by Cathy Gohlke
It was like we were playing house, and both so happy to do it. We ate each night in the kitchen and the second week we shared coffee in his library. He urged me to take extra cash and stop at the dressmaker’s in town, to buy something special and pretty for myself.
“You must try our Berlin fashions. They may not be the latest from Paris or New York . . .”
“Well, I never had the latest from Paris or New York anyway. Are you sure? I mean, clothes cost an awful lot, and I know things are expensive here.”
“You are meine Enkelin—my granddaughter, Hannah. There is no one else in this world as important to me as you. I want you to feel at home here, to have everything you need.”
“You’re not just angling for me to stay on as your housekeeper, are you?” I teased. “Because if you are, it will require shoes and stockings as well!” I laughed, but he didn’t.
“There is nothing I would like more than to have you stay with me always, Hannah. Everything I have can be yours one day, should be yours.”
“I was joking, Grossvater. I’m so sorry; I was simply trying to be clever.”
“I am not joking.” I could see him swallow, as if what he said was difficult for him. “It is true I need a housekeeper, but that is something I can pay for—a service I can buy. So many people are searching for employment now. But companionship I cannot buy, nor loyalty.”
“I love being with you, Grossvater, but you know I have a job I need to get back to in North Carolina—a teaching career. If I don’t return soon or let them know when I’m coming back, I may not have that job.” That was truer than I wanted to admit.
“But your school will close for the summer, yes? Stay here, at least through the summer, and then decide.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“Simple?” He shrugged. “It can be so very simple. I can provide all that you need—whatever you ask. Here, you see this purse?” He pointed to the men’s pocketbook on the bookshelf behind his desk. “Take whatever you need.”
“But—”
“Only search your heart . . . think about it. Perhaps the summer will be long enough.” He took a wad of deutsche marks from the bag and pressed them into my hands. “I am going to lie down now. You do not need to hurry back. Go to the café for lunch and enjoy yourself. Dr. Peterson will be coming to see me soon and will bring our lunch.”
“Are you feeling worse today?”
“Just the same. He comes as my doctor, but also as my friend and business colleague. We’ve grown old together and must keep an eye to see which one goes first.” His eyes narrowed in jest. “I’m betting that I outlive him by at least twenty minutes. Ten would be nothing, but twenty—ah, that would be victory.”
I couldn’t help but smile as he climbed the stairs to his room. He was elderly, somewhat frail with terrible heart problems, but he’d not given up, and I so admired that. Daddy had been a worn-out shell of a man, and Mama so tightly wound I never knew if she’d snap, even at the end. But it was more than his attitude. He’d gained a new purpose, a light and a little bounce in his step since Frau Winkler had gone—as though my caregiving had given him reason to get up each morning. That he needed me—wanted me—meant everything. That he thought the summer would “be enough” worried me , though Dr. Peterson’s prognosis that Grandfather would live no more than three months worried me more.
But I needed to go home, didn’t I? I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home, but this wasn’t my real life. It was more like living in the twilight zone—time out of time. And yet, for all the improvement in our relationship, I’d not really accomplished what I’d come for. I was living—sleeping, waking—in my mother’s old bedroom every night and riding her old bicycle each day. I laughed and joked with Grandfather and cooked and cleaned as if I’d been living here all my life and would go on living here forever. But I hadn’t found the opportune moment, or the courage, to ask more about Mama, much less about his role during the war.
If Grandfather truly believes he’s not got long, then neither do I. Maybe I should stay. What will a few more months matter? Mr. Stone can certainly keep the long-term substitute through the school year. I could return, fresh, in September. He promised he’d be glad to have me back. That would give me another six or seven months, easily —plenty of time, no matter what happens.
