Risking Exposure

by Jeanne Moran

  Werner walked around and opened my door. “Come meet these men, Adler.”

  I slid over and grabbed my crutch, positioned it under me, locked my brace, and stood. I walked slowly to the men, unsure of what I was supposed to say or do. They smiled and a couple of them tipped their hats. One, a short man in a bright green vest, seemed familiar.

  Werner saluted and spoke first. “Heil Hitler.” None returned his greeting, they just nodded. “May I present Anna Albrecht, a nurse at a hospital here in Munich.” A student nurse really, but I didn’t correct him. The men bobbed their heads in greeting. Then he gestured at me. “And the young photographer, Sophie Adler.”

  I stuck out my hand and mumbled, “Gruβ Gott,” and we shook all the way around.

  The Scharführer ignored my use of the traditional Bavarian greeting and continued. “As you can see, the Reich uses the talents of all its citizens. Everyone does their part for the Fatherland.” His eyes shifted meaningfully to my brace and my crutch before he continued. “Rumors of exclusion of,” his voice took on that typical whine, “of certain types have been greatly exaggerated.”

  So that was it. I was on display. Exhibit number one: the crippled girl who can still be useful to Greater Germany. I turned to him, my mouth open, but I couldn’t speak.

  The men shifted as if they were uncomfortable, but that green-vested man scribbled furiously.

  Werner continued. “Today, Adler will photograph the future of the Fatherland, our Youth. That frees you men to focus on the procession and its presentation of two thousand years of German history. And of course, you’ll want to photograph our glorious Führer himself.” He saluted, snapped his heels, and climbed back in the car. Anna saluted and got in the passenger side, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with the press.

  I started my slow plod toward the car, that earlier surge of positive feeling slipping away fast. He’d used me again.

  “Allow me to get the door for you,” someone said in halting German. It was the short man with the green vest, walking toward me with his bowler hat askew and a broad smile on his face. He had a decided limp, and I wondered briefly if a crutch like mine might help him walk better. He was so familiar, and yet… Between his own uneven stride and his haste, he jostled my poncho and bumped into my crutch, knocking both of us off-balance. He fumbled for my arm to stabilize me, and then apologized for his clumsiness in some combination of German and English.

  “Danke.” I struggled to find my voice and settled into the back seat. As we pulled away from the curb, he stared after us. Gradually, his vest shrank to a green dot, and I lost sight of him in the crowd.

  Energy drained from me like water from a bathtub, leaving me cold and shivering with uncertainty. “I want to go home,” I announced weakly, surprising myself. “It’s been months.”

  Werner glanced at me in his rearview mirror and his voice took on that annoying whine. “We have no time for this.” I didn’t respond, but Anna leaned closer and whispered to him. He turned to her. “Anna, you know how important this day is to me, to my future,” he said. “I must make sure…” Anna gave him a look that asked for sympathy. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

  The car came to a halt in front of my family’s bakery. A sign in the store window read: Owners on holiday. Reopen 15 July. I shuddered.

  Werner asked, “You have a key, yes?” I nodded. “Go put on your uniform. Wear it while you photograph today.”

  I reached for some courage. “Scharführer, you and Helga told me I’m not even in BDM…” I started.

  A man across the street called, “Werner!” The Youth leader smiled broadly, exited the car, and crossed to greet him. Ignoring me completely, Anna followed. All three lit up cigarettes and began to chat.

  On my own. I trudged to the bakery door and with one turn of the key, entered.

  Hot, stale air whooshed past me, bringing with it the tang of rancid fruit. A thin layer of gray-white dust coated the empty display case. I walked past the service counter and the cash register and into the work area that had been my parents’ domain. A few sacks of flour and sugar remained on the shelves, chewed with irregular holes and leaking bits of white into soft mounds on the floor. Tiny black droppings dotted tin baking pans and wooden work tables. Without Papa’s hearty laugh or Mutti’s stern orders, the whole bakery felt hollow and lonely, filled only with mice and sadness.

