by Jeanne Moran
I wondered if he had polio or if some other disease or injury had left him weak and crippled. Erich approached him and saluted, then spoke and pointed toward the riders. I held my breath and steadied my camera.
The man didn’t return the salute but nodded and continued to smile. Erich leaned toward him and said rather loudly, “The flag, sir. You need to stand before the flag.”
I focused my camera on the crippled man and drew his image closer. I glanced at Anna beside me, but she was looking at something else. Good. She wouldn’t interfere. I faced the bench. Click.
“What’s this?” a high-pitched voice said from behind me. Werner strode up the grass past me, toward Erich and the man.
The crippled man continued to sit forward with his hands leaning heavily atop his cane, smiling evenly. “Surely you don’t begrudge a weak man his rest,” he said.
Werner lifted a polished boot and kicked the cane. Click.
Without the cane’s support, the man toppled forward off the bench and landed hard. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose. Click.
Several women in the crowd screamed. Erich gasped and crouched beside the man, cradling his head and pressing a handkerchief to his nose.
Anna stood frozen, staring at the man. I shook her arm. “You’re a nurse. That man is bleeding.” Her eyes moved from Werner to the man but she remained motionless.
The Youth leader stared at Erich and the man without offering help. Click.
Anna watched her boyfriend as if waiting for him to speak. To give permission?
If she wouldn’t help, then I would. I pushed toward the man and Erich glanced up, his face registering recognition and surprise. My hands began to sweat. “What can I do?” I asked him. He was speechless.
Werner turned and snapped his fingers. “Anna,” he commanded, “be a nurse.” Only then did Anna crouch beside the man.
She made me sick.
The Scharführer’s next order was, “Fischer, tend to your own duties.”
Erich hesitated, looking from the injured man to Anna, then to his Youth leader and to me. Anna assured him she was in control and Erich said a few words of reassurance to the injured man before he left. Just once, he glanced back at me and smiled. Werner left us moments later.
While all this happened, the flag-bearers had continued up the path at a slow, steady pace past hushed groups of saluting bystanders. The flag-bearers were still a dozen meters away when I pushed a safe distance onto the grass and placed my sweaty, trembling hands on my camera.
The lead rider called, “Halt.” The entire company of horses stopped within a pace or two. All movement and sound vanished except the pounding of my heart and the snap, snap, snap of those huge flags.
The rider glowered down at Anna and the man. She seemed to understand what was expected because she lifted under the man’s arms to force him to his feet. Someone handed the man his cane and he stood, swaying slightly and obviously dazed, a scarlet-stained handkerchief pressed to his nose and Anna’s support around his waist. Click.
Once the riders moved forward, the man collapsed on the bench. Click.
I wondered how soon a “No Cripples Allowed” or “Useless Eaters Forbidden” sign would decorate one of these benches.
Anna handed the man his cane. “Can you walk?”
He nodded and took a step or two, wobbling perilously. She supported under his arm and furrowed her eyebrows, looking at the crowd. “Can someone help?” The people left in the park were mostly costumed participants, all with a job to do. None offered help.
“I think his nose is broken and he might have a concussion,” Anna told me. “He needs to go to a hospital. I’ll look for an ambulance.” Good. She was acting as a nurse again, too.
“I’d only slow you down.” I gestured to my wheelchair and Anna nodded. She and the man weren’t more than a few faltering steps away when I spun my chair and pushed toward the pickle jar.
Since the path was clogged with costumed people, I was forced to push on the wet grass. That was slow going. I passed a dozen other Youth members, all engaged in various tasks helping parade participants, but I didn’t take any more pictures.
The deeper I got into the park the emptier it grew, so a hundred meters in I was again able to use the path. A minute or two later I saw it – the scruffy clump of pine trees. I glanced around. No one in sight. I pushed as quickly as I could to the base.
