Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  I hadn’t thought of that day in a long time. It had seemed so out of character for Mama and yet so like her at the same time. Who were you, Mama? How could you treat a perfect stranger better than you treated me or Daddy and have that seem natural?

  What Aunt Lavinia had said about Mama being foreign was the first I’d thought about Mama’s accent in years. Once, a cluster of mean boys in grade school had tormented me on the playground, shouting, “Your mama’s nothing but a Nazi spy! You should hightail it back to Krautland!”

  Daddy’d said that simply wasn’t true, that they were just ignorant young mountain children and not to pay them any mind. Daddy’s comfort had been enough for me then, had enabled me to stick my nose in the air at school, even though I’d felt stabbed inside.

  But now I wondered. Was Mama’s accent why she’d connected so strongly—so strangely—to the tramp, or was it the puzzle of some great emotion, foreign even to her? Was her accent why the other women in the church and community kept their distance, or was it her standoffish nature?

  Three more days I spent rummaging through the house, attic to cellar, turning cupboards and dressers and closets and drawers inside out, even tapping for hidden walls and loose floorboards, as foolish as I knew that to be. I sorted for donations and trash and packed the few odds and ends I wanted to keep. That felt like progress, better than leaving it all for Clyde to handle.

  By Friday I felt sick of the house and its contents. I’d given up looking for diaries and mysterious family photo albums. There simply were none. The only room left was Mama and Daddy’s.

  Going through Mama’s personal things was a love/hate pilgrimage. I found the Bible I’d been given in second grade at Sunday school in the bottom of her bedside stand. Mama had learned to read English with my Bible. But if she knew I saw her reading, she’d close it and push it away, like she didn’t want me to see. I never understood that.

  Every drawer held the scent of her homemade lilac sachets, alternately making my stomach ache and filling my heart with a longing I knew I’d never satisfy. Seeing strands of her faded gold hair in her hairbrush made me grip my stomach and throw the brush in the wastebasket.

  Not a thing was out of place. Five dresses hung in the closet—one for church, one for shopping, three for the house. She’d owned a pair of black pumps for Sunday sitting beside a polished pair of brown tie shoes, heels worn down, for every day. When other mothers had donned open-toe sandals and patent-leather heels, my mother had ignored the fashion and continued to wear the plainest clothes and “sensible shoes,” as if she didn’t deserve better, as if dressing like a pauper helped her martyrdom. And yet I knew part of her had looked down on those women who’d dressed to the nines, as if they’d missed the point of living entirely.

  In a last attempt I pulled the dresser from the wall and searched its back. I turned the oval dressing table mirror over. . . . Nothing.

  I lay on her bed, the bed she’d died in, and waited the longest time to see if I felt something, anything, wondering if I might be given a sign. Please . . . please, God. Help me understand. Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing. It was that nothingness that felt like suffocation—like all the air was gradually being sucked from the room. Who were you, Mama? Did you feel anything at all for me? Finally, I cried a good long cry and fell hard asleep. I didn’t dream, and never woke until the phone rang.

  My first call on the newly reconnected phone. It had to be Aunt Lavinia. I couldn’t bear talking to her now.

  The phone finally stopped ringing for the space of thirty seconds and started up again. I groaned and dragged myself from the bed because I knew she wouldn’t give up until I answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Sterling? Hannah Sterling?”

  “This is she.” A lump rose in my throat. No, please don’t let something have happened to Aunt Lavinia. Dear God, I’m sorry I was so mean to her! Please . . .

  “Miss Sterling, this is Ward Beecham, your mother’s attorney. Allow me to offer my condolences on her passing. I’m sorry I’ve not done so sooner.”

  My heart nearly stopped. Thank You, God! “It’s all right, Mr. Beecham. I never gave you a chance. It’s just been—”

  “These things are always hard.”

  The lump rose higher in my throat. He had no idea.

  “Your mother left a will—a simple will, but I do need to give that to you, as well as the key.”

  “The key?”

  “To her safe-deposit box. She was explicit that I place it directly into your hands, privately. Would you be able to stop by my office tomorrow sometime? It shouldn’t take more than thirty, forty minutes for us to finalize things.”

