by Cathy Gohlke
“You don’t think he was here, do you? The deliveryman?” The lift in Rachel’s voice raised eyebrows from Lea and Oma.
“He wasn’t American,” Lea said. But seeing Rachel’s disappointment, she softened. “At least he sent the child.”
Rachel didn’t smile.
Oma filled a basin with water and pulled it by the stove. “A wash is in order, I think. Thank heaven we have enough fuel to keep the stove going. We can heat it at least a little.”
“But a drink first, and maybe something to eat,” Lea said. “She must be hungry.”
Amelie’s eyes, round in wonder, searched the faces before her and landed on Lea’s.
Lea smiled gently, pressing a cup into the little girl’s hands. When Amelie had her fill, Lea pulled the child’s lederhosen off and pitied the rash between her legs and up their backs.
“She’s been in these boy’s clothes too long,” Oma clucked.
“Only to disguise her,” Rachel defended.
“Ja, well . . . Rachel, bring the chamber pot from the bedroom. We’ll see if she can go before her bath.”
Rachel’s shoulders squared, but she did as she was told.
Oma placed her hand on Lea’s arm and whispered, “Perhaps you should ask Rachel if she wants to bathe and feed the child.”
Lea stiffened. She didn’t want to ask Rachel, didn’t want to give the little one up. She saw no maternal inclination in her sister. But Oma was right. Amelie was Rachel’s responsibility, her child for all intents and purposes.
When Rachel returned with the pot, Lea set Amelie upon it.
“She’s a girl, all right,” Rachel observed.
“Do you want to bathe her,” Lea asked, “or shall I?”
Rachel’s eyes opened wide. “I’ve never done that.”
“Then it’s time to learn,” Oma encouraged. “We’ll help you.”
It was all Lea could do not to jump in. But she pulled an apple from the bin and began cutting it into slices. While Oma coached Rachel in pouring water into the basin and testing the heat, Lea fed Amelie thin slices and bigger smiles.
Rachel’s awkwardness in lifting Amelie set off a chorus of unholy howls from the child, until Lea could take no more and scooped Amelie from her, forming a crooked seat with her elbow for the little girl, who nestled against her chest, tucking her head beneath Lea’s chin. “You must let her know that you won’t drop her.”
“She can’t hear me!” Rachel argued. “I can’t tell her anything.”
“She can feel your confidence in holding her, the security of your arms, your embrace.”
Rachel looked at her sister as if she were talking a foreign language.
Lea glanced at Oma for approval, and Oma shrugged. Lea stood Amelie in the tub of warm water, playfully splashing her legs, talking softly, singing sweetly, coaxing her to a sitting position. She drew the flannel over her small body and hair, soaped the cloth, then scrubbed until she was clean. Oma handed her a pitcher of warm water and Lea poured the water gently over Amelie’s tilted head, shielding her eyes and crooning.
In time, the little girl relaxed beneath Lea’s touch. When she opened her eyes, she rubbed the soap away and smiled.
Lea’s heart quickened. “The towel,” she ordered, and Oma placed one freshly warmed in Rachel’s hands and pushed her gently forward. Lea lifted Amelie to a standing position, and the sisters rubbed her dry together.
“What can she wear?” Rachel looked out of her depth but curiously glad to be working with Lea.
“Just something to sleep in tonight. Her clothes will be dry by morning.” Oma was already scrubbing the little pants and shirt in another basin.
“She can have my camisole with the long sleeves,” Lea offered. “It will be big, but we can tie it round her and it will keep her warm—like a little nightdress.”
“That’s good of you,” Rachel said.
Lea returned a genuine smile. “She’s a precious child.”
“Where will she sleep?”
“She could sleep with me,” Oma suggested.
“But she’ll toss and turn and keep you awake,” Lea said. “Perhaps Rachel can sleep with you, and Amelie with me.”
“You don’t mind?” Rachel asked, clearly relieved.
“Not at all.” Lea could scarcely keep the happiness from her voice.
