by Cathy Gohlke
I leaned back against the headrest as the plane gathered speed down the runway and lifted into the twilight. Dutifully, I didn’t open Carl’s box until I’d changed planes in Frankfurt and was bound for London.
Once we were airborne, I pulled the small box he’d given me from my coat pocket. I couldn’t imagine its contents. Unlocking the tray table from the seat in front of me, I pulled it down and untied the string around the white box. Inside was nestled another package wrapped in string, but I knew from its fragrance exactly what it was. I opened the envelope and Carl’s note.
Enjoy this for me, Sweet Hannah. I’ll take just a bite . . . mmm . . . delicious. Thank you for sharing!
God’s love is like your favorite apple strudel, Hannah. We can see it, view it from a distance, know it is there, and, clutching our hands, still deny ourselves. Or we can let go of the things that bind us so tightly and reach for this great pleasure. We can taste it—feast on its richness. Choose freedom and forgiveness. Choose life, my dear one.
All my love,
Carl
Carl. Dear Carl. Sweet and funny Carl. Always making jokes to get a point across.
Choose—as if choosing forgiveness is so easy.
My layover in London took hours, and then a cancellation and another long delay—long enough for me to think carefully through Corrie ten Boom’s words and Carl’s message. By the time we finally taxied down the runway and headed west, I was exhausted. I sat, still thinking, until shades went down and most of the lights went out. Passengers snored softly. I wanted the strudel. . . . I wanted life and joy in Christ, but . . .
Dear God, I can’t do this alone. I can’t forgive alone. I’m not even able to love alone. I’m always looking for some sign of deceit, some indication of failure or ulterior motive. First it was Mama’s, then Grandfather’s, now Carl’s—even mine.
What is that but guilt and misery? I’m so afraid! I don’t know any other way to respond but to be on my guard. I don’t want to be hurt. I can’t trust.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t return to my old life as my old self. A lifetime of me—angry as I was with drums always rumbling—was impossible. Throughout the long night I argued with God, begged and pleaded, then did my best to turn off my brain. But it was no use.
I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t control anything or anyone. The only fragment of justice I controlled fell under the heading of mercy—returning what I could to the families wronged. But even that changed nothing. It redeemed not one solitary life, and it couldn’t bring me the peace and freedom I’d hoped for, that I so desperately needed.
I lifted the window shade near dawn, just as the first streaks of pink slit the horizon. A new day . . .
Tears slipped down my cheeks. I can’t do this, Lord. The sins of my parents and grandparents are not mine to forgive. Their wrongs are not mine to redeem. Miss Ten Boom was right. Only You can forgive.
So please, Father—Heavenly Father—forgive me my fear of . . . everything. Of not knowing who I am without my anger. Forgive my bitterness, my loneliness. I surrender my hatreds, my longings, to You.
Empty me of me, and fill me with Your Spirit. I don’t know who I will be without this load of guilt and fear and anger. I can’t imagine what it will be like to not be in control, always trying to win favor, to earn love—Yours, or that of the people in my life. I might slip up from time to time—might have to surrender again. But I want to know You. Not just believe in You, not just believe You exist and have redeemed me. Let me walk with You; show me this abundant life. I won’t—please help me—I won’t waste one more day trying to earn what You’ve already given me!
I closed my eyes and slept, perhaps only moments. When I opened them, morning dawned—a full sunrise—outside my window, and in my heart. Peace I’d not known flooded the recesses of my brain, my soul.
Other window shades lifted. Passengers around me stretched, visited the lavatory, picked up newspapers.
My heart was still singing, warm and full, when the stewardess stopped with her cart and asked if I wanted coffee.
“Yes, danke schön.” Something hot would be wonderful. It had been a long, a hard, a perfect night.
“And for breakfast, the choices are—”
I shook my head, smiling. “Nein, danke schön. I think I’ll just have a bit of this apple strudel—the richest and sweetest in the world. . . . A gift from my love.”