I lowered myself so my bottom sat on the footrests then brushed away pine needles. I grabbed the lid of the pickle jar and wiggled and pulled, hoping to work the jar free from the soil. No luck. I tried using a stick as a lever, jamming it around the jar and lifting. Still not working. Rennie must have stomped the soil down with her shoes. I needed a better tool, a wider one. I lifted back into my seat and grabbed my pipe crutch from its holder behind the chair, scooted down to the footplate, and used the crutch as the lever. The jar lifted free.
Clods of wet dirt and needles coated both the jar and my hands, so I used my poncho to grasp the damp lid and unscrew it. Inside was an envelope rolled into a half-circle, Rennie’s gift to me – eighteen photos plus negatives. Hopefully all the shots her brother had taken from me, including the one of Elisabeth he’d misused. I unfolded the small square of paper tucked inside.
As I promised.
Good old Rennie.
Twenty minutes had passed. No doubt Anna was looking for me. I slid Rennie’s envelope into the inside pocket of my poncho. Then I rewound the used film in my camera, stashed it in its tin, and pocketed that as well.
In case I decided to take more pictures, I loaded the second roll of film and dropped the empty tin in the bag. I was proud of the photos I’d taken, ones of the poster and ones that showed how cripples like that poor man and Elisabeth and me were treated by the Reich. My photos were as important as Papa’s.
That jittery feeling started in my stomach again. How could I hand the Briton an envelope of photos and a tin of exposed film in front of all those SS? And the Führer himself? I’d be seen. I’d be caught. Which would give my photos to the Party. Which would leave me open to charges of disobeying orders from the Youth leader. I might be charged with treason, as my father and Doktor Vogel had been. All this would have been for nothing.
But I had already made my choice. I remembered Papa saying something about how we must decide if our choice is worth the cost. This choice was worth it, even if my photos didn’t get to Peter Massey, to England, to the world. I was trying. I couldn’t live with the guilt if I didn’t try.
I buried the empty pickle jar, then lifted myself to the wheelchair’s seat and turned to hook my crutch to its support strap behind me. A stone’s throw away, two people walked down the path – Anna and a young man in an HJ uniform.
“Ah, there you are,” the young man said, separating from Anna and striding toward me at a brisk pace.
It was Klaus.
It was too late to disguise the mud under my nails and on my clothes, too late to hide the freshly turned earth behind me. Rennie’s note still lay in my lap. I closed my fist over top of it.
“You’re easy to follow. Wet wheels leave tracks.” He picked a dandelion, handed it to me, and kissed the top of my head. “Good to see you, little cat.” His eyes scanned me. “Aren’t you a little old to play in the mud?”
My throat closed tight. I didn’t need another loyal Party member watching my every move. In. Out. In. Out.
I squared my shoulders and tried to look brave and confident but my insides tumbled, unsure which way was up.
Anna stood behind him, hands on hips and eyebrows creased together. “What have you been doing, Sophie? Why didn’t you wait for me by the bench?”
Before I could answer, Klaus took control. “The Scharführer arranged an early release for me. That way I could be here for your big day. A nice surprise, huh?” He squatted and put his hands on the sides of my wheelchair. “Now that our parents are,” he paused for effect, “are away, I’m your guardian. So tell me, what did we
catch you doing, little cat?” He glanced from my clothes to the obviously moved dirt behind me and then to my filthy closed fist. He snatched my hand and squeezed it, turning the palm upward to reveal the small note. “What’s this?” His eyes moved from the note to the dirt and to me again. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Are you still passing notes with your little boyfriend?”
“What?”
“Erich Fischer. I saw him a few minutes ago, working the horses up at the front of the park.”
So Klaus still thought Erich and I were sending notes. I’d never corrected that thought of his. My heart thudded and I smiled a little. “I saw Erich today, too.”
“I’ll bet you did,” he said, laughing again. “Anna, look at this.” He handed her the note and quoted it in a mocking tone. “As I promised. How sweet.”
“What does this mean, Sophie?” Anna shook the note with one hand while the other stayed firmly on her hip.
Klaus waved off her doubts. “Isn’t it obvious? She had a few minutes to spare and hurried here to dig up the note from her sweetheart. Young romantic foolishness.”