But Oma stepped in. “Amelie is your child now, Rachel. You should keep her with you. She must grow accustomed to you, and you to her.”
“But I don’t know anything about children.”
“You will learn.” Oma spoke sweetly but firmly. “You must learn. You’ve taken on this responsibility.”
Lea felt her heart wrench. “Truly, I don’t mind. I’d—”
But Oma cut her off with a warning glance and slipped the silver locket over Amelie’s head. “So you’ll always remember your mother, child,” she whispered.
Later that night, after everything had been cleared away and Amelie had fallen fast asleep beside Rachel, Lea lay with her back to her grandmother.
“You are awake?” Oma whispered.
Lea did not answer.
“I know that it hurt you to give the child over to Rachel. But Amelie is not yours, my darling girl. When Rachel goes, the child goes with her. If you let yourself become too attached, it will break your heart all the more.”
Still Lea did not answer. She couldn’t speak without crying. She knew her grandmother was right. Friederich would say the same, would caution her in a minute, if not forbid her outright to give her heart to a child who would break it simply because she must.
But to hold and feed and wash and cuddle Amelie—to feel the little girl’s arms around her neck and the weight of her body against her chest—was heaven. In the space of an hour Lea had conjured a lifetime of feeding and caring for the child, of washing and curling her hair that would later grow long and silken, wound into plaits. She would sew fitting and pretty frocks for Amelie. To have all of that ordered away by the one woman who knew more than any other what having a child might mean to her . . . it was a hurt too cruel to bear, impossible to speak.
Everything for Rachel, and none for Lea. Lea knew the lament was not true, that it reeked of the self-pity that the Institute had burned into her very thought process from childhood, but she had no strength to hold it back. Rachel doesn’t even want her—doesn’t know what to do with her! I could love her, give her a home with Friederich. Oh, how we would love her!
What she couldn’t say, couldn’t acknowledge even in the darkness, was that Amelie’s arms in some strange way helped heal the loss of Friederich’s. No, she wouldn’t acknowledge anything more. Lea closed her eyes and lay awake till morning.
30
THE AROMA of Oma’s freshly baked breakfast rolls drew Rachel to the kitchen, where she found Lea swirling and zooming spoons of porridge airplane-fashion into Amelie’s mouth.
“Those smell heavenly, Oma! How did you ever glean enough ration books?” Rachel inhaled deeply, dramatically. Her grandmother smiled, distracted, as she tore a sweet roll into little pieces for Amelie.
Rachel poured herself a cup of roasted chicory, bit into the fragrant delicacy, and perched across the table from Lea. “Don’t you think she should be feeding herself?”
Lea didn’t answer, but tweaked the little girl’s cheek affectionately. Amelie smiled shyly, offering an inharmonious giggle.
Oma lifted the kettle from the stove. “Draw the washbasin near the stove for me, Rachel. I’ll pour this in for her bath.”
“She just had a bath last night!” Rachel had wanted water heated for a hair wash for three days, but Oma had insisted that soap and fuel for hot water were rationed, and that she’d have to wait.
“Just enough for an oatmeal bath for her rash. It will be soothing.”
Rachel pulled the basin near the stove as ordered but stepped away, sipping her lukewarm drink.
Once Lea settled the child in the basin, she scrubbed gently behind Amelie’s ears
and scraped dirt from beneath her nails, clucking all the while like an old mother hen. Then she rinsed her all over and began the oatmeal process again.
Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her head. “She’s four years old, Lea. She should surely be able to bathe herself.” She reached for another roll. “Just because she’s deaf doesn’t mean she’s stupid.”
No one answered. Lea continued with Amelie’s oatmeal bath. Oma continued stirring the pot on the stove. At length, she set down her spoon and stood before Rachel. “Amelie has been through things none of us can imagine. Count your blessings. She deserves all the attention and affection we can give her.”
Rachel felt heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks. She was not used to being reprimanded by anyone other than her father. “But she must learn to do for herself, to not be seen as handicapped if she’s to get on in this world.”
