by Cathy Gohlke
“Frau Hartman? May I come in?”
She lifted her head, and he saw the shine of tears in her eyes, the streaks of those already shed on her cheeks. Embarrassed, she swiped them away. “Forgive me, Curate Bauer. I’ll be myself in a moment.”
“Tears are nothing to be ashamed of, Frau Hartman. I shed my own.”
“You?”
“A priest is not immune to sadness.”
“No—no, of course not.” Lea cleared her throat. “There are many sad things these days.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, there are.” He pulled a woolen scarf from a large wooden rectangle, the olive-wood paint box given him by the Levy child.
Lea’s eyes lit in eager appreciation.
“You are your husband’s wife.” Curate Bauer smiled. “You know beauty when you see it.”
“It’s stunning—the grain and coloring.” She ran her hand over the smooth surface. “Olive wood?”
“From the hills of Jerusalem. Excellent craftsmanship with no knots; a more perfect piece I have never seen.”
“It is magnificent. Friederich would love to see this.”
“A gift for him, and for you.”
“Father, that’s too much!”
“It was given to me as a sacred trust, to see that its contents are used to paint something precious—something most sacred. I can think of no one better able to bring that trust to life than you and your husband.” He smiled. “You paint Herr Hartman’s carvings, and as Heinrich Helphman says, Herr Hartman is the finest carver in all of Oberammergau.”
“Heinrich Helphman says that, does he?” Lea smiled sadly.
“Yes, and I’ve meant to tell you that he came to me to confess stealing the Christkind from Friederich’s Nativity, though he refuses to give it back.”
“Why does he—?”
But Curate Bauer did not know. He simply shrugged. “Each time we retrieve one, he steals it again—or steals another one. He seems to prefer the one in your husband’s shop window. We shall talk to him together, and I will try to get him to return it—again.”
“Not today, Father. I’m not up to confronting Heinrich about anything but his solo today.”
Curate Bauer nodded, remembering her tearstained face, which had dried beautifully. “Is there something I can do for you, Frau Hartman?” He spread his hands wide. “You’ve done so much for me, for the children. I would be honored.”
She nearly spoke but stopped, as if reconsidering. She started again. “I’ve had no letters from Friederich in . . . in far too long, and I’m afraid—”
The three o’clock bell in the tower rang, and the chimes welcomed the rush of students into the classroom.
Lea swiped her cheeks again and straightened her back, breathing deeply.
Curate Bauer squeezed her shoulder. Hers was a familiar pain for which he had no answer. He bowed and stepped back toward the door, allowing the smallest children to smother Frau Hartman with hugs—hugs he knew would be the best medicine for her soul.
33
SHADOWS STRETCHED across the backs of the pews when Curate Bauer, deep in conversation with the visiting American newspaperman, looked up to find the mayor and Maximillion Grieser striding purposefully down the center aisle of the church.
Curate Bauer had not been expecting the mayor today. In fact, because of ideological differences neither could breach, the two rarely spoke. So it was with some awkwardness that the priest introduced the men, overlooking Grieser.
“Mayor Schulz, I would like to present Jason Young, who has come to write a news story on our preparations for the coming season of the Passion Play. Herr Young, our mayor.”
“Hope I can bring a little publicity your way,” Young offered.
“The play, yes.” The mayor straightened. “That is most kind of you, Herr Young. But if you will excuse me . . . Curate Bauer, I must speak with you—about our play.”
But Curate Bauer didn’t like having his interview interrupted and couldn’t help but wonder at the mayor’s lack of manners. “I’ll be with you directly, Mayor, as soon as I show Herr Young our children’s choir. Frau Hartman will be finishing up with them any moment.” He cupped the reporter’s elbow. “This is the choir of our youngest children, and their voices are extraordinary.”
The mayor interrupted again. “Please, Curate, before you continue with Herr Young. It will only take a moment. Perhaps Maximillion could conduct our guest.”