  Mama left me a key to a safe-deposit box? She owned nothing of monetary value. What could—?

  “Miss Sterling? Are you there?”

  “Yes . . . yes, Mr. Beecham, I am. I’m just stunned. I didn’t expect anything from my mother.”

  “I understand. Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”

  4

  LIESELOTTE SOMMER

  DECEMBER 1938

  It seemed that growing up was all I did, but never fast enough. My fantasies about Lukas and me—the new, adrenaline-pumping ones where we fought jackbooted SS tooth and nail or risked our lives sneaking terrified Jews below the Gestapo’s brutal searchlights by night—were short-lived. And try as I might, I could not seriously conjure the fantasy I craved most—the moment, after our all-important night’s work, when we would gaze lovingly and longingly into each other’s eyes while the sun rose over the dark roofs of Berlin.

  In fact, I walked nowhere but school, and Lukas didn’t come to the house for weeks, not even when Rudy invited him for supper or to join him for Saturday hikes. He and Rudy no longer walked behind Marta and me weekday mornings. It seemed that Lukas had evaporated like a morning fog from my life, as though our late-night adventure had never happened, as if it were the fantasy.

  But Mutti’s fur coat was missing from her closet, and that told me truly something had happened, that I wasn’t losing my mind.

  It was nearly Christmas when Frau Kirchmann began her daily visits with Mutti. They’d always been friends, but now they grew inseparable, like sisters, laughing, sharing secrets, whispering. Frau Kirchmann read aloud until Mutti, drifting in and out of pain, fell asleep midsentence. Her visits helped pass Mutti’s lonely hours while Vater worked and Rudy and I attended school. Frau Kirchmann left just before Vater returned home, but always stayed long enough after school to share ersatz and bread with jam or sometimes a little Apfelkuchen she’d baked for Mutti and me.

  For those few moments I was one of the women—a friend and equal. They were both interested in me, interested in what I was learning and thinking—at least Frau Kirchmann was, and Mutti when she could stay awake. It was all I could do not to inquire about Lukas, about the Jews we hid that night, about anything at all that might concern him. But I would not betray Lukas’s trust or the fury of my feelings for him.

  If Frau Kirchmann hadn’t drawn me into their circle, I don’t know what might have become of me that autumn. With Mutti’s illness and Rudy’s wild life and Vater’s ill temper, all my ends had frayed.

  Christmas crept painfully upon us. Vater worked long hours at his municipal office, sat by Mutti for a few minutes in the evenings, then fled to the library for his pipe and schnapps. Rudy stayed out all hours, marching and drilling and carousing with his Hitler Youth. I had no heart for Christmas, and Mutti barely knew one day from the next. But the afternoon before Christmas Eve, there came a pounding at our front door.

  I opened it. Herr Kirchmann and Lukas pushed through, dragging a fulsome fir, Frau Kirchmann and Marta laughing in their wake.

  “Guten Tag, Lieselotte! Where shall we set it? By the front window?” Herr Kirchmann did not wait for an answer, but led his merry band into the front room. “Marta, bring the pail. Lukas, the bricks.”

  “Shh,” Fra
u Kirchmann hissed. “Don’t wake Elsa; surprise her when we’re finished!”

  “Lieselotte, the ornaments! Hurry!” Herr Kirchmann stage-whispered to me, blue eyes winking in conspiracy.

  I nodded, blinking, backing from the room. What would Vater say? How could we celebrate Christmas while Mutti lay dying? How could we not?

  Frau Kirchmann must have anticipated my dilemma, for she was beside me in a moment, her arms wrapped around me. “Do you remember how your mother decorated your house last year with evergreen boughs and so many candles that your father feared she might burn it down? How she baked the sweetest Kuchen in the church for Christmas breakfast? That her voice was the sweetest and the highest—the only one able to reach those first soprano notes as we all sang Weihnachtslieder two years ago? Your mother loves Christmas. Let us give her one more—one more with cheer and music.”

  “I don’t know if I can. I can’t pretend. And Vater is not—”

  “Your father is confused and hurting. But he will see this is right. He loves your mother.”

  “How? How can we—?”

