Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  Lea interrupted, “They released him to your care?”

  “I took responsibility for sending him to your home—a respectable and comfortable home with a little room available for tourists, naturally suitable for members of the foreign press.” The curate paused. “A home that I hope will be open to receiving Herr Young in the future, and perhaps more guests from time to time.”

  Lea didn’t respond.

  “Herr Young expects to return soon to continue his interviews. He may occasionally bring someone with him to assist—someone who may need to remain behind.”

  Oma placed a hand on Lea’s arm. Lea covered her grandmother’s hand with her own.

  “What are you saying, Curate?” Lea’s eyes bore no trace of understanding.

  “I am asking if you will take in refugees—Jewish refugees hunted by the Reich.” He searched the women’s faces. “Children, perhaps, and youths whose parents have been . . . relocated.”

  “We have no food to give,” Oma began.

  “One of our village shopkeepers will help, and two farmers from outside the village have promised meat—a little. Herr Young knows someone who will provide extra ration books.” He hesitated. “And papers, if needed.”

  “Forged papers?” Oma’s eyes widened.

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Curate . . . I don’t think we can—”

  “Yes,” Lea said quietly.

  “Lea!” Oma cautioned.

  “How can we turn them away—children?” She turned to Oma. “Do you know what they’re doing with Jews?”

  “Resettlement—that’s what I’ve heard. Some to Poland.” But Oma’s voice did not carry conviction, and Lea did not speak. The curate looked away. “Where, then?”

  Curate Bauer wondered if Hilde Breisner could comprehend the awful truth. “There is word that they are taken to camps. Not camps awaiting transport or resettlement, but concentration camps—work camps where prisoners are considered expendable, then worked, sometimes starved, until they die. And there is talk through my sources that the Nazis are planning to establish death camps—for the express purpose of killing vast numbers of prisoners. What exactly that means or when, I don’t know.”

  “No,” Oma insisted. “The Rheibaum family left only a few weeks ago. They were going to Palestine—just going to wait for a ship to Palestine and resettlement.”

  Curate Bauer shook his head. “The immigration quota was full. There were no more spots, and no safety here. If they tried to go, they went illegally. But I know the port where they tried to embark, and the Nazis were there first.”

  Oma’s face blanched and she sat back, covering her mouth.

  “We would take them, Curate Bauer,” Lea said quietly, “but I don’t know where we can hide them—how we can hide them with the Nazis raiding our homes at their whim.”

  “Herr Young has thought of that too. While in your home, he saw a way.”

  “I had no idea you knew Herr Young when you asked me to take him in.”

  “I’d only just met him,” Curate Bauer confessed, “but I knew there was something in the questions he asked.” The creases in his forehead deepened. “And I am desperate.” He opened his hands and placed them, palms up, on the table. “I have nowhere to turn and my heart is broken for those I cannot help. I risk the church, and I ask others to risk much—though I have no right.”

  “Then we will trust the American too,” Lea said, “and you. We’ll find a way. If Herr Young thinks more can be hidden in my house, we’ll do that.”

  The curate felt the heaviness of what he must say next—what, perhaps, he should have said first, if only he’d had the courage. If he’d not been afraid they would refuse to help the others. “Before you agree, I must tell you, there is more. I have a friend in the war office. Two weeks ago I asked him to see what he could learn of Herr Hartman.”

  Lea straightened, her face a mixture of hope and fear.

  Curate Bauer swallowed. “Your husband was wounded—critically—in the Polish campaign. He was sent to a hospital in Berlin, for treatment.”

  “Berlin—I must go to him!”

  “No, Frau Hartman,” Curate Bauer said softly. “No.”

  “Surely they will allow me to leave when they learn—”

  But the curate shook his head. “No—they will not. I inquired. I begged on your behalf. But he will soon be returned to you.”

  “Returned?” Oma said.

  “Herr Hartman has not . . . has not regained all the functions of his brain or his body. It is not known if he will.”

  Lea stared. “What does that mean?”

