by Cathy Gohlke
“If I were not here.” The truth dawned. Why had it taken me so long to grasp? A nearly grown child from a first marriage would not be wanted . . . would interfere with a new wife . . . would be in the way . . .
Vater did not answer. “Perhaps Dr. Peterson can arrange a meeting in the near future—a dinner, an opportunity for you to meet a suitable officer or two.”
“You will auction me off to the highest-ranking Party member?”
“You speak nonsense!” But I saw in his eyes that that was exactly what would happen.
“I won’t do it. I’ll spit in his face. Do you hear me? I’ll drool across the table and pick pretend nits from my hair. That will show them my wonderful Aryan breeding.” Now I nearly begged him to strike me.
“We’ll speak of this another time. It’s enough now that you think of it.” Angry, he stepped closer. I did my best to stand my ground though I shrank inside. I wanted a fight and I feared a fight. “Lieselotte,” he said, softening. “You look so like your Mutter, but these sudden tantrums are not becoming. Your temper—”
“Is becoming fierce.”
“You must learn to control your emotions, to use them for good. A strong nature will serve you well, or it can ruin your life.” He looked as if he might say more, but turned, pulling his topcoat from the rack. “Do not wait up.”
I never waited up, not intentionally. But I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of my room, each night until the key turned in the front lock, until the massive oak door swung in, creaking on its hinges. Once for Rudy, and once for Vater. It was a guessing game who might come home first.
Neither called my name. Neither checked on me. If I’d not been in my bed, they’d never have known. I could have been anywhere, doing anything, and neither the wiser. And though that was not a noble reason to change my life, it was what gave me the idea.
I waited until after church on Sunday, until we’d finished the delicious Schmorbraten Frau Kirchmann had stewed, until Marta and I had washed and shelved the dishes. Vater knew I spent Sunday afternoons with the Kirchmanns. He would not expect me home—which was good; it would likely be a long conversation. But I never expected such an explosion.
“You cannot be serious!” Lukas looked as if he might burst a blood vessel. Even his mother could not calm him. “There is nothing you can do to help, Lieselotte. I’ve already told you, it is out of the question!”
I would have pledged my life to honor Lukas, but to obey him in this? “I know what you’re doing—what you’re all doing. Do you think I sit beside you in church each Sunday and don’t see the looks exchanged between you? Do you think I do not see the pastor pass the hat after services at the back of the room, do not see the ration books dropped in or the forged identity papers, all while someone stands watch for the Gestapo? I know those collections are not going for the running of the church—not like the weekly collection. You’re hiding Jews, feeding Jews, helping them move from place to place . . . or someone. You’re all helping someone, and I want to help too. There must be something I can do.”
“You’re mistaken. There is nothing!”
“Then why are you shouting, Lukas?” I shouted back.
Herr Kirchmann placed a heavy hand on both our shoulders. “This is not a football match. Stop it, both of you.”
“I think Lieselotte has a right to know.” Frau Kirchmann spoke softly to her husband. “She is right. She could help. She has helped before.”
Herr Kirchmann considered. My heart swelled with Frau Kirchmann’s affirmation, with the knowledge that Lukas had told his parents about me, and about Mutti.
“Nein! There is no need, and we operate on the basis of only those adults who need to know,” Lukas insisted.
“I know,” Marta took up my defense. “Since when have you considered me an adult?”
“No one suspects you. You’re a child!” Lukas spat.
“Then why would they suspect me? I’m the same age as Marta.”
“You are not a child. You don’t even look like a child!” Lukas declared the words before he thought—it was written on his face.
His father smiled. His mother turned away, also smiling. My heart soared.
“It is too dangerous.”
“It’s dangerous for all of us,” Herr Kirchmann reminded him. “If Lieselotte believes the Lord has called her to help, who are we to turn her away?”
“She could run courier—with me.” Marta leaned closer, her arms crossed over her chest. “Or we could both run in different directions at once and confuse them utterly!”
