Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  Lea and the priest, clutching her case, stepped down from the train, Rottenführer Vondgaurdt on their heels. Lea’s foot had barely touched the platform when the whistle blew again.

  From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw the stationmaster swing the last of the bags to the boxcar. Two men began hefting the larger crates and trunks aboard. One of the men had just grabbed Amelie’s crate when a group of SS shouted for him to stop, that they intended to inspect the luggage.

  “But the schedule!” the stationmaster shouted.

  An SS officer pulled a gun. The stationmaster’s hands shot into the air. He stepped back without another word. The Rottenführer stepped quickly toward the commotion.

  The crate beside Amelie’s was pried open, its contents scattered across the platform. Across the street, SS poured from trucks. Above the whistle of the train, Rachel heard the crash of glass, the pounding of rifle butts on doorframes.

  A raid! A raid! Rachel and every man and woman aboard the train gasped, crowding the windows.

  The train, not waiting for the larger boxes, blew its whistle once more and lurched forward. Rachel found Lea’s panicked eyes, and in that moment the priest beside her gazed straight into Rachel’s. His eyes narrowed for less than a second, then widened.

  He knows!

  The black-clad SS at the end of the platform raised his rifle butt to smash Amelie’s box. One thrust and the lid cracked in the middle. Lea screamed.

  Rachel pulled her papers from her purse and thrust the open purse beneath her seat. She screamed at the top of her lungs, lunging off the slowly moving train, flying straight into the arms of the SS with the raised rifle butt. “Help! Help me! He stole my purse! A thief on the train! Stop him! Stop him! Oh, please stop him!”

  The SS pushed her aside and in three long strides jumped onto the moving train. Men and women alike jumped from the train onto the platform, screaming, stumbling over one another as they landed—a cache of hand luggage topsy-turvy, flying among the fleeing passengers.

  Rachel continued to scream and gesture wildly as two more SS chased and boarded the departing train. Others divided into the streets, pouring through the village, while the priest, under Lea’s guidance, quietly pulled one broken crate from the platform.

  36

  WHEN THE CLOCK struck seven, Jason heard the train whistle in the distance. He rolled over, finally daring to breathe, trusting that Rachel, Lea, and Amelie were safely headed for Munich and points west. He’d close up the Hartmans’ house in another hour, interview a couple of locals, and catch a later train, as planned.

  But at 7:08 a truck rumbled up the mountain road, screeching to a halt outside his window.

  Vehicle doors slammed. A German shepherd barked, setting off another. Panic pushed the remaining fog from Jason’s brain. He pulled on pants, stuffed his feet in shoes. He was almost to the stairs when he remembered the roll of film, the one with Rachel and Amelie’s picture. He wound and yanked it from his camera, then stuffed it into the pocket of a man’s jacket hanging from a hook in the hallway, all the while praying the Hartmans had a camera, and that the jacket belonged to Herr Hartman.

  There was a mad banging against the downstairs doors, front and back. Jason stumbled down the stairs, fumbling with buttons.

  He’d made it to the lower hallway and was just pulling back the bolt when the door slammed open and he was shoved against the wall, a rifle butt to his jaw.

  The rush of soldiers, guns, dogs, and a barrage of orders flew fast and hard. Soldiers ransacked the house, throwing open cupboards, smashing dishes, tossing books to the floor. One rushed Jason, pushing him to the center of the living room, and pointed a gun at his belly. He forced Jason to his knees, motioning for him to keep his hands clasped behind his head.

  Jason flinched as beds and dressers overturned in the upstairs rooms, as jackboots stomped on floorboards in search of hollow hiding places. From outside came the shatter of glass, the crash and thudding of the woodpile, and the vicious barking of dogs.

  Into the chaos strode Sturmbannführer Gerhardt Schlick, grim, in charge, triumph tipping the corners of his mouth.

  Jason felt the lump of anger mixed with fear rise in his chest, constrict his throat. Did Rachel get away? What about Amelie and Lea?

