What Only We Know: A heart-wrenching and unforgettable World War 2 historical novel Read online

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Paul was staring at her, frowning; Liese pulled herself back to the present.

  ‘Close your eyes. Remember what we’ve practised. Take a deeper breath. Tell me the notes you can sense. Then, put them together and tell me their story.’

  She did as she was told. She let the chair’s padded back, the carpet’s plush, the tip-tap of footsteps on the floor above go. She shut her eyes and focused on the perfume’s music.

  ‘Cinnamon and cloves.’ Her nose prickled. ‘Oranges and gingerbread.’ Each layer carefully picked out and then, just as carefully, woven back together. ‘Christmas.’

  No response. Her answer was too simple.

  She pressed her lids tighter. She was good at this. Just as she was good at judging where a pleat should fold, or where a ruffle should gather. And, today of all days, she could not let her father down: her failure would be a bad omen.

  She sniffed again, filling her lungs. A thicker note wriggled up through the spice-packed layers. Its smoky heaviness reminded her of the scent that wafted out when church doors opened. A scent she had never smelled in the synagogue Grandpa Nathan herded them all into, when he used to care about such things.

  ‘Incense.’

  Her father released his breath in a gentle sigh.

  Liese let her imagination dive back into the workrooms. She conjured up the muslin-draped costumes and pictured herself walking around them, picking out their details. The deep fur collar on an ankle-length coat; silver thread and crystal beads clustering the shoulders on a narrow bodice; filigreed gold worked in layered patterns. She let her thoughts wander past the dummies and over to the idea books that cluttered the studios: history and art collected in faded photographs and coloured plates. Books she had spent hours poring over on quiet afternoons.

  Her eyes snapped open. Military frogging, not buttons, to close a jacket, white muffs hanging from jewelled chains like sleeping rabbits.

  ‘It’s not any Christmas – it’s a Russian one. At the Imperial Court. Girls ice-skating and riding in horse-drawn sledges at midnight. Trips to The Nutcracker and candlelit balls.’

  ‘You caught it. Well done.’

  Paul’s smile at her cleverness lit up the room.

  What was wrong with him? Why must he always be on a mission to spoil everything?

  Michael had turned into the after-party’s bad fairy, all black looks and muttered curses. Liese watched his fists curl and wished, not for the first time, that the old mischief-loving Michael would come back, not this new version all stamped through with political understanding, whatever that might be. It certainly wasn’t any fun. He had grown spiky, and self-important, and in need of bursting. Once tonight was over, she would tell him that.

  The show had been every bit the triumph everyone was praying for. Even Minister Goebbels had thawed when he saw the military touches. When he declared the collection ‘a timely homage to the beauties of Prussia’, no one was fool enough to correct him. Now, two hours after the last model had stalked through the applause, the champagne was flowing, and the order book was brimming. Haus Elfmann was toasting its future; all Michael could do was scowl.

  ‘How can they fawn like this? Your father’s drooling and mine’s as bad. They’ll both be wearing swastikas next.’

  And here we go again.

  Liese didn’t bother to hide her sigh. One sight of a uniform or a Party badge and this newly minted Michael flew into a tirade in a voice more suited to a parade ground. She should have been quicker to run down to the milling reception, not let him catch her off guard on the stairs.

  ‘Can’t you let it go for tonight? Yes, there are more Party officials and officers than we expected. But everyone’s praising the clothes and being perfectly civil.’

  Another curse. Thank goodness the stairway’s curve meant Paul couldn’t hear him.

  Liese wasn’t a fool, although Michael increasingly behaved as if she was. She knew there was a darker side to the National Socialists than the one currently on display. The Führer’s rise to power three years ago had, in her father’s words, made Germany ‘more secure and more hopeful’ for businessmen like him. It had also released gangs of brown-shirted thugs onto the streets and plastered the city with posters and placards that were unsettling and not to be dwelled on.

  As the regime flexed its muscles, people everywhere, including in hard-to-fluster and Party-sceptical Berlin, were growing nervous. Even the Elfmanns, for all their wealth and status, had not escaped the chill.

