Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  “It’s perfectly safe, Oma,” Rachel chided, releasing the little girl to her grandmother’s arms. “Who will notice a middle-aged woman walking to the monastery?”

  Rachel set out before the summer sun broke over the mountains, hoping to make the journey before the heat of the day, before the Gestapo rose for rounds, before other eyes roamed abroad. By the third kilometer, a dozen scenarios had raced through her mind. What if Pastor Bonhoeffer isn’t there? What if he has no safe way to reach Jason? What if he’s somehow connected to Curate Bauer’s work and has been taken by the Gestapo too? Jason said they were watching him closely.

  When she finally reached the monastery, a local cock crowed and a milk wagon stood in the lane. She skirted the wagon, keeping her head low, and made for the great door. Locked tight, no matter that she jiggled the handle in desperation.

  There must be another way. She stepped back to get her bearings and spotted the rectory.

  So anxious was she that she forgot to maintain her aged character and nearly ran to the small side door. Stop it! She scolded herself into breathing, smoothed her skirt, and knocked softly on the door.

  No one answered. No one came. Rachel tried twice more, then gave way to frustration. It took five minutes of incessant pounding, but the door finally opened to a large, rotund man, who introduced himself as assistant to the abbot.

  “Father, help me. Please, Dietrich—Pastor Bon-Bonhoeffer.” She couldn’t get the words out for her fear of the passing time. “Is he here?”

  The priest stepped back, admitting her without a word. He closed the door behind her. “You are Brother Dietrich’s family, meine Frau? Come in, come in.”

  She hadn’t anticipated needing a story. “A friend of his family. Please, I must speak with him—it’s urgent.”

  “He is leading a psalm reading for our brothers now. He’ll be through soon. I’ll send him in then.” He stopped at the door. “You’ve walked far?”

  “Not so far. I’m just out of breath.” She tried to add years to her voice. “The sun rose hotter than I expected.”

  “You’re not from Ettal.”

  “No, no. I’m visiting friends. But I must see Dietrich.” She knew an older woman, a family friend, might use his Christian name.

  “Would a cool drink help?”

  Rachel nearly shook her head just to be rid of the man, but thought again of her return walk to Oberammergau. “That would be excellent—danke schön.”

  The monk nodded, his forehead creased, and left the room, only to return momentarily.

  She drained the glass, grateful to the priest for the pitcher he left.

  Half an hour passed before the door opened again and a man, much younger than she’d imagined, stepped through. A sturdy and muscular build, blond, with wire-rimmed glasses. He bent to take her hand. “You’ve come to see me, meine Frau? Brother Peter said you know my family?”

  “Pastor Bonhoeffer?”

  He nodded.

  “Are we—?” Now that the moment had come, Rachel could barely catch her voice. “Are we quite alone?”

  The man opened his hands, looking about him, and smiled. “Quite, I think.”

  Rachel swallowed and whispered, “Curate Bauer has been taken—by the Gestapo.”

  Bonhoeffer’s smile vanished. He pulled a chair closer to Rachel. “When?”

  “Last night. They came in the early evening.”

  “Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

  She shook her head, a willful tear escaping her eye. “He knew it was coming—he must have known. He told me, if he was taken, that I must get word to—”

  “To me?” Bonhoeffer looked puzzled.

  Rachel bit her lip, knowing she was putting everyone at risk. Dear God, let my instincts be right about this. Let him be the friend, the man, that Jason believes he is! “A friend—a journalist.”

  Now Bonhoeffer’s eyes registered caution. “Do you know his name?”

  “Jason,” Rachel whispered. “Jason Young.”

  Bonhoeffer stared at her, narrowed his eyes as if trying to discern the truth. “You’re Rachel.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, relieved. He could only know that because Jason had told him.

  Bonhoeffer’s lips turned up in a half grin. “You’re not precisely as he described.”

  “Begging your pardon, but I’m probably exactly as he described.”

  Bonhoeffer laughed. “Yes, I think perhaps you are.” He sobered. “The curate was expecting a delivery from our friend?”

