Letter From a Stranger

  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.

  Already things have begun to change. 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 endeavoured 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 neighbourhood 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 Trümmerfrauen. 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 are getting dressed up. We are 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’s in West Berlin. He is starting up his newspaper again. He has an international name. He and his father were well known before the war. And known as anti-Fascists. He is well liked by the Allies. Especially by General Harold Barlett-Smith. One of the heads of the British Occupation Forces. The lunch today is 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 cast-off. 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 McGregor. 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 blonde 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 into 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 savoured 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 22 JULY 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 ol
d 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. 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 that was upsetting Arabella. She had convinced herself he was alive. She insisted he had been 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.

  I jumped up at the sound of knocking. Ran to the door. Opened it. Greeted Dieter. Hugged him. Led him into our little abode. A moment later Irina joined us. She embraced him. She said, I have a solution. We must persuade Arabella to return to Zurich. She has the little house there. What better place? The children will be safe. They’ll continue their education. She won’t go, I said. Dieter agreed. We must be clever about it, Irina said. Point out the disadvantages of Berlin. The advantages of Switzerland. We must promise her that if we hear anything about Kurt we will inform her. Immediately.

  Dieter was thoughtful. He said, yes. We must appeal to her love for her children. Diana and Christian cannot live here. There’s nothing for them. Only a heap of rubble.

  I wasn’t persuaded. But I agreed to help them. I pointed out that she would go to the Schloss. Not possible, Dieter exclaimed. The Mark is now in the Russian zone. It’s dangerous. I’ll tell her. Irina got up, went to make coffee. Dieter said in a low voice, I think Arabella is deranged. I went to see her again the other day. She was incoherent. Her eyes looked glazed. I am worried. He went on. They have a house in Munich. The old princess does. I nodded. Perhaps she’ll go there, I suggested. How will she get from here to Munich? Dieter asked, shook his head. Germany is full of refugees on the move. Zurich is simpler. He was right. I told him so.

  Irina brought us coffee and Dieter instantly changed the subject. He said, I have a lovely offer. For the two of you. He smiled. Irina asked, What do you mean? General Barlett-Smith, our friendly Bart, would like you both to work for him. At a conference. He’s holding it next week. A meeting with Russians and Germans. We were both taken aback. I said, Doing what? Dieter answered, Listening, assessing, making notes. Later giving him your opinions. Does he want us to be interpreters? Irina asked. She was puzzled.

  Dieter said, Not exactly. He’s going to have professional interpreters. Who speak German and Russian. And obviously English. What he needs are some honest answers. You have both lived here. Before the war. During the war. Now. In its aftermath. Bart says he trusts you to convey something to him. What the Russians and Germans are really saying. What they really mean. Translations by the professionals won’t be the last word for him.

  He’s very smart, Irina said. So much can be lost in translation. What is the conference about? Do you know? I do, Dieter answered. It’s about the rebuilding of Berlin. He laughed unexpectedly. You can still be Trümmerfrauen. But in a different way. We both laughed with him. We knew he disapproved of us chipping at the bricks.

  A short while later we left our hole in the ground. Walked with Dieter to the Tiergartenstrasse. Took the train to Charlottenburg. Arabella was coming to lunch at Dieter’s house. When we were almost there, Dieter said, What shall I tell Bart? I glanced at Irina. She nodded, said, It will be interesting. I agreed with her. I must do it, I announced. He is arranging for my British passport. He’s been so nice. He has, Dieter said. You owe him a favour. There was a miraculous change in Arabella. She was her old self. Greeted us lovingly when she arrived. Laughed when she saw us wearing her old summer clothes. From the 1930s. We chatted. Drank a glass of wine. Louise drew Dieter to one side. I did not hear what they said. But he was smiling. When he joined us. The lunch was a success. Louise had managed to procure two chickens. From the black market in the Tiergarten. Food was still short. Everyone resorted to the Tiergarten. It was very active. Food and other items were always on sale. For the right price.

  When we were having coffee, Irina asked Arabella about her plans. She said she wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to stay in Berlin or not. She seemed to be looking to us for advice. Gently, in a loving way, we told her she must return to Zurich. This was the best plan. For her children. Unexpectedly she agreed. She told us she had been to the Tiergartenstrasse and the Lützowufer. Had been horrified to find their house gone. And by the damage. The wasteland that Berlin had become. It appalled her. No one can exist here, she said. Irina and I agreed with her. Reminded her about our hole in the ground. How uncomfortable it was.

