Letter from a Stranger (42 page)

By the end of April the last battle was almost over. Berlin was burning and the Third Reich was dying a terrible death.

We waited. The phone didn’t ring. But we knew what was going on from the radio. People had started to loot. So had the Russian soldiers. The rapes had started. Terrified women were committing suicide. The police were nonexistent. They had been recruited for the depleted army. Or the Home Guard. And they had been defeated. Overrun by the Russians. Out in the street were tanks, artillery, machine guns. Guns of every kind. And the Russians were toting them. If we opened the door we would face chaos, danger, and death.

We attempted to keep track of the days. But we were exhausted from worry, lack of fresh air and food. Then one afternoon we were both dozing when we heard a loud banging on the oak door. I struggled up off the sofa. Irina was already heading toward the door. I followed her. She knocked back. We both heard Dieter Müller’s most welcome voice.
The blue gentians are in bloom,
he said.

The princess opened the door. He smiled at us. He said, Come on. Come out, get some fresh air. We did so. Blinking in the first daylight we’d seen in weeks. It’s over, he announced. The last battle is over. And so is the war. We both fell on him. Together we hugged him joyously. What’s today’s date? I asked. May eighth, he replied. And yesterday at Reims in France General Alfred Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed an act of unconditional surrender to the Allied Expeditionary Force and the Soviet Union.
It’s truly over.

Dieter came and kissed each of us on the cheek. He couldn’t stop smiling. I climbed the jagged steps. Irina followed me. Dieter came out of the crater last. I looked up at the sky. It was a very bright blue. The sun was shining. The air was balmy. It felt good on my face. It’s a beautiful day, Irina said. I nodded. And then she added, But it’s so quiet. This was true. There wasn’t a sound. It was so eerie it was startling. I looked around me. I was in shock. I could not believe what I was seeing. A vast unending landscape of flattened buildings. Piles of rubble, upended girders, bricks, and lumps of twisted steel. Deep craters everywhere. Mud holes brimming with water. Everything was covered in black soot and ash. Central Berlin looked like a blighted dystopian landscape on some far-distant planet. And it was unlike anything I’d ever seen in my life. The vista was totally flat. It was a wasteland.

Berlin has been wiped off the face of the earth, Irina said, sounding horror-struck. That’s right, Dieter agreed. Marshal Zhukov turned twenty-two thousand guns on a Berlin already in ruins. He wanted to obliterate it. And he did.

Forty-seven

Although she didn’t want to stop reading, Justine knew she needed refreshments. She had a headache. Downstairs in the kitchen she made coffee, took a handful of cookies out of the biscuit barrel on the countertop. She stood there munching on the cookies and drinking the coffee, her thoughts in the past.

Within a few minutes she was back in her bedroom, opening the book, reading the next segment of her grandmother’s story.

BERLIN

JULY 15, 1945

We’ve been living in a desperate city, the princess and I. Not a city at all. Demolished. Not functioning. Without proper services. Hospitals bombed or spewing patients into the streets. Disease rampant. Typhoid, diphtheria, and tuberculosis. Causing most deaths. Death is in the air we breathe. Thousands of dead bodies are yet to be buried. Rats run everywhere. People look lost. Dazed. Berliners living amongst piles of rubbish. Camping out anywhere they can. Refugees trailing back. Mostly Berliners who fled during the war. Too many people. Terrible overcrowding. Hotels nonexistent. The Adlon, the Eden, and the Kaiserhof destroyed. A few small hotels open. How lucky we are to have our little abode. Our hole in the ground is a palace.

Suddenly things are changing. To our great joy, the British, the Americans, and the French are here. They have taken control of their sectors, which will be known as West Berlin. The Russians are now isolated in their own zone. Known as East Berlin. Far away from us. We are in the west zone. Irina and I breathed with relief when we saw the friendly smiling faces of the Allied soldiers. Our true liberators.

The changes are for the better. The Allies have an immense task ahead. The Russians got some services working again. Now the Allies have pushed everything forward. And swiftly. Gas and electricity are back. Telephones are working. Most of the time. The underground, the trams, and trains are running. The airport is operating.

