Read Online The Nazi Officer's Wife by Edith H. Beer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edith H. Beer
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What?”
“While Bertschi was returning to Vienna, his entire unit was blown up by a bomb set by the French Resistance.”
I felt sad for the unit, thrilled for Bertschi, and delighted to know there actually was a French Resistance.
“Now they have figured out that Bertschi is half Jewish, so the Gestapo is after him.”
“Oh, no …”
“But I have a plan. My father has bought me a formerly Jewish shop. I am to sell souvenirs: coffee cups with maps of Saint Stephen’s imprinted on them, replicas of Nymphenberg statuettes, music boxes that play Wagner. Of course I need a bookkeeper to help me run my shop. So I have hired Bertschi.”
She smiled. Her dog put his head in her lap and gazed up at her adoringly.
“Oh, Christl, that’s so dangerous. They’ll come after you …”
“They already have,” she said. “I must report to Prinz Eugenstrasse tomorrow.”
“You must not go!” I cried. “You’re an Aryan, you can get out, you have papers, you must leave the city, leave the Reich!”
“My father has been assigned to work in the antiaircraft unit in Münster, in Westphalia,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I thought of Hansi, the SS, their brutality to women.
Christl smiled. “Just lend me your yellow blouse with the appliqued birds, and everything will be all right.”
The next day, Christl Denner put on the blouse my mother had made for me. It fit her perfectly. She applied her reddest lipstick and darkened her lashes. As she headed down the street, her skirt swinging, her hair shining, she looked as if she were going to a dance.
She walked into the Gestapo headquarters. Every man in the place emerged from behind his desk to have a better look at her. The Nazi Captain tried to be severe.
“You have a man working for you, Fräulein Denner, one Hans Beran …”
“Yes. My bookkeeper. He is traveling in the Reich. I had a postcard from him.”
“When he returns, we want to see him.”
“Of course, Captain. I’ll send him right over.”
She gave him a big smile. He kissed her hand. He asked Christl if he could buy her a coffee. She agreed.
“You what?! You went out with an SS man?”
“How can a woman turn down a simple invitation for coffee?” she explained. “It would be rude. It might raise suspicions. When the captain suggested a future meeting, I simply told him that I was promised to a brave sailor on the high seas and could not possibly betray his sacred trust.”
She grinned as she gave me back my blouse. She had the flair of a Hollywood heroine, my friend Christl.
In the basement of her shop sat Bertschi Beran, the luckiest of men.
P EPI VISITED ME every day. He was working as a stenographer for the court, and after work he would go out and have a bite and then come to us, a forty-five-minute walk. He would arrive at seven P.M ., put his watch on the table so as not to forget the time, and leave precisely at nine-fifteen so as to arrive home at ten, the hour his frantic mother expected him.
Our long-delayed, frustrated love affair could find no place, no corner, and we had begun to starve for each other. Even in the coldest weather, we walked outside and found a bench or a doorway where we could kiss and cling together.
One afternoon we crept into his flat, terrified that the neighbors would see us. He had bought some condoms and hidden them from Anna (who snooped into everything) by putting them in a box marked UNDEVELOPED FILM ! DO NOT EXPOSE TO LIGHT ! We were wild with excitement and couldn’t wait to get at each other. But no sooner had we begun to undress than we heard men shouting in the hall outside; that horrible Nazi banging on some unfortunate Austrian’s door; the lady of the house crying, “No! No, he’s done nothing! Don’t take him!”—and then the heavy steps of the captors as they dragged their prisoner away.
Our passion died of fright. We could not revive it that evening. Pepi walked me back to the ghetto.
He was not fired
“While Bertschi was returning to Vienna, his entire unit was blown up by a bomb set by the French Resistance.”
I felt sad for the unit, thrilled for Bertschi, and delighted to know there actually was a French Resistance.
“Now they have figured out that Bertschi is half Jewish, so the Gestapo is after him.”
“Oh, no …”
“But I have a plan. My father has bought me a formerly Jewish shop. I am to sell souvenirs: coffee cups with maps of Saint Stephen’s imprinted on them, replicas of Nymphenberg statuettes, music boxes that play Wagner. Of course I need a bookkeeper to help me run my shop. So I have hired Bertschi.”
She smiled. Her dog put his head in her lap and gazed up at her adoringly.
“Oh, Christl, that’s so dangerous. They’ll come after you …”
“They already have,” she said. “I must report to Prinz Eugenstrasse tomorrow.”
“You must not go!” I cried. “You’re an Aryan, you can get out, you have papers, you must leave the city, leave the Reich!”
“My father has been assigned to work in the antiaircraft unit in Münster, in Westphalia,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I thought of Hansi, the SS, their brutality to women.
Christl smiled. “Just lend me your yellow blouse with the appliqued birds, and everything will be all right.”
The next day, Christl Denner put on the blouse my mother had made for me. It fit her perfectly. She applied her reddest lipstick and darkened her lashes. As she headed down the street, her skirt swinging, her hair shining, she looked as if she were going to a dance.
She walked into the Gestapo headquarters. Every man in the place emerged from behind his desk to have a better look at her. The Nazi Captain tried to be severe.
“You have a man working for you, Fräulein Denner, one Hans Beran …”
“Yes. My bookkeeper. He is traveling in the Reich. I had a postcard from him.”
“When he returns, we want to see him.”
“Of course, Captain. I’ll send him right over.”
She gave him a big smile. He kissed her hand. He asked Christl if he could buy her a coffee. She agreed.
“You what?! You went out with an SS man?”
“How can a woman turn down a simple invitation for coffee?” she explained. “It would be rude. It might raise suspicions. When the captain suggested a future meeting, I simply told him that I was promised to a brave sailor on the high seas and could not possibly betray his sacred trust.”
She grinned as she gave me back my blouse. She had the flair of a Hollywood heroine, my friend Christl.
In the basement of her shop sat Bertschi Beran, the luckiest of men.
P EPI VISITED ME every day. He was working as a stenographer for the court, and after work he would go out and have a bite and then come to us, a forty-five-minute walk. He would arrive at seven P.M ., put his watch on the table so as not to forget the time, and leave precisely at nine-fifteen so as to arrive home at ten, the hour his frantic mother expected him.
Our long-delayed, frustrated love affair could find no place, no corner, and we had begun to starve for each other. Even in the coldest weather, we walked outside and found a bench or a doorway where we could kiss and cling together.
One afternoon we crept into his flat, terrified that the neighbors would see us. He had bought some condoms and hidden them from Anna (who snooped into everything) by putting them in a box marked UNDEVELOPED FILM ! DO NOT EXPOSE TO LIGHT ! We were wild with excitement and couldn’t wait to get at each other. But no sooner had we begun to undress than we heard men shouting in the hall outside; that horrible Nazi banging on some unfortunate Austrian’s door; the lady of the house crying, “No! No, he’s done nothing! Don’t take him!”—and then the heavy steps of the captors as they dragged their prisoner away.
Our passion died of fright. We could not revive it that evening. Pepi walked me back to the ghetto.
He was not fired
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