Tania Blanchard - The Girl from Munich

Munich

July 1943

‘Times have changed, Mutti. The war has made sure of that. Look at all the women who work to help the war effort – Heidi von Schmitt and Catherina Dollmann are both working for the Wehrmacht and their parents haven’t died of embarrassment. I want to make a contribution.’

My mother stared at me with frosty blue eyes. She was beautiful, her wavy blonde hair glinting with auburn highlights in the sunlight, even though she sat there unmoved, sipping her coffee. I jumped up from my seat and went to the window, wishing I had her poise, her elegance and her tight control. I always thought better when I was moving.

I gazed out at the tree-lined street. It was hard to believe that war raged in affluent, cosmopolitan Schwabing. It wasn’t far from the centre of München, where now the ravages of war could not be missed. A couple strolled past, holding hands, oblivious to anything but each other as a woman dressed in a tailored skirt and jacket moved briskly towards them, no doubt on her way to useful employment of some kind. I shook my head and turned back to face my mother. Why couldn’t I have what I wanted? Time for a more forceful approach.

‘I’ve heard the Ministry of Labour wants to change the conscription laws again. Unless I take action and choose what I want to do, I’ll probably be drafted into cleaning the toilets at an army office somewhere like Poland. Is that what you want for your daughter after all her hard work to qualify as a photographer?’

‘Charlotte Elisabeth, stop!’ My mother put her cup down and the sharp clink it made told me her patience had reached its limit. ‘When your father comes back from Berlin, I will discuss the matter with him and Heinrich’s parents.’

‘Muttilein,’ I pleaded, sinking into the chair again. ‘All I want to do is take photos and help the war effort. Karin Weiss graduated last year and got a job as a photographer with the army straightaway. I’ll get a job easily.’ I knew I sounded like a petulant child but I couldn’t help it. The Bavarian State Institute for Photography had the best reputation in the country. Students came from all over Germany and from abroad to study there.

My mother’s thunderous look stopped me in my tracks. It was no use continuing with her.

‘Fine, we’ll see what Vati says.’

I stomped up the stairs to my room and slammed the door. Already I was thinking how I would intercept my father before my mother could speak with him. I flopped on my bed, feeling deflated. After spending three years with artists, scholars and patriots and a year before that in Hamburg completing my land year helping on the local farms, I had learnt more about myself than I had in the previous fifteen years of privileged upbringing and stiff social conventions. I desperately wanted to be a photojournalist and follow in my beloved brothers’ footsteps by joining the Luftwaffe taking photos for the military, recording the lives of the soldiers. When I was feeling especially patriotic and daring, I dreamed of going to the front as a photographic officer, taking photos of strategic importance, even getting involved in reconnaissance.

I reached for the photo on my nightstand of my two handsome brothers. It was taken the last holiday we all spent together – the last holiday before the war. We had been swimming in the lake and our bare limbs were browned from the days outdoors, our hair bleached white from the sun. My brothers were tall, strapping youths with easy dispositions, their lives in front of them. I missed them so much.

My oldest brother, Ludwig, was a pilot. He had died on the Eastern Front in Stalingrad, shot down by the Russians nine months earlier, only twenty-one. He was my idol. Tall, strong, handsome, with a winning smile that would melt any heart; he was the perfect pin-up boy, a soldier who embodied everything good that Germany stood for. I had thought he was invincible. It took days for my tears to come after we received the news. Even now I was unable to believe he was gone.

Willi was seventeen months older than me and I had always been closest to him. At nineteen, he was already a paratrooper, recently deployed to France with a new parachute division. He had been home for a few weeks in April, the first time we’d been together since losing our brother. I couldn’t get enough of being by his side, touching him to make sure he was really there, remembering Ludwig through him. It was almost unbearable to say goodbye to him again, the silent fear that he would be next gnawing inside me. After he left, my mother was inconsolable for days. Mutti clung to me, kept me near in any way she could. The loss of Ludwig had hit her so hard that Vati and I feared that the strain of another loss would kill her. I knew all the begging in the world wouldn’t give me their permission to go anywhere. If I hadn’t had my fiancé, Heinrich, during those terrible days, I don’t know how I would have coped.

Heinrich understood. He had lost his older brother in the early days of the war and was all his parents had left. His elderly father kept him close on the pretext of helping him manage their vast estate. Sometimes Heinrich seemed like the only ally I had. We had known each other most of our lives and were best friends, kindred spirits. He was handsome and strong – and I was curious – but we had not dared to become intimate, despite being engaged. Naturally, we had fooled around a bit but the maiden’s prized virtue of purity had been drummed into me since I was small, at school and through the BDM, the League of German Girls. I thought it was best to wait. Besides, the last thing I needed was to become pregnant before I was married. My parents would die of shame and if anything happened to Heinrich… heaven help me.

