Risking Exposure

by Jeanne Moran

  Anna was nearby, directing several patients as they painted the backdrop for Hercules’ trip to the Augean stables. “How can we fit three thousand oxen on this one sheet?” Fritz asked her, gesturing to the table-sized piece of paper.

  “Make brown dots,” Anna said.

  Elisabeth grinned at him. “Lots and lots of brown dots.”

  Anna’s lips pressed together. “Now don’t let the dots run together. We have to be able to see them individually.”

  Fritz went to work with his small paintbrush, his voice sing-song. “Ox-dots, ox-dots, lots and lots of ox-dots.” Elisabeth giggled.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked Anna.

  She gestured to a bolt of fabric and some shears on a nearby table. “Get started on the headpiece for Hydra, the nine-headed monster. The pattern is on top, and pins too.”

  “I don’t know how to sew.”

  She threw up her hands. “Can’t you do anything but sit around and take pictures? If this show is going to be good enough for our guests…” Abruptly, she bustled off somewhere.

  Herr Franken shook his head and gestured to me. “What do you say we try this together?” He poked a thumb toward the fabric. “I don’t know how to sew either, but I’ve watched my Gabriele pin patterns and cut them out. How hard can it be?”

  He and I worked together for thirty minutes or so, smoothing the fabric and pinning the paper pattern into place. By the time we cut out nine necks and their nine dragon-like heads, we were laughing at our own clumsy efforts.

  Fritz and Elisabeth, tired of their ox-dots, came over to inspect. Fritz picked up one of the Hydra-heads as if it were a puppet and thrust it at Elisabeth and me, growling with all the ferocity a six-year-old can muster. We shrieked in mock terror, laughing, as did Frau Berkheimer and a couple other patients.

  Only Marla, stuffing the last of the feathers in the lion’s tail, wasn’t amused. “If Anna sees you do that, she’ll be mad.”

  “Mad about what?” he asked. “About this?” He snuffled and snorted and thrust the fabric head at the lion’s tail in Marla’s hand. She screamed just as Anna entered the OT room.

  “What’s wrong?” Anna demanded, bustling over.

  Frau Berkheimer smiled. “It’s all right, Anna. They’re just playing.”

  “Enough playing,” Anna said, ignoring the OT and snatching the Hydra-head from Fritz’s hand. I heard the tell-tale rip. Caught beneath Fritz’s wheel, the head had torn clean off.

  Anna stared at the piece in her hand, then rounded on little Fritz. “Look what you did! You and your horseplay.”

  Fritz looked from the piece in Anna’s hand to the one under his wheel and hung his head. Elisabeth placed her arm around his shoulder and snapped, “You’re the one who ripped it, Anna.”

  Anna glared at Elisabeth then whirled back to the little boy. “Fritz, you need to do your part to move this project forward. If you can’t help, then stay out of the way.”

  Herr Franken walked to the little boy’s side and Frau Berkheimer marched over to Anna. “I need to speak with you. Now.” She gestured to the door and they left the room.

  Several patients murmured kind things to Fritz, about how it wasn’t his fault, we were all just having a good time, that sort of thing. Marla sat still and silent until there was a lull in the conversation. Then she said, “I told you she’d be mad,” whirled, and pushed out of the room.

  Herr Franken shook his head. “You know Fritz, you’re just like Hercules.” He gave the boy a smile. “You’ve defeated the Hydra by ripping off her head.” Fritz’s expression shifted slowly and became a tentative grin.

  Then Anna marched back in the room, stooping and snatching the torn costume pieces and clutching them to her chest. She fluttered one hand dramatically. “I’ll finish this costume myself.” Then she turned on her heel and stomped from the room.

  4 June, Saturday

  My mother’s visit was all business. She switched my clean and dirty clothes, smoothed my quilt, pecked me on the head, and left. I hadn’t seen Uta and Marie since the first visitation day, hadn’t even heard from them by post. And with Klaus, Erich, and Rennie away, I didn’t expect any other visitors. Sitting around in the ward room while everyone else enjoyed their company would be depressing, so I decided to take a better look at those scenic photos in the library. Maybe some of the photos in magazines too.

