Secrets She Kept

by Cathy Gohlke

  “Thank you. I didn’t imagine you’d approve.” Nor did I know what Providence thought of it all.

  “I did not approve of Wolfgang’s rash behavior in trusting someone with his entire fortune whom he’d never met or known existed until two months before. I was concerned for him.”

  “As was Dr. Peterson.”

  “Yes, they have lived as confidants for many years. I believe Dr. Peterson would have preferred to carry this role himself.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Ja, but now I agree with Wolfgang. He was wise. I think family is a better option. You would become his heir at any rate, now that your existence is known.”

  “Was Dr. Peterson to inherit before I appeared?”

  “Ah, that is not for me to divulge. But your presence certainly changed his prospects. You understand that the documents your Grossvater signed were not only his will, but made you co-owner of his assets now.”

  “Yes. I’ll keep his bills paid up to date. But I must ask you, does this mean that I am free to conduct his affairs as I see fit?”

  “Well, yes—within reason, I suppose—as long as he is unable to do so. The house is to remain his residence as long as he lives or is able to stay here, as well as the use of a sizable trust for his needs and expenses, but even what remains of those pass to you at his death. From that time forward, you are free to sell if you wish. In fact, Dr. Peterson has expressed a strong desire to buy the house, should it come to market.”

  “Has he? How very interesting.”

  “I suppose there is some sentimental value from a long-standing friendship.”

  “Hmm.” It was hard to read Herr Eberhardt, to know if he was as innocent as he appeared or simply very good at hiding the truth. “There’s one thing I’m curious about. Dr. Peterson has insisted that Grossvater is his patient, but Dr. Keitzmann had no record of that. You were listed as his only contact.”

  Herr Eberhardt nodded, bemused. “Dr. Peterson no longer practices. To my knowledge he hasn’t practiced since the war, but Wolfgang has remained his one loyal ‘patient.’”

  “Is he still able to prescribe medicine?”

  “I . . . do not know the answer to that.”

  “Grandfather said he takes heart medication that Dr. Peterson claimed to have prescribed. But Dr. Keitzmann has also prescribed medicine.”

  Herr Eberhardt frowned. “I am not a physician, Fräulein Sterling, and you are not my client. I cannot directly advise you . . . but Dr. Keitzmann is Wolfgang’s most recent attending doctor and is currently overseeing his care.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  Late that afternoon I took Grandfather coffee. He searched my face as he did each time I came into the room. I could not look at him long. He was such a paradox, this feeble man who depended entirely on me at the moment, who’d willed me everything—given me everything he owned—and yet had perpetrated unthinkable opportunistic evil. Evil so great that at the very least he had alienated his daughter and betrayed the man she’d loved—the man and his family. And what about Mama? Was she also on the receiving end of that betrayal?

  Daddy had always warned me that Mama couldn’t talk about the war, about what had happened to her. But had she talked to him? And even if she had, there was no one to explain to me what actually happened except Grandfather.

  I needed to confront him, to ask him about the families, the unbelievable cache of collectibles. But he can’t even talk now. Even if he recovers his speech, how can I do that with him teetering on the precipice? One stress more and he’s likely to fall off the edge, and that would be the end of him.

  Ironically, it was Dr. Peterson who settled the question for me. Just after Grandfather’s nurse had retired for the night, the doorbell rang.

  “Dr. Peterson?” I didn’t invite him in, but stood in the doorway. “Isn’t it rather late for a social call?”

  “This is not a social call. I’ve come because I am concerned about my patient.”

  “Your patient?”

  Dr. Peterson squared his shoulders and pushed past me. “Herr Sommer has been my patient for many years.”

  “But you’ve not visited him in the hospital, and haven’t actually practiced since the war, I understand.” It was all I could do to control my temper and keep the fear from my voice at the same time.

  “I cared for his wife, Elsa, until her death; for his family; and have cared for Wolfgang all these years. You will appreciate that I am most concerned with his current state of affairs. I believe he would be better served in a medical institution than here.”

  “He has a private nurse—around the clock—and he has me.”

  “Were he to suffer a second stroke, it could be fatal.” He stepped too close.

  “I’m sure you’re right. We’ll just have to do our best to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “I suggest, for the sake of Wolfgang’s life and well-being, he be admitted to an excellent medical facility outside Berlin—state-of-the-art equipment, the best doctors in their field, in addition to my care. They specialize in physical therapy for stroke patients. No expense must be spared in his recovery.”

  “No expense?”

  “Nein.” It was the first sign of hesitancy he’d exhibited. “He is, of course, my friend as well as my patient.”

  “And he’s my grandfather,” I insisted. “I believe he’s getting the best of care here and that he takes comfort in being in his own home. Familiar surroundings and all that. Dr. Keitzmann will reevaluate him before long and we can ask his opinion as well. But I doubt Grandfather could afford a state-of-the-art facility, or anything beyond the care the state provides.”

  “Which is why I wished to speak with you privately. I am willing to make an excellent offer on this house—enough that Wolfgang will have everything he requires for the rest of his life and you will be able to stay near him, if you wish. Or return to America, if that is your preference.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Peterson.”

