‘Thank you, Oberschwester Werner,’ said Clara. ‘It has been my honour to work at the Charité Hospital and to work on your ward.’
Matron gave a rare smile, albeit it small and fleeting. ‘Take care, Frau Bergmann.’
As the door closed behind her with a resounding click, Clara wondered how many more pieces of her would be stripped away. How much of her would be left?
Clara trudged away from the Charité, her dismissal letter and reporting instructions heavy in her pocket. The tram was busy that time in the morning and she found herself squashed in a seat, shoulder against shoulder with another passenger. Everything around her felt constricted and suffocating. Once they had crossed the River Spree, Clara hopped off the tram. She needed time and space to herself, she needed the fresh air, to feel the late August breeze on her skin.
The river’s surface rippled with the early morning light as it flowed through the city. A stark contrast to her own mood and her ability to wander freely through Berlin now she was to be monitored weekly by the authorities.
Around her, the city continued its efficient bustle. Trams clanged past, their yellow sides emblazoned with eagles and swastikas, while storefronts still displayed their morning newspapers citing the apparent latest Polish aggression against Germany.
Reaching Charlottenburg, Clara passed the bakery where the owner had once told her how charming he found her British accent when she spoke German. More recently, he had barely engaged in any type of conversation with her.
It was hard to believe that just a few years ago Clara had sung the praises of Berlin to her sister, Rose, when she came to visit, showing her how sophisticated the city was, how advanced its medicine and how cultured the people. Today, this was not the same Berlin.
Clara quickened her pace through streets that no longer felt like home.
Once inside her apartment, she went into the bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying her reflection. She’d had to return her nurse’s hat and apron before she was escorted out of the Charité building, but she was still wearing her uniform dress. This was to be returned within forty-eight hours she had been advised. She ran her hands down the blue fabric remembering how proud she had been to wear her Charité uniform for the first time. How different she felt now knowing this was the last time.
After changing out of her uniform, Clara tried to busy herself in the apartment. There really wasn’t much to do with it being just her and Friedrich living there. They had hoped that their marriage would now be blessed with children, but it had never happened and for the first time, Clara felt a sense of relief. What kind of future would their children have had? She went over to the window and opened it to let more fresh air in. The day was already warming up, threatening to be in the mid-twenties again. If Clara had not been working, she and Friedrich might have taken a stroll out along the banks of the River Spree or enjoyed some time in the gardens of the Charlottenburg palace. But not today. Not any day soon.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the directive she’d been issued with about reporting to the police station every week and for the first time that morning, allowed herself a moment of self-pity as tears tracked their way down her face. She curled up in a ball on the bed pulling the bedspread over her as a shield against the outside world.
Clara must have fallen asleep on the bed as the gentle sound of Friedrich saying her name and the touch of his hand on her shoulder, woke her.
It took a moment for her to remember why she was on the bed, but then it all came rushing back with startling clarity. She looked at Friedrich and could see the sadness in his eyes. In his hands he held the reporting directive and her letter of termination from the hospital.
‘It’s happening,’ Clara said in almost a whisper. Friedrich rubbed his temple, a gesture Clara had come to recognise as his tightly controlled worry.
‘Something is coming,liebling. I can’t say any more, but the Bendlerblock is alive with activity .?.?.’ His voice trailed off.
‘I’m scared,’ confessed Clara.
Friedrich shook his head. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said. Then, letting the papers flutter to the floor, he climbed onto the bed beside her. He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as if he never wanted to let her go. His lips pressed against the top of her head, lingering there. ‘You came back,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘And today my heart is not broken.’
Clara pulled away, raising her head to meet his gaze. ‘I will always come back. I am never leaving you.’ The conviction in her words, the promise they suggested, felt both impossible and essential. She kissed him and as they made love, she allowed herself to pretend that everything in the word was all right. Just for those precious moments, suspended in time, she could believe it was only her and Friedrich, and nothing else existed.
Chapter 5
September 1939
At six o’clock that morning, Clara turned on the radio to listen to the latest news and found out exactly what was happening that Friedrich hadn’t been able to share with her.
The broadcaster’s voice came across the airwaves from the Voksempfänger radio set that graced many a German household.
‘Our people have been facing the Polish provocations for months.’
The words echoed around the apartment kitchen. Clara froze, coffee pot in her hand as she listened to the announcement.
‘Since five forty-five this morning, we are now returning fire. From now on bomb will be met with bomb.’
Clara turned to face Friedrich who was standing in the doorway, his face etched with sorrow. ‘I wish this was a bad dream,’ she whispered.
Friedrich crossed the floor, took the coffee pot from her hands and placed it on the table, before guiding Clara to a seat. ‘I wish it were too,’ he said.
Clara picked at her breakfast, all appetite lost. ‘I know we have been preparing for an escalation, but I hoped it wouldn’t happen.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘There’s going to be a war, isn’t there?’
‘It appears inevitable,’ said Friedrich.
