by Jane Porter
But his letter was to let me know that he has just received the packet of my letters, forwarded on to the hospital and he was very sorry to learn of my father’s passing, and sends his condolences and sympathy to my mother and sister.
He asks my forgiveness with the shortness of this letter, but he isn’t able to hold a pen just yet and feels guilty taking the nurse’s time when she is needed elsewhere. However, he wanted me to know that my letters did arrive and he is so sorry to get all my news and while he disagrees with me, he is too much of a gentleman to criticize my taste in music.
For a long time I just sit with his letter.
My heart aches.
It hurts to breathe.
April 3, 1942
Received a letter from Ellie. Ellie is trying to convince Mother to move to San Francisco with her.
I long for a letter from F. but nothing comes.
April 6, 1942
It is Easter Sunday. I played for the morning Easter service today but played with a heavy heart. I cannot find the words to express my sadness. At least I have music. It speaks for me.
April 9, 1942
Received a brief letter from F., written in his own shaky hand . . . written using his left hand!
He is being discharged from the hospital in Rome this afternoon and will be traveling back to Berlin to see a specialist as he shall require more surgery to make his right arm and hand more fully operational, and while recuperating he will return to work at one of the Reich’s war offices.
April 13, 1942
Captain Patzak stopped by the lounge where I was playing to tell me that Herr Zorn had some questions about damages to my room and to please go examine the bill and make arrangements to settle the outstanding debt.
I arrived in Herr Zorn’s office and his secretary walked me in, and then shut the door, leaving me in the office.
I turned to protest and F. was there.
I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to do.
He was in uniform and didn’t look hurt, at least not at first glance, but then I saw the cane and the gauze and bandages beneath the cuff of his jacket.
“What happened to you?” I asked, wanting to touch him, but afraid to move.
“In the wrong place, at the wrong time,” he answered with a wink and a smile.
I cried then.
It was the same F. wink and smile.
I have missed him so very much.
I told him that, too.
“You kept me alive when I was wounded in Malta,” he said quietly, not smiling anymore. His blue eyes are now so very serious. He looked so very serious. “I thought of you, and how much I love you, and how much it means to me that you believe in me. I realized then that I’m not afraid to live, but I’m also not afraid to die.”
It was as if my throat was being squeezed. I couldn’t swallow, or speak.
“I would very much like to marry you, and have a life with you, my darling,” he added, “but if you feel you must return to your family, I will support that decision. But I couldn’t let you leave without coming to see you. Without telling you that you give me courage and strength to do the right thing.”
I went to him then, and lightly, gently touched his face. I touched the corners of his eyes where there are those creases I love so very much. I touched his mouth with my fingertips. “I love you,” I whispered. “I will always love you.”
“You should be sailing for the US in a month’s time. Arrangements are being made for the transfer of all internees to Lisbon by train—”
“What is the extent of your injuries?”
“That is neither here nor there, Liebchen.”
“You need more surgeries.”
“I’d like to get my hand back, if possible.”
“Is it possible?”
“I hope.”
He hopes.
My heart had begun to hammer harder.
I might have lost hope these past few weeks but he hasn’t. He still hopes . . . believes . . .
Here is someone I can believe in.
Here is someone that needs me.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I tell him.
“Then don’t.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is, if you’re my wife.”
And so that settles that. We are to be married soon . . . immediately . . . before F. continues to Berlin. He has asked me to trust him, and leave all the details to him. And so I have.
April 14, 1942
Did not see F. today, nor did I hear anything from him, but I think Morris is suspicious. He kept me at his side all day translating documents that didn’t need translation, and making odd comments on one’s moral responsibility to one’s country, particularly during a time of war.
April 15, 1942
New sheet music was on the piano today. Bach. The Art of Fugue. I sit down to play Part 1 and immediately lose myself.
F. has said to leave everything to him. He has said to trust him.
I do.
F. is to be in Berlin in two days’ time. If we are going to do something, it must be soon.
April 17, 1942
We did it. Or F. did it and I’m not sure who helped him—Herr Zorn or Captain Patzak or one of the other guards—but yesterday F. was able to get me out, using a laundry cart and then a steamer trunk. In town, one of Franz’s friends, a judge, married us in a civil ceremony. Franz had booked us a room at a small hotel for the night but we were only able to be there a few hours, but it was bliss to be alone, together, husband and wife.