“And she will do for herself, as we all do,” Oma affirmed. “But today—this day—we will help her, just as we helped you when you first came. All of us.”
Lea did not turn from her task, but she smiled a half smile of victory—a half smile Rachel resented.
“Munich? You want to transfer to Munich?” The chief’s cigar nearly fell from his mouth. But he caught it. Tobacco was rationed.
“Sure—for now.” Jason shrugged. “We’re short on press there. I could catch the train out tonight, cover Hitler’s anniversary speech on Wednesday, check out a few of the Bavarian villages. See how the war’s affecting them as opposed to urban areas like Berlin, talk to the border patrols. Lots of good old Nazi training camps in that loop.”
“Ha! As if they’d let you in!”
Jason ignored him. “Maybe check out that Passion Play the Krauts are all so gaga about in Oberammergau. I heard they’re gearing up for a production next year—or that’s the tradition. Might be interesting to see if Uncle Adolf’s activities have skewered that.” He shifted his feet. “You’ve got Eldridge here in Berlin. We’re always trying to scoop each other. This way you cover twice as much territory on the same dime.”
“You’d report in three times a week by phone to me and twice to New York, and you’d follow up with print. Anything extra you’d send me right away, right?”
“Regular as the glockenspiel.”
Chief sat back, like he was hedging bets. “You’d need a photographer.”
“I could handle that too. Just send my film back to Peterson.”
Chief raised his brows and turned down his mouth, as if considering. “I’ll think about it.”
Jason nodded, shoved a pencil behind his ear—as if he didn’t really care, as if the idea had just occurred to him—and sauntered back to his desk.
But Eldridge had overheard. “Brownnosing the chief? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Jason tossed his pencil to his desk and flopped into his chair. “Just tired of racing you for the prize, ole buddy.”
Eldridge smirked but caught himself. He squinted, as if trying to get his colleague in focus, to read his mind.
Too smart for his own good, or mine. Which is another reason I need to get out of here. Jason had no doubt that Eldridge would print every lead he was sitting on. And if Eldridge knew why he really wanted to go to Munich—why Frau Bergstrom had suggested it—they’d all be running for their lives.
While Amelie slept through the afternoon, Lea urged her sister, “We’ve been lucky so far, hiding you in the attic or the closet, when anyone’s stopped. But with Amelie here, we must form a better plan.”
“She made funny noises all night in her sleep. Imagine if she cried out at the wrong time. There’s just no way to make her understand that she has to keep quiet, to realize the danger.”
“There may be, but we don’t know her well enough yet to understand how to tell her. Oma’s kept her neighbors at bay so far, but I’m worried.” Lea bit her lip. “We can’t expect Amelie to hide for hours in a cupboard by herself. If those brutes return . . .”
“Gerhardt Schlick doesn’t forget. More than wanting me, he hates being outwitted, beaten at his game.” Rachel returned her cup to its saucer. “He’ll be back.”
Oma walked in, eyes weary.
“You didn’t get a nap either, did you, Oma?” Lea asked.
Oma shook her head, pulling a chair from the table. “We must think this through. Those SS will be back. They said it, and I feel it.”
Lea pushed a cup of strong and steaming chicory toward her grandmother. “We were just saying the same.”
“You’re squandering our ration,” Oma reproved but then sighed, gratefully sipping the bitter brew. “Just this once.”
“I know we should leave. I can wear my disguise. I have the papers I came with, and I still have most of the money I took from my father. But traveling with a child is a different thing—especially when I hardly know which end is up.”
“Which end is up?” Oma frowned at Rachel’s odd expression, creasing her brow in concentration. Both sisters laughed at their grandmother’s confusion until Lea brushed the air.
“We can’t get you out—not yet, not now.” Lea leaned forward. “There’s a cupboard beneath the stairs that Friederich built before he left. We didn’t mention it before because it’s rough—unfinished—and they’d surely look there. But I was thinking that if we build a second wall—a false wall that sits flush against the sides—we can create a separate compartment in the back. A hiding place. We could line it with blankets—hide you both there in case they return. It’s not too far from the stovepipe that goes through to the attic, so that should take the chill off.”
