by Cathy Gohlke
Except for BDM meetings, Vater insisted I remain at home and help Sophia through the summer. Sophia was only too glad to let me carry the market basket and stand in the long lines, waiting for food, while she visited with friends. That was the one opportunity that allowed me to buy more food with the ration cards Marta slipped to me whenever she could.
Sundays, Vater insisted I accompany him to Party lectures, so that my attendance at the Confessing Church fell off to one Sunday a month—if I were fortunate enough to go at all. Even then, dinners with the Kirchmanns were verboten. I dared not reproach Vater about the unfairness of it all, let alone confide to him that I missed the church sermons or the Kirchmanns. Tensions ran too high and Dr. Peterson remained too much a presence in our house. I couldn’t understand his hold over Vater, or Vater’s continued tolerance of the man’s overbearing demeanor.
And still, no word came from Rudy. That was worrisome, but not surprising. For some time, casualties had not been listed in the newspapers, and telegrams reporting deaths were long delayed. The Führer claimed such reports demoralized the German people and that we must all remain strong, must all sacrifice for the good of the Fatherland. But that decision lacked popularity. Every mother waited for news of her son, every wife for word from her husband.
Despite Dr. Peterson’s urging, Vater did not force me to marry that year. I wanted to believe that he had changed toward me, that there was some part of him that loved me especially, that would miss me too much if I left his house. In truth, I’m sure that if Fräulein Hilde had married him—as he asked time and again—he would have sent me out with pleasure. Until then, I continued to be a semblance of life in a dead house.
My eighteenth birthday approached with no talk of parties. Vater, Fräulein Hilde, and Dr. Peterson made a trip to Munich the day before. I didn’t know why—only that their absence gave me a blessed opportunity to visit the Kirchmanns. I’d missed them so.
Over ersatz coffee and sugarless Apfelkuchen in her warm kitchen, Frau Kirchmann shook her head and sympathized with my plight. She pitied me, poured a second cup, and appeared to listen as I lamented. But I sensed she was distracted, that her eyes strayed to the clock above the stove and that she started at every small sound outside the door.
“What is it, Frau Kirchmann? Is something the matter?”
“What? Nein, of course not. I’m so glad to see you. It’s been so long; that’s all.”
It didn’t look as if that was all. “How are the Levys? Have you seen them? Has Anna birthed her baby? Are they still—”
Frau Kirchmann paled and pressed her fingers to my lips, shaking her head. “Nein. I’ve not seen them for months. They all went away with the transport in June. I don’t know where—somewhere east, I think. I hope they’re happy in their new home.”
I didn’t know what to say. She spoke nonsense. The Levys were hiding in the Weisses’ old attic—at least they had been last month, and Anna should certainly have birthed her baby by now.
Frau Kirchmann closed her eyes. Her lips formed a straight line and she zipped her thumb and forefinger across. Silence—I understood. Why, I didn’t know. When she opened her eyes she opened them wide, more frightened than I’d ever seen her. I saw the pinch in her cheek. She’d just opened her mouth to speak when Marta burst through the kitchen door, face flushed and braids thrown askew from running.
“They’ve stopped them. They’re going to arr—”
Frau Kirchmann was on her feet in a moment, pushing Marta out the door. They whispered and gestured in the back garden, Frau Kirchmann growing frantic. It was not my business, but they were my family. I couldn’t sit inside eating Kuchen.
Marta was nearly crying when I stepped behind them. “What’s happened? Tell me.”
“It’s Lukas. They’re going to arrest him, I know.”
“What? He’s part of the Ab—”
“That’s just a cover! He’s really—”
“Marta!” Frau Kirchmann grabbed her arm and shook her. “Stop! Stop now!”
“A cover?” I said. “You mean—?”
Marta ignored her mother. “He’s moving the Levys. The baby made too much noise—crying—in the Weisses’ attic, and they must be moved to a safer place. Frau Braun carried the baby away an hour ago, as if it were her own. Lukas is moving Anna—and now they’ve been stopped. He’s pretending they’re lovers, that she’s Aryan, but—”
“Show me!”
