Her Hidden Life: A captivating story of history, danger and risking it all for love

The electricity flickered on and my father sighed. ‘That’s the problem. We watch everything we say – and now we have to deal with bombs. Magda must leave. She must go to Uncle Willy’s in Berchtesgaden. Maybe she can even find work.’

I had flitted from job to job in my twenty-five years, finding some work in a clothing factory, filing for a banker, replenishing wares as a store clerk, but I felt lost in the world of employment. Nothing I did felt right or good enough. The Reich wanted German girls to be mothers; however, the Reich wanted them to be workers as well. I supposed that was what I wanted, too. If you had a job, you had to have permission to leave it. Because I had no job, it would be hard to ignore my father’s wishes. As far as marriage was concerned, I’d had a few boyfriends since I turned nineteen – none of them serious. The war had taken so many young men away. Those who remained failed to capture my heart. I was a virgin but had no regrets.

In the first years of the war, Berlin had been spared. When the attacks began, the city strode like a dreamer, alive but unconscious of its motions. People walked about without feeling. Babies were born and relatives looked into their eyes and told them how beautiful they were. Touching a silky lock of hair or pinching a cheek did not guarantee a future. Young men were shipped off to the fronts – to the East and to the West. Talk on the streets centered on Germany’s slow slide into hell, always ending with ‘it will get better.’ Conversations about food and cigarettes were common, but paled in comparison to the trumpeted broadcasts of the latest victories earned through the ceaseless struggles of the Wehrmacht.

My parents were the latest in a line of Ritters to live in our building. My grandparents had lived here until they each died in the bed where I slept. My bedroom, the first off the hall in the front of the building, was my own, a place I could breathe. No ghosts frightened me here. My room didn’t hold much: the bed, a small oak dresser, a rickety bookshelf and a few items I collected over the years, including the stuffed toy monkey my father had won at a carnival in Munich when I was a child. When the bombings began, I looked at my room in a different way. My sanctuary took on a sacred, extraordinary quality and each day I wondered whether its tranquility would be shattered like a bombed temple.

The next major air raid came on Hitler’s birthday on April 20, 1943. The Nazi banners, flags and standards that decorated Berlin waved in the breeze. The bombs caused some damage, but most of the city escaped unscathed. That attack also had a way of bringing back every fear I suffered as a young girl. I was never fond of storms, especially the lightning and thunder. The increasing severity of the bombings set my nerves on edge. My father was adamant that I leave, and, for the first time, I felt he might be right. That night he watched as I packed my bag.

I assembled a few things important to me: a small family portrait taken in 1925 in happier times and some notebooks to record my thoughts. My father handed me my stuffed monkey, the only keepsake I had retained throughout my childhood years.

The following morning, my mother cried as I carried my suitcase down the stairs. A spring rain spattered the street and the earthy scent of budding trees filled the air.

‘Take care of yourself, Magda.’ My mother kissed me on the cheek. ‘Hold your head up. The war will be over soon.’

I returned the kiss and tasted her salty tears. My father was at work. We had said our good-byes the night before. My mother clasped my hands one more time, as if she did not want to let me go, and then let them drop. I gathered my bags and took a carriage to the train station. It would be a long ride to my new home. Glad to be out of the rain, I entered the station through the main entrance. My heels clicked against the stone walkway.

I found the track that would take me to Munich and Berchtesgaden and stood waiting in line under the iron latticework of the shed’s vaulted ceiling. A young SS man in his gray uniform looked at everyone’s 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 author’s 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 we’d parted last night, he seemed old and sad beyond his forty-five years, but relieved to be able to send me to his brother’s 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 money with her sewing, and because her fingers were nimble, she also did piecework for a jeweler. She taught me to sew as well. We were able to live comfortably, but we were not rich by any means. We never worried about food on the table until rationing began.

My mother and father did not make an obvious display of politics. No bunting, no Nazi flags, hung from our building. Frau Horst had put a swastika placard in her window, but it was small and hardly noticeable from the street. I had not become a member of the Party, a fact that caused my mother some consternation. She believed it might be good because the affiliation could help me find work. I hadn’t given the Party much thought after leaving the Band of German Maidens and the Reich Labor Service, both of which I lazed through. And I wasn’t sure what being a Party member actually meant, so I felt no need to give them my allegiance. War churned around us. We fought for good on the road to victory. My naïveté masked my need to know.

