A Woman of War. Mandy Robotham

do, before the war?’ Finally, I was engaged in a discourse that didn’t feel submissive or dangerous.

      ‘I was a student of architecture. I had to give up my studies.’

      ‘Had to?’

      ‘It was expected,’ he said.

      ‘And will you go back to them? After, I mean?’

      ‘That depends.’

      ‘On what?’

      ‘On whether I live through the war,’ he said, dropping his smile. ‘And whether there is a world left to rebuild.’ He stood up, almost wary he might have let his guard slip. ‘I must go. If I could have your reports, Fräulein Hoff?’

      ‘Certainly,’ and I brought them from inside the door.

      ‘Goodbye, until next time,’ he said, and clicked his heels, stopping short of the salute. He replaced it with a nod of his head, although his eyes held mine. I watched his long shadow disappear towards the house, and felt suddenly very lonely.

       10

       Visitors

      The following days saw a dramatic change in the calm of the Berghof. At breakfast the next morning there was a palpable tension, and the kitchen was unusually noisy and busy, the kitchen porter unloading a large delivery from the town. Frau Grunders drank her morning tea in gulps, rushing out and barking at the under-maids as she went. I heard them grumbling about ‘More work than we’re paid for, just for his majesty’s pleasure,’ but scurrying nonetheless.

      I guessed what might be happening, and a sickening ache rippled among my innards. During the past weeks, I had thought little of the master of the house as a real entity – the war felt so far away, and he was out of sight, out of mind. And that suited me. I hadn’t wanted to consider coming into real contact, what I would say or do, or how I would behave. Outward dissent would be stupid, fatal even, yet anything less would also make me feel like a traitor – to my family, and our friends before the war, all those women suffering in the camp, all those babies whose birth and death days fell on the same date.

      The excitement in the household was reflected in Fräulein Braun. She was agitated, enthusiastic and unusually flighty – she had clearly been reviewing her wardrobe before I arrived, and was teasing her hair out to a more natural style, moving like a child unable to contain her excitement. She was keen for me to listen to the heartbeat, but impatient to postpone the other checks.

      ‘I feel fine – can we do that tomorrow?’ she said.

      I tried smiling, as if I understood her eagerness to be with her loved one, but my sentiment was entirely selfish; the less time I spent in the house the better for me. As I was leaving Frau Grunders stopped me, suggesting I take meals in my room over the next week ‘as we’ll all be very busy’. To me, it signalled the connivance over Eva’s baby was complete. Excepting Eva, the entire Berghof was in denial about the pregnancy. How did Herr Hitler feel, I pondered, about fatherhood to one human as well as an entire nation? I could only assume he didn’t share the same excitement as the baby’s mother. And what would that mean for the child’s future, and Eva’s?

      He arrived later that afternoon, the throaty rumble of engines drawing me onto my porch. An army truck led the cavalcade of cars sweeping up the drive, spitting gravel as they swooped in. The truck held regular troops, who fanned out around the perimeter fence, guns cocked and ready. The first cars spilled out several army officers in green, followed by SS officers in their contrasting slate jackets, perfect ebony boots reflecting the afternoon glare. It was the fifth or sixth car that ground to a halt, and sat idling while the officers formed a semi-circle around. The cluster stopped me from seeing him emerge, but I could tell by the wave of deference that he was out of the car and standing. I didn’t spy the blond, capped head of Captain Stenz among them, and part of me was glad I couldn’t see him bowing and scraping. My stomach churned, mouth empty of saliva, and I wanted to peel my eyes away, but somehow I couldn’t. It was hard to take in, that a few hundred yards away was a man who held so much of the world in his palm, and whose fingers could fold over and crush it, on a whim. Not just me or my family, but anyone he wanted, anywhere. Not for the first time I pitied Eva Braun, for all her blind love and faith.

      She was, by this point, at the top of the small flight of stairs leading up to the porch. Hair loose and face almost scrubbed free of make-up, she wore a traditional blue dress gathered at the bust, which had the effect of hiding her bump. Unusually, Negus and Stasi weren’t at her feet, as she had already told me they didn’t get on with Blondi, the Fuhrer’s own beloved Alsatian; Blondi’s size and status took precedence at the Berghof. The look of expectation on her face, of a child wanting to please, was almost pitiful.

      He walked slowly up the stairs and planted a friendly kiss on her cheek; hardly the embrace of long-lost lovers eager to be alone. They turned and went inside together, and the uniformed entourage followed – I spied the hollowed features of Herr Goebbels in the group – while the troops encircled the house. The fortress was complete.

      For the first time since my arrival at the Berghof, I had a desperate urge to run as fast as my legs would carry me away from this infected oasis. That feeling of uneasiness, which had smouldered in the pit of my belly since arrival, was now stoked to an inferno and I wanted so much to escape, even if it meant a life of uncertain danger. But I didn’t. Fear of reprisal kept me sitting, rooted to my chair, doing as I was told. And, not for the first time, I hated myself for it.

      After eating in my room, I sat out late on my porch, reading at first and then just watching as the light died. The house itself became more illuminated, and sounds of male laughter drifted out into the mountain air. Down there, across the world, thousands – millions – of people were sobbing, screaming and dying, and all I could hear was amusement. I went to bed and rammed the pillow against my ears, desperate to shut out all the wrong in this mad arena called life.

       11

       The First Lady

      Eva sent word the next morning to see her at eleven a.m. on the terrace – relief washed over me that I may not need to enter the house at all; the Fuhrer was hosting an important war conference, and the Berghof would be full of the green and grey for some time.

      The day was glorious, a rich sun climbing in the sky as I skirted the house. Its brightness blotted out a good deal of the increasing green below, only the cobalt of several lakes breaking through. Fortunately, the terrace appeared almost empty, aside from Eva sitting under a large sun umbrella, sipping tea. Facing her, with neat blonde crown visible to me, was another woman. I assumed it was her sister, Gretl, who had come to the Berghof with her fiancé. They appeared deep in conversation as I approached.

      ‘Morning, Fräulein Braun,’ I ventured.

      ‘Ah, Fräulein Hoff, good morning,’ she said. ‘Thank you for delaying our meeting. You’ve met Frau—’ and as I rounded the chair I saw it was the head of Magda Goebbels, her blonde style faultless in its design, her face with limited make-up but the familiar ruby lips. She made a small attempt at a smile but stopped short of making it friendly.

      ‘Yes. Yes, Frau Goebbels and I have met.’ I was taken aback and it showed.

      ‘Please, sit down, Fräulein Hoff,’ said Frau Goebbels, taking immediate control and looking comfortable with it. ‘We – I – have a favour to ask.’

      I smiled, still mildly amused that they could think of anything as a favour, as if a request meant I had a right to refuse.

      ‘First of all, I want to thank for your care