  “Herr Young, I believe,” Schlick grunted. Jason could see the uncertainty collide with triumph in the man’s eyes. “Quite a change since I saw you last . . . far from the ballrooms of Berlin.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  Gerhardt’s half smile faded as he looked down on Jason. “You overstep yourself. Poor behavior for a guest of the Reich.”

  “Overstepping seems the order of the day.”

  “Ah, but you see, I am the one with the gun.” Schlick circled the room. “Fascinating. This—the only house in Oberammergau to receive such honor from the foreign press. Now, why would Frau Hartman invite such a guest?”

  “She didn’t. A village priest asked her to rent me a room—probably figured she could use the money with her husband at the front. I doubt the owners will think they’ve been honored by either of us.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about this family’s affairs, Herr Young.”

  “It’s my job—to ask questions. It’s what I get paid to do. What is it you’re looking for?”

  Gerhardt’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer.

  “Asking a question’s usually the easiest path to getting an answer,” Jason countered, refusing to look away.

  Schlick seemed to consider this. He blinked slowly, still in charge, but stepped back. SS stomped through, shaking their heads in a silent no. Schlick jerked his head toward the door, and the body of uniforms filed out as quickly as they’d come. Without turning to look at Jason, he murmured, “I will take your advice, Herr Young, and ask those questions.” He ordered the guard nearest Jason, “Take him.”

  The soldier grabbed Jason’s arm, jerking him to his feet, twisting his arm high behind his back, and shoved him at gunpoint through the door, into the early-morning light.

  Oma had rushed to the street when the first screams came from the village, her hand clutching her heart, prayers going up fast and furious.

  She waited in the garden, gritting her teeth to keep from trembling while the SS searched, tearing apart her orderly house—again. Thankfully, she had washed the dishes and put them away, made the beds and set towels to soak after her granddaughters and Amelie had gone. She’d often heard that the extra number of dirty dishes or unmade beds or the unusual amount of laundry alerted searchers to the number of people staying in a house. But there was nothing to give them away.

  Sturmbannführer Schlick marched past, frustration in every step.

  She kept her eyes to the ground. They haven’t found them if they’re still searching.

  The town clock chimed the hour as the soldiers jumped into the truck and it peeled from the curb. In the back she glimpsed the pale profile of Jason Young, his arms wrenched unnaturally behind him. She could not help him, dared not acknowledge him. But she prayed for him and for her granddaughters and Amelie, with every fiber of her being.

  The morning wore slowly on. Oma found no energy to set her house to rights.

  The first to return was Lea and her broken crate. Curate Bauer accompanied her, helped her wrestle the heavy box into Oma’s kitchen.

  Oma wept in gratitude at the sight of Lea, unharmed, but gasped at the sight of the smashed crate top.

  “Frau Hartman assures me that the carvings are well wrapped, that they’ll not have broken,” Curate Bauer encouraged. “I would be glad to help you unpack them, to see if we can repair any damage—”

  “Nein, Curate! It is not necessary. I will take my time.” Lea shrugged. “We both know I will not be leaving now to sell them.” She turned to Oma. “I’ve been forbidden to leave the village.”

  “What? Why?”

  Lea silently shook her head, and Oma saw that her hands trembled.

  Curate Bauer str
aightened. “It was a madhouse at the station—in the village. The SS raided houses and shops, smashed luggage . . .” He scanned the raided room. “They were thorough here.” He glanced from one woman to the other. “I’m so sorry, Frau Breisner, that you have suffered this. You are hurt?”

  “Nein, Curate. I am not hurt—only grateful my Lea is not harmed.”

  Curate Bauer nodded, distracted. “I do not understand what they’re looking for, why they keep tormenting you of all people.” When they didn’t answer him, he turned to Lea. “I know you counted on selling Herr Hartman’s carvings. If there is something more that you or your grandmother need . . . perhaps we could ask the parents of the children’s choir to provide more for the singing lessons.”

  “Nein,” Lea was quick to answer. “It is not necessary. They have no more to give.”

  The curate nodded. “These are strained times for everyone. Thank you for understanding that, Frau Hartman. If you are certain . . .”