  “Courage. You must be brave, my darling girl. Let her see you—see all of us—sing and smile. She needs to know that our lives will go on, that you will remember all she’s given you . . . that you will not forget to live.”

  The scorched lump in my throat threatened to suffocate me, the pressure in my chest to crush me. I pulled from her arms, though I wanted to remain.

  “Do this for your Mutti.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You do not do it alone. We’ll be here, every step. I promise.”

  It sounded right; it sounded impossible.

  “Do you want Lukas to help you with the ornaments?”

  “Nein.” I felt the heat rise up my face.

  “Of course she does,” Marta broke in, teasing. “But she’s too shy to ask. So I’ll go. Come on, race you to the attic.”

  Relief—that’s what it felt like for someone to take the lead. Relief for anything, even something so normal as Christmas ornaments pulled from beneath the eaves.

  Two hours later we hung the last ornaments. Marta steadied the chair as I pinned the star to the top of the tree. Frau Kirchmann went to wake Mutti, and Herr Kirchmann to carry her down the stairs.

  They’d not reached the bottom stair when Vater and Rudy in his Hitler Youth uniform stomped from the kitchen. I’d not heard them come through the back door. Vater took in the tree before he saw Mutti. Color drained from his face—hurt, sudden anger, betrayal written in his eyes. But in the next moment he caught sight of Mutti’s face—a face lit as I hadn’t seen it for months. She clasped her hands to her chest in joyous surprise, her eyes as bright as the Tannenbaum with candles that Lukas quickly lit. Tears spilled, making those blue orbs shine.

  To think I nearly forbade this! To think Mutti almost missed her Christmas—that we all almost missed it!

  Even Vater thawed in that moment, and Rudy straightened, taken as I was by the surprise of Mutti’s pleasure and the surge of life in her form.

  “A surprise—a Christmas surprise for our dear friends!” Frau Kirchmann cried, pulling Vater in by the arm as if it were any other year. She ushered him to the sofa, next to Mutti, where Herr Kirchmann had gently placed her.

  Mutti reached for Vater’s hand. “Oh, Wolfgang! It is wonderful!”

  But Vater had been out drinking again. I could smell his schnapps from across the room. “It wasn’t Vater,” I protested. “It was—”

  Lukas grabbed my hand, helping me—pulling me—from the chair. “It’s a surprise from all of us—everyone.” He didn’t meet my eyes, but the electricity of his touch shot up my arm.

  Vater’s glassy eyes registered a moment of gratitude, but only a moment.

  Dr. Peterson, my father’s colleague and our family doctor—I’d not heard him enter through the kitchen, either—spoke from the hallway. “A party? Wolfgang, we have work. You did not say—”

  “A small party, Herr Doktor,” Frau Kirchmann insisted. “Please join us.”

  It was clear—at least to me—that Dr. Peterson wanted no party, that he was annoyed at the gathering in our home. Why, I don’t know, but he shouldn’t have taken it out on Lukas.

  “Lukas Kirchmann, isn’t it?”

  “Ja.” Lukas extended his hand. “And you are Dr. Peterson.”

  Dr. Peterson ignored the gesture. “You’re not in uniform? Surely you are of age.”

  Lukas set his mouth. “I have not joined.”

  “Lukas helps his father with work on Saturdays and Sundays—essential work,” Frau Kirchmann insisted. “His duties conflict with the youth program.”

  “Essential work,” Dr. Peterson repeated. “Tell me, what is—?”

  “Please,” Mutti begged, “no talk of politics today. Rudy, please change from that uniform. I want no reminder of things outside these walls today. This is our Christmas celebration, and the Kirchmanns have been so kind to provide everything. Isn’t it wonderful, Wolfgang?”

  Vater could not resist Mutti or the good angels of her nature. “We are most grateful to you both. We did not expect . . .”

  Frau Kirchmann hugged Mutti. “It’s what good friends do. You would help us celebrate if things were different.”

  Vater nodded, but I wondered. I could not imagine him carrying a tree in for anyone.

  Dr. Peterson spoke again. “It will become mandatory soon, you realize.”

  “Celebrating Christmas?” Mutti teased. “I should hope so!”

  “The youth programs. Compulsory in the new year.” Rudy thumped Lukas in the chest. “You won’t be out of uniform for long!”