  Liese, to her increasing irritation, was no longer allowed to walk anywhere without a companion. She had also been pulled out of school long before she was due to leave, with no explanation beyond the excuse of ‘difficult times’. True, that was less of an upset than her curtailed freedom to visit the deer runs in Viktoriapark or the ice-cream parlours on Bergmanstraβe. She didn’t miss her lessons: she had learned everything she considered she needed to know in the salon. Pattern-cutting had made her mathematics precise. She spoke French prettily enough to delight French buyers and English clearly enough to charm American clients. Everything else her teachers judged important had been a distraction. It had been more difficult, however, to let go of her friends.

  No matter how many invitations Liese sent out, no one came calling. She had thought her classmates must be as confined as she was, until she spied Christa and Anna strolling arm in arm as she sat alone in the car and wondered if she’d perhaps imagined their closeness. Paul was confident the current mood wouldn’t last.

  ‘All governments crack down in their early years. First, they get into power, then they get heady with it. Once the Führer has the communists and the criminals mopped up, he’ll rein in the excesses. In the meantime, we must all get on and work together. Whatever the Party’s vision for Germany turns out to be, it has to include clothes.’

  In light of the salon’s continued success, Liese considered her father’s viewpoint perfectly reasonable, and yet here was Michael, eternally playing the prophet of gloom.

  He was fidgeting now, staring at a group of black-uniformed officers as if he expected them to break out their guns and start shooting. ‘He watches too many gangster films’ was Uncle Otto’s excuse. ‘He spends too much time with that idiot group of hotheads and communists he calls friends’ was her father’s.

  The company Michael kept was the only thing she ever heard the two men properly argue about. She knew Michael was involved with the KPD, the German Communist Party banned by the Führer. If Michael’s evenings were anything to go by, that group now conducted its business on street corners and in the worst kind of taverns. He could talk her to death about the ‘honesty of its values’ and ‘its understanding of the true meaning of society’ if she’d let him. He was desperate for her to join too, but he was hardly an advertisement for it: from what Liese could see, involvement with the KPD sucked the joy out of everything. Michael’s sense of humour had totally vanished; his all-encompassing allegiance had even managed to ruin their visit to the summer’s Olympic Games.

  It was weeks now since the opening ceremony’s debacle, but she was still struggling to forgive him. She would tell him that tonight too. How the memory of its upset was still so raw she could slap him.

  Berlin had been in a rising state of excitement ever since it was announced that the 1936 Olympic Games would be held in the city. By the time the first of August arrived, Liese was as obsessed as the rest.

  The day itself had promised so much. Once Paul realised Berlin was decked out for a party he wanted to be seen at, he had sent the car on and agreed that the family could walk part of the way. Both Liese and her mother had new dresses: Liese’s in lemon; Margarethe’s in rose. The skirts were pleated to mimic a tennis dress and their discus-shaped bags were trimmed with the Olympic flag’s colours. The stares and whistles that Margarethe ignored had made Liese blush and Paul beam. As for the thronged streets they stepped into, they were as shiny as the buckles fastening Liese’s cream sho
es.

  Yes, thanks to Michael, she now knew that the city’s spruced-up appearance had been temporary, a ‘calculated sleight of hand’ as he put it, and that was disturbing, she couldn’t deny it. But then? Liese, like everyone around her, had revelled in the pageantry. She had liked that every paving stone gleamed, that every polished balcony tumbled in a riot of pansies and violets. It was hard not to be happy when speakers played music the length of Wilhelmstraβe. When there wasn’t an unpleasant poster or a forbidding sign to be seen. When, for the first time in two years, the newspaper boxes normally showcasing the Party paper Der Stürmer, whose hateful sketches of hook-nosed men drew the eye like a magnet, had disappeared. Berlin felt fresh and hopeful.

  As for the stadium, its scale was impossible. ‘Three hundred and twenty-five acres and seating for a hundred thousand’, or so their guide boasted. As they shuffled in, the sun came out and made everything sparkle, from the white-robed choir lined up on the playing field to the huge copper bowl waiting for the torchbearer’s flame. Liese couldn’t stop grinning, and even hard-to-impress Margarethe declared it was splendid.