  The library smelled of lemon oil polish and the shelves gleamed, slick and dust-free. I stood at the same shelf where I’d stood before, left leg trembling, fingers sliding on the light oily film. But behind the books was nothing – no bundle of photos, nothing but empty space. The cleaning lady must have moved the photos.

  I plopped in my chair and made my way down the shelves, standing, sitting, searching, pulling volumes forward and looking behind. Nothing. I scanned the room, frustrated, hoping to spy the stack in some obvious place. In an orderly pile of newspapers and magazines on a bottom shelf, a thick newspaper was turned a bit sideways. I grabbed it.

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised to find a stack of photos inside the newspaper. I fanned through them in search of those lovely rural landscapes I’d admired. They weren’t there.

  Different photos.

  The first few showed parading Wehrmacht soldiers, Party flags, and painted signs welcoming the Führer. In one, the smiling Führer accepted flowers from schoolchildren and waved to a cheering crowd. Similar scenes had been in our newspapers and the cinema newsreels for months – the Anschluss, the incorporation of Austria back into our Fatherland.

  In the next photo, a dozen or so people, adults, children, and Wehrmacht soldiers, stood in a semi-circle. Each face showed a different expression. Some seemed surprised, some pleased. One suited old gentleman appeared stoic, almost blank, while several others looked as if they’d seen a ghost. A young woman covered the eyes of a small child and a meter or two away, a Wehrmacht soldier’s head was thrown back in laughter.

  In the center of the shot were eight or ten people crouched on all fours, some with faces close to the ground, a couple with heads raised and grass tucked in the sides of their mouths. I tried to imagine the where and why behind the photo. Probably a stunt from Karnevale or Oktoberfest. I placed it aside and lifted the next photo.

  Another crowd of people, some in Wehrmacht uniforms again, standing around a half-dozen men and women who scrubbed a cobblestone street on their hands and knees. Why would soldiers watch festival-goers do stunts?

  One of the men had reared up from his position, exposing the breast of his shirt. On it rested a six-pointed star. The man was a Jew. I caught my breath.

  The shirts of the other people on the ground were hidden from view. Maybe they were Jews too, maybe not. But a closer look at the hurt, shamed expressions on their faces made it clear – members of the German army were humiliating them in public. And other citizens stood by while it happened, doing nothing.

  And that’s when it hit me. I was just like them.

  When I could have said goodbye to Esther publicly I marched right past, ignoring her pleading eyes. When I saw crucifixes destroyed by bullets, I turned my camera away. When Anna accused Fritz of tearing the fabric, I stayed silent even though I knew she’d done it herself.

  If I were home, I’d confess my guilt to the priest, say my Penance, and try to do better. But there were no priests in rehabilitation.

  So right there, head pressed against the library table, I whispered, “Dear God, the only way I’ve ever prayed is by reciting the holy words I’ve been taught. Papa says that you like it when people just talk to you. It feels disrespectful, but I’ll try.

  “Father in heaven, Mary Holy Mother, these photos make me feel ashamed, ashamed that when I had the chance, I didn’t do what I could. I’ve been part of a group who pick on other people, who are mean and bossy and cruel. I’ve seen it happen, and I’ve done nothing about it. I’ve stood back silently, blending into the background just like the bystanders in the photos. I’m as guilty as they ar
e. Please forgive me.

  “I’ve done this because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I draw attention to myself, something might happen to me the way it happened to Esther and her father.

  “Please God, I’m weak and in a wheelchair. Take away my fear of exposure, the fear of standing apart from the crowd. Grant me courage to do what I can so I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

  I said a couple of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, then added an Act of Contrition for good measure. I hoped the courage would come soon.

  Chapter Eight

  Lenses

  6 June, Monday

  T he wax seal crackled as I opened the envelope.

  Dear Sophie,

  I’m involved in an important project: building the greatest highway in Europe. We work long hours, but our work is vital. This highway is the cornerstone for the Führer’s plan. It will become part of a completely modern network of rails and roads throughout the Fatherland, and I’m part of it.