“Stay here, both of you. Wait till your father comes. He’ll know what to—”
“That will be too late, Mutti!”
“At least we can see where they take them. Show me!” I shook Marta until she pulled away from her frantic mother.
And then we were running through the streets, cutting through back alleys, breathless. “I didn’t know Lukas was in Berlin,” I huffed, accusing, doing my best to keep up with Marta.
“He made me promise not to tell you.” She tore through the next alley.
Her confession stabbed my heart. “He hates me that much?” I didn’t know I’d said it aloud.
Marta stopped as we neared the entrance to the street and I ran smack into her back. She pulled me behind the building. “There! There they are! They haven’t taken them. Maybe . . . He doesn’t hate you, Dummkopf, he loves you. He didn’t want you to know because he loves you—to protect you as he protects me—so that you will have nothing to do with him. What he does is so dangerous, Lieselotte, so very dangerous. He’ll be furious when he finds I’ve told you.”
He loves me! “He’ll be arrested if we don’t do something.”
“But what can we—?”
“Stay here. Stay here and do not come out. If we’re taken, tell your parents.”
“Lieselotte! No!”
I heard no more of Marta’s words, for with every step toward Lukas and Anna I schemed a story and raised a fury. Two steps from the confrontation between the brownshirts and Lukas and the frightened Anna, I stopped and screamed, “You Nazi cow! How dare you!” I pushed between the startled bullies with truncheons raised and shoved Anna, hard enough to make her stumble backward into the building. “I told you to stay away from him. My own cousin, and you would betray me?”
“You know this woman?”
“Know her? The ungrateful daughter of my father’s sister? The poor, dear cousin who needed a home while her father fights for Führer and Fatherland?” I turned again to Anna. “To think we took you in. To think I shared my home—my room! Well, that does not include sharing my fiancé! Wait, just wait till mein Vater hears of this.”
Then I turned my venom on Lukas. “And you—you think because you are a respected Nazi Party member, you can do whatever you wish. If mein Vater did not insist I marry you, I would spit in your face.”
“This man is your fiancé?”
“Lieselotte, let me explain . . .” Lukas’s eyes widened, but he took up the ruse while poor Anna cowered against the building.
“And what are you doing about it?” I insisted to the brownshirt. “What is it about men that gives them the right to think they can marry one woman and bed another—even before they’re married? Is there some unwritten code that makes men immune to marriage vows? Eh? You tell me!”
Before he could answer I turned again and thumped Lukas in the chest. “And you tell me which you prefer. You tell me if my stupid cousin can kiss like this.” I pulled his face down to mine and gave him the first kiss of my life . . . long and full and warm and one he would never forget. I heard Anna gasp and felt Lukas’s rigid frame relax in shock, then surge with heat as I kept on. Finally, I pulled away, gratified that Lukas’s eyes had glazed over and his breath caught. “Now, Lukas Kirchmann . . . you tell me who you’d rather spend the rest of your life with, because the decision must be made here, this instant.”
The first brownshirt raised his arms in playful surrender. “All right. All right. A lovers’ quarrel. Come on, Heyden, I don’t think we need take this to headquarters.”
But the
other was not so easily put off. “Let me see your papers.”
I pulled my papers from my inside coat pocket and slapped them into his hand, daring him to give me trouble.
“Lieselotte Sommer.”
“Ja, daughter of Herr Wolfgang Sommer, Party member.”
“Ja, I know the name.” He looked away.
And that’s when I recognized him but couldn’t recall his name.
“Fulstrom,” he offered.
“Heyden? Heyden Fulstrom?”
“I remember you as a little girl with pigtails.”
“That was a long time ago. You were friends with mein Bruder, Rudy.”
“Ja, and this sorry piece of work, Lukas Kirchmann. But no more, not if he’s hurt you. I’m sorry about Rudy.”
“Danke. We haven’t heard from him in months. No word. The waiting is hard—hard for mein Vater.”
