Gretchen started to dig the heels of her hands into her eyes, to scrub the image away, but the shooting pain in her left eye socket stopped her. She focused on her task. Living from instant to instant would keep her sane.
The soup ladle made a decent shovel, and soon she had a large enough hole for Striped Peterl. Gently, she lowered him into the ground. The thought of his body decomposing, becoming one with the rich earth, steadied her. She had given him a good resting place, beneath the sky he had loved watching from her bedroom window. She patted the earth back into place, trying not listen to the soft dirt raining down on his body, covering him forever. Finished, she stared down at the mound of dirt and grass.
Tears sparked her eyes. No, she mustn’t stop; she mustn’t think or she would be paralyzed. She brushed off the ladle, dropped it back into the bag, and eased her weeping body onto the bicycle. There was only one person she could go to now, the man who had always loved her and who had promised to protect the Müller family after Papa died.
She turned southeast, in the direction of the Prinzregentenstrasse. Uncle Dolf would still be awake.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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18
HITLER LIVED IN THE PRINZREGENTENPLATZ, ONE of Munich’s most fashionable squares, in a large gray building surrounded by tall trees. Some windows were open, their lace curtains snapping in the nighttime breeze. The house was reminiscent of sun-filled summer days, of sands bleached white and waves crashing on a quiet shore, and of pale linen dresses. It was a house, Gretchen thought as she hopped off her bicycle and wheeled it toward the foyer, for those who took things for granted.
She dragged the bicycle up the curved tile staircase to the second floor. When Hitler’s housekeeper answered the knock, she raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and Gretchen was suddenly conscious of her bruised and bloodied face, her torn dress and ragged breathing, and the battered old bicycle resting against the wall.
“Fräulein Muller,” said Frau Reichert, “good evening. Have you come to call upon Herr Hitler?”
“Yes. I—I’ve run into some trouble.” The words came out awkwardly through her swollen lips. She sounded like a drunkard. Flushing, she put a hand to her sweat-streaked hair. She could only imagine how she looked to the proper middle-aged lady.
“It appears so.” Frau Reichert moved back, gesturing for Gretchen to enter, and when she hesitated, the housekeeper added, “You needn’t worry about appearances here, Fräulein Müller. Herr Hitler is a man of the people.” “Thank you,” Gretchen said.
They walked into a large parlor filled with massive furniture, dark wood that gleamed with polish, and walls as white as eggshells. The entire room had been drained of color; the only bright spots came from Geli, lounging in red on an enormous sofa, and Uncle Dolf and Herr Hanfstaengl, in dark blue suits, sitting on matching chairs and laughing heartily over some shared joke. They must have changed for dinner after getting home from the picnic, for they wore fresh, formal clothes.
They froze when they saw her.
“Fräulein Gretchen Müller,” Frau Reichert announced, unnecessarily, and retreated, her footsteps fading into the quiet that always seemed to coat the apartment like a layer of paint, muffling every sound.
Both men rose. Uncle Dolf stretched out his hand. “Gretchen?” he said uncertainly, as though he didn’t recognize her.
His hand, reaching toward her, was enough to break her.
“Uncle Dolf,” she choked out, all her pains forgotten as she ran to him and flung her arms around his shoulders, dropping her burlap sack on the floor. “Please help me! Mama and I can’t take it any longer. We need you—”
“Tut, tut, what is all this?” He stepped backward, out of her embrace, his gaze scraping over her bloodied and blackened face before it focused on a far point on the opposite wall.
She couldn’t hold the words back any longer. “Reinhard did this.” Her jaw throbbed, but she forced herself to go on. “I made him angry, and he beat me.” She waved a hand across her face, letting the bruises speak. “My mother and I live in constant fear of him. He isn’t like other people. He—” She paused, struggling as her voice careened out of control. “He’s a monster—”
She broke off, realizing how silent the room had become. Uncle Dolf continued staring at some far-off point, his eyes never meeting hers. Hanfstaengl stared at his huge hands, braced on his knees. Geli sat on the edge of a sofa cushion, her eyes trained on Gretchen’s face, her fingers twisting a handkerchief into a rope.