  “For the sake of my friend, Fräulein, you will find me more than generous.”

  “I see. I don’t know what to say. When do you propose making this transaction? I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I stayed in the house longer, as long as Grandfather moves to the medical facility, since that is your primary concern.”

  Dr. Peterson shifted. “Actually, Fräulein, to make this offer as generous as possible, I am required to sell my own home. I would need to take possession immediately.”

  “Immediately?”

  “That would be most convenient.”

  “As I said, I need to think about it. It would mean selling everything, and Grandfather has expressly stated—in writing—his wish and right to live in this house to the end of his days.”

  “It is true that he wishes to live here as long as possible. Wolfgang has so many memories here. But perhaps those memories would best be set aside in the interest of his return to health. A bit of new scenery—” he shrugged—“new faces, an advanced therapeutic program, might work wonders.”

  “Wonders.” I smiled. “Like I said, I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  Dr. Peterson shifted his hat to his head. “Do not think about it too long, Fräulein Sterling. Each day counts in a stroke victim’s recovery. I am certain you do not wish to prevent his recovery, nor be deemed responsible for his decline.”

  On Monday morning I telephoned Carl and told him of Dr. Peterson’s visit. “It felt more like a threat than an offer.”

  “Ja, as it surely is. He must know of Herr Sommer’s ‘procurements.’ Perhaps he is even a partner. He doesn’t know that you’ve found the secret room, and you must not let him know—certainly not until you decide what to do. If he forces you from the house, he buys everything.”

  “I’m worried that even if I don’t sell—and I really don’t think I can as long as Grandfather’s alive—he’ll find a way to force me out. It almost felt as though he’d accuse me of not taking proper care of Grand
father—that he’d hold me responsible if Grandfather doesn’t recover.”

  Carl sighed heavily into the phone. “I don’t like you living there, Hannah. Men have murdered for fortunes, and these men have done as much. As long as the valuables are there, you are not safe.”

  “As long as they’re here . . . That’s the answer.”

  “What are you saying? That we move them?”

  “I’m saying it’s time to give it back—all of it. A means of redemption.”

  “Hannah—”

  “Will you help me?”

  With Dr. Peterson on the prowl, I dared not leave the house. But Carl used every spare minute from his job to inquire after Marta and Lukas Kirchmann and track down the names and addresses of Grandfather’s victims from the list I’d made. He knew of government and civilian organizations that had formed detailed lists of survivors over the years—including names and addresses of Jews who’d been relocated and their property Aryanized, the dates and locations of individual arrests. There were even records of the camps people had been sent to, if they were transferred to other camps or released, as well as those who did not survive. And then there were records of where they went after the war—at least for some of them. It was the first time I truly appreciated the Germans’ penchant for meticulous record keeping.

  “They were generally termed ‘displaced persons.’ Every story is different,” Carl confided quietly over coffee in Grandfather’s kitchen. “Some eventually emigrated to Palestine, some to the United States, some to other countries across the globe. Some returned to Berlin or to other places in Germany; often families combined their survivors to create a new family. Many waited for months in camps until family members came looking for them or until they could find a family member to take them in. Of course, many never returned from the camps.”

  “It’s what we call looking for needles in haystacks.”

  “So far, I’ve located two individuals who returned and reclaimed their original homes.”

  “Only two?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. He’d been looking for nearly three weeks.

  “Jews were not sent home again in the way they disappeared. They either perished or survived. In many cases whole families perished. Some survived but the families never reunited. Even today I read stories in the newspaper about family members who find each other for the first time—all these years later.”

  “But relatives? Are there no relatives?”

  “There is a limit even to German records. But I have more ideas, just lack of time and resources to pursue this full-time. It is one thing to track down what happened to the victims. It will be quite another thing to find heirs and present them with long-lost possessions.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought I could return everything—or nearly everything—right away. Maybe I should take the list and work on some.”

  “I’m not certain how much success you would have.”

  “Well, my German’s pretty lousy, and I might not know the organizations to contact, but you could tell—”

  “You are American.”

  “Yes?”

  “Many Germans, especially those who were alive at the end of the war, are still bitter for America’s bombing of Berlin when the war was already lost to us. Hundreds upon hundreds of civilian deaths and destruction of property for no good purpose. The chances of Germans gladly opening their doors to you, even if they speak English . . .” He shrugged.

  “Whoa. I hadn’t imagined that.” Never had I felt such frustration—or at least not since Mama lay dying.

  “Have you thought of telling Herr Sommer about this? Of telling him what you want to do? When a man comes close to death, he sometimes seeks forgiveness for his past.”

  “I can’t—just can’t bring it up. I don’t know if Grandfather will regain his ability to speak. I’m not even certain of his ability to reason yet.” Though I knew I didn’t want to confront him, either. “Even if I did, what if it brings on another stroke? What if he forbids me?”

  “Would that stop you?”