Some old taxis are back. Just a few. Petrol is in short supply. The International Red Cross has opened an office. We are truly relieved. Grateful. Life is better.

Irina and I have been sorrowful. We grieved for Admiral Canaris and Colonel Oster. Dieter told us in May that they had been moved, then executed in Flossenburg prison. Just a few days before the end of the war. How ironic. They might have been saved. We wept for them. Irina was devastated when news came about her friends Adam von Trott zu Solz, Gottfried Bismarck, Fritzi Schulenberg, and other men. Members of her resistance group. They died without revealing our names, she whispered. Under torture. They died protecting me and Dieter and Kurt. Such brave men. I endeavored to comfort her.

One day last week we made a decision. We would go out into the streets. Help clear the bricks. Women in our neighborhood did this daily. They were called
Trümmerfrauen.
They chipped old cement off the bricks. Put them in wheelbarrows. Took them to a depot. The bricks would be used for the rebuilding of Berlin. Useful work. But tiring. The sound of chip, chip, chipping was a constant irritant. We managed. We laughed. We joked. And then there was a moment when I looked over at Irina one day. We live in a world gone mad, I said to myself. She is a Romanov. A princess. A cousin of the late tsar. Now she is a
Trümmerfrau.
A rubble woman. Cleaning bricks. In all weather. Wearing old clothes. Living in a hole in the ground. No prospects. Things have to change. I will make them change. I vowed that to myself.

In May I vowed to find my parents. But still I have no news of them. I have been to the International Red Cross. Many Zionist organizations. Jewish refugee groups. And the Society of Friends. It is run by the Quakers. Their names are not on any lists. I will go back next week. I will not rest until I know their fate.

This morning Irina and I were getting dressed up. We were going to lunch. At Dieter Müller’s home. He and his wife Louise were lucky. Their house in Charlottenburg was only slightly damaged. Thankfully it was in West Berlin. He was building up his newspaper again. He had an international name. He and his father were well known before the war. And known as anti-Fascists. He was well liked by the Allies. Especially by General Harold Barlett-Smith. One of the heads of the British Occupation Forces. The lunch today was for the general.

I finished dressing. Went to see Irina. For my inspection. She smiled when she saw me. Gabri, you look lovely. I thanked her. I had on an old Arabella remake. A blue slubbed silk dress. And Irina’s blue beads. I’d asked to borrow them again. My old black shoes look awful, I said. She laughed. Nobody will be looking at your feet. They’ll be gazing into your blue eyes. Entranced by your gorgeous face. I felt myself blushing. Irina was wearing a pink linen dress. Another Arabella castoff. It was striking with her auburn hair and violet eyes. She was thirty-three now. And very beautiful. She put on her pearls. How do I look? Like a princess, I said. We both laughed.

A moment later Dieter was knocking on the door. Irina let him in. He was startled when he saw us dressed up. For a moment he was speechless. You’re both beautiful, he said. He sounded surprised. Irina murmured, And
clean.
We followed him out. Irina locked the door. Put the key in her red bag. Dieter said, The general was kind. He made his car available to me. With a driver. Irina and I looked at each other. We were thrilled. We got into a car with a British flag on the hood.

We were the only guests. Other than the general and an aide. Louise was charming. She knew Irina well. I had met her once. It was nice to be in Charlottenburg. Away from the rubble. The garden was lovely. One day I would have a beautiful garden of my own. When the general arrived I was struck by his geniality. His friendliness. He seemed impressed that Princess Irina Troubetzkoy was a Romanov. He spoke about Russia with her for a few minutes. Then turned to me. He smiled. Asked me why I was in Berlin? Being that I was an English girl. I explained that my mother was English. My father German. That we had lived in both countries. He questioned me about my parents. I simply said they were missing. That they might have been killed. I added I felt they were alive. Hoped they were.

The general, whom everyone called Bart, asked if I had family in England. I nodded. My mother’s younger sister. My aunt Beryl, I said. Then thought to add, And her husband, Alastair McGreggor. The general gave me an odd look. Is he by any chance known as Jock?

