Chapter Sixteen
"We shall only talk of peace when we have won the war." — Adolf Hitler, 1939 radio broadcast
Berlin, winter 1944
It was hunger that woke him: no mere pang of discomfort, but an empty, gnawing sensation that never faded these days. It had been months since Hans had a proper meal; his mouth watered as he remembered the lavish dinners Mother used to make, before rationing and food shortages rendered even the most rudimentary dishes a luxury. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a taste of her famous spätzle, or even a single kartoffelpuffer…Father always joked that he'd married her for her cooking.
Father is dead.
The realization—which never failed to devastate him, though it had been six months since they received the news—made his stomach churn. His hunger (momentarily) forgotten, Hans sat up, careful not to awaken the others, whose silhouettes were illuminated by the gray light of dawn; in the dimness, it was difficult to identify the lumps under the blankets as human. As the weather grew colder and fuel scarcer, the surviving members of the Moller family had taken to sleeping in the same room to conserve heat. While the house had electricity, the power had become more and more sporadic as the war dragged on before finally failing altogether: forcing them to rely on the woodstove (and each other) for warmth.
And while he would never admit it aloud, the new sleeping arrangements also allowed Hans to keep watch over his mother, who remained grief-stricken over her husband's death. If not for her children, Ana Moller would have already taken her own life, her despair over Karl's demise compounded by the destruction of her beloved Berlin. As it was, it was all Hans could do to convince her to eat (on the rare occasions they had something edible). Neither would she sleep; most nights, Ana stared at the ceiling until dawn arrived. She hadn't cried since the day she learned that her partner of twenty-five years was gone, buried in an unmarked grave in France, but her eyes were hollow, lightless—dead eyes. It was like living with a ghost, a shell of a woman consumed by her own grief. Every time Hans looked at her, he cursed the bastards who'd murdered her, as surely as they'd killed so many others.
Once the soldier bearing the awful news had departed, Ana took to her bed; her already-frail frame became emaciated, her skin translucent. Leni tried to nurse her, but Ana refused to acknowledge her, turning her head away whenever her daughter entered the room. After a while, his sister gave up; and their parents' bedroom became a sickroom, the two of them tiptoeing around their mother as though she might die at any moment. Eventually, however, Ana recovered enough to rise from her bed, though she remained a shadow of her former self.
But there was no point in dwelling on that now—not when it took all his energy to keep them alive. The fire had burned down to embers during the night; and the temperature in the room was hardly warmer than the bleak landscape outside. Hans stifled a shiver, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to conserve heat.
Drawing a blanket tightly around his shoulders, he shuffled down the hallway to the back door, opening it only to be met with a blast of arctic air. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he selected a few sticks from their meager pile of kindling, noting that he'd have to gather more soon. Hans knew it was foolish, but he always put the task off as long as he could; the cold made his joints even stiffer than usual, and slogging through the snow was difficult even for those who weren't crippled. But while the task would be easier for Leni, Hans refused to delegate it to her; it would put her in too much danger. Her coat was so threadbare that it offered little protection against the cold; and there was always the chance that she might run into something (or someone) even more dangerous than the winter weather. He might be unable to keep his little sister fed, but he would keep her safe. He owed her that much.
Returning to the kitchen, Hans knelt in front of the hearth, coaxing a flame from the smoldering embers. As the fire flickered to life, his body tingled, sensation slowly returning to his numb limbs. Darting a glance at Leni, who was sprawled on her back, emitting dainty snores, Hans reminded himself that, grim as their situation was, it could be worse. After all, they had each other; and unlike so many less fortunate families, their home had yet to be destroyed—how, he didn't know. Many nights, as bombs burst overhead and air raid sirens wailed, he was certain the structure would come crashing down on them; for a time, they slept in the cellar, surrounded by wine bottles and antique furniture.
But after enduring a few weeks of these damp and rat-infested conditions, they decided to take their chances in the kitchen: a far more hospitable room which boasted a large fireplace. Hans slept with his father's pistol under his pillow, waking at the slightest sound. Every night, he dreamed of soldiers storming into the room, forcing him to watch as they shot Mother and Leni before dragging him away to defend a cause he'd never believed in. If it comes to that…I'll fight them with my last breath.
As the Allies drew closer to Germany and the number of German casualties mounted, the Wehrmacht became desperate to replenish its ranks; many of the old and infirm had already been called to 'serve the Motherland'. Somehow, Hans had yet to be drafted—unlike Klaus, who was blind in one eye, and Albert, a boy of fourteen. Some would say God had spared him, but such thinking was absurd. He no longer believed in God. How could anyone, after the atrocities they had endured at the hands of the Nazis? Only a fool would entertain such sentimental notions.
