Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  He kissed my cheek. “You’re an angel, Lieselotte! I’ll take them there now. The key—I need the key.”

  I pulled it from the hook by the back door. “I’ll cut some sandwiches.”

  “And cloth—something we can fashion a sling from.”

  “Yes, I’ll find something.”

  “And coats or blankets—anything you—”

  “Yes, yes, you’d better go. Vater and Rudy might return any moment. I’ll get them to you.”

  “Danke schön, Fräulein Sommer.” Herr Weiss took my hands in his, then seemed to think that too forward and stepped back, bowing his head twice. “There is no way for me to thank you.”

  “There is no need, Herr Weiss. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.” But the reserve in Herr Weiss’s eyes and the pain in Lukas’s told me I should know, and without being absolutely certain, I’m afraid I did.

  They slipped through the door and into the night. As I pulled bread and cheese from the pantry, I remembered the chest of woolen steamer blankets in the attic above Mutti’s room. I ran there first, pulling out three of the heaviest, and two coats Rudy and I had each outgrown. I couldn’t remember the Weiss girls, how old or tall they were, but it was all I could carry.

  “Lieselotte,” Mutti called faintly as I passed her room. I froze outside her doorway, realizing I must have woken her with my rummaging through the attic.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, Mutti. Just give me a minute.”

  “Lieselotte,” she called more urgently. “Lieselotte, come now!”

  I hadn’t heard her so strong in weeks, but it could mean her pain had returned. I dropped the coats and blankets in the hallway and stepped into the dimly lit room. “What is it, Mutti? Do you need more laudanum? It isn’t quite time yet.”

  “My coat.” She lifted her hand toward her wardrobe. “Take my coat.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. It’s the middle of the night. You must have been dreaming.”

  Her voice was frail, as was everything about her, and I knew it took great effort for her to speak. “I heard them . . . Herr Weiss. Take my coat for Frau Weiss, my warm fur. It will keep her warm.”

  “Nein. That’s your best. You’ll need that.” I pulled the duvet above her shoulders, horrified to realize that she’d heard us, fearful of what she thought, if she knew and would tell Vater. He would never approve, and the trouble it would mean for Lukas . . .

  “I won’t need it. I won’t be going out again. Frau Weiss was always so friendly and kind to me. Herr Weiss gave generous cuts whenever I shop—” But Mutti gasped, her back arching and her face contorting as she cried out in pain.

  Quickly I repositioned the small pillow beneath her back to better support her. It was so little to do and did so little good. “I’m not sure Vater will think it a good idea. I’m afraid—”

  A crash came from the street, followed by raucous shouts and the broken rhythm of a poorly beaten drum.

  “Take it. Go quickly.” Mutti closed her eyes.

  I stood beside her bed, uncertain. But there was no more time. I grabbed Mutti’s rich brown fur coat from her Kleiderschrank, inhaling her sweet scent from days when she was well enough to walk down the stairs and out into the world. I knew Mutti was right that she would not wear it again, that she was past those days forever. But I couldn’t let myself think about that now.

  I grabbed the pile of blankets from the hallway and a sheet and pair of sewing scissors from the linen shelf, balancing the load on my hip as I made my way down the stairs and carefully crept out the back kitchen door before I lost my nerve.

  More shouts and drunken laughter erupted from the street in startling bursts. Smoke hung in the air and the odor of something pungent that I couldn’t identify, couldn’t separate from the smell of wood burning.

  A furtive knock on the shed door, and I passed the load through, into Lukas’s arms. He squeezed mine in gratitude, and I raced back to the kitchen. My knife had just cut through the loaf of bread when Vater and Rudy burst through the kitchen door in high spirits, Rudy recounting some exploit and Vater laughing too loudly in hearty approval. My stomach flipped.

  “Lieselotte, what are you doing up at this hour?” Vater’s tone suddenly changed. “Why is this door not locked? You’ve been out?”

  “Nein,” I lied, something I never remembered doing to my father. “But you were both so late. I was worried.”