Anna glanced at her watch. “There’s no time for this,” she announced. “The procession is underway.”
I gestured to the nearby stream. “I need to rinse my hands so I don’t get mud on the camera.”
“Ja, ja. Mach schnell! Hurry up!”
I pushed across the grass to the stream’s edge and lowered myself to the footplate as I’d done before. I glanced over my shoulder. Anna dug in the loose dirt and Klaus stood watching her, arms crossed. All they would find was an empty pickle jar.
But who was I kidding? Loyal Party members would hover over me all day. Incriminating film was in my pocket; personal letters and photos were in my camera bag. I had no idea how to find a contact who didn’t know I was looking for him.
My chance of success was nil. My chance of being caught was pretty darn good.
Chapter Fourteen
Focus
I slipped the poncho over my head to rinse it and patted the buttoned pocket, feeling for the telltale lumps. The photos were still there. I scooped small amounts of water over the oilcloth fabric and rubbed a little to rinse the dirt, then shook it and slipped it back on. Still stalling, I lifted myself to the seat and glanced over my shoulder at my escorts. Klaus held the empty pickle jar.
I took a deep breath, summoning the courage to meet my fate with my head high. As I began to turn away from the stream, one tire struck a rock and the chair jostled, knocking my crutch out of its holder. I leaned over to get it and noticed – above the crutch’s muddy rubber tip was a small crescent of clean, shiny metal. Curious, I grabbed the tip and wiggled it. With a few tugs, the tip came right off.
The crutch was a hollow metal tube. Of course – it was an old steel pipe. A plan came into focus.
I glanced over my shoulder again. Erich had joined Anna and Klaus and the three talked animatedly. I had a few moments.
With the crutch tucked in my lap, I curled Rennie’s envelope into a tight circle and shoved it deep in the hollow. The letters and pictures from the camera bag followed two or three at a time and then at last, that tin of newly shot film. It all fit, barely, but in less than a minute, I pressed the rubber tip on and turned to fasten the crutch behind my chair.
Anna and Klaus approached, Erich close at their heels. My heart pounded. “Sophie,” Erich said with a tight smile, “you’re looking well. It’s good to see you out of the hospital.” His eyes scanned my face anxiously.
I pulled my gaze away. He couldn’t distract me, not now.
Anna moved behind my chair and started to push. “We’ll have to talk while we walk. You’re late.” Klaus and Erich fell into step on either side of me.
I glanced to the back of my chair. My crutch was there. If only I could find Peter Massey, I could…
“The Scharführer saw you taking pictures, Sophie,” Klaus said evenly, breaking into my thoughts.
In. Out. In. Out. “Of course I took pictures. That’s my assignment. Photograph the Youth.”
Anna let out some breath between pursed lips. “You know perfectly well what he means. You took pictures of the benches and that crippled man. We all saw you.”
“Is that true, Sophie?” Klaus asked. His voice was gentle and kind, like Papa’s. But I knew he was only trying to get what he wanted.
I had to hang on until I could find Peter Massey and give him…
“Sophie, stop daydreaming,” Klaus said more harshly. “Erich tells me he has never left you notes in a jar.”
Erich stared at the ground in front of him. He’d probably answered Klaus’ questions honestly, not knowing that the truth would leave me exposed. Poor guy. Now he knew.
“So tell me, little cat,” Klaus said. “What are you up to?”
Erich lifted his head, and I saw the worry in his face. “Sophie, the Scharführer wants the film.”
Klaus wagged his finger at me, mocking me with his disapproval. “Now, little sister, you’ll see that sneaking around doesn’t pay. All those years of eavesdropping and sending secret notes to who-knows-who… that’s all about to end.”
Erich stayed quiet but I felt the magnetic pull of his gaze on my every expression and movement. I wondered if he would help with my impromptu plan.
Anna hurried me along the path until it again became crowded with participants, then she bumped my wheelchair onto the grass. Hundreds of feet and hooves had created divots in the turf and pushing my chair there was difficult. A half-dozen times my wheels stuck abruptly, jerking me forward and making Anna stagger.
