Page 1 of Love in the Shadows

1.

Berlin, July 1943

JOHANNA NEUMANN STROLLED THROUGH the rear doors of the grand mansion onto the stone patio overlooking the extensive lake and magnificently manicured gardens alive with the multi-coloured displays of dahlias in full bloom. She had a glass of chilled Riesling in one hand and Gisela Richter, their host for today’s luncheon, on her other arm as if they were best friends sneaking away from the party.

The sun tingled her fair skin, here on the outskirts of Berlin. The clear air revitalised her just a little, while the cracks of thunder echoed from the bombs striking her beautiful city. A distant crackle, dust balling into the sky.

But for a moment, she wanted to forget there was a war going on.

The scented geraniums brought back a vivid memory of the first time she’d seen an airplane, twenty-six years before, while she’d been playing in her grandmother’s garden. She shuddered now, as she had then on her twelfth birthday in the summer of 1917, the day she’d discovered that she wouldn’t see her grandfather again. Her mother had rushed her into the house and they, together with her grandmother, had huddled in the cellar for what had felt like an eternity.

The tiny hairs on Johanna’s arms rose as she glanced towards the blue sky. The haunting whistling, and the thunder of an explosion, caused her heart to race and her palms to sweat.

Years later, as her family tried to rebuild their lives after the Great War, it became evident that it would have been better for them all had her father not returned either. She hadn’t fully understood as a child, as she had come to realise since, the depth of destruction left by the war. Not just on the buildings, their schools, churches and infrastructures, and not just during the war years, but to their culture and the arts, their relationships, and fundamentally to the souls that became lost inside the shells of the men in the decades thereafter.

Her father had been changed by what he’d experienced, though he never spoke of the horrors that caused him to scream out in his sleep. He never spoke at all; he chose physical expressions to vent his anger. And he was angry at everything. She had kneeled at the side of her bed every night and prayed for peace, and yet here they were again, four years into another world war and with no clear sight of an end.

Gisela squeezed her arm, gaining her attention, then released her as the rest of the women from the luncheon spilled onto the patio as jovial as they would be turning out on the street after an opening night at the Berlin Opera House. It was expected that they would continue with their social engagements in support of the Reich, of course, bend to the will of Hitler, but it also suited them all to maintain the illusion of normality. And, although they still managed to acquire some of the finest wines from within the cellars of their esteemed group, the food now was of a much lesser standard. Not that Johanna had much of an appetite these days. Like most of the things she’d once enjoyed, the war had stripped it away from her. What she wanted – her husband and son back, the end of the war, her life as it was – she couldn’t have. The rest was immaterial.

Looking around the group of highly educated women – each of whom, like Johanna, having enjoyed a thriving career before the war – she was acutely aware of the unspoken differences in their views about National Socialism and the Führer. There were those whose loyalties towards the Reich remained unwavering, who appeared unmoved by the rumours of atrocities that had started to filter through to Berlin. There were those, like Johanna, who remained silent and did what was expected of them to protect themselves and their families from persecution, who were secretly disgusted. There were others who had become disaffected as the war had failed to deliver the promised swift victory and too many sons, fathers and husbands had already died. Some women remained passive, like Johanna; others, she suspected, were part of the German Resistance. One thing was true for all the women gathered here. They had changed.

“My husband tells me our divisions are too strong for any army in the world,” one said. “Soldiers surrender as soon as they hear us coming. They welcome us, wave our flag and salute. Isn’t it marvellous.”

Gisela smiled. “My husband tells me even the French are so scared of us they will do anything to help us win the war.”

Gisela’s husband, Dieter Richter, would say that. As Minister for Propaganda, it was his job to craft messages that presented their war in the most favourable light, to give faith to the people of Germany and inspire their children to want to join the Hitler Youth.

It was indoctrination, and in the six years that Johanna’s son had been drafted, she had only seen him a handful of times and not at all in the last eighteen months. Her heart ached.

Their son’s recruitment had been a significant point of dissent between her and her husband, Gerhard, not that she could have prevented him joining the Hitler Youth. But she would never forgive him for encouraging Ralf’s immature adherence to nationalistic principles.

“We need strong, brilliant men to lead the future of our great nation,” he had said. He had dismissed her response: that at ten years old, Ralf was just a boy. “It is best to teach them while they are young and keen to learn.”

“Impressionable” was the word she’d have used. Catch them while they’re too young to be able to make an informed decision, too naïve to see the dangers in war, and too innocent to believe they would die. Or worse still, that they would survive and live thereafter as an empty shell of the person they might have become, like her father.

Gisela attached a cigarette to a long filter and lit it. She drew down slowly, tilted her head backwards a little, and blew out a long, steady stream of contemplative smoke. “I do miss not being able to go to the opera,” she said. “It would have been a perfect way to spend the evening after such a delightful luncheon.” She took a sip of wine and smiled as she glanced around the group.

The opera house had been bombed by the British in 1941. The destruction of the building had caused quite a shockwave through the city, and it had broken Johanna’s heart. As a pianist for the Berliner Philharmoniker before the war, she had played alongside violinist Simon Goldberg, and under the conductorship of Bruno Walter before he’d fled to the United States.

She sighed. She hadn’t heard from either since they’d left Germany. She wondered where they were now and whether they were still free to play and conduct their wonderful music.

“Perhaps Johanna will play us some Wagner later.” Birgit Fischer, the wife of the Minister of Science and Education, and one of Johanna’s oldest and dearest friends, raised her glass in a toast, cheering her on.

Johanna could think of a hundred composers she would rather play, including those who were banned, such as Bizet, Chopin and Tchaikovsky. Wagner, however, was the Führer’s personal favourite, and playing it would be a demonstration of her allegiance.

“I’d be delighted,” she said.

Birgit came towards her. “Walk around the gardens with me first. It’s been ages since we talked.”

A rumble in the distance, in the direction of the city, smoke rising, caught Johanna’s attention. Another cultural site, or God forbid, a hospital. She placed her glass on the garden wall, linked arms with Birgit, and started towards the lake.

“Such a beautiful summer’s day,” Birgit said.

Johanna took in the still water that mirrored the cotton-wool puffs moving silently above, the sun’s heat tingling her face. A dragonfly darted from one lily pad to another. Insects hovered above the water, and flecks of pollen skimmed the surface closest to the bank. Beyond, linden trees defined the perimeter of the estate, and beyond that, the deep spruce forests. It was perfect, paradise, and she could assume it was as safe as was possible given the circumstances.

“The bombings are getting worse, Birgit,” she said.

“Do you think so?” Birgit was one of the women who fit the category of having blind faith in the regime.

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