  “There is, perhaps, one thing, Curate,” Oma ventured.

  “Tell me, Frau Breisner. I will do all I can.”

  Oma moistened her lips. Asking was such a risk. “We could use meat . . . and vegetables. Perhaps some bread . . . that does not require our ration book.”

  The curate’s brows rose.

  “Oma, we’ll manage—just as everyone does!”

  The curate looked at the house, and at the women, as though he saw them in a new light.

  But Oma stood her ground, gazing steadily into his eyes. She hoped she was not making a mistake.

  An off-key whimper came from the crate.

  Curate Bauer’s eyes widened. Neither woman bent to investigate, but Lea stepped between the curate and the crate. A moment passed.

  “Yes,” the curate said. “Yes, I can see that you may need more provisions.”

  “We could trade some milk—as long as we have our cow,” Oma said. “At least a little milk.”

  “But not too much,” he responded.

  “No, I think not too much,” she replied.

  “I understand.” He smiled, a weary but hopeful smile. “I will see what I can do.” He picked up his hat to go. “You must be careful. Very careful.” At the door he turned and grasped Oma’s hand. “God bless you. God bless you both.”

  Lea opened the kitchen door for him. “I’ll see you at choir practice, Curate, as usual?”

  “As usual.” He smiled more broadly as he pulled the door behind him. “Thank the good God I will not need to beg Frau Fenstermacher! I was not looking forward to that!”

  Oma and Lea spent the remainder of the day cuddling a still-sleepy Amelie and worrying over Rachel and Jason. The child loved the attention and seemed no worse for wear, didn’t even seem to realize the ordeal she’d endured or the peril she’d encountered, thanks to the laudanum Oma had given her. For that ignorance, both women were grateful.

  Rachel finally returned at nightfall. She’d spent a cold day hiding in an alcove of the Lutheran church.

  Oma could not hide her joy at having Rachel and Amelie returned to her home and care. “Thank You, Father God!” She held Rachel close, happy tears streaming down her lined face as she rubbed life into her granddaughter’s chilled arms, rocking her back and forth like a little child, though Rachel was taller than she. Rachel melted into her embrace.

  Lea’s eyes, Oma saw, held mixed feelings, conveyed mixed messages. Oma knew Lea did not entirely welcome the return of her sister, but her glowing tale of Rachel’s quick thinking to save Amelie at the risk of her own life—putting Amelie first—proved that Lea admired Rachel. It’s a beginning—a new beginning for us all.

  There was still no word of Jason Young and none likely to come. Though Oma tried to comfort Rachel, her granddaughter could not speak of him—could not say his name, so frightened was she for him. She trusted that he would not betray them, but for that loyalty he would dearly pay.

  Throughout the evening, Rachel and Amelie kept close to the cupboard. Lea and Oma took turns peeking beneath the blackout curtain, holding their breath, watching to see if their tormentors might return. But no one came.

  When all in the village was silent, Lea slipped out to check on her house. She returned an hour later, only shaking her head, too heartsore to share what she’d seen. Oma cradled her, too, in her arms and let her cry.

  By the time the clock struck nine that evening, all four were bone weary. Rachel had forced an eiderdown behind the cupboard’s false wall, not even daring to climb into the attic. She and Amelie crawled in and made the most comfortable bed they could, though neither could entirely lie down in the space.

  Lea returned to her bed, and Oma to hers. But once the house was quiet and another hour had passed, Oma slipped into Lea’s room and sat on the chair beside her granddaughter’s bed. “Are you awake?”

  Lea rolled over. “How can I sleep? I feel like I’m waiting for someone to crash through our door. She’s put us at such terrible risk!”

  “Then we are at risk,” Oma replied softly. “When have we not been at the mercy of these Nazis?” She shook her head. “It is a miracle of God that you were all away when they came—that this was the first day we tried to get them out.”

  Lea opened her mouth to retort, but Oma placed a hand on her granddaughter’s arm—an affectionate motion to silence her. “She and Amelie are sleeping in the cupboard. What more can we ask?”

