There must be more to life.
16 September 1941
Margarete climbed the steps to her apartment, struggling to balance her heels on the stairs, and the satchel that always seemed far heavier in the evening than the morning. You would think that just sitting at a typewriter all day and typing out notes, schedules, tables, wouldn't wear as much as it did, but her back always ached, and her wrists. Typewritten text swam in front of her eyes in the dim stairwell, and she leaned on the balustrade for the last few steps, then against the wall as she trailed down the hallway to her door. She turned the knob, stumbled inside, and slumped down on the couch.
Maybe Father had been right. There wasn't any glamour in this, living alone in an apartment block during the evening and typing up meeting minutes about steel production during the day, trudging between them on crowded trains and sterile concrete streets. If she moved back home, it'd probably be for the better-- her parents would be thrilled to have her back, she could help run the shop. She knew because Mother's letters always said so.
It was sweet, and sometimes, on nights like this, the idea tempted her. She did look forward more to her brother's letters, even if he made it out that he was having as poor a time as she was, holed up in one of the garrison forts on the French coast. Father would probably say that the grass was always greener for her somewhere else, that she just needed to pick something, and she smiled at the image of him chastising her before reaching back to turn the radio on.
From 1938.
Her brother's last letter was still on the end table as well. She'd gotten it about a week ago, and hadn't written a reply-- maybe writing Kleis would be a good way to unwind. As she pushed her glasses up on her nose, she unfolded the paper to read it again.
Grete I'm pleased to hear you got the typist job. I know Mother and Father were a bit worried about that, but they don't offer classes in it for no reason. And who knows, maybe you can get someone to pick you up as a secretary or start helping them with their actual planning. Pick you up as a wife, I'd say, but I remember how into your Bund work you were before I left. Maybe it'll be somewhere you can put your organizational skills to use. It's lucky for your new employers that they have you, but I wish you were here instead of our staff. Sometimes I think they're way too lax about things-- the French State might be allied with us now, but it's not like every *Frenchman* is. We go out without proper armament one too many times like we're cops or something and someone is liable to get hurt.
Staff says it fosters goodwill to not be carting heavy guns around on routine patrol though, makes people think of us as, yeah, gendarmes. Supposedly the secret police has stuff locked down well enough, and I'm fine so far, so maybe I just wanna play with a soldier's toys. ...besides that, they should really authorize tropical wear for Occitania. I don't care that it's Europe, in the summer like now I feel like I'm going to melt in this stupid wool tunic. At least the girls think it's sharp. Oh, also. We had some leave a little while ago, so me and some buddies took a train over to Marseilles to spend the day, and there was a guy testing out a new kind of color film that wanted a test subject. We told him he could shoot us, if he sent us copies, and he went for it. Really cool stuff-- here's one from my share of the prints. Write soon. Love, Kleis
Margarete studied the photo with a wistful smile. Three men with private's tabs, Kleis and two others, lounged on the patio of some French cafe in the afternoon sun. Like they were really here.
She kicked off her heels and took the letter and photo over to her desk, thinking about her reply-- but maybe he'd already written another letter, she thought. Sometimes he did do that, if she took a while to get back to him, so better to check the mail first.
In the basket was a mailer from the Bund Deutscher Mädel about some fundraiser, their monthly magazine, a bill, a newspaper…
...and a letter from the Wehrmacht. Not a letter from Kleis-- better stationery, like cream; a red wax seal stamped with the Eagle.
Margarete Anna Reuenthal Sister of Gefr. Nikolaus Ernst Reuenthal Andreasstraße 9, Apt. 8 Düsseldorf, Germany
Gefreiter..? Kleis was a private. She took the letter back to the desk, and-- it seemed wrong to simply rip it open like she would with something less official, and something like sacrilege to break the seal-- slit the top with her letter opener to get at the missive inside. It was typewritten, with a signature at the bottom.
Frau Reuenthal: I am sorry to inform you that your brother Nikolaus gave his life in the defense of the peace on 12 September 1940. The exact circumstances are beyond my authority to divulge but please rest assured that those responsible will be brought to justice. Niko was a good soldier. My heart is with you. Hauptmann Gregor Jung Company C commander MB Aigues-Mortes
ᛦ
Kleis's friends were looser lipped in person. There had been an ambush, some partisan cell who still deluded themselves that the Americans or the British would come to the rescue and sweep the Germans out. A grenade trap had blown the front off the truck, and Kleis, gunning from the back with an SMG, had taken a rifle bullet from the hills.
