Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  “I want to please you, Grandfather—Grossvater. I want to know you and love you and want you to know and love me.”

  “Then it is settled. We move forward.” He squeezed my hand and gave a gruff smile.

  It wasn’t all I wanted, but it was something I craved. I couldn’t resist a tease. “Ja, we move forward—in English.”

  He hesitated; then the sparkle in his eye warmed me.

  When Dr. Peterson joined us for dinner that night, it was an entirely different affair. Grossvater spoke in English, except for an occasional lapse into German. He was more comfortable, free in his speech, almost jovial at times. But the tension emanating from Dr. Peterson was palpable.

  “You must rejoice, my friend,” Grandfather egged him on. “The lost lamb is found.”

  But Dr. Peterson would not be cajoled, and at one point he let loose a torrent in German of which I understood nothing. Grandfather reacted strangely, raising his head as if considering his friend’s words, glancing at me almost suspiciously, then responding in German. When Dr. Peterson seemed to insist, Grandfather finally pounded his palm on the table, exclaiming, “Enough.” Both men sat back, and the meal continued in silence until Grandfather spoke to me again.

  “You will continue your tours of Berlin, Hannah? You like all that you have seen and learned?”

  “I’ve enjoyed them very much. But I’d rather spend time with you, Grossvater. It’s you I came to see, remember?” I smiled.

  He smiled in return. “There will be much time for that, my child. I think it is well for you to learn your new city.”

  The telephone rang in the hallway. Frau Winkler answered it, speaking quietly, then insistently in German. Grandfather’s hearing seemed to vastly improve and he called out to her. She opened the dining room door, explaining . . . something else in German I could not understand.

  Grandfather stood, reaching for his cane. “Excuse me, Hannah; I must talk with this man.”

  The dining room door closed and it seemed the light went out along with Grandfather. Dr. Peterson’s dislike of me shut off the air.

  “You realize the fragility of your Grossvater’s health, Fräulein Sterling.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not entirely, Dr. Peterson. He seems much relieved and stronger since we’ve come to a better understanding. Since I no longer need you to translate for me,” I said pointedly.

  “Then it is important that you should know, that you should understand why your presence is of the greatest concern.”

  “And what is it I should understand?” The man was beginning to unnerve me.

  “That Herr Sommer is dying. He has three months to live . . . at most. I will not have you upsetting him.”

  I didn’t care that Frau Winkler was off duty. As soon as I bid Grandfather and Dr. Peterson good night I tiptoed to her room, knocked softly on her door. She’d already changed into her dressing gown.

  “There is something you need, Fräulein Hannah?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Grandfather’s dying—that talking to him and bringing up the past would endanger his heart? Did you think I’d do it anyway—that I wouldn’t care about hurting him?”

  “You wanted answers to your questions, what your mother did to be cast out, perhaps even to know your father. Please to remember that you asked me. I simply told you what I’d heard.”

  “My mother was cast out? I thought you didn’t know her.”

  “I heard them talking—Dr. Peterson and Herr Sommer. It is why I encouraged you to learn to speak German, to understand the language. You will not know the truth by what they tell you. They perform for you.”

  “What do you mean?” But I’d had the same feeling.

  “Herr Sommer was known during the war, for the things he did during the war.”

  “That was thirty years ago! I don’t understand why it matters so much now, or what it had to do with my mother running away.” I needed explanations, but I desperately wanted them to be ones I could live with.

  “Running away?”

  “Dr. Peterson said she ran away, that it hurt her father deeply.”

  “She disappeared, it is true. I never saw her after . . .”

  “After what?”

  “Her engagement was announced in the newspaper.”

  “Engagement? To who—whom?”

  We both tensed at the sound of Grandfather’s cane upon the stairs. I knew it as well as I understood the sudden fear in Frau Winkler’s eyes.

  “I remember nothing. Please do not ask me any more.”

  “But—”

  “I need this job, Fräulein Hannah,” she hissed and gently but firmly pushed me out the door, locking it.

