A Woman of War. Mandy Robotham

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       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 of Fräulein Braun so far – she has been most complimentary about your skills.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette. Eva merely looked uncomfortable, as if she was a child being spoken for, while I felt like a favoured slave – it was a knack that Frau Goebbels had perfected. Her eyes met with yours for a split second, but she drew them away just as swiftly, giving the impression you were worthy of her attention, but not of maintaining it.

      She went on. ‘But since she is in such good health, and does not need your services daily, I wonder if we might borrow you for a few days?’

      What was I expected to say – ‘Let me think about it’? I said what they wanted to hear. ‘If Fräulein Braun is agreeable, then I will go where I can be most helpful.’

      This time Magda Goebbels smiled fully, stubbing out her cigarette. She turned her attention on me, as if delivering orders.

      ‘A cousin of mine is preparing to have her baby. She has reached her due date and beyond, but she is being … well … in all honesty, I think she is being rather difficult, and refusing to leave the house to go into hospital. However, I am not her mother, and therefore the only influence I can bring upon her is to offer what help I can.’

      I found it odd that she had thought of me, but I was equally irritated at being the hired help. From somewhere inside, a small chink of courage rose out of the annoyance.

      ‘Frau Goebbels, with all due respect, I am happy to help any woman, but I am not the type of midwife to force anyone into treatment they don’t want or need.’

      Her wide eyes were on mine in seconds, fixed and fiery. Then, the familiar break away.

      ‘No, no obviously,’ she acquiesced. ‘We simply wanted an experienced midwife to attend her at home. I’m hoping a week at the most. Is that reasonable, Eva?’ She swivelled towards her host. It was obvious this had not been sanctioned by the Reich, and was a favour on Eva’s part.

      ‘Of course, perfectly fine,’ she nodded like an obedient puppy.

      The house was an hour away, and I was to leave early the next morning. Standing there, I calculated my current worth to Frau Goebbels had created a little bargaining power.

      ‘I will need someone with me to assist at the birth,’ I said. ‘Someone I can rely on.’

      ‘I daresay there will be a willing housemaid, or reliable servant,’ Frau Goebbels said dismissively, turning her gaze away.

      ‘I would like Christa to come with me,’ I said with conviction. ‘She’s very resourceful, and I feel she won’t panic.’

      ‘Christa? My Christa? But you hardly know her,’ Frau Goebbels reasoned.

      ‘But I trust her to help me when I ask,’ I said.

      Perhaps she was bored with any potential confrontation, because Magda Goebbels agreed to my request – she would release Christa. Maybe she didn’t view it as a concession, a small triumph on my part, but I did. I went back to my room, relieved that I had been released from this house of war games, and that I would meet up again with the only person within miles I might one day call a friend. Or indeed, an ally.

      I arranged to meet Fräulein Braun later that afternoon for an ante-natal check, given I might not see her for a week. Part of me also wanted to gauge her mood at this strange, unsettling time – we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since the Fuhrer had come to the Berghof. In the house there had been low whispers on the fierce words coming from the Fuhrer’s apartment – his and Eva’s. I pretended to be absorbed but my ears were fixed on the maid’s tittle-tattle of tears and pleadings seeping from Eva’s room.

      ‘Lord forgive me, but what he called her was cruel,’ the maid said. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, not even to be mistress of this place.’ The details were lost as they turned and walked away, but the meaning was clear. In their own domestic war, Eva’s baby had made her weaker instead of stronger.

      That afternoon, Eva’s door was ajar and she was at her dressing table, grimacing at her own reflection. She looked weary. There were muddy puddles under her eyes, and her normally fair, vibrant skin seemed dry and rough. No wonder she was disapproving of what she saw.

      ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Fräulein Braun, you look tired. Is the baby keeping you awake?’

      ‘A little,’ she said. ‘An aunt of mine always said babies come alive at night, and this one seems to be no exception. Is that right?’

      ‘Yes, they don’t have any conception of day and night for a long while. Perhaps once you lie still the baby remembers it needs to move. Are you managing to nap during the day?’

      ‘Not right now, not while …’ she hesitated and chose her words ‘… not while the house is so busy.’

      Still, we hadn’t managed to move beyond the spectre of Adolf Hitler. It was clear they were intimately involved – she was the only female who consistently had a virtual free rein at the Berghof, aside from Magda Goebbels – and Frau Goebbels’ barely suppressed jealousy was enough to signal the affair between Eva and Adolf. She was pregnant, and yet she couldn’t quite acknowledge out loud that he was the father. From what I had seen, the SS hierarchy barely acknowledged her worth, and yet she seemed glued to the place that was his creation, that contained a piece of his heart. Always supposing he had one.

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