  Their view was perfect, not that Paul could sit still. When he saw that the stand they were in was packed with Haus Elfmann clients, he hopped from seat to seat as though the arena was playing host to him. He ran about, bestowing kisses, promising that every gown ordered for the coming fortnight of parties would be ‘just as special as you are, my dear’. His exuberance almost drowned out the tutting it provoked in the rest of their section.

  ‘Ignore him.’

  Michael had wriggled in beside her, late as usual, causing a disturbance as he pushed through. Liese had considered getting cross with him, until he produced a bag of her favourite chocolate kisses and grinned his Michael grin.

  ‘There’s an airship due over shortly: surely your father can’t make more noise than that.’ He grabbed her programme and rolled it into a cone. ‘Shall I give him this, see if I can turn him up as loud as the famous “Nazi Megaphone”?’

  ‘Stop it. You’ll get us both in trouble saying things like that.’

  She tried to sound serious, but it was hopeless: his use of Goebbels’ nickname too perfectly captured her father’s overbearing behaviour.

  Michael seized on her amusement and began making up comic characters for the people around them. Soon, Liese was giggling so hard her stomach muscles hurt from trying to stifle her laughter. She slipped her arm through Michael’s.

  ‘I’ve missed this. You and me, having fun and not fighting.’

  He turned to her, smiling, but then a ripple ran round the packed terraces and jerked their attention back.

  ‘Michael, what’s happening?’

  People were nudging each other, pointing.

  Michael’s face hardened.

  The crowd swivelled, craning towards the top of a long sweep of stairs, where a figure stood, silhouetted and tiny.

  Liese jumped as a trumpet rang out.

  ‘What on earth!’

  She bit her lip as backs in the row in front stiffened. The blast had plunged the stadium into a silence she knew instinctively it would be foolish to shatter.

  The trumpet was joined by another and another, until a fanfare trilled. The figure moved down the steps, his entourage following. The arena rose as if it was operated by invisible strings, arms snapping into the air.

  Paul slid back to his place and saluted; Margarethe mirrored him. Liese scrambled to her feet a second behind, pulled up by the crowd’s movement.

  A roar flew through the stands as if everyone had learned a cue, three notes of a chant beating like a drum. Liese caught it up without thinking, her voice blending in with the deep-throated swell.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Michael hadn’t moved, despite Otto’s frantic prodding. His arm had stayed firmly down.

  ‘Seriously, Liese, what’s got into you? Why are you shouting “Heil Hitler” like one of the Party faithful? Have you gone mad?’

  Despite the gap growing between them, he had never spoken to her so harshly before. It brought Liese up with a jolt. She suddenly saw herself through Michael’s eyes, standing stiff as a statue, shouting with a passion they both knew she didn’t feel. It wasn’t a comfortable image. She meant to apologise, but then his lip curled into a sneer and she snapped back instead.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s a politeness, a welcome. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  The roar swept into a storm of clapping as the Führer took his seat; into a whooping cheer as the torchbearer ran into view.

  ‘Besides, everyone was doing it; I was just joining in.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then. If everyone’s doing it, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s me who’s the fool, not you.’

  His sarcasm grated across her like tweed pulled over bare skin.

  Large sections of the arena were still saluting. Liese sank down and glowered over the forest of arms as the runner began his steep ascent towards the skyline. Beside her, Michael was building up steam, his rant as unstoppable as the runner’s pounding feet.

  ‘It is a vision all right; I’ll give you that. The great and the good and their well-behaved wives, our pampered visitors from Europe and even America, all lifting their hands and howling for Hitler. Isn’t it marvellous how everyone loves him? Including today – heaven help us – the Jews.’

  Liese cringed as the man in front turned round and tutted. She knew Michael’s patterns too well: he was about to launch into a tirade against the Party straight from his beloved KPD lecture, the one he could repeat word-perfect time after time, as if he’d swallowed a manual.