Husband and wife.
Did I really write that?
And yet now, he is already gone. Off to Berlin and his appointment and we shall see what comes next.
But I know this, I won’t be leaving Germany with everyone else.
April 20, 1942
Letter from F. They want to operate immediately. It’s that or his hand will be amputated. His hand may need to be amputated anyway, possibly up to the elbow.
He will write more soon.
• • •
And that’s it. That’s the last line of the last thin, tissue-like page.
Jarred back to the present, I check the old worn envelope, but there are no more pages inside. I glance at the clock. It’s almost one thirty in the morning, but I don’t feel as if I’ve been reading for hours.
Why does the diary end so abruptly?
Is there a section missing? There must be a section missing, because I need to know what happens next.
SEVENTEEN
Edie
Ali returns in the morning with questions, knocking on my door before I’ve had a third cup of coffee.
I still make my coffee myself in a percolator I’ve had for over thirty years. Parts have needed to be replaced—the crystal knob in the top for example—but it still works just as well as when I bought it in 1967 and I see no reason to get one of those fancy coffee machines now.
“Where is the rest of the diary? Why does it end there? And what happened to Franz?” Alison asks, firing questions at me as she enters my apartment before I’ve even invited her in, clutching the envelope I gave her yesterday.
I close the door and head to the kitchen to refill my cup. “There were a few more pages, I’m not sure what happened to them, but when I left Bad Nauheim at the end of the month, I made arrangements for my diary to go home with one of the girls. She promised to send it to Ellie, once she arrived, since she was heading to California herself.”
“But what happened to Franz?”
I take a sip of my coffee. “He lost his hand.”
Alison’s mouth opens and closes. Her brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” I’m cross. I didn’t sleep well and she might be educated, but I’m not sure how smart she is.
She sits down at my kitchen table—again, uninvited—and faces me. “America was at war with Germany. You’d been held in an internment camp, Bad Nauheim, for four months. How could
you not go to Portugal, Edie? Wasn’t it mandatory?”
“Not if you revoke your American citizenship.”
The girl stares at me, judging me. That’s fine. They all judged me. They were all so angry, then. Not just the embassy staff, but their families, my friends, the journalists, even the German guards.
I married the enemy.
“It wasn’t a comfortable situation,” I say. “There was tremendous pressure for me to do what I was told. Franz was ill—his surgery didn’t go well—and I was summoned to Berlin. So before we were all put on the train to Lisbon, I went to Berlin.”
“How?”
“I showed the paper, my marriage certificate, proving that I’d secretly married Franz four weeks earlier, and as his wife, I could become a German citizen. So I demanded to be made a German citizen.”
Alison just stares at me, eyes wide.
I’m silent, too.
Even now, the audacity of it shocks me. But I was just twenty-one at the time. What did I know of the world? What did I know of politics and government? I was in love and I believed love would save us. Protect us.
She glances at the envelope in her hands. “So eventually you were allowed to remain behind?”
“The embassy staff was beside itself. At first they refused to accept that I would give up my American citizenship for a Nazi. And then they were angry. They accused me of being a traitor. They accused me of maybe working for Germany, of being a spy. I denied it. And I understood their anger, and their confusion. Germany was at war with the US, how could I become a German?”
I fuss with a dish towel and wipe up an imaginary spot, needing a moment to gather myself.
It’s been seventy-some years and I can still see that day, still feel the terrible blistering rage and suspicion.
The Americans were livid, and I was conflicted, first “interviewed” by the Americans, and then interrogated by the Germans, and neither side trusted me.
No one in that moment wanted me.
It was up to Franz in the hospital, in Berlin, to convince his officers and the police that I would be loyal to the Party.
Yes, Franz was a registered member of the Nazi Party. But then, back then, everyone was a Nazi. It was the only party.
“But you did,” Alison says, breaking the silence, focusing the conversation. “You became German.”