Jason’s eyes widened, but he touched two fingers to his forehead in mock salute. “I’ll catch up with you later, Curate.” He stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mayor. I look forward to doing so again at a more opportune time.”
Jason could not have been more pleased, as long as Junior Hitler excused himself at the door. To think that he’d get a gander at Lea Hartman without the priest along to observe was too good to be true.
“So, you patrol the halls of the church?” Jason asked, thinking the boy marched like he owned the place.
“I serve where I’m needed.” Grieser spoke as if on parade. “You will treat Frau Hartman with all due respect, Herr Young.”
Jason nearly smirked at the kid’s overbearing tone. But he had nothing but respect for Lea Hartman and every hope to be in her debt. “Check,” he agreed without attitude.
They’d just stepped into the school section of the building when a piano’s melody guided them, and high, sweet voices reached Jason’s ears. Curate Bauer was right—they sound like angels.
Eager as he was to see Rachel’s sister—to know how much she looked like her twin in real life—Jason dared block Grieser’s reach for the classroom doorknob. He knew his entrance would distract the students and their teacher. “Let me listen, just for a minute or two.”
Grieser frowned, bloated his chest to expound, but Jason closed his eyes and leaned against the outside wall, ignoring the boy’s huff. A minute passed. He heard the Hitler Youth stomp off, but Jason didn’t open his eyes. The music on the opposite side of the door drifted out on angel’s wings. Can anything so pure, so sweet and true, come from Germany today?
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Curate Bauer whispered very near Jason’s ear, as though he could read his mind.
“I didn’t hear you coming, Curate.” Jason was annoyed with himself for missing the opportunity to catch Rachel’s sister alone, and unsettled that the curate had caught him unaware.
“I have some experience in traversing halls silently.” The curate leaned closer and spoke earnestly. “I do not wish to intrude. When the children sing, I am transported away from . . . from . . .” Curate Bauer smiled sadly and stepped back. “I forget myself.”
“Not something you can afford to do these days, is it, Curate?” Jason suggested.
“No, it is not. So many things we can no longer afford.” The priest looked troubled, as though some weight had descended since Jason had left him. The mayor had looked like he was on a mission. Passion Play troubles? In the current political climate Jason would not be surprised if the play was postponed . . . or canceled.
The music stopped. Jason heard the teacher address the class, heard a collective cheer and a slight stampeding beyond the door, then silence.
“That will be strudel and milk time, Herr Young. It is our cue.” Curate Bauer half smiled and opened the door.
Lea loved the half hour after choir practice. Her small charges shone with innocence despite untucked blouses and scabbed knees. They sounded like the well-tuned strings of a harp while singing and yet swooped like carrion crows to a platter of sweets after the last amen.
Children leaned elbows on the desk as they ate and drank. It had quickly become their special time to share with her funny stories, confidences, and sometimes the troubles that beset their day. This, for Lea, was the greatest music of all.
Heinrich Helphman had just begun a gruesome, if exaggerated—Lea prayed—tale of his bloody exploits against the army of rats in his uncle’s barn. Little girls squealed and boys clapped Heinrich on the back, giving
him a “well done” for the creativity and extreme grossness of the tale.
Lea glanced up, uncertain how long Curate Bauer and his visitor had been standing in the doorway. Merriment ceased. Instinctively, Lea laid a restraining arm on Heinrich’s shoulder while sending up a silent plea that the curate had not overheard Heinrich’s efforts to rid his world of the vermin.
“Frau Hartman, allow me to introduce our guest. Herr Young is here to do a story for the American newspapers on the preparations for our Passion Play—and how the play shapes our lives.” Curate Bauer stood aside. “He’s just heard the wondrous fruit of your labors.”
Lea stood and smiled tentatively, discomfited by the attention and intrusion, flustered by the familiarity of the stranger’s name. “Herr Young.”
Jason paled. He began to speak and stuttered. Finally, “I’m sorry—Frau Hartman?” It was a question.
