Risking Exposure

by Jeanne Moran

  And then there was Anna. When I’d have expected her to be bursting with pride at such an accomplishment, she jotted notes on her clipboard, clapped her hands twice, and called for silence. “Lots of things need to be fixed if you’re going to be ready to be seen by,” she hesitated, “by your loved ones.” Everyone groaned. She glanced around, her expression annoyed. “What if the Führer came to this show?”

  From somewhere to the left of me I heard a mumbled, “Did you send him a telegram?” Several people gasped. There stood Elisabeth, tiara askew, sweat on her brow, staring at Anna with an expression of defiance and triumph. Anna raised one eyebrow, regarded her, and then stormed from the room.

  11 June, Saturday

  The excitement was unmistakable. Beds and furniture were pushed to the rear to create a large open area in front of the ward windows. Everyone chattered and fussed with hair and fingernails and glanced anxiously at the clock.

  Anna marched into the crowded ward and clapped her hands. “Attention, please. Attention. Our talent show will begin in thirty minutes. Performers, go to the OT room for costumes. Guests, please find a seat.” She gestured to rows of folding chairs.

  Herr Franken stopped in front of Mutti and me. “Frau Adler, Sophie, can you come help with costumes?”

  My mother had been fidgety during the awkward pre-show time, and she seemed glad for some task. So she followed the performers and me to the OT room where she helped as needed, smiling and offering kind words, adjusting straps and barrettes and headpieces. The tender Mutti was back. When the show started, she settled in one of the folding chairs and gave me a supportive nod.

  Most of the acts went as rehearsed including Herr Franken’s zither and a folk singer’s solo. Click. Click.

  When the woman who fancied herself an opera singer took the stage, I stifled a giggle. Same for the tuba player. Click. Click.

  I shot the various scenes of the Hercules play with its different actors and backdrops and costume changes. Judging by the murmurs of approval and rounds of giggles and applause, Fritz’s sound effects and Marla’s costumes were well received. Both of them beamed. Click. Click.

  I turned to Anna a couple times during the play. Her lips were pressed as tight as the papers in her clipboard and she glanced out the windows often. Click.

  As the Hercules backdrops were taken down and the little table for the Cat’s Cradle girls was set up Anna finally smiled, her eyes following something or someone into the building. I couldn’t see what or who she saw until he entered the ward and saluted.

  Werner. I’d forgotten he was coming today.

  Anna echoed his salute and she kept her eyes fixed on him. The room hushed, then chairs scraped the floor as a number of guests and patients rose and repeated the salute. Marla did, and little Fritz, but not Elisabeth, not Herr Franken nor his wife Gabriele, and to my surprise, not my mother.

  Mutti sat in that folding chair, staring straight ahead with her lips moving silently and hands stuffed in skirt pockets. She was several meters away from me, too far for me to see small details. I turned my camera toward her and zoomed in on a pocket. Her knuckles, bumping against the cloth, showed slow rhythmic movement and intermittent readjustment.

  My mother was saying her rosary instead of saluting. Click.

  Later that night, I wrote:

  Dear Rennie,

  Our talent show had a dozen acts and everyone enjoyed performing for their relatives and friends. After each act, Anna found some excuse to step onstage, even if was just in a corner. Then she’d bow along with the contestant during the applause. She hasn’t changed a bit.

  My favorite act, Elisabeth doing ballet, went well. She even tried a pirouette! She’s being discharged on Monday. I’m going to miss her.

  I hope my photos come out all right, especially the action shots of Elisabeth’s dance. Werner will bring me the prints in a couple weeks. And he gave me two fresh rolls of film!

  Write soon.

  Your friend,

  Sophie

  Chapter Nine

  Prints

  18 June, Saturday

  A fter the chaos leading up to the talent show, the following week was a welcome relief. My mother sent a letter by post saying she was ill and wouldn’t visit so I had a full day ahead with no visitors, no therapy, and nothing to plan. I headed to the porch to read and catch up on my letters, maybe play a little solitaire in peace and quiet.