Gretchen recognized Hitler’s expression—he was uncomfortable. She had embarrassed him. He had been enjoying an evening at home, laughing and telling stories with a guest and a relative, and she had shoved herself into his apartment, babbling tearfully.
Slowly, she took several deep breaths, concentrating on the whoosh of air in and out of her lungs. Uncle Dolf’s old calming trick worked; she felt far steadier. She had to maintain her self-control. If there was one thing Uncle Dolf hated, it was hysterical females.
“I apologize,” she said. “I shouldn’t have burst in like this.” She held her hands out, cupping them like bowls and moving them in tempo with her words, as Uncle Dolf had taught her to do when she wanted to sway others’ opinions. “I came to you for help, Uncle Dolf, because I can’t live with my brother any longer. He’s malicious and cruel. The smallest things make him go mad. Tonight, he strangled my cat and attacked me because I angered him. He’s found secret ways to punish me and my mother for years and then pretended to be innocent so convincingly that we thought we were losing our minds—”
Uncle Dolf interrupted. “What did you do to anger him?”
She must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“You did something to anger him,” Uncle Dolf said, his eyes finally focusing on hers. His eyelids had slid to half-mast, a sure signal he was grappling with a strong emotion. “What was it?”
“I—I went into his room without his permission. But—”
“Reinhard is the man of the house.” The forbidding expression smoothed itself out. Uncle Dolf sat down, straightening his suit jacket with a quick jerk of his hand. “A man must discipline his family as he sees fit.”
Discipline? She ran a hand over her face, touching the tender bulge of her closing and blackening eye and the puffy outline of her split lips. She felt, rather than saw, Hanfstaengl guide her down onto the overstuffed couch beside Geli.
Uncle Dolf couldn’t be saying these things. Not the kindly friend who taught her about art and let her play his piano and tugged her braid. Not the beloved uncle who had visited her family the day after he was released from prison, with Christmas gifts of chocolates and tea, and who had told them, with tears in his eyes, he would never forget his dear comrade Klaus Müller’s sacrifice. He had promised he would protect them.
She folded her hands in her lap, tightly, to stop their trembling. For the first time, she noticed dots of blood on her dress, little red circles against the white. A dull roaring filled her ears. She feared she would be sick, right here, on his parlor floor.
“Unless you change your ways,” Uncle Dolf said sternly, “you’ll be an unwelcome challenge for a man, a hindrance rather than a tonic, an opponent rather than a pleasure.”
He stopped, clearly waiting for her to say something. All of her felt numb but her lips, which ached when she said, “Yes, Uncle Dolf.”
She couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the table, reflected lamplight glowing in the polished wood. It was such a beautiful table. In a luxurious apartment, filled with fine furniture and paintings—unusual choices for a man who professed to want nothing for his own comfort. She had never noticed before how little Uncle Dolf’s apartment seemed to mirror his stated preferences.
Narrowing her good eye, she raised her head and stared at him. He had leaned back in his chair, waving his right hand as he spo
ke, the image of a genial, good-natured host. Smiling like a kindly schoolmaster lecturing his students. Talking at them without waiting for their responses. Had he ever asked for her opinion? She couldn’t remember.
Beaming, Hitler nodded. “Very good, my sunshine. It’s time for you to consider marriage. Every girl ought to; if she waits too long before having children, she will become sick and hysterical. I suppose there’s a handsome, strapping fellow waiting in the wings for you?”
She shook her head. “No, there is no one.” No one at all.
He waggled a finger mischievously. “That shall soon change. I’ll find someone suitable for you. An SS chap, so he’s sure to be racially pure. It’s very important, to me and to the Party, for you to marry the right sort. A young fellow who’s destined to become a leader within the NSDAP. Think what a fine couple you would make, a shining example to the others of your generation! Of course, you’re young yet. But you should marry soon; every German man and woman should. Not me, of course. Germany is my great love.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but there was nothing to say.
Footsteps sounded from the corridor. Frau Reichert appeared, carrying a tray laden with drinks: mineral water for Hitler, beer for Hanfstaengl, and a pot of weak tea for Gretchen and Geli.
