by Cathy Gohlke
“I don’t like the idea of you staying in that house alone, Hannah. As long as Herr Sommer was there, it was one thing. He kept Peterson in his place. But now that he is away and so vulnerable . . . if the doctor or Herr Eberhardt have any connection to his money or this . . . this heist, you are not safe.”
“I don’t know what else I can do.”
Carl glanced my way. “Stay with my parents. I am certain they will agree.”
“No, Carl—thank you. I don’t think I should do that.”
He gripped the wheel, his mouth grim. “Think about it. Please say you’ll think about it.”
I pressed his shoulder. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”
We lost Dr. Peterson in the hospital parking area but assumed we’d see him in Grandfather’s room. The attending hospital doctor took me aside after I’d viewed Grandfather through the window.
“I assumed the broken leg. But a stroke? Will he recover?”
“It’s difficult to tell to what extent. His heart and age are certainly against him, but the next few hours will tell us much more. There is nothing you can do here until he awakens. You should go home, get some rest. If and when your Grossvater is able to return home, your own strength and stamina will be much needed.”
“I’m here for now, but I don’t know how long I can stay in Germany.”
“Oh? Forgive me, but I understood from Heinrich Eberhardt that you are Herr Sommer’s primary caregiver. This is not correct?”
“Herr Eberhardt? What has he to do with this?”
“Your grandfather’s medical files listed him as immediate contact.”
“Not Dr. Peterson?”
“Dr. Peterson?” The doctor picked up Grandfather’s chart and flipped through its pages. “There is no Dr. Peterson listed.”
Carl waited in the hospital lobby. He flipped his magazine to the waiting room table and met me in three long strides.
“Dr. Peterson is not even on his contact list, let alone listed as his doctor. Eberhardt, his lawyer, is the primary contact.” I pulled Carl toward the door. “Why would he do that? Dr. Peterson said he’s been treating Grandfather for years.”
“Something’s not right. Perhaps the relationship between Herr Sommer and Dr. Peterson is not as friendly as they claim.”
“But why would he lie? Why would either of them pretend a long-standing trust that doesn’t exist?”
“I can’t answer that. But if Herr Sommer doesn’t trust Peterson enough to list him in his medical records, you must not trust him either.”
I tightened the belt of my coat. “I think some changes are in order. Do you know where to find a hardware store?”
“Hardware store? I don’t know this word.”
“Hardware—nuts, bolts, screws. Locks. We need some new locks and dead bolts.”
I hadn’t imagined we’d be too late. Grandfather’s kitchen door stood wide open. It had been made to look like a burglary. The dining room silver was stolen, the marketing purse pinched, Grandfather’s room ransacked, the library nearly overturned, and every lock in the desk broken. But the ledger was still neatly hidden among the volumes on the shelf. Every room had been searched, including mine. Even my lingerie drawer had been turned upside down and its contents thoroughly rifled. That violation was the last straw.
Carl pushed his hands through his hair in frustration. “If it was Peterson, he must not have found what he was looking for. If he’d known where to look, he’d not have bothered with all this. It took time.”
“Destruction never takes long. But I won’t lay bets on Dr. Peterson alone. Herr Eberhardt seems to have a great deal at stake as well.” I unbuttoned my coat, then remembered the keys in my pocket.
Carl’s eyes widened as I pulled them out, then met mine.
“Hide those well, Hannah, and then we must call the police. Now.”
By the time the police had come, taken photographs and fingerprints, and given me no hope at all, it was after seven. Carl brought in pizza. Not Germany’s best effort at foreign food, but welcome.
Changing a lock was something Daddy taught me that had come in useful more than once, though I’d never expected to need that skill in Germany. Carl was no novice either.
“That should do it.” He gave the last screw of the dead bolt inside the kitchen door one final turn. “I think we should do something about these downstairs windows—possibly all the windows.”
