A Woman of War: A new voice in historical fiction for 2018, for fans of The Tattooist of Auschwitz. Mandy Robotham
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had lost me momentarily. As if I could escape.
‘Morning, Fräulein,’ she said, addressing me like a true guest. I had warmed to her already, mainly for treating me like a human being, and because she had brought me more food. Her flaxen hair was pulled tight into a bun, making her high cheekbones rise and her green eyes sparkle.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite finish the dinner,’ I said, as she eyed the leftovers. ‘I’m not so use—’
‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. The staff clearly had their suspicions, whatever they had been told. It took me a good while to absorb the eggs and bread on my plate, yolks the colour of the giant sunflowers swaying in my mother’s garden. Memories, carefully kept in check while at the camp, were swimming back. I forced the protein into my already overloaded system and Christa was at the door as I pushed in the last mouthful.
She led me upstairs to a large lounge, skirted on three sides by wide picture windows, a view of the forest in one, mountains in the opposite. It was roomy enough for several leather sofas in an austere German design, with sideboards of dark wood and ugly, showy trinkets. The inevitable portrait of the Führer loomed over the huge fireplace, which provided a gentle lick rather than a roar.
A woman was sitting in one of the bulky armchairs and stood as I arrived. Tall, slim and elegant, her blonde hair swept in a wave, clear blue eyes, and a pout of ruby red lipstick. Groomed and very German. Not obviously pregnant either.
‘Fräulein Hoff, welcome to my house.’ There was only a hint of a smile; from the very outset this was clearly an arrangement, and not one she was overly happy with either.
‘My name is Magda Goebbels, and I have been asked by a very good friend to find someone with your knowledge to help her.’
At the mere mention of her name, I realised why I had been treated so well. Frau Goebbels was the epitome of German womanhood, married to the Minister for Propaganda and mother to seven perfect Aryan specimens – an obvious model for those zealous posters. Since the Führer had no wife, she was often at his side in the newsreels and pictures, in the time before I was taken. She was the perfect Nazi, albeit a woman, tagged ‘Germany’s First Lady’ by the columnists.
She went on matter-of-factly. ‘I know of your reputation, your working knowledge, and your … situation.’ I noted there was always a pause when the threat to my family was mentioned. Was it shame, or a minor embarrassment? For people so unashamed about the cruelty they inflicted, Nazis appeared almost shy about calling it blackmail.
She carried on, unabashed: ‘I know that since your work has been so varied, you clearly care deeply for women and babies in any situation. I can only trust that you will do the same for my friend who has need.’ She paused, inviting a reply.
‘I will always endeavour to bring the best outcome for any woman,’ I said, leaving my own, deliberate pause. ‘Whoever they are.’ I did, in essence, mean it. The rules of my training as a midwife didn’t discriminate between rich or poor, good or bad, criminal or good citizen; all babies were born equal at that split second and all deserved the chance of life. It was the moments, months and years afterwards that fractured them into an unequal world.
She caught my meaning, clasping her hands in front of her, nails perfectly manicured.
‘Good. You will spend today getting prepared, and then travel to meet your new client tomorrow.’ She said the word ‘client’ as if I was a private professional about to take on a task of my choosing. I wondered then how much, and how deeply, they felt the lies. Or if they really believed their own propaganda? Truly believed it?
I said nothing, refusing to qualify her offer even with a ‘thank you’. She wouldn’t let it go.
‘You should be clear that this is a good opportunity for you, Fräulein Hoff. Not many would be trusted with such an important task. We feel you will be a midwife first, whatever your own politics.’
They were taking a gamble, but they were probably right. I was no angel in life, but I took my duties seriously. Mothers were pregnant to have healthy babies, and babies were meant to survive, for the most part. That was the golden rule.
I turned to go, seeing a shape ghost past the doorway.
‘Joseph?’ she called from behind me. ‘Joseph, come and meet the midwife we have engaged.’
A small, dark-suited man clipped towards me with a slight limp, stopped and pulled his heels together in that automated way. This was no Aryan, but his face was often in the papers my father had pored over in the days before we became the disappeared. Joseph Goebbels – one of Hitler’s trusted inner circle, master of the truth twist, gilding lies and hoodwinking good, honest Germans. Wasn’t it Goebbels who had declared: ‘The mission of women is to be beautiful and to bring children into the world’? I remember my sister, Ilse, and I laughing at the words, but now that I looked at his wife, I understood why he imagined it possible.
‘Fräulein Hoff, pleased to meet you.’ He gave that half smile Third Reich officers clearly practised in training, designed to err on the edge of threat, his little spiny teeth just visible. He was rakishly thin, dark hair slicked back, cheeks sunken; if Himmler – Hitler’s right-hand man – was painted as the rat in the Reich’s higher circle, then Joseph Goebbels was the perfect weasel. For his wife, the attraction must have been more than skin deep. I felt an immediate shiver that he even knew my name.
He faced his wife. ‘The arrangements, they are all in order?’
‘Yes, Joseph,’ she replied with clear irritation.
‘Then I bid you good day. I hope you are well looked after, Fräulein Hoff.’
He walked out, his wife’s red lips thin and her gaze fixed on his back. She may have been beautiful and a copious breeder, but I had the feeling Frau Goebbels was more than a pretty face.
The interview over, Christa appeared in the doorway to lower me back to the servants’ quarters. The ‘getting ready’ consisted of making me presentable for my mystery client, something of a task in just one day. Christa was sent with carbolic, tackling the lice eggs embedded on the shafts of my thin hair. She worked cheerfully, talking affectionately about her family near Cologne, and although she skated over the hardships of war, it was evident that real, working German families were suffering too. Her brother was already a casualty, blinded and returned from the Eastern Front, leaving her father struggling on the family farm without a younger man’s muscle. She hinted only briefly at his disdain for the Reich.
She had been a nursing auxiliary before the conflict, in a home for elderly women. Part of the care, said Christa, was in teasing their thinning locks into something of a style, far better than any medicine. After the last of the lice were evicted from my own head, she worked miracles with her scissors and the hot iron, appearing to double the volume of my weakened strands, skilfully hiding my scabbed scalp. I barely recognised myself in the mirror, having not glimpsed my own face for what seemed like years. I had aged noticeably – lines around my eyes, gaunt cheeks, and tiny red veins pushing out in patches on my skull bones – but Christa’s efforts lessened the shock. Much like my body below, I chose not to dwell on the reflection.
Christa brought several suits and skirts, plain and practical, gleaned from the wardrobes of previous governesses or house managers; I mused only briefly on how many had left under a cloud of death. In the camp, we scavenged greedily on the corpses for useful clothes without a second thought. ‘The dead don’t shiver,’ we said, as justification for our guilt. It was accepted as survival. So that now, I didn’t flinch as I pulled on rough stockings, which morphed into silk, and buttoned a blouse that wouldn’t cause my skin to itch with renewed insect-life. They hung on me loosely, but Christa nipped and tucked, spiriting the clothes away and returning them within hours for a neater fit.
Towards the end of the day, an unexpected visitor appeared at my door. Christa noted me tensing at the sight of his small black carrying case, balding head and thick glasses. She spoke quickly, as if to reassure me he wasn’t a caricature of Dr Death: ‘Fräulein Hoff, this is Dr Simz. Madam has asked that he