I continued thumbing through the book until the train slowed.

The SS man at the station appeared behind my right shoulder. He held a pistol in his left hand. He strode to the couple in front of me and put the barrel to the temple of the young man who was smoking the cigarette. The woman looked backward, toward me, her eyes filled with terror. She seemed prepared to run, but there was nowhere to go, for suddenly armed station police appeared in the doorways at both ends of the car. The SS man took the pistol away from the man’s head and motioned for them to get up. The woman grabbed her dark coat and wrapped a black scarf around her neck. The officer escorted them to the back of the car. I dared not look at what was happening.

After a few moments, I peered through the window to my left. The train had stopped in the middle of a field. A mud-spattered black touring car, its chrome exhaust pipes spewing steady puffs of steam, sat on a dirt road next to the tracks. The SS man pushed the man and woman into the back of the car and then climbed in after them, his pistol drawn. The police got in the front with the driver. As soon as the doors closed, the car made a large circle in the field, cut a muddy swath through the grass and then headed back toward Berlin.

I closed my eyes and wondered what the couple had done to be yanked from the train. Were they Allied spies? Jews attempting to get out of Germany? My father had told us once – only once – at the dinner table about the trouble Jews were having in Berlin. My mother scoffed, calling them ‘baseless rumors.’ He replied that one of his co-workers had seen Juden painted on several buildings in the Jewish section. The man felt uncomfortable even being there, an accident on his part. Swastikas were whitewashed on windows. Signs cautioned against trading with Jewish merchants.

I thought it best to keep my thoughts to myself and not to inflame a political discussion between my parents. I felt sad for the Jews, but no one I knew particularly liked them and the Reich always pointed blame in their direction. Like many at the time I turned a blind eye. What my father reported might have been a rumor. I trusted him, but I knew so little – only what we heard on the radio.

I looked for the black sedan, but the motorcar had vanished. I had no idea what the couple had done, but the image of the woman’s terror-filled eyes burned itself into my memory. My reading offered little comfort as my journey continued. The incident unsettled me. I wondered who might be next and when it all might end.

CHAPTER 2 (#u2dfeca23-eff6-5e77-b1fb-f009f76c4e60)

The Berchtesgaden train station was smaller but grander than Berlin’s. The Nazi banners hung in strict vertical rows, offsetting the large columns inside, giving the building a formal Roman look. Off to one side, a gold door glittered. It appeared to be reserved for dignitaries. A black eagle perched on a swastika was rendered in bas-relief on its surface. Perhaps it was the entrance to a reception room for important people visiting the Führer; after all, this was the final stop for those invited to his mountain retreat.

I looked for my uncle Willy and aunt Reina and saw them standing near the entrance. We exchanged Nazi salutes. My uncle seemed happier to see me than my aunt. He was a pear-shaped man with a potbelly, who still retained the red hair and freckles of his youth. Some of the spots had blossomed into brown blotches that spread across his face. He held his police cap in his hand. My aunt’s smile seemed forced, as if I were the unwanted stepchild who had come home for a visit. She was elegant and cultured, compared to my more affable 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 Italy’s 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.

The evening was cool, so my uncle stoked the fire. Aunt Reina served a beef stew and bread, and we enjoyed a glass of red wine. The stew was light on meat and vegetables, more broth than anything, but it tasted good. I was hungry from the trip. The meal was heartier than the vegetable dishes my mother cooked these days. Eggs and meat were scarce all over Germany, especially in the cities.

We talked about my parents and our relatives. We spoke briefly of the war, a topic for which Willy and Reina had only smiles. Like my mother, they were convinced we were winning and Germany would be victorious over our enemies, particularly the Jews. My life had been so sheltered, with people of my own kind, my own few friends, that I had never thought much about the Jews. They were not part of my life. We had no friends, no neighbors, who were Jewish. No one we knew had ‘disappeared.’

Uncle Willy said the right to our Lebensraum was as indelible as our heritage. When the Jews and the Bolsheviks were removed, the land would be Germany’s to populate. The East would produce the food, the minerals and the raw materials the Reich needed for its thousand-year reign. His face beamed as he talked.