  I’d just settled in with a few magazines when heavy footsteps drew my attention. Werner. “I, I didn’t know you were coming today,” I said.

  He pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and tossed it in my lap. His way of giving me something without getting too close. “Your photos.”

  “From the show? They’re done already?” I was surprised.

  He nodded crisply. I lifted the envelope – it felt light, quite a bit lighter than I expected. “Is this all that came out? From two rolls of film?”

  “These are the photos you may keep. The rest of the photos are,” one corner of his mouth formed a strange smile, “useless to you.”

  My stomach twisted at that word. But this was my chance to be courageous, to tell him what I needed. I took a deep breath. “You should have brought the other prints anyway. That’s how I learn. I note my settings and then decide how the lighting and shutter speed affected the…” He turned and left before I finished my sentence.

  Does speaking up count as courage if no one listens?

  I opened the envelope and slid out the prints. Only twenty-two, less than half of what I’d photographed. A few at the top I’d forgotten about, ones I’d taken weeks before. One of Elisabeth and Fritz racing in the hallway showed Fritz’s eyes scrunched shut and Elisabeth’s mouth twisted in a grimace. Like many of my action shots, I’d captured the wrong moment. I threw that print in the trash.

  But my still shots – Marla and her ringlets as she stood in the parallel bars, Anna, content as a student nurse before she tried to turn the ward into a new version of her Youth troop – they came out well.

  I shuffled to the photos of the talent show. Again, I was pleased with the way I’d captured the essence of each performance and the participants, although admittedly I caught them all in static poses. I searched the stack for the action shots of Elisabeth’s dance. They weren’t there. I’d taken six or eight of the dance alone. How could all of them be gone?

  I started again at the top of the stack and noticed something else. The shot of Mutti’s pocket full of rosary beads was missing also.

  My gut registered fear.

  23 June, Thursday

  A letter in Papa’s handwriting waited on my bed. Again, the envelope had been opened and poorly resealed.

  My dear Sophiela,

  I hope you are taking photos. Tell the truth. Be careful.

  I will always be,

  Your loving Papa

  Nothing else. Something was wrong. I needed to talk to my mother, to find out if she’d heard from him. I needed to use the telephone. The only one I knew of was in Doktor Vogel’s office. Surely he’d give me permission to use it. He and Papa were old friends.

  I pushed to the doctor’s office and knocked. No answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. Probably gone for the day. A phone call was out until morning. I’d have to wait at least twelve hours.

  I had to do something to pass the time, something to take my mind off that letter. A new book. That’s what I needed.

  I poked among the volumes in the library, tipping my head to read the sideways titles. I settled on a newspaper from the pile on the bottom shelf. Maybe I could catch up with what was happening at the cinema, in Altstadt, and… I slid it out of the stack and tucked it next to my hip.

  The one below it grabbed my attention. There, on the crumpled front page, was a familiar photo. People scrubbing the streets. The exact same photo I’d held in my own hands a couple weeks before, right in that same library. I snatched it up and read the newspaper’s banner – London. With both papers at my
hip, I pushed to my usual private spot on the end of the porch.

  I unfolded the German paper first, Völkischer Beobachter. “The Party’s version of a newspaper,” my father always called it. For some reason, I noticed the subtitle beneath the paper’s title banner, maybe for the first time. Kampfblatt der national-sozialistischen Bewegung Grossdeutschlands. Military Journal of the National Socialist Movement of Greater Germany.

  Military journal? I shuddered and tossed the newspaper aside.

  I pulled out the paper from London dated a few days earlier. No doubt about it; that front page photo was the one I’d seen in the library. I scanned the caption and the accompanying article alongside it, hoping to recognize some of the English words. The only ones I understood were proper names – Vienna, Salzburg, Reich, Austria, and Jew. “Jew” was written at least a dozen times, twice in the caption alone. At the end of the article were some words and the number 6 in parentheses.

