Friedrich gave a small nod, the conversation pushed away like a dish gone sour and best left untouched, though its taste lingered all the same.
As she cleared away the plates, the conversation didn’t return to the events in the country for which Clara was grateful, but it was with a heavy heart she said goodbye to Friedrich as he left for work at military administration headquarters Bendlerblock in the Tiergarten district.
A short time later, Clara was taking the tram to her own place of work at the Charité Hospital. The city had fully woken by then, though the morning light did little to lift the grey mood that seemed to hang over Berlin. Soldiers stood at corners, their uniforms crisp and their faces unreadable. Posters bearing the Führer’s image were plastered on walls, proclaiming unity and destiny. The passengers on the tram spoke in low voices or not at all.
Clara kept her eyes on the passing streets. Shopkeepers were just unlocking their doors, but few people lingered to talk. A boy in uniform marched past with a satchel of newspapers, the bold headline shouting about Polish attacks, poking out the top. She felt sick with both fear and disbelief.
The tram finally clattered to a stop outside the hospital. Clara stepped off and looked up at the imposing neoclassical-style brick building, situated in the centre of Berlin near the Spree River. It was a world-renowned teaching hospital whose reputation was as impressive as its physical presence. Made up of several interconnected buildings, with its column entrance, large windows and dark slate roof, it was a formidable sight.
Clara took a deep breath as she entered the main entrance. She hated seeing the red Nazi flag hanging in the centre of the foyer, together with a portrait of Adolf Hitler. She hurried past and along to the labour ward where she was working.
‘Good morning, Marie,’ she said as she went into the staff changing room and hung up her coat. ‘How were your days off?’
‘Clara.’ Marie almost mumbled the acknowledgement. Looking down as she tied her apron, she avoided making eye contact.
‘Is everything all right, Marie?’
‘Sorry. I’m not supposed to speak to you,’ said Marie eventually, her hands nervously fiddling with the key in her locker.
Clara put her hand over the key. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Marie glanced furtively around the cloakroom. ‘We’ve been told not to speak to you.’
‘What?’ Clara’s hand dropped away. She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘You were told not to speak to me? Who told you that?’
Clara couldn’t deny it hurt to be made some sort of outcast like this. Even Marie, who she regarded as a close friend, who had shared many a night duty with her, brought countless babies safely into the world together, shared coffee breaks, had dined at each other’s houses, even she was turning her back on Clara.
Marie closed her locker. ‘Look, you’re my friend. I don’t agree with what’s happening, but I have to be careful.’ She squeezed Clara’s arm reassuringly. She looked like she was about to say something else but at the sound of the door opening, she dropped her hand and took a step back.
The changing room door swung open and in walked two midwives. Clara’s stomach tensed as she saw it was Greta Brandt and her shadow, Erna Krüger. Clara knew them only professionally but that was more than enough. She didn’t like them, especially Brandt, who had been openly hostile before.
Brandt stopped at the end of the bench, her hardened stare fixed on Clara.
The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant, thick and unwelcoming, making the skin on Clara’s arms prickle with unease. She glanced at Krüger who was standing alongside Brandt, her expression one of uncertainty which she was trying to mask with a smirk.
Clara nodded at her colleagues. ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Brandt, Frau Krüger.’
Brandt frowned and cocking her head to one side, looked up at the ceiling. ‘For a moment there, I thought I heard something.’
Krüger looked uncomfortable. ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Bergmann,’ she said almost apologetically.
Brandt tapped Krüger sharply on the arm and shook her head in mock disapproval, before fixing her gaze back on Clara. ‘Oh, look, it’s the Englishwoman. What are you still doing here? Has your wonderful England abandoned you, Miss Clara?’
Clara caught the deliberate insult, using her forename, denying her married title, treating her like a single and insignificant outsider. Here in Germany professional formality was strict where Frau Bergmann was the proper address.
Clara straightened her spine and lifted her chin. ‘I’m married to a German. Of course, I’m still here.’ As she said the words, Clara heard the waver in her own voice and hated herself for it. Berlin was her home albeit her adopted one.
Brandt dropped her bag onto the bench with a loud thud, making Clara flinch. Then, with slow deliberate paces, the German woman approached Clara, coming to stand within just a few inches of her. Close enough that Clara could smell the coffee on her breath. ‘You think you’re safe just because you’re married to a German officer. You won’t be protected forever.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Clara. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, I think I do,’ sneered Brandt. There was a glint in her eye. ‘Pity about your husband. It would be such a shame if someone suggested he has questionable loyalties.’
‘That’s enough, Fräuleins,’ said Marie, stepping forward. ‘We all have to work together.’
But Clara was riled and ignored her friend. She glared at Brandt. ‘Don’t you bring my husband’s loyalty into question.’
‘Keep running your mouth off and see what happens,’ put in Krüger as if emboldened by her colleague’s stance.