  “He’s made me co-owner, so I think I can legitimately do what I want, as long as he’s not able to take care of his own affairs, and as long as he doesn’t convince Herr Eberhardt to change his deed or will again.”

  Carl set his knife and fork aside. “Are you not tempted to keep it—to keep something for yourself? It is a fortune, after all—perhaps many fortunes. You may not be able to locate the original owners of the property in every instance. What will you do then?”

  “I can’t believe you said that. Not after what Grandfather did. How can I keep it—any of it?” I shook my head, then quipped, “Not that it couldn’t supplement a teacher’s salary.”

  “No matter what you do, you must be ready for that question, that accusation. Do you realize that by making you co-owner, and now that you know about his crime, he has effectively made you his accomplice?”

  “What?”

  “You know about the valuables. You know what he did to get them. By not coming forward to the authorities immediately, are you not concealing evidence? Are you not a benefiting party?”

  “That’s not how it is at all. You know that.”

  “My concern is that Dr. Peterson may misconstrue it in just such a manner. Herr Sommer may even have designed it this way—to keep you, how do you say, ‘on a hook with a carrot dangling.’”

  “Bait. Bait dangling.”

  “If Peterson cannot convince you to sell him the house, he may try to bribe you, or failing that, accuse you, perhaps have you arrested.”

  “Is that possible? I mean, I know the laws in Germany are different than in America, but that’s so wrong.”

  “The premise is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. It didn’t stop it from happening. Do not give Peterson an answer about the house. Keep stringing him along for as long as possible. Buy time. But, Hannah, consider letting the organizations that search for families find them. Let Germans handle this.”

  “I can’t. I want to do this myself—give back everything into the hands of those it was stolen from. I want to redeem my family for what we’ve done.”

  Carl shook his head. “You can’t re—”

  “Please, Carl. I’m going to do this my way.”

  Time was running out. Whether Grandfather survived and thwarted my efforts or died and I found myself facing accusations or court trials initiated by Dr. Peterson, I felt greater urgency to locate the families of victims and return their valuables. It was the only means of penance for Grandfather’s horrific deeds, or of seeking forgiveness for the way I’d long felt about Mama. This was my opportunity to carry on her real work and make some peace with her memory—a peace in death that I never found in life. And it was the right thing to do.

  I needed Carl’s help and he needed to work, so I hired him as my driver, praying Grandfather’s funds I used were not ill-gotten. I duly sat in the backseat, careful not to put Carl’s job at risk, as we drove to the first address Carl had tracked down in West Berlin.

  “You may be right about Germans—Jewish or not—not trusting Americans, but I can’t sit at home and do nothing,” I told him.

  “By leaving the house, you leave it open to Dr. Peterson.”

  “We changed the locks. Geoffrey’s under strict instructions not to open the door to anybody except Dr. Keitzmann.”

  “You are opening a can of bugs you cannot close, Hannah.”

  “‘Can of worms.’ You really do need to work on your fishing lingo,” I teased, but Carl still frowned into the rearview mirror. “Stop worrying so much. This is why you located our first survivor.”

  “What if this woman does not wish to be found?”

  “She’ll wish it when I give her what’s owed her. Whether it’s sentimental or she sells the jewelry for cash, she’ll be glad. Especially if the neighborhood is as poor as you say.”

  Carl looked away, but I could tell by the tightened cords in his neck that he’d not said all he thought.


  Dusk was falling when we turned into the narrow Strasse. Brown block buildings lined up like gloomy inner-city apartment housing. Painted black window boxes awaited spring flowers. I imagined red geraniums and green ivy spilling over the boxes and sills in summer, vastly improving the landscape.

  “I think you should be prepared for—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Carl, stop worrying—stop talking! Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” My nerves had reached the breaking point.

  We pulled to a stop before number 238. “This is it. Her maiden name was Kaufmann. Julia Kaufmann. Her married name is Gordon.”

  “Doesn’t sound too Jewish, does it?”

  “Nein. You may need to consider—”

  “Stop. Just let me do this.” I admired so many things about Carl, but he was cautious beyond reason—a thing unnervingly common to Germans and one that drove me crazy. They couldn’t just get on with it. I marched up the steps and knocked on the door, Carl’s disapproval trailing me. “Translate only if she doesn’t speak English,” I told him. “If she does, let me do the talking.”

  He sighed, obviously frustrated, and pushed his fingers through his hair before donning his chauffeur’s cap again. I turned to the door and ignored him.

  It took three knocks, but a woman came to the door. “Ja?”

  “Frau Gordon?”

  “Ja?” Suspicion sprang to her eyes.

  “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  “A little. What do you want?”

  “Was your birth name Kaufmann?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” This time she whispered and there was no mistaking her fright.

  “My name is Hannah Sterling. I . . . I’ve come to return something to you, something I believe belonged to your family. May we come in?”

  “Nein, please.” Worry pulled at the corners of her wide eyes. “We have guests.”

  Undeterred, I pulled a slim case from my purse and opened it. The golden chain, holding a delicately etched Star of David in a wreathed circle, lay beautifully against the deep-blue velvet.