Rationalizations buzzed round and round my brain while I sat in the warm café eating luscious apple strudel smothered in hot custard sauce—the one food in Berlin that made my mouth water. I hadn’t been in the café—hadn’t been out to eat—since the day Carl had astonished me with his tales about Grandfather. Even though I’d not completely forgiven him, I missed our talks and bantering, and the offhand way he would nudge my elbow to share a special tourist site or secret about Berlin or insight into German culture or families—not mine. I half hoped he’d walk in and warm me through with his smile and half hoped he’d never darken my doorway again.
“Pennies for your thoughts,” Carl whispered from behind, very near my ear.
“Carl Schmidt!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. “You startled me. I was just thinking of . . . of what I need to buy at the greengrocer’s.”
“Ah, you’re now doing the shopping for Herr Sommer.”
I hated the knowing insinuation in his tone and lifted my chin. “I enjoy going to market, and cooking is something I’ve always wanted to have time and an appreciative audience for.”
“And I suppose you have strict instructions regarding which shops to patronize and which to avoid?”
Grandfather had specified not going to Goldman’s for bread or Rosenbaum’s for meat. “They are not trustworthy—they will cheat you.”
“Grandfather’s lived here all his life. He knows which carry the best food for the best value; that’s all.” But my defense of his insistence was pitiful, even in my own ears. I could not deny his anti-Semitism.
“I see. . . . May I join you? Or do you wait for someone?”
“No—yes—I mean, no, I’m not waiting for anyone. Please join me. I’ll be glad of some younger company.”
He grinned. “Thank you for not linking me with the geriatric set—not yet. Though I realize that ten years makes quite a difference.”
“Not so much.” I blushed, astonished at my boldness, but it only set a light off in his brown eyes. I moistened my lips and swallowed.
“Ah, good. Then I will be bold. Would you like to go to dinner some evening this week?”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, something more substantial than—though not necessarily as delicious as—your apple strudel.” He grinned, helping himself to a bite. “And a film, perhaps.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. I mean, I’d like that very much, but I’m not certain about leaving Grandfather alone in the evening.”
“He is not well?”
“He has a heart condition, and he depends on me, you see.”
“He depends on you so much that an evening out with a friend is not possible? Has he not hired another housekeeper?”
“No.” I stirred my coffee, realizing how strange that must sound. “Not yet.”
Carl waited.
“While I’m here there’s no reason I can’t do those things. I’m just on my way now to pick up an order at the greengrocer’s.”
“Yes, I see.”
This was the half that I wished might never darken my door.
“Have you asked him about your mother?”
“No,” I admitted. “We’re getting along really well right now, just getting to know each other for the first time.”
“And you fear that talking about his daughter would upset him so very much.”
“He’s made it clear that the past is very painful for him; he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“I imagine not.”
“You’re quick to jump to conclusions.”
“And you refuse to accept that there are conclusions to be made after considering relevant facts. But if you do not e
xamine those facts, Hannah, if you do not investigate to find out if they are facts, you avoid having to form any conclusion.”
“You have no proof.”
“That doesn’t mean there is no proof. Germans are known for keeping meticulous records. There may be—”
“Just because I don’t believe my family hunted Jews and sold them for blood money doesn’t mean—”
“I never said that your family hunted Jews—not all your family. You should listen more carefully.”
I yanked my coat and scarf from the chair and threw down the marks for my bill. “Good-bye, Carl.” This time I made my dramatic exit on my own terms.
Who does he think he is?
“He convinced the Jews to trust him, to give him their valuables, then reported them to the Reich. . . . They gave him a cut, after they arrested those who’d trusted Herr Sommer with their lives. . . . While men and women starved and were sent to camps . . . Herr Sommer grew fat and rich because he’d tricked them.”
No matter how many days passed, Carl’s words echoed in my brain. I jerked my bicycle from the rack and sped off, pedaling faster and faster, skidding on icy patches, nearly losing my brake blocks as I tore down the hill. I just wanted to get home, to forget Carl and all he implied.