“Let me do that,” Klaus snapped. He brushed Anna aside and tipped my chair back so my front wheels rose in the air. I held the seat for dear life as Klaus pushed me in that ridiculous tipped position. When we finally left the park and reached the street, he dropped my front wheels to the sidewalk, sending rattles up to my teeth. I peered over my shoulder. My crutch was still there.
“Where are we going?” I hollered over the cheers and applause of the parade-watching crowd.
“To give the Scharführer his film,” Erich answered; then he stopped. “Where did he say we should meet him?”
“Across from the Grandstand,” Klaus said.
Erich turned his head side to side, looking confused. “Which way?”
Klaus huffed. “You push her, Erich. I’ll lead. Anna, walk with me to clear the way for the wheelchair.”
After shifting positions, our little foursome of people and wheelchair moved through the immense crowd. All I could see were Klaus and Anna’s backs and hundreds of hips and elbows. A couple times, Erich bent low behind me and said something but his words were lost in the surrounding din.
We continued that way for a block or two. At an intersection when Erich tipped me backward to lower down a curb, we stopped abruptly. I peered over my shoulder, my heart in my throat. Erich stooped to the sidewalk and returned holding my crutch. “Can you hold this?” he said. “I keep bumping it.”
I clasped my hands around the cool metal cylinder, placed the rubber tip on my footplate, and pressed down. The tip was intact. My secret stash was safe inside.
As he pushed again Erich’s voice came close to my ear, and this time I heard him. ”I can get them away for a few minutes. Would that help?”
I was stunned. “Help?”
He bent even closer and I tried to focus, tried to separate his voice from the crowd noise, separate his warm and earthy scent from the sweaty stench of so many people. “You’re hiding something important, right?”
I caught my breath.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m sure you’ll have no regrets.” He sounded pleased, proud.
A thrill ran through me. I turned my head a bit more to catch a glimpse of his face, so close to my own.
He repeated, “Would it help to get them away from you?”
“Yes. Can you do that?”
He nodded but we couldn’t say more because we’d arrived
. We were across the street from a large covered stand of bleachers. The Grandstand.
Party flags fell from the roof edge. Members of the HJ and SS sat in uniformed groups in the bleachers like dark spots on a leopard. Several rows of bleachers held only a dozen figures completely surrounded by black coats. The Führer and his top aides. I drew in a breath.
A voice whined behind me and my chair spun around. “Ah, there you are.” Werner gazed down his long, thin nose at me.
Judging by his tone and his clenched jaw, he was terribly angry. My decisions faltered. “You photographed that man’s, shall we say, unfortunate fall,” he stated. “Tsk, tsk. Unauthorized photographs with the Party’s film.” He grabbed my camera bag. Erich started toward me, probably to protect me, but when the strap slid easily over my head, he stopped. Werner opened the bag and pulled out the camera.
Instinctively, I reached for it and as I did, I saw something. A green vest near the curb not a dozen meters away. Peter Massey!
I needed to make a ruckus so he’d look my way. “Please,” I said louder than needed, “my father gave me that camera. It was a gift.” The crowd noise drowned my words.
Werner ignored my plea and stepped away so the camera was out of my reach. He fiddled with the buttons until he opened the back, grabbed the film inside and yanked. It spun free of its spindles and fell to the ground, untethered as an autumn leaf. I watched it blow into the gutter and partially submerge in a puddle. “There are your precious photos, Adler. Exposed and ruined.”
The film fluttered not far from Peter Massey. He turned to figure out its source.
I rested my fingers on the cool metal of my crutch. Still there. Werner had only exposed and ruined film I hadn’t used yet. I was pleased. So far.
He rummaged through the camera bag and pulled out the empty film tin. He peeked inside, flipped the bag upside down and shook. Nothing. “I gave you two rolls of film for today.” Suspicion was plain in his voice. “Where’s the second roll?”
