Risking Exposure

by Jeanne Moran

  Uta and Marie looked at me blankly, but Rennie piped up. “It’s Anna.” The other two groaned when I nodded. “Werner told me.”

  “How did he know?”

  “He and Anna are sort of seeing each other,” she said.

  Uta and Marie groaned again. “Nothing personal, Rennie,” Marie said, “but I can’t picture Werner with a girlfriend.”

  Uta shook her head. “I can’t picture Anna as a girlfriend!”

  “She’s been nice to me since I’ve been here.” I lowered my voice to a near whisper. “Sort of.” My three friends nodded their understanding.

  “We can only stay a few minutes, Sophie,” Marie said. “We have to set up for a BDM meeting tonight.”

  Uta chimed in. “Marie and I are in charge of refreshments.”

  Rennie’s curls bobbed as she plopped on my bed and faced me. “I can stay a while.” She smiled her sweet, familiar smile. “I’m on clean-up.”

  Uta shifted. “Don’t be late, Rennie. We have a lot of planning to do.”

  “What are you planning?” I asked.

  Marie piped up. “Don’t you remember? Landdienst. We leave June first.”

  I’d forgotten. If I hadn’t been hospitalized, I’d be leaving for the Landdienst work program too. During the summer months, Youth in German cities left their homes to labor on farms. Helping with crops and animal care was good, honest work, and it kept German mouths full.

  “I brought a treat.” Mutti reached in a bag and pulled out a small, towel-covered basket of our bakery’s cinnamon buns. We ate our fill of the sticky heaven.

  I gestured to the two buns left in the basket. “May I offer these to my other friends? Hospital food is nothing like this.” My mother nodded, so I called Marla and Elisabeth over, introduced them, and offered them the extra buns.

  Marla’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure that’s fair? I mean, there’s not enough for everyone.”

  Elisabeth reached her hand in the basket, smiling. “I’ll take one, danke.” She gestured to nearby patients, chatting happily with their guests. “They don’t seem to mind.” She bit into a bun, “Mmm,” icing smearing across her lips.

  Marla snatched the last bun. We giggled at her guilty expression.

  As they ate, Rennie chatted with them about sweets and favorite candies. Uta and Marie smiled politely but said little, glancing around often, obviously uncomfortable.

  All the while my mother moved around my bed, smoothing the quilt, fluffing the pillow. At one point she caught my eye, making sure I noticed as she tucked something under my pillow. Before I could ask, she furrowed her eyebrows to indicate, “Not now.” So I stayed quiet.

  As Marla and Elisabeth left to see their own guests, a familiar voice boomed across the ward. “Heil, Hitler.” A few people responded in kind.

  Klaus. He strode over and patted my head. “Hello, little cat.” He nodded to my friends. “Girls.” He faced me. “Has Mutti told you about Hans and his, um, indiscretion?”

  Our mother glared at him and drew herself up as tall as she could, barely reaching his collarbone. She poked her finger in his chest. “Shame on you, barging in here and speaking that way of my husband.” Her face was red, and a little bit of spittle flew from the corner of her mouth.

  Smiling, Klaus raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s a simple question.”

  But Mutti continued to snarl. “He has been most kind to you,” she emphasized each syllable with that prodding finger, “raising you as his own since you were barely out of diapers. What he is doing …” With those words, her voice caught. She stopped speaking and dropped her arm.

  What was Papa doing? In. Out. In. Out.

  Klaus waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Here we are mother, you and I, doing everything. Helping the Fatherland, managing the bakery, delivering.” He poked a thumb toward me. “Sophie can’t help us. She can’t even help herself.” I drew a breath and heard Rennie gasp, too. He continued, “Hans can’t help us. He’s a hundred kilometers away, in trouble for…”

  Mutti snatched the empty shopping bags off my bed and stomped out. She didn’t even say Auf Wiedersehen. I was stunned. It all happened so quickly.

  Klaus settled in the armchair and leaned back, hands linked behind his head and ankles crossed in front of him. Pleased and confident, as if he’d won a boxing contest.

