8 September 1937

I long to tell someone what’s happened. But I can’t. It’s too dangerous and must remain a secret. I need to occupy my mind. I scan the bookshelf opposite my window seat. Mein Kampf, of course; Volkstänze Lieder Spielmusik für Dorfabend und Fest, my BDM song book; my un-read copy of Hans Grimm’s Volk ohne Raum. It should be read, I know, but it’s over one thousand pages long. Within its covers lies the simple message that Germans – the cleanest, most honest and hard-working people in the world – do not have enough space to live a decent, honest life. More land is needed. An empire, no less. I’m sure the author could have given his message in half, or even better, a quarter of those pages. There is a poetry collection by Agnes Miegel and several copies of the monthly magazine passed to me by Mutti, Die Frau, together with a few assorted school textbooks.

And there, nestled amongst them, is the journal Karl had given me the day of the Almost Drowning. I snatch it off the shelf. My only entry to date is the one I made three years ago, when I devoted myself to Hitler’s cause. I stare at my passionate words. For one impulsive moment I consider ripping out the page. Instead, I turn it over and, on a new, blank page, begin to pour out my heart:

We couldn’t stay away from each other. Two Sundays after you said we mustn’t meet anymore, you were there, standing by the bridge. I thought it was a mirage, my imagination playing tricks. But when I touched your arm, you were solid and real and perfect. Last week, while everyone in the house was still sleeping, I packed a picnic breakfast and we went to the fields. Thank goodness Ingrid and Bertha had the day off! It was warm, and we lay amongst the sweet-smelling, freshly cut hay bales, completely alone, hidden from view. For a short time it was almost possible to imagine we hadn’t a care in the world. We talked and talked – not about politics, we steer clear of that – but about everything else. I’m amazed at the similarities between us – we both love spargel, sauerkraut and brägenwurst. I couldn’t believe that you eat pig meat, but you say your family isn’t religious. Like us, I suppose. Being a Jew, I thought you’d be more different. But then, as you said, you were more German even than me. Everyone says Jews can’t be German. Now I’m not so sure. Until now, I’ve only heard one story. How strange it is to hear yours of hardships and restrictions. You know so much that I don’t. You quote poetry and know about philosophers (not just German ones), and you’ve read books I’ve never even heard of, about things and places I didn’t know existed. You talk of painters like Klee and Kokoschka and writers like Kafka and Mann. Everything about you is new and interesting and exotic and extraordinary.