Note to Readers
IN 2009 I walked the paths of Ravensbrück—the largest WWII women’s concentration camp in Germany, where approximately 132,000 women and children were incarcerated, and surviving records estimate that between 50,000 and 92,000 women died of starvation, disease, experimentation, gassing, overwork, and despair. What I learned and saw in that concentration camp museum setting would fill a book. What I came away with were questions: How did survivors reclaim their lives? How did they or their families come to terms with what happened here? Did they ever forgive their captors? How?
As I stood at the memorial, I grasped the cold and lifeless hand of one of the Two Women Standing sculpture and made a vow that I would never forget, and that I would one day tell her story.
Something else I learned while in Germany was that the war bred secrets in families—secrets of good deeds unrewarded and secrets of evil deeds never discovered.
There’s something about keeping secrets that changes us at our core. The need to protect our families or ourselves, and consequently to keep knowledge from or deceive others, perpetuates a twisted trail.
Sometimes secrets die with their holder or fade away barely noticed. But sometimes secrets carry grievous weights and pass their consequences, directly or indirectly, into future generations—lies, betrayals, affairs, abuse, fortunes made or lost, addiction, abandonment, divorce, abortion, debt, treason, disease, murder, theft . . . the possibilities are endless. And sometimes, secrets are not so secret as we believe.
In Secrets She Kept, Hannah Sterling is propelled by a longing for a relationship with her mother that never existed in life. After her mother’s death, Hannah determines to peel back the layers of time and unravel her mother’s mysterious past in hope of understanding her.
What Hannah discovers shocks her, undermining her confidence in herself and her family, and in her ability to discern truth and goodness in others. She learns that she’s not viewed either of her parents or their world objectively. She learns that she, too, has contributed to the dysfunction in her family by her own choices and by her reactions to her parents’ choices. Unwittingly, she bears the consequences of her parents’ sins.
It’s the story of our fallen human nature. Numbers 14:18 (ESV) reminds us, “The LORD is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression, but he will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and the fourth generation.”
Like Hannah, we learn that in seeking redemption for the sins of our families or ourselves, we cannot redeem ourselves or change the past; we can’t even release ourselves from the weight of our own guilt. Our earnest work or most noble actions do not provide restitution to others. Like Hannah, we find our families—and ourselves—perpetuating sin and in desperate need of forgiveness.
Like Hannah, we’re also faced with the need to forgive others. But forgiveness goes against our grain, against our sense of personal justice and entitlement. Forgiveness requires letting go of wrongs done to us, requires surrender of tension, anger, even hatred, and a surrender of our right to collect debts or exact justice.
Holding on to guilt or grievances, no matter how justified they seem, eats away at our heart and life like cancer. Withholding forgiveness is tantamount to carrying a load of boulders on our back, or shackling our feet with balls and chains. Every day is exhausting, every breath a chore. Forgiveness, received and given from the Lord, frees us for abundant life in ways nothing else can. But how do we get there?
Release—forgiving or being forgiven�
��can’t be exacted or even bought. It’s beyond human ability or comprehension. It’s divine. That’s what I learned from Corrie ten Boom (The Hiding Place) as she forgave the guard from Ravensbrück. She didn’t do it—couldn’t do it—alone. She surrendered her own sin and inabilities to Christ and asked that He do it through her. Jesus was her real, her true hiding place. He is ours, too.
This is Hannah’s story, and it’s yours and mine. Forgiveness requires our confession that we can’t perfect or fix things, our repentance for our own sins and shortcomings, our belief in the saving sacrifice of Jesus Christ to pay our debts, and our daily walk in the newness of life only He can provide.
It’s a lesson we learn and live, then repeat again and again. Praise God!
I love hearing from you, learning your stories, and sharing your walk. Visit me anytime at my website, www.cathygohlke.com, or on Facebook at CathyGohlkeBooks.