  Klaus

  Klaus had thrown all his energy into this new venture, as usual. I wondered how long his enthusiasm would last.

  The next envelope had been clumsily resealed.

  My dear Sophiela,

  We have spent several weeks in beautiful Vienna, where Mozart, Mahler, Brahms, and Beethoven once lived. My heart hears their music even though my ears hear only our tramping boots.

  When I get grouchy about my blistered feet, I think of you. You are so brave, doing your exercises and getting stronger. I am sure it is hard, painful work. I am most proud of you.

  Have you taken any photos?

  Your Papa

  As in every letter from my father, I could almost hear his voice as I read. I longed to hug him, to talk with him. The two months he’d been gone felt like forever.

  The last letter in the pile was addressed in familiar looping, rounded script. I smiled as I broke the wax seal.

  Dear Sophie,

  I’ve settled in with the other girls from BDM in a town called Freising about thirty kilometers from Munich. I help the farmer’s wife with housework and her four small children. I love it, making jam with her and caring for the little ones.

  Uta and Marie are on this same farm, but they’ve been assigned to work with the animals, feeding, watering, and cleaning stalls. I only see them once or twice a week because they live in the bunks and I live in the main house. Uta seems annoyed by the hard messy work and I think she’s jealous that I’m at the house. What she doesn’t understand is that being the only teenager at the house gets lonely sometimes.

  Write me soon! I miss you.

  Your friend always,

  Rennie

  I smiled at the thought of Rennie rolling out pie dough while a toddler played with blocks at her feet. Marie was strong and probably enjoyed the physical work of the farm. But I couldn’t picture Uta there at all. How would she cope, mucking a stall, her shapely curves hidden by coveralls, her trim fingernails buried under coarse work gloves, and her long, silky hair pulled back tight while she shoveled dung and hoisted buckets of feed?

  Maybe I ought to write to Marie and Uta and tell them about… about what? My daily struggles to exercise and try to walk? The disturbing photos? The upcoming talent show?

  They’d react the same way they had during visitation. They’d fidget and be quick to push the letter aside.

  They probably didn’t want to be friends with me anymore, now that I was crippled. I didn’t want them to feel obligated to write me, to feel sorry for me. My chin trembled. If they still wanted to be my friends, they’d have to write first.

  I settled back to write responses to people who truly cared about me, whether I was crippled or not.

  Dear Papa,

  I don’t feel brave, stuck here doing my exercises. I’m afraid of so many things.

  I stopped a moment. Someone in the Party would probably read this letter. Should I cross that out? Would they assume I was doing something to make me afraid? Then I remembered my prayer, took a deep breath, and forged on.

  I’ve asked God for courage.

  I’ve taken a few photos of the staff and patients here, but I’m saving most of my film for our big talent show this Saturday. I’m the official photographer!

  I’ll write next week and tell you all about it. I wish I could tell you in person.

  Your Sophiela

  I reread it, still second-guessing myself in case someone intercepted the letter between the hospital and Papa. But eventually, I did send it as is. Maybe that showed some of the courage I’d prayed for but it didn’t feel very divine.

  Dear Rennie,

  What a wonderful way to spend a work summer! Those children are lucky to have you as a mother’s helper.

  Everyone here is excited about the upcoming talent show. Anna has put herself in charge – no surprise there. The Pied Piper will take my film for developing afterward. I’ll show you the photos when I see you in November.

  Your friend always,

  Sophie

  10 June, Friday

  Dress rehearsal was to start right after our midday meal. Anna strode around the chaos in the ward, clipboard and pen in hand, barking orders to move people and props. Frau Berkheimer helped little ones into costumes. Gisela arranged crutches and walkers for patients who would perform while standing.

  I was figuring out where to position myself for the best shots when a small voice came behind me. “Chugga, chugga, choo-choo!” It was Fritz, his scrawny arms pushing his wheelchair as he dragged a basket holding the day’s mail. “Make way for the train!” He slowed a bit. “There’s one in there for you, Sophie,” he said, before taking off again. I retrieved the letter as he chugged off.