  Rachel nodded, feeling the weight of her world fall away. “He said that Jason must not come, that if he was taken, they’d be waiting and watching, ready to break the network. If Jason is caught—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. We can’t let that happen.” Bonhoeffer sat back. “When is he expected?”

  “This week—he’s stationed in Munich. Please, can you get word to him?”

  “I can do better than that. I’ll go to Munich and intercept him myself. I need to go anyway. I have my own difficult appointment there.”

  Rachel did not like the sound of that.

  “Not to worry; it’s not as it sounds.” Bonhoeffer searched her face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my activities, but you must trust me when I say that things are not always as they seem.”

  Rachel knew that to be true. She spread her hands, smoothed her skirt. “Apparently.” She smiled.

  “Yes.” He smiled in return, a clear and genuine smile. “Apparently. And you must call me Dietrich—but perhaps not in public, if we should meet again, Frau—what is your new name?”

  Rachel lifted her chin. “Frau Elsa Breisner, age fifty-seven, from Stelle.”

  “Well then, Frau Breisner, leave this to me.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Dietrich.”

  “Jason has told me much about you, and about your Amelie, how you are helping Rivka. You are a brave woman, Fräulein Kramer. It is no wonder our mutual friend is taken with you.”

  Rachel’s heart beat faster. Jason had confided his feelings for her to Dietrich. “And I with him.” But she could take no credit for the good that had come of their friendship, what she hoped would become more than friendship. “Jason gave me your book.”

  “Ah, so he said. And did you read it?”

  “Yes. I’m not certain I understand it all, but I’m learning.”

  “An honest answer. We are all always learning.”

  “Jason told me of the trouble the Gestapo’s given you. I hope I don’t bring you more trouble, more scrutiny, through what I’m asking.”

  “Nein. Jason is my brother. I love him and will do all I can for him.”

  She frowned, trying to understand the man before her. “You barely know him.”

  “Grace.” He shrugged, smiling.

  “Your book talks about that,” Rachel whispered, still trying to grasp the concept.

  Dietrich tipped his head to the side, as if considering her. “‘Love I much?’” he quoted. “‘I’m much forgiven. I’m a miracle of grace.’”

  She recognized the words from Oma’s hymnbook. “Costly grace,” she said, feeling the warmth of understanding kindle inside her chest.

  Dietrich’s eyes shone. “We are all miracles of costly grace.”

  59

  LEA DID NOT go to the church to teach her choir lesson that afternoon. Father Oberlanger had telephoned that morning, just after Rachel left, saying that classes were canceled for the day. He made no mention that Curate Bauer had been taken by the Gestapo.

  To maintain a semblance of normalcy, Lea accompanied Friederich to his woodcarving shop in the village after lunch. She would paint and gild carvings. He had nearly an entire new Nativity set ready. Rivka and Amelie would be safe with Oma, and Lea desperately needed to keep busy.

  Worry for Rachel filled her head, and fear for Curate Bauer. If the Gestapo beat him, if they tortured him, what might he say? And if they locked him up—sent him to one of Germany’s many concentration camps�
��what would become of all those refugees he’d hidden and placed throughout the countryside? He was the one connection to the black market for food, and Jason’s contact to provide forged passports and ration books. He was the key to moving the Jewish children out of the Alpine valley. Even she and Oma depended on Curate Bauer for extra food for Rachel, Rivka, and Amelie in exchange for milk their cow produced.

  “You’re painting the sheep red, Lea,” Friederich quietly observed. “Pay attention, please.”

  Lea dropped her brush. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry!” Never had she done such a thing. She covered her face with her hands.

  Friederich left his carving table and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s all right. A little sanding, a few wisps from the wool, and it will be new again.” He pulled her to her feet and held her close. “You’ve borne so much for so long, meine liebe Frau. This is too heavy.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s no more than others bear. I’m just so frightened. I’m frightened for the curate—and for Rachel, for Amelie, for us.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I’m frightened too.”

  Friederich was still holding his wife when the shop door opened and Gerhardt Schlick strode in.

