Читать книгу A Woman of War: A new voice in historical fiction for 2018, for fans of The Tattooist of Auschwitz - Mandy Robotham - Страница 12

‘Her name is Fräulein Eva Braun.’ With those words Captain Stenz sat back in his chair, aware that a volatile cat had been let out of the bag. I had never been a follower of the magazine gossip columns but my younger sister, Ilse, keenly crawled over the fashion pages, following the rounds of Berlin’s social parties. ‘Look at this, Anke,’ she’d often say. ‘Don’t you think she’s just gorgeous? Shall I have my hair like that?’ Thanks to Ilse, I had heard Eva Braun’s name – as the sister to one of Hitler’s inner circle, a wholesome German girl, from a good family, blonde and blue-eyed, someone Hitler could and would be associated with. It was never stated that they were close, or even romantically involved – the Führer was married to Germany, after all. In the propaganda newsreels engineered to show his human side – the Führer ‘at play’ – she was sometimes in the background, filming with a camera, alongside her sister, Gretl.

Now, my mind spiralled. Up until then, I thought I had been engaged to look after the wife of a Nazi dignitary, or even the illegitimate child of the Reich’s inner circle. But now, something far more sinister ran like electricity through my brain, so incredible it seemed beyond reason.

Could it be that Adolf Hitler, the Führer, the Commander of the Third Reich, and possibly all of Europe, in time, was the father of Eva Braun’s baby? And what would that mean to his standing as the Father of Germany – to be shared with a population who he claimed as his children? To those of us who had experienced Hitler’s version of cleansing, who had witnessed first-hand what he was capable of inflicting on human beings, any offspring with a semblance of his thinking was a frightening prospect. A son and heir to both name and genetics was too much to fathom.

I struggled to react, to absorb such news. Captain Stenz only looked at me with those deep blue eyes, as seconds ticked slowly by. Searching, enquiring.

‘Fräulein Hoff?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you quite well?’ He said it with a note of true concern, and then a hint of a smile. ‘We can’t have you falling ill, not on your first day, can we?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s just … the change of circumstance, so quickly. It’s hard to take in.’

I wanted to test his reactions by referring to my other life, to see if he masked them in the same automatic way as the others, empathy sucked from his psyche. His eyes dropped, and he moved to pick up his gloves.

‘Yes,’ he said flatly. So, a complete Nazi – one of them. Inevitable. But then, the quickest flick of his blond lashes towards me, a rich, blue spark. In that second I caught some doubt, some recognition. And he caught me catching it. Over the past two years I had barely looked at any man without feeling hatred or disgust, since most were guards infected with a profound disdain for humanity. Yet the man before me caused an unexpected reaction deep inside; a tweak low into my being. Did I recognise it as attraction? I rebuked myself for such shallow and immediate feelings.

He needed to leave soon – a car was waiting – so we covered my duties swiftly. I would remain at the Berghof for the duration of the pregnancy, and for at least four to six weeks afterwards, helping my charge to adjust to motherhood. The baby would be born at home, but transport and a doctor would be available at all times should I need them, and would reside in the complex for a month or so before the birth. A small room would be set aside for anaesthetics, ready to be transformed into an operating theatre if necessary.

It was elaborate and excessive, and clearly they were keen to avoid a trip to the hospital, however private, at all costs – the true nature of the Reich’s propaganda machine was laid bare. Appearances were a good portion of this war, and I was to be known as a companion to all but the inner circle. This baby must remain hidden until it was prudent to reveal to the world, under the Führer’s terms. I almost felt sorry for Eva Braun already.

‘I have arranged all the equipment necessary,’ Captain Stenz went on, in officer-speak. ‘Should you need anything else, please contact my office. While I am absent, you can refer to my under-secretary, Sergeant Meier. He will see to your day-to-day needs, and report to me directly. We expect you to keep regular and detailed notes of all care.’

‘I understand,’ I said. All too well. I would be reported on, scrutinised under a microscope, from now until the birth. Charged with bringing a live Aryan specimen into the world. The Aryan. The responsibility of life had never fazed me, in all my years working with mothers and babies, but this life … this poor, unsuspecting child might prove to be something different. No less, no more precious than any I’d seen, but with the potential to create unrelenting shock waves throughout Europe and the world. Throughout history. I almost craved to be back in the camps, among my own kind, where I could make a difference, save lives, instead of merely pandering to rich Nazi handmaidens. Then, hot with shame at even wishing such degradation on any living being, even myself, I reminded myself I’d been lucky to walk out.

The abrupt heels of Captain Stenz brought me back.

‘I will say good day then, Fräulein,’ he said, bowing his head briefly, then adding, ‘Um, Fräulein Braun, she knows nothing of your …’

‘History?’ I helped him.

‘Yes – history,’ he said with a mixture of embarrassment and relief, a slight curl to his lip.

He was one, I decided then, who had coveted his mother, climbed on her lap for bedtime hugs and kisses, been real, individual, accepted and returned love. I looked into his turquoise eyes and wondered what the Reich had done to him.