One of the men, a fellow in his early thirties with thin, receding hair, leaned way back in his chair and silently contemplated the crowd on the dance floor and at the other tables. Then, barely looking at his companions, he said, “A poor choice of venue. We’re almost the only civilian table in the whole place. We stick out a mile.”
The girl’s partner smiled at her and said—but his words were meant for the balding man—”Not at all, Grigoleit, we’re practically invisible here, and if they do see us, at the most they despise us. The only thing on the minds of these people is that the so-called victory over France has secured them dancing rights for a couple of weeks.”
“No names! You know the rules!” the balding man said sharply.
For a while no one spoke. The girl doodled something on the table and didn’t look up, though she could feel they were all looking at her.
“Anyway, Trudel,” said the third man, who had an innocent baby-face, “it’s time for whatever you wanted to tell us. What’s new? The next-door tables are almost all empty, everyone’s dancing. Come on!”
The silence of the other two could only indicate agreement. Haltingly, not looking up, Trudel Baumann said: “I think I’ve made a mistake. At any rate, I’ve broken my word. In my eyes, admittedly, it’s not really a mistake…”
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed the balding man angrily. “Are you going to start gabbling like a silly goose? Tell us what it is, straight out!”
The girl looked up. She looked at the three men one after the other, all of them, it seemed to her, eyeing her coldly. There were tears in her eyes. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t. She looked for her handkerchief…
The man with the receding hairline leaned back. He let out a long, soft whistle. “I tell her she’s not supposed to blab. I’m afraid she already has. Look at her.”
The cavalier at Trudel’s side retorted quickly, “Not possible. Trudel is a good girl. Tell them you haven’t blabbed, Trudel!” And he squeezed her hand encouragingly. The Babyface directed his round, very blue eyes expressionlessly at the girl. The tall man with the receding hairline smiled contemptuously. He put his cigarette in the ashtray and said mockingly, “Well, Fräulein?”
Trudel had got herself under control, and bravely she whispered, “He’s right. I talked out of turn. My father-in-law brought me news of my Otto’s death. That somehow knocked me off balance. I told him I was in a cell.”
“Did you name names?” No one would have guessed that the Babyface could ask questions so sharply.
“Of course not. That’s all I said, too. And my father-in-law is an old workingman, he’ll never say a word.”
“Your father-in-law’s the next chapter, you’re the first! You say you didn’t give any names…”
“I’ll thank you for believing me, Grigoleit! I’m not lying. I’m freely confessing.”
“You just used a name again, Fräulein Baumann!”
The Babyface said, “Don’t you see it’s completely immaterial whether she named a name or not? She said she was involved in a cell, and that means she’s blabbed, and will blab again. If the men in black lay hands on her, knock her about a bit, she’ll talk, never mind how much or how little she’s said so far.”
“I will never talk to them, even if I have to die!” cried Trudel with flaming cheeks.
“Pah!” said the balding man. “Dying’s the easy bit, Fräulein Baumann, sometimes they do rather unpleasant things to you before that!”
“You’re unkind,” the girl said. “Yes, I’ve done something wrong, but…”
“I agree,” said the fellow on the sofa next to her. “We’ll go and see her father-in-law, and if he’s a reliable sort…”
“Under the torturer’s hand there are no reliable sorts,” said Grigoleit.
“Trudel,” said the Babyface with a gentle smile, “Trudel, you just told us you haven’t told anyone any names?”
“And that’s the truth, I haven’t!”
“And you claimed you would rather die than give us away?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” she exclaimed passionately.
“Well then, Trudel” said the Babyface, and smiled charmingly, “what if you were to die tonight, before you blabbed any more? That would give us a certain measure of security, and save us a lot of trouble…”
A deathly hush descended on the four of them. The girl went white. The boy next to her said “No,” and laid his hand over hers. But then he took it away again.
The dancers returned to their various tables and for a while made it impossible to continue the conversation.
The balding man lit another cigarette, and the Babyface smiled subtly when he saw how the other’s hands were shaking. Then he said to the dark-haired boy next to the pale, silent girl. “You say no? But why do you say no? It’s an almost entirely satisfactory solution to the problem, and as I understand it, was suggested by your neighbour herself.”
“It’s not a satisfactory solution,” said the dark-haired boy slowly. “You’ll remember that sentence when the People’s Court has you and me and her…”
“Quiet!” said the Babyface. “Go away and dance for a few minutes. It seems like a nice tune. You can discuss things between yourselves there, and we will here.”
Reluctantly, the dark-haired boy got up and bowed lightly to the lady. Reluctantly, she laid her hand on his arm, and the two pale figures headed, with a whole stream of others, to the dance floor. They danced earnestly, in silence, and he had the sense he was dancing with a corpse. He shuddered. The uniforms on all sides of them, the dangling swastikas, the blood-red banners on the walls with the repulsive emblem, the portrait of the Führer decked out with greenery, the pulsing beat of the swing music. “Don’t do it, Trudel,” he said. “He’s crazy to ask for something like that. Promise me…”
They were almost dancing in place in the ever thickening mass of bodies. Perhaps because there were continual collisions with other couples, she didn’t speak.
