The Fortunate Ones: Beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Read online

  The Fortunate Ones

  Beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

  Catherine Hokin

  Books by Catherine Hokin

  The Fortunate Ones

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Four

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Hear More From Catherine

  Books by Catherine Hokin

  A Letter From Catherine

  Acknowledgements

  For Claire, Daniel & Robert – my Three Musketeers

  Prologue

  CENTRAL REGISTRY OF WAR CRIMINALS AND SECURITY SUSPECTS (CROWCASS) No: 15540 (SN)

  Document Title: Sachsenhausen Konzentrationslager (KL), Oberführer Dr Maximillian Eichel.

  Period Covered: October 1942–February 1945.

  Source of Testimony: Isaak Zeitelbaum, Prisoner, Barrack Eighteen, Sachsenhausen KL.

  Recorded by: Felix Thalberg, Assistant Clerk, CROWCASS.

  Date of Testimony: 12 September 1946.

  Form and Content: Testimony regarding medical treatment of prisoners by the aforesaid Dr Eichel.

  Notes:

  Our source, Sachsenhausen inmate Isaak Zeitelbaum, as identified above, was unable to sign this testimony as a consequence of injuries received during the relocation of Barrack Eighteen/Nineteen prisoners from Sachsenhausen to the Ebensee Konzentrationslager in April 1945 (document 15562 (EB) refers). An audio recording is available.

  Barrack Eighteen referred to in this testimony has been identified (with Barrack Nineteen) as the centre for the Operation Bernhard counterfeiting programme at Sachsenhausen KL (document 15560 (SN) refers).

  I, Isaak Zeitelbaum, make under oath the following declaration: I was deported to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp from the Judenhäuser district of Mitte, Berlin, in October 1942. Because of my skills as an engraver, I was interred in Barrack Eighteen and given the status Jewish: Special Prisoner. A month after my arrival, I suffered an ear infection and was sent to Barrack One of the infirmary block. Because of my status, I was placed in an isolation room. There was a larger ward on the same corridor which the orderlies called ‘Dr Nadel’s Playroom’. When they said that, the orderlies mimed giving an injection. They told me that I was a lucky man: only Barrack Eighteen and Nineteen patients were given the correct medical treatment and guaranteed a return to the camp.

  In October 1944, I became ill again and was returned to the infirmary. All three blocks were overcrowded due to a typhoid outbreak, so I was placed in a ward with inmates from the wider camp. They were forbidden from speaking to me; a guard was posted for the duration of my stay. Each morning, orderlies forced the other patients out of their bunks. Anyone who could walk twenty paces unaided was sent to the Playroom. In the four days I was there, twelve men were judged fit for transfer. I do not know what happened to those repeatedly judged unfit. One night I heard the orderlies refer to the Playroom’s doctor not as Nadel but Eichel: I then understood that Nadel was a nickname, meaning needle. According to the orderlies, this doctor’s speciality was testing stamina drugs to see if they were safe for use by Luftwaffe pilots and also measuring which substances could stop a heart the quickest. His preferred method was injections. Dr Eichel came only once onto the ward. He was very tall, with dark blonde hair and a friendly manner. He walked round the beds, patting the patients and smiling. He did not approach me once he knew I had Barrack Eighteen privileges.

  In November 1944, I was asked to work on a set of false passports and identity papers for a number of SS officers, including the doctor and his wife. I remember her photograph: she was very young and very pretty. For his set of Italian passports, Dr Eichel ordered that we use the name Ago, which is Italian for needle. The orderly who delivered Dr Eichel’s request thought this was a very amusing joke.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  October 1941, Berlin

  Hardenbergplatz was packed with people pouring in and out of Zoo Station, jostling for their little bit of space. It was too early yet for the cinema and theatregoers with their overloud, look how daring we still are voices. These bodies were hunched, their faces too set for anything as frivolous as make-believe.

  Felix leaned against a wall pasted with rules and reminders and watched the crowds come and go. Everyone was preoccupied, part of the bustle and separate from it. Rushing to shifts, stumbling from shifts, minds on queues that grew too long and shops that grew too empty. Running through the Party meetings still to fit in, the donations to scrape together, the right people in their housing block to smile at and slip a cigarette to. Looking loyal and staying safe. Felix knew the drill: he lived it.

  He shivered and wished he’d brought a scarf. Barely halfway through October and snow was already nipping in the wind. Last month, everyone was obsessed with milk and where all the cows had gone; this month it was coal, or rather the lack of it.

  ‘Maybe we should move, Arno. Find somewhere smaller and easier to heat.’ A sensible suggestion – his mother’s always were. He should have added his voice, propped up her idea with neighbourhoods they might like, or might at least be able to afford, but his father’s hands shook like leaves and the moment to step up was gone.

  ‘Hush, my love. I’m sure there’s no need to go. We won’t talk of it again.’ A kiss for Arno, a smile for Felix. A whisper that was half apology, half excuse. ‘It’s understandable. He does so love the garden here.’

  Neither of them prepared to voice the truth: that Arno never went to the garden anymore.