  “It means he can lie in the bed or sit in a chair. He can be fed—simple, soft food and drink he can swallow. But his eyes remain closed. There appears no recognition, no speech of any kind.”

  “They will send him home like this? Is there no surgery, no treatment?”

  Curate Bauer felt the heat rise within him, the same indignation he’d felt when he was first told. “Apparently they need hospital beds for those they expect to recover—to recover and return to the front.”

  Neither woman looked as though she comprehended.

  “Friederich’s leg was badly splintered. He lost an eye. The bullet was removed—very near his brain. Even so, the doctors can see no reason why he has not spoken, why he is not alert.” Curate Bauer let the air hang between them, summoning courage, praying for what he must say next. “Even if he wakes, it is doubtful that he will be the same . . . as before.” He hated bearing such news—to Lea Hartman, of all people.

  The women sat, hands clasped, silent before him. Twin tears escaped Lea’s stricken eyes, scrolling down her cheeks.

  “I am sorry, Frau Hartman. With all of my heart, I am sorry.”

  38

  BRIGADEFÜHRER SCHELLENBERG all but ignored Sturmbannführer Gerhardt Schlick’s salute and “Heil Hitler,” so disgusted was he with his subordinate. He’d known the man since he was a boy on his parents’ knees, had served with his brave father, and had greatly admired his mother—a striking beauty with the cunning of ten women. The child of such parents held great promise. But Gerhardt had not lived up to expectations, and now his obsession with finding a woman who’d bested him—not once, but probably twice—had nearly cost the Führer his life.

  “You were assigned to ensure the Reich Chancellor’s protection. While you were chasing this ghost of a woman through the Alps, our enemies plotted the murder of our beloved Führer!” It was all Schellenberg could do not to rip the SS insignia from Schlick’s coat. The man deserves more than a beating. He deserves to be shot!

  Schlick remained at attention.

  “You have nothing to say? Well, that is good. There is no excuse for dereliction of duty.” Schellenberg sat back, staring at the failure before him, ashamed that such a man might be listed among the SS—supermen of the Reich, breeders of the master race. He was grateful Schlick’s parents were both dead. The boy had held some promise as a youth, but petty grievances got the better of him even then. No matter how his mother had reprimanded, no matter how she had tried to beat manliness into him, he’d kept tally of slights and small wrongs as though a glove had been thrown before him. Petty, vindictive, shallow, weak. How ashamed they would be!

  Perhaps the death of his wife and child have addled his brain, though I doubt that is his problem from the way he pursues this woman.

  “For the sake of your parents’ memory, I have saved your skin. This time.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk.

  “Yes, Brigadeführer!” Schlick spouted obediently.

  The Brigadeführer closed his eyes, turning his back on the man. He heard the pivot of his subordinate’s heel, the grasp of the doorknob. “Gerhardt,” he sighed wearily, “I speak to you with the wisdom of a father. Forget this woman. She is not worth your career. She may have been promised to you, but she has eluded you twice now. She is not a willing partner to the doctors’ grand experiment. And we are at war. Untoward things happen during war.
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  “There are countless eager and suitable women—Aryan women you will find most pleasing and who will not disappoint you. Women who would welcome an SS officer as the father of their children, women ready to do their duty for the Fatherland. Do not let pettiness or pride blind you, my boy.”

  Gerhardt bowed slightly to acknowledge the Brigadeführer’s overture but did not answer, was not required to respond. Respectfully closing the door behind him, he straightened, clenching his jaw.

  He pulled his leather gloves taut, punching the space between his fingers. He marched smartly across the great hall, the click of his heels echoing off the walls. Gerhardt Schlick was not a schoolboy to be reprimanded by a general who counted himself a surrogate parent. He’d taken more than enough from his mother in life; he would not listen to her chastisement and dressing-down in death.

  It had been a mistake letting Jason Young go. He knew something about Rachel, Gerhardt was certain. But the journalist had not broken under pressure, and when Gerhardt’s superiors had learned that he’d detained and questioned, with all persuasion, a member of the foreign press, Gerhardt had released Young. The journalist had returned to Berlin, somewhat the worse for wear.