“I like the idea of both girls going together,” Frau Kirchmann intervened. “I worry each time Marta goes out, but with two—there is comfort in numbers, if not safety,” she urged her husband.
“Ja,” I agreed, hardly knowing what I agreed to.
“Has the Lord called you, Lieselotte?” Lukas pushed.
“Has He called you?” I countered.
“Yes, I think so. I’ve believed it for a long while now. . . . Well? And you?”
They all stared at me. If I said yes, I would be lying. If I said no, would they let me help? I could not lie to Lukas or his parents . . . nor could I tell him—explain to him—that if I did nothing, I would die inside. I would burst and die of loneliness, of anger, of frustration, of helplessness. “I only know I must do something that helps someone. Everything I see frightens me nearly to death. If I am caught, I would rather die for something than live for nothing.”
Lukas understood. I saw in his eyes that he understood, though he didn’t want to. I saw that the consequence was not what he’d hoped, that he felt defeated despite his understanding. I could not stop him as he grabbed his hat and slammed the back door on his way out, or tell his parents to wait for me to run after him as they drew me into the parlor to explain their work. But I knew there would be another day. At least I’d earned the right to fight—to get up and breathe—another day.
9
HANNAH STERLING
JANUARY 1973
I must have slept the day away. Frau Winkler’s pounding on the door at half past six roused me.
“Dinner is served at seven, Fräulein Sterling.” It was a pronouncement brooking no decline.
My head felt like somebody’d plopped an anvil there. But as the fog faded, excitement stirred. I’m going to meet my grandfather, at last—my grandfather!
After believing that all my mother’s family was dead and that I’d been entirely orphaned, except for Aunt Lavinia, I’d now gained a grandfather, my mother’s own father. I repeated the words over and over in my head, just as I had during the plane trip; it still seemed impossible.
Sconces in the dimly lit hallway cast gloomy shadows the length of the walls, reminding me that during the war even electricity had been rationed—or so I’d heard. I suspected the house had never been updated for stronger wattage.
Feeling eerily as if I’d stepped back in time, I rubbed my hand over the banister as I took the staircase down to the second floor and then to the first in search of the dining room. Mama must have run up and down these stairs hundreds of times as a girl. Herr Eberhardt had mentioned that Grandfather Sommer’s family had lived in the same house since the early 1900s.
I reached the dining room five minutes early, but Grandfather was already seated at the head of the table, Herr Eberhardt at the foot. “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I didn’t realize the time.”
“We are simply early, Fräulein. I had business matters to discuss with my client.” Herr Eberhardt rose from his chair and came to meet me. At the far end, Grandfather rose too, though more feebly.
“Please, don’t get up.” I walked quickly toward him, but was at a loss. What’s appropriate? At home I’d hug his neck. Do Germans even do that?
Herr Eberhardt came to my rescue, his hand on my elbow. “Herr Sommer, mai präsentieren Ihnen Ihre Enkelin, Fräulein Hannah Sterling.”
“Oh, please, call me Hannah.”
“Fräulein Sterling,
allow me to present your grandfather, Herr Wolfgang Sommer, my client and my friend.”
“Hannah.” Grandfather clasped my hand and repeated my name warmly, with an accent so similar to Mama’s that my breath caught. He looked pleased to see me—almost triumphant in his pleasure—and so very frail that I couldn’t help myself. I hugged his neck and kissed him on the cheek, just as I would have done to Mama if she’d not held me at bay.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Grandfather. Thank you for inviting me, for the plane fare, and . . . for everything. It’s just amazing to me to be here in the house my mother grew up in and—”
“One moment, Fräulein; allow me to translate,” Herr Eberhardt interrupted.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot he doesn’t speak English.”
“Much English.”
“Yes, much.”
Herr Eberhardt translated, though I didn’t think he did it with enough enthusiasm. Then he pulled out my chair and I sat. Frau Winkler served dinner.
