by Jeanne Moran
For the next hour or so, I told Rennie all that had happened since I last saw her – the hidden photos, the talent show, the poster, the treason charges – well, everything. She went inside a couple of times, once to get a drink of water and a clean handkerchief and a second time to retrieve Papa’s notes and the infamous poster from under my mattress. As she’d done before, she mostly let me talk.
When I was finished, she wiped her tears and smiled at me. “Maybe we can stop the Piper together,” her smile spread into a grin, “and break his flute. Remember? I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“I remember. But your brother’s not the only problem. Herr Doktor Albrecht wants me to take more photos. He hinted that it might help Papa and Doktor Vogel in their trial. I want to help them if I can, but I’m afraid.”
“Of what? Of drawing attention to yourself?”
“Yes, but I’m also afraid that if I take more photos, the Party will use them for their propaganda posters again.” Rennie nodded, and I knew she understood. “It makes me feel so dirty.”
Those words released something inside me, a barrier of some kind. My face flushed and anger crept upward from my gut. “How could your brother do that to me? To any of us here at the hospital? It’s not our fault we got sick, that we’re crippled. We don’t want to be this way.” My fingernails dug into my palms. “He took the very thing I love, my photography, and he twisted it. He used my own photos to create something cruel.” My voice broke.
Rennie rubbed small circles on my back and murmured soft words of comfort until my tears were spent. Eventually, she whispered, “What would your father tell you to do?”
I’d already thought about that. “Tell the whole truth, take pictures, and follow my heart.”
Rennie’s eyebrows pulled together and made a crease. “So what does your heart tell you to do?”
I sighed. “I know I need to do something, but I don’t know what. And it needs to be done before Klaus gets home.”
“Let’s think this through.” That’s all I’d been doing, but I let her think for a while. Finally she said, “Werner brought you only a few of the photos you’d taken? He kept some?”
“He must have. And he gave at least two of them to the Party.”
“If you had the prints, he couldn’t use them to make another poster.”
“I’d need the negatives too. Then I could be sure they wouldn’t be printed again.”
“My mother cleans offices at night, and Werner’s taking Anna to the cinema this evening,” Rennie said softly, tilting her face toward me. The thought of Werner and Anna as boyfriend and girlfriend made me wrinkle my nose, but Rennie continued as if she hadn’t noticed. “That’ll leave me alone for a few hours. If he kept the photos and the negatives, I can find them.”
“What if he catches you?”
“Our flat is small. There aren’t many places to hide things.” She sounded quite sure of herself.
“What if the photos aren’t there? What if he took them to the Youth office or gave the negatives to the Party already?”
She shrugged. “Then you’re no worse off than you are now. But if he didn’t, there’s a chance I could find them and then,” she stopped short. “Do you want me to destroy them?”
I shook my head. “No.” That would be like burning books. “Just bring them to me.”
“What will you do with them?”
“Well, maybe I can send them to London, to the contact my father used. Except I’m not sure who that is.” I paused. “Until I figure that out, I’ll keep them under my mattress with all my other personal things.”
“Is that safe? You know, anyone can go in the ward and lift your mattress and…”
“I know,” I snapped, “but I really don’t have much choice. There’s no privacy here.” A large unplanned tear coursed down my cheek. I pushed it away.
Rennie opened her mouth to speak but abruptly stopped. When she began again, her voice was soft and sad. “There’s a problem. My train leaves tomorrow at noon, so I’m going to the Bahnhof right after Mass.” She placed her hands in her lap and stared at them. “I won’t have time to bring you the photos before I leave.”
My heart sank. “Oh.” We sat quietly until I said, “You tried. That means a lot.”
Voices on the porch drew our attention. Staff members gestured to their watches as they spoke to patients and guests. Visitation was almost over.
“Thanks for coming all the way here to see me.” I hugged her. “And thanks for trying to help. You’re such a good friend.”
She returned my squeeze and blinked a couple times. Two staff members moved toward us, and Rennie stood to go. Suddenly, she turned to me, her face transformed by a wide grin. “The pickle jar. We’ll break the Pied Piper’s flute with the pickle jar.” She left the hospital grounds with a definite skip in her step.
Good old Rennie.
Chapter Eleven
Develop
4 July, Monday
I studied my reflection in the long mirror at the end of the parallel bars. A metal and leather contraption surrounded my scrawny right leg, lending support from my foot to mid-thigh. My own brace, one I’d be using for years. Maybe forever.
Gisela stood behind me smiling. “You’ve come a long way, Sophie Adler,” she said to my reflection. “How does the brace feel?”
“Good. More sturdy than the temp.” I looked at my image again and sighed. “Do all braces look this way?”
The physio cocked her head. “How’s that?”
“Ugly and clumsy like this.”
She placed her hand on top of mine as I held the parallel bars. “It may not be pretty, Sophie, but it’ll get the job done.”
Another change I’d have to get used to. What else could I do?