  It was dark in the attic when Amelie woke from her afternoon nap. She didn’t like afternoon naps and she didn’t like the dark made by the blackout curtains over the little attic window. It reminded her of hours squished into the cupboard with Rivka and Aunt Rachel. She was tempted to put her head beneath the covers and stay there.

  But she needed to use the chamber pot. She couldn’t wait much longer. Aunt Rachel got angry if she waited too long and wet the pallet. And that was worse than getting up in the dark and padding across the splintered floor and down the attic ladder.

  Amelie didn’t know why she couldn’t have a pot in the attic. But the grown-ups were very strict about that. And about rolling her bedding tight each morning and keeping her clothes and shoes and even her picture book and dolly in the cupboard. There must be no sign of Amelie—or even of Aunt Rachel or Rivka—anywhere. Anytime, day or night, they might rush into the cupboard and close the door. She supposed it was a game. But she didn’t like the game, and she hated the cupboard.

  When the door finally opened and she came out, the older lady, Oma, always hugged and petted her. She gave her a little Kuchen or porridge and milk and let her sit close beside her at the table. Amelie loved to finger the creases in the old woman’s face and make her smile. Then the creases lit up, like birthday candles.

  The younger women smiled sometimes. But mostly they looked worried, and when they worried, they frowned. Amelie didn’t know if it was because of something she’d done. Her father used to frown at her, and that frightened her. But the pretty aunts weren’t like him. They often even cuddled her, like her mother used to do. And the man—oh, Amelie smiled to think of the man. Uncle Friederich smiled great big whenever he saw her, as if she brightened his day. It made Amelie feel glad to be alive.

  Still, there was a great deal of time when the two pretty aunts who looked alike were gone, and Uncle Friederich, too. Aunt Rachel, who shared her attic room, was often reading, and the dark-haired lady—Rivka—seemed sad.

  Sometimes, when Amelie felt lonely, she fingered the locket at her throat—the one with the picture of her mother inside—even though it was getting harder and harder to remember her.

  When Amelie finished with the chamber pot she slid it back into its little cupboard in Oma’s room. She padded to the window and lifted the curtain, just a little. She could see the road, the front garden gate, and the walkway round to the back door from there. That was the path the pretty aunts walked whenever they came home.

  The sun was shining brightly over the path leading from the road to the front door. There was no sign of either aunt. She’d almost dropped the curtain when she saw a truck pull to a sudden stop on the road, just outside the front gate.

  Amelie knew she was not supposed to pull back the curtain, so she held it close to the window and peered through the very edge. Why were men in uniform jumping out of the truck? And big dogs? Amelie had never seen such big dogs! She stepped back.

  Amelie didn’t like the men in black uniforms. Black uniforms reminded her of her father—her father who’d grown dark and angry whenever she’d approached him.

  The men looked very much like her father—tall and broad-shouldered, the same severe posture. She peered closely, but the limbs of the ash tree shadowed their faces.

  Soldiers ran toward the house in different directions—to the front and around the sides. And they carried guns.

  Amelie dropped the curtain. She was afraid to confess that she’d been peering out, but she was more frightened by the uniformed men with guns. She ran to the kitchen for Oma. But she’d barely crossed the threshold when Rivka jumped from the table and dragged Amelie with her into the dark cupboard below the stairs.

  At the same time she saw Oma pale and walk slowly toward the kitchen door. She made the “be still” motion to Rivka and Amelie, just before the cupboard door closed. Through her bare feet Amelie felt the rumble of more banging. She thought of the soldiers and the big dogs and Oma, all alone. Amelie began to cry.

  Rivka covered her mouth, but Amelie bit her and cried harder. And then Rivka shook her, which didn’t help.

  Amelie felt the thunder of boots through the floor, and that, more than anything, made her catch her breath in fear. The boots rumbled angrily, and everywhere all at once. She could feel Rivka tremble beside her. Amelie reached for her in the darkness and Rivka pulled Amelie into her lap—not gently. Amelie could feel Rivka’s heart beat wildly through her dress, felt her fear in the way the older girl gripped her around the middle.

