“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have calculated the scores of the participants today with their academic records and shall ask the recipients of Highest Service to the Reich to step forward and receive their certificates from Lieutenant Colonel Werner Grothmann.” There was a wild cheer from the audience. Grothmann was the aide to none other than Heinrich Himmler, the architect of the Jewish extermination program—the Final Solution, as it was called.
Grothmann was a handsome man with slicked-back blond hair and a squarish jaw. He was often in the offices where Alice’s mother worked. She said the young women swooned over him. They called him Gary Cooper, after the famous American movie star. He began to read the names of the girls.
“Brünnhilde Achmann, Inge Bretzman, Gerta Hammacher, Erika Hunnolz . . .”
People applauded. The parents stood up and yelled and often hugged each other for producing such fine Aryan specimens of physical prowess and intelligence. The names were in alphabetical order, so Schnaubel was the thirtieth to be announced. Her parents leaped up like the rest when her name was called, rejoicing that their own daughter was among the elite of these racially pure, extraordinary young girls. They even had tears in their eyes. They were, of course, the consummate spies.
Lotte Schnaubel, or Posie Winfield, had just had another success herself. Four VIIC U-boats had been redirected from the north, in Brest, France, just in the nick of time. They had been heading toward the Bay of Biscay, on a search mission for two British anti-submarine ships. But because of Posie’s intelligence, the British ships were able to get out of harm’s way.
As Alice mounted the stairs to receive her certificate, she saw the lieutenant colonel smile broadly at her as she approached. He grasped her hand warmly and leaned forward. His ice-gray eyes twinkled a bit. “My, what a pleasure it is to shake your hand, Fräulein. You have lovely brown eyes, just like my favorite niece.” Her eyes were not brown, of course. But when he looked at her face, which seemed so lacking in any distinctive feature, he simply superimposed what came to mind. Two seconds later he said, “I just attended her fifth birthday party yesterday.” For Alice it just meant that another person had projected a convenient face onto her own.
When the ceremony concluded, Alice and her parents began walking from the stadium to their apartment over the garage. Alice wore a blue flower pinned to her tunic, a symbol of her exalted status now as an HDR girl. A Reich heroine. Perfect strangers came up to congratulate her.
The family stopped in at another bakery, as her mother wanted to get a Linzer torte to celebrate. But the baker refused payment. “An HDR girl—never! I bow down before you.” He made a sweeping gesture. Her father mildly protested. But the baker would hear nothing of it.
“And I detect a slight Swabian accent. I insist that you take some of our Hefezopf loaves, fresh out of the oven. I make miniature ones. I’ll give you a half dozen.”
“Oh no, you are too kind,” Posie said.
“Nonsense, madame. One cannot be too kind. Our very own daughter is now a Fount of Life mother, and about to give birth any day.” Alice felt something seize up in her. She and her parents thought that this breeding program was one of the foulest of the regime. It was only outdone by the extreme evil of the extermination measures that sent Jewish people to their deaths at concentration camps. But her mother smiled tightly and said only, “I wish her and the baby good health.”
“What else could it be but good health? No defects in our family for countless generations.” Sheer delight danced in his eyes as he spoke.
They walked out of the store with their baked goods.
“I’ll never touch his damn sweets,” her mother muttered. She began walking toward a trash bin.
“You can’t, Lotte. It’s too much of a waste.” They always addressed one another by their cover names in public.
“We’re going to that reception tonight. Won’t be home until later. We won’t need to stuff ourselves when we get home,” her mother said.
“But I’m home!” Alice replied. “I don’t want to have to wait until you get home to eat.”
“Yes, and I made you some chicken.”
Aaah, she thought. I’ll have a feast to bring to Tree Boy.
He was no longer the shadow but had become the boy in the tree. She was almost desperate to get back to the alley and see if he had picked up the little cakes she had put in the other garbage bin the day before. She could take a few of the Hefezopf, and perhaps one of the hard-boiled eggs her mother had put aside. Alice liked to imagine the boy eating these treasures and growing fatter. She thought of him constantly now.
Eleven
Tree Boy
With two small loaves, still warm, two eggs, an orange, and a quarter of a roasted chicken in her knapsack, Alice made her way toward the whipped-cream house. She stopped at the corner before turning into the alley. A black Mercedes-Benz automobile was pulled up in front of the mansion. She felt a chill run through her. It was another SS vehicle. The insignia was on its license plate.
Two officers stepped out. Alice gasped. Exactly two hours before, she had shaken the hand of the first man, Werner Grothmann. And the second man was Heinrich Himmler. She recognized him from the garage. Her father had worked on his car, this very Mercedes. But why were they coming to this house?
Did one of them live here? She hated to think of either one of these two loathsome creatures living in this lovely house with the magical garden in the back. She walked around the alley.
“Hey there!” A voice cracked the air. Alice froze in her footsteps. “Yes, you. Might you come over here for just a minute?” She turned and walked back to where the two men stood.
“This is the Schmelling house, is it not?” It was Himmler who asked the question, but Werner Grothmann was looking at her. Would he remember her? At least she had changed out of her tunic and was no longer wearing the blue flower.
“I . . . I . . . I’m not sure,” she replied. “I don’t live in this neighborhood.” She thought fast. She had run so many times through the Tiergarten, weaving in and out of the bordering streets, that the map of the district was etched in her brain. “I live over on Leberstrasse and was just cutting through. I’m sorry.”
“Ach! No problem.” Grothmann gave a chuckle. He looked straight into her face with complete blankness in his eyes. She walked away and then cut into the alley. She wouldn’t be frightened off so easily. She needed to leave this feast for the boy. In her mind, he had become like the boy Colin from The Secret Garden—in need of her support.
She put the food in the trash bin. It was full. There was no danger of the housemaid coming out with more bags to put in. They would never fit.
Once again, she felt his presence. She knew he was watching. What if she climbed the tree? Might she see him again? It was worth a try.
Within less than a minute she was looking down from her perch at the garden that seemed exceptionally beautiful. She heard the back door slam. Was the maid coming out now? Oh, please don’t let her find the food! she prayed. This was the most she had ever left, and probably the healthiest. But no. It was not the maid. It was three gentleman officers of the SS. Heinrich Himmler, the man responsible for the concentration camps, as well as his assistant, Werner Grothmann, and a third who must live in the house, SS Officer Schmelling. The three oak leaves on his collar indicated a very high rank, that of an Oberstgruppenführer; in short, the supreme group leader, almost if not equal to Himmler. She knew Schmelling was in charge of the military police units that rounded up the Jews for transport to the camps. That was handled by part of her mother’s group within the general army’s office.