  Lea sighed. “It’s safer for them there. The search party may return anytime. They often do soon after they’ve raided—thinking we’ll let down our guard.”

  “Ja, ja. But you said that the troops talked of going to Munich, that they were already late for their assignments as security for Herr Hitler’s speech. They won’t be back until that’s over. We could have allowed them one more night in the beds, I think.”

  “You weren’t at the train station. You didn’t see them smashing crates. Amelie could have been killed—she could have been killed!” Lea covered her face in the dark.

  “But she wasn’t,” Oma insisted. “You must take hold.”

  Lea shook her head as though it was no use. “It’s only a matter of time until they find her, until they find them both. And then what will become of us?”

  37

  JASON’S TONGUE moved over his teeth. He felt the ragged edge of his right incisor. He couldn’t tell where the thickened mass that was his tongue ended and where his burning throat began. It had all melted into one miserable, parched mess in his mind.

  He tried shifting his position on the dank cell floor, but the pain through his rib cage made him catch his breath—which in turn made him wince, setting off the piercing in his eye again, no matter that it was swollen shut. Jason could only imagine what he looked like—wondered if there was any part of his face still the color of skin. Certain his ribs had been broken, he only hoped his lung wasn’t pierced; breathing had turned to wheezing. If he ever got out of this hole, he’d give some doctor a heyday patching him up.

  He knew he could manage without food—had done it before when paychecks didn’t stretch—but no water for three days, the constant bright lights in his cell, the hourly high-pitched clamor broadcast through the hallways to keep prisoners awake around the clock . . . it was almost more than his mind could take, far more than he’d ever endured.

  Even so, it was the waiting that was brutal—knowing the guard would come, knowing Gerhardt Schlick in all his arrogant SS glory would circle Jason’s chair, interrogate him again and again, order his underlings to slam iron fists into his face and his body like marks of punctuation with every question Jason refused to answer, then yank him off the floor and start again.

  The minute he got out he’d tell the world how the Nazis treated foreign journalists under interrogation. That worried him. They’d have to know he’d report. Would they risk that? Or send him to Dachau? Or have his body dumped in the Isar River?

  How easy it would be to give up, to shut down altogether, or to confess everything. But that wasn’t
going to happen. It couldn’t. He’d never tell them what they wanted to know. He only feared that in his exhaustion and their hounding something would slip, something that could hurt or incriminate or lead them to Rachel or Amelie.

  Dear God, he prayed, don’t let that happen. Save me from myself. Save them. Help Rachel find a way . . .

  Just as his head fell to his chest, a guard slammed open the cell door and jerked him to his feet. Jason squared his swollen jaw. It was a new day for Gerhardt Schlick.

  Early the following week, Curate Bauer returned from Munich on the late-afternoon train. He hurried up the hill to Frau Breisner’s home, intent on meeting Lea after choir practice. His was not news to give her in front of the children. It was not news he wanted to give her at all.

  By the time Lea reached her Oma’s kitchen, the blackout curtains were drawn close and the table lamp lit. The curate held his breath, uncertain which news to share first.

  “Curate Bauer? I thought you’d gone to Munich today.”

  Neither he nor Oma spoke.

  She hung her coat and scarf on the hook by the door.

  The curate stood, offering his chair. “Sit down, please, Frau Hartman,” he urged. “I have news.”

  Oma poured tea and slid a cup across the table.

  “Tell me.”

  “I learned today that Herr Young was to be released. Sturmbannführer Schlick’s questioning methods were . . . were such that our friend will need time to recuperate.” He wanted to warn, to caution them. But he did not want to frighten them so they wouldn’t continue the work they were doing—and, perhaps, something more.

  They watched him with wide eyes. “I saw Herr Young to the station and aboard the train for Berlin. Do not fear. He will recover—in time.” The curate swallowed. “We had opportunity to talk. He’s a good man, and he hopes to help—more than he’s helped already.”

  “I’m glad he will recover,” Oma said. “It’s horrible to have a guest so treated in—”