It's You (22 page)

There is so much she’s saying that I’m struggling to process it all. There are so many questions I want to ask, but I can’t remember them all. “But your Franz and his circle of friends, they weren’t afraid?”

“Oh, they were afraid, very afraid, but eventually they were more afraid of not taking action. They were afraid that they’d fail their ancestors, their country, the noble German blood in their veins, if they didn’t act. You see, many of those who took part in the July twentieth plot were either military officers or descended from nobility. They were nationalists, loyal to Germany. I don’t know that their motives were pure. I doubt they were truly altruistic—except for the pastors and priests—but the others, they were Prussian Wehrmacht soldiers and officers. They were aristocrats and the educated upper class. They’d come from affluent families and comfortable lives. And maybe that’s why they failed. They were smart but not hardened. Idealistic intellectuals, and impractical, ill equipped for the reality of the Nazi philosophy of blitzkrieg, total war.”

While she was talking I’d opened my laptop again and typed in the words
July 20th Plot
in the Internet search engine and links popped up—the German Resistance, Failed Coup, Claus von Stauffenberg.

Edie leans forward, points to a black-and-white photograph of a handsome young man in uniform. “Claus,” she says. She leans even closer and reads the caption, and then sits back. “Terrible,” she murmurs, “terrible.”

“Tell me,” I say.

“Sippenhaft.”

“
Sippenhaft
?” I repeat, the term unfamiliar, but then, so much
of this is unfamiliar. We’re taught European history and World War II, but our history lessons are divided between the war in the Pacific and the war in Europe.

“It’s an old Germanic custom, and the Nazi authorities took advantage of this ‘German’ custom to punish those who betrayed Germany.”

I’m still confused, so I type in a version of the word and the search engine corrects me, then pulls up the definition for
Sippenhaft
. I skim the definition, discovering that the word translates to “kith and kin imprisonment” for everyone connected to an individual suspected, or accused, of being disloyal. Kith and kin being family, friend, or neighbor.

“So who was punished this way?” I ask, turning from the laptop to Edie.

“The families of those involved in the July twentieth assassination attempt, beginning with Claus’ family. In the weeks following the failed July twentieth coup, all of Claus’ family was arrested—his wife, his children, his brothers, his mother, mother-in-law, cousins, uncles, and aunts, as well as all of their spouses and children.”

“So everybody?”

“Yes.”

“But not you?”

“I was away.”

“Switzerland,” I say softly.

She says nothing, but her silence speaks volumes.

“Did you know what was going to happen?” I ask.

She shakes her head, lips pressed tight. Her eyes are pink around the edges. She looks frail again. Tired.

No, not tired.

Sad. Terribly, terribly sad.

My chest aches. I ache. I think of Andrew. I think of how I was gone when he died . . . off to get ice cream.

I think of Edie and how she was sent to Switzerland.

I struggle to hold in the emotion. I can’t cry. Not here, not in front of her. This is her story. And this is also what I want to know. What I need to know.

“If you’d remained in Berlin, you would have been arrested,” I add quietly.

She nods once. “Yes, but I don’t think I would have suffered as much as the Stauffenbergs and other German aristocrats. You see, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels had long resented anyone who came from nobility, and it infuriated him that Colonel Stauffenberg was nobility. But as I’d said, many of the Wehrmacht officers were aristocrats. That was the Prussian way. Nobility was tied to leadership, and Prussian Germans prided themselves on their military leadership. So Claus’ actions were despicable to the average German, and particularly offensive to the Nazi leadership who were not from an aristocratic background. I think it’s Goebbels who referred to the German aristocrats as ‘blue-blooded swine,’ so the most obvious solution for Goebbels and Himmler was to exterminate all the aristocrats who shared the same ‘bad blood’ by imposing
Sippenhaft
, wiping out the individual and his entire family.”

“Wiping out women and children, too?”

“Yes, but in this case, the children weren’t killed or imprisoned, like so many of the women and mothers, but instead they were taken from their families when the mothers were arrested and placed with new families, because these children were, after all, bright, healthy Aryan children. Blond, blue-eyed, genetically desirable.