  I flipped to page six and spread the paper across the width of my wheelchair. I caught my breath. In front of me was another familiar photo – people with mouthfuls of grass. I scanned the caption. The words Austria and Jew again. I could barely think straight. In. Out. In. Out.

  Someone passed those two photos through the hospital, my hospital, right through my very hands before sending them to a London newspaper. That someone wanted the people of England to know about the plight of Austrian Jews. If that someone was German, he or she might be accused of betraying the Fatherland.

  Treason.

  The Party would find out who took the photos and who sent them. That person or persons would be held accountable.

  My mind wouldn’t settle that night, spinning and making connections. A courageous person, an insider, had taken photos that showed the Reich’s wrongdoing. My gut told me it might be Papa. Even knowing the risk, he would have done it. The thought filled me with pride. And with terror.

  I needed to know what my mother knew.

  24 June, Friday

  Before breakfast, I went to see Doktor Vogel. He looked up from the papers strewn across his desk and smiled. “You’re up and around early, Sophie. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to use the telephone.”

  He tilted his head. “Is there a problem?”

  “I need to speak with my mother.”

  He regarded me for a moment and then gestured to the telephone at the edge of his desk. I hoped he’d leave the office so I could speak in private, but he lowered his head to his paperwork. I lifted the receiver and dialed.

  When I heard my mother’s strong, firm voice, I felt mine quaver. “Hello, Mutti. It’s me, Sophie.”

  “Ja, Sophie.” Her volume rose in concern. “Was ist los? What’s the matter?”

  I took a breath and glanced at Doktor Vogel. Engrossed in his paperwork. I forged on and whispered into the phone. “Have you heard from Papa?”

  The doctor peered at me over his spectacles.

  “I got a letter last Tuesday.”

  I turned away from the watching doctor and spoke directly into the receiver. “Well, the one I got yesterday frightened me.”

  My mother’s usual husky pitch rose to that of an adolescent girl. “We cannot speak of this on the phone. I’ll visit tomorrow.” There was a click and the line went dead. Stunned, I dropped the receiver on the hook.

  Doktor Vogel’s intense blue eyes regarded me and slowly, deliberately, he lowered his pen. “Tell me what’s happened.” His voice was smooth as velvet over the jagged edges of my breath. “If there’s something I could do to help…” He left his offer unfinished.

  I wanted to trust him. He’d been friends with Papa since they were boys. He’d been our family’s doctor for as long as I could remember. I just couldn’t find my voice.

  He continued softly. “I stopped by the library this morning to read a newspaper or two but they weren’t where I left them.” Heat rose into my cheeks. “I saw them on your nightstand when I did rounds. You’re welcome to them. Just return them later.”

  I stared silently at my shoes, chiding myself for leaving the newspapers in plain sight.

  He leaned toward me. “Can you read English?”

  I shook my head but kept my eyes down. Gently, his finger lifted my chin so I had to meet his gaze. What I saw was the familiar soft, kind expression he always wore. So like Papa. No wonder they were friends.

  “Sophie Adler, I’ve known your family since before you were born. I’d never harm you. Do you believe that?”

  When I remained silent, he sighed. “I see.” He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a pocket handkerchief. “You’ll have to pardon me, but I overheard your conversation. I assume your father’s letter alluded to something dangerous but gave no specifics. Is that right?”

  I nodded.

  “Perhaps the time has come.” From his vest pocket, he pulled out a tiny key and used it to unlock a desk drawer. He shuffled through a stack of papers, isolated a single envelope, and handed it to me.

  I started to ask, “What…” but he gestured with his chin. I flipped the envelope and saw the red wax seal pressed with my Adler family crest.

  I slid my finger beneath the seal and lifted. The wax crackled. Doktor Vogel had not opened this letter.

  I really could trust him.