  The pounding through the floor went on a long while, sometimes coming very near the cupboard. When Amelie reached her hand to the wall or the little door, she felt them shudder.

  The smell of urine seeped through the cupboard wall. Amelie knew it wasn’t her own. Rivka clapped a hand over Amelie’s mouth. Amelie was so frightened that she didn’t struggle to free herself this time.

  At long last Rivka relaxed her grip on Amelie’s mouth, and on her middle. She didn’t push her away, but laid her head on Amelie’s back. She felt Rivka’s tears through the back of her shirt, and felt the jerking of her body. There was not room for Amelie to turn around to comfort Rivka. So she remained very still.

  When the older girl stopped sobbing, Amelie leaned her head against Rivka’s shoulder. No one came to the cupboard door, and they didn’t move for what seemed a very long time. At last Amelie fell asleep. She dreamed of her mother and how she used to lay her head against her mother’s chest. She dreamed of her soft skin, of her smell, of the times she cried and the way she’d let Amelie kiss the salt away.

  When Amelie woke, she was still in Rivka’s lap. But Rivka’s heart was beating rhythmically now, slowly. Amelie thought she might be sleeping. She sighed and fingered her heart-shaped locket. She needed to use the chamber pot again, so she tried to move, to push open the cupboard door.

  Instantly Rivka was awake, pulling Amelie’s hand away. And so they waited, and waited some more.

  Dietrich had gone immediately to Munich but urged Rachel to wait a few hours, so their departures would not be linked. He’d arranged for the groundskeeper to give Rachel a ride into Oberammergau.

  She could walk from the grocer’s shop near the town square to wherever she wished. She might pass Friederich’s shop, but of course she wouldn’t go in the front door. She must show no connection to them unless absolutely necessary.

  She was thinking of this, and if she should take a back road home to Oma’s, when the driver slowed. “What is it?”

  “Trucks ahead.”

  “What kind of trucks?” Rachel tried to keep her voice natural.

  “Gestapo, if I had to guess. Or—no, maybe not.”

  But Rachel recognized the vans of the SS, and her heart sank. Did Curate Bauer break dow
n? Oma . . . and Amelie? What about Rivka and Lea and Friederich? She thought she might be sick.

  The driver turned down a side street, avoiding the town square. “I won’t be shopping for the abbey today.”

  “No, of course not,” Rachel said. “You can let me out here. I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you certain? It’s not far to the shops, if that is where you’re headed.”

  “Not far at all.” She tried to smile. “Danke schön. You’ve been most kind.”

  The driver tipped his cap, not making eye contact. She didn’t blame him for being afraid. One didn’t have to do anything wrong to fear running afoul of the SS.

  Rachel adjusted her kerchief to cover as much of her face as possible and climbed from the truck cab. Keeping her pace slow, she circled the village, coming up behind Friederich’s shop, thinking she might slip unnoticed through the back and wait there until dark. She dared not draw attention to Oma’s home by returning in daylight. But just as she reached the walkway, two SS guards stepped through the shop’s back door, and Father Oberlanger came round the building.

  Rachel’s knees went weak and she stumbled, nearly losing her footing.

  “Careful, meine Frau!” one of the guards shouted.

  “Ja, ja—danke.” She waved, breathless. The old priest’s eyes shot up, but Rachel stared at her feet, as if trying to command them to hold her up.

  “Papers,” the other guard ordered.

  Rachel stopped and opened her purse to comply. Women were stopped and searched every day. She must remain calm, give them no reason to search beyond a cursory glance at her papers.

  “Elsa Breisner? From Stelle?” One guard looked at the other. “Isn’t that the name of the woman Sturmbannführer Schlick sent troops to question earlier?”

  Rachel nearly fainted.

  “Nein, that’s Hilde Breisner. She lives just up the road. It’s a common enough name.”

  “Stelle. I’m from Stelle.” Rachel made her voice crack.

  “Frau Breisner!” Father Oberlanger interrupted. “I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you weren’t coming for our talk. Did you have trouble with the train?”