Helga by Wendy Staples
“You’re late again!” muttered Axel, as he held open the heavy reinforced door and stepped aside for Helga to enter the narrow lobby.
She raised her eyebrows and waited, while he performed the seemingly pointless ritual of checking her security pass and then proceeded to re-lock the outer door and hammer on the inner one with his fist, until that too was opened by Horst, who was hastily brushing pastry crumbs off his uniform.
“Not that anyone will notice this morning.” Axel continued, watching Helga as she opened the tall cupboard in the hallway and pulled out her cleaning equipment. “The news is that it’s all over for Germany. We’re surrounded. No way out.”
All this was addressed to Helga’s back, but she made no sign of having heard. Being mute, he, like most people, assumed that she was also deaf, but this was not strictly true, since she was only deaf in one ear. A deformity of the vocal cords was the reason she couldn’t speak, but it suited her to perpetuate the myth.
A door burst open further down the central corridor and out stormed an angry little man; the familiar slicked down hair looking unusually untidy and the absence of a tie making his uniformed appearance seem strangely unthreatening in its casualness. He shot a glance at the three figures near the door and for once, not halting to elicit the customary salute, but rubbing furiously at the small moustache above his top lip, crossed abruptly to a door on the opposite side and flung it open. From within came the sound of a woman sobbing, which could still be faintly heard even after the door was closed.
Helga looked up enquiringly at Axel. If this was the end, she supposed she would have to find another job. She would miss Axel and Horst, who both now stood staring down the corridor, uncertain as to their next move. She’d been lucky to find this menial employment. It seemed that her disabilities weighed in her favour in this situation.
After all, a deaf mute couldn’t overhear state secrets, nor pass them on to the enemy. Of course, she had learned to read, but there were never any papers left lying around, so she remained blissfully ignorant of how the war was progressing; only hearing the propaganda broadcasts on her parents’ radio at home.
“Better start in the rest room.” Horst mouthed at her and with a dumb show of hand gestures, indicated that she should leave the private quarters till last. Helga nodded, but had no intention of altering her usual circuit. Armed with dusters and broom, she set off down the corridor. She was accustomed to being ignored and this morning was no exception. In the communications room all was feverish activity. A couple of generals were barking orders and harassed looking radio operatives were valiantly trying to pass on messages, which were coming in thick and fast and appeared to be a mess of contradictions. No one was paying her any attention. Papers lay strewn on the plotting table and as Helga plied her trusty duster she managed to glance at some of the information. So it was true. Berlin was falling. Surrender was being negotiated. And then a single sheet, headed ‘Last Will and Testament’.
Helga couldn’t help herself. She ventured a look over her shoulder, but attention was being focused on more disturbing up-dates. She began to read as swiftly as possible. Well! That nasty little man had apparently married that mistress of his; that could only have happened yesterday; she hadn’t been wearing a ring the day before. It was the next paragraph that made Helga start and hurriedly push the paper away. It stated that they would both agree to commit suicide once a surrender was signed. She shivered and picking up her dusters, left the room. She didn’t want to hang around to see that. As soon as she’d finished her cleaning she was off.
She decided to carry on as if all was normal, but as she tapped gently on the door to the private quarters and pushed it cautiously open a few inches, she saw that the couple were seated on the sofa and he was trying to force something between her teeth, while she was crying and struggling. Helga withdrew quickly, unsure as to what she’d just seen. She decided she should wait a while and finish off some of the other rooms first before returning.
An hour or so later she nudged open the door again. The woman was still on the sofa, but her face was now contorted in pain and flecks of foam dappled her mouth and chin. Her eyes were open, but Helga could tell from her pale colour and the weird angles of her legs and arms that she was dead. Standing at a nearby chest of drawers, the man, unconcerned by the scene at his elbow, was packing some of his clothes into a small valise. ‘The bastard!’ she thought. ‘He must have been forcing his wife to take poison and now he’s planning to make a run for it.’
He turned at the sound in the doorway and guiltily slammed down the lid of the case, crossing hastily towards the sofa and reaching down to pick up a pistol which lay on the low table in front of it. He levelled the pistol at Helga and both stood motionless for a few moments, while a torrent of garbled phrases issued from his mouth.
With her one good ear Helga picked out, “..don’t understand..” “..can still win..” “traitorous deserters..” “..loved her..” until unexpectedly he sat down heavily on the sofa and placed his head on his arms on the table and tore at his hair.
The pistol lay close to his arm, discarded, unused. Helga, moved to righteous anger by the unfolding events, did not hesitate, but bent to pick up the pistol and, placing it close to the man’s temple, pulled the trigger. She attempted to push his now lifeless body against the back of the sofa, but it kept falling forward, leaving splatters of blood on the heavy brocade fabric, so in the end she left it where it had lain on the table and, returning to the hallway with her dusters and broom, she retrieved her jacket from its hook and nodding to Axel for him to open the entrance door, she emerged into the spring sunshine and headed for home.
Photo shows a controversial replica of the Führerbunker at the Berlin Story Museum.
