Redemption for Gertrude

By TK Banner

A daughter finds clues to her mother's horrendous past in the attic. After confronting her, the mother retreats to her room and relives her life through flashbacks. The author takes the reader back to the aftermath of WWI when Anti-Semistism was rampant. Gertrude came of age during this time and her hatred of Jews was cemented by the beliefs of her family, the community, and especially her mentor, Herr Friesen who groomed her to join the supporters of The Thule Society which was formed to get rid of all the unworthy people from the country to make it great once again. Gertrude becomes an integral part of Hitler's inner circle but soon realizes she cannot condone what was transpiring. She unknowingly marries a Jew and falls in love with his uncle who fathers her child. Now she is a target for the Nazis and with the help of her husband's uncle, escapes, taking on a new identity. After living in a small village she relocates to America where she raises her daughter. But the memories of the evil deeds she had done never leave her. After describing her life to her daughter, the question remains, will there be redemption for her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350905670

Book preview

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Redemption for Gertrude

© TK Banner

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN 979-8-35090-566-3

eBook ISBN 979-8-35090-567-0

Contents

Acknowledgements

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Other Books by Tk Banner

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

This book could never have materialized if it wasn’t for my partner’s support. Thank you, Jim, for believing in me.

Part One

April 16, 1966

Who are you?

Gayle’s daughter stood on the top rung of the ladder, her glare slicing her mother’s face. Her face was ashen, her hair disheveled. Boiling with fury, she ground her teeth and clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. With a swoop of her arm, she flung yellowed photographs at her mother. Her nostrils flared, and Gayle could see where the tears left their mark on her daughter’s cheeks.

Just fifteen minutes earlier, Gayle had returned from shopping. Silence greeted her as she entered her home that Friday evening. No raucous sounds had come from her grandson’s bedroom. No giggling and nonsensical conversation from the living room, where her granddaughter spent every waking minute on the phone. No threats from her daughter ordering her children to get ready for supper and finish cleaning their rooms.

She hung her keys on the rack beside the front door and shed her heavy overcoat and scarf before bending down to remove her boots. Hello, I’m home." she called out to the empty house. No answer. Putting on her slippers, she walked into the kitchen. No signs of dinner being prepared. The dishes, stacked in the drying bin, and the pork chops, which she had taken out that afternoon, were on the counter, still in their cellophane packaging. She made her way upstairs, checking the bedrooms, only to find them empty.

Perplexed, she stood in the hallway. A small thud overhead? The attic. She stepped toward the ladder when she heard a louder thud, as if a heavy object had landed on the floor. Hello! she called from the base of the ladder. No answer. Stepping onto the ladder, she saw her daughter facing her from above.

Her daughter did not speak or move. She just stood and stared at her mother as if for the very first time. Who are you? she whispered when Gayle stepped on the last rung.

Gayle stood frozen. Her mouth trembled, trying to form words that would pacify her daughter, but she felt as though a rock was lodged in her throat, preventing her from speaking. Her legs took on a life of their own, running towards her bedroom. A whimper escaped her mouth, a feeble apology to her daughter, before she locked herself in the bedroom.

How long Gayle sat in the corner of her bedroom, rocking back and forth in her chair, she did not know. At first, the incessant knocking on the door and the shouts from her daughter to open it. Then the ominous silence. She clutched the pillow her granddaughter embroidered for her, running her fingers over the words ‘to my Grandma Gayle.’ How could she tell her family that Gayle did not exist, that she had taken the name over twenty years ago to escape her previous life? Gayle groaned at the irony of taking on another’s persona. She was more real as Gayle than she had ever been as Gertrude. Gertrude. The very name caused her to flinch. A young girl raised to hate, to do unspeakable acts. Even though she was never held accountable for her actions, she lived with guilt every day of her life. She knew she had to face her daughter someday. Oh, she had many chances. But the fear of losing Mia’s love was too much to bear. The burden of keeping her identity a secret took its toll on her life—two minor heart attacks and a bleeding ulcer—but still she could not bring herself to tell the truth. The coward that she was, she spun stories about her past—stories that reflected a happy childhood, a far cry from her own.

