Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  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 understood—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.

  The door to the examination room opened.

  “Dr. Mengele!” She recognized him from two years before. She would not have chosen this doctor, though she could not say precisely why. The examinations, no matter who performed them, were technically the same. It was only a feeling, and hadn’t they told her countless times not to trust her feelings, her instincts? They were not reliable and would mislead her. Neither they nor she could be trusted.

  “May I come with my wife, Herr Doctor?” Friederich stood by her side. Lea felt her husband’s strength seep into her vertebrae.

  “For the examination?” Dr. Mengele raised eyebrows in amusement. “Nein.” And then more gruffly, “Wait here.”

  “But we would like to talk with you, Herr Doctor,” Friederich persisted, “about a matter of great importance to us.”

  “Can a grown woman not speak for herself?” Dr. Mengele’s amusement turned scornful. He didn’t acknowledge Lea, but snorted and walked through the door.

  Lea glanced once more into her husband’s worried eyes, felt his courage squeezed into her hand, and followed Dr. Josef Mengele into the examination room.

  Friederich checked his watch. If the clock in the hallway was to be believed, Lea had been behind the closed door for only forty-seven minutes, but it seemed a lifetime.

  He’d not been in favor of her coming to Frankfurt. He’d never understood the hold the Institute maintained over his wife, why she both feared and nearly fawned at the feet of these doctors. But he’d married her—the woman he saw much more in than she saw in herself—for better or for worse, and this, he’d decided, was part of that package. He would not forbid her to come; she feared them too much for that.

  And these days, putting your foot down against authority figures carried consequences—consequences Lea could not afford now that Friederich was not regularly at home. The last thing he wanted was men from the Institute on his wife’s doorstep when he was not there to protect her. Better for her to remain invisible. From what little he knew of the Führer’s “negotiations” with Poland, he and his unit could be shipped east at any moment. He’d been lucky to get leave at all.

  Friederich pushed his hands through his hair, sat heavily once again on the backless bench, and knotted his fingers between his knees.

  He was a simple man. He loved his wife, his Lord and his church, his country, his woodcarving, Oberammergau with all its quirks and passion for its Passion Play. He was a grateful man, and the only thing missing in his life was children that he and Lea would bear and rear. He didn’t think it selfish to ask God for such a thing.

  But he wondered if Lea would ask the right questions of the doctor, if she might miss something. She was a smart and insightful woman, but the nearer they’d come to Frankfurt, the more childlike she’d become. And this Dr. Mengele, whoever he was, seemed less than approachable.

  Friederich checked his pocket watch, then the clock again. He wanted to take his wife from this place, go home to Oberammergau—home to their cool Alpine valley, to all they knew and loved. He only wished he didn’t have to return to his barracks, wished he could take his wife home and make love to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to serve his country or that he loved Germany less than others. At least, he loved the Germany he’d grown up in. But this New Germany—this Germany of the last seven years with its hate-filled Nuremberg Laws that persecuted Jews, its eternal harassment of the church, its constant demand for greater living space and focus on pure Aryan race—was something different, something he could not grasp as a man grasps wood.

  Like any German, he’d hoped and cheered when Adolf Hitler had promised to raise his country from the degradation of the Treaty of Versailles. He wanted to be more than a stench in the world’s nostrils and to forge a good life for his family. But not at the expense of what was human or decent. Not if it meant dishonoring God in heaven or making an idol of their Führer.

  He closed his eyes to suppress his anxiety about Lea, about politics, to clear his head. This was not the time to argue within himself about things he could not control.

  He’d focus on the Nativity carving on his workbench at home. Wood was something he could rely upon. Just before being conscripted, he’d finished the last of a flock of sheep. Now he envisioned the delicate swirls of wood wool and the slight stain he would tell Lea to use in their crevices. Yes, something with a tinge of burnt umber would add depth, create dimension. His wife had the perfect touch. Watching her paint the wooden figures he’d carved was a pleasure to him—a creation they shared.

  Friederich was counting the cost of the pigment and stain mixtures she would need for the entire set when the sharp click of a woman’s heels on the polished tile floor caused him to lose focus. Her perfume preceded her. He opened his eyes, only to feel that he’d fallen into another world. There was something about the woman’s face that struck him as frighteningly familiar, but the window dressing was unrecogn
izable.