  My clumsy shoes and heavy crutch echoed through the empty work area as I headed toward the stairs that led to our second floor flat. More than anything, I wanted to sit in my own bedroom, listen to Mozart on the Victrola, look through Papa’s books, see and smell and touch all the things that made our home, well, home. I stopped at the base of the long flight of stairs. It may as well have been the Matterhorn. No way I could drag my heavy brace up those steps and still have energy for what I needed to do.

  Complete despair overwhelmed me, squashing whatever bits of hope I’d had. I dropped my head against the newel post and sobbed, “Gott im Himmel, Dear God in heaven, what am I supposed to do? Help me, please Holy Mother Mary, help me.” When I reached under my poncho for my handkerchief, a small rectangular card pulled out with it.

  Peter Massey

  German correspondent

  London

  I wiped my eyes, flipped the card over, and read the words scrawled on the back.

  You resemble your father.

  At your service,

  PM

  My heart pounded. The man with the green vest and the limp must have tucked the card into my pocket when he bumped me. I stumbled to a chair to collect my thoughts.

  I flipped the card over several times, rereading the words. His name and face were familiar. Then I had it. I’d met him the night of the first aid demonstration. Didn’t he say he knew Papa? Yes, he even knew the bakery and he said that… wait a minute… he said that he and Papa used the same film developer in Schwabing.

  Doktor Vogel had used the developer in Schwabing also.

  My heart leapt. That man with the green vest, that Peter Massey, he was the contact Papa used to get his photos to the London newspaper. He had to be. I closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks.

  I glanced out the front window. Anna and Werner were still smoking and chatting. No way to tell how long I had. My energy returned.

  I opened a cabinet, took out a couple muffin tins, and reached back in. Running my hand against the rear wall, I tripped a tiny latch and opened a panel. From inside, I removed the old cigar box which held the bakery’s proceeds between visits to the bank. Forty-seven mark plus change. Quite a lot of money, probably a week’s worth of sales. No doubt Mutti didn’t get a chance to settle accounts before she was arrested. I tore a sheet of paper from a receipt pad and scribbled a hasty note.

  I took five mark from the cashbox and pray I can repay it soon.

  Your Sophie

  I didn’t know when my parents would see the note, if ever. No doubt Klaus would read it when he reopened the bakery. But I wasn’t going to hide anything anymore.

  I placed my note on top of the remaining bills in the cigar box, returned it to its hiding place, and glanced out the window. Werner looked at his watch and at the storefront, shifting his weight as if to start walking toward the bakery. Thankfully, two other people joined their trio. He and Anna stayed there, chatting amiably. I let out a long breath. I tore a second sheet from the receipt pad and wrote.

  Dear Herr Massey,

  Like my father, I trust you. Enclosed are images of my friends from the polio hospital. Photos like these have been used against us, trying to convince Germans that cripples like us are useless. They mock us with words and cruel images. Who knows what might happen next. I place these precious items with you for safekeeping.

  The tins contain film shot today. Use the money to develop it. I hope the photos show things the international press corps did not see, ugly things which happen here when outsiders aren’t looking. Please show the world.

  Y
ours truly,

  Sophie Adler

  I glanced out the window again – Werner and Anna were walking toward the bakery at a good clip. I stuffed the letter and the money in my camera bag and had just readjusted my poncho when they entered.

  While Anna stood in the open doorway and leaned against its frame, watching, Werner marched toward me. “What have you been doing, Adler? Why aren’t you in uniform?”He leaned toward me, not close enough to touch of course, but his voice growled. “Didn’t I tell you…” he began, shaking a finger.

  Anna moved forward, grasped his accusing finger in her hand, and lowered it. “Don’t be hard on her. She needs to save her strength.” He glared at her but she continued. “Besides, her uniform would be hidden by the rain poncho today.”

  Anna really confused me. Sometimes I didn’t dare turn my back on her. Sometimes, like now, she was on my side.

  He ripped his finger from Anna’s grip and marched to the sidewalk, wiping it against his pants in a not-too-subtle cleaning gesture.