Now her daughter’s life was in ruins. Telling her about her past was the most demanding thing she would ever have to do in her life. Why did I leave those photographs and memorabilia in the attic? she asked herself. Panic swelled up inside her, threatening to swallow her. Despair gnawed at her guts.

The smell of pork chops frying in the kitchen made her nauseous, as she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Then the sound of the dishwasher humming and her daughter’s footsteps down the hall, which did not pause in front of the door. The house was quiet now, quiet and foreboding. The sound of thunder was welcoming as she prepared herself for the upcoming storm. She had escaped from her childhood home during the onset of a storm, and her beautiful daughter was born during one of the most ferocious storms Munich had ever experienced. As flashes of lightning lit up the sky, her mind returned to the aftermath of the Great War.

March 1919

The Great War was over. A war that left Germany bereft of all pride. It was a war that was fought for nothing. It was a war fought in vain, leaving in its wake almost two million slaughtered, along with four million disillusioned and wounded veterans seeking answers for their country’s loss and their Kaiser’s abdication. The generals tried to divert the blame for defeat to those at home, those who stabbed their country in the back. The Jewish population became the reason Germany lost the war. Anti-Semitism was prevalent throughout the country, making it easier to target the Jews as the cause of Germany’s defeat.

As Gertrude walked down the street of her village, its deterioration struck her once again. Once a thriving town, its shops were prosperous, and the food market attracted farmers with staples for their tables. Men gathered outside the meeting halls, prophesying a productive future. Now, men, old before their time, met to talk about the war—how, once again, the Jews had sabotaged them. These were the men who set out to defend Germany at all costs, who were willing to die for their country. But to be betrayed? The humiliation of the armistice left every veteran bitter and angry. The armistice did not mean peace for them: they were now victims of France, who wished to exterminate all living Germans. France wanted revenge and reparations, ensuring the removal of any further German threat. The Allies made sure Germany would pay for the cost of the war.

They returned home hungry and freezing. They returned to a country in ruins. As millions of young men had died in the war, there was a shortage of men to work the machinery. Food was so scarce they ate cows, even rodents, to stay alive. It was a bitter reminder of the winter of 1916, called the Turnip Winter, which forced the civilians to live on turnips as the potato crops were a dismal failure. Malnutrition and illness plagued the returning soldiers and killed an unprecedented number of females. Then an epidemic of influenza swept through Germany, killing over seventeen hundred people in a single day, most of them young adults. The virus, perceived as having foreign origins, caused Germans to distrust outsiders.

Gertrude became an invisible eavesdropper on her walks home from school each day. So now we are to blame for starting the war? We have nothing, and yet France is so afraid of us. Is that fear causing them to take over our land? We could have won the war! The Jews at home sabotaged us.

How can we feed our families? Our money is worthless. France has taken over our agricultural and ore production.

The war had ended, but not its aftermath. It was being relived in every German’s mind. The rest of the world forced Germany to agree to take sole blame for the war, cancelling all the commercial contracts which further damaged the economy.

She could hear the yelling as she came around the corner to her home. Her father’s booming voice echoed across the countryside, spewing his outrage at his son’s transgressions. Gertrude smiled to herself, knowing that her brother had messed up once again. Two years her senior, he was a loser in her eyes. She felt nothing but disdain for Josef. He was a poor excuse for a young man, gangly and clumsy. It was embarrassing to hear him talk, as he stuttered when he was nervous.

She paused outside the dilapidated building, taking in the scent of the flowers in her mother’s garden, their vibrant colors of red, purple, and yellow looking so out of place against a backdrop of rotting wood, unpainted walls, and windows covered with dirt from the previous storm.

Gertrude put her report card on the table in front of her father. Her schoolwork was exemplary, and her grades reflected it. But her joy was short-lived because her grades didn’t count. What good are grades, girl? You will work in the factory just like your mama.

As Josef hung his head in shame as their father beat on the table with his fists, she realized this was not the occasion to gloat. What good would it do? Her father never gave her the praise she deserved, and for once she took pity on her brother. She went into the tiny kitchen and reached for the supper dishes. The smell of sauerkraut permeated the air.

No one dared touch the platter holding the stew, placed in the center of the dinner table. They had to wait until Father helped himself, leaving meager servings for the rest of his family. Gertrude, I need you to clean up after supper, as I am needed at the factory tonight. Her mother’s voice sounded fatigued.