  Striking. He’d say she was striking. The same medium height. Her eyes were the same clear blue. Her hair the same gold, but not wrapped in braids about her head as they’d been an hour ago. Her locks hung loose, in rolling coils, so fluid they nearly shimmered. Her nails—fiery red—matched her lips. She wore seamed stockings the color of her skin and slim, high-heeled shoes that, when she paused and half turned toward the door, emphasized slender ankles and showed toned calves to good advantage.

  All of that he noticed before he took in the belted sapphire suit, trim and fitted in all the right places. He closed his eyes and opened them again. But she was still there, and coming closer.

  The thin, middle-aged man beside her stepped in front, blocking his view. “Entschuldigung, is this where we wait for Dr. Verschuer?”

  But Friederich couldn’t speak, couldn’t quite think. And he didn’t know a Dr. Verschuer—did he?

  At that moment a pale and agitated woman in nurse’s uniform pushed through the door at the far end of the corridor, hurrying toward them. “Dr. Kramer—please, you have entered the wrong corridor. Dr. Verschuer is this way.” Casting a furtive glance toward Friederich, she hurried the man with the thinning gray hair and the beautiful young woman back the way they’d come.

  “Lea,” Friederich whispered. “Lea,” he called louder.

  The woman in the belted suit turned. He stepped expectantly toward her, but her eyes held no recognition of him. The nurse grabbed the woman’s arm, pulling her down the hallway and through the door.

  Friederich stood half a moment, uncertain what he should do, if he should follow her. And then the examination room door beside him opened, and his wife, her face stricken and braids askew, walked into his arms.

  2

  GERHARDT SCHLICK pulled a cigarette from its silver case and drew the fragrant tobacco beneath his nostrils. He was appreciative of the little things that life in the SS afforded—good food, good wine, beautiful women, and the occasional gift of American tobacco.

  He smiled as he lit his cigarette and inhaled—long and slowly. After tonight he expected to replenish his stock of at least two of those items. The rest would come in due course to a man of his station. He checked his reflection. More than satisfied, he squared his shoulders and tugged the coat of his dress uniform into place. Then he checked the clock, and his mouth turned grim.

  “Kristine!” he barked. It would not do to be late—not tonight. Every SS officer of note in Berlin would be there, including Himmler, and every Nazi Party man of letters. Only the Führer would be absent, and that, Gerhardt was certain, was by Goebbels’s design—some scheme for greater propaganda, no doubt.

  It was an evening to honor those entrusted with designs to strengthen Germany’s bloodline through eugenics—to create a pure race, free of the weaknesses introduced by inferior breeding with non-Nordic races. It was nothing short of a drive to rapidly increase Germany’s Nordic population. A perfect plan to restore Germany to its rightful position in the world—over the world.

  Within that grand design Gerhardt saw himself rising through the ranks of the SS. Marrying the highly acceptable adopted daughter of eminent American scientist Dr. Rudolph Kramer would be one more rung in that ladder. A perfect blending of Germanic genes—Nordic features, physical strength and beauty, intellect . . . a perfect family for the Reich.

  He smiled again. He wouldn’t mind doing his duty for the Fatherland, not with Rachel Kramer.

  He could count on Dr. Verschuer and Dr. Mengele. And he suspected, since this afternoon’s telephone call from the Institute, that with minimal persuasion he could also count on the cooperation of Dr. Kramer where his daughter was concerned.

  One thing stood in his way. Perhaps two.

  At that moment Kristine Schlick walked into the room. She twirled self-consciously. The ice-blue satin evening gown brought lights to her eyes as it floated, rippling round her shapely form.

  Their four-year-old daughter, Amelie, clapped delightedly as her mother twirled. Kristine lifted the child in her arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Amelie patted her mother’s cheeks and gurgled an inharmonious stream of syllables.

  Taken off guard, Gerhardt felt his eyes widen. There was no doubt that his wife was beautiful. Breathtaking—he would give her that. And there were other acceptable features. But she bore genetically deficient children, and in the New Germany that was unforgivable.

  “Well?” she asked tentatively. “Do you like it?”

  The question of a woman who knows the answer but is afraid to believe. The question of a woman who begs to be told she is beautiful.

  But Gerhardt disdained begging as much as he disdained Kristine and his unacceptably deaf daughter. Turning off emotion—any form of weakness—was not difficult once he’d set his mind to it. And he had. He slapped his evening gloves against his thigh, ignoring the sudden terror in the eyes of his child as her mother set her on the floor, shielding her from his approach. “The car is waiting. You’ve made us late.”