  Perhaps he must bide his time, erase this spot, this tarnish to his reputation. He was good at waiting and could keep his eye on Young from afar. His mother had taught him well—“Wait until your enemy thinks you’ve forgotten, until they let down their guard; then pounce.” It had certainly served him in taking his revenge in her dotage. An overdose of medicine here, a bit of neglect there. She had not bothered him long.

  In this case, waiting posed an unfortunate waste of precious time. But it could not be helped. His image as a member of the elite of Germany must, at all costs, prevail. If Rachel had not left the country by now, she would certainly not be able to leave once the German army invaded England. Border security would clamp down tighter than ever. And that could be any day now—as soon as Hitler gave the word. That, too, would require his time and attention.

  But forget Rachel Kramer? Not likely.

  39

  FRIEDERICH HAD GROWN used to the blackness, used to the sterile smell of antiseptic and disinfectants he’d long associated with white-enamel-tiled hospital hallways. He anticipated the next skyrocketing explosions, the sickly sweet smell of blood mixed with sulfur, the rush of limbs shooting into the air. He swam between worlds of dark and darker that never reached beyond the voices—the sharp, tired voices, the barking orders—that cut the silence, then faded.

  He couldn’t say when the voices changed or when the prolonged rumble in his bones, followed by more jostling and finally a deep-seated comfort, pushed back his haunted dreams.

  New scenes bled onto the canvas of his mind—long-ago dreams of Lea releasing coiled braids and combing her hair, long and gold and silken, before the oval mirror above her dressing table at bedtime. Sweet symphonies of Lea singing, true Alpine soprano. Homey scenes of Oma pulling stubborn weeds from her kitchen garden, rolling dough across her table, and dicing purple plums for his favorite turnovers. The scent of fresh bread baking and the prolonged silence drew him nearer the surface.

  And then there were more and new voices—whispers, soft and feminine, fleeting. Friederich idly wondered if the melodious rise and fall of questions and answers, of croonings and assurances, meant that he was attended by angels. Perhaps the brush against his forehead, the warm pressure on his lips, the wisp across his cheek meant the passing of a seraph’s wing. Sometimes he would dream that Lea’s softly curved form slept beside him once again, that her gentle tears fell on his face, his hands, like spring rain. He knew that was heaven. But the light did not come.

  Lea could not stop the tears from flowing over Friederich’s face, his chest, his arms.

  The body returned to her was not her husband but a scarred, emaciated shell of the robust protector and lover who’d reluctantly gone to war.

  She’d prayed and yearned for his return—but whole, as himself, not like this. He did not look at her, did not seem to hear her or even know she was near.

  The first night she closed their bedroom door and lay beside him. His eyes never opened and hers never closed.

  When morning came, Lea rose and washed and dressed herself. Then she washed and dressed the man who shared her bed, wrestling a fresh nightshirt over his head and pushing his fingers, his arms, his shoulders through the sleeves. She changed the sheets he had soiled. But she refused to believe this was her Friederich. She would steel her heart for this one day; there was not strength for more.

  Tomorrow—perhaps tomorrow—he will open his eyes, and he will see me.

  40

  CONVINCING CHIEF to return him to Munich in early December was easier than Jason had imagined. The editor had been impressed with Jason’s inside scoop on the failed assassination attempt at the Munich beer cellar. Just after rousing the troops with his glorified memories and much-hailed anniversary speech, Hitler had walked out, safe and sound, just minutes before the bomb went off. Despite his arrest in Oberammergau and subsequent beatings, Jason had overheard enough in the SS circle to give new inside angles to the beer hall story. The trick was in printing it, getting it beyond the censors. But his report under fire raised Jason’s worth in Chief’s estimation.

  Getting out of the newsroom, brushing off Eldridge—convincing him that he had no ulterior motive or amazing Munich source up his sleeve—was another thing. It didn’t matter that Jason’s bruises were still fading, his jaw too roughed up to shave, or that three broken ribs nearly bent him double.