It should have been a party—a celebration, a homecoming. But the minutes ticked by and Grandfather said nothing. He stole glances at me each time I turned to Herr Eberhardt. I could feel his eyes searching my face. I wondered if he was looking for some trace of Mama in my features. It felt like sacrilege to break the silence.
After a time I wondered if chewing troubled him too much to speak. I didn’t know if all German food tasted like this or if Frau Winkler preferred to cook her meat dry and tough. And there was absolutely nothing green on the plate.
“You are not hungry, Fräulein?” Herr Eberhardt asked when Frau Winkler took away my plate of half-eaten sausages and potatoes.
“It’s just been a long day for me. I think my body clock hasn’t quite adjusted to the time yet.” I smiled and straightened, dabbing my napkin to my mouth. Even my smile felt a bit out of place.
I thought there was an upward lift at the corner of Grandfather’s lips but was uncertain he could have caught what I’d said.
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.” The silence lasted through dessert—dry cake covered in whipped cream and coffee so strong I expected my spoon to stand up straight. Good thing I got that nap. There’ll be no sleep tonight.
Grandfather said something to Herr Eberhardt in German, and the exchange went on for a minute or so.
“Your grandfather wishes for you to ask Frau Winkler for anything you need and offers to provide a tour of Berlin. Are you prepared to begin tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’d love it. Will you go with us to translate?”
Herr Eberhardt looked surprised and a bit offended all at once. “Your grandfather has bid me hire a tour guide for you—a guide who speaks enough English to accommodate your lack of languages.”
“Grandfather won’t be going?” I did my best to ignore the slight on my “lack of languages.”
“Surely you can see that is unwise, Fräulein Sterling. There will be a great deal of walking.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a walking tour. I thought perhaps he meant we’d drive. It’s just that I was hoping to spend the day with Grandfather.” But Herr Eberhardt’s expression gave no quarter. “Please tell Grandfather I’m most grateful and I’ll surely enjoy getting to know Berlin.”
Herr Eberhardt nodded and stood. I realized he signaled the end of the meal but didn’t realize I was being dismissed.
“You will be so kind as to excuse us, Fräulein Sterling. I have further business with Herr Sommer. Either I or your grandfather’s longtime physician, Dr. Peterson, will join you for dinner tomorrow evening. Dr. Peterson’s English is quite good, and you will find him a tremendous help in communicating with your grandfather.”
“Thank you; that sounds very nice. Well, good night, and thank you again. Good night, Grandfather.”
“Gute Nacht,” Herr Eberhardt corrected.
“Gute Nacht,” I repeated to him and again to Grandfather. Grandfather nodded, barely looking at me, as though I’d been privileged to address the king of England.
I passed Frau Winkler in the hallway. She raised her eyebrows significantly but I looked away. I had no idea what her expression implied or if I was to take particular meaning from Herr Eberhardt’s comments.
My family—it felt less like a family than I’d hoped or imagined. Maybe it’s just the language barrier, and that I’m tired. I need to communicate directly with Grandfather, not go through a translator, to ask him questions about Mama. Well, I’m not stupid. I can learn German, and I can learn it as quickly as I need to.
“Everything looks brighter in the morning”—that’s what Aunt Lavinia would say. And she would have been right. I woke early, my sleep patterns thoroughly confused by the time change, and enjoyed watching the sun rise above Berlin’s dark rooftops, drenching the frosted tiles in diamonds.
Frau Winkler stirred down the hallway about half past six. At seven she descended the stairs. By the time I’d finished in the bathroom and put my room to rights, the clock hands approached eight and still no summons. So I made my way downstairs to the dining room . . . dark and silent.
But the kitchen hummed—egg water bubbled and a load of clothes spun in a primitive electric washing machine. A loaf of dark, dense bread stood on the counter with a long knife and a crock of butter. Steaming-hot coffee beckoned from the stove. I’d just about decided to help myself when Frau Winkler stepped into the kitchen behind me.