  Anna followed and I locked the door behind us. Once on the sidewalk, he whirled on me. “You didn’t do as you were told, Adler,” he said, his voice an accusing hiss. “You were given a simple command – put on your uniform. No need to remind you that much depends on your performance.” We drove away from my home in total silence.

  I closed my eyes, trying to remember which corner the press corps had been on, but it escaped me.

  We parked a few blocks from the English Garden. I transferred into my wheelchair and pushed myself, grateful for my hooded poncho in the fine drizzle. Anna smiled and walked alongside her boyfriend as if nothing had happened, but he kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “Werner,” Anna said, “the procession doesn’t start for a couple hours. Want to get something to eat?” He stopped short and stared at her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I pulled up alongside her to listen.

  “Something to eat.” His tone mocked her request. “You know how critical today is for me, how many will see my work.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Anna nodded. “Your Youth should be at their best.”

  He sniffed and pulled into a ridiculously straight pose. “They’re the Führer’s Youth, Anna. Remember that.” I shivered, and not because of the damp weather. He turned to me. “Adler, go take pictures.” Then back to Anna. “Watch her,” he commanded. “Meet at my car right after the parade.” He saluted, spun, and left us on the sidewalk.

  Anna returned the salute and watched his retreating figure. “Men,” she grumbled. She moved behind my chair and pushed me toward the park, mumbling the whole time about lunch and rain and bossy boyfriends. She slowed only a little for bumps in the sidewalk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Advance

  T he drizzle lessened as we threaded our way through thickening crowds of spectators. Vendors hawked balloons, flags, and snacks from pushcarts. A perfect start to my assigned photos. “Please stop,” I said at a busy corner. “I see some children.” Anna complied but watched my every move, so I was careful not to let her see the papers and photos stuffed in my oversized camera bag. I focused on a small boy as he approached a vendor, a coin in his outstretched hand. The vendor exchanged his coin for a bag of nuts. Click. The boy skipped away, his snack bouncing perilously in a chubby fist. Click.

  Anna nodded. Her endorsement was good. With any luck she’d pay less attention to photos I took later. Hopefully I’d find something worth shooting. I tried not to think about my lack of a plan.

  And then, there it was. While I was focused on some ladies and their fussing babies, I caught sight of a paper tacked to a pole. It was the familiar rectangular poster, Klaus and Erich on the top, Elisabeth on the bottom.

  Seeing the horrid thing out in public shocked me, and I nearly dropped the camera. But after a deep breath or two, I worked the focus dial to draw the image in. Click.

  Click again, for good measure.

  Papa had taken photos of Jews, showing how they’d become targets. I’d add photos of cripples. They, I mean we, were targets too. The people of England and all the people in the world needed to know. One mistake of sharing your canteen with a sick girl, one illness, one injury, even for a German citizen or former Youth member, and we were written off as useless, same as the Party’s other targets.

  To avoid Anna’s suspicion, I focused on boys in knickers as they chased girls in Sunday dresses. Click.

  As Anna pushed me toward the parade route, I noticed another three or four posters. Each time, I asked her to stop. Each time I focused long and captured that poster’s horrifying message again. And again.

  Even at this celebration of national history and pride, the posters oozed their poison all over Munich. And the people who read those posters, saw those pictures, might actually believe that cripples like us were no good for Germany. That we were useless eaters.

  I had to get these images to the free press in England. I had to find Peter Massey.

  When Anna and I came off the side street and onto Prinzregenten Strasse across from the art museum, a wall of people blocked our path. She inched me through the dense crowd. I clutched my camera bag against the onslaught of elbows and hips.

  The crowd ended abruptly and we faced a row of wooden barricades. “Where are you going?” a brown-shirted officer demanded.

  “We’re working under the orders of Scharführer Werner Müller,” Anna said. “Now let us cross.” Her voice had a tone of authority, and without further question the officer slid a barricade aside for us.