  Later that afternoon she hugged us both. Then wept. She whispered sadly, I know Kurt is dead. He must have been killed. In the last-ditch fighting. I am sorry about last week. My behaviour. I was demented. Clutching at straws. We comforted her. Told her how much we cared about her.

  Dieter walked us to the train station in Charlottenburg. Waited with us. When the Berlin train came chugging in, he said, So I’ll tell the general you’ll work for him? Yes, I said. And please ask him when we start. I believe the conference begins on Wednesday, Dieter said. Which Wednesday? Irina asked. This Wednesday, he replied. We were both flabbergasted. We nodded our agreement. He added, You will be paid.

  And so began our little adventure. That is what Irina called it. We had to rush to get our clothes in order. We splurged. Bought shampoo. At the black market in the Tiergarten. And a lipstick each. On Wednesday morning we set off for Charlottenburg. And the conference. The aide to General Barlett-Smith, Captain Walter Frost, greeted us. He had been at Dieter’s luncheon. He took us to see the general. Bart was warm, welcoming. Then he explained why he needed us. What he wanted us to do. Once Bart had briefed us, Captain Frost came back. He brought us passes, identification badges, notebooks and pencils. He took us to the conference room. On the way he showed us where all the facilities were. Explained that we could eat at the canteen. He took us into the conference room. Showed us to our given seats. And disappeared. He’s dropped us in the deep end, I said. Irina laughed.

  We worked hard. We listened carefully. Made detailed notes. Our assessments. I was concentrating on the German officers. Irina on the Russians. At night we wrote a report for Bart. Gave it to Captain Frost the next morning. Every other day we met with the general. To discuss our reports. We met Peter Hardwicke the first day we started. The canteen was full when he arrived. There were only two seats left. At our table. He asked if he could join us. I said, please do. Irina simply nodded, smiled at him.

  He was nice looking, polite. Possessed a quiet charm. We both liked him at once. He was a captain in the army. He was in the Administration Department of the British Military Police. We realized how impressed he was when we said we worked for the general. That first day he made us laugh. Kept us entertained. He asked lots of questions about Berlin. We answered. A few days later he asked to join us for lunch again. He also invited us out on the town. That was the way he put it. We had to educate him about the town. We explained there wasn’t one.

  One night, when we were planning our clothes for the next day, Irina sud
denly turned to me. Her face was serious. Peter likes you a lot, she said. I like him, I murmured. I know you do. But he has really fallen for you, Gabriele. I began to laugh. Don’t be silly, I answered. And laughed again.

  BERLIN 5 SEPTEMBER 1945

  I shall be leaving Berlin in a few days. My passport and all my papers are now in my hands. In some ways I feel sad to leave. Mostly because of Irina. She has looked after me for the last seven years. We’ve hardly been apart. We braved the storm of war together. I loved her. There was no one I admired more. But I know I must go. I need to be with aunt Beryl and uncle Jock. And before I leave I must return one more time to the International Red Cross. Visit all the other agencies. I must look at the lists again. The long lists of names of those who died in the concentration camps.

  When I arrived at the temporary building for the International Red Cross I hurried inside. I found the woman I had dealt with before. She nodded. Her eyes were kind. I did not know her name. She handed me the new lists. These came in yesterday, she said in a neutral voice. She was an American. I thanked her. Took them from her. Hurried towards a corner. To be alone. I looked at the Ravensbrück list first.

  My eyes scanned the page marked with a capital L. My heart clenched. I saw it at once. Her name. Landau: Stella Elizabeth. And underneath Landau: Erika Beryl. Mummy, Erika, my heart cried. My mother was dead. My littler sister was dead. No, no, no. I heard a terrible scream in my head. The tears fell out of my eyes. Splashed onto the paper. My hands were shaking. My legs felt weak. I was trembling all over. I found the Buchenwald list. Looked for my father’s name. It was there. Just as I had known it would be. Landau, Dirk. There it was in black and white. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I slid down onto the floor. Clutching the lists, tears spilling down my cheeks. Splattering the paper. I would never see them again. I would never hear their voices… never, never, never… that word reverberated in my head. Papa, Papa, I will always love you. Mummy, Erika, I will never forget… never… never… never…