Lea caught Curate Bauer’s piqued curiosity at the man’s odd behavior. She felt her own face flame. This is the man who sent Amelie here? The one who helped Rachel find us? Please, Lord, don’t let him give us all away! “This is our youngest choir in Oberammergau.” She smiled broadly at her pupils, hoping to divert the man’s attention. But he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her face.
Curate Bauer stepped between them. “Frau Hartman took over our choir of unruly youngsters on short notice. We are most grateful to her.”
It seemed to give Jason Young the time needed to compose himself. “Right.” He pulled his reporter’s notebook from his pocket. “The curate here says you’ve done a great job.”
“Good hearts and excellent voices make my work a pleasure,” Lea agreed, “even if at times they are a bit undisciplined.” She raised her brows at Heinrich, whose cheeks brightened.
Children began to squirm, and Lea added, “If you have questions for the children, Herr Young, you will please ask them now. Their mothers will be expecting them home soon.”
“Right.” He shook his head again, as if trying to shake away a fog, and focused at last on the children. “How about we start with you?” He pointed to Heinrich. The others giggled and nudged one another.
Lea smiled indulgently. The moment Heinrich spoke, the others were eager to add their version of everything he’d said.
While Jason questioned Heinrich, Curate Bauer pulled Lea aside. “I’d thought to ask you something, Frau Hartman, but after seeing this young man’s behavior, I’m afraid it might be indelicate.”
Lea blushed warmly. “After all I’ve told you, Curate,” she whispered, “I don’t think there is anything you need hesitate to ask me.”
Curate Bauer frowned. “I hope that is true. Then I must trust you to tell me if this is not . . . expedient for you.” He turned his back to the reporter, blocking the line of vision between Jason Young and Lea. “Herr Young wishes to stay in Oberammergau tonight, and occasionally in the future, I believe, to complete his interviews. He thinks to return now and then to report on our progress. I’m surprised the Gestapo allows it, but perhaps they are eager to paint a more amenable portrait of the Fatherland these days.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I’m not certain whom to ask to take him in. He’s not a regular boarder, you see, and won’t pay unless here. The cast members have already taken in boarders and require consistency in payment. There are so many this year, and with the extra women and children from the cities . . .”
“And you would like me to take him in?”
“I’d heard you were thinking of renting your home, that you are staying with Frau Breisner.” Curate Bauer stole a glance at Jason Young. “But if this is too awkward . . .”
“No—no. I’m glad to have him. Oma speaks English, of course, so that is useful, and might be helpful to him. Renting our home from time to time would help me with the finances but wouldn’t force me to give up my home altogether. If Friederich—when Friederich comes back, we will return to our home. It will be easier, then, to take an occasional boarder rather than to have our house rented out to a family.”
Curate Bauer smiled and pressed her hand between his palms. “Bless you, my child. I am certain your Friederich will return soon. He must.” He looked back at the journalist. “His accent is rather pitiable, isn’t it?”
Lea smiled. If this was the man she believed, he might have a plan to get Rachel out of Oberammergau—or out of Germany. Why else would he risk coming?
She was packing the empty platter—all but licked clean of strudel—into her market basket when she realized that Jason Young was probably there to help Amelie leave Germany too. Lea’s mouth and throat went dry. She swallowed at the thought, then swallowed again. Help me, Lord.
34
JASON FOUND his walk through the village in the company of the beautiful Lea Hartman unnerving.
She’s the image of Rachel. She could be Rachel in costume, in disguise. Side by side, I couldn’t tell them apart.
And yet, as they left the church and walked through the town, Lea Hartman changed. Her posture slackened—just a little. Her shoulders rounded and the light that had shone from her eyes minutes ago was replaced by a clouded anxiety.
Jason didn’t usually have that effect on women, and she was married, after all. Maybe she was uncertain that her husband would welcome him staying in their house while he was away. Maybe she’d rather have refused the priest’s request and had only agreed in deference to the curate.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as they walked. Does she know who I am?