They were given to others. Prussian children . . . these Aryan children . . .”

Edie is quiet a long time. I wait for her to continue, my heart beating very fast because I do not know what she will tell me next, and yet I know it won’t be good. It can’t be good. Nothing that happened during that horrible war was good.

But Edie doesn’t add more, and I can’t stop thinking of the children taken from their mothers. I picture the Aryan babies and toddlers, the young boys and girls, and then those blond, blue-eyed children morph into the photo of Anne Frank, and pictures seared into my memory from the movie
Schindler’s List
.

I see flashes of images, photographs and impressions of the war. The Jewish women and children on train platforms. The SS guards marching. The barracks of the concentration camps. The “showers.”

“Did the Germans know what was happening during the war?” I ask, sick. Queasy. “Did Franz know what was happening?”

“I believe Franz knew more than most, yes.”

“But he didn’t tell you?”

“He was careful not to say too much. Most of the men were careful not to share very much. Adam was one of those who was very private. His wife knew virtually nothing. Claus’ wife knew some. I think Peter’s wife, Marion, knew the most. She was more involved than most wives and women, but even the most ignorant among us, still knew our men were committed to saving Germany. You couldn’t
not
know, what with the frequency and duration of the meetings. Of course, none of these men called themselves ‘the Resistance.’ They weren’t ‘resisting,’ they were attempting to remove Hitler from power and put a new government in place. They had a whole new cabinet and all the necessary government ministers ready. Everyone was ready. They just needed Hitler dead.”

“So Claus made the attempt.”

“And it failed.”

I exhale slowly.

I know this next part from history. It’s in the books. It’s documented in newspaper articles and archives. In Internet encyclopedias and memoirs. I’ve been reading them all. I know who dies. I know who survives.

And yet listening to Edie, hearing her describe these men, and their goals, and knowing they all had wives and families, I feel . . . pain.

I want them all to survive. Not just Franz, and Franz and Edie’s friends, but the 170,000 Jews that called Berlin home up until 1930 when the persecution began.

Indeed, I want to go back in time and change it all. A world without war. A world without suffering . . .

“You’d make an excellent history teacher, Aunt Edie,” Craig says, from the doorway.

Edie and I both jump, startled.

My heart is hammering and I’m still feeling emotional. Undone. But Edie’s surprise gives way to pleasure. She smiles at him. “Well, I was a teacher,” she answers. “A very good teacher.”

“And from all accounts, a very strict teacher,” he adds.

“Yes, well, that goes without saying,” she retorts, hands folding neatly on the table. “I didn’t think I would see you until later.”

“My meeting finished early so I thought I’d come over and see if you needed any help, or just company.” Craig glances at me. “But apparently you’ve already got great company.”

My pulse is still a little too fast, and I’m not sure if it’s the stories, and the past, or the sudden appearance of Craig. Either way, I self-consciously stack my notebook and laptop and slide them into my purse. “I should go see Dad, and then get to Bloom. Today is my last day.”

Edie looks at Craig. “She’s going to Berlin. She’s staying at a hotel on Torstrasse, in Mitte. It’s very central to everything.”

“So you approve, Aunt Edie?” he asks.

“Yes. I think the trip will be good for her,” Edie answers with a decisive nod.

“I think it’s a great idea,” he says. “It’s a wonderful city, one of my favorites in Europe.”

I stand and reach for my bag. “You know Berlin well?”

“I visit the city at least once a year.” He glances at his aunt. “I’ve tried to take my aunt with me, but she refuses every offer . . . just as she’s refused to discuss Germany. I think Chad and I are both a little bit envious that she’s shared so much with you.”

Edie rolls her eyes. “You and Chad were never that interested in my past, which is why I haven’t forced you to listen to my stories. You are good nephews, and you take care of me, but when it comes to you young men, my past is ancient history.”

“I don’t think that’s true, or fair,” Craig answers, but he’s smiling.

“Pssh.” She gestures, waving him off, but she’s smiling, too.