But Mama, I was hoping to go over to Hazel’s to study.

Nein! growled her father. Your place is here.

He didn’t trouble himself to glance at her, as he was too busy thrusting his chunks of bread onto his plate. Gertrude, disgusted by watching droppings from his supper make it down to his disheveled beard, averted her eyes. He had the habit of speaking with food still in his mouth.

Tonight was no exception.

We are to be casualties once again because of the corruption of the Jews! he shouted. They forced your mother to quit her job at the factory. And Josef—he pointed to his son with his knife— lost his position to that Jewish fellow up the road!

Gertrude almost smirked. Her brother was so incompetent at the menial job of stocking shelves it was no wonder they discharged him.

Her father continued, glaring at her. You will find work now. It is up to you to help support the family.

She did not respond. She realized that if she did, her cheek would be the recipient of a slap from the back of his hand. Her father hadn’t worked for five years because of his heavy drinking. His family became his audience for his diatribes about the cowardice of their kaiser, how Germany had lost its grandeur, and how he was a casualty after sacrificing his existence to support his country.

Later that night, lying on her bed, Gertrude contemplated her future: wedding a tyrant of a man and working in the factory while taking care of her household. Her destiny was dim because of her minimal opportunities. Leaving school to go to work at the dreaded beet factory was her only option.

She stared at the wall in front of her. Pictures of her esteemed philosophers framed a giant swastika, a present from her mentor, Herr Friesen. So, my wise visionaries, what advice do you have for me? These brilliant prophets foresaw a glorious future for her country. They could solve one girl’s dilemma. But no words of wisdom came from their pictures. Disgruntled, she rolled over and closed her eyes.

***

Instead of going straight home from school the following day, Gertrude went to Herr Friesen’s shop, entering through the back entrance to his office. She was never tired of being in this room. An array of books and papers were spread over his worktable. It was here that he taught her about the history of their country and introduced her to the works of the most prominent truth seekers.

She reflected on the day she came across the shopkeeper’s treasure chest. Among the assortment of used household items were shelves of books covered in dust, some with their covers torn off. The variety of books opened a whole new world for her. Learning about the great heroes of the past sparked her imagination. One afternoon, as she was looking through the shelves, she saw Herr Friesen in his back room, his door ajar. He was leaning over his desk in front of a poster of a strange design: two black lines looking like the letter zed with an intersection in the middle. (She learned later that it was a swastika).

There were books scattered all over his desk. Gertrude, intrigued by what she saw, knew she had to inspect this room.

Two days later, she came up with the perfect plan. Her patience had paid off: by sitting near the counter of the store, reading books, she could hear Herr Friesen’s conversations. One afternoon, the jingling of the bell above the door announced a stranger. Dressed in a brown suit, his hat hiding most of his face, he made his way to the counter. Gertrude could not make out what he was saying, but she heard Herr Friesen say, I will have the envelope on Friday. Go now. He called his daughter, Margot, over. I will be out of town on Friday. The store will be closed.

Perfect. She could coerce Margot into giving her the key to the store. Margot cringed every time Gertrude came into view. Too many of her classmates had been the targets of Gertrude’s cruelty.

Friday morning, the plan went into action. Gertrude unlocked the back door of the thrift store using a key that didn’t belong to her. She had never entered the store from this entrance. Her eyes took in the surroundings. An array of objects filled the entry room—useless items that the needy could use. She made her way to another door, praying that it was open. She knew it would lead to Herr Friesen’s room. The door opened, and she was inside, facing that strange symbol she had seen three days ago. The papers on his desk all had the same design, so she knew it had a significant meaning. She picked up a report on the status of the Jews in Germany and elsewhere, with Herr Friesen’s notes scribbled in the margins. Putting it aside, she turned to the scattered pages on his desk, each of them containing research on various philosophers.

Gertrude sat at his desk and began reading his notes. Her heart began pounding, and excitement rose in her, filling her entire being. She was now privy to sacred writings, an ideology that captivated her. History came alive for her as she perused the writings of influential men, all professing to achieve one goal: German nationalism, to unite the Volk—the spiritual community of the German people—into a single entity defined by language and culture. Chills crept down her spine when she saw the quote from M. P. Shiel in 1895, predicting a society that murdered thousands of people across Europe. It was a conspiracy to purge humanity of contaminated blood to advance human progress. So many papers on the need to expunge the Jewish race. Gertrude’s heart continued to pound, and she could not catch her breath. She felt more alive because of the information she received.