I was startled. Yes, he is, I answered. Do they live in Mayfair? he asked. Again I nodded. Just off Charles Street. The general beamed. And is he in the steel business? Yes, General, he is, I replied.

What a small world it is, the general said. He stared at me. You certainly resemble Beryl. You share her blond good looks. Your aunt and uncle are my good friends, Gabriele. Do they know you are safe and well? Yes. I’ve spoken to them on the phone. They want me to come to London. To live with them, I told him. I have no papers. I glanced at Irina, who was watching me closely. They were burned when Irina’s stepfather’s house was bombed, I explained, and smiled at her. She winked.

Were you born in Germany? Or in England? the general asked me. He had a thoughtful look on his face. In London. My birth certificate is, was, British. But I had a German passport. I was considered to be a German by the Germans. Under their law.

We’ll see about that, he exclaimed. I consider you to be British. And you should be with your family in London. I’m going to fix it.

I nodded. Then I glanced at Irina. She had become my family. I saw that she was smiling. Nodding.

Did I want to go to England? It would mean leaving Irina. I loved her. She had looked after me. Protected me. Been like a sister to me. We had been through so much together. And how could I leave until I found my family? I then realized that everyone was staring at me.

I said, Thank you, General, thank you very much. I’m going to call your uncle Jock tonight, he announced. He’ll need to get a copy of your birth certificate from Somerset House. No big deal. Once he sends it to me I’ll do my bit. Don’t give it another thought. You’re going home. The general had just been a general. He had now taken charge of me.

After we’d finished our glasses of wine we went in to lunch. I fell into step with Irina. I took her arm. I don’t want to leave you, I whispered. You must, Gabri. You must let the general help you. Nobody ever gets a chance like this. It’s a fortunate thing that happened today. I’ll worry about you, I murmured. I held her arm tighter. The Herr Baron is coming back to Berlin, she told me. With my mother. I won’t be alone. And listen, London’s not that far away. She smiled. The war’s over. We can go wherever we want, Gabri.

Forty-eight

She was almost at the end of her grandmother’s memories of her youth. She wanted to know everything there was to know, and yet Justine did not want
Fragments of a Life
to end. She had savored every word, every line. She had lived through it with her grandmother. And she wanted to know more … the rest of Gabriele’s life up to when she herself had been born. It was a fascinating story. She opened the book and began to read.

BERLIN

JULY 22, 1945

Irina and I are convinced there is something wrong with Arabella von Wittingen. She is back in Berlin. And she has been behaving strangely. Even Dieter is worried. He is coming to see us shortly. Arabella returned to Berlin a week ago. She had not been able to travel from Switzerland. Until now. She went to stay with her mother-in-law in Charlottenburg. The old princess is renting a house from a friend. The von Wittingen mansion in Central Berlin was heavily bombed. It is now a pile of rubble.

Dieter took us to see her. At first she was fine. Happy we were there. Then she started rambling. About Prince Kurt. He has not been seen since May. When Berlin fell. Then two or three days later. After the last battle, he seemingly disappeared. We have not seen him for a very long time. Nor heard from him.

Wolfgang Shroeder has seen him. Wolfgang, a well-known photographer, is a friend of Dieter’s. He also knows Kurt. Wolfgang recently told Dieter he had seen Prince Kurt in May. They had exchanged greetings, chatted. Several days later Wolfgang caught sight of him. Talking to some Russian officers. In what is now East Berlin. The Russian Sector.

Because of his profession, Wolfgang was always roaming around Berlin. Taking photographs. But he never once spotted Kurt after that. Dieter immediately checked the hospitals again. Could not find any trace of Prince Kurt. There had been intermittent fighting at the end of the war. When Wolfgang had seen him last. Dieter, Irina, and I believed Kurt had been killed. In one of the last-ditch battles. His body was never found. It was this which was upsetting Arabella. She had convinced herself he was alive. She insisted he was taken prisoner by the Russian officers Wolfgang had seen him with.

But why?
Irina and I had asked her last week. She had no answer for us. Only this irrational belief that her husband still lives. No body, no death, I said to Irina.