“Take a couple steps,” she urged, grasping the belt fastened around my waist for security. Step, drag. Step, drag. The brace was heavy and inflexible. “Try lifting it up from here.” She tapped my hip and I tried again. Step, drag. She shook her head. Step-stumble-drag. The belt held me fast until I regained my balance. Step, hike-step. Step, hike-step. “Better!”
We took several trips up and down the bars while I got used to this different way of walking. I felt stable, secure on my feet, and even let go of the bars to briefly balance hands-free.
Gisela beamed. “Next time, we’ll practice with a crutch. I can’t say for sure, Sophie, but with hard work and a little luck, you might go home soon.”
Go home to what? To Klaus?
While I rested in my wheelchair, Doktor Albrecht entered the room and strode toward me. “Good news, Adler,” he bellowed. “You’ve been given an extraordinary opportunity.” He stopped at my side, pulled a folded paper from his chest pocket and read:
“The HJ will join the people in greeting our Führer during his visit to Munich this Sunday. Please allow leave for Sophie Adler so she can photograph the Youth participation in this event. The two rolls of film given her should be used for this occasion.
Sincerely,
Scharführer Werner Müller”
He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. “Our glorious Führer will be in town for the Festzug am Tag der Deutschen Kunst,” the Procession for the Day of German Art. “You’re familiar with this celebration?”
I nodded. “My family watched it last year.” It was a magnificent procession too, with dozens of floats and hundreds of costumed participants displaying various periods of German history, from ancient to modern. I tapped my feet to the marching bands’ music and joined the thousands of spectators waving little handheld flags. I’d been proud to be German.
So much had changed.
The doctor handed me a small booklet. “This describes the procession and the route it will take.” Zweitausend Jahre Deutsche Kultur. Two Thousand Years of German Culture. “Study it.”
“What am I to photograph exactly?”
“The Youth. Some HJ will assist parade participants in the staging area before the procession, ot
hers will join the parade. Younger members and BDM will line the route in uniform. Future Youth members will watch the event from their mother’s arms.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “What about the procession itself? What about the Führer? Am I to photograph him as well?”
The doctor waved his hands dismissively. “Nein, nein. There will be an entire international press corps there. You just photograph the Youth.”
The chance I was waiting for. I could be courageous and photograph the whole truth. I flushed with excitement, but then my heart sank. What would happen to Papa and Mutti and Doktor Vogel when the Reich didn’t approve of my photos? Would I put them in even more danger? I couldn’t bear the guilt.
The procession would have hundreds of participants, thousands of spectators, plus Youth officials, Party officers, SS, and even the Führer himself. That day, all would be seen. I would be completely exposed.
In. Out. In. Out.
Doktor Albrecht narrowed his eyes and moved closer to me. “Perhaps this is the chance you’ve been waiting for, Adler, the chance to make up for certain failures within your family.” His face stayed close to mine, waiting for a response.
I shook his hand. What else could I do?
The booklet showed that the parade route wound through the heart of the city, in and among a number of Party buildings and sites known for their historical or artistic significance. I opened the route map for the hundredth time when it finally sunk in. The English Garden Park.
Of course! Since the procession started in front of the art museum, the staging area for the participants had to be right behind it in the park. Youth would be milling around in the park, waiting for their group’s turn in the parade. That would create casual moments, times when people let their guard down. Maybe I’d see something worth photographing.
The park was home to the pickle jar. With any luck, Rennie had found my missing photos and negatives and stashed them there before she left town. I might be able to take photos and get back what was mine the same afternoon.
I started to formulate my plan. Since the park was several kilometers away, I’d need the streetcar to get there. My wheelchair couldn’t go on the streetcar, so I’d be walking all day with that big clumsy brace. Even though I’d only practiced with it once, I’d use one of the metal forearm crutches Elisabeth’s father made from old steel pipes. It was heavier than the usual wooden crutch, but I liked its sturdy support.
Once the procession started, I’d be out on my feet constantly to get photos. I’d probably have to rest a lot, leaning against buildings or sitting on benches. I hoped I’d be strong enough for all that walking.
Then my gut twisted. I couldn’t plan my shots. The what and when and where of the day were unknown. And once I used the film, then what? I couldn’t let Werner develop it. If he saw the shots I hoped to get, I’d be in trouble like Papa.
When it came right down to it, I knew what I wanted to do, but I had absolutely no idea how to make it happen. And there was no one I could ask for help.
10 July, Sunday
Rennie was right – nothing was really private in the ward, especially since I’d be gone all afternoon.
I took the rosary and the letters from Erich from under my pillow and tucked them in my pocket. Next, I loaded film in my camera and snugged the extra roll of film in the camera bag. Then I lifted my mattress and grabbed the letters from Papa and the photos of my friends from the hospital and tucked them in the bag as well.
All that was left under my mattress was the poster. I stared at it, again sickened that my beloved photos had been twisted and misused. The thought that dozens or even hundreds of copies of this blatant lie hung all over Germany – I couldn’t bear it.
Anger and guilt and shame rose inside me, overwhelming me, smothering me under a dark heavy blanket. I wanted to push out from beneath it, free myself of its crushing weight. I raced to the bathroom and tore the poster in half then in half again and again, gaining the force and speed that comes with outrage, until bits of paper smaller than my thumbnail filled the bottom of the trash can. I stared, panting.