  “Did the noises in the street worry dear little Lieselotte?” Rudy teased. “You’d best get used to it. It’s only the beginning!” He rose up on his toes and stretched his arms above my head, menacing like a gremlin.

  “Enough, Rudy,” Vater admonished. “You’re making sandwiches at this hour?”

  “I thought you’d be hungry.” To lie again came more easily.

  “That’s good of you,” Vater approved, pulling off his overcoat and muffler. “It was cold out tonight.”

  “I’m famished!” Rudy tore off his coat and threw his cap to the table. “Make me two! Is there any coffee?”

  “Ja, a little ersatz. I’ll heat it up.” I turned to the stove, praying my face would not betray me. But Rudy was too full of himself to notice, and Vater had other things on his mind.

  “How’s your mother? Did she wake while we were out?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s sleeping now. The laudanum . . .”

  “Ja, das ist gut. She didn’t need to hear this night.”

  “Mutti wouldn’t understand.” Rudy sounded so offhanded.

  “What were you doing that Mutti wouldn’t understand?” It was a bold question, but I wanted them to tell me they’d been drinking or playing cards or anything but beating up young boys and burning synagogues. For the first time in my life I wanted Lukas Kirchmann to be a liar.

  “It’s retribution for the murder by that Bolshevik Jew in France. Haven’t you listened to the radio? You must keep up with these things. You’re not a baby anymore, you know.”

  “Rudy, that’s enough. Lower your voice. Don’t wake your mother. She needs her sleep.” Vater plucked a sandwich from my board. “Bring the coffee when it’s ready. I’m going to check on Mutti, then to bed.” He stopped. “Ah, I have a gift for you, Daughter.” He pulled a book from his coat and handed it to me. “Take good care of it.”

  “A Christmas Carol? And in English! Vater, where did you ever find such a thing?”

  “A first edition, so mind how you keep it.”

  “Ja, ja, I will. Danke schön.” It was not like my father to bring me gifts. And this book—my favorite!

  He was through the door when Rudy whispered, “There’s more where that came from.” He winked. “And what he meant is that he doesn’t want Mutti to know about tonight. She’s been giving him grief about the ‘growing militancy’ of the Hitler Youth. She doesn’t understand. The Führer has plans we’ve not dreamed of—mark my words! He’ll call us to arms before long. The world will see what the New Germany is made of, and I’m part of it!”

  “That’s a boy’s bravado. You’re all about rowing and exercising and camping and—”

  “Not anymore, little sister—not after tonight. The Hitler Youth of today will become the army of tomorrow.”

  “What did you do tonight? You still haven’t answered.”

  “Poor little Lieselotte.” He stroked my cheek, uncharacteristically kind—or was he being sarcastic? “Your world is about to change and you don’t even know it. You’ve been too much at home with Mutti and her old-fashioned ways. You’ve missed more meetings of the Young Girls League than you’ve attended. Next year you must join the other girls in the Bund Deutscher Mädel. You won’t be excused, even if Mutti’s still alive.”

  “Don’t say such a thing!”

  He shook his head. “It’s a mercy for her if she’s not. She’s draining our finances and her life is no longer productive. You must see that. You need to take your place in the New Germany. Because Mutti’s dying, she’s excused. But you’re not. Your laxness loo
ks bad for me and for Vater. The Führer says—”

  “You’re talking crazy, Rudy, and I won’t listen to any more. Go to bed.” I wrapped the remainder of the loaf of bread in a cheesecloth, as if I planned to return it to the pantry. As soon as he and Vater were snoring I would slip what food I could to Herr Weiss in the shed.

  Rudy grabbed two sandwiches from the board and headed for the stairs. “Don’t mock me. It’s a dangerous pastime. You don’t want me to report you, do you?” He turned and raised his brows in mock surprise. I wasn’t entirely sure he was teasing. “Next time you do something Vater’s forbidden, best wipe your shoes.”

  He pointed to the caked mud on my socks and school shoes. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to and I don’t care. I have my own life apart from Mutti and Vater now, so why shouldn’t you? It’s time you grow up, little sister.”