Carl looked so serious I wanted to kiss him. He was growing more and more into my knight in shining armor. But I didn’t know where acknowledging that might lead and wasn’t ready to find out . . . not here, not now. I tweaked his cheek. “Just changing locks will challenge the ‘good doctor’ and the ‘noble lawyer’ if they come calling. I’d hear a window breaking, and these dead bolts will keep anyone else away.”
“I don’t know, Hannah. Are you certain you don’t want me to stay the night? I can sleep downstairs.”
I closed my eyes and breathed. “That’s so tempting, and I appreciate your offer. But it’s not a good idea. Peterson and Eberhardt would have a heyday with that in painting my picture for Grandfather. If he doesn’t recover, they’d surely try to assassinate my character in the courts.”
“The courts?”
“You haven’t seen the storeroom. It’s got to be worth fortunes. They won’t let it go easily. You should have seen Eberhardt’s face when Grandfather changed his will—extending the ‘house and its contents and all my worldly goods’ to include me.”
“Worldly goods stolen from Jews.”
I nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true, but we’ve got to go through that ledger. I won’t fully concede until I do.”
“I meant to tell you, I searched for the address in East Berlin. It is there, but rebuilt since the war. I found a neighbor, a Mrs. Gruber, who remembered the family living in number 3 at 39 Rochstrasse. She said they disappeared around the middle of November 1938.”
“She can remember that exactly?”
“They were longtime friends—Martin and Roseanne Goldstein. She remembers them well. She saw them last shortly after Kristallnacht—the Night of Broken Glass. She said Herr Goldstein owned a beautiful bookshop beneath their apartment—that he specialized in rare first editions and did a great deal of business with German and English collectors.
“It was late that November night. All the street woke to the crash of breaking glass. The storefront windows were shattered, broken out . . . dozens of his books scattered through the street and set on fire. Herr Goldstein and his son tried to stop them—the brownshirts—but the older man was dragged through the street and beaten senseless.”
“And the son?”
“Shot in front of the store.”
My heart stopped.
“She remembered Frau Goldstein screaming and screaming from an upstairs window—said it reminded her of the women keening in the Bible—Rachel weeping for her children because they were not. Frau Gruber said she watched it all from behind the curtain of her upstairs window and has despised herself ever since for not doing something to help.”
I squeezed Carl’s hand and he clasped mine in return. His own regrets from her mouth. “What could she have done?”
“Probably nothing.” Carl sighed, the moment not lost. “Not then. But afterward she took the Goldsteins into her home. Her husband planned to help them clean their shop and home and set them to rights. They offered the Goldstein family their grave plot to bury their son.”
“I’ve never known anyone . . . They lost everything.”
“The books, ja—most of the inventory—but not everything. She remembered a man, a member of the Nazi Party—he’d flashed his Party badge—and his son in Hitler Youth uniform. She said they intervened during the beating, keeping the brownshirts from destroying everything in the shop. For some reason the hooligans listened to them and moved on. Once they’d gone, Herr Goldstein sorted from the pile in the street, plucked a book he held to his chest, then presented it to the man in gr
atitude.”
Rare first editions . . . the inscription in A Christmas Carol? Yes, November 1938 . . . dear Father in heaven . . . Grandfather.
“She said that two days later a knock came to her door, and Herr Goldstein stepped outside to talk to a man. Frau Goldstein joined them. Frau Gruber watched through the window again. She couldn’t hear everything, but she remembers Frau Goldstein crying that they could not risk their only daughter to the Nazis, and that the man offered them help. The Goldsteins refused to divulge his name, determined to protect him for his work in helping Jews escape. Herr Goldstein paid him well to get them out of the country.”
“And she never knew his name?”
“Nein. But there is this. She said she watched him leave, that there was something familiar about him. He turned once, looking up the street. She was certain it was the same man who’d stopped the looting that night.”
“And what happened? Did they get away?”
“The Gestapo came the next night, broke in the door, and dragged them to the street.”
“The entire family?”
“Ja.”
I sat down before I fell down.