“When they return,” Rachel corrected. “And that’s only temporary—we couldn’t live there.”
“You may need to sleep there sometimes, and be ready to go in at a moment’s notice during the day. We could open the ceiling and create a trapdoor in the floor of the attic. I can attach rungs to the wall, like a ladder.”
“You’re a carpenter to boot?” Incredulous, Rachel shook her head. “I appreciate all that you’ve both done, but we must find a way to get us out. I might still get through Austria all right—might even get Amelie through if the border patrols can be bribed or if we come up with some kind of story and Jason can get us papers. If we don’t get out of Europe soon, I’m afraid that the border into Switzerland will be closed—and then what?”
Jason’s train pulled into Munich late Monday night. He stretched, slapped his fedora atop his head, and hefted his bag. He’d find a room for the night if there was one to be had, track down a meal, then hunt for an appropriate boardinghouse in a few days, once the hoopla from Hitler’s anniversary speech had passed.
He could take the train to Oberammergau tomorrow. It made sense to see how the Passion Play was shaping up for the coming season. He mentally ticked off his list of leads: Despite Hitler’s invasion of Poland, and despite France and England’s declarations of war on Germany, will Oberammergau’s Passion Play, produced every ten years, open on schedule? Considering the toll of war, will the village still run the play the entire season? Will anybody come?
Jason couldn’t imagine enough able-bodied young men left to fill the dozens of prime roles, much less man the hotels and shops, by the time Hitler got done conscripting the village’s populace. He couldn’t imagine how the town could feed stadiums of playgoers on the current rationing. And what about blackouts?
But he had other reasons for visiting Oberammergau and making the acquaintance of its citizenry. He hoped his long list of ideas for feature stories would afford him repeated trips to the village and interviews with locals for weeks to come. If it didn’t or if his editor didn’t buy it, he’d think of something else.
Working for the foreign press could keep him in the area, but he must be careful. Gestapo in Berlin trailed him and his colleagues like bloodhounds. Munich would be no different.
31
IT WAS HALF PAST SIX and barely light when Curate Bauer hurried along the cobbled street toward the church. He’d spent a lon
g and sleepless night negotiating the private sale of valuables too heavy to travel, converting them to cash and jewels—portable wealth—for a Hebrew Christian family determined to flee from Oberammergau before they were forced out. Now he must return to the church before Maximillion Grieser, one of the Hitler Youth, made his morning patrol. The teen, eager to rise in the estimation of the Nazi Party, took his duties far too seriously. Such eyes and ears, such inflated ego, could be most dangerous.
The curate had thought, upon taking vows for the priesthood, that he’d be leaving backbiting, selfishness, and politics permanently behind—entering a quiet and disciplined life. But those very issues dogged his every step. They plagued his parishioners and those they persecuted through their fear and through apathy. No one was exempt. He tried not to judge his flock, but the conflict knifed his heart day and night, wearing him thin.
At least, as a member of the clergy, he’d not been forced to join the Nazi Party. He pitied the men of Oberammergau who wanted only to ply their trade, to raise their families, and to keep alive the traditions of the Passion Play. It was no longer enough. If they did not join the Party, if they did not march and carouse and goose-step and “Heil Hitler” on command, they were ridiculed, harassed . . . and sometimes worse.
And now the oppressors were driving longtime neighbors from their land—because of ancient blood that flowed or was suspected of flowing in their veins. As if being Jewish prohibited you from being Christian or German or human. As if Christ Himself had not been Jewish.
Curate Bauer cursed, then prayed for forgiveness. He felt helpless in the face of this hypocrisy, this injustice, this madness. Good men and women driven from their homes, sent to concentration camps or relocated to lands Germany occupied, all so Germany could be “Aryanized.” And the rumors were growing that not all camps were for detention or work, no matter that their iron gates bore the assertion Work Makes Free. He shuddered at his imaginations.