  There was still no sign of her. Felix blew on his fingers and stamped his chilled feet; the soles of his boots were wearing thin as slippers. Maybe there would be coal in the shops tonight; there had been rumours all day of new supplies. Even half a bucket would make a world of difference. Felix imagined his mother’s face if he could promise her enough hot water to cook and to bathe and resolved to make time to queue before his air-raid duties began. Taking one burden off her would make him as happy as finding the coal.

  The station disgorged another wave into the silvery afternoon. Most people streamed past without looking up, but some glanced at Felix and glanced again. Who had the time to loiter these days? Or the business? He could hear the questions ticking. Stand here much longer and somebody would nudge somebody else, would catch an eye, would draw attention in that oh-so-subtle good-citizen way that let the informant walk on with conscience clear.

  Felix scanned the crowd for his mother’s green hat and checked his watch again. Half past three. He was a little early, she was a little late; their usual pattern, but it always unnerved him. Meeting to share the walk home on the couple of occasions a week their shifts lined up gave him a sense of normality he needed more than any eighteen-year-old should.

  Another look his way. Time to find a new waiting spot. Felix turned his collar up against the cold and dodged across the sprawling square, patting his pockets to check his papers were safely in place. Everyone did th
e pat-down now, the action grown as involuntary as sneezing. He pulled at his collar again so that the Hitlerjugend pin sat a little higher on the lapel. Whatever else the red and white diamond might be, it was some protection against prying eyes.

  ‘Felix! I’m late: forgive me. Frau Clasen surprised us all with twins and her husband cried more than the babies.’

  She was finally here, in a breathless rush, the wind tugging at a hat which was already losing its battle against her mass of frizzy curls. His shoulders relaxed as she stretched up to hug him.

  ‘Two little boys. Such a chubby pair, no doubting who their daddy is. Still, he was nothing if not grateful. Look.’ She showed him her bulging string bag. ‘Sausages, potatoes, onions. No queuing tonight – for dinner at least.’ Another generous patient padding out their larder.

  Although she shrugged away any claim to it, Felix knew Kerstin Thalberg was one of the best-loved midwives at Berlin’s Charité hospital and her family ate better because of it.

  ‘Good.’ He looped her arm and steered her towards the broader streets fanning out from the station. ‘Let’s take the longer way home, walk along the Kurfürstendamm and admire the wonderful windows.’ A joke even the turned-down heads would find a smile for. The state of the Kurfürstendamm’s great department stores was Berlin’s worst-kept secret: towering displays packed with goods and every packet empty. Good for morale was the official line; propaganda for the foreign newspapers more truthful.

  ‘If you like, if you don’t freeze to death first. Eighteen years old and you still can’t remember a scarf.’

  He grimaced as Kerstin reached up to ruffle his hair and sent a gaggle of chain-smoking factory girls into a fit of giggles and winks. When Kerstin’s smile faded just as quickly as it had come, the girls’ amusement was instantly forgotten.

  ‘Not too long though, Felix. I don’t like your father to be alone once the blackout starts. If there was to be a raid…’

  Another unspoken worry, one more in a growing list. If there was a raid, would Arno venture to the communal shelter in the apartment block’s cellar? Without Felix or his mother to claim their three spaces, would Blockwart Fischer check to see that he came?

  ‘It’s not likely there will be. There’s been barely any bombing since the summer.’ She chewed her lip; he hated when she did that. ‘But we’ll go quickly, I promise.’

  He patted her hand, awkward at this role reversal, and led her towards the brightly lit windows whose lights would soon disappear beneath chink-proof blinds.

  Kerstin tried hard to play the familiar game. She pointed out the perfume bottles filled with neon-bright water and the cleverly painted cardboard handbags, but it wasn’t long before she was tugging on his arm and chewing her lip again.

  ‘We should hurry; we’ve still a way to go.’

  Before he could answer, a shout cut through the rumble of people and trams and a gap opened up in the crowds.

  Kerstin’s voice dropped. ‘Felix, come on now. Please.’

  Another shout, this one guttural and harsh. The gap widened. Felix stepped forward, craning for a clearer view. Two green-shirted Ordnungspolizei, batons raised, rearing over a crumple of dusty rags. Not rags: a man, tumbled half into the road, his patched black coat bunched round him. An old man judging from the thatch of grey hair beside the policemen’s boots. Felix winced as the batons crashed. The heap shuddered at the impact but made no sound.

  ‘What did he do?’ Felix wriggled forward, pushing against the tide.

  Kerstin’s hand shot out, grabbing his elbow with a ferocity that made him jump. ‘What does it matter? Do like everyone else: keep walking.’ Her pace picked up and, because she held him so tight, so did his.

  ‘But they’ll kill him. He’s an old man. What can he possibly have done to deserve such a beating?’

  One of the policemen pushed at the body with his boot, turning it beetle-like onto its back. And there it was, the answer, stamped onto the coat’s stained front: a star, its yellow points cutting across the limp body.

  ‘Is that it? Really? Is that all it takes now to make everyone blind?’