  “Rudy, I asked you to change your clothes—today, for me,” Mutti half pleaded, but Rudy ignored her again and Vater did not speak up for her.

  “Is that certain?” asked Herr Kirchmann. “That would prove most inconvenient for our work.”

  “Your work? The Führer’s work comes first, or do you not agree, Herr Kirchmann?” Dr. Peterson challenged.

  “You’ve brought presents!” Marta squealed, pushing between them, pointing to the velvet sack Dr. Peterson carried. “Just like der Nikolaus!”

  “Ja! Presents—der Nikolaus!” Rudy laughed and clapped Dr. Peterson on the back. “Perhaps this is the first time you’ve been called that, eh, my good doctor?”

  “Rudy,” Vater admonished. “Respect. Show respect.”

  Rudy bowed before the doctor. “Ja, sure. You must forgive me.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “Why don’t you show us what you have in your sack, Herr Doktor.”

  I didn’t understand. They all acted as if we performed a play upon the stage, spouting lines that held no meaning, or that meant something quite different from the words spoken.

  “Leave it alone, Rudy,” Vater warned.

  Mutti’s smile faltered. Frau Kirchmann looked confused. Dr. Peterson glanced at Rudy and Vater once again. Rudy gave a mock salute. The doctor hesitated only a moment. “Why not?”

  “Peterson, do not . . .” Vater cautioned, rising from the sofa. But he still held Mutti’s hand.

  She gently pulled him back. “Wolfgang? What is it?” she whispered.

  “It is cause for celebration, I think.” The doctor plunked the heavy bag on the table, pulling open its drawstring. “Why not share our good fortune with your friends?”

  Vater’s face reddened. “Another time. Not today—not—”

  Two ornate silver candlesticks were pulled from the sack—each a good eighteen inches and weighing enough to make Dr. Peterson heft them, one in each hand. “Quite a prize—perfect for the holidays, don’t you think?”

  “They’re exquisite!” Mutti agreed. “You bought them today? For Christmas?”

  “Bought them?” Dr. Peterson all but smirked. “Did we buy them, Wolfgang? What would you say?”

  Rudy grunted with pleasure.

  “Wolfgang?” Mutti squeezed Papa’s hand.

  “It was . . . a complicated trans
action.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Peterson coughed, barely suppressing his grin. “Yes, Frau Sommer, it was ‘complicated.’”

  I was still thinking that Lukas had taken my hand, that he’d not immediately let it go. I didn’t care about candlesticks.

  But Marta cared very much. “They’re magnificent. May I hold one?”

  Dr. Peterson shrugged, taking pleasure in her interest.

  “Oh,” she said in approval, “it weighs a ton. Are they real silver—through and through?”

  “Through and through.” Rudy pushed in, taking up the other, flirting with Marta. “Worth a fortune.”

  “They’re heavier than yours, Mama. But look, they have almond buds engraved on each of the branches—just like yours.”

  “You have such candlesticks, Frau Kirchmann?” Dr. Peterson took new interest in her. “I should like to see them.”

  “They’re not for sale!” Marta exclaimed. “They’re to come to me one day—they were Grandmama’s, from Austria, and her mother’s before.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, they are nothing so grand,” Frau Kirchmann said quickly. “We have so many things of Mama’s and Papa’s—sentimental value, I suppose.” She made light, but I could see the questions unnerved her.

  “Engraved with almond blossoms?” Dr. Peterson probed.

  But Frau Kirchmann had turned away.

  “Hyacinths,” Herr Kirchmann offered. “They are hyacinths.”

  “But—” Marta objected.

  “You’ve forgotten, my dear. Hyacinths were your grandmother’s favorite flower. They’re on everything.”

  Now Marta looked uncertain.

  Herr Kirchmann hefted one of the candlesticks. “But these are certainly lovely. A bargain at any price.”

  Dr. Peterson pulled it from his hand, returning both candlesticks to the velvet bag. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Where did you get them?” Mutti asked quietly. No one answered. She insisted, “Wolfgang, where did you and Dr. Peterson find them?”

  “I’ll leave that to you, my friend.” Dr. Peterson lit a cigarette.