  3

  HANNAH STERLING

  NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 1972

  Old houses creak in the day; at night they moan as if their bones crack and separate. Sleeping in my old room felt just as creepy as when I was a kid. Shadows from the tree limbs outside my windows still loomed with outstretched arms, still danced on the wallpaper opposite my bed. There was still a family of hoot owls—generations old—calling to one another after midnight, unnerving my feeble attempts at slumber. And the safest place was still buried beneath my mountain of patchwork quilts, head and all.

  By 2 a.m. I gave up and pulled on jeans and one of my old high school sweaters still hanging in my closet.

  Thankfully, the electrician had come out to reconnect the line the day before, so I flooded the house with light, top to bottom. It didn’t seem so spooky then, just old and a bit decrepit, in serious need of care—care someone else would give. The telephone couldn’t be reconnected until midweek, but Aunt Lavinia was the only one I’d call, and a little space from her was in order.

  Tea, good and strong, would surely keep me awake, but might make me think more clearly. Tea had always annoyed Mama. She’d liked her coffee, strong and sweet with cream, as if she couldn’t get enough, as if somebody’d take it from her if she didn’t hold on with two hands. Maybe that’s why I liked tea—plain—just to spite her, just to be different.

  The kettle whistled. I poured steaming water into the pot, stirring the leaves. Tea leaves constituted my solitary return to nature—rejecting tea bags in the modern era. Real leaves redeemed time. I pulled my sweater closer and cradled the mug in my hands. So many things I did, so much of my life felt in response—or more in reaction—to my mother. Which is crazy. This has to stop.

  A list. The first thing I ever did to focus on a new project for my classes was to make a list. I ripped a sheet of notebook paper from my school binder and scribbled at the top: Understanding Mama. Moving Forward. Those two things encompassed my goal. Everything else fell between.

  The first step was to go through the house, top to bottom, and search for clues. I’d no idea what kind of clues. Mama and Daddy were both dead, after all.

  But what if Mama kept a diary, or what if Daddy did? Hard to imagine, but I wrote it down: Look for diaries, family pictures. I listed the rooms, determined to remain objective: kitchen—the easiest to tackle. After having spent the summer cooking there, I felt pretty sure there wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen, but I’d tear apart every cupboard and cookie tin. In the process I’d see if there were things I wanted to keep. Everything else, Clyde could deal with.

  Most of Mama’s kitchen pans and utensils had come from rummage sales and yard sales. She didn’t believe in spending money on herself, and truth be told, there wasn’t much to spend. Clipping coupons and saving string and a ball of rubber bands and using tinfoil twice or three times was a way of life. All of that I’d toss in the trash, and feel guilty in the process.

  Next, I’d tackle the bathroom, then the living room. The cellar and attic stored little. Mama hadn’t been in those in years, as far as I knew, but I added them to the list. My old bedroom was as familiar as the back of my hand. I only needed to go through boxes of high school stuff and see if I really wanted to keep anything. I’d leave Mama and Daddy’s room for last. It conjured too many memories of last summer and Mama dying. I couldn’t think about that, couldn’t get sidetracked by memories or misplaced emotion.

  I flicked the power switch on Mama’s old electric radio on the kitchen counter. Cat Stevens belted out “Morning Has Broken,” then The Main Ingredient came on the air and we vied for the right to sing “Everybody Plays the Fool.” The line “But there’s no guarantee that the one you love is gonna love you” surely seemed to fit. It didn’t have to be a man, a boyfriend—as if I’d ever get to that point. All that about loving yourself before you could love someone else might have something to it. And what about God’s love for me? I believed in that, but where were the arms to hold me? How could I love myself if my own mother couldn’t love me? How could I believe Aunt Lavinia’s assertion that Mama’s attitudes had nothing to do with me? How could they not? Neither set of lyrics helped.

  At half past noon I finished the kitchen. I’d found a couple of old wooden spoons—ones Daddy had carved from a fallen maple the summer he took up whittling, thinking it might be a nice sideline. But Mama had frowned when he’d given her the spoons and stuffed them in the catchall drawer. He never carved another thing. My mind ran through the year’s hit parade, and I wondered if there were lyrics for spurned love. I tossed the wooden spoons on the countertop in my Save pile. I should have a song too.

