The Auslander (4 page)

The apartment was a series of rooms along both sides of a long corridor. Peter's was at the end, and smaller than the others. ‘We usually put guests in here,' said Frau Kaltenbach with a sigh. ‘But now we shall have to make other arrangements.'

‘They can sleep in our living room, dear,' said Herr Kaltenbach, brushing aside her complaint.

Peter had a bed by the side of the wall, a wardrobe, a desk by the window and a little chest of drawers. On the mantelpiece Kaltenbach proudly pointed out two presents, each carefully wrapped in red paper with a white bow. Peter felt embarrassed by their generosity. They were being so kind to him, these Kaltenbachs. It reminded him of what it felt like to feel part of a family again.

Inside one of the presents was a cardboard box containing a beautiful metal model of an open-topped Mercedes car. Included were little plastic models of the Führer, together with assorted bodyguards and functionaries. Hitler, Peter noticed when he picked him up, had an arm that could be raised in a Nazi salute. Lowered by his side it made him look comically stiff and Peter stifled a chuckle.

The other present contained another cardboard box. This one was full of toy parade-ground soldiers. Some were standing rigidly to attention, others marching in the goose-step fashion.

Peter tried to look pleased. He had toy soldiers and cars at home, but over the last year he had come to feel he was a bit too old for them. Still, as his mother sometimes said, ‘It's the thought that counts.'

‘Thank you, Herr Kaltenbach, and Frau Kaltenbach. They will make a marvellous decoration for my mantelpiece.'

‘You must call us Tante and Onkel – Auntie and Uncle,' said the Professor.

‘Now, I expect you are hungry?' said Frau Kaltenbach. She didn't wait for an answer. ‘Good. Then we shall eat.'

Elsbeth had prepared a stew, and they sat round a large oak table in the dining room. Candles cast a gentle glow over everyone's faces. There was even a little wine for him and Traudl, although Frau Kaltenbach insisted they mixed it with water. ‘Straight from France,' said Herr Kaltenbach. He gave a little snort and raised his glass. ‘There is an old German saying:
A good German likes no Frenchman – but he likes to drink his wine
.'

He and Peter quickly discovered a mutual fascination for flying machines. Germany led the world, they both said, in the field of aviation. It was a tragedy, they agreed, the
Hindenburg
going up in flames. Kaltenbach had seen the airship with his own eyes, as it flew low over Berlin. Such a magnificent engineering achievement, he told Peter, the size of an ocean liner. He was convinced Jewish saboteurs were to blame for its destruction – probably in the pay of the Americans.

Peter had heard that story too, but he didn't want to talk about it. This German obsession with the Jews irritated him. Instead he asked about the Focke-Wulf Fw 61 helicopter. He had seen pictures of this extraordinary flying machine in the newspapers, with its twin whirling rotor blades instead of wings. ‘Yes,' said the Professor, ‘we may not have been the first to fly such an aircraft, but we certainly have the best.'

The girls started to talk among themselves.

‘I took them all to see it,' said Kaltenbach, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Hanna Reitsch . . .'

‘The test pilot!' Peter cut in.

Kaltenbach's eyes lit up approvingly. ‘You do know about this!' he beamed. ‘Yes, we all went to see her fly the Fw 61 at the Deutschlandhalle – you can just about walk there from here. It was an extraordinary sight, hovering in the air like a gigantic dragonfly! And what did the girls do? They sat there with fingers in their ears, complaining about the noise!'

Frau Kaltenbach smiled indulgently. ‘Fw 61,' she tutted. ‘Only a man could think up such a dreary name.'

Peter and the Professor barely registered her remark. They were too wrapped up in discussing the design of the helicopter.

‘Tomorrow I shall take you shopping,' said Frau Kaltenbach after a while, trying to steer the conversation towards something they would all be interested in. ‘We shall buy you some decent clothes.' She had even smiled at Peter once or twice. He asked her about her work, but she brushed his enquiry aside. ‘Unlike Onkel Franz, I do not talk about my job at the table.'

Now the younger girls bubbled with conversation. Both were keen collectors for the government appeals for money and materials for the war. ‘Frau Drescher never gives more than a couple of pfennigs,' said Traudl.