God’s blessings and grace for you,
Cathy
1
RACHEL KRAMER dropped her linen napkin across the morning newspaper’s inflammatory headline: “Cold Spring Harbor Scientist in League with Hitler.” She glanced up, willing herself to smile innocently as her father strode into the formal breakfast room.
“You needn’t bother to hide it.” His eyes, bloodshot and mildly accusing, met hers as he took his chair at the head of the polished mahogany table. “I’ve already received a phone call from the Institute.”
Rachel glanced at their butler’s stoic face as he poured her father’s coffee, then carefully framed her statement. “It isn’t true, of course.”
“In league with the Führer? You believe the ravings of that maniac hack Young?” he scoffed. “Come now, Rachel—” he jerked his napkin from its ring—“you know me better than that.”
“Of course, Father. But I need to understand—”
“Which is why this trip is essential. You’ll see for yourself that those foreign correspondents exaggerate—to sell American papers, no doubt, but at the expense of international relations and good men doing crucial work.”
She might be little more than an inexperienced college graduate, but she wouldn’t be shot down. “He also claims that Hitler accuses the Poles of disturbing the peace of Europe—that he’s blaming them for impending war, creating a ruse to justify an invasion. If that’s true—if he’d truly attack Poland—then you really can’t trust him, Father. And if this reporter is right about that, then people will believe—”
“People will believe what they wish to believe—what is expedient and profitable for them to believe.” He pushed from the table, toast points in hand. “You mustn’t pay attention to the rags. It’s all propaganda. I’m sure Herr Hitler knows what he’s doing. The car will be here any moment. Are you packed?”
“Father, no sane person is going to Germany now. Americans have evacuated.”
“I assure you that I am completely sane.” He stopped and, uncharacteristically, stroked her cheek. “And you are destined for greatness.” He tugged his starched cuffs into place. “Remember, Rachel, it is ‘Herr Hitler.’ The Germans do not take kindly to disrespect.”
“Yes, Father, but you and I—we must have an understanding—”
But he’d already crossed the room, motioning for his coat. “Jeffries, watch for the driver. We mustn’t miss our plane. Where are your bags, Rachel?”
She folded her napkin deliberately, willing her temper into submission—for this trip only . . . until I make you understand that this is my last trip to Frankfurt—to Germany—and that our relationship must drastically change . . . just as soon as we return to New York. “My bags are waiting by the door.”
Two days later, Rachel tugged summer-white gloves over her wrists, as if that might erect a strategic barrier between her person and the German city once familiar to her. It had been five years since she’d ridden down the wide, pristine avenues of Frankfurt. The medieval spires and colorful geometric brickwork looked just the same. But every towering, spreading linden tree that had graced the main thoroughfare—each a landmark in its own right—had been ripped from its roots, replaced by steel poles slung with twenty-foot scarlet banners sporting black swastikas on white circles. Ebony spiders soaked in shame.
“There is no need to fret. It won’t be long now. The examination will soon be over. You missed the last one, so you mustn’t object if this one takes a bit longer.” Her father, his hair thinning by the minute, smiled absently, moistened and flattened his lips. “Our train leaves at seven,” he muttered, staring out the window. “We will not be detained.”
She forced her fingers to lie still in her lap. His affected reassurance gave little comfort. Why she’d agreed to the hated biennial physical examination by doctors she detested or to coming to Germany at all, she couldn’t fathom.
Well, yes . . . she could. Rachel sighed audibly and glanced at the too-thin, self-absorbed man beside her. It was because he’d insisted, because they’d argued as never before, because he’d begged, then badgered, and finally ordered. Because, being adopted, she’d known no other father, and because her mother had loved him—at least the way he used to be, the way he was when she was alive. And, significantly, because Rachel’s new employer had agreed to delay her date of hire until September 20.
She leaned back into the comfort of the cool leather seat, forcing herself to breathe. She supposed she could afford him this parting gift of time, this assertion of her belief in him, though she’d come to question—if not doubt—his life’s work.
