One Last Summer (2007) Read online

  Whatever happens, as long as I have Erich, life is worth living. I will survive and fight for both of us, no matter what. He deserves the very best that I can give him.

  SATURDAY, 10 JULY 1943

  We heard on the radio this morning that our armies launched an offensive along a 170-mile front at Kursk in Russia five days ago. Now I understand why Claus and Wilhelm were given leave at the end of May, and why Wilhelm was so odd, depressed, and anxious for Irena and his children. I can only presume that both of them are in the thick of the battle.

  It has rained ever since they left, and I feel as miserable as the weather. I am sorry now that I pressed Wilhelm to tell me how Paul died. It was after lunch on the last day of their leave. We had ordered the pony cart to take the children for a ride, but, pleading a headache Wilhelm retreated into Papa’s study. Making my excuses to Claus and Irena, I followed and insisted he tell me everything he knew about what had happened to Paul.

  Paul’s commanding officer had written to Mama and me. He told us that Paul had died instantly from a head wound. At the time Brunon tried to console me by saying that Paul hadn’t suffered, but I didn’t entirely believe the letter. I remembered something Claus had said at the beginning of the war about commanding officers always comforting the relatives of the men who’d been killed by telling them that they had died quickly and without pain.

  Wilhelm insisted that in Paul’s case it was true. He was commanding a battery that was firing on the Russian front line, until the enemy blew both guns and men sky-high with howitzer fire. When I asked about Paul’s grave, he said there wasn’t enough left to bury. I don’t think he meant to tell me that, but once he began to talk about Paul he couldn’t stop.

  The thought of Paul’s perfect young body being blown to pieces horrifies me. All I have done since Wilhelm told me is picture Paul’s death.

  Wilhelm insisted that, as we all have to die, to be killed quickly in battle is not such a bad way. I reminded him that Paul wasn’t even twenty-five. Wilhelm said youth, along with truth, was one of the first casualties of war, and that by being blown up, Paul had escaped a long, drawn-out death in a field hospital.

  But I still don’t see why Paul had to die at all. This war seems so senseless, although I felt that I couldn’t tell Wilhelm that, not when he was on his way back to the Front.

  And that means keeping even more of my thoughts secret. Claus would be furious if he ever saw this diary or heard me express half the ideas I believe. I know they are unpatriotic, but am I really betraying my country by wanting to keep what is left of my family alive?

  Wilhelm went on to say that there was nothing worse than standing by helplessly and watching a comrade die slowly of cold, gangrene and frostbite. He spoke so seriously and sincerely that I am sure he has had to do just that, many times.

  He then spoke about the Russian winters and, when I asked, admitted that they are every bit as dreadful as the returning soldiers say they are, and the only reason he and Claus haven’t suffered frostbite is because both of them are attached to command posts.

  All I could do once he began to talk was sit and hold his hand. I desperately wanted to comfort him but I couldn’t think of anything to say, and all the time he spoke, Papa’s declaration that ‘no good can come from war’ echoed through my mind.

  Wilhelm insisted that we are fighting the entire Soviet population because the SS, Gestapo and even the Wehrmacht units have alienated every man, woman and child in Russia with their inhuman brutality. He told me that when our troops first crossed the border, people rushed out of their homes to finger and kiss the crosses on our tanks because they saw the Wehrmacht as Christian saviours sent to free them from the ungodly world of Communism, but now they spit on the bodies of our dead. He fell silent for a long time after he had spoken, then he said, ‘I have seen behind the curtain of lies, Charlotte. So help me God, I know what is going on, but I dare not tell anyone, not even you, because in this magnificent Third Reich of ours, the truth kills more surely than bullets.’

  The silence in Papa’s study was worse than Wilhelm’s words. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell me. I know I haven’t seen all the brutality of war but after what he told me about the way Paul died, I tried to imagine it. As for knowledge being dangerous, in wartime we all have to be careful what we say. Wilhelm’s reaction to Manfred’s stupid joke taught me that much.