  The return address was unfamiliar but I recognized the handwriting. I hurried out onto the porch so I could read Erich’s letter alone.

  Dear Sophie,

  I’m glad you’re not angry with me. My mother says I need to place a guard at my mouth, and I think she’s right.

  I’m at the horse farm and between grooming, cleaning the stables, learning to ride, and training the horses, I work seven days a week from sun up until sun down. It’s late at night now, but I wanted to write before another day slips away. No more regrets, remember?

  I left my little brother Karl in charge of Schatzi while I’m gone. He tells me she plays well with the other dogs and has a special fondness for chewing shoes. Maybe I’ll need to visit the shoemaker when I get home!

  Your letter made me smile. Write again soon.

  Erich

  The screen door banged open and a head popped around the frame. Anna, looking agitated. “There you are. I’m always rounding up stragglers. Aren’t you supposed to watch the dress rehearsal so you could plan your shots?”

  “Coming right now.” I tucked Erich’s letter into my blouse pocket, close to my heart.

  There were a dozen acts in the show including the long Hercules play with its props, backdrops, and costumes. Fritz’s monster sound effects added great fun to the serious tale, especially the scene with Hydra. I arranged myself on the right side of the actors, stage left Anna called it, to get the best view of the many scenes and backdrops. When singers or musicians performed, center stage was a better position. I jotted down my plans – where I’d position myself, which lens I’d use, which settings. That would minimize mistakes during the actual show.

  Marla pulled up beside me. “Did you see Elisabeth’s tiara?”

  I craned my neck and saw Elisabeth waiting, applauding the others’ performances. She looked every bit the ballerina as she sat there, her straight back and long neck, made longer by her coiled bun. Her bun was topped by a shiny silver something. “Where did it come from?”

  Her smile told the answer. “I made it out of a head band and some tin foil.”

  “Very clever.” I meant it. “It looks great.”

  Marla glanced over at her creation then back at me. “You don’t suppose it’ll fall off if she does one of those spinning moves that baller
inas do?”

  I patted her hand. “It’ll be fine.” Honestly, losing the tiara was the least of the embarrassing things that could happen to Elisabeth. Of all the participants in the show, her performance was the riskiest. The dance’s physical exertion and delicate balance left her exposed to ridicule and possible humiliation. With all my heart, I wanted her to succeed. So did Gisela, judging by the way she hovered near the gramophone, wiping her hands against her skirt and glancing repeatedly at Elisabeth.

  I noticed something I’d missed before. Elisabeth’s hands were trembling.

  When it was her turn, she stood, adjusted the crutch’s clamp around her left forearm, and waddled to center stage. She took a few deep breaths then posed, framed by the ward’s large windows, her pale pink tulle skirt settling around her thin hips. Below the skirt was one shapely leg and dainty pink pointe shoe; beside it, one scrawny leg encircled by a below-the-knee brace, clamped with metal stirrups to a brown orthopedic shoe. Gisela nodded at her and dropped the needle.

  I reminded myself of my own job – to find the correct angles and lighting to photograph the dance. I moved from one side of the room to the other during the first minute or two, finally settling on stage left. I jotted down my position and camera settings to best capture her action shots.

  Once she was dancing, Elisabeth seemed at ease, moving one arm gracefully while the other grasped the supporting crutch. She used the crutch as a pivot, dancing in circles around it a few times, shifting her weight hard but balancing, always balancing. As her finale, while one foot was earthbound by leather and metal, the other rose into the air courtesy of that elegant pink shoe. She posed there, right arm raised delicately overhead.

  She was amazing.

  When Gisela lifted the needle Elisabeth bowed, smiling. All of us patients hooted and whistled and applauded. Her buddy Fritz clapped so hard his face grew red and his cheeks threatened to burst. Gisela rushed her, sweeping her into a hug and spinning her in a circle, the crutch flying high. Frau Berkheimer and Doktor Vogel offered their congratulations, wiping their eyes.