  That brought me to my senses fast. “You’re so mean,” I growled. “I can’t help it that I’m…” I fought the urge to cry.

  “Remember when you took photos at our Youth event?”

  I gulped. As if I could forget.

  “You got sick right after that, so I gave the film to the Scharführer. He’ll stop by today to talk with you.”

  My voice sounded weak, even to me. “He will?”

  Uta stood. “Let’s get some air.” My three friends left me alone with my stepbrother.

  “On to other things.” He sat upright, pulled a wrinkled paper from a pocket, and thrust it to me. “Does this look familiar?”

  I blinked, stunned. It was the last note I’d written to Esther, the one I’d tossed in a bin in the park before I got sick. I searched the words now, desperately hoping they wouldn’t reveal too much.

  Dear E,

  This is all so confusing. I can’t tell anyone how I feel. Maybe someday we can speak about it face to face.

  Yours,

  S

  Klaus furrowed his brows in exaggerated concern and tapped the paper. “So little cat, can you explain this?”

  Chapter Six

  Glare

  I couldn’t deny I’d written the letter. My stepbrother knew my handwriting. I stammered, “Where, where did you get this?”

  “I found it fluttering through the park, that day you were doing math. Were you expecting someone?” He watched me for a reaction. “You have confused feelings for someone?”

  Panic rose in me like mercury in a thermometer. In. Out. In. Out. “It’s none of your business, Klaus,” I managed.

  He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning so close I could smell onions on his breath. “What kind of a fool do you take me for, Sophie? I know what you’re up to.” My gut clenched. “Your boyfriends will always be my business.”

  Boyfriends?

  “Erich the Beautiful, you call him, right?”

  It took a moment. Klaus thought Erich was E. I reread the letter quickly. Nothing there contradicted Klaus’ thought. If I played along, my secret letters to Esther stayed secret. “I’ve always thought Erich is good-looking.” No surprise there.

  Klaus chuckled and reached the letter toward me again. “Do you want this? Maybe to tuck under your pillow so you can dream about him?” He lifted his hands to one cheek and fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, Erich,” he crooned.

  My panic settled. Klaus didn’t know a note in Erich’s real handwriting was under my pillow. “Just put it in my drawer,” I said. That was close.

  My girlfriends hesitated in the doorway, so I waved them in. “I leave in a couple of weeks,” Klaus said as the girls sat, “to start my time with the RLS.” Young men around his age served their obligation in the Reich Labor Service by working for six months or so clearing land, draining swamps, big projects like that. After RLS, they began their military service.

  “You’ll all be gone.” I choked on the bitter loneliness of my words.

  Rennie tipped her head in silent apology. “We’ll be back after the harvest. November probably.”

  Klaus turned to something outside the ward’s windows then abruptly bolted out the door. Uta and Marie stood, peering outside on tip toe, but Rennie stayed right beside me. Good old Rennie.

  Mutti was still out there waiting for the streetcar, talking with Werner and our BDM leader Helga. My mother’s head turned repeatedly as first Werner and then Helga spoke. When Klaus arrived and placed himself beside the Youth leaders, Mutti scowled at him. She climbed on the arriving streetcar alone. Klaus and the leaders exchanged salutes and parted.

  “W
hat was that all about?” I mumbled, knowing full well my girlfriends didn’t have the answer. Werner and Helga entered the ward, so I tucked the blanket around my legs.

  Uta stood quickly. “Well, we really must be going. Wonderful seeing you, Sophie.”

  Marie did likewise. “Yes, glad you’re feeling better.” They stopped when the leaders entered, saluted their greeting, and raced to catch the streetcar.

  I’d never thought much of it when people saluted. But saluting at the hospital felt wrong somehow, like shouting in church.

  Werner tossed a bulky envelope into my lap. “We’ve come to see you about these photos.” He kept his distance from me and eyed the other patients warily.

  “I, I haven’t got the strength,” I whispered to Rennie, waggling my weak fingers.