“Trudel!” he said again. “Please promise me! You can go to a different company, work there, stay away from them. Promise…”
He tried to force her to look at him, but she kept her eyes obstinately directed at a point behind his shoulder.
“You’re the best of us,” he said suddenly. “You’re humanity. He’s just dogma. You must go on living, don’t give in to him!”
She shook her head, whether it was yes or no was unclear. “I want to go back,” she said. “I don’t feel like dancing anymore.”
“Trudel,” said Karl Hergesell hastily as they made their way back through the dancing couples, “your Otto died yesterday, or at least yesterday you got news of his death. It’s too soon. But you know it anyway: I’ve always loved you. I’ve never expected anything from you, but now I expect at least that you stay alive. Not for my sake, nothing like that, but, please, just stay alive!”
Once again she moved her head slightly, and it was unclear what she thought of either his love or his wish that she at least remain alive. Then they were back at their table with the others. “Well?” asked Grigoleit with the receding hair. “What’s the feeling on the dance floor? A bit packed, eh?”
The girl hadn’t sat down. She said, “I’m going now. All the best. I would have liked to work with you…”
She turned to leave.
But now the plump, innocent-looking Babyface got up and took her by the wrist, and said, “One moment, please!” He said it with due politeness, but there was menace in his expression.
They returned to the table and sat down again. The Babyface asked, “Do I understand correctly what you meant by your good-bye just now?”
“You understood me,” she said, looking back at him with unyielding eyes.
“Then I would like permission to accompany you for the rest of the evening.”
She made a motion of appalled resistance.
He said very politely, “I don’t want to force myself upon you, but I would like you to consider that further mistakes can be m
ade in the execution of such a plan.” He whispered threateningly, “I don’t want to have some idiot fishing you out of a canal, or have you coming round from an attempted overdose in hospital tomorrow morning. I want to be there!”
“That’s right!” said the balding one. “I agree. That’s our only insurance…”
The dark-haired boy said emphatically, “I will remain at her side today and tomorrow and every following day. I will do everything I can to foil the execution of such a plan. I will even go to the police for help, if you force me to!”
The balding man whistled again, low, long, and maliciously.
The Babyface said, “Aha, it seems we have a second blabber among us. In love, eh? I always suspected it. Come on, Grigoleit, this cell is wound up. There is no cell anymore. And that’s what you call discipline, you women!”
“No, no!” cried the girl. “Don’t listen to him. It’s true, he does love me. But I don’t love him. And I want to go with you tonight…”
“Forget it!” said the Babyface, now furious. “Can’t you see that we’re in no position to do anything any more, now that you…”
He tipped his head in the direction of the dark-haired boy. “Ach, who cares!” He then said. “It’s over. Come on, Grigoleit!”
The balding one was already on his feet. Together, they walked toward the exit. Suddenly a hand was laid on the Babyface’s arm. He looked into a smooth, slightly puffy face in a brown uniform.
“One moment, please! What was that you just said about a cell being wound up? I would be very interested to know…”
The Babyface pulled his arm away. “You leave me alone!” he said, very loudly. “If you want to know what we were talking about, ask the young lady over there! Yesterday her fiancé fell, and today she’s got the hots for someone else! Bloody women!”
He kept pushing toward the exit, which Grigoleit had already reached. Then he, too, left the premises. The fat man watched him go for a moment. Then he turned back to the table, where the girl and the dark-haired fellow were still sitting, both looking rather pale. That relieved him. Perhaps I didn’t make a mistake in letting him go. He took me by surprise. But…
Politely he asked, “Would you mind very much if I sat with you for a few minutes and asked you some questions?”
Trudel Baumann replied, “I can’t tell you any more than what the gentleman just said to you. I received news of the death of my fiancé yesterday, and today this gentleman here has asked me to become engaged to him.”
Her voice sounded firm and unwavering. Now that there was danger seated at the table, her fear and unrest were gone.
“Would you mind telling me the name and rank of your fallen fiancé? And his regiment?” She told him. “And your own name? Ad dress? Place of work? Do you have other documentation on you? Thank you! And now you, sir.”
“I work in the same factory. My name is Karl Hergesell. Here’s my pay stub.”
“And the two other gentlemen?”
“Never met them before. They sat down at our table and got involved in our argument.”
“And what were you arguing about?”
“I don’t love him.”
“Why was the other gentleman so indignant about you, then, if you don’t love him?”
“How do I know? Maybe he didn’t believe me. He was annoyed that I agreed to dance with him.”
“I see!” said the chubby face, snapping his notebook shut and looking from one to the other. They really did seem more like a quarrelsome pair of lovebirds than conspirators caught red-handed. Even the way they shyly avoided looking at each other… And yet their hands were almost touching on the tabletop. “I see! Of course we’ll have your answers checked, but it seems to me… anyway, I wish you a more congenial end to your evening…”
“I don’t!” said the girl. “I don’t!” She got up simultaneously with the brownshirt. “I’m going home.”
“I’ll take you.”
“No, thanks, I’d rather go alone.”
“Trudel!” the boy begged. “Just let me say two more words to you!”