“I’m sorry, Hannah.” Carl pressed my shoulder. I grabbed his hand like a lifeline.
28
LIESELOTTE SOMMER
SEPTEMBER 1944
Saying good-bye to Frau Kirchmann was nearly as hard as saying good-bye, even for a time, to Lukas.
But there was so much to do, so much for them to arrange in the next twenty-four hours. That’s all the time Vater had given them. How or where they would go, we didn’t know, only that Dr. Peterson was supposed to be working it out. All he lacked was the money needed to make the transaction, and then a few hours to have the documents prepared. We dared not cross him. I no longer doubted his ruthlessness or power, or that of my own Vater.
The only comfort Lukas or I derived was that Vater seemed determined to protect me. Was that because I was useful to them—in that I’d led them to the Eisners? Or was it because we were mistaken, and the arrests had no link to me, to the black car?
I hurried home, my pockets stuffed with the treasures intended to buy the Kirchmanns’ papers, to purchase their lives. It was nearly dusk when I arrived—so many of our precious hours already spent.
I’d almost reached Vater’s library when I heard Dr. Peterson’s voice through the open door.
“Stop worrying. As long as Herr Kirchmann believed you, it will be done. He persuaded Lukas, and Lukas will persuade Lieselotte. You’re quite convincing when you want to be, my friend.”
I pressed my back against the wall and listened.
“I told you to wait for the arrests of the others until the Kirchmanns are in custody. The moment they learn—”
But Dr. Peterson cut Vater off. “You worry too much. Lukas will be back any moment with the payment. As soon as we have that in our possession, we’ll make our move. They’ll have no time to learn about the others. Besides, you’ve sworn them to secrecy!”
The telephone rang and I nearly jumped from my skin. Vater answered from his desk.
“Ah, Hilde—I’m glad it’s you.” His voice changed to silk in the blink of my eyes. “Lieselotte? No, I’m sorry, my love, she is not here. Out with Lukas, I suppose.” He paused. “Ja, ja, I will have her telephone you. A meeting tomorrow is good.” He cleared his throat. “Nein, no need to come here. It is better if Lieselotte comes to you, is busy with you. Peterson and I have more properties to Aryanize, and they must be done tomorrow. Having her out of the house for those transactions is good. Ja, danke. I’ll see you then. Good-bye, my love.” The receiver clicked in its cradle.
“I warn you, Wolfgang, keep Hilde away. Keep her away until this is finished.”
“That’s not simple. She’s invested herself in Lieselotte’s wedding as though she’s her mother. We must think of a reason to postpone it—for Lieselotte to call it off.”
“Hilde is not stupid. One look at Lieselotte and she will know—”
“Then she must not see Lieselotte after the arrests,” my father said quietly. “It must all be done at once, tomorrow, while they are out.”
“Nein. That may be easiest, cleanest, but it is imperative Hilde is convinced that Lieselotte called the wedding off on her own, that she chose Lebensborn over a marriage to Lukas. If Hilde learns that Jews tended Elsa, that you knew Lukas was Jewish and still part of the Abwehr, that you would allow your daughter to marry—”
“All right. All right! You think I don’t know this? But you saw her with him last night—today. What would—?”
“The Jewess, the one called Anna. A story can be made that Lukas was having an affair with her. Lieselotte only learned of it today, after their arrest.”
“Perhaps. A ruse, a lie—a good one, but we must convince Lieselotte to make it work. It would take time—proof—to convince her.”
“I can have pictures created, faces covered. She can be shown—but only after the arrest is made and they are gone. You, her father, insulted and aggrieved for your daughter—not because Lukas is Jewish, but because he slept with a Jewess.”
My father didn’t answer right away. “Yes. But it must be convincing. She loves him.”
My throat tightened. It was all I could do not to sob aloud.
“Where is he with the money? He should have been here by now.” Dr. Peterson’s chair squeaked.
“He said it might be tomorrow morning before he could get the full amount from the bank. I told you to wait—what if they hear of the arr—?”
