I found the track that would take me to Munich and Berchtesgaden and stood waiting in line under the iron latticework of the sheds vaulted ceiling. A young SS man in his gray uniform looked at everyones identification papers as they boarded. I was a Protestant German, neither Catholic nor Jew, and young enough to be foolishly convinced of my invincibility. Several railway police in their green uniforms stood by as the security officer sorted through the line.
The SS man had a sleek, handsome face punctuated by steely blue eyes. His brown hair folded underneath his cap like a wave. He examined everyone as if they were a potential criminal, but his cool demeanor masked his intentions. He made me uneasy, but I had no doubt I would be allowed to board. He looked at me intently, studied my identification, paying particular attention to my photograph before handing it back to me. He offered a slight smile, not flirtatious by any means, but coyly, as if he had finished a job done well. He waved his hand at the passenger behind me to come forward. My credentials had passed his inspection. Perhaps he liked my photograph. I thought it flattered me. My hair was dark brown and fell to my shoulders. My face was too narrow. My dark eyes were too big for my head and gave me an Eastern European look, presenting a face similar to a Modigliani portrait. Some men had told me I was beautiful and exotic for a German.
The car contained no compartments, only seats, and was half-full. The train would be packed in a few months with city tourists eager to take a summer trip to the Alps. Germans wanted to enjoy their country even in the midst of war. A young couple, who looked as if they were in love, sat a few rows in front of me near the middle of the car. They leaned their heads against each other. He whispered in her ear, adjusted his fedora and then puffed on his cigarette. Blue clouds of haze drifted above them. The woman lifted the cigarette occasionally from his hands and sucked on it as well. Soon thin gray lines of smoke trailed throughout the cabin.
We pulled out of the shed in the semi-darkness of the rain. The train picked up speed as we rolled away from the city and past the factories and farmlands south of Berlin. I leaned back in my seat and pulled out a book of poems by Friedrich Rückert from my suitcase. My father had presented it to me several years ago thinking I would enjoy the Romantic authors poems. I never took the time to study them. The gift meant more to me than the verses inside.
I stared blankly at the pages and thought only of leaving my old life for a new life ahead. It troubled me to be going so far from home, but I had no choice thanks to Hitler and the war.
I found the inscription my father had written when he gave me the book. It was signed: With all love from your Father, Hermann. When wed parted last night, he seemed old and sad beyond his forty-five years, but relieved to be able to send me to his brothers home.
My father walked with a stoop from constant bending during his shift at the brake factory. The gray stubble he shaved each morning attested to the personal trials he endured daily, among them his dislike for National Socialism and Hitler. Of course, he never spoke of such things; he only hinted of his politics to my mother and me. His unhappiness ate at him, ruined his appetite and caused him to smoke and drink too much despite such luxuries being hard to come by. He was nearing the end of the age for military service in the Wehrmacht, but a leg injury he suffered in his youth would have disqualified him anyway. From his conversations, I knew he held little admiration for the Nazis.
Lisa, my mother, was more sympathetic to the Party, although she and my father were not members. Like most Germans, she hated what had happened to the country during the First World War. She had told my father many times, At least people have jobs and enough food to go around now. My mother brought in extra
uncle. My father had told me that he found my aunt and uncle a strange match. I was young then and never questioned their attraction, but now as I stood before them their differences showed clearly.
After we swapped greetings, my uncle loaded my bags into their small gray Volkswagen. I took my place in the backseat. I could see little of the mountain scenery as my uncle drove, with the exception of dark peaks that shot up through the broken clouds into an ebony sky. I had only been to Berchtesgaden once when I was child.
My aunt and uncle lived in a three-story Bavarian-style chalet wedged between a small restaurant and a butcher shop on a crowded street not far from the town center. The Alpine influence was everywhere. Their home was tall, but not as wide as a chalet you would find perched on a mountainside. I got out of the car and breathed in the crisp mountain air. It was hard to believe I was in the same country as Berlin.
We took off our coats and left my luggage near the door. Uncle Willy was dressed in his local police uniform with the swastika on his left arm. Reina wore a cobalt blue dress with a fastened collar. A diamond brooch in the shape of a swastika was pinned above her heart. A large black-and-white portrait of the Führer hung over the fireplace where his solemn, solid figure brooded over the dining room. My aunt had sewn a table runner covered with swastikas. Reina was Spanish and a supporter of Franco, and Italys Mussolini as well. Everything in their house was fastidious according to the Nazi ideal of Germanic perfection. Nothing was out of order. The furniture was polished to a brilliant shine and symmetrical in its placement. I felt as if I had stepped into a fairy tale, something out of the ordinary and surreal in its effect. It was like being at an art exhibition beautiful, but not home.