That work had taken a twisted turn from his quest to eradicate tuberculosis, her mother’s killer. The publicity against his beloved eugenics research was growing, getting ugly, thanks to the outcries of investigative-journalist crusader types at home and abroad. She would be glad to distance herself when the ordeal was done.
Perhaps this peace offering would soften her announcement that she’d been hired by the Campbell Playhouse—as a gofer and underling to start. But if she proved herself indispensable, they might include her in their November move to Los Angeles—one step closer to radio theatre performance. All of which would send her father into a tizzy. He disdained radio theatre more than he’d detested her modern theatre productions in college, blaming the influence of her professors and “theatrical peers” for her independent thinking. She’d tell him the moment they returned to New York. As far as Rachel was concerned, that could not be soon enough.
But there were the medical examination in Frankfurt and the gala in Berlin to endure first—the gala to honor her father and German scientists for their breakthrough work in eugenics. The gala, which would include Gerhardt and her childhood friend Kristine. She brushed the air as if a fly had landed on her cheek. What had Kristine meant in her letter about “Gerhardt, and things impossible to write,” that she was “terrified” for her daughter, Amelie? It was the first letter Rachel had received from her former friend in five years.
She placed one ankle deliberately over the other. Perhaps Kristine’s grown tired of playing the sweet German Hausfrau. It would serve her right for betraying me. Rachel bit her lip. That sounded harsh, even to her.
The black Mercedes skirted the banks of the free-flowing Main and glided at last into the paved drive of the sprawling Institute for Hereditary Biology and Racial Hygiene. The driver—black-booted, square-jawed, the picture of German efficiency in the uniform of the SS—opened her door.
Rachel drew a deep breath. Taking his hand, she stepped onto the walk.
Lea Hartman gripped her husband’s hand as she waited her turn in the long, sterile corridor. What a gift that Friederich had been granted a three-day military pass! She couldn’t imagine making the train trip alone, especially with the fearful knot that had grown and tightened in her stomach with every town they’d passed.
She’d been coming to the Institute every two years for as long as she could remember. The money and demand for the examinations had come from the Institute itself, though exactly why, she’d never understoo
d—only that it had something to do with her mother, who’d died giving her birth at the Institute.
As a young child it had afforded the opportunity for a long, exciting train trip with her Oma. Even the doctors’ authoritarian stance and scathing disapproval hadn’t entirely dimmed the joy of the magical journey far from Oberammergau. But as a teen she’d grown shy of the probing doctors, intimidated by the caustic nurses, yet fearful of refusing their demands. At sixteen she’d written, bravely stating that she no longer wished to come, that her health was quite good, and that she no longer saw the purpose. The next week a car from the Institute had screeched to a stop outside her grandmother’s door. Despite Oma’s protests, the driver had produced some sort of contract that Oma had signed when Lea was given to her and raced the teen all the way to Frankfurt—alone. She’d been kept in a white enamel room, in a confined portion of the sterile Institute, for a fortnight. The nurses had woken her hourly; the doctors examined her daily—intimately and thoroughly. Lea dared not refuse again.
She shifted in her seat. Friederich smiled at her, squeezing her hand in reassurance. Lea breathed deeply and leaned back against the wall.
Now she was married—almost eighteen months—and though she dreaded the ritual examination, she dared hope they could tell her why she’d been unable to conceive. There was no apparent reason, and she and Friederich wanted a child—several children—desperately. She closed her eyes and once more begged silently for mercy, for the opening of her womb.
Her husband encircled her with his arm, rubbing the tension from her back. His were the strong, roughened hands of a woodcarver—large and sensitive to the nuances of wood, even more sensitive to her needs, her emotions, her every breath. How she loved him! How she missed him when he was stationed with the First Mountain Division—no matter that the barracks flanked their own Oberammergau. How she feared he might be sent on one of the Führer’s missions to gain more “living space” for the Volk. How she feared he might stop loving her.