  The gentle click of Grandfather’s cane made its way back down the stairs until I heard his own door softly close.

  14

  LIESELOTTE SOMMER

  DECEMBER 1941–OCTOBER 1942

  Lukas did not come home for Christmas, nor for New Year’s, nor for Easter. Summer came and still his parents could not tell me where he was stationed. They claimed he did essential war work; that was all they knew. But one night, when her parents believed she slept, Marta overheard them talking about Lukas’s work.

  “They said Lukas is in and out of Munich on a regular basis, working with the Abwehr,” she reported to me the next day.

  “But that’s military intelligence. How can that be?”

  Marta shrugged, hugging herself as if to ward off a chill. “That’s all I heard. I don’t understand it either.”

  “Did you ask them?”

  “Nein. I’d have to admit eavesdropping. In my house that’s like treason.”

  “Ja, schön.” I understood that. But I didn’t understand Lukas. The Abwehr was aligned with the government—the military. We were all knee-deep in breaking the law. Had he turned against us? Could he betray us? I wouldn’t believe it.

  I waited a few days. Just after Sunday dinner, as I dried the last plate, I asked Frau Kirchmann, “I heard Lukas is in Munich. Have you heard from him?”

  Frau Kirchmann was not a good actress. She nearly dropped her fish platter. “Nein, not for a time.”

  “I suppose working for the Abwehr, everything is hush-hush. He’s probably not allowed to talk about it much.”

  “The Abwehr? What makes you think he’s—?”

  “I’m so sorry, Frau Kirchmann! I thought you knew! Please don’t tell Lukas I said anything. He’d never forgive me.”

  “He’d never—I . . . Did Lukas write you? How?”

  “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I made as if to go, then turned. “But I confess, I don’t understand. How can he be working for . . . for them, and still be working with us?”

  She looked at me skeptically, but I kept up the ruse.

  “You don’t think our work here is in danger, do you?”

  Frau Kirchmann straightened. “Lieselotte, you do not bluff well. I don’t know how you learned this, but I beg you—trust you—not to share what you know with anyone. You could endanger Lukas—his very life.”

  “You know I would never do that. I only want to hear that he’s safe.” But that wasn’t all I wanted, and I didn’t know if begging might help, or if I could do it without tears. “I want to understand. You’ve trusted me with so much; why can’t—?”

  “And you’ve proven yourself trustworthy in every way, but some things are not easy to understand, not what they seem.”

  “I’m sick of that, sick of hearing that things are not what they seem! What does that mean?”

  She held out her arms to me, and though I meant to stand aloof, I walked into them. She pulled my head to her chest just as she’d done so many times when Mutti lay dying. “You must trust me, dear one. Trust Lukas.”

  I did not see Lukas again until October—my seventeenth birthday, and the party that Vater and Fräulein Hilde had expected to throw the year before. Fewer Wehrmacht officers remained in Berlin to invite; so many had been deployed. But a never-ending st
ream of Gestapo and SS officers paraded in and out of our newly renovated house—particularly Vater’s library—all of whom received invitations.

  More free with money than I’d ever known him, Vater hired a hall for the party, and caterers besides.

  With so many coming and going, it was no longer easy or safe for me to slip through the kitchen window at night undetected, so I often sought permission to sleep over with Marta. Miracle of miracles, Vater thought that a splendid idea, as long as I kept up with my studies and BDM meetings. It made our work for those in hiding so much easier. And that was good, for the pressure increased, greater than ever.

  Jews discovered in hiding were arrested and deported, sent to camps, sometimes shot on sight. Any German caught helping Jews hide or so much as storing their belongings might be arrested. News of the wretched and brutal prison camp conditions filtered into our lives, the fear of them daily in our minds.

  Stealing food or ration books, delivering forged identity papers, inventing a different story each time I was stopped, getting home in one piece and making sure Marta did the same—these were the things that goaded me, that gave me purpose to get out of bed each day.

