Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  I slept that night as I hadn’t slept in months.

  The next morning I left before Vater came downstairs, to return the platter and pot to Frau Kirchmann, in hope of seeing Lukas once more. But he had already gone.

  “A message came last night, and he packed his bag right away. He said it was urgent and didn’t know when he could come again.”

  I nodded, as if that were the most natural thing in the world; inside, my heart was breaking.

  Frau Kirchmann motioned me into the back garden and closed the kitchen door behind her. “Lukas thinks our house might have—what do they call it?—a listening device of some kind. That they might be suspicious of our work, or of his work.”

  “Have you seen this?” I’d heard of such things in novels and films, but not in real life.

  “Nein, but our house was searched. Things . . . were taken. We cannot be too careful. His life—all our lives and those we help—might depend on it.”

  “That’s why you talked so strangely about Anna the other day. Now I understand.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I dared not let our conversation steer them to Anna. Marta told me what you did for Lukas and Anna. It was a terrible risk, but I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Lieselotte. If Lukas had been taken—”

  “Shh, shh—it did not happen. We’ll all work to make certain it does not happen.”

  She pulled her cardigan tight around her, as if the threat of arrest chilled her through. “I don’t know exactly what he does. But it’s dangerous, so very dangerous. We must pray hard for him.”

  “Gathering intelligence? This is dangerous?” Of course it was; I knew this. What was it but spying, and what could be more dangerous except standing in front of a firing squad? But I wanted to talk to her, to anyone, about Lukas. To say his name. Despite the terrible loss of Rudy, I could not stop thinking of Lukas as I’d boldly kissed him that day in the street, as he’d tenderly held me last night. It could mean nothing for our future, or everything. It was my lifeline.

  Frau Kirchmann must have understood—when had she not? She caressed my arm. “He can’t make commitments now, you know. The work he does is uncertain and depends so much on his having no ties, no inhibitions about anything—not even protecting his own life for the sake of another’s heart. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes of course, I understand.”

  She nodded, as if she believed me. “Good. That’s good. You must plan your future apart from Lukas, Lieselotte. You must protect your heart.”

  I didn’t want to think about what she’d said, refused to think about it. “I must get back. Vater does not know I’ve gone out. He—he came in late, and will need something for his headache.”

  “Ja, ja—you go, my dear. But come anytime—anytime at all. Only remember: be very careful what you say in our house or on the phone. Ja?”

  “Ja, I will. Thank you again for the soup and sandwiches, Frau Kirchmann.” I forced a smile and she hugged me in return.

  The door closed behind her, and I was left in the cold. I’d come with such warmth and hope—and now, nothing. It was only October and the sun shone brilliantly, the sky a startling blue, but all the world felt gray, and the numbness of an early winter seeped into my bones.

  I was halfway down the street, lost in my own world, when Marta, breathless, caught up to me, shook my arm. “Did you not hear me calling? Are you deaf?”

  “Nein, I did not hear.” I stared at her. Her nose, her forehead resembled Lukas’s. I didn’t even want to think about that. “What do you want, Marta?”

  “Lukas,” she panted.

  “Your mother already told me he left.” I turned to walk away.

  “He gave me this—to give you. He said not to tell anyone and that if something happens to him, you must ignore this. He said it breaks every rule he’s bound to.” She shoved a folded paper into my hand. “Don’t tell Mutti.”

  “Did you read it?”

  She laughed, “Yes, of course!” and was gone.

  I unfolded the paper. Three words scribbled in the hand I had memorized since childhood: Wait for me.

  19

  HANNAH STERLING

  JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1973

  Grandfather was quiet at dinner that night, picking at his food, not enjoying his beef or beer or even his after-dinner coffee as usual. I knew he suspected I’d pried in his office. No telling what spin Dr. Peterson had cast on my words or actions. I didn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him, but dared not bring up the subject for fear I’d look as guilty as I felt.

  We sat across from each other, both restless. I excused myself early, claiming I was worn out from my shopping trip. I hoped that a good night’s sleep would calm his nerves and mine, that we could begin again tomorrow.

  But I feared him, this old and feeble man—so silly on my part. At the same time I’d grown angry, hurt, uncertain after seeing the ledger. Despite all of that, I craved his good opinion and grandfatherly affection.

  I wasn’t ready to submit to Carl’s accusation. There must be another explanation for the ledger. But I need to know, need proof. How can I get that proof? How can I tell him—ask him? He’d be heartbroken to know I doubted him. There’s just one way, the only way.

  It was after midnight before Grandfather stopped rummaging through his library and pacing his bedroom floor. I held my breath, waiting to hear his even breathing. Creeping downstairs with a flashlight to snoop through someone’s personal papers was not something I’d been raised to do, but I was desperate to better understand what I’d seen that afternoon.

  The floorboard creaked as I stepped onto the first-floor landing. I stopped, switched off my light, and held my breath, straining my ears. It’s hard to tell how long a person stands in the dark, waiting. But after a time, I switched on the flashlight, minimizing its glow with my other hand, and made my way to the library door. Locked.

