by Bodie Thoene
“But her shop is closed.”
“Everyone’s shop is closed. That doesn’t mean she won’t answer the telephone if it rings.”
“But is she there?”
“Call her and see.” Peter continued smiling down on the little corset shop as his mother dialed. He could hear the ring of Frau Singer’s phone. Once. Twice. And then . . . ”
“Gutten Abend. Singer’s corsets and—”
Karin Wallich cried out in astonishment. Could it be that easy? “Frau Singer! It is you!”
“And who else should it be? But who is—?”
“Karin Wallich. Oh, Frau Singer!”
“Mein Gott! Himmel! Mein Gott! We thought you were gone forever! Some said you slipped over the border into what is left of Czechoslovakia! Karin Wallich! But where are you, my dear? You are not calling from Prague?”
Peter put a finger to his lips, warning his mother not to mention that they had been in the apartment of a Gentile just across the street. Such juicy news would no doubt make the rounds and somehow end up in the ears of a party official.
“I am in Vienna,” Karin answered with relief.
“With the children, my dear?”
“Yes. With Peter and Marlene and little Willie.”
“Are you well?”
“Much better now. We thought the wind had blown everyone away.”
The old woman’s laugh crackled over the line. “A strong wind blows from these Storm Troopers, but even the Nazi wives need corsets! They have broken my shopwindow, but as long as I have my two hands I can make what they need.”
The color returned to Karin’s face. She smiled easily at the old woman’s resilience, and the smile melted years from her face. Peter laughed to see it and slapped his thigh in delight. All this time . . .
“It is so good to hear your voice, Frau Singer,” Karin winked at Peter. “We thought we were the only ones left.”
“They arrested nearly all the men between sixteen and sixty. I was certain Peter would be taken as well. They destroyed the soup kitchens and left the women to clean up. There has been little to eat this past week, but today the first funds came from the Refugee Children’s Committee in London. There will be food again tomorrow.”
Karin covered the mouth piece and whispered happily to Peter, “The soup kitchen will be open tomorrow! Imagine!”
There was much news to catch up on, but the telephone was not the way to do it. The thought came to Peter and his mother at the same moment, and their smiles faded as quickly as they had come.
“Yes, well, I really must not keep you any longer, Frau Singer,” Karin said abruptly. “Perhaps we will see you soon.”
As the old woman stammered her farewell on the other end of the line, Karin replaced the receiver. Enthusiasm was tempered by caution once again. Should they go to Frau Singer’s apartment and ask for shelter? The place was only across the street from Herr Ruger’s window. Perhaps they would put the old woman in danger by going there.
***
Wolf was proud of the thick Persian rugs he had acquired for the apartment. He had sent a number of similar purchases home to East Prussia, but these two he kept out purposefully.
The designs were of rare intricacy. There was a special name for each design. Lucy could not remember exactly what Wolf had told her about them except that they were exceptional and valuable. He had picked up the whole lot from a confiscated Jewish house not far from here.
On the cream-colored border of one of the carpets were four reddish-brown spots. They matched the color of the woven wool background, but the spots were some sort of stain.
“Blood,” Lucy said firmly.
“Chocolate,” Wolf said, unconcerned.
“It looks like blood to me,” Lucy insisted. “And I will not walk on blood.”
“Jewish blood.”
“I . . . I don’t care whose blood it is! I cannot bear to have it in the apartment, Wolf! How can I sleep with a stranger’s blood in the house?”
“You are squeamish for the daughter of a farmer. Didn’t you ever see the slaughter of a hog? Not much different than the slaughter of a Jew!” He laughed as she clutched her stomach and turned away.
“Stop it! I will not have even one drop in my house! Can you be so thoughtless?” She pretended to be near to tears. “I am expecting a baby! Can you be so heartless as to play such a cruel game with me? Such matters affect the unborn, you know.”
Wolf’s mocking smile vanished. He looked at her apologetically and shook his head. “I was only joking. Just teasing you! I am sure it is chocolate.” He laughed nervously.