“You haven’t seen the lists? They were finally posted this morning.”
I felt the world fall away. “The lists?”
“I . . . I thought you knew.” Heyden pulled the newspaper from his coat pocket. It was folded open to the casualty lists.
I grabbed it, trembling, running my finger down the death list. Scheitzer, Schwarz, Seiler, Sommer . . . Bruno, Heinrich, Max, Rudolph . . . Rudolph Sommer.
“No,” I whispered. “No, not Rudy.” I’d have fallen backward if Lukas had not caught me.
“Lieselotte, Lieselotte.” It was the old Lukas, the one I knew before the war. He steadied me, wrapped his arms around me, held me up. “Let me take her home.”
The brownshirts stood back. The one called Heyden tipped his hat and looked away. “Treat her well.”
Lukas all but carried me back to his home, Anna trailing behind. Marta met us there and Frau Kirchmann took me in, put me to bed, still clutching the paper. But I could not stay there. I had to get home to Vater, find a way to tell him, to show him the lists. I feared and sometimes abhorred mein Vater. I’d feared and sometimes abhorred Rudy. But I did not want this, could not imagine what this would do to Vater, or to me.
Even then, I wanted to think of Lukas’s warm lips on mine, to believe Marta’s words—that he loved me. But what good would that do either of us now? Rudy was dead. Mein Bruder was dead. Vater would need me more than ever.
17
HANNAH STERLING
JANUARY 1973
The kitchen stood empty, as cold and barren and clean as it had been this morning—a lifetime ago.
Regardless of how bad things are, we’ve all got to eat. That’s what Aunt Lavinia would say, and that’s what I’d think about, count on, now. I rummaged through the pantry and the tiny icebox to see what I could conjure for dinner. What I wouldn’t give for Aunt Lavinia’s comfort food: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peas piled in a swimming pool of chicken gravy, and sweet tea. In the mountains, every quandary began its sorting over a heavily laden table.
But nothing resembled the ingredients I’d need for such a meal. The only thing I recognized was the loaf of bread and a rectangle of day-old strudel. The German labels on cans were a complete mystery to me. They aren’t big on pictures.
I wonder if there’s such a thing as German take-out—or delivery? German pizza? Aunt Lavinia would roll her eyes in horror at the very suggestion.
I took the stairs slowly to Grandfather’s room and pressed my ear against the door, not sure I wanted to see him. No snoring from within, no light from the keyhole. “Grandfather?” I called softly. “Are you awake?”
“Come in, Hannah.” He sounded relieved and looked even more so in the dim light. But I stayed by the door.
“It’s been a long day. Can I get you anything?”
He set aside the book he’d been reading and pulled his wire-rimmed glasses from his nose. “I didn’t hear you return. I feared that you’d left me too. I wasn’t sure what I would do if that happened.”
In that moment I recognized a vulnerable soul, a feeble old man in need of my help and attention. Carl had to be wrong. “No, I just came back and took a nap—longer than I realized.”
“It must be the time change from your North Carolina. It takes time for our body clocks to catch up to changes in a changing universe.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and nodded. “Changing universe”—he has no idea. “I’m thinking I should do something about dinner, but I’m not very familiar with the foods in your kitchen.”
“Do you cook, as well as teach the schoolchildren?”
I laughed nervously. He doesn’t sound like a seller of souls. “Don’t look so astonished. Every Southern girl grows up learning how to cook, but I’m afraid there’s nothing here that resembles the foods I know.”
“Ah, the labels are not in your language.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps I can help you.” He brightened.
“You cook?”
“Nein, nein—not unless you want a sleepless night. But I could read the labels and tell you what is in the cans. There must be something we can eat tonight. Perhaps we could make a market list and tomorrow hire someone to do a little shopping for us.” He looked so hopeful, so entirely at my whim.
“There’s no need to hire someone. You can tell me where the stores are and I can walk if they’re close.”
“It’s a long walk in the cold. Perhaps you could telephone your tour driver—”
“No, I think I’d rather walk or ride the bicycle I saw in the attic.”