When she left the store and gave the key back to a shaking Margot, she was exhilarated, as she foresaw herself being a part of a majestic plan to cleanse her country. First, she would convince Herr Friesen to allow her access to his wealth of information. Her life now focused only on ridding her country of those who were undesirable.

That night, she could not sleep. The discovery of the anti-Semitic literature in Herr Friesen’s private room was a genuine revelation for her. She never paid attention to her feelings about hating the Jews; it was just a natural feeling for her. But now, knowing that there was proof that they were to be despised, clarified her feelings of hatred. All her life, she heard adults talk about how the Jewish people were inferior and how they caused Germany’s downfall, but no one had a plan to stop the injustices. No one, not even the people she thought of as influential figures, dared to do anything about the situation. But now she knew there were people outside the political sphere trying to solve the problem, not just talk about it. She felt disdain for those who would not stand up for their country.

***

Herr Friesen’s booming voice interrupted her reverie. Ah, my favorite student blesses me with her appearance! He entered the room, his arms filled with books. And why such a forlorn look on your face? Are you not pleased to be here? Wait, I shall play for you your music.

Dropping the books onto the table, he went to the gramophone, and as Wagner’s music penetrated the room, he began dancing in circles, his arms outstretched as if he himself were conducting the music.

Gertrude smiled as she watched her mentor move in time with the music. His head, topped with unruly white hair, bopped up and down, his spectacles almost falling off his nose.

As the music stopped, he sat in front of her. So now tell me, what is it that is troubling you?

I am doomed, Herr Friesen! My life is over! Father is forcing me to work in that dreaded factory! Her eyes welled up into tears as she drew in a stuttered gasp, making it difficult to speak.

Nein! That will not happen! We will just have to speed up our plans to get you to Munich. Now, do not fret, my girl. Wipe your tears and listen to your mentor.

It was dark when Gertrude got home. For once, she was not afraid of her father’s wrath. Soon she would be out of the house forever, and he could no longer hurt her. She braced herself for his anger as she came into the kitchen. To her surprise, her father was sitting at the table, smiling as he looked over at Josef. Her mother was standing at the counter, humming as she took the dishes out for supper. Josef did not acknowledge his sister’s arrival.

Joseph has a new job starting tomorrow at the factory. It is a time to celebrate. Her father’s smile turned into a repulsive grin. So, your mother has rewarded him by embroidering his initials onto his shirt.

As her mother put the dishes on the table, she placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. We are so proud of you. I want everyone at the factory to know you are my son, Josef Edward Wagstaff.

Her father began laughing as Josef reached across his shirt to cover the three initials.

***

Gertrude began spending all her spare time with Herr Friesen. Her father, for once, did not comment on her absences, as his drinking had escalated. More than once, her mother had to rescue him from the local pub with the help of Joseph, dragging him through the streets to their home.

Her afternoons with Herr Friesen were the highlights of her life. She returned home each night, exhilarated by what she had learned. As much as she detested her time at home, reflecting on what Herr Friesen had taught her made it easier to listen to her father’s drunken outbursts about the injustices of the world. Josef sat across from her at dinner with his head bowed. He had always been the sensitive one in the family, believing in the good of everyone. He hated his father’s talk about the Jews, but he never interjected with his thoughts.

You are so gullible! Gertrude berated him as they leaned against the woodshed in the backyard—their place to smoke, their secret getaway.

Without looking at his sister, he answered. You hate father, yet you are sounding more like him every day, saying awful things about people you don’t even know. Sister, you have hair on your teeth!

Gertrude scowled at him as she blew smoke into his face. Words from a boy who failed in school, who knows nothing about our history! You sound just like Ida. She added, And if I am confrontational, it’s because I want you to open your eyes to see the world around you.

Josef’s’ face was now as red as the freshly picked strawberries. Gertrude smirked. She knew of his infatuation with the insipid girl in his school, how he continued to stare at her from afar, yet never dared to say anything to the object of his affection. "Dumb fool!" Ida made speeches during assembly, speeches that fell on deaf ears. Who wanted to hear about getting rid of hatred?

