Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  “And so she claimed her lineage as her own.”

  “Ja. It was not hard to do at the time—not hard to write her name on the birth certificate. But it was a difficult birth and a doctor was called in. Perhaps it was his record that told the name of her true mother, or the record of the church where she was baptized. I don’t know.”

  “Dr. Peterson dug it up. It’s his fault. None of this would—”

  “God sees everything, knows everything. There must—”

  “Lukas, you speak of ideas, ideals—this is our life. All our lives. I can’t think what made him go looking—what made him suspect.”

  Lukas snorted. “He has the memory of an elephant, the slyness of a fox.” He tucked my hand in his pocket as we walked. “It was something Marta said, years ago. Do you remember the Christmas party—the last Christmas party your mother . . .”

  I waited.

  “Dr. Peterson brought in those candlesticks—silver, ornate, worth a fortune.”

  “Ja, I suppose. So, what about them?”

  “Marta was excited to see them. She said Mutti had a pair like them—with the fruits and flowers engraved just so. She said her grandmother had given them to Mutti, and that one day they would be hers.”

  “Why does that—?”

  “Apparently it is tradition in a Jewish household for the mother to pass the Shabbat candleholders to her daughter, from generation to generation. Dr. Peterson suspected they were from a Jewish household because he’d ‘bought,’ or more likely confiscated, the pair he displayed that day from a Jewish house that had just been Aryanized.”

  “You mean, all these years, he’s—”

  “Bided his time . . . or forgotten until recently—I don’t know. I knew he suspected my lack of enthusiasm from the time I delayed joining the Hitler Youth, that he’s tried to prove me part of the assassination conspiracy, that he’s despised Father because of his connection with the Confessing Church. But I underestimated the depths of his hatred, not to mention his connections. I can’t be certain he is the cause, but my parents’ house was searched last year.”

  “I remember. Your mother believed they put in a listening device.”

  Lukas sighed. “They found and took the candlesticks. On their own that might mean nothing. They could have been taken by overzealous underlings simply for their value. But with Peterson’s memory of them . . . I must wonder.”

  “He says he’s concerned about Vater’s reputation, but there’s something more—I don’t know what.”

  “He’s closely aligned with your father in his work and financial dealings. If your father is ruined through connections to my family, Dr. Peterson, too, will perhaps be ruined. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve become extremely wealthy. War creates strange opportunities for the shrewd—ones they will do anything to protect.”

  He lifted my hand and kissed my fingers. “To think we’ve been hiding Jews, moving Jews all this time, and we ourselves are Jews!”

  “The apple of God’s eye.” I squeezed his hand in return. “I’m proud our children will carry Jewish blood.”

  Lukas froze. “Lieselotte. We must go alone—my parents and Marta and I. That is the only deal they would make.”

  The chasm that had loomed before me earlier in the day opened at my feet. “Nein,” I whispered. “I talked with them. I told Vater I must go with you—married or not. He understood; he agreed for Dr. Peterson to find five passports—five good passports.”

  “Just now he told Father and me he could not do it. Four is all he could get—all he would get. Dr. Peterson said that if you do not stay behind, it will seem that your father knew about us all along, that he hid Jews from the Reich, that he allowed his Aryan daughter to marry a Jew. He will be ruined.”

  I shook my head. “I will not live without you; I will not. We can’t trust Dr. Peterson.”

  “But I trust your father. He’s helping in every way he can.”

  I shook my head again, disbelieving.

  “Lieselotte, your father is a hard but honest man—I must believe this. We have no choice. If he was simply going to turn us in, he could have done that by now. We must trust him. And after the war, when this is all over, we’ll find each other. We’ll marry and—”

  I could not stop the shaking of my head. I wouldn’t believe there was no other way. I’d plead, I’d beg and grovel—whatever would persuade Vater and Dr. Peterson. There must be something they’d not thought of yet—something we’d not thought of.

  What was Lukas saying about valuables?