  Mama wasn’t one to hide money in canisters or Ball canning jars on the backs of shelves like Aunt Lavinia. Unlike so many Depression-era parents, Mama never hoarded cash for a rainy day, even though she saved tinfoil and rubber bands. She’d lived simply, as though everything important was inside her rather than outside, though she never showed what that was. Though grim and frugal, she was generous to a fault, which made no sense to me. Generous people are known to be happy people, but not Mama.

  I pulled a can of tuna fish from the pantry and grabbed a loaf of brown bread I’d picked up from the local grocer. That bread—that grocer—reminded me of a day years back . . . I couldn’t have been more than five or six. Mama, Aunt Lavinia, and I had stopped in the grocer’s to do our weekly shopping, which for Mama generally amounted to a small sack of flour, salt, half a pound of sugar, one paper sack of staples, and a pound and a half of red meat she’d spread through the week to add to Daddy’s butchered hog and chickens and occasional fish from the creek beyond the house. Anything else we grew in the garden.

  A tramp came through the door and asked the clerk if he could work—maybe sweep up out front and empty the trash, unpack boxes, whatever needed doing—for food. He asked the clerk if he knew of anybody needing an extra hand in exchange for a place to sleep and board. But he talked funny—a lot like Mama.

  The clerk turned him out straightaway, saying they didn’t need his kind. Aunt Lavinia whispered that nobody’d let a stranger sleep in their barn. No telling where he’d been or what he’d been up to, let alone where he was from, dirty as he was. His faded brown suit jacket was ripped in the sleeve as if he’d been in a fight, and even the top of one of his shoes had come away from its sole.

  When the man left by the front door, the grocer called the sheriff. Just as we were leaving the store, the sheriff came over and ran the man off the town bus bench for loitering.

  Mama stood stock-still, staring after the sheriff. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or frightened or if she approved of what she’d seen. Her face was blank. But she took me by the hand and marched me back into the grocery, shoving our purchases in my arms and leaving Aunt Lavinia standing outside.

  Mama pulled a loaf of white bread from the shelf—something we never store bought—along with two bottles of soda pop. She ordered the grocer to cut a half pound of bologna, sliced thick, and a quarter pound of American cheese, sliced thicker—a veritable feast of riches. She plunked down money I knew Daddy would prohibit and marched m
e back outside with this largesse. Whisking past Aunt Lavinia, who’d waited impatiently in the late-September sun, Mama searched the street both ways, then nearly ran the tramp down chasing after him, me breathless on her heels.

  My visions of a lakeside picnic high up the mountain vanished as Mama caught up to the man and laid a firm hand on his shoulder—a thing I instinctively knew no well-bred Southern woman would do and that every woman in town would gasp over and some did. When the tramp turned, almost fearful, she thrust the grocery sack into his hands, then pulled half the apples from our bag and added them to his. She squeezed the man’s arms and searched his eyes, her chin quivering, as if offering a silent benediction.

  That thin, wearied man looked so sad and startled and half frightened that I thought he might fall over. He never even looked in the sack, but his eyes grew big as saucers till the tears overflowed.

  He stared at Mama the longest time, as if he meant never to forget her face, then looked down at me. He smiled and leaned down, stroking my hair till I wanted to turn away. But he lifted my chin with his finger and his thumb gently stroked my cheek. Neither he nor Mama ever said a word, which I thought strange even for her. At last she shuddered, then just spun on her heels and headed for home.

  I remember looking back at Aunt Lavinia, worried that she’d tell Daddy and he’d be mad at all the money spent on a stranger. But Aunt Lavinia just stood there with her mouth open, then shut it, turned, and walked the other way by herself.

  I followed Mama home, trailing her at a clip. Halfway she seemed to lose her steam and grow suddenly weary. When we reached the house, she walked straight to her room and locked the door. Two hours I heard Mama cry—the only time I ever heard her cry. She didn’t shed one tear at Daddy’s funeral a good ten years later, but she bawled two hours of heart-wrenching sobs for a tramp she didn’t know.