  “So, who’s the Nazi in your pocket?” Eldridge demanded.

  “What—you mean the one that beat me to a pulp or the one that pulled him off? Take your pick. You can have ’em both.” Jason placed his typewriter in its case.

  “I mean the one that tipped you off about Hitler’s little time bomb in the beer hall. The one that put you in the right place at the right time for that scoop. Maybe the one that called here looking for you shortly after you left?”

  Jason’s heart stopped. Schlick called here? That’s how he knew—why he came looking. He followed me. I could have led him straight to Rachel and Amelie! I might have . . . He forced himself to clamp the typewriter into place, close the travel cover, and snap the latch. Nonchalant—breathe—take it easy. “So what’d you tell him—go down there and beat up the kid? He’s probably digging up something scary—like, the Krauts don’t like meat rationing on the home front. Let’s send a letter to the Führer; that’ll teach him.”

  “Funny.”

  Jason winced, gently pushing his arms through his coat. “A million laughs, that’s me.”

  “So what’s next? What’s your angle?”

  “Christmas markets—ornaments, Nativity carvings, bells, beer, German pastries fit to adorn your waistline—gotta challenge the system sometimes. Everybody loves German Christmas markets, and Uncle Adolf’s not likely to be giving any speeches at those. Sounds safe to me.” He slapped his fedora on his head, tipped it to a jaunty angle, but even that made him wince again. “The Reich Chancellor’s glorious speeches are yours from now on. I’ve had all the ‘Heil Hitler’ I can stomach.”

  “Right.” Eldridge clearly didn’t believe him. “And you’re retiring to the land of Bavarian fairy tales.”

  “The glory’s yours, old boy—take it away. And Merry Christmas.” Jason pushed through the newsroom door, not looking back, hoping Eldridge bought it . . . but betting the squealer wasn’t through.

  Inspired, Curate Bauer hurried up the hill to Frau Breisner’s house.

  Three months ago he could not have imagined asking quiet, mousy Frau Hartman to fill such a role, but three months ago he’d not seen her muster seventeen unruly hooligans in the children’s choir and transform them into neat rows of singing cherubs. He’d not known she could hide whimpering children in crates or that she was in some way connected to the older woman on the train who’d saved them both through her uproar—a woman who bore
an uncanny resemblance to Lea Hartman, if only about the eyes.

  As far as he was concerned, Lea Hartman could walk on water.

  But Lea turned him down.

  “It is all I can do to care for Friederich and teach the children’s choir. I’m sorry, Curate, but I know nothing of theatre, of dramatics. It’s only in singing that I’m able.”

  “It is less a matter of significant training than of keeping the children focused, occupied. And—” he searched her eyes—“of moving Jewish children through the town among the refugees—as though they, too, are children of German soldiers fleeing the cities. It’s only a little training they need—a happy afternoon twice a week.”

  She shook her head. “I feel I’ve let you down. But I simply ca—”

  “I am the one to apologize, Frau Hartman. I only thought you might have more hidden talents that you’ve not revealed. I should have realized the impossibility of what I was asking with the burdens you already bear.” He hesitated. “There is no improvement?”

  Lea bit her lip. “I hope . . . every day.”

  Oma squeezed Lea’s shoulder. “We both hope, and we pray.”

  The curate nodded. “The mysteries of God . . . I don’t always understand them.” Wearily, he sipped the herb tea Oma had placed before him.

  “Curate,” Oma ventured.

  He looked up.

  “How soon do you need someone to begin the theatre classes?”

  “A week; two, perhaps. No more. It must be someone I can trust to overlook hidden guests—a challenge greater than finding someone to teach the class.” He shrugged. “And truly, the children here need more structure to their time. ‘Idle hands and mischief,’ you know.” He smiled. “Tell me, then, are you thinking of taking them on, Frau Breisner?”

  She laughed. “Nein, Curate. These bones are too old and these nerves too brittle for a dozen sprites. But I think Lea may wish to reconsider.”