Brother, you only see things through pink glasses. She sighed, knowing her words were not reaching him.

The two of them finished their cigarettes in silence. Josef groaned as he rose to his feet, hearing his father’s incensed rantings from the kitchen about their country’s weak government. He turned to his sister, who was still crouched against the shed. You cannot believe the words of that shopkeeper, Gertrude. What he is teaching you is nothing but lies that have short legs.

It was Gertrude’s face, which was now red, not from embarrassment but from anger, which spiraled from the pit of her stomach. She felt the heat burning into her cheek, and heard the blood rushing to her head.

Lies, are they, dear brother? You call the writings of so many influential men lies? She spat out the words through gritted teeth.

Filled with frustration and disdain for her brother, she stomped off toward their house.

***

I’m done and ready. The petite brunette, lighting her cigarette, leaned against the woodshed where Gertrude and Josef had sat the day before. Her voice, soft as a feather, registered defeat. You are sitting in the ink, my friend. Your brother is right. You have so much hatred eating away at you, too much hatred for such a young girl. She paused as she caught Gertrude’s look of disdain on her face. I listen to the sounds coming out of your mouth, but all I hear are words spewing animosity and disgust.

Gertrude grabbed Sonia’s hand. They are the words of some of the greatest visionaries! Even Fraulein Mason teaches us about the problems we are facing with the Bolsheviks and Jews.

Nein! Sonia jerked her hand away. You are not listening to her. She is telling us what happens when prejudiced people blame others for their woes.

Gertrude jumped to her feet. Come with me. I will prove to you I am justified in feeling hatred for those that deserve it.

In her bedroom, Gertrude took her folders of research from under her bed and handed them to Sonia. Please, my friend. Read these, and you will understand my desire to make a difference. If she read the works of some of the most profound writers, perhaps she would wake up to what was happening in her world.

She had lived and breathed the philosophy of the newly founded Thule Society, resonating with the beliefs of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, who created the first chapter of Theosophy in 1875, an international religious movement. Its adherents were obsessed with the notion of Aryan racial superiority. Gertrude’s personal feelings about Jewish people were confirmed, knowing the teachings of Blavatsky derived from the masters of the Hidden Brotherhood—the Mahatmas—Tibetans—who were the keepers of treasures from the Book of Dzyan, the oldest manuscript in the world. When her friend read this, she would understand why she was fighting to save her country.

This is our bible, Herr Friesen had whispered to her when he handed her the treasured book. He showed her the proof of the superiority of the Aryan race. Here, he had said, pointing to the research. There once existed four races, and the Aryans were one of them. They were fair-skinned invaders who subjugated the swarthy natives of India. And this—he had held the symbol, which had perplexed Gertrude when she first entered his room— is the sacred swastika, the primeval religious symbol of Aryan India.

As Herr Friesen worked with his zealous protégé, he would play for her his treasured music by Richard Wagner. His favorite was The Ring of the Nibelung. Gertrude loved to see him marching around his cluttered room, waving his little arms back and forth with the music. His white tousled hair framed his wrinkled face, and his beard, matching his hair, hid part of his face. His blue eyes twinkled through his spectacles. He was a tiny man with gigantic goals. Wagner knew the state of our world way back in the 1800s! He knew the Aryans traced back their origins to the gods, and how the depravity of blood threatened their dominance! He reached across the table and grabbed Gertrude’s arm. The Jews are the symbol of all the vices of our modern world, girl! As he listened to the music, he thought of Wagner, who had such a ferocious hatred of the Jews and claimed that the only solution was to get rid of them.

The folders Gertrude gave her friend contained all the proof she needed to understand why she had to be on board with her.

A flicker of a smile came across her lips as she watched her friend walk across the backyard to her home, exhaling a deep and relaxed breath. Sonia could not argue against such words of wisdom. It was impossible to sleep that night, picturing Sonia reading the treasured words.

She waited for her in the woodshed the next day, anticipating her friend’s reaction to reading her research. Her left hand straightened her dress with long, nervous strokes. Her heart felt like a fist slamming into her insides.