  I’d almost forgotten that I was to be paraded before officers seeking a young and fertile wife, or that I should be soliciting a prime Aryan husband, until Fräulein Hilde took me in hand.

  Dance lessons came first—ones I’d never needed and would certainly never use again. The dance master omitted all the wonderful jazz and swing dances made popular in American films we used to see—steps Marta and I still practiced every night in her parlor. Those—the films and the dances—were forbidden by our Führer. But my Viennese waltz was perfected.

  Fräulein Hilde and I toured the fabric stores, attended fittings for my dress—a shimmering teal satin, its square neckline cut lower than anything I’d ever worn and one that I was certain the Führer would not publicly approve, despite the contradictory high fashions of the wives of the SS. We bought shoes dyed to match with two-inch heels—all but verboten in broad daylight for the new German ideal woman. My fingernails were manicured and polished, my toenails pedicured. I was powdered and puffed and squeezed, my hair swept high and piled onto my head.

  By the night of the party I didn’t look anything like myself, though Fräulein Hilde declared it a vast improvement as she fastened a string of stunning pearls—a birthday gift from her and my father—round my neck.

  “What is it the Americans say? ‘You’ll knock them dead.’” She winked at me, which took me as much by surprise as that she knew what Americans said.

  One look in the mirror nearly knocked me dead. When Fräulein Hilde turned to touch up her own makeup I pulled my neckline as high as I could—which wasn’t high enough. Seventeen, and I look like a trollop. I turned one way and then the other. Well, that’s not exactly true. But I no longer look like a schoolgirl, and could not pass for one. Mutti, if only you were here.

  At my insistence and much to Dr. Peterson’s displeasure, Vater had allowed me to invite the Kirchmanns. I could not imagine facing the evening without them—more my family than friends. With any luck, I could maneuver myself to spend more time with Marta than with those searching the reproductive meat market.

  Greta, the lady’s maid Fräulein Hilde kept at her beck and call, tapped softly and slipped in the door. “Herr Sommer said to say the car is waiting, that guests will be arriving at the hall any moment. He sent me to ask how long the ladies will be.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Fräulein Hilde quipped.

  Greta did not suppress her smile. “‘As long as it takes to take your breath away’—just as you’ve always told me to say. And then I curtsied.”

  Fräulein Hilde smiled and turned to me. “Take note, my dear.”

  I couldn’t imagine speaking to Vater in such a way, but I smiled in return.

  Fräulein Hilde looked me over critically and tucked a loosened curl into my coiffure. “You’ll be the toast of the ball, as well you should be. You’ll have your pick of officers and gentlemen this evening, Lieselotte. Choose wisely.”

  I swallowed, wanting desperately to protest, knowing it would do no good.

  Three hours later, the agonizing multicourse banquet had ended and I’d danced with every officer in attendance. My wit had held through Green Eyes’s rhetoric and parlay of words, though my pasted smile faltered after twenty minutes of listening to Mustache’s military prowess.

  Older officers stood back in mock amusement, as if waiting their turn for the children to finish their play before moving in. Their lurid, roving eyes sent cold chills up my spine. Vater kept back, observing from across the room, nodding in approval when I smiled and kept up my end of conversations, lifting his chin in warning when I faltered or apparent boredom crept in.

  The clock struck eleven. My toes pinched and my arches ached. The three-tiered cake was wheeled into the ballroom, candles lit, and the company broke into song. I was about to blow out the seventeen candles—I’d puffed my cheeks with air—when a movement at the back of the hall caught my eye.

  Behind a woman with a ludicrously high coiffure, and to her side again—barely a glimpse—stepped a man in uniform. Lukas! Lukas, in Abwehr uniform, just as tall, but older, and more handsome than ever. I gasped and one candle went out. Not enough for wishes.

  “Ach! Try again, Fräulein!” the chorus rang. “Deep breath!”

  Vater followed my eyes, and frowned. But thanksgiving at seeing Lukas alive and well—and simply here—stole my heart and smile from their hiding places.