The brownshirt smiled from one to the other. They clearly were lovers. A superficial check would do.
Suddenly she made up her mind: “All right, but only two minutes!”
They walked out. At last they were away from this appalling hall and its atmosphere of concerted hatred. They looked about them. “They’ve gone.”
“We will never see them again.”
“And you can live. No, Trudel, you must live! An unconsidered step on your part would plunge the others into danger, many others—always remember, Trudel!”
“Yes,” she said, “now I must live.” And with a swift decision.
“Good-bye, Karl.”
For an instant she pressed herself against his chest and her lips brushed his. Before he knew what was happening, she was running across the carriageway to a waiting tram. The driver moved off.
He made as if to take off after her. Then he thought better of it.
I will see her in the factory from time to time, he told himself. A whole life lies ahead of us. And I know now that she loves me.
*SA is the “Sturmabteilung” or “storm troopers,” a para-military group that helped bring Hitler to power and whose members were know because of their uniform color as the “brown shirts.”
† Organization Todt was a military construction and logistics unit run by Fritz Todt. The RAD, or Reichsarbeitsdienst (“Empire work service”) was a six-month forced labor program for all young Germans, with a component of military training. Sonderführer (“Special leader”) was not a specific position in any hierarchy, but conferred as the need arose. A Politischer Leiter, or political leader, was any Nazi Party official. They wore golden brown uniforms. “Golden pheasant” was a nickname for Hermann Göring, who was given to ostentatious uniforms. The BDM, or Bund Deutscher Mädel (The “League of German Girls”) was the girls’ branch of the Hitler Youth, for girls from 10 to 21 years old.
Chapter 14
SATURDAY: DISCORD AT THE QUANGELS’
The Quangels didn’t speak to each other all of Friday either—that meant three days of silence between them, not even giving each other the time of day. This had never happened in the entire course of their marriage. However laconic Quangel might be, he had managed a sentence from time to time, something about someone at work or at least the weather or that his dinner had tasted particularly good. But none of that now!
The longer it lasted, the more keenly Anna Quangel felt it. Her deep grief for her son was being sidetracked by disquiet about the change in her husband. She wanted to think only of her boy, but she couldn’t when she saw Otto in front of her, her husband of so many years, to whom she had given the greater and better part of her life. What had got into the man? What was up with him? What had changed him so?
By midday on Friday Anna Quangel had lost all her rage and reproach against Otto. If she had thought it might accomplish anything, she would have asked him to forgive her for blurting out that sentence about “You and your Führer.” But it was plain to see that Otto was no longer thinking about that reproach; he didn’t even seem to be thinking about her. He seemed to look past her, if not right through her, standing by the window, his hands in the pockets of his work tunic, whistling slowly and reflectively, with long intervals between, which was something he’d never done before.
What was the man thinking about? What was going on inside him? She set down the soup on the table, and he started spooning it down. For a moment she observed him from the kitchen. His sharp bird face was bent low over the bowl, he lifted his spoon mechanically to his mouth, his dark eyes looked at something that wasn’t there.
She went back into the kitchen, to heat up an end of cabbage. He liked reheated cabbage. She had decided she would say something to him when she returned with his cabbage. He could answer as sharply as he pleased: she had to break this unholy silence.
But when she came back into the dining room with th
e warmed-up cabbage, Otto was gone, and his half-eaten dinner was still on the table. Either Quangel had sensed her intention and crept away like a child intent on remaining stubborn, or he had simply forgotten to carry on eating because of whatever it was that was so consuming him. Anyway, he was gone, and she would have to wait till nighttime for him to come back.
But on Friday night, Otto returned from work so late that for all her good intentions she was already asleep when he came to bed. It was only later that he woke her with his coughing. Softly, she asked, “Otto, are you asleep?”
His coughing stopped; he lay there perfectly still. Again she asked, “Otto, are you asleep already?’
Nothing, no reply. The two of them lay there in silence a very long time. Each knew that the other was not sleeping. They didn’t dare move in bed, so as not to give themselves away. Finally, they both fell asleep.
Saturday got off to an even worse start. Otto Quangel had got up unusually early. Before she could put his watery coffee substitute out on the table, he had already set off on one of those rushed, mysterious errands that he had never undertaken before. He came back, and from the kitchen she could hear him pacing around the parlor. When she came in with the coffee, he carefully folded away a large white sheet of paper he had been reading by the window and put it in his pocket.
Anna was sure it wasn’t a newspaper. There was too much white on the paper, and the writing was bigger than in a newspaper. What could her husband have been reading?
She got cross with him again, with his secrecy, with these changes that brought with them so much disturbance, and so many fresh anxieties in addition to all the old ones, which had surely been enough. All the same, she said, “Coffee, Otto!”
At the sound of her voice, he turned and looked at her, as though surprised that he was not alone in the apartment, surprised that he had been spoken to by her. He looked at her, and yet he didn’t: it wasn’t his spouse, Anna Quangel, he was looking at, so much as someone he had once known and now had to strive to remember. There was a smile on his face, in his eyes, spreading over the whole expanse of his face in a way she had never seen before. She was on the point of crying out: Otto, oh Otto, don’t you leave me too!