“Good morning, Frau Winkler.” I tried to sound bright and cheerful.
“Guten Morgen,” she responded, reserved.
I smiled.
“It means ‘good morning.’”
“Yes, I understand. Guten Morgen.”
“Ja. Das ist gut. You need to learn the language. You need to learn it quickly.”
As if I don’t know. “I don’t expect to be here long, but I would like to learn.”
“We will see.”
This woman gives me the creeps! But I simply smiled, stepping back to give more space. “May I help myself to breakfast?”
“Ja, ja. Here is bread and the butter. Americans like a little sweet, so here is the marmalade. The Kaffee is ready.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Danke schön.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you—Danke schön.”
“Oh. Danke schön.”
“Bitte schön.” She waited, but I must’ve looked blank. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Thank you.”
She looked as if I’d tried her patience beyond endurance. I was saved by a knock on the back kitchen door, and while she answered it, I cut and buttered my bread. I’d have preferred toast smothered in apple butter or preserves, but didn’t dare ask, grateful for the “sweet” we Americans craved, even though I’d say their marmalade was mush and slightly bitter compared to the preserves made from Aunt Lavinia’s mountain blackberries. The strong coffee that had curled my toes last night unfurled them with the morning sun’s rays.
“Your driver is waiting in the street.”
“My driver?”
“Ja. Your tour guide.”
“He’s here? Now?”
“In New York they say, ‘the meter is running’—ja?” She raised her brows significantly toward me.
I swallowed one last steaming gulp of the bitter brew and bolted for the stairs, dark rye bread in hand. “I’ll be down in five minutes!”
I had no idea where we were going or what I’d see but was certain I’d at least need my Brownie camera and a couple rolls of film, a notepad and pen, my English-German dictionary and shoulder bag, and some of the deutsche marks I’d exchanged at the airport yesterday. A sturdy pair of walking shoes and layers beneath my coat and scarf must be in order.
Fifteen minutes had passed by the time I emerged, breathless and frozen stiff by the outside temperature. My driver stood nonchalantly by the car, reading the morning newspaper. Wrapped against the cold, he didn’t seem to mind it or me unt
il I coughed two feet from his ear.
“Ach, pardon me, Fräulein. I was lost in the events of the day.”
“Your English is perfect!”
He smiled, his teeth gleaming like a Colgate commercial. Then he sobered. “Is that not what you require?” He sounded as British as Prince Charles.
“Yes, I mean, no—I just expected you to be altogether German. I’m glad you’re not.” That doesn’t sound right! Will I never stop slapping egg on my face with these people?
Now he raised his eyebrows—thick, arched brows over brown, smiling eyes that twinkled at my expense. What is it with Europeans and their eyebrows? “Ja, I am German, born and raised in Berlin—except, of course, the years I spent in one of England’s finest boarding schools.”
Where you surely knocked the local girls dead. The man stood at least six feet and his curly blond hair hung over his eye in the most appealing schoolboy fashion. He must have been several years my senior, but his broad shoulders and athletic build looked that of a younger man. “I’m so sorry. I meant no offense.”
He really did look sympathetic, as if pitying tourists was an everyday affair. “None taken, I assure you. Americans often say exactly what they’re thinking, even if it’s not quite what they mean.”
I smiled, nodding to agree, then stopped, nonplussed.
“Carl Schmidt.” He tipped his cap.
“Hannah Sterling.” I extended my hand.
He took it, smiling, then opened the car door. “Shall we?”
I slid into the backseat, doing my best to regain my composure.
Carl glanced into his rearview mirror. “Where to, Fräulein? Anywhere in particular, or would you like the general Berlin tour?”
“Are you on a clock? I mean, is there a certain length of time we have, or should I choose from specific options?”
“We have all the time you want. Herr Eberhardt has hired me to be completely at your disposal, both for driving and for translation purposes.”