She shook her head defiantly and sank down onto the couch. “I don’t believe you! And what if it is? I will look at the spots and imagine—” She gestured toward the second rug, which was smaller but just as beautifully patterned. “And how can I know they are not both stained with someone’s blood? Look at the color!”
Wolf considered the rich deep red of his treasures and regretted that he had pushed the issue so far. “So, have them cleaned.” He shrugged, then frowned. “But carefully. There are ways, you know. They must not ruin the color.” At that he put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. He expected a reward for agreeing with her about cleaning the Persian rugs. Normally he did not give in to such frivolity.
Lucy remained stiff and unresponsive to his touch. He kissed her, but she did not soften, as if the horror of the rugs had made her into a statue.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Roll them up,” she commanded. “I cannot . . . not when those things are open like that. Roll them up so I will not have to look at them.”
Wolf nodded impatiently and acquiesced to her desire, certain that when he yielded, she would then yield to him.
***
Frau Singer’s shop was only across the street, but it might as well have been on the opposite bank of a raging river. Once again Peter looked out past the edge of the shade and then back to the luggage by the door.
Only two scuffed tan leather suitcases and a box of diapers remained of their possessions.
Baby Willie sat on top of the diaper box and drooled as he chewed intensely on a rubber duck. He was the only member of the family who was not waiting nervously for the sun to slip away so they could escape Herr Ruger’s apartment.
Mozart, Herr Ruger’s cat, eyed the baby coolly from a window ledge. The cats will be glad to see us go, Peter thought. Then they will no longer have to dart past this tail-grabbing human kitten who seems to have invaded every corner of their house. Peter had already decided to let the cats out when they left the apartment. It would not to do have Herr Ruger return home to starved pets and a stinking apartment. Perhaps the cats would hide out in the alley and come home when they saw their owner in the window.
“Another half hour, Mother,” Peter said. They had a plan of escape. Down the back stairs, out the rear door, and then once around the block before they returned to Frau Singer’s place.
“I should have asked her first,” Karin fretted.
“It is better this way,” Peter replied as he eyed the wall clock next to the photograph of Hitler. “She will not turn us away.”
“I will be glad to go.” Marlene pulled up her socks and sat primly on the edge of the sofa as if waiting for a train. “There is nothing to do here.”
Peter was about to reply that he was certain Marlene would be unhappy no matter where they were, but the sound of footsteps made him forget it. There was no time to move, no time to speak. A key scratched in the door lock and then, as the cats leaped from their perches and ambled toward the door expectantly, Herr Ruger entered.
He looked up briefly, accepting the fact that there were people in his apartment. Then, stamping snow from his boots, he doffed his Russian beaver hat and entered.
“Peter!” He seemed genuinely relieved as he stooped to scratch beneath Mozart’s chin. “And Frau Wallich! Are you coming or going?”
Karin Wallich was on her feet in an in
stant. “We were just leaving.” she said through a cracking voice. “Only stopped by to—” She gestured at the cat.
“No, no!” Herr Ruger glanced at the luggage, then at Willie on the box of diapers. “Have you been here a while? I was hoping to find you.”
Peter moved toward the suitcases. “We are on our way to a friend’s house.” He placed the apartment key beside the telephone. “And so—”
Herr Ruger straightened slowly, his fair skin flushed pink from the cold. Golden-red hair fell over his forehead much like the dark hair of Hitler in the picture. He smiled at Marlene as though he was puzzled by this strange welcome and the haste of Peter and Karin Wallich to leave. “You do not want to go so soon, do you, Marlene?” he asked. “I have just arrived home. I would like a cup of tea. Do you know where the tea is, Marlene?”
“Oh, yes,” Marlene blurted out, basking in the attention.
“Then perhaps you would fix me a cup of tea before you leave.”
Karin’s shoulders sagged as Marlene hurried to comply. It had been simple for Herr Ruger to discover that they had been in his apartment long enough for Marlene to know where the tea was kept.
He picked Willie up and held him on a thick, muscular arm. “Have you found your way around all right, Willie? You do not seem to be in such a hurry to go.”