‘Yes,' said Charlotte. ‘We should report her for a lack of National Socialist spirit!'

Peter was confused. Were they joking or were they serious? All families had their little jokes, but no one had laughed when she said that.

Then Herr Kaltenbach said, ‘Frau Drescher has only a widow's pension. Perhaps we should not be too unkind about her.'

After he had gone to bed, full of fine food and feeling happy, Peter thought of his old home. The furniture was frayed and occasionally stuffing burst from seats or sofas. Flies buzzed around the dingy kitchen. Really, it was quite shabby. He had never thought about his Polish farmhouse like that before and felt a twinge of guilt. The Kaltenbachs' apartment was luxurious. He assured himself his parents would have been delighted with his good fortune.

He was wary of Frau Kaltenbach and her frosty eldest daughter, but the younger girls seemed to like him. And Professor Kaltenbach was so different from his own father. So friendly, and interested in him, and full of conversation. He thought he was going to fit in here. That night he slept more soundly than he had for months.

.

CHAPTER 8

Berlin

September 3, 1941

.

On Peter's first morning in his new home, Frau Kaltenbach took him shopping for new clothes at the KaDeWe – the Kaufhaus des Westens. It was the biggest department store in Europe, she told him proudly, and just five minutes from where they lived. He was impressed by her generosity. ‘We can't have anyone thinking you're our poor relation,' she said.

When they were alone in the living room, later that afternoon, Elsbeth said, ‘We weren't expecting someone civilised. Some of the girls I was at school with who're back from their duties in the new territories, they say the German Poles are dirty and speak so badly you can't even understand them. And they have the most stupid peasant superstitions. My friends said they couldn't tell the difference between them and the Polacks. But you're not like that, are you.'

She sauntered off, not even noticing he was blushing. It was the first time she had said more than a few words to him. He supposed this was her version of being friendly. He felt quite pleased about this. He was quietly fascinated by Elsbeth. She was certainly very pretty.

Peter settled in quickly. Professor Kaltenbach could not have been more welcoming. ‘A boy here, among all these girls!' he said at breakfast, ruffling Peter's hair. ‘We can talk about all the things they have no interest in!'

Here at the Kaltenbachs', it felt as though he were on some luxurious school exchange programme where he had been sent to the big city and one of their children had been sent to Wyszkow. He sometimes amused himself by wondering how they would have got on with his parents and whether his dad would have taught them to milk the cows. He was pleased to realise he could think like this and it didn't upset him.

‘Are you and Tante Liese going to adopt me?' said Peter to Herr Kaltenbach. He was very unsure what the arrangements were.

‘Not yet, Peter. For now, we are merely your guardians. If all goes well, then sometime in the future we will sort out all the paperwork and adopt you.

‘Everything has been moving very fast. In your life and in the world. After all, it is only a few weeks since you lost your parents. It's too early to be thinking about adoption. It would be like getting married a couple of months after you'd lost your wife.'

Peter could see the sense in that, although it didn't make him feel any more sure of his future. So he was pleased when Tante Liese announced that he was to be enrolled at once in the local school.

In Poland, when the Germans came, the schools had been closed. Peter's mother, who had been a schoolteacher before she had married, had educated him at home. He was a quick and curious child and had enjoyed their lessons together, but he had missed the company of other children. It was nice to be back in a real school, with blackboards and desks and a playground.

On the first day, much to his embarrassment, the headmaster spoke about him to the whole school in their morning assembly. ‘Peter is a racial comrade. He is to be welcomed in the spirit of National Socialist companionship. He is not an
Ausländer
– a foreigner. He is one of your kith and kin.'

That worked well enough, although a few of the children still teased him for his slight Polish accent. But Peter was a tall boy who was good at sport. He wasn't a natural target for bullies.

When they were in class, learning things, almost everything seemed to be about politics. Even the questions in the maths books were about politics:

The iniquitous Treaty of Versailles, imposed by the French and English, enabled international plutocracy to steal Germany's colonies. France herself acquired part of Togoland. If German Togoland covers 56 million square kilometres and contains a population of 800,000 people, estimate the average living space per inhabitant.