  Rachel turned one way before the full-length mirror in her hotel room, tilted her head, then turned the other. She loved green. But wearing it for the gala would’ve been fodder for yet another argument with her father. He’d insisted she wear royal blue, in a style that would frame her face and set her eyes and hair to best advantage. Because the gala would honor him and his work, celebrating the eugenics research shared between the two countries and the world, he’d asserted that it was essential, especially in these uncertain times, to appear their best and most gracious in every way. Rolling her eyes, she’d acquiesced.

  She had to admit that the deep color, draped neckline, and fluid silk did more for her than anything she owned. And because it was the color he’d chosen, her father had not balked at the outrageous price. She supposed it would come in handy for events in New York City—maybe the opera house or a first night at Radio City Music Hall.

  Rachel lifted her chin and straightened her spine. She didn’t mind turning heads, and she wouldn’t mind showing up Kristine and Gerhardt Schlick. She mightn’t have cared if Kristine had kept in touch. That’s what hurt most—her sudden abandonment.

  She’d always known that Kristine wanted a life, a husband and family of her own—those were things girls told one another. And why not? Kristine was a warm, intelligent, and beautiful woman in her own right. Rachel admitted—if only to herself—that she’d relegated her friend to the shadows too often, too long.

  Kristine had been so quick to comfort Gerhardt’s wounded pride five years ago when he’d stood in the Kramers’ New York parlor, furious and unbelieving, his marriage proposal rejected by nineteen-year-old Rachel. He’d married Kristine to spite her; of that she was certain. But Kristine had married him because she’d been swept off her feet, eager for her moment in the sun, her time to shine on distant German shores without Rachel to dim her reflection.

  If she regrets her choice now . . . well, what is that to me?

  “Rachel?” Her father knocked at her door. “It’s time.”

  “Coming,” she called, pulling her light wrap over her shoulders and applying a last deliberate swipe of lipstick. She blotted, picked up the blue-and-silver silk purse dyed to match her shoes, and marched toward the arena.

  Jason Young checked his hat outside the lavish ballroom door, tightened the knot in his tie, and squared his shoulders. He couldn’t believe his luck. For two years he’d tracked the elusive Dr. Rudolph Kramer through Cold Spring Harbor’s Eugenics Research Association. Not once had the “mad scientist,” as Jason had dubbed him, been available for an interview on either side of the Atlantic—and Kramer visited Germany frequently. Not once had he returned the phone calls his secretary promised he would. But that hadn’t kept Jason from dishing up the dirt on the man’s research and splattering it across news copy—research Jason saw as inhumane and, with Germany’s unchecked collusion and Hitler’s sterilization campaign, inescapably criminal.

  But those obstacles were past. Becau
se tonight he had a press pass to the gala—a legitimate opportunity to watch and record, word for word, everything the man and his cohorts said. If all went well, he’d get directly in Kramer’s face before the clock struck midnight. Jason wasn’t about to miss this flying saucer to stardom. “Watch out, Pulitzer, here I come!” he whispered.

  “Hold on, hotshot.” Daren Peterson laid a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, gently pushing him toward a linen-covered table with a direct view of Rudolph Kramer and his stunning daughter. “All things in time. Let the man get comfortable. Let him get through his glad-handing. Then I’ll shoot the artwork and you can eat him alive.”

  Jason rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.

  Rachel had had more than enough. Nearly three hours of sanctimonious speeches on the growth of Aryan purity and toasts brimming with laudations for the scientific community’s systematic plans to rid the world of diseased and inferior stock had passed before the music and dancing, the serious tippling of champagne, and the ultimate loosening of tongues began.

  She’d felt undressed by nearly every roving masculine eye and sized up and scathed by every feminine one. Gerhardt Schlick’s undisguised stare reminded her of Margaret Mitchell’s scene in Gone with the Wind—when Rhett Butler’s gaze seared Scarlett O’Hara ascending the stairs of Twelve Oaks. Only she doubted that Gerhardt’s intentions were as gentlemanly as the ungentlemanly Rhett’s.

  She actually felt sorry for Kristine. Gerhardt had clearly distanced himself from his wife, paying her mind only to reprimand her with openly superior and snide remarks. Kristine, though tipsy, just as clearly felt his rebukes.

  “You must dance,” her father whispered, distracting her from watching the couple on the inside of the horseshoe-shaped seating arrangement several feet away.