I rolled off my bed and sat at my writing desk to send a note to Heinrich. He was working a few long shifts at the hospital and I knew I wouldn’t manage to talk to him in the next couple of days. At least with my note I could let him know of my mother’s resistance to my plans and warn him about the upcoming conversation regarding our wedding. He would think of the best way to support me when the matter was raised with our families and explain why it was so important for me to get a job as a military photographer, even if I had to compromise by staying closer to home. ‘Liebe Heinrich,’ I began, the heavy Sheaffer fountain pen, a gift from my father, balanced perfectly in my hand. I soon lost myself in the flow of words as I poured my heart out, sharing my frustration with my best friend. Still feeling anxious and strung out, I decided not to give my note to our servant to deliver. I would walk to the hospital myself. I knew Heinrich would receive it during his next break.

I made sure I was presentable, examining my image in the mirror and straightening my polka dotted dress, adjusting the belt at my cinched waist and smoothing my shoulder length blonde hair. Before the butler could object or my mother could call me, I ran down the stairs and out the door onto the street.

*

‘Did you send a note to Heinrich asking him to help you find a way to get a job as a military photographer?’ asked Vati in a low voice. My father had been away in Berlin for a week. If only I had got to him before Mutti did, I could have explained to him.

‘Ja, Vati,’ I said, looking down at the richly coloured Turkish rug set against the repetitive pattern of the parquetry floor. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Heinrich’s mother found the letter in his shirt pocket when the new maid was organising his laundry,’ said my mother. I could almost feel the waves of anger rolling off her. At least I could still trust Heinrich, although I wished he had been more careful with the letter. We had to stick together – our mothers could be so pushy. They were similar in age and had been close friends since childhood. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

‘Sit,’ my father ordered.

I obediently sat on the edge of the lounge chair, facing my parents. I could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock, steady and even, unlike my heartbeat.

‘You want to postpone your wedding. Why?’ Vati looked cool as a cucumber, impeccable as always in his army uniform, though his hazel eyes glared at me sternly.

Laying my palms flat on my lap, willing them to stay still, I decided to meet my father’s eyes and tell the truth. Maybe he would understand after all. ‘Heinrich and I agree we shouldn’t get married yet. He wants to concentrate on finishing his studies. It looks like he might get a job at Schwabing Hospital when he’s completed his training there… unless he’s called away to another posting. Until we can be sure he has a good job, we want to wait, like you suggested.’

‘I never suggested such a thing!’ exploded my mother. ‘The way this war’s going, you’ll either be the longest engaged couple known to man or you’ll miss out altogether if Heinrich is killed – God forbid.’

‘Mutti!’ I said, horrified.

My mother put her hands up in apology. ‘You have no excuse any more. You’ve finished your studies – why not marry now? It doesn’t matter if Heinrich is still studying. You can live here with us if Heinrich’s parents don’t want you there, although I think they will jump at the chance to have a daughter around that empty house of theirs. If something did happen, you would be well taken care of by the Hoffmann family and Heinrich’s estate.’

I shook my head, my blood boiling. ‘I would never take advantage of his family like that.’

‘These are strange times. You can prove your worth to his parents when the war is over. By all means, if Heinrich sees fit, go and work as a photographer after the war. If you’re feeling really ambitious, maybe we can help you set up a studio. You know we have the right connections. It won’t be hard to manage.’

I couldn’t reason with my mother, I knew that. I sent a pleading look to my father. ‘Please, Vati!’

My father put his large, powerful hand over my mother’s small, shapely one and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her expression softened at once. He leant across, touching his dark hair to her fair, wavy locks, and whispered in her ear. The look that passed between them made me feel that I shouldn’t be in the room. I watched them, suddenly wistful. I wondered if that look had always been there for them, or if it came with the bond of intimacy. Heinrich and I didn’t look at each other like that.

‘What’s this all about, Lotte?’ asked my father gently.

‘I’ve spent all this time learning to be a photographer. Now that I have the skills, I want to use them. So many others I’ve trained with have good jobs with the Wehrmacht, making a real difference, some of them even on the front. I want to prove myself, make a contribution and help the war effort.’

‘She wants to go to the front, Johann!’

‘You wouldn’t do that to your mother, would you?’ Vati’s tone was conversational but I knew that anything that upset my mother also upset him. ‘Don’t you think she’s been through enough? How would she cope if something happened to you?’

I stared at my feet, ashamed. ‘I know, Vati but I’m not a little girl any more. I’m a grown woman now. I want you to be proud of me,’ I whispered, daring to look up at him again.

The frown of consternation on my father’s face was reassuring. ‘We are, liebchen. You’re a fine photographer. But your mother is right. These are strange times and we only want what’s best for you. You are the apple of our eye. Neither of us could bear to lose you. We only want to keep you safe.’

‘We’ll be proud of you when you marry that boy,’ snapped my mother, her face as rigid as her attitude, but I could see the tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Heinrich’s mother and I have agreed to set a date sometime this summer.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said my father. ‘The talk in Berlin is that Goebbels wants to increase conscription to women, boys from the Hitler Youth as young as fourteen and men up to sixty-five years of age. Single and married women with no children will get no exemptions. Once called up, there will be no choice of where you’re posted. I’m afraid that the chances are Heinrich will be called again, although God knows we need more doctors here, with all the bombings.’