“Of course,” Frau Mueller said, and then broke into a huge smile. “Well, my goodness, Fräulein Ute Schnaubel has the measurements of an angel. I have never seen such perfection.”
“Thank you,” Alice murmured. She supposed she should indicate joy or relief or some positive emotion, but she only felt a bit nauseous. This kind of “education” was too much to stomach.
And for the first time since she had arrived in Germany, she wondered about her sister, Louise. How was she doing in England without them? A message had come through to Posie on a brush contact the day before, that Louise had indeed been admitted to Bletchley. The message was in deep code, of course. But Posie knew what it meant. And naturally it gave none of the details that Alice longed for. Did Louise miss them—at all? What was she doing now with her new face? Had she met anyone? A beau? Was she in the arms of someone who would remember her through a day? A week? Perhaps a lifetime? Would she and her mum and dad ever see Louise again?
Frau Mueller suddenly looked slightly stricken. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I just forgot your name!”
“Ute, Ute Schnaubel.”
“Of course.” Frau Mueller clapped her hands delightedly. “Silly me.”
Stupid you!
“And now, students,” Frau Mueller continued. “I would like you to study the sheets that I shall pass out. They show diagrams displaying the differences between Aryans and other races’ skulls. You shall see immediately the differences in brain capacity.”
Alice was dying to mention Anatole France, one of her mother’s favorite French writers, who had published many books and poems. He was known to have an exceptionally small head. But if there was one thing that Alice had learned, it was to keep her thoughts to herself. For Alice . . . or for Ute . . . it was a matter of life or death.
There was no class that was quite as dismal as the racial awareness one. However, the teachers always managed to put a peculiar Nazi twist on everything. Herr Dorfmann welcomed her with a brief explanation of how history was taught: “Fräulein Schnaubel, in this class you shall learn that the purpose of history is to teach young people like yourself that life is always dominated by struggle. At the very center of this struggle are race and blood.” His words were almost identical to those of Wilhelm Frick, creator of the Nuremburg Laws that led to the persecution of Jewish people in Germany.
Even in literature, Fräulein Gross managed to describe Shakespeare’s melancholy Hamlet as the perfect hero for their times, for his struggle. How she could use the words “resolved” and “resolute” and “fierce” with that dithering prince was unimaginable. But none of this was imaginary. Alice realized that she was sitting in these classes and learning nothing about literature or biology or history. Instead she was dissembling, disguising her true feelings.
An A-level mission was not all about parachuting out of airplanes piloted by handsome young pilots. Nor was it mapping the heavy water plant in Norway, as Louise had done. Spycraft at its highest level required becoming one of “them.” Becoming the enemy, becoming a Higher Daughter, and seamlessly blending in.
After school Alice found herself with three of the Higher Daughters, who had invited her to join them at the Bachmann Café, or the Bach, as it was called. Not as fancy as the Café Kranzler across the street, but very nice. She sat between Birgit and Margret, a rather mousy-looking girl, and Lena, a beautiful girl who looked like a younger version of the famous German movie star Marlene Dietrich—except for the pimple on her nose.
“I just can’t believe this. It came overnight. Blossomed!” Lena whined.
“Think of it then as a rose!” Birgit said.
“It’s not a rose,” Margret said. “It’s full of pus, and if it fills up any more your nose will get bigger and turn into a Jewish nose.”
Alice was sick. She looked at Birgit and Margret. They were giggling at this awful and disgusting “wit.” Alice knew she should laugh along with them in order to blend in, but perhaps she could say something else instead.
“Put a hot wet facecloth on it when you get home, and it might pop. Don’t squeeze it, though. It might leave a scar.” Then she paused. A trace of a smile fled across her face. A joke she could make. “After all, Lena, better a red rose on your nose than a White Rose.” All the girls broke out laughing. The White Rose was the name of the resistance movement against Hitler.
“Now that is what I call clever, very clever!” Lena exclaimed. “Thank you, Ute. And the suggestion for the hot cloth is very helpful, and not nasty.” She glared at Margret. Then turned to Alice. “So that is too bad that you have to go through the Jungmädel competitions all over again.”
“Oh I don’t mind,” Alice replied.
“What’s your favorite contest? You get to choose, you know.”
“I like track. So I’ll probably choose that and maybe gymnastics.”
“You know Ilse Kranzler?” Margret nodded to the very fancy Café Kranzler across the street. “Yes, those Kranzlers. Well, she’s a star gymnast. But not anymore! So you might have a chance.” All the girls burst into giggles.
“What’s so funny? Why isn’t she a star anymore?”
“Because she’s pregnant.”
“Oh no! And not married or anything?” Now Alice was genuinely shocked.
“Nope,” Birgit said. “Ilse would have been your sister guide.”
“B-b-b-but. How old is she?”
“Oh, fourteen, maybe almost fifteen.”
“And she’s having a baby?”
“Yes.” Margret nodded solemnly.
“But isn’t that too young?”
“A bit,” Lena said. “But you know the Führer wants all of us to have babies.”
“Not quite that young. I know my mum wouldn’t like it one bit if I had a baby,” Birgit said.
“Nor mine,” Lena said.
“Not mine either,” Margret said. “But you know, if it happens, it happens.”
If it happens, it happens! Alice thought. The conversation was becoming increasingly bizarre. “After all, when we get to be seventeen, we’ll be eligible for the Faith and Beauty Society of the girls’ league. And just think, Lena, they’ll give you all sorts of tips about spots.”
Alice glued a benign smile to her face, as if this was all perfectly normal. But really she felt as if she had entered an alternate reality. Still, she joined in, saying, “So you think I might have a good chance for a first medal in gymnastics, now that Ilse Kranzler is out of the running?”
“Definitely!” Margret said. Alice couldn’t help but think that things couldn’t become any stranger . . . but then they did. “You know, I just had a great idea for my report in RA,” Margret said brightly.
“What?” Birgit said.
“I’m going to do my report on earlobes.”
“What are you going to say about earlobes?” Lena asked.
“I’m going to start by measuring all your earlobes and sketching them. You know, showing the difference between the hanging earlobe, the creases, and the attached ones. You know, comparing them by race.”
“But where will you find other races?” Alice asked. “They’ve all been locked up.”