  We moved into the empty street, all traffic halted in anticipation of the parade. From there I saw the true size of the crowd. As far as the eye could see, people clotted the available space between curbstone and buildings. Thousands and thousands of people pressed together, blurred, fading into an anonymous background. Black, white, and red Party flags sprouted like weeds from every imaginable spot – small ones cradled in hands, large ones draped on buildings, hung from balconies, wrapped around statues. Several groups of uniformed Youth stood along the curb, each member grasping the stick of a tiny Party flag. Click. Click.

  We reached the opposite sidewalk, and with it another wall of officers and wooden barricades. We again explained our purpose at the park and we worked our way through a mirror image of that first crowd.

  Finally, we entered the staging area for the procession’s participants, the leafy refuge of the English Garden Park. Anna’s frantic pushing and steering relaxed and her pace slowed. “I can take it from here,” I said, and we moved side by side along the paved path.

  As I expected, groups of costumed participants had clustered at the park as they readied for the procession. A dozen giggling ladies lounged on plaid blankets beneath a shade tree, their white taffeta dresses draped around their legs, bare feet thrust beside their waiting shoes. Young girls in uniform stood nearby weaving circlets of daisies for the women’s hair and wrists. I seemed to be the only photographer in sight. Anna nudged me. Click.

  A cluster of men struggled into the cloaks and tunics of ancient Roman soldiers. Two skinny boys in uniform held metallic helmets and shields while the soldiers dressed. The boys fixed their eager gaze first at the armor, then up at the costumed men. Anna pointed. Click.

  I wanted to get to the pickle jar. And I had to find Peter Massey and give him the film. I tried to not feel overwhelmed by my own lack of a plan.

  We approached a group of a dozen men dressed as tournament knights. Several HJ helped with details of their armored costumes or readied the knights’ nearby horses. Click.

  One Youth, a tall boy placing a saddle on a horse, caught my eye. Erich. My heart quickened and I wanted to rush to him, but I stopped myself. For the first time ever, I hoped he didn’t notice me. I didn’t want the distraction.

  The horses, obviously accustomed to the noise and fuss involved in parades, waited quietly as the men clanked about. A knight mounted his horse and posed, javelin vertical in his gloved hand. Some women on nearby park ben
ches applauded and ran to surround him. Anna joined the other women gawking at the knight.

  That left the benches empty and exposed a plaque I hadn’t seen before. Nur für Arier. For Aryans only. I made sure Anna’s attention was still diverted. Click.

  A second vacant bench also had a sign. Juden sind nicht erwünscht. Jews not wanted. Click.

  Anna started toward me. She must have seen me turning away from the bench because she scowled and hastened her steps. “What did you photograph, Sophie?”

  I answered honestly. “The signs. I’ve never seen them before.”

  Her scowl deepened. “They’ve been here for months.”

  But I hadn’t been. Munich had changed. Or more likely, I had changed.

  Somewhere down the path, a gruff voice shouted. All heads turned, including mine, to watch dozens of men mount horses and form a line along the path, two abreast. Each man held a tall flagpole bearing the Party’s colors, each flag about three meters long and two meters tall. The effect was overwhelming. The men and their horses and even the beauty of the park were lost – the red and black flags were all I could see, snapping like fish in the talons of eagles.

  The Führer would already be in the Grandstand, surrounded by Party officials and SS by the dozen. The international press would be somewhere near the Grandstand as well, including Peter Massey. My insides jittered. Unless by chance he was here in the park, I’d be in full view of the Grandstand when I gave Herr Massey the film.

  As flag-bearers on horseback moved up the path toward us, Anna pulled my wheelchair back into the grass. Small clusters of spectators stood nearby, obviously enjoying this less structured prelude to the parade. One man hobbled alone through the grass, leaning heavily on a cane. Between the crowd and the irregular surface, he walked slowly, a step-drag pattern much like my own. When he reached the empty bench a half-dozen meters from me, he sort of collapsed into it. In moments though, he straightened and leaned forward with hands atop his cane, watching the approaching riders and smiling.