The baby smiled and batted him on the chin. Herr Ruger grinned. He eyed Karin. “Children are seldom frightened unless they are given a reason.” He paused, gestured for her to sit, and then pulled up a rocking chair and continued to hold Willie. “So, I can see clearly that you are not like Willie. You are afraid of me.” He cleared his throat. “I am blunt. Straight to it.” He directed his gaze to Peter, who sat rigid and silent on the sofa. “You did well, Peter. You were invited to come here. Have you been comfortable?”
Peter looked hard at him, remembering the picture of Herr Ruger standing beside Himmler and Hitler. He tried to pretend he had not seen it. “We . . . that is . . . I remembered you said we should come if—”
Karin interrupted, “And so the night of the riots . . . our own apartment was burned to the ground.”
Herr Ruger nodded. “Yes. I saw it. So, you have been staying here. Why are you leaving?” he pressed on.
“We have other friends . . . ” Peter shrugged, carefully avoiding looking into Herr Ruger’s searching eyes. Such eyes seemed to know everything.
“Then who will watch my cats?” Ruger smiled. He stood and placed Willie into the arms of Karin; then he raised a finger, instructing them to remain where they were. With that, he disappeared into the bedroom and re-emerged holding the photograph they had discovered. Hanging it on an empty nail beside the clock and photo of Hitler, he turned to face his guests. “My pride and joy, that photo,” he said. “You see how close I am to the Führer. How trusted I am.”
Karin trembled. Peter did not look at the terrible picture. He stared at his hands, picked nervously at his nails. “You are wise to be frightened by me,” Ruger finished ominously.
“What . . . do you want with us?” Karin breathed.
He answered with a question. “Have you told anyone you were here, Frau Wallich?”
A look passed between her and Peter. They had not even told Frau Singer. “No one.”
“Good.” Herr Ruger smiled. “So, Karin, you look enough like me to be my sister, wouldn’t you say? And Peter might be my nephew. It is the hair, you see. The red hair. I spotted it in the file photos.”
“Gestapo,” Karin whispered, searching his face. “You are one of them. Why are you . . . why have you done this? Why? You know what we are. Surely you know what has happened to my husband.”
Herr Ruger’s face hardened. A strange half-smile played on his lips. “Yes. I know what has become of Michael Wallich.”
“What? Where is he?” Peter begged. “Where is my father?”
“He is dead, Peter.” The smile remained. His eyes looked cold and unfeeling as he announced the news.
In the kitchen doorway, Marlene cried out and dropped the teacup onto the floor. “Mama!” she wailed. “Papa is dead!” She ran to her mother, who sat dry-eyed, unsurprised, as if she had known it all along.
“We wish to leave this place. Are we allowed to leave?” Karin’s tone was emotionless.
“You mean leave this apartment? Or leave Vienna? Or Austria?” Ruger questioned, staring at the weeping little girl who clung to her mother.
Peter angrily jumped to his feet and shouted, “All of that! We want to get out! Out of here! Do you understand that?”
Herr Ruger put a finger to his lips, then gestured toward the ceiling. “The neighbors, Peter,” he warned, still smiling. Then he sighed. “I am working on that. Getting you all out, I mean. There is a place I know in the Tyrol. Maybe there. But the snows have closed the passes already. You will have to stay here a while at least.”
Silence filled the room for a few minutes, except for Marlene’s sniffling. Karin stroked her hair. Baby Willie tangled his stubby fingers in her curls and pulled.
“Why are we here?” Peter asked wearily. “Why have you brought us here? Why help us if you are one of them?”
Herr Ruger shrugged. “It is not so simple as us and them, Peter.” Now Ruger looked very sad. “You must call me Otto. Uncle Otto. Do you understand? I am your Uncle Otto Wattenbarger from the Tyrol. Do you hear me, Marlene?” He caught the eye of the little girl. His stern voice stopped her tears. “I am Uncle Otto. And you will say nothing more than that, even to your mother.”
“We do not have the option to leave here, I take it?” Karin’s tone now became hard and resentful.