Or:

The construction of a lunatic asylum costs six million Reichmarks. How many houses at 15,000 Reichmarks each could have been built for that amount?

Peter was impressed. These questions really made you think. In Poland his maths questions had been really boring: ‘If a farmer has five chickens and each lays seven eggs a week, how many eggs will they produce in three weeks?'

Sport occupied a great deal of his time in school. Here in Berlin, being fit and healthy seemed more important than learning. In Poland, when the schools had closed, Peter kept fit with his chores around the farm, and he enjoyed doing team sports again.

At the end of his first week there, Herr Kaltenbach asked him at supper how he was getting on in school. ‘I really like it,' Peter replied. ‘All the sport is fun, but there's so much of it. I wouldn't mind learning more in class.'

Kaltenbach ruffled his hair. ‘Growing lads need a lot of exercise. If you want to learn more than they're teaching you at school, then there's always the library. And I will be happy to talk to you about your work. But I would remind you of the words of our Führer: “Excessive emphasis on purely intellectual development leads to premature onset of sexual imaginings.”'

The girls giggled. Elsbeth and Frau Kaltenbach looked faintly dismayed. Peter blushed. He supposed Herr Kaltenbach was teasing.

Frau Kaltenbach rapidly changed the subject. ‘Charlotte, you must tell us all the bedtime prayer they taught you at school today.'

Charlotte stood up and raised her right hand in a Nazi salute.

‘
Führer, my Führer, given to me by God
. . .
Protect and preserve my life. You saved Germany in time of need . . .
' She stopped and frowned.

‘
I thank you for . . .
' prompted Frau Kaltenbach.

‘I thank you for my daily bread
,' she rattled on, hurrying to the end. ‘
Be with me for a long time, do not leave me, Führer, my Führer, my faith, my light, hail to my Führer!
'

They all clapped and Charlotte looked very pleased with herself.

‘And how was your hockey match, Traudl?' asked Frau Kaltenbach.

‘We won again,' she said with a grin.

‘Do you do a lot of sport too?' Peter asked. He was keen to keep the conversation a safe distance away from ‘sexual imaginings'.

‘Oh yes,' said Traudl and began to count off on her fingers. ‘Hockey, netball, swimming – all for the school, and I'm in the diving team! I like most of all to swim. When I'm in the water I just forget about everything, then before I know it I've done forty lengths of the pool. I like to swim every day.'

That was certainly true. Whenever she walked past, Peter noticed a faint, antiseptic whiff of swimming-pool chlorine.

Traudl had recently appeared in the local newspaper with three other girls on the swimming team. Frau Kaltenbach had cut the picture out and pinned it to the kitchen noticeboard. The girls floated in the water, with euphoric smiles, only their heads above the surface and all wearing rubber swimming caps with a swastika at the front.

Peter confessed he was a poor swimmer. He had only ever managed a few strokes in the sea with his father, and that was no place to learn.

‘Didn't they take you to the village pool?' said Traudl.

There were no swimming pools in Wyszkow, or anywhere near it. Peter knew that if he told them this there would be sniggers and superior glances. ‘Both my parents did not like swimming,' he lied. ‘So we never went.'

‘Swimming is the best exercise a girl can take,' said Frau Kaltenbach. ‘It is the perfect way to prepare the body for motherhood.'

She turned to Elsbeth. ‘You should go, too, mein Liebling.'

Elsbeth bristled. ‘I get quite enough exercise with my duties at the post office, thank you, Mutter.'

Peter sensed a row brewing. Was Frau Kaltenbach going to chide her about not being married?

As far as he knew there were no men in Elsbeth's life. He wondered why. She certainly turned heads out in the street. She seemed quite detached from the world, though. There was nothing ‘come hither' about her.

An awkward silence followed. Peter chirped up. ‘Perhaps you could take me to the pool, Traudl? Show me how to swim.'

The idea appealed to her. ‘I like to go first thing. Before school. You'll have to get up early . . .'

He promised he would. These little spats made him feel uncomfortable. He wondered why Elsbeth and her mother seemed so quietly hostile to each other, but he didn't feel he could ask Traudl about it.