  Liese was not, despite what she had just done, a devotee of Hitler, but it was clear from the profusion of lapel badges and flags surrounding them that plenty of the crowd were. This was no place for Michael to give full rein to his feelings, no matter how honestly held they were. She leaned towards him, her voice lowered to a whisper.

  ‘I don’t like it either, truly I don’t. But can’t we pick over this later, when we’re at home?’

  She was too late. Michael was off in full spate and not listening.

  ‘The National Socialist Party is the enemy of the working man, and the communist and the Jew. To participate in, or cooperate with, the Party’s orders or their pageantry is an act of betrayal. No one can be allowed to forget that, not ever.’

  The man in front nudged the man next to him; Liese saw fists starting to curl.

  Why must he always be so loud?

  She gritted her teeth as the runner lowered his torch and the copper bowl burst into flames. Whatever the truth of Michael’s words, all she wanted to do today was enjoy the spectacle, not become it.

  ‘Michael, please, not this again, not here. Fine, I got a bit carried away, but that’s not a crime. It’s the Olympic Games! Can’t you forget about politics for once?’

  ‘Everything is politics! And not thinking, and pretending everything is rosy, is what’s got us into this mess. You’re like a child dancing after the piper – you all are.’

  That sneering tone again. No matter how hard she tried not to react, it always made Liese lash out harder than she meant to.

  ‘Why do you have to be so patronising? I’m sick of hearing about the communists and how they’re going to save the world. And as for the Jews and this reclaimed religious heritage you’re all het up about, I’m sick of that too. Fine, be a communist if you want; be a Jew if that makes you happy. Don’t expect me to be either.’

  She would have left it there, if he hadn’t raised his eyebrow.

  ‘What? Are you going to tell me I’m Jewish again? Saying it doesn’t make it real, you know. I don’t go to the synagogue; I don’t keep Jewish holidays; I don’t follow Jewish laws. None of us do, including you, the last time I checked. We’re Germans – good Germans, like everyone else here – and that’s all we are. Well, except you apparently: you’re also a bore.’

  Michael’s answering snarl made
her eyes smart.

  ‘Well, forgive me, Princess, for spoiling your day. It’s not like the Party are really that bad. And Jewish? You? What a crazy idea. How could the granddaughter of Nathan Elfmann, whose Jewish family fled the pogroms in Hungary, whose father made his fortune in the Jewish rag trade, possibly be Jewish?’

  They were attracting more attention than ever – even Paul was looking along the row.

  ‘Michael, for Heaven’s sake, lower your voice!’

  It was a waste of her breath; he grew louder.

  ‘Seriously, how could I be so dumb? It’s not as if anyone could think Elfmann is a Jewish name. Or Wasserman either. Remind me to tell that to the universities I’ve applied to, who seem less certain of our heritage than you. How great it must be to live in such denial. You’ll be telling me next that Jesse Owens is white. Fine, don’t be a communist, but don’t say you’re not Jewish, as if that makes it true.’

  More heads were turning, none of them friendly.

  ‘Michael, this isn’t the place—’

  It was like trying to calm a charging elephant with a wagging finger.

  ‘Really? Where is more fitting? All this shouting and saluting, playing to the gallery like they don’t know what you are. When did you become so accepting, Liese? You used to drive me crazy with your questions – what happened? Don’t you care about all the new rules and the curbs on our freedom? Don’t you wonder why you can’t walk anywhere alone anymore, or go to school?’

  ‘Of course I do, but Father says—’ But Michael’s hand was up.

  ‘Don’t bother, I can guess. He said it’s for your own safety, because the Brownshirts might not realise you’re a good German. Did he also tell you Hitler would bring his hooligan army back into line once the Party was secure? I can see in your face that he did. It’s horseshit. Hitler’s had power for three years – he’s as secure as a bank vault. Come on, Liese, you can do better than this. Our glorious new leaders don’t care much for Jews and they’re getting very skilled at spotting us. Why do they want to do that? Do you want to guess, or shall I tell you? It’s so they can remove us. So they can lift us out of our lives.’