  She nodded, slid the stack of photos from the envelope, and lifted the first by its edges for my inspection. A full-length profile of a uniformed Youth member, his handgun aimed at an unseen target. Well focused. Good composition. Lighting adequate. She lowered it and raised the next, time and again, letting me examine them without comment. All stills; no action shots. Later, I’d match these results to the notes I’d jotted down. Overall, I was pleased.

  But again I tasted acid, disappointment at my failure to capture the whole truth as I’d promised Papa – spent shells beside dented crucifixes.

  Werner snatched the pile of photos and pocketed them. “I’ve shown these to other Youth Leaders. We’ve decided.”

  I reached out my empty hand. “I need to compare these photos to my notes…”

  He ignored me. “You’ll get two rolls of film a month while you are here in rehabilitation. Use the film to keep your skills sharp.” He gazed around the ward. “You’re confined here, yes?” I nodded. “Then you’ll photograph this place and these people.”

  In a single afternoon, my camera and a supply of film had come to me!

  “That way when you’re discharged, you might still be of some use. Not like the rest of these,” he waved his hand at the ward, “these useless eaters.”

  Same term he’d used for that deformed puppy. I wrapped my arms around my stomach.

  Werner raised his voice so everyone in the ward could hear. “Yes, those who use German resources without giving back to the Volk, they’re useless. At least you, Adler, you have a skill the Reich can use even though you’re crippled.”

  In. Out. In. Out.

  Helga spoke up. “Surely you realize the Reich is showing kindness, giving you a chance to contribute.” She hesitated as if I ought to offer my thanks. When I didn’t, she continued in her bored tone. “Since you can’t keep up with the other girls, you won’t be in BDM anymore.”

  “But,” my voice squeaked, “I pledged. I’m the Youth photographer. My friends…”

  Werner held up his hand. “We’ve told your mother. It’s arranged.”

  The pledge ceremony and one awful activity, and my time in BDM was over. My thoughts were unfocused, blurry.

  From a second pocket, he produced two small tins and set them on my dresser. “In a few weeks, I’ll pick up this film. If your photos are,” one corner of his mouth lifted, “approved, you’ll be given two more rolls.” He saluted and Helga echoed it. They both held the pose, waiting.

  Rennie glanced at me and poked my right arm. I raised it a little, but I didn’t look at the leaders. They must have been satisfied because they left.

  I let my hand flop into my lap and closed my eyes, too stunned to speak.

  “Let’s get some air.” Rennie rose and without waiting for a response, pushed me onto the porch. She flopped into a chair and barely held back tears. “He makes me so mad.”

  The catch in my voice matched the one in hers. “My own Youth leaders don’t want me. They think I’m useless.” We sat that way, each of us upset and sniffling, lost for a time in our own pain.

  Gradually my senses stirred, as if harsh words and illness and the stuffy ward had been a bad dream. There before me, tiny brown birds hopped through manicured grass, scolding each other with soprano cheeps. A motor car approached, its tires grumbling along the cobblestone street. The sweetness of lilacs and geraniums surrounded me, filled me. Sunlight bathed my arms, its warmth seeping down to my bones, right to my soul.

  While I’d been sick, life had continued.

  Rennie patted my hand. “Tell me everything that’s happened.”

  So I did, starting with the Youth activity the night I got sick right up until that very morning. When I was done, I said, “Wait right here.” I pushed into the ward and returned a minute later, my lap piled with a notepad and pencil, my camera bag, and a tin of film. “Can you take dictation?”

  Rennie grinned and settled back, pencil in hand. I chose my words carefully.

  Dear Papa,

  I’m getting stronger all the time. I even stand a little with my temporary brace.

  Today was my first visitation, and I had lots of company. Rennie is here now, writing this for me. Mutti brought my camera and your letter. The Scharführer brought film so I can keep up my photography skills.

  I’ll take lots of photos of the people here. I can’t wait to show them to you and tell you all about this place and what we do here.

  I hope you’re enjoying Austria. Please write me again and tell me all about it. You can post your letter to me at the hospital.

  I miss you, Papa.

