifts of dust had gathered in the corners of the room. The train itself was a miniature, fully working steam train, which chugged round the track, pulling half a dozen carriages. The boys had made model buildings out of card – with painted-on bricks, windows and doors – creating entire villages complete with stations and signals, and had peopled them with tiny tin men and women. They had even acquired miniature dogs, sheep and cows. As she listened to the boys’ happy chatter in the room above, Minki felt comforted by their presence. Peeling potatoes, she repeated a daily prayer: ‘Please God, let the war be over before they’re old enough to fight. Spare them, I beg of you.’
When dinner was nearly ready, she put the various dishes in the bottom of the range to keep warm and sat down at her desk, which had been placed in an alcove overlooking the garden. Unlocking the top drawer with a key she kept on a string round her neck, she removed a letter she had received that day from Ruth Andreas-Friedrich of Uncle Emil. Since joining Ruth’s team, Minki had helped to coordinate the escape of many Jewish families from the south of the country. She never again personally drove people across the border – the risks of capture and death, she told Ruth, were too great, and the thought of abandoning her boys too distressing – but she made the arrangements, acted as a go-between, and liaised with Berlin to get hold of false papers.
The letter she had received that morning was a request for help for a family trapped in Munich. She made a note of what would be required – false papers, planning a route, before pinning the letter and the note to a fat sheaf of papers and once again locking them away in her secret drawer. She sometimes wondered if she should destroy these records. Hidden away in her drawer were the names of over thirty people she had helped to survive. But something made her hang on to them – a need to confirm the difference she had made to so many people’s lives, written down in black and white.
She had been helped in her work by her old friend, the countess. Franziska, like Minki, was disillusioned with the regime, and keen to help. ‘I’m too old for sex, Minki darling, but I need some excitement in my life. Working against the government gives me a thrill, and makes me feel young again.’
But a few months earlier, tragedy had struck. The bar in Schwabing where Franziska lived took a direct hit during a bombing raid. Sadly, the countess and Gerhard, the owner, were killed instantly. A few weeks later, Minki received a letter from a solicitor, explaining that the countess had left her the family tiara. Along with the letter was the key to a safety deposit box in a bank in the centre of Munich. On presenting herself at the bank, Minki was shown to the basement and the box was removed from the vault. When she opened it, there lay the tiara on a blue velvet cushion. With it was a note from the countess.
Minki, darling.
I took your advice and moved my tiara to the bank. It is yours now…I hope it brings you luck.Just remember – a lady never sells her jewels.
Somehow, Minki managed to keep the two parts of her life – the domestic, and her work for the resistance – in completely separate compartments, so her father knew nothing of her double life. And although the work was risky, it gave her satisfaction that she was fighting against the regime that had murdered her child.
Her notes once again safely locked away, Minki went to check on her father before supper. He often worked late in his study. She knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ he called out.
‘Can I get you anything, Papa? Dinner will be ready in half an hour or so.’
‘No, I’m fine, my dear.’
‘In that case, I’ll just listen to the radio for a while in the sitting room.’
‘Very good,’ he said, smiling at her.
It struck Minki as ironic that she had finally become the domestic creature her father had always hoped she would be. She often reflected on how angry she had been at him in her youth. Now, they got on well. In many ways, she, her father and the boys had become a happy family. The old man still ran his steel manufacturing business, and still went to work each morning in his big Mercedes. He had even bought Minki a small car to get around, and there were times when she felt something akin to contentment – running the house, caring for the boys and her father, doing what she could to help those in need. Her anger at what had happened to Clara would be with her forever, but she tried to leave those negative feelings at the graveside. It was important for the boys’ sake to try to remain positive and cheerful.
It had become a daily habit to pour herself a small brandy or glass of schnapps before dinner, smoke a cigarette and listen in peace to the radio in the sitting room. She rarely listened to German news stations – they were still filled with ridiculous propaganda, insisting that victory was within sight. Everyone knew it was nonsense.
She preferred to listen to the foreign news stations, and had often tuned into the BBC in order to hear Leila reading the bulletins. Then, in 1944, she had discovered her on a new station – the American Broadcasting Station in Europe – and just to be able to hear Leila’s voice, in spite of the poor reception, raised her spirits.
The fire she had laid a couple of hours earlier was dying down, and the room was chilly. Minki threw a couple of logs onto the glowing embers, poured herself a glass of schnapps, and turned on the radio. As she twiddled the dial, the calming music of Beethoven filled the room. It would make a pleasant change to listen to a concert. Settling herself on the sofa, she closed her eyes, and tried to lose herself in the music. But to her surprise, the broadcast was suddenly interrupted.
‘We now bring you a special announcement from the Reichsminister, DrGoebbels.’