“That’s right. It’s gone too far, Karin. Sister.” He turned to Peter. “Have you ever been to a Catholic church, Peter?” he asked, as though it was the logical progression of their conversation.
“No. And I will not—”
“Will not?” Otto raised his chin in amusement at this defiance.
“You are in this as deeply as we are,” Peter spat. “I supposed you are not in danger if we are caught?” This was an open threat.
“Do not be ungrateful, Peter,” Otto replied, as though the words made him sad. “Or I will simply kill you myself and say you had it coming.” He clapped his hands together. “Now. We must begin our catechism. You must learn to pray. Learn how to address a priest properly. And how to speak to the saints. All the saints.” He seemed very pleased. “But first, Marlene, you must make me another cup of tea.”
***
Nightmares came fresh and vivid every night now for Charles Kronenberger. It did not matter that Elisa and Murphy left the light on and spoke of only happy things to him and Louis. Charles was still afraid. Would the bad men who had followed them to Vienna and killed Father also come here to London? The Englishmen did not seem very angry around the things Hitler was doing. Maybe they would not stop him if he found out where Charles was and remembered that this was one little boy who had gotten away from him.
Such fears came to him against his will. In the quiet of his new home, he would remember the frightened voices of his mother as she begged the Gestapo not to hurt Father. He would see the fist raise up and fall across her face as she fought to keep the doctor from taking Charles to the clinic. He would hear once again the clink of metal surgical instruments on the tray, and then he would awaken with a cry to find Elisa at his bedside.
Sometimes, when the grown-ups did not know he understood, he would listen to them talk in English about what had happened on that dark night in Germany. The names of his father’s friends were among the many arrested. Pastor Karl Ibsen. Charles knew the name well. Pastor Ibsen had helped his father fight when the Nazis said only perfect people were welcome in the Reich. He had spoken up for other boys and girls like Charles. Somehow he had survived a long time. But now Pastor Ibsen, like everyone else who protested, was gone. Timmons wired Murphy from Berlin. Murphy had closed the door and told Elisa and Theo and Anna. But Charles listened at the keyhole and heard what the grow
n-ups said. That night the dreams were worse than ever, and Charles thought that God had sent the dreams to punish him because he had been bad and listened.
Eyes looked worried even when faces smiled at Charles and Louis. Louis could speak more clearly than Charles, and so he asked the questions out loud. But Charles had just as many questions as Louis did. What happened to the other children like me who are still in Germany? Will they get to come to England, too? Who is left to speak for them since Pastor Ibsen has disappeared? Will the Nazis come to London? Will they kill me while I sleep? Will they hurt Elisa if her baby is not perfect?
Last night, as Charles lay in bed with his eyes closed, bits of Murphy’s voice had drifted up to him.
“Not only is Ibsen missing . . . closed the church . . . your Aunt Helen and the children vanished . . . Timmons is looking into it, but . . . hopeless. Dangerous situation . . . Euthanasia . . . one hospital emptied overnight . . . ”
Charles fell asleep after hours of staring at the closet door and wondering if Nazis were in there waiting to empty out his bed forever, too.
The next morning Murphy promised it would be a special day for Charles and Louis. Mr. Churchill had gotten them all permission to sit in the press gallery of the House of Commons. Despite the lack of visible response to all appeals, the English government might find some way to help the refugees, Murphy said, and it would be a good thing for Charles to see how they would do it.
Charles put on his best brown tweed jacket and knickers. He combed his hair carefully and then examined the pink scar where his mouth had been broken. His lower lip still stuck out a bit farther than his upper lip, but the doctor said they could fix everything until no one would notice. Even so, Charles thought that someone might see where his mouth had been imperfect. Charles knew what sorts of things happened to imperfect children, and it frightened him. For the first time since his trip to New York, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and carefully pulled it up to conceal his mouth. Until that pink scar healed, he decided, he would hide it from the Nazis. He would hide it also from the Englishmen who liked the Nazis. Otherwise, maybe he would just vanish, too, and someone whole would get the new bed and toys he’d gotten from Mr. Trump.