The undertaker had done a good job with his body. You wouldn't have known he was dead, looking at him laid in the box with his new collar tabs. The Gestapo were on the case, a man in a notably nondescript black suit had assured them. Heads would roll in the south of France, and in the secret police. Petain was deeply embarrassed, by all accounts, would cooperate more with the German garrisons in flushing out troublemakers.
Her father seemed far too stoic. When she and her parents had gone to see the body, he hadn't cried, or betrayed hardly any emotion at all, even with Margarete hiding her face in his shoulder and Mother refusing to even look in the casket. "Yes," he'd just said, so quietly she saw his beard move rather than his mouth. "That's my Nikolaus."
She should have realized it would come to an end at some point. At the funeral, he'd stood up, pulled away from Margarete with notes in hand, and strode to the podium to give his eulogy. "My son followed in my footsteps," he started, "quite against my wishes. I fought in the Great War, as many of you did, and forbade him to fight in what many of us believed would be another. But fortunately for him, his war ended quickly. With his help. Thank God."
"…The letter that his commander wrote me and my wife--" he shuffled some papers, produced a letter like the one Margarete had received and nodded to its author in the crowd-- "said that he 'gave- gave his life in defense of the peace'. " The break in his voice was the only forewarning; an instant after quoting the paper, his frame shook, and he gripped the lectern, turning his face down.
After a while, he spoke again, through tears. "I don't mean to insult you, Herr Jung. But isn't that the height of irony? I have to ask where the security police were. Why my son was given occupation duty in a country with whom we signed a peace treaty over a year ago." None of this was part of the speech that Margarete had heard him practicing; a few murmurs passed through the audience, but Herr Reuenthal had nothing more to say. He regained his composure, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.
"I am sorry. This is difficult for me. My only son." He straightened up, turning away from the congregation to look at Kleis in repose. "God rest his soul."
ᛉ
Rather than go back to Düsseldorf, Margarete went home with her parents, back to the village and to her old bedroom. She ate breakfast with her little sister, walked her to school, said hello to old friends who were teachers or postmen now. Kleis's room sat empty and full of his things, just as it had after he'd left two years ago.
Nobody mentioned it, but it was all they really talked about. Father got more into military matters, studying the chain of command and equipment as if he might find someone to blame; when Anja said one of her school friends' fathers was visiting from his posting in Norway, Mother had to feign enthusiasm. More than once they asked Margarete if she would move home for good and leave that "dreary apartment on the border."
She didn't know herself for a while, but one night over dinner, she heard herself say, "no, I think I'm going to join the SS."
Father stood straight up out of his chair, whether to impose himself on her as he forbade it or simply in astonishment, she wasn't sure; Mother let out something like a sob. And why the SS anyway? Staring at her food, she barreled forward to justify herself, the words coming out unplanned.
"They wouldn't put me on the front-- I'd be doing paperwork-- and Papa, you've wondered whose fault it was? Wasn't it all the red tape and the rules? In the end, wasn't it that Hauptmann's fault?"
"I'm a great organizer. I could make sure nothing like what happened to Kleis ever happens again. People are scared of SS-men. They'd do what I say. And I was so active in the Bund that they'd practically have to let me in."
"I miss the BDM too. Kleis had friends, comrades…I just type notes all day and let boring old businessmen hit on me." Tears started to drip onto her dinner.
"Honey…" Mother finally said something, scooted her chair closer to pull Margarete in for a hug. "You can come home. I knew you'd hate that job. You can be a Bund leader at Anja's school. You don't have to join the military to help people. Sit down, darling," she said to her husband, gesturing for him to relax. "Let's talk about this."
ᛋ
Her parents convinced her. They talked about it, Mother told her there were always openings at the school for secretaries or troop leaders and Anja told her that some of the teachers missed her. Father offered to help her move out of her apartment, which she refused. It wasn't that much stuff, she said.
Margarete took the train back to Düsseldorf, fully intending to pack things up, say goodbye to her landlord, and come home. The radio, the posters of singers, the books, her clothes, all went into boxes. Kleis's letter was still on her desk, and his photo, his last photo. She picked them up to tuck them in her satchel…the color made it seem so real.
Next would be to take apart the furniture-- maybe she could ask a neighbor for help. Or a carpenter would probably be better. She crossed the room to the phone to call someone, flicked through the phonebook to C…past C. H- N- S.
Schutzstaffel, recruitment office. DRake 3019.
She dialed the number.