I must ask Grandfather, must summon the courage to tell him what Carl said—how else can he deny it? Surely he could explain the source of such a vile rumor and how we might set it straight. I’d grown to love Grandfather, was sure he loved me. I’d stay in Berlin until we had set it right, even if that meant all summer. The community at home had ostracized my mother because of her accent. Here Grandfather’s accent was perfect, natural, but still the community ostracized him, if Carl’s words or Frau Winkler’s attitude was any indication. Certainly no friendly neighbors had popped in during my stay. Next it would be me. I wouldn’t take it—not anymore, not again.
Someone called to me as I raced round the bend, but I refused to slow. I swerved into the narrow drive only to find Dr. Peterson’s automobile blocking the path. I guided my bike to the outside kitchen wall, let myself in through the back door, and leaned against it, willing my heart to still. Voices rose and fell from up the stairs, intense, argumentative.
I set the kettle on the stove. A cup of tea might warm me through, might stop my hands from shaking.
The door behind me rattled with a sharp pounding and I jumped, clapping a hand over my heart. I pulled it open, half expecting to see Carl, ready to give him another piece of my mind. But it was the greengrocer’s son.
“I have your order, Fräulein Sterling.” The boy, fourteen or so, removed his cap. “I saw you race by, and mein Vater thought you may have forgotten.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I did forget—completely. Thank you.” I took the box, heavier by half than what I’d imagined, grateful for his kindness and help.
“Do you want me to put it on Herr Sommer’s bill?”
“No, I have the money—just a sec. How much?” I set the box on the table.
“Five marks should cover it.”
“Five marks. Here.” I pulled the change purse from my coat pocket. “One, two, three, four . . . I’m a little short.” I remembered the purse Grandfather had shown me on the library shelf. I shouldn’t interrupt him and the doctor upstairs. “Please come in and have a seat; it’s too cold to wait outside. I’ll get the rest.”
The library door stood ajar. It felt like prowling to walk in without Grandfather there. That’s silly. He said his house is my house. I’m just taking him at his word. I’d switched on the desk lamp to better see when I noticed he’d left a small brass key in the lock of his desk drawer—unlike him. He was always very particular about his desk.
For all the frustration and even humiliation I’d felt about Carl’s accusation, a tiny doubt lingered at the corner of my mind. Grandfather’s desk was the one thing I knew he kept locked, the only place I could imagine there might be secrets hiding.
It took but a moment. Before I could rationalize the impropriety or think myself out of it, I turned the key and pulled open the narrow drawer. Inside was a single object—a long, gray-bound book, frayed at its browned edges, worn round at its corners. Carl’s words flashed through my mind. “That doesn’t mean there is no proof. Germans are known for keeping meticulous records.”
I took a deep breath and pulled it out, opened the cover. The front page had one word, Rechnung, with dates penned below: 15 November 1938–1944. The second page was divided into columns. The first entry gave the date again—15 November 1938, under the word Verhaftung—then a surname, Goldstein, with four Christian names indented beneath. Or are they “Christian” names? There was an address in Berlin, and then a list—perhaps an inventory of some kind. I tried to read the German words, but I wasn’t sure what they all meant. One heading was Geld. I knew that meant money—like the word gold in English. I didn’t know what the next word, Juwelen, meant, nor Ausgabe nor Gemälde, and under that, Renoir.
My pulse beat loudest in my ears, my brain.
“Fräulein?” It was the greengrocer’s son calling through the hallway. I’d completely forgotten him.
The rumble of voices upstairs stopped. Footfalls down the stairs and a sharp tirade in German—Dr. Peterson!
I slid the ledger back into the drawer and had barely turned the key when the library door flew open.
“What are you doing in this room?” Dr. Peterson thundered at me, his grip on the boy’s arm formidable. His eyes flew round the room, then back to the desk and me. “Answer me! What are you doing here?”
Stop shaking . . . stop shaking . . . stop shaking. “I just came in to get the purse for market money. I need to pay the greengrocer, and I respectfully suggest that you stop manhandling his son.”