Once the tea had been poured, Hitler turned to Geli, inquiring about yesterday’s singing lesson, and Gretchen realized the previous conversation was over. Uncle Dolf had said all he wished to say on the subject, and they would now move on to more pleasant topics.
So she sat, holding the cup of tea and listening to the talk swirl about her like a creek’s current, and she the stone breaking the water’s flow. All of her aches started to awaken again.
The realization sank in: She wasn’t safe. She had always assumed Uncle Dolf would save her and Mama; once he knew the truth, he would punish Reinhard or send him away.
But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t.
And now Reinhard would find out she had gone to Uncle Dolf for help and been refused; he would know she had risked damaging his reputation and dirtying his name.
There was nowhere she could go, no one she could ask for protection. She was trapped.
“Singing class was deadly dull today, Uncle Alf,” Geli said. Her hand brushed against Gretchen’s knee as she reached for the sugar bowl, and she murmured, “You’re breathing quite fast. Try to calm yourself.”
Brightly, she went on. “But the pistol lesson was such a lark! Gretchen, my uncle’s arranged for Henny and me to have weapons training. We practice shooting at a rifle range just outside the city. Yesterday, Uncle Alf, they taught us how to clean Walthers. We took them completely apart and put them back together again. We felt like characters out of a Western film!”
Uncle Dolf laughed heartily, then grew serious. “These lessons are not meant to be larks, Geli. Every moment, I must guard against assassination. The danger is real. Always, always”—he slammed a fist into an open palm for emphasis—“we must watch for the enemy.”
Geli rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Uncle Alf, nobody wants to kill me—”
“Ach, there you are wrong. I have many opponents, and most would not hesitate to murder me and, by extension, you. You must never forget that. Already I have survived at least ten assassination attempts this year. They shall not succeed, naturally, as the good hand of Providence protects me. But others’ safety is not guaranteed.” He turned to Hanfstaengl. “My nerves are bad tonight.”
“Shall I be the performing monkey this evening?” Hanfstaengl’s smile was mocking, but he crossed to the grand piano and stretched his long fingers over the keys. “My piano playing always soothes you, Herr Hitler. Shall it be Wagner?”
“Always, always Wagner.” Hitler settled back into his chair, closing his eyes in anticipation.
The music seemed to go on and on, a violent cascade of notes. Gretchen sat motionless, trying not to think or feel. Suddenly the utter ridiculousness of the situation struck her: Here she was, sitting in Hitler’s parlor wearing a ripped, bloodied dress and gripping a teacup with battered hands, listening politely while the music swelled and others sipped their drinks. They looked like a painting, and she, the figure who had been sketched in by mistake.
Geli leaned close, sending a wash of lilac perfume wafting across Gretchen’s face.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You can bunk with me. You shouldn’t go home tonight. As for this”—she glanced at Uncle Dolf, nodding in his armchair, one hand conducting an invisible orchestra—“this could go on for hours.”
Geli was right; it was nearly two in the morning when Hitler rose. Gretchen was so exhausted, she could scarcely sit upright. Hitler thanked Hanfstaengl for his excellent piano playing, then glanced at her.
“And Gretchen . . . ,” he said, clearly at a loss, when Geli spoke up.
“She shall spend the night here, naturally, Uncle Alf. It’s too late for her to travel home.”
“And I’m afraid she won’t fit on my handlebars,” Hanfstaengl added.
“When will you ever get a car, Hanfstaengl?” Uncle Dolf demanded.
“When people start buying art again.” He looked irritated.
“It is this foul Communism!” Uncle Dolf exclaimed. “Its goal is the destruction of all non-Jewish national states. Communism plans to systemically hand the world over to the Jews. Everywhere we see its loathsome effects—”
“Please, Uncle Alf,” Geli cut in, “anything but politics at two in the morning.”
He looked annoyed. But then she smiled and looped her arm through his, and he laughed. “Very well, Geli.” He patted her cheek. “I know this sort of talk is dull for you girls.”