.

Several days a week, after school, Peter started going to the
Deutsches Jungvolk
– the junior branch of the
Hitler-Jugend
. The local squad met in their own ‘clubhouse' in the basement of a pub. Its location was supposed to be secret, in the tradition of the HJ, but the boys had taken great pride in decorating the room with Nazi posters and flags.

On Peter's first evening he had been taken to a nearby playing field and asked to pass a series of tests, like running 60 metres in twelve seconds or throwing a ball 25 metres. ‘Imagine the ball is a grenade,' said the
Deutsches Jungvolk
leader, ‘and you are throwing it into the enemy trench.'

The one he liked the most was the ‘courage test' where he had to jump from the second floor of a building where, unseen until the very edge, the bigger boys were waiting with a tarpaulin to catch him.

Most of the boys in his squad were younger than Peter. ‘When you are fourteen,' said the leader, ‘you go up with the big boys of the
Hitler-Jugend
.'

Right from the start Peter felt at home, not least because as soon as he arrived a dark-haired boy close to him in age immediately introduced himself. ‘I'm Gerhart Segur,' he said with a big smile. ‘When are you fourteen?'

Peter's birthday was in early October. ‘Me too,' said Segur. ‘We'll go up to the senior HJ together.' Peter took an instant liking to Gerhart Segur. He seemed to have a hint of mischief about him. A lot of the other boys were very serious.

Peter enjoyed the meetings, especially when they made model aeroplanes or tanks from balsa wood while the squad leader read exciting war stories to them.

.

His days were so busy, Peter barely had a moment to reflect on what had happened to him any more. He liked that. Sometimes, when he thought about his real parents and Charlotte caught him looking sad, she would come to sit on his lap.

‘When I'm upset I talk to Clara,' she said, holding up her porcelain doll.

That put a smile back on Peter's face. When Charlotte wasn't parroting Nazi slogans, she was lovely.

The nights were still hard. Safe beneath the crisp linen sheets that Frau Kaltenbach had the maid change twice a week, Peter's thoughts would usually drift back to the farm. He tried not to think about that final, awful morning; the mounting feeling of dread in his chest as he waited for the dawn and walked along the track to the main road.

In his mind's eye he would close the great front door of the farmhouse behind him and walk through the kitchen garden his mother had tended, the fresh scent of damp earth lingering in his nostrils, the dew glistening on the raspberries, laid out in careful rows along their cane supports. That day he was to help his mother pick them, as he had done ever since he was a little boy.

He wondered whether the farm would ever be his again. Little things bothered him too. Like those raspberries. Had they just withered or been eaten by birds? Or had the German soldiers picked them? Then there were all his mother's jams and pickles. Whole shelves of them, carefully ladled into old jam jars and sealed, labelled and dated ready for the winter. Had the soldiers taken them or would they just be left to go mouldy in the dark?

How could he have known when he left the farm he would never go back? The kitchen stove was still ticking over. His cosy, fusty bed with its soft, old blankets. The copy of Henryk Sienkiewicz's
With Fire and Sword
that his mother had been reading aloud from in the evenings, left open on the sitting-room table. He had enjoyed hearing this story of Poland's struggle against the Russian Empire. The first chapter had stuck in his mind.

The year 1647 was astonishing in that many signs in the heavens and on earth announced misfortune and unusual events. Contemporary chroniclers tell of locusts swarming in springtime, destroying the grain and the grass; this was a forerunner of Tartar raids. In the summer there was a great eclipse of the sun, and soon after a comet appeared in the sky.

None of those portents had happened in 1939 or 1941, although the catastrophe that had overtaken Poland was far greater.

.

The next day, Traudl took him to the local library to enrol. Peter asked if they had a copy of Sienkiewicz's book. When he mentioned the author's name to the librarian, a dour, pasty woman with an enamel Nazi Party badge pinned to her cardigan, she looked at him with scorn. ‘A Polack author?' she snorted, and so loudly that other people using the library all turned around to look. ‘You'll be asking for one by a Yid next. Where on earth did you get the idea that we'd have books by Polacks?'