“He is not a thief?”
“He is most definitely not a thief. He was kind enough to bring over a delivery too heavy for me to carry on the bike.” I summoned all the indignation I could muster. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will pay this kind young man, whom you’ve most certainly traumatized, and send him on his way.” I pried Dr. Peterson’s fingers from the boy’s arm and gently pushed the frightened young man through the door, intending to brush past Dr. Peterson. I willed my steps even, tried to appear in control of my pounding heart and racing pulse.
But Dr. Peterson stepped between the boy and me. “You will forgive me, Fräulein Sterling. I am most concerned with Herr Sommer’s privacy in his vulnerable state. I am his lifelong friend, and there is nothing I would not do to protect him. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Dr. Peterson. But I must remind you that I’m his granddaughter, and he does not need protecting from me—or the greengrocer’s son. And as far as I know, Grandfather and I do not have secrets from one another.” I waited, perhaps a heartbeat too long. “So you really have nothing to worry about.” I straightened my spine, glaring.
He stepped aside. “Did you not forget something?”
He caught me off guard.
“The purse you require . . . the reason you came into this room.”
“Yes, of course.” I brushed my forehead, doing my best to look as though forgetting my head were an everyday occurrence, and retrieved the purse from the shelf behind Grandfather’s desk.
I paid the pale, wide-eyed grocer’s son, who would surely never deliver another thing to this house and would warn every other merchant against doing so. I closed the back door, chilled to the bone—and not because of the northeast January wind that whipped through the kitchen.
18
LIESELOTTE SOMMER
OCTOBER 1943
Lukas did not evaporate into thin air this time. He and the entire Kirchmann family attended Rudy’s memorial service, a quiet and simple event with close friends and our dwindling family. Once the lists were published, there were so many funerals, so many memorial services, and too few bodies returned to families. The Führer ordered private affairs for the most part. It was too demoralizing for the people, j
ust as he’d predicted.
Rudy’s body was not returned. Still, Vater erected a stone for him next to Mutti’s. Because we did not know his death date, Vater had it inscribed as July 18, 1943. Rudy would have been twenty years old on that day. So young. That was the hardest of all.
After the service, just as after Mutti’s funeral, Dr. Peterson took Vater out drinking, as if that would make him forget the death of his only son. Fräulein Hilde cast me a pitying glance, but joined them.
Sophia had gone to visit her mother, so that night I put the kettle on alone in the kitchen. Was that to be my funeral ritual?
The days had grown short, and it was dark before seven. I opened the door to the larder but had neither heart nor stomach to eat. I brewed the ersatz strong and dark and dumped a week’s worth of sugar rations into the pot. Sophia would be furious.
I lit one small lamp and sat at the kitchen table, sipping the too-sweet brew and scalding my throat. At least I felt something.
Three light taps at the window made me jump.
“Lieselotte! Let me in!”
I opened the door and there stood Lukas, a platter of sandwiches in one hand and a kettle of something hot emanating an amazing fragrance in the other. I blinked. I’d played this role before.
He held up his offerings with a conciliatory smile, recognizing the sad irony.
I stepped back, glad that he brushed my shoulder, glad not to be alone, glad it was Lukas bearing gifts. “Your mother’s soup?” I inhaled.
“You know Mutti. She means well.”
“Thank her. But I can’t eat. Not now.”
“Ah, ah.” He wagged his finger. “Mutti says you must or she will come over here herself and spoon it into your mouth.” He set the pot on the stove. “I begged her to let me do it.”
“Lukas.” I couldn’t hold back the tears.
He said nothing but pulled my head to his chest, wrapping me in his arms, stroking my hair as he would comfort a child. “I’m sorry, my little Lieselotte. I’m so very sorry.”
No more words between us. Only soft kisses in my hair and a gentle drying of my tearstained face before he slipped through the door and into the night an hour later.