  Wilhelm buried his head in his hands. I sat uselessly beside him, not knowing how to offer him comfort. Irena would have known, but she and Claus were still out with the children. When there was a sound on the staircase outside, Wilhelm jumped as though he’d been shot. I went to the door. It was only Minna taking up Mama’s herbal tea. I tried to reassure Wilhelm, but he wouldn’t listen to anything I tried to tell him.

  He began to cry, tears that he didn’t even try to wipe away. I hadn’t seen him cry since we were small children. He grabbed my hand and held on to it, crushing my fingers.

  ‘I have seen things that you and decent, normal people couldn’t begin to imagine, Lotte; horrible, vile things that have destroyed my peace of mind, and poisoned my life, even my love for Irena and the children. Sometimes I think I am living in a mad house. I worry for Irena, Marianna, Karoline, for you and Erich, and for the future of every German child in this glorious country of ours, because we are building a legacy of suffering that they will inherit for our sins. An inheritance of brutality, savagery and hatred that will be aimed at Germany as a country, and the Germans as a race.’

  Outside in the courtyard I could hear the children laughing as Claus and Irena returned. Wilhelm took my hand and begged me to look after his wife and daughters. That, no matter what, I would never desert them. I promised, but my promise was not enough for him; he pressed my hand down on Papa’s Bible and made me swear.

  I shivered, wondering what he could be so terrified of. I tried to tell him that the men at the Front like him and Claus are the ones who are taking the risks, not the women and children who stay at home. And although towns like Dortmund and Berlin have been bombed, not even the English would think it worthwhile to send a plane to blow up the countryside outside Allenstein.

  He smiled at my attempts to calm his fears, warned me to take care of myself and Erich, but then said, ‘You will be all right, Lotte, because you have General von Letteberg to look out for you.’

  Troubled by his dark mood I pleaded with him to take care of himself, not just for his own and my sake, but for Irena and his daughters, telling him that I couldn’t bear to lose him the way I had Paul. I even mentioned Mama, and he smiled, saying, ‘Mama, God bless her, is well out of it. There is only you now, Lotte.’ He kissed my forehead, such a gentle kiss. ‘Poor little Lotte who never did have her fair share of balls and parties. One day a child and the next having to carry the load of ten men.’

  I reminded him that I have Brunon, Marius, Martha, Minna and all the women and land army girls to help me, but he would not be persuaded.

  ‘One old man, a few women, a child not out of school, cripples, conscripted land army girls and enslaved Poles and Russians, all who’d rather be somewhere else.’

  There was so much bitterness in his voice I felt there was no way that I could help him. But later I made a resolution.

  I know my brother and my husband. Both would prefer to die in battle than beg for favours, but rather than see Wilhelm get blown to pieces like Paul, or Claus die a lingering death on the Russian Front and my son grow up without his father, I will write to Papa von Letteberg and pray that my letter will not be opened by the authorities. Papa von Letteberg has already lost one son in Peter. I have lost a brother in Paul. Irena has lost Manfred. Surely we have paid enough? It cannot be unpatriotic of me to want to keep Wilhelm safe? Papa von Letteberg must still think of and remember Peter. If he considers what Claus, his one remaining son, means to Mama von Letteberg, perhaps he will arrange for both Claus and Wilhelm to be posted to Headquarters in Berlin. Somewhere where they will have to work
hard – but survive.

  THURSDAY, 26 AUGUST 1943

  Allenstein is rife with rumours that things are not going well on the Russian Front, but there is nothing in the papers except the usual reproductions of speeches, descriptions of parades and ‘we are winning the war on all fronts’ articles. Are they lies?

  Claus and Wilhelm have not returned, but others have come back on leave after being wounded and, although they say very little, they are grim-faced and serious. It does not take a genius to work out that the situation in the East is precarious and East Prussia will be first in the firing line if the Russians push our troops back.

  The conversation I had with Wilhelm has been worrying me. What did he mean by ‘behind the curtain of lies’? Are things as dreadful in Russia as he says? Why was Claus so angry when Wilhelm started talking about the way the Russians are being treated by our troops?