  “I’d hoped to put the stones in a ring for you one day.”

  “Stones?”

  “The rubies and diamonds my mother had taken from Grandmother’s tiara—three she had not yet sold to buy food. She gave them to me to have made into a ring for you. There’s been no time yet, but I wanted to surprise you with them on our first anniversary. I’m so sorry, my Lieselotte. They must go now for the passports.”

  “Of course they must! Your life—our lives—are worth more than anything, as long as we are together.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I begged him too, offered everything—but he refused.”

  “And you would go without me?” I stopped walking.

  “If I don’t, you will be arrested. I won’t have that, Lieselotte. You don’t know what the camps are like. You would not survive. It would be different if we were married already, if there was no other way, but we’re not. You can’t legally marry me knowing I’m one-quarter—”

  “You know that doesn’t matter!”

  “But it is the law, and if we break this law, we’ll both be arrested. It will do us no good to be thrown into separate prisons—separate concentration camps. This way, at least you will be safe. I must know you’re safe.”

  It was impossible—all of it impossible.

  He took me in his arms. “Keep faith, my darling. You must keep faith and, when you can, help those still in hiding. At least we’re getting out alive, thanks to your father. He stood against Dr. Peterson—he’s risking a great deal to help us.”

  I was outnumbered.

  “Come with me now. It will be best if you carry the payment to your father.”

  Frau Kirchmann emptied her savings from all the places a good Hausfrau might hide them—the cookie jar, the foot of a twisted stocking in her drawer, a cloth bag beneath the mattress of her bed, and a tiny pouch of three precious stones hidden in her sewing basket.

  “In plain view,” she whispered, dropping the stones one by one into my palm. “These were my mother’s. They were to go to Lukas, for your ring.”

  I refused to cry. Their lives were more valuable than any wish I might make, whether or not I went with them. Though I was far from reconciled to my fate.

  “I am so sorry, my daughter. So very, very sorry. If I could turn back time—”

  “Shh, Mutti,” Lukas whispered. “Lieselotte knows. We’ll find each other when this is over. This is not the end.”

  “When the war is over.” I repeated what I’d heard him say, though how could I believe it?

  “Ja, ja.” Frau Kirchmann nodded, wiping her tears.

  Herr Kirchmann had gone to the bank to withdraw all he could without arousing suspicion and to get someone else from the church to deliver forged papers. Others would have to fill in their portion of relief routes for refugees. Marta had gone to see if Pastor Braun knew who might help.

  Lukas paced the floor, praying for a miracle, an inspiration. But an hour passed, and neither Marta nor Herr Kirchmann returned. Lukas said we dared wait no longer lest they think we would not pay.

  “Tell Dr. Peterson my Helmeuth will bring the rest as soon as he returns,” Frau Kirchmann ordered. “At least this much will show him our good faith.”

  We’d tied handkerchiefs around separate small mounds of precious stones and coins, rings and brooches. Everything small, valuable—what our Jews in hiding called “portable wealth.” Lukas helped me into my coat just as Marta burst
through the door, coat half buttoned, panting, terror in her eyes.

  “They’ve been arrested! The Eisners were arrested!”

  “No!”

  “They shot Kurt in the street—” she reached for her mother’s arms—“and dragged Frederich from the house, then Miriam and their baby!”

  “Did they see you?”

  “Mutti! How can you ask—?”

  “Did they see you?” Lukas shook his sister.

  “Nein,” Marta sobbed. “I stayed hidden. But I saw that man—that Dr. Peterson—with the Gestapo.”

  “Dr. Peterson!”

  Marta looked at me, accusing. “Ja, he stood in the street, and showed them where to go—the very house! He watched the raid, then drove away.”

  I sat down. “In a black car.”

  “Ja,” Marta confirmed.

  “How do you know this?” Frau Kirchmann asked.

  I moistened my lips. Could I have been the cause?

  “Lieselotte?”