Aunt Reina surveyed her perfectly laid table like a queen. ‘This crystal came from my home in Spain.’ She tapped the side of the glass with her nails. ‘When it’s safe to travel, I will take you to my birthplace; it’s such a beautiful country. The Allies are doing their best to flood us with propaganda. Despite that, we know the Führer cannot be wrong.’ She glanced at the portrait over the fireplace and smiled. ‘We will be victorious. Our men will fight until the final battle is won.’

I nodded, having no taste for the topic, because I was an ordinary German girl with little of the sophistication of my aunt. She was unlike any woman I had ever met – more opinionated than my mother, and with a soul of tempered steel. Nothing I could say or do could influence my aunt’s and uncle’s thinking or the outcome of the war. Even my few girlfriends were more concerned with their jobs, making money and getting along. We hardly ever talked of the war except to note, with longing, the misfortune of boys being shipped off to battle.

After my aunt and I cleared the dishes, we sat up for another hour in the living room until Uncle Willy nodded off. Reina declared the evening at an end when my uncle began snoring. I carried my bags to my second-floor bedroom, which looked out over the street. The third floor housed the attic, a room my aunt used for storage.

The town lamps were out, but a few muted window lights shone underneath the blackout shades. Past the buildings a mixture of dark and light fell on the terrain. The mountains displayed varying tones of black: the rock dun and dense, the forest lighter in its darkness. The clouds swirled overhead and sometimes a shaft of light shot through them like a luminous arrow. I couldn’t tell if it came from the ground or the heavens, but it momentarily lit the clouds as if an electric torch had been placed inside them. I stood at the window and found it hard to pull myself away from the view. Magic and myth filled the air in the Obersalzberg. No wonder Hitler had decided to construct his castle on the mountain above Berchtesgaden, his Berghof.

I unpacked a few things and then sat on the bed. As much as I admired the beauty of Berchtesgaden, I was a stranger in my aunt and uncle’s house. I went to bed thinking of my comfortable room in Berlin and my parents. They would be in bed now, the shades down, the lamps out. Frau Horst would still be awake, smoking a cigarette and sipping her cognac. She never went to bed without having a drink.

The silence in my room was eerie. In Berlin, particularly before the war, when the wind was right, I heard trains and their lonely whistles. I always wondered where they were going, but I was content to stay in my bed, rather than dream about travel. Cars rumbled by, horns blared, at all hours. The city hummed. I would have to get used to the quiet. Quite unexpectedly, I missed my tree-lined street and the hellos and small talk from our neighbors.

By the next morning, all pleasantries with my aunt had dissipated.

‘You must get a job if you want to live here,’ Reina told me in a voice filled with the heaviness of iron. The comforts of the previous evening evaporated as she served me a bowl of porridge with a little goat’s milk. There was no butter on the table and I didn’t dare ask. ‘We can’t afford to feed another mouth, and your parents aren’t in a position to send money. You must work or find a husband. The Reich needs strong male babies for future service.’

I was shocked by her demands, but they weren’t entirely unexpected. ‘What would you have me do?’ I said. ‘I can’t walk the streets looking for a man.’

Creases formed around Reina’s mouth. ‘I am not suggesting you be a whore,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Wanton women damage the Reich and pervert our soldiers. A man’s seed should be saved for children. You must find a job – something you can do, or have talent in. Do you have any talent?’

I thought hard before answering. I’d never had to do much around my parents’ house except clean and mend. Sometimes I cooked, but rarely. My mother commanded the kitchen. ‘I can sew,’ I finally replied.

‘Not enough money. And work here would be scarce. All Berchtesgaden women know how to sew, probably much better than you.’

My aunt’s lack of confidence in me stung. However, her tactic was succeeding. I sank into my chair and questioned my own lack of initiative. My parents had never forced me to work and I assumed that the small jobs I did around the house paid for my keep. Perhaps I was wrong.

‘What good are you to the Reich?’ My aunt placed her hands on her hips and stared at me. ‘Every citizen must be productive. You should be ashamed and so should your parents for raising such a worthless girl. Perhaps it would have been better if you’d stayed in Berlin. Your father is such a worrywart.’ She shook a finger at me.

Whatever fondness I held for my aunt was rapidly diminishing. We had spent little time together and the prospect of more than a few days portended disaster.

‘I will look for work after breakfast,’ I said.

My aunt’s eyes brightened. ‘That’s a good girl. There must be something you can do.’