One of the bits clearly showed Elisabeth’s tin foil tiara. Sickened, I grabbed a cup, filled it with water and poured, watching the tiara and its surrounding poster pieces darken and soften. Then I poured more and more and reached inside the bin and stirred until the whole sodden mass was an unidentifiable blob. Then I scrubbed my hands until they were red and wrinkled. I vowed to never feel that dirty again.
When I got back to the ward room, raindrops chased each other down the ward windows. I tried to convince myself I could walk in the rain, that it would be all right, but my resolve was crumbling fast under the weight of my anxious doubts.
Anna was there. “I’ll be your escort today,” she announced, smiling. I gasped before I could stop myself. Her smile faded and she left as abruptly as she’d arrived.
I should have expected an escort. I was a fourteen-year-old girl with polio. It wouldn’t be appropriate to open the hospital doors and let me go. But how could I take the pictures I hoped to take with her breathing down my neck, and in the rain to boot?
I closed my eyes. “Dear God, I’ve asked you for courage and I’ve got a little. But today I need a lot. This is going to be hard. Please give me the courage to show the whole truth. Amen.” I again hoped for something that felt divine, some surge of power. But I didn’t feel any different.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by noon when I met Anna at the hospital entrance. “Do you have your camera and film?”
I patted the bag. “Keeping it dry.” I loosened a strap that attached the metal pipe crutch to the back of my chair and used the crutch to stand. In no time, I adjusted my hooded poncho around my shoulders so it covered me and the camera bag completely.
“Why are you standing?”
“To get on the streetcar,” I answered simply. “My wheelchair can’t go.”
She shook her head, lips pursed. “Gisela tells me you aren’t ready to walk all day.”
“It’ll be hard but I can use my crutch…”
“We’ve arranged other transportation. Sit.”
I was grateful I didn’t have to walk, but I wondered what the other transportation might be. Anna pushed me across the bumpy sidewalk and through the parking lot until we approached a black sedan. A figure stepped out.
“Werner!”
In. Out. In. Out.
He kept his distance but peered at me and spoke in his usual whine. “Certainly,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.” He smiled at Anna. She took his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Remarkable. I’d never seen anyone touch him before, not even his mother. Maybe Anna had broken through that shell. I wondered what Rennie would say.
“Oh, Werner, such an exciting day,” Anna gushed.
My insides churned, but I stayed quiet. I transferred into the back seat, readjusted my poncho and camera bag, and tucked my crutch at my feet. Once my wheelchair was stowed in the trunk, the Party loyalists climbed in the front.
Chapter Twelve
Flash
I gazed out the car window, soaking in the sights and sounds I’d missed during my weeks in the hospital. Raindrop speckled signs advertised specials at a few eateries, but most businesses were closed. Church bells pealed from nearly every block we passed, and some pedestrians hurried under umbrellas to answer their call. Munich looked and sounded as it had on a thousand other Sundays. It was home.
Individual buildings and entire streets were decked out for the weekend-long arts festival. Some hung the blue and white diamonded Bavarian flag or the striped German national flag, and a few shops showed the flag of the city of Munich. Nearly all also showed the red and black flag of the Party, the swastika, or a picture of the Führer. Their statement was clear – they were Bavarians, they were Müncheners, but they also supported the Party. Or at least they were going along with the Party, like everyone else. Blurring into the background.
F
unny. I’d been content in the background too until polio threw me into the spotlight. In a few months time, I’d lost my ability to walk, my parents, and many of my friends. My privacy was gone, and my only productive work, photography, had been misused and turned against me by people I should have been able to trust.
I didn’t believe what Doktor Albrecht said. If the Party decided my parents and the doctor were the enemy, nothing I would do this day or any day would help them. Their fate was sealed. That knowledge smacked me full in the gut and I doubled over, reeling.
I wanted to pound my fists and scream about the injustice. But with Werner and Anna right in front of me, what was the point? I’d accomplish nothing and I’d suffer the same fate as the others. I took a deep breath and was amazed at what followed – for the first time in ages, I felt calm and clear-headed.
I wasn’t responsible for my loved ones’ fate.
That knowledge left me strangely free. I only had to think about me, what I wanted to do, what I hoped to accomplish. The punishment for my actions, if there were any, would fall only on me.
Deep in my gut, a new more positive sense slipped into the empty space once filled with my anxiety. The flush in my face and quickening of my pulse told me – I was excited. The unknown was a challenge, and I’d have to cope. I would cope. I tapped my hand rhythmically against my thigh, my energy rising.
I wasn’t powerless. I could do something. I had to stay ready and open to opportunity.
As we neared the parade route, the streets clogged and sidewalks crowded with pedestrians. We pulled over at an intersection and Anna faced me, gesturing out the window. “The press corps is here from all over Europe. They’ll see for themselves how strong and unified we Germans are.” A knot of suited men, each with a white ID tag dangling from a hat brim and a camera hanging by a neck strap, watched Anna step from our car.