He hesitated. “You were in the attic?”
“Frau Winkler sent me up for extra comforters the other day.” That part was true. I didn’t think I needed to mention that I’d also gone exploring.
“You must see if the tires are still good. I would feel better if we had it worked on before you ride it, Hannah.”
“It’s a girl’s bike.”
“Yes, there is just the one.”
“Was it my mother’s?”
He looked suddenly older, closing his eyes, his chest working its way into a sigh. “Ja, it was my Lieselotte’s.” He opened his eyes and considered me. “It is good that it will be used again . . . by her daughter.”
I gave a half smile and crossed the room to his chair. My grandfather. My very own grandfather, and he’s glad I’m here. It’s what I’ve wanted so long—family that wants me, needs me . . . “Are you ready to try those stairs?”
He stood, leaning on my shoulder until he grew steady. “I was born ready!”
I laughed out loud and kissed him on the cheek. Carl Schmidt is crazy. He’s either cruel or misinformed. Sell Jews to Hitler’s minions? This man could no more do that than I could.
We spent the next half hour taking inventory of the kitchen. Frau Winkler hadn’t kept a large stock of food. Shopping regularly was part of her workweek. And if I didn’t miss my guess, she’d been glad to get out of the house day by day. Despite my sympathy for Grandfather, I’d have done the same.
He set two cans on the table and handed me a can opener. “I’m afraid my old fingers have become too arthritic.”
“Sauerkraut?” At least I knew that German word. I couldn’t imagine eating sauerkraut, though I knew Mama had lived and breathed the stuff. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stomach it. “There must be something else in that pantry.”
“It is good for the digestion. You will see.”
“I believe I’ll stick to coleslaw. That’s cabbage too.”
“Cold what?”
“Not cold . . . coleslaw. Grated cabbage stirred in mayonnaise. Oh, I forgot. You don’t have mayonnaise. Do you have salad dressing? Did Frau Winkler make salad dressing?”
“Nein. You must mean ‘salad cream.’ Frau Winkler made nothing like that. She was a terrible cook.”
My mouth fell open at his blatancy now that she was gone. I think he was as surprised as I was, and we both laughed—a real laugh, not the timid or cautious smiles we’d passed since I’d arrived.
“I suppose we do not need to eat in the dining room. We could eat
here.” Grandfather spread his hands across the old kitchen table. “It would be . . . less formal.”
I nodded, my heart too full to speak. At last, at last I’m getting to know my real grandfather. Thank You, God, that the others have gone away, that it can just be us.
I set the utensils on the table and Grandfather set the plates while I stirred the miserable sauerkraut that I absolutely would not complain about and pan-fried the cut of pork I’d found in the icebox. It felt so companionable, even sweet—so entirely out of character for the man I’d barely begun to know and nothing like the man Frau Winkler or Carl had warned me against. Maybe now I’ll get real answers to my questions. But a little voice within cautioned, Bide your time, Hannah Sterling. Bide your time.
Grandfather telephoned a mechanic that very evening to come pick up the bicycle and make sure it was in top-notch working order, including new tires. He said the tires on the bike must be circa 1940s—threadbare rubber from wartime. It sounded almost like a prompt to open conversation about Mama, but I didn’t want to break the spell. I wanted this little bit of light to go on longer, to strengthen and sweeten. Then it would surely be easier to ask.
But two weeks went by in this vein. I pedaled to market every couple of days with a string bag over the handlebars and a woven basket I found in the pantry tied to the back of my bike.
Grandfather gave me a coin purse that he’d stuffed with cash and told me to buy all that I needed or wanted. His only caution was that I not hold back. He wanted me to buy everything I dreamed of to introduce him to my wonderful American cooking.
Never had anyone prompted me to extravagance. With Mama we’d had to scrimp and save every penny—especially after Daddy passed. And when I’d taught school . . . well, a teacher’s salary simply didn’t go far, what with room and board, school loans, and trying to keep a car on the road.