Jason picked up his pace and forced himself to smile, be friendly. The sooner he gained Lea Hartman’s trust, the sooner he’d find Rachel and Amelie, and the sooner he’d know if Lea and her grandmother might be willing to do more.
Oma had milked the cow and just separated the cream. She’d reached the garden, drawing her muffler around her throat, when she saw Lea in the dimming light. She was not entirely surprised when her granddaughter walked through their garden gate with the handsome American beside her. She’d half expected Jason Young before now, simply hadn’t imagined how he’d finagle a trip to Oberammergau without arousing suspicion. An introduction and plea for hospitality from a local priest was ingenious—no matter how he’d done it.
“Of course you’ll stay for coffee and supper. We’d have it no other way.”
From the little Rachel had told them, the man had risked much in helping her and Amelie. Oma had never imagined that was entirely magnanimous on Young’s part. Any man would find her granddaughter attractive. And how could anyone with half a heart resist helping little Amelie?
“Bring this load of kindling, Herr Young—” she pointed toward the woodpile outside the door—“and I’ll pour the coffee.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer this hospitality, Frau Breisner.”
“You’ll find Oberammergau quite the gathering place these days.”
“Because of the play, you mean.”
“The play, and the war.” Oma took the man’s measure. “Our number of transients has grown beyond skilled laborers for the production and hospitality venues.”
“Oma means the women and children coming from the cities,” Lea volunteered. “We have more food here in the countryside. Most villagers are taking in boarders these days—into their houses, even their shops and barns. You are most welcome to stay in our home when you come to Oberammergau for your interviews.”
“Danke schön.” The American dipped his head in a bow.
“Bitte schön.” Lea smiled. “Your German is good.”
Jason laughed. “But my accent is terrible! Please—I know. You don’t have to pretend.”
Oma smiled. A man impossible not to like. “We’re glad you have come, Herr Young. Only remember, we are people of the Passion. We offer hospitality and shelter—mercy—to those in need, and we expect the same of others.”
“‘People of the Passion’—that’s not a phrase I’ve heard.”
“You will hear it often as you come to know us better. For all of us in Oberammergau
, the play is our trade, our commerce. For some of us it is our life and the fulfillment of our ancestors’ vow to the Lord. And for some—for us—it is the way we live our own vow to Him. Our discipleship.”
“‘I was a stranger and you took me in’?” Jason quoted, tipping his head to the side.
Oma nodded, smiling. “Ja. So, we understand each other.” She pointed toward the kitchen door. “Let’s go inside. We’ve more to discuss, do we not?”
It was hard for Rachel to tell who was more delighted, Amelie or Jason, the moment they caught sight of one another. Jason knelt to the floor and Amelie raced into his arms, her eyes lit like candles on a Christmas tree, gurgling in sounds and almost words that ran together so quickly that even Oma gasped.
“How’s my best girl?” Jason picked Amelie up and danced her around the kitchen, hugging her tight. “Are they treating you right?”
Rachel knew Amelie couldn’t hear a word, but she seemed to understand him perfectly. The two exchanged a string of simple signs that passed like a secret code between them. Amelie laughed, delighted, as if they’d shared the most brilliant joke on Broadway.
When Amelie was at last content to nestle in Jason’s arms, he sat at the kitchen table and poured out the news. “Hitler’s speaking in Munich tomorrow night. The city’s crawling with Nazis. Getting you out is definitely a risk, but the focus is on his security. They won’t be looking for middle-aged ladies traveling by train—or children.”
Lea pleaded, “But Amelie can’t be invisible. Her lack of hearing becomes obvious quickly.”
“Right—they can’t travel together.”
“And you daren’t travel with her—an American man with a German child,” Oma said.
“They’d stop me in a heartbeat.” He looked from one woman in the group to the next and stroked Amelie’s hair. “The box worked before. We could—”
“We can’t put her back in that box!” Oma insisted. “You didn’t see what it did to her. She was terrified!”