“You were not there—they will make no connection to you, Wolfgang. Stop worrying.”
I crept into the kitchen, knowing I must get word to the Kirchmanns.
I lifted the latch and gently opened the back door. Before I could close it behind me, Dr. Peterson pulled the door wide. “Lieselotte—you’ve returned. . . . Where is Lukas?”
“He . . . he’s helping his father obtain the payment.”
“Is he?” Dr. Peterson looked wary. “Herr Kirchmann promised to send valuables, and cash—”
“Ja, ja—he sent some with me. They will bring the cash as soon as possible. It might be tomorrow if he has trouble.”
“So—” He held out his hand.
“I must give them to Vater, must place them in his hands myself,” I stalled.
Dr. Peterson stepped aside, bowing, and extended his arm to usher me toward the library.
As I walked, I separated the pouches in my pocket between my fingers as best I could, by feeling the little bundles. I’d give the gold coins—they were heavy and cumbersome—and the bundle of brooches. But I’d save the rings and precious stones—valuable trading commodities to send my true family into hiding. Shelter and food were never free.
“Lieselotte.” Father said my name without emotion as we entered the library.
I pulled the heavy bundles from my coat pocket and placed them on his desk. “These are from the Kirchmanns. Herr Kirchmann will bring cash as soon as he can.”
Father looked up at me. “The price of passports, of ship passage, of forged identity papers, is much higher than this. He mentioned rings . . . stones.”
I shook my head as if I knew nothing. “Perhaps they’re at the bank too. He said something about a safe, a box—I didn’t pay attention. I was much more interested in learning that you told them I would not be going with them—that you could only obtain four sets of papers. I told him he was mistaken—that you’d promised me,” I challenged.
“We did the best we could; there is nothing more to be done,” Dr. Peterson intervened.
“I’m not talking to you, Dr. Peterson! I’m talking with mein Vater!” My voice rose.
“Lieselotte, Dr. Peterson is my guest. You must—”
“Yes, Vater, he is your guest—not mine. As near as I can tell he’s the one who’s brought all this on our heads.”
“You must not accuse him when it is the Kirchmanns who’ve broken the law.”
“Le
t me marry Lukas. Let me go with them.”
“We’ve been over this, Lieselotte. There is no way—”
“Tell her, Wolfgang,” Dr. Peterson broke in. “Do not spare her. She is not a child.”
I whirled on him. “Tell me what?” And then back to Vater. “Tell me what, Vater? What more can there be?”
“I did not want to hurt you, Lieselotte, to shame you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lukas,” Dr. Peterson interjected. “Lukas and a Jewess.”
“What? What are you saying?”
He shrugged, as though what he said broke his heart. “Perhaps it is the same Anna you found him with last year. Perhaps the affair has been going on all this time.”
“Lukas?” I laughed. “An affair? That’s crazy—absolutely crazy.”
“I’m afraid not, my dear.” Vater sounded genuinely sad. “I’d hoped you’d need never know, but . . . there are pictures. Because he’s part of the Abwehr under investigation, Lukas’s life has been . . . scrutinized. He was found, sleeping with a—”
“I don’t believe you. It’s a lie—another of Dr. Peterson’s lies!”
“I will bring the pictures, so that you may see for yourself,” Dr. Peterson offered.
I sat down heavily on the chair opposite Father’s desk, as though I might doubt myself, might believe them. As though this new “truth” threatened to destroy me at last.
“It is most generous of your father to send them out of the country, Fräulein. He has every right to have the man arrested, and could do so now. You must simply say the word.”
I looked up at him, as if considering what he offered.
He shrugged. “It’s a simple thing to call off the wedding, not so simple to get them out of the country. If you do not wish—”
“I never said I believe you. I don’t! Lukas loves me—has loved me as I love him . . . for years. It can’t be. But . . . he has been away a long time, and . . .” I sat up, letting the clock tick. Then, as if resolved, “I will look at your pictures, and then I will decide.”