  He spoke too loud: heads turned, including the two green-shirted thugs, bored of their easily squashed quarry.

  ‘Move.’ Kerstin’s nails dug through his sleeve. She wrenched him into the press of people, wrenched him harder when he tried to look back. A ripple behind them suggested he had roused the attention she feared.

  ‘In here, quick. Straighten your tie. Don’t speak.’ A push of heavy glass and the street disappeared, its clamour deadened in the plush of thick carpets and a piano’s soft playing. Café Kranzler. The domain of the wealthy – wartime or not. Felix had often looked through the windows but never dreamed of entering.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Felix stared open-mouthed at Kerstin as the maître d’ approached, all draped white linen and oily hair. ‘People like us don’t come in here.’

  ‘Exactly. We don’t need to be people like us right now; we need to be people like them.’ Kerstin frowned away his protest and took the situation so calmly under control, Felix understood exactly why frightened mothers-to-be always asked for Frau Thalberg. Kerstin smiled; Felix copied her.

  The maître d’ bowed a fraction of a bow, keeping at a pointed distance. Kerstin set her shoulders, smiled wider and ignored his supercilious look. She kept smiling as the excessively curling hand shooed them through silver-laden tables, past swastikas pinned to fur, not fraying wool. Not a flicker as he seated them at a table so close to the kitchens it would be nobody’s choice and dropped menus onto the spotless cloth as if he offered Bibles to the heathens. Not a waver until the rigid back spun away. Then the mask cracked so quick, Felix grabbed Kerstin’s hands across the table to stop her sliding beneath it.

  ‘Pour me some water.’ She drained the glass, waved for another. ‘I knew he couldn’t refuse to let us in: even if we are a little worn, we’re clearly respectable, but those brutes outside? They wouldn’t dare try. Thank God it wasn’t the SS or the Gestapo you decided to rattle; they’d be welcomed in here with open arms.’ She tugged at her hat, began digging in her bag. ‘What were you thinking of? Why did you make a fuss? It’s simple: whatever happens, don’t stop, don’t look, don’t ask. You’ve been told it often enough.’

  ‘He looked like Father.’ Felix didn’t mean to say it. He hated that tears sprang at once into his mother’s eyes. He hated that he’d dragged them into this place they had neither the clothes, the money, nor the ration coupons for. A place that was filled with people he despised and feared in equal measure. He hated more that he had done nothing to help the old man, and everyone else had behaved the same. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  Kerstin nodded, rising as she finally located the faded cosmetic purse he knew held nothing more than a gap-toothed comb and a lipstick stub. ‘I know. It’s all right. Find something on the menu that won’t cost us a ransom while I tidy up.’ She tucked her purse into her pocket and clamped her smile back on as a waitress hovered.

  Felix opened the menu, closed it again. Two cups of ersatz coffee: whatever the menu offered, what else could they afford? He watched his mother moving confidently through the room. She always fits in, wherever she is.

  ‘There’s a path through everything, Felix. You just need to find it.’ Sitting by his bed, stroking his hair. Six years ago, when his world was reshaped with words he didn’t understand. Three years ago, when his father came home from the university white-faced and jobless and wouldn’t get out of bed for a week. ‘Things might feel confusing, or frightening, but, whatever comes, we’ll meet it together, as a family. Nothing is ever hopeless.’ He wondered if she still believed that.

  The waitress came closer. She had the swanlike neck and light step of a dancer. Felix picked at the napkin by his plate: it was folded so tight the cloth had stretched into cardboard. Without thinking, he pulled out the nub of pencil he always carried. A few strokes and he had the almond-slant of her eyes, the slash of her ch
eekbones. A few more and he caught the long curve of her neck and the swoop of her loosely tied bun. A smudge here and there and the mouth softened, the eyelashes fanned.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Kerstin was back before he could cover the damage. ‘Now I must pay for the linens as well?’

  But the waitress was smiling. She swept up the drawing with the menus, shaking her head as Felix tried to apologise and order the cheapest thing she could bring. A moment later she was back, balancing a loaded tray, ignoring their protests as cups and cakes slid onto the table.

  ‘A thank you, for the drawing. My husband will love it. He’s always writing, asking for a photograph, and who has the time? There are people here with so much money they’ll never notice a little extra on their bill. Enjoy.’

  Scents rose up so rich and thick, Felix’s arguments dissolved. Coffee. Real roasted coffee, not the bitter dried-out tang of barley or acorn. And vanilla, fragrant with the memory of hot days and funfairs, cut through with the fruity bite of cinnamon as if Christmas had dropped into the middle of summer. He cut a small piece of the torte, took a tentative bite. It slipped into his mouth silken and creamy. No sand, no sawdust, no money-saving tricks. Icing kissed his lips with sticky sweetness, crumbs melted into butter on his tongue. Jellies soother than the creamy curd, and lucent syrups. A line taught long ago, some English poet he doubted any school permitted nowadays. The memory caught in his throat, flew back a childhood when cakes were everyday pleasures and summers all tasted of ice cream.