  I closed my eyes and silently sighed. Back to square one. He doesn’t trust me now. Which means—which may mean—he has something to hide.

  Three days passed. The library door remained locked. Gradually Grandfather grew less reserved—not at all playful in his banter as before, but at least we ate together more companionably. I dared not ask about the library; I knew not asking could make me look guilty but still hesitated to reveal that I’d tried the door.

  We’d just finished luncheon and I was washing the dishes when Grandfather stopped in the kitchen. “Dr. Peterson will be coming by tomorrow morning, and Herr Eberhardt. Could you serve us some luncheon?”

  How can I not after Grandfather invited me, took me in? But the idea of serving Dr. Peterson anything—of being in the same room with him—both frightened me and set the whole marching band playing inside my stomach. Hannah Sterling, you’re turning into mincemeat. Buck up! “No, I’m sorry, Grandfather—Grossvater—I can’t. I’m going out tomorrow and won’t be back until late in the day.”

  The silence stretched so long I was tempted to turn around to see if he’d gone.

  “What I can do is prepare something cold and leave it on the dining room sideboard just before I leave. You can help yourselves.” I kept washing the same dish. It was my last one, but I wouldn’t turn, couldn’t look at his face.

  Half a minute passed. “I see, Hannah, that it is too much to ask. Do not trouble yourself.” He walked out.

  I couldn’t stop the first tear that spilled, nor the second, nor the many that followed.

  I waited that night until Grandfather’s soft snores came steady and even, then crept downstairs to the hallway telephone. I pulled the card from my robe pocket and dialed the number. A sleepy, weary male voice answered.

  “Are you there?”

  “Hannah. Hannah Sterling.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Carl’s chuckle came warm through the phone. “What do you want, Hannah?”

  I swallowed, humiliated and needy and eager to see him. “I
need to talk with you. I’d like to invite you to lunch tomorrow—early.”

  “Early?”

  “Ten thirty?” I whispered.

  “That is early for lunch.” I could hear his smile. “Why are we whispering?”

  “Well, yes,” I whispered again, ignoring his question. “The café?”

  “Let’s meet there, and then let me take you somewhere new. I’ll have the car.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I sighed.

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” I replaced the receiver, relief flowing through my bones until I heard the closing click of Grandfather’s bedroom door.

  The four-star Parisian bistro surely ran well beyond Carl’s budget.

  “You are in Europe, and yet not planning a trip to France. So you must experience the closest thing possible.” His smile held all the light of a spring sunrise over North Carolina mountains.

  I was homesick.

  “You are not happy, Hannah?” His hand covered mine, twining our fingers. I should have pulled back. But I didn’t. I needed a connection to someone.

  “I’m confused.” I laughed softly, self-consciously. “That’s an awkward confession.”

  “Tell me.”

  It was so hard to formulate my thoughts, so hard to articulate what I knew with my heart but desperately hated to acknowledge with my brain, my mouth.

  “Herr Sommer?”

  I nodded. “The day we talked in the café . . . When I got back to the house, the greengrocer’s son had followed me with a delivery. I didn’t have the right money, so I went to the library to get the purse Grandfather said I should use. Grandfather was upstairs with his doctor.”

  “Peterson—his cohort.”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “I know of him—that he and Herr Sommer have long been colleagues. Go on.”

  “Ah,” I said, not really understanding what or how he knew. But that didn’t matter now. “The key to Grandfather’s desk drawer was in the lock. He never leaves it unlocked.” I searched his eyes, praying I could trust him. “Inside, I found a ledger—a ledger that began in late 1938.” I hated to say what came next. “There’re lists—names, addresses, and dates. I think they were family names, and some sort of inventory of things. Cash, possessions—I don’t know what exactly. I could read so little of the German.”

  “How many pages were filled?”

  “I don’t know. I’d barely read the first page, or tried to, when the greengrocer’s son came looking for me and the noise brought Dr. Peterson thundering down the stairs. He went ballistic when he found me in the library.”

  “He caught you with the ledger?”

  “No—I shoved it back in the drawer before he came in. I claimed I was looking for the purse Grandfather told me to use.”

  Carl sat back and massaged his chin, considering, and shook his head. “You were very lucky.”

  “I don’t believe in luck.”

  “God is watching over you.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I think perhaps He was. But I was scared,” I whispered. “I don’t know what’s up with that man, but he’s a total creep. Obsessed with Grandfather’s ‘privacy,’ as he calls it. He as much as threatened me.”

  “Can you get another look at the ledger?”

  “No. Grandfather locked the library door. Everything’s changed. You could cut the tension in that house with a knife.”

  “Has Herr Sommer asked you to leave?”

  “No, he still seems to want me to stay. He asked me to prepare and serve lunch today for him and Dr. Peterson and Herr Eberhardt.”

  “Herr Eberhardt meets with them?” Carl seemed surprised.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why they’re meeting.”

  “He’s a much younger man—midfifties at most. I don’t know if he’s a native of Berlin. It’s possible he might not know of Herr Sommer’s past.”

  I waited.

