her.
Besides, she was intent on staying by the phone in case her father called. She gathered all the frightening news she could stomach through Reich-approved radio stations and through her chambermaid.
“I heard Herr Hitler with my own ears, over the loudspeaker in Wilhelmplatz this noon!” the girl had insisted. “At eleven o’clock Britain declared war against us! But our Führer let them have it—lambasted those warmongering British and those capitalist Jews!”
Rachel’s stomach churned.
“There’s a new decree. Listening to foreign broadcasts is verboten . The Führer doesn’t want us discouraged by foreign propaganda, like in the last war. Too many women wrote their husbands at the front about what they’d heard of the war, and about the harsh rationing and such— meine Mutter told me how it was. It brought our soldiers low, and they gave up the fight too soon. It was all Bolshevik Jewlies behind it, you know, meant to destroy morale.” The girl spoke knowingly while she snapped pillow slips and shook the eiderdown. “ Meine Mutter says it’s why we suffered the humiliation of Versailles. The Führer says we needn’t have lost at all. But thanks to him, we’re stronger now. We’ll not listen to the lies this time, and we’re to report those that do.”
“You’ve no idea what war will mean,” Rachel tried to persuade her.
“We don’t want war, but we’ll not lose to those that force it upon us!”
Berlin women sewed cloth bags. Men and boys packed them with sand, slamming them by the hundreds against the bases of houses, intent on breaking the impact of explosions. Government stations distributed gas masks—to Aryan residents—but did not evacuate women and children.
Rachel dared hope Hitler’s boast that the British and French planes would never breach the city’s lines was true. And then she wondered if she should regret that, if she should hope instead for the crazies to be blasted from the Reichstag.
Lists of blackout regulations were posted in the newspapers. Only the whitewashed curbs helped navigate the darkened streets.
But Rachel was done going out after dark. Even the theatres, which still opened their doors, could not compel her. She was packed, ready to leave for the US the moment her father returned from Frankfurt. The only person she’d telephoned since she’d witnessed the van of children being driven away was Kristine. She’d phoned her on Saturday, intending to say she would do whatever she could for Amelie, but hung up without speaking when Gerhardt answered the phone.
If Gerhardt is back early, why isn’t Father?
Rachel paced the carpeted floor of the sitting room between her father’s bedchamber and her own Sunday morning and afternoon. Rehearsing her lines over and over—what she would ask him, whatshe could say while shielding Kristine and Amelie. He couldn’t possibly be part of this madness. He would know what to do. And they must leave right away—before they couldn’t.
When her father finally returned, it was nearly the dinner hour and she was spent with worry. Neither had dressed for dinner, and going to the theatre was out of the question. He complained that he was tired from the journey and asked if she’d mind if they had something served in their sitting room.
“Not at all. I’d prefer it.” Rachel kept a grip on her emotions but knew she spoke too brightly. “And we must talk of going home—as soon as possible!”
After placing their order for room service, he sank into the sofa. “You’ve no idea the stress of this trip, my dear. The war—not unexpected, but still . . . I’m glad you were here in Berlin, waiting for me. It makes . . .” He swallowed. “At least, something . . .”
“Are you ill?”
He waved his hand as if to dismiss the idea. “It’s just . . . so many decisions, all the preparation for the conference in Edinburgh. And such a disappointment. So little cooperation between nations and ideologies.
Besides, she was intent on staying by the phone in case her father called. She gathered all the frightening news she could stomach through Reich-approved radio stations and through her chambermaid.
“I heard Herr Hitler with my own ears, over the loudspeaker in Wilhelmplatz this noon!” the girl had insisted. “At eleven o’clock Britain declared war against us! But our Führer let them have it—lambasted those warmongering British and those capitalist Jews!”
Rachel’s stomach churned.
“There’s a new decree. Listening to foreign broadcasts is verboten . The Führer doesn’t want us discouraged by foreign propaganda, like in the last war. Too many women wrote their husbands at the front about what they’d heard of the war, and about the harsh rationing and such— meine Mutter told me how it was. It brought our soldiers low, and they gave up the fight too soon. It was all Bolshevik Jewlies behind it, you know, meant to destroy morale.” The girl spoke knowingly while she snapped pillow slips and shook the eiderdown. “ Meine Mutter says it’s why we suffered the humiliation of Versailles. The Führer says we needn’t have lost at all. But thanks to him, we’re stronger now. We’ll not listen to the lies this time, and we’re to report those that do.”
“You’ve no idea what war will mean,” Rachel tried to persuade her.
“We don’t want war, but we’ll not lose to those that force it upon us!”
Berlin women sewed cloth bags. Men and boys packed them with sand, slamming them by the hundreds against the bases of houses, intent on breaking the impact of explosions. Government stations distributed gas masks—to Aryan residents—but did not evacuate women and children.
Rachel dared hope Hitler’s boast that the British and French planes would never breach the city’s lines was true. And then she wondered if she should regret that, if she should hope instead for the crazies to be blasted from the Reichstag.
Lists of blackout regulations were posted in the newspapers. Only the whitewashed curbs helped navigate the darkened streets.
But Rachel was done going out after dark. Even the theatres, which still opened their doors, could not compel her. She was packed, ready to leave for the US the moment her father returned from Frankfurt. The only person she’d telephoned since she’d witnessed the van of children being driven away was Kristine. She’d phoned her on Saturday, intending to say she would do whatever she could for Amelie, but hung up without speaking when Gerhardt answered the phone.
If Gerhardt is back early, why isn’t Father?
Rachel paced the carpeted floor of the sitting room between her father’s bedchamber and her own Sunday morning and afternoon. Rehearsing her lines over and over—what she would ask him, whatshe could say while shielding Kristine and Amelie. He couldn’t possibly be part of this madness. He would know what to do. And they must leave right away—before they couldn’t.
When her father finally returned, it was nearly the dinner hour and she was spent with worry. Neither had dressed for dinner, and going to the theatre was out of the question. He complained that he was tired from the journey and asked if she’d mind if they had something served in their sitting room.
“Not at all. I’d prefer it.” Rachel kept a grip on her emotions but knew she spoke too brightly. “And we must talk of going home—as soon as possible!”
After placing their order for room service, he sank into the sofa. “You’ve no idea the stress of this trip, my dear. The war—not unexpected, but still . . . I’m glad you were here in Berlin, waiting for me. It makes . . .” He swallowed. “At least, something . . .”
“Are you ill?”
He waved his hand as if to dismiss the idea. “It’s just . . . so many decisions, all the preparation for the conference in Edinburgh. And such a disappointment. So little cooperation between nations and ideologies.
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