“Good night.” Hanfstaengl ambled toward the corridor. “I’ll see myself out. Gretchen, a word, please.”
She followed him toward the foyer. In the dim light, she noticed the chair in the corner, where Uncle Dolf always deposited the three things he never left his apartment without: his whip, pistol, and cartridge belt. For the first time, she noticed how odd they appeared, resting on a wooden chair in a finely appointed foyer.
Hanfstaengl swung round to face her. All the laughter and merriment had fled from his features. Looming above her in the darkness, he was such a massive figure she took an instinctive step back. But when he spoke, his voice was so gentle she scarcely recognized it.
“You needn’t come into work until your face is healed. I shan’t let anyone know so you can receive your full pay.”
The gesture was so kind and unexpected she only managed a surprised thank-you.
“Good night,” he said, and she echoed the words before walking back into the dark parlor.
Geli slept in a corner bedroom beside Hitler’s, hers the only room in the apartment with any color. Its pale green walls were dotted with watercolors. One was a Belgian landscape her uncle had painted during the Great War, Geli said as they changed into their nightgowns.
“It’s lovely,” Gretchen said mechanically. She felt like a machine that was breaking down, all of her movements automatic but painfully slow. “Your room is the finest I’ve ever seen,” she added.
It was true. Of all her friends’ bedchambers, Geli’s was by far the most beautiful: delicate wooden furniture, embroidered bedsheets, a vanity table crowded with bottles and pots, a bureau where necklaces lay heaped together, a Hakenkreuz, the twin of Gretchen’s, gleaming at the top.
“I call it my pastel prison.” Geli smiled crookedly. “Oh, I’m sorry, you mustn’t mind me; it’s you that we must concentrate on tonight. You’ve had a beastly time of it, but a good night’s rest will do marvels.” She guided Gretchen into a chair. “You poor dear! Having to sit for hours when you haven’t even had a proper wash. Isn’t that just like Uncle Alf, not to pay attention to anyone else when Herr Hanfstaengl starts with his wretched piano playing! I declare, if I have to hear anything of Wagner’s again, I shall throw a fit.”
As she spoke, she washed Gretchen’s face gently. The cloth was made
of such fine cotton, it scarcely scraped Gretchen’s skin at all. Gretchen closed her good eye, feeling tears leak out. Such simple kindness seemed incredible after the night she had had.
Geli made soothing, sympathetic sounds as she spread salve across Gretchen’s burning hands and knees and bandaged them. “There, there,” she murmured. “You’ll take a headache powder, too.”
She took a small, paper-wrapped packet from her vanity table and dissolved its contents in a glass of water. “Drink up, poor thing. This will blunt the worst of the pain.”
The tears came faster now, sliding down in silence. Somehow, she had been able to bear everything except for Geli’s gentle goodness. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’ve helped me so much.”
“Nonsense. Any half-decent person would do the same. Men can be such monsters.” An emotion Gretchen couldn’t identify tightened Geli’s round face for an instant. “Let’s get you into bed, shall we?”
Geli pulled back the sheets. A big feather bed, soft as a cloud—Gretchen had never slept on one before. It took her two tries to clamber onto the mattress, because her aching legs screamed each time she tried to lift them. Embarrassment burned her already inflamed face, and she was glad when Geli snapped off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
“Uncle Alf is an insomniac,” Geli said, the mattress sighing as she settled herself on her side. “He wanders the hallway for hours at night, so you mustn’t be frightened if you hear him walking up and down the corridor. Good night,” she added.
They sank into silence. Soon Geli’s breathing deepened into the slow, regular rhythm of the slumbering. The whisper of footsteps in the corridor started. Uncle Dolf, pacing. Gretchen yearned for the oblivion of sleep. How much she longed to fall down its dark well, far from the pains and fears keeping her awake.
For a long time, she stared at the ceiling, listening to Uncle Dolf’s soft footsteps. With her injured eye swollen shut, her sight had sharpened again. The thought relieved her enormously. If she could see, even if it was with only one eye, she could protect herself. She wouldn’t be caught off-guard again. She would attack first.