  “After the war, when Germans were arrested and ostensibly held accountable for their crimes, they were not able to find proof that Herr Sommer broke any laws, no matter that Jew after Jew testified against him. Dr. Peterson spoke in his defense.”

  “They tried to send Grandfather to prison?”

  “If my parents and their friends were correct, your grandfather sent dozens of families—men, women, children—to their deaths. Do you not think he deserves prison?”

  “Of course he deserves prison—at least, if that’s true. But he’s an old man, and what if you’re wrong? Arresting him now—if that’s what you’re suggesting—won’t bring them back. And I didn’t see enough of the ledger to know. I couldn’t read what I saw.”

  “The irony is that if he did that—no matter how heinous his crimes against humanity—he was not breaking the law of his time. He was simply ferreting out ‘lawbreakers.’ Taking a cut of the plunder was normal practice.”

  “The whole thing is immoral, criminal.”

  “Today, we would say that. It’s criminal because we look at it with the justice of God. The goal of the Reich was to rid Germany of Jews and confiscate—Aryanize—their wealth.” Carl pushed his hand through his hair. “Those things might be returned to their owners—if they still exist, if he hasn’t sold them. But a ledger . . . You remember nothing? A name? An address—anything?”

  I closed my eyes, sitting back, breathing in and breathing out.

  “Hannah?”

  “I’m trying to remember.” The music in the bistro played on and on. I summoned the words in the ledger in the same way I remembered answers from textbooks for school tests as a child. “Goldstein . . . Martin, Roseanne, and two more—I don’t remember them. But there were four names. The last one crossed out.”

  “A date? An address?”

  The figures, scrawled in German, broke apart in my mind and reassembled themselves. “Rochstrasse; Wohnhaus—I don’t remember the numbers. Something about Geld—I think that’s money.”

  “Ja, very good. What else?”

  “There were other columns—I think one said Juwelen, and something that said Ausgabe. Another . . . I can’t remember the word, but it might have had to do with artwork. At least there was a painter’s name—Renoir. I don’t remember what else.”

  “You said there were dates on the pages?”

  “The first said November 1938. I don’t remember the exact date on that page. Verhaftung. It said Verhaftung at the top of that column.”

  “Verhaftung means ‘arrest.’”

  I opened my eyes. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid you were right. But what I saw isn’t enough. What if there’s some other explanation? I want there to be some other explanation.”

  “You need to get that ledger.”

  “He keeps the door locked, and the drawer in his desk. I have no idea where he keeps the key. And even if I did, Grandfather never leaves the house. He listens at keyholes. I think he even listened to me talking to you last night.”

  “He was on the line? He knew who you called?”

  “I think he only heard me talking. I didn’t say your name. I was afraid to.”

  “You’re right to be afraid.”

  “I don’t believe Grandfather would hurt me for anything. He loves me. But that Dr. Peterson . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust him.”

  “Open your eyes, Hannah. You must understand that that ledger may stand between your Grossvater and the public assassination of his character by Nazi hunters in and outside of Germany, between life as he knows it and the end of that life. It could mean the confiscation of his wealth—and probably Dr. Peterson’s wealth—to be restored to its rightful owners. Maybe the loss of Eberhardt’s license to practice law, if he knows too.”

  “I can’t believe Grandfather would do anything to hurt me, even to save his own skin. He might send me home; that’s all.” I prayed that was all.

  “Send you home?” Carl straightened the knife by his plate. “If he believes you’re connected with Nazi hunters—”

  “I�
��m not a Nazi hunter! I just want to know about my mother and father. That’s the only reason I came to Germany.”

  “We will find out about your mother. It may take time, but I will help you. And I’ll look into the street you saw—who lived there, what happened to them. So many of the streets were renamed after the war. If this was in the eastern sector, we might have more difficulty, but we’ll find it. You must be careful. Be very careful.”

  20

  LIESELOTTE SOMMER

  DECEMBER 1943–JULY 1944

  Weeks passed with no word from Lukas. But I’d known it would be this way. That’s what Wait for me meant. . . .

  As Christmas neared, I dared hope he might come home, at least for a few days. I dreamed of our meeting. Then I struggled with how it would happen—where we could meet in private, what his parents might say considering the danger of his mission, how Vater would react once he knew our relationship had grown serious. Serious about what? The future . . . planning a future together in this uncertain world?

  Vater would object to Lukas’s lowly Abwehr status and lack of impressive connections with the SS, but he could not object to Lukas’s bloodline—“impeccable,” as Dr. Peterson would say. Lukas’s father descended from Prussian noblemen. His mother was Austrian. Together, we’d produce lots of lovely Aryan babies. That should please him. I could fulfill my “duty” to the Reich.

  But Lukas did not come home for Christmas. The Kirchmanns either did not know where he was or would not say.

  By March my hope began to wane and Vater began speaking again of my marriage. “We have put it off too long, Lieselotte.”

  “I told you, Vater, Lukas and I have an understanding. It’s just not time yet. The war . . . and everything.”

  “In wartime most couples marry quickly, start their families quickly. I’ve seen no sign of such intentions. In any case, it is a marriage I do not approve. You will choose by August or I will choose for you.”

  “With Lukas’s work—”