  I looked at Lukas. “Last week . . . after I made a delivery . . .”

  “Ja? What then?” Frau Kirchmann prompted.

  “There was a car—a black car. I don’t know if I was followed, but it slowed.”

  “It could have been anybody.” Lukas wrapped his arms around me.

  I pulled away. “I don’t know. How would—?”

  “He waited until the Eisners were taken away; then the remaining Gestapo agent paid him,” Marta said.

  “Sudden wealth,” Lukas murmured. “Blood money.”

  “Blood money,” I repeated, and the bile rose in my throat.

  27

  HANNAH STERLING

  FEBRUARY 1973

  The phone rang and rang, but Carl did not answer. He must still be in East Berlin.

  At last a woman answered.

  “Carl Schmidt, please.”

  She began rattling something off in German.

  “Please, I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”

  “Ah.” I could hear the pride in her voice. “My English not so good. Herr Schmidt is not here.”

  I closed my eyes. Why did I send you off on that wild-goose chase? I need you here—now! “Please, as soon as he returns, tell him to come to Hannah. He’ll know. He’ll understand.”

  “Ja, ja,” she replied knowingly, with a bit of a smirk audible. “I tell him.”

  What? So I’m just one more girl in a long line? I couldn’t think about that now.

  I didn’t want to open the door behind the bookcase alone, to snoop through whatever Grandfather had hidden there, but this might be my only opportunity. If it was in some way linked to the open ledger, if the ledger was linked to families he’d sold out, I had to know. And I had to know where my mother fit in that picture.

  When Grandfather returned home, he would surely change the locks once he suspected I’d seen the ledger or the secret room. Once Dr. Peterson or Herr Eberhardt realized I was alone in the house, they’d appear and take charge, perhaps remove everything. Could they do that? I didn’t know.

  I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen and headed for the library. Removing the book, I swung the bookcase outward. It was not as easy as swinging it closed, and I wondered if it was this effort that had set off Grandfather’s heart.

  The latch for the bookcase was cleverly hidden in the recess of the wall and the keyhole concealed in the bookcase itself—behind heavy volumes. No one could see it unless they knew precisely what to look for.

  I turned the small switch just inside. Light flooded the tiny room—a narrow aisle, really. Shelves, floor to ceiling, were lined with an assortment of jewelry displayed and tagged in a sort of pencil-written shorthand I couldn’t decipher. Small pieces of sculpture also rested on the shelves—some made of ivory and others heavy, marble and possibly gold. I could not imagine their worth. There were first editions of classics in English and beautifully bound and tooled leather volumes in German, also tagged. There was silver—coffee urns and teapots, trays. Beautiful bowls of intricately cut crystal. Stacked against the wall were oil paintings, some canvases loosely rolled and wrapped in brown paper and others freestanding in their frames.

  I’ve no idea how long I stood in the treasure trove. I was examining the contents of a jewelry display case and had just emptied a velvet bag of cut gems into my palm when I heard a knock that seemed far away. Was that the front or back door?

  Cupping my palm, I poured the gems back into the small drawstring bag, stowing it on the shelf. The knock came again, louder this time.

  I slipped through the wall opening, closed the bookcase, this time letting it latch, and flicked off the flashlight.

  An urgent knock on the library window made me jump, and I drew open the drapes. “Carl!”

  He motioned for me to let him in and I ran round to the kitchen door.

  “My landlady said you telephoned, that you said to come right away. Are you all right?”

  “I am now.” My heart would not behave itself—for fear of Grandfather’s state and for the wonder of discovery of the hidden room and surely for the pure relief that Carl Schmidt was standing there before me. Propriety to the wind, I fell into his arms.

  “Now, now—what’s happened?” He held me close, pushing hair from my eyes.

  Swiping away tears I hadn’t intended, I poured out my discovery of Grandfather sprawled on the floor, told him about the ambulance and the hospital. And then, the ledger. “Grandfather must have been reading it when he had his heart attack. I want to get to the hospital, but there’s more. This might be my only chance to show you.”