  Two officers stepped forward to assist me, but I wasn’t about to need their help. I ignored the pulsing in my brain and drew a deep breath. In one long sweep of the cake every candle extinguished and the room cheered. Through happy tears I saw Lukas’s unbroken stare; then he cheered with the rest.

  “Congratulations, Fräulein! Well done!”

  “A good set of lungs!”

  “All your wishes will come true!”

  “And tell me—” Green Eyes leaned closer—“what are your wishes tonight, my lovely Fräulein?”

  That you will disappear. That you will all disappear and leave Lukas standing here alone with me. But I said, “That peace will come soon. That all our brothers and fathers and sons will come home safely.”

  The festive mood shattered. Women nodded, their faces registering the burden we all carried in our hearts.

  “Peace will come with glorious victory,” Dr. Peterson shouted, breaking the solemnity.

  “With glorious victory! Sieg Heil!” Arms shot high in salute. “Heil Hitler!”

  I lost sight of Lukas in the flash of raised arms and the sudden swarm of his family around him. I cut the first slice of iced cake, buttery and dense with raisins—from where such unrationed luxury had come, I couldn’t imagine—then handed the knife to Greta, who helped with everything, everywhere. I smiled and nodded, accepting congratulations as I moved through the room toward Lukas. Nothing would deter me.

  Nothing but my father, who tucked my arm through his and whispered in my ear, “You have many guests tonight, Lieselotte. You will entertain them.”

  “Yes, of course, but I must greet Lukas. He’s only just come—and from a long distance, surely.” But I felt the pinch of Vater’s arm wrapped too tightly around mine, the pressure of his elbow against my breast, and I stopped walking.

  “Please, Vater, it’s Lukas.” I lifted my eyes to implore him but they were drawn to Lukas, who glimpsed Vater and me through his mother’s hugs, and frowned at what he saw.

  “Nod to him, Lieselotte, but turn around and accept the attentions of Standartenführer Gruder. He, too, has come a long way to see you, to celebrate your birthday. Do him the honor he deserves.”

  For what? For his fat hands traveling the length of my back as we danced? Or for throwing German boys as cannon fodder before the Russians? For ensuring the transport of Polish Jews to concentration camps? Do you think I do not know what your great men do
? But as always, I did not say this. I replied, “I will greet him as your guest. I will thank him for coming.”

  Vater’s eyes probed mine, and his teeth clamped behind tight lips, but I did not falter. If he wanted more than that, he would have to beat me.

  The party went on forever—at least another hour, but it seemed like forever. I was not able to find release from the officers long enough to make my way to Lukas, until I saw Frau Kirchmann gesture for her coat. It was after midnight, and surely they were weary, eager to go home and welcome Lukas in earnest before tucking themselves—their family—into beds and peaceful slumber. But I could not let Lukas go without seeing him, without speaking to him, without thanking him for coming all this way. I excused myself a moment and walked quickly toward the hall stairs. Surely my father would imagine I’d gone to powder my nose.

  I crept down the back stairs and to the kitchen, threw a coat around my shoulders, and slipped out the alley door. I rounded the building just as the Kirchmanns left by the front door.

  “Lukas!” I hissed. “Lukas!”

  Marta heard me first. “I think someone is wanting you to wish her a happy birthday, mein Bruder.” I heard the purring wink in her voice.

  He turned. “Lieselotte.” My name on his lips was a song.

  “I couldn’t let you go without thanking you—for coming.” I stumbled through my words.

  “You had many admirers tonight. I did not expect to be noticed.”

  “I don’t care anything for them.” Does he understand?

  “Happy birthday, little Lieselotte.” I heard the sad smile in his voice. “Not so little anymore, I think. I hardly knew you. Womanhood and all its charms become you.”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  He laughed. “Ask any man here. He will vouch for what I say.” And then he grew serious and said more quietly, “Be careful, Fräulein. Your charms are not a game.”