  Papa von Letteberg telephoned me after I wrote to him asking him to help arrange transfers for Claus and Wilhelm. He insisted that he cannot give preferential treatment to anyone, least of all his own son and members of my family. That it would not be fair on all the soldiers who have no influential friends to speak for them.

  I told him I didn’t care about what was fair, only about keeping my brother and my son’s father alive until the end of the war. He didn’t answer me, but Wilhelm and Claus are still stationed on the Russian Front.

  The standard of prison labour they are sending to Grunwaldsee has deteriorated. In the beginning the men did at least try to work. Now they have to be beaten to complete even the smallest task.

  Mama still watches them from her window and she keeps telling me to feed them. Yesterday two more cats disappeared. I have decided to speak to Brunon about the state of the prisoners. The twelve men they send us can barely accomplish as much in a day between them as dumb Wilfie used to. Is it because they’re lazy, or, as Mama says, because they are starving? One thing is certain: if things go on as they are, we won’t be able to get the harvest in before it spoils, and then the War Office can stamp its feet all it likes. It won’t get its quota.

  THURSDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER 1943

  Yesterday Brunon and I agreed that it was worth trying to feed the Russians in the hope of getting some work out of them. Whatever they are being given in the camp is clearly not enough.

  I asked Martha to make a stew from some of the vegetables in the store and two of the hares Brunon had caught in his traps. There are still five fields of carrots and cabbages to be lifted, four of swedes and six of parsnips besides the last of the wheat, corn, hay, barley and potatoes. That’s a lot of work to be done before the frost sets in.

  As the stew for everyone in the house and another for the land army girls and guards were already simmering, Martha must have guessed who we wanted the extra food for, but she didn’t say anything, just set about making it.

  She boiled it up in one of the coppers in the wash kitchen so as not to alert the soldiers. When the guards were safely in the kitchen eating dinner with the land army girls, and the Poles had returned to their cottages where they cook their own rations, so the guards and land army girls can’t see that we give them extra, Brunon, Marius and I carried the pot out to the barn. The prisoners are always locked in there at lunchtime so the guards can eat together.

  Brunon opened the side door – he has never given the guards the key to that entrance. The men were lying on the few remaining bales of last years’ straw. They stank horribly and looked even more wild, filthy and fierce than they do from a distance. I was petrified, but Brunon spoke to them, first in German, then Polish, telling them they had nothing to fear. We laid the copper on the floor and lifted the lid. Before Marius could open the sack that held the spoons, bowls and bread, they fell on the pot, knocking Brunon to the floor.

  They ate with their hands, plunging their filthy fingers into the boiling stock, scooping what they could to their mouths just like animals at a watering hole. I helped Brunon to his feet.

  Marius stood back, round-eyed in wonder. He murmured, ‘They really are subhuman beasts, aren’t they, Papa?’

  I am ashamed to say that I had been thinking the same thing, but Brunon said, ‘No son, they aren’t beasts, just starving.’

  It was then that I noticed how thin their hands and wrists are beneath the layers of rags. They are little more than skeletons. For the first time I understood why the cats had been disappearing, why they risked beatings from the guards by rummaging in the pigswill bins, and even a little of what Wilhelm had been trying to tell me.

  I turned away sickened, not by the way they were eating, but the fact that I was not only a witness to, but responsible for, their state. How could I be so blind and indifferent to the plight of fellow human beings I see every day?

  The Russians have been working at Grunwaldsee for months. Even Mama’s sickness hadn’t prevented her from noticing their state, but I, who was supposed to be in charge, had ignored their desperate condition. Watching them cram the food into their mouths made me feel as though I was peering through a keyhole at an intimate scene. I looked at Brunon, then someone called my name.

  One of the men left the food and the others and walked towards me. He repeated my name. Brunon took my arm to protect me and Marius ran to the door ready to open it.