  My dearest Sophiela,

  If you are reading this letter, the situation must be critical. Try to be brave.

  I have used my camera to capture the full story of the Reich. Others have risked much to spread that story to the rest of the world. I cannot tell you more now, but I hope someday I can.

  I could do nothing but follow my heart and show the whole truth. If you do the same, I will always be proud of you.

  Your loving Papa

  I reread the letter several times and my vision blurred. Doktor Vogel watched as I blew my nose, his eyebrows furrowed into a single crease, his little pyramid of fingertips tapping rhythmically, expectantly.

  Swallowing my fear I folded the letter, slid it in the envelope, and tucked it in my pocket. If Doktor Vogel was disappointed that I didn’t show it to him, he didn’t let on. “My father says he’s been taking photographs,” I reported, my voice weaker than I’d have liked, “and that I should follow my heart.”

  “Sound advice.” He rose and walked to the door, opened it a crack, peered out, closed it, and turned the key.

  I straightened and waited, my heart pounding.

  “Your father’s a talented photographer,” he began in a low whisper once he sat again. “He’s been traveling with the Wehrmacht to photograph their,” he hesitated as if searching for a good word, “their adventures. Your father is also a man of conscience.” He leaned forward and perched his forearms on the desk, again tapping those fingertips. “What your father saw, he photographed. Soon he realized he was photographing things the Reich wouldn’t want the outside world to see.”

  “How do you know?”

  He hesitated a moment then pushed on. “He couldn’t send the rolls containing those photos to the Wehrmacht film developer. Nor could he destroy them. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. So he sent the rolls of film and instructions on handling them,” he hesitated another moment, before finishing, “to a trusted friend.”

  I was barely aware of my whispered response. “You.”

  Doktor Vogel nodded. “I took them to the developer in Schwabing that your father always used. I paid that man handsomely to keep silent about the content of the photos, and God bless him, he didn’t ask questions. Because I’ve refused to join the Party I have, shall we say, a reputation with them, so I couldn’t keep the prints at my home.” He sighed and continued. “I hid the prints in an unlikely place, somewhere I had frequent easy access, but also somewhere the SS wasn’t liable to go.”

  “Here. In the hospital library.”

  Out in the corridor, footfalls approached, thudding rhythmically. Unconsciously, my spine stiffened to a rod. The thuds grew louder and then faded. My breath whooshed ou
t.

  Doktor Vogel shook his head as if awakening from a dream. He regarded me somberly. “I suggest you destroy the letter I gave you. The one your father sent you by post also.” He lifted his pen and bent over his papers. It was clear. I was dismissed.

  I took both of Papa’s letters out of their envelopes and reread them a couple times, committing the words to memory. I held them over the toilet and flushed, planning to watch them go down the drain. And yet the letters were bits of my father. If I destroyed them and something happened to him…

  I folded the letters, stuffed them in their envelopes, and tucked them in my pocket. I’d find some place to hide them. I was good at hiding things. Apparently Papa was too.

  25 June, Saturday

  I sat on the porch engrossed in a book when Herr Franken and his wife Gabriele approached. They spun chairs so they could sit facing me. They weren’t smiling.

  Gabriele handed me a poster twice as long as notebook paper. “Have you seen this?”

  The headline for the top half of the poster read, “Should Germany’s future look like this?” Below these words, an enlarged photo showed a familiar scene – Klaus, Erich, and the boys from their HJ troop in uniform, holding guns pointed at unseen targets. Targets I knew to be crucifixes.

  I’d taken that photo. No doubt this was one of my missing prints. My throat tightened.

  The bottom half of the poster was labeled, “Or like this?” Below those words was another of my missing prints, this one an action shot taken at the talent show. It captured a costumed Elisabeth in the middle of her lopsided relevé, her trunk lurched to an impossible angle while her crutch reached for the ground. With her eyes half-shut, her mouth twisted in a grimace, and her tin foil tiara askew, she looked ridiculous.