Craig turns to me. “Need any recommendations? Hotels? Restaurants? Things to do?”

“I’ve got the hotel booked, along with some half-day tours. I’m most interested in visiting the memorials and seeing some of the places Edie has talked about.” I glance at Edie, adding almost shyly, “I’m going to take lots of pictures. I thought it’d be interesting to try to document Edie’s Berlin, show her how the city has changed since she was last there in the seventies.”

Edie looks startled. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I know, but you’ve made me curious. And you’ve made me care . . . about you, and Franz, and your friends.”

“It should be an interesting trip,” Craig says.

I nod. “I think so. I’m really excited.” There’s a lift in my voice, an energy I haven’t felt in God knows how long. I’m going to do something different, and it’s a little scary, but scary is good. It’s a challenge. And a purpose.

The scary is nudging me into action.

The nudge might even shift the balance and weight of the world.

Or maybe just shift the balance and weight within me.

“Which hotel?” he asks.

“The Mani.”

“It’s in the Mitte,” Edie speaks up. “I don’t know the Mani, but I would think anywhere in the Mitte is good. “

“You know that area, Aunt Edie?” Craig asks.

“I know the area from when I lived in Berlin. Everyone did. It’s the center of the city and close to Museum Island and so many of the important buildings, including the lovely old apartment building Franz and I were living in until the raid in March 1944. That bombing wiped out our building and much of our neighborhood.”

“Were you able to visit your old neighborhood in 1978 when you went with Grandma?” Craig asks.

“No. My old neighborhood was on the other side of the wall.” Edie looks at me. “You know the wall cut through the city, and the Mitte was on the East German side, and I wasn’t allowed to travel from West Berlin to East Berlin. Not then.”

“But the wall is down now,” I say.

“Yes.” Edie is silent a moment. “I wonder what my neighborhood looks like now.”

“I will take pictures.”

“There’s no need—”

“But I want to. I’m curious, too.”

We are both quiet for a moment and then I muster my courage and ask her about something I’ve been wondering ever since I read the diary of Edie’s internment at Bad Nauheim. “Edie, you’ve told me about the Adlon, and the bombings, and Franz’s friends. But you never told me about your music. Whatever happened to your music, Edie? You’d gone to Germany to study. What happened after the war?”

She shrugs. “I was done with it.”

“Done with it?”

“Yes, I put it behind me.”

“Studying it, you mean?”

“Studying, playing, listening—I was done.
Alles. Das ist alles.
I didn’t want music anymore, not the way I had before.” She pauses and her jaw tightens, her throat working. “How could I play . . . write . . . listen? I’d lost them all. Franz and my beloved friends . . . Claus, Adam, Peter . . .” Her voice fades and her eyes tear. “Johann, Wolfgang, Ludwig, Richard.” Her lips tremble. “I loved them, and then they were all gone.”

Edie

A
lison leaves and Craig walks her up to her father’s apartment.

I remain at the small breakfast table in my apartment after they are both gone and I cry. I don’t ever cry, but I cry now.

I miss my music. I miss my loves. I miss my life.

I am old now and have so little time left. One of these days I will wake up like Ruth and not remember.

I would rather die than not remember.

I must remember, otherwise, they never mattered . . . might as well have never existed.

It takes me a long time to calm myself, compose myself. Alison has no idea how much she’s upset me. I know she didn’t mean to upset me. It was a legitimate question. It’s one my family never asked. They must have simply assumed . . .

If I were younger, I’d go to Berlin one last time.

I’d like to see the new Berlin with the wall down.

I didn’t like Berlin in 1978. My sister was repulsed by the checkpoints and soldiers with their automatic rifles, but for me,
the shock and horror was visceral. It was as if I’d been thrust back into the war all over again. The uniforms. The guns. The fear.

Standing at Checkpoint Charlie in 1978, the terror returned.

I was afraid, and the anxiety didn’t lessen during the five days we spent in Berlin. I couldn’t wait to leave. We never went to Potsdam. Didn’t visit the gardens or summer palace. I couldn’t. How could I enjoy Berlin when I couldn’t breathe?