  The man turned back, apologized in German for bothering me, and said he could understand why I didn’t want to know him. It was then that I recognized him. The filthy skeleton in rags was Masha’s brother Alexander, who together with Masha had given me the amber necklace on Moscow station. The one I had thought was good-looking for a Russian.

  Charlotte set aside the diary, opened the mini-bar and poured herself a brandy. She lifted the glass and murmured, ‘To you, Sascha, wherever you are.’

  Chapter Eleven

  DAWN, FRIDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER 1943

  After Alexander spoke to me, Brunon sent Marius outside to keep watch on the guards in the kitchen and told him to warn us when he saw them preparing to leave. Brunon stayed with the prisoners while I filled a bowl with stew for Alexander. We sat to one side, talking while he ate. I tried very hard not to let him see just how much the sight and smell of him and the others sickened me.

  I apologized for not recognizing him sooner, but he said he doubted that his mother, sister or the girl he had married when war broke out would recognize him as he is now.

  I asked what it was like in the prison camp. He said no prisoner had lived there for longer than two months, and the lucky ones died sooner. Sitting close to him and the others, I couldn’t believe that I had ignored their condition for so long. They are not only thin, but their bodies and faces are covered with masses of open, running sores.

  I asked what I could do to help them, and Alexander said the most important thing was food, because they weren’t given any rations. When they were marched out of Russia, they were turned into pasture fields every night and told to graze like animals.

  They thought things would get better once they reached a camp, but even there, all they had was the grass in the open field they sleep in and, with so many men penned together, the last of it went months ago. They only get one barrel of water a day and it is not enough for drinking, so there is none left for washing themselves or their clothes. There are no latrines and the guards refuse to give them spades to dig one. So much for the camp commandant telling me that Russians won’t keep themselves clean.

  I promised to do what I could for them. Alexander begged me not to risk my life or the lives of anyone at Grunwaldsee on his or his men’s behalf. He said that so many Russians die every day in the camp; they regard themselves as already dead.

  I offered him my hand, but he refused to shake it because he was filthy and crawling with vermin. As if to prove his words, he pinched a louse from his sleeve and killed it. I picked it up from the floor and tucked it into my handkerchief.

  I left the barn and went into the kitchen where the guards were eating one of Martha’s apple cakes and drinking acorn co
ffee. Alexander told me that the fattest of the three guards, an invalided veteran, wasn’t a bad man, and often turned a blind eye when he saw him or one of the other prisoners stealing pigswill from the bins or raw vegetables from the fields. So, as the guards are all of the same rank – corporals – I decided to approach him.

  After pouring myself a cup of acorn coffee, I sat opposite him. He was arguing with the other two about which was the best nightclub in Berlin. I took my handkerchief, unfolded it and placed the louse in front of his plate. The land army girls were leaving, but one of them looked back, saw it and screamed.

  I told them that I had found the louse on my clothes when I went into the stable after the prisoners had cleaned it that morning. The second guard, the thin one that Alexander had told me was a sadist, said the solution was simple. The Russians would have to be kept outside at all times and the land army girls would have to take over the inside work.

  I pointed out that we couldn’t bring in this year’s harvest or plant the next without the help of the prisoners of war, and the easiest solution would be to wash them and their clothes. He replied that would be a useless exercise because even if the Russians wanted to wash themselves and their clothes – which, according to him, they most certainly didn’t – the camp was full of lice and the rest of the prisoners filthy. So, as soon as our prisoners returned there in the evening they would pick up fresh lice again.

  Then I suggested that we should clean up our twelve prisoners and allow them to live at Grunwaldsee.

  I knew the guards didn’t have the authority to allow me to do that, but they are men first and soldiers second, and all three, even the fat married corporal, are chasing the land army girls. I hear them laughing together and see them going off to the woodsheds in pairs when they think no one is watching.

  I reminded them that if the Russian prisoners were barracked at Grunwaldsee, they too would have to stay with us. I didn’t have to say any more. In between guarding the prisoners and enjoying their playtimes with the land army girls, they eat in our kitchen and are always complimenting Martha on her cooking and saying how much better her food is than the rations that are served at the camp.