  We’d nearly reached the library when the front door opened.

  “Dr. Peterson!” I didn’t know if I was more unnerved that he’d appeared or that he had his own key to Grandfather’s house.

  “Fräulein Sterling, I imagined that you would be at the hospital with your Grossvater.” It was an accusation.

  “I was just about to leave. My driver has just arrived. The ambulance wouldn’t allow me to ride with them.”

  He conceded. “Do not let me detain you.”

  “Why aren’t you with him? You’re his doctor. And how did you know?”

  “Herr Eberhardt telephoned me. I came for his medicine, of course. I must make certain the hospital combines nothing to conflict with his current prescriptions.” But his eyes wavered.

  “The medic said it wasn’t needed. That they would have everything on file.”

  “I must make certain that Wolfgang took nothing more than what I have prescribed. He is an independent sort, as you know,” he said, clearly trying to make light. “I will check his medicine cupboard to see for myself. Do not let me detain you,” he repeated and stood aside.

  “I think it’s the other way around.” I motioned him free access to the stairs.

  The set of his jaw told me he wasn’t pleased, but he brushed past us. He paused by the library door and pushed it open. The hesitation in his profile told me that he hadn’t expected the room to be unlocked.

  “That’s where I found him. He’d collapsed on the floor. I think he broke his leg—it was twisted so strangely. But you would know that if you’ve seen him.”

  “He was not conscious when you found him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “He was . . . reading? Doing what?”

  “I’ve no idea. I wasn’t here. I don’t think that really matters now. Would you like me to help you look for his medicine? Although, I must tell you, the medic and I already searched.”

  “Nein. I know the way.” He backed out of the room, closing the door. “It may be best to leave everything as it is, in case there are questions later.”

  “What sort of questions?” Carl stepped in front of me.

  Dr. Peterson’s brows rose. “And you? You are the driver?” The doctor’s contempt was visible.

  I edged around Carl. “May I remind you that this is my grandfather’s house, you’re his doctor, and you’ve just walked in—with yo
ur own key—claiming that you are looking for medicine that you probably prescribed. And now you proceed to tell me to leave everything as it is.”

  “Herr Sommer and I have a long-standing arrangement. Forgive me if I did not look at you as proprietary in his home. I understood you are here for only a short visit. Though Herr Eberhardt tells me Wolfgang believes that is not true.”

  His challenge undermined my confidence. “You seem to know a great deal about my affairs.”

  “It is my business to—”

  “I am not your business, Dr. Peterson. Now, if you would like to complete your medical business, I’ll wait and lock up.”

  “There is no need. I have my own key.”

  “I’ll wait and lock up. We will follow you to the hospital. That’s where you’re going when you leave here, isn’t it?”

  The fury in his eyes could have smoked a pig, reminding me that despite his age, I’d never want to meet him in a dark alley. “I will be a moment.”

  While he took the stairs to Grandfather’s room, I sank against Carl.

  “Steady,” he whispered. “You were wunderbar. Maintain your ground.”

  I squeezed his hand—in appreciation, in confidence, in need of his strength.

  “Get your coat,” he whispered into my hair. “We’ll follow right away.”

  En route to the hospital I told Carl about everything I’d discovered, including the secret room. “So many expensive things—works of art, some surely priceless.”

  “Can you match them against the ledger’s entries?”

  “I don’t know. There wasn’t time. But I’m very much afraid they will match, and I’m even more afraid that Dr. Peterson knows it—that in some way he’s part of it all. Why else would he be there?”

  “Whether or not he knows about the ledger, he must know about Herr Sommer’s unusual finances. He said they have a long-standing arrangement.”

  “I’m just not sure what his connection is. Did he expect to inherit from Grandfather and now I’ve thrown a wrench into those plans? Is that why he hates me so?” I shuddered, cold beyond cold. “You saw the way he looked at me.”