  Your Sophiela

  “Now,” I said, giving her the camera clumsily, “I’d like help loading the film.” She moved her fingers toward some white smudges on the leatherette. “Don’t touch those,” I said quickly. “They’re Papa’s fingerprints. Flour.” She didn’t need more explanation. Good old Rennie.

  Step by step, I told her how to open the camera’s hinged back and load the film on the spindles. I could only watch. Frustration at my own weakness filled me, and again I blinked away tears.

  Once the film was loaded, I asked, “Can I take a photo of you?”

  She leaned into me and hugged, her dark curls pressing my face. “I’d like that.” She hurried to the porch railing where deep green hollies formed a perfect backdrop for her ivory skin.

  To extend the bellows on my camera, I needed to press a tiny latch release no bigger than the nib of a pen, then grasp a lever with two fingers of my other hand and pull, all while stabilizing the camera. But instead of pressing, grasping, and pulling, my doughy fingers collapsed and slipped on the small mechanisms. I didn’t just need help loading the film. I needed help working the camera. I was no photographer.

  Rennie read my expression and hurried over. “It has a timer, right?” I nodded. Her gray eyes locked on mine, earnest. “We can do this.” Gently, she worked the sticky latch and pulled open the thick folded bellows. “There. Let’s get a picture of both of us.” She brought a small table over and sat the camera on it. “You’re the photographer,” her voice was encouraging, “so you set up the shot. We’ll set the timer together.”

  I slid the camera around the tabletop and asked her to pose again in front of the hollies. My thumbs didn’t work for the fine buttons and latches, but they did work to spin the brass focus dial. “I need help with the shutter speed and the aperture.” Again, she left her spot and moved the tiny indicators to the settings I chose. “See that lever with the red button?” I said. “Click it, then press the one with the notches. That’ll give a fifteen second delay.”

  She shook her head. “We’ll do it together.”

  I placed my clumsy pointer finger on the red lever, and she placed her sturdy finger on top of mine. Together, we pressed the timer and then the shutter. Together, we hurried to the bushes and posed, smiling genuine smiles, as the shutter clicked.

  That night as I slid my hands under my pillow, I felt for Erich’s letter. Something else was under there too, a lumpy drawstring pouch. Rosary beads and a note in my mother’s hand.

  Sometimes I’m followed. Perhaps our family is being watched. Be careful.

  My heart
raced and I glanced around the ward room, checking to see if anyone’s eyes were on me. I transferred to my wheelchair, pushed to the bathroom, and flushed the note down the toilet.

  I said the rosary three times that night, but it didn’t bring me comfort.

  Now that I had my camera and film, I had a plan. I’d work extra hard in OT toward my goal of being a photographer again. And it worked. My arms got stronger, and I needed less help lathering a washcloth and combing my hair. I even pushed my wheelchair most places while Anna walked beside me. But sometimes, after a long day of therapy, I was drenched with sweat and my twitching, aching arms didn’t have one push left. Anna would shake her head and say “Aww”, as if I were an injured kitten. Then she’d push me to the ward to massage the aching knots in my muscles.

  In physio, I grew strong enough to sit for three or four minutes and slide myself along a little board to get from my wheelchair to my bed. I even took a few steps in my temp in those long parallel bars. But my right leg still didn’t move much. It hung down sort of limp, a cooked noodle draped over the side of a pot.

  14 May, Saturday

  Rennie and the other BDM girls had gone camping for the weekend. I pictured them roasting wieners over a fire, singing songs, and hiking mountain trails while I sat there in the hospital, in a wheelchair. When large raindrops speckled the pavement and splashed the windowpanes, part of me, a mean but honest part, hoped the girls were stuck inside their tents.

  Mutti entered the ward room at full speed, performed her visual inspection of her surroundings, and tipped her nose to show her disapproval. Then she kissed the top of my head – an actual kiss! – and lowered her square frame to my bed. Her gaze fell to my spindly right leg and she drew her eyes away in a hurry. “I brought you some writing paper, envelopes, and stamps,” she said, pulling the items out of a small bag and tucking them in my drawer. She turned to me. “Now, I need the letter you got from your father.”