I carry my coffee to the table and sit down opposite her. “I did, and I was told I’d never be welcome in the US again. I believed it. I was told I might have gained a husband, but I’d lost my friends, my family, and all respect. And I believed that, too.”
“And that didn’t worry you?”
“Of course it worried me! I remember the backlash and condemnation back in March when the reporter Robert Best left Bad Nauheim to return to Berlin. I knew people would speak of me in the same way. But I loved Franz and I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to help, although I didn’t yet know how.”
“And you couldn’t tell the Americans, or your friends, that Franz was part of the German Resistance?”
“Absolutely not. I couldn’t risk his safety, or the work he was doing. Telling anyone would have been a death sentence for him, and everyone he was associated with.”
I reach out for the faded yellow envelope and she hands it to me. I’m glad to have the diary back. There are not many pages in the diary, and yet these few precious pages tell our story, and it’s a testament to love.
Or foolishness.
It’s hard sometimes now, as old as I am, and as cynical as I’ve become, to perceive a difference between the two.
EIGHTEEN
Ali
I’m tired,” Edie says abruptly, thin lips tightening as she lifts a hand, as if to shoo me away.
I take the hint, and stop for a coffee on my way to Bloom. I’ve a headache today from being up so late last night reading, but my day is just beginning. I don’t want to be heading to the shop, though. I’d rather be hiding out in the Napa library reading everything I can get my hands on about the German Resistance.
I know a lot about many things, but I don’t know enough about Edie’s world, or her husband. In fact, despite reading pages and pages of her diary, I still know nothing about her husband.
While waiting for my coffee, I do a quick Internet search on my phone on the German Resistance and there are pages and pages of links and websites.
I type in Franz German Resistance and get an entire page of names.
Franz Jacob. Wilhelm Franz Canaris. Franz Halder. Franz Dahlem. Franz Gockel.
A lot of Franzes.
Trying to narrow it down, I type in, Franz Berlin 1944 German Resistance.
And maybe it does whittle a few down, but there are still a lot of Franzes, and they are all connected to Berlin, in 1944—Franz Jacob, Franz Rehrl, Franz Mett, Franz Kaufmann, Franz Sperr—hard to tell if any of them are Edie’s Franz.
My name is called, my coffee is ready, and yet I stand in the corner, scrolling through the various links, skimming the information, curious, troubled, fascinated.
Edie’s opened the door to a dark part of the past. It’s a messy, shameful world. It’s ugly. Brutal. And maybe that’s what has hooked me. The ugliness and the pain and the shame.
It’s how I feel. About me. About my past. About Andrew.
About failing Andrew.
Reading Edie’s diary makes me realize I’m not the only one.
I’m not the only one to struggle and love and lose.
I’m not the only one to feel such guilt . . .
And suddenly it hits me—that I want to go.
I want to go to Germany. To Berlin.
I don’t know where the thought comes from, and I don’t really understand as I have no history in Germany. I don’t even know Edie’s Germany, but I’m curious.
No, it’s more than curiosity . . . It feels more like a compulsion.
To go, to see.
I can’t imagine what I’d accomplish by going, but it’s a place that has struggled and suffered, and I want to understand the suffering so I can learn how it healed.
• • •
Along with the usual phone and Internet orders, Bloom is doing the flowers for an engagement dinner party tonight on the Napa Valley Wine Train, and so the plan is for me to tackle the table arrangements while Diana conducts the interviews for the floral designer position at Bloom, as the young girl from last week definitely didn’t work out.
I line up the bases for the twenty-four small centerpieces—floral wreaths of rose-hued dahlias, purple stock, and pale pink peonies with a floating calla lily in the center vase—and do one for Diana to check before she leaves. Diana studies it for a moment and then takes some greens and miniature Meyer lemons that she puts on sticks, and then tucks the greenery and lemons in the wreath, immediately adding a bright visual pop.
I ask her, “How did you know to do that?”
“It just looked too bridal or baby shower. The lemons and spiky greens give it an edge, making it more masculine which is better for a couple’s event.”
“Do we have enough lemons?”
“No, but do the arrangements without them, and I will pick some up on my way back. We can add them in at the end.”
With Diana gone the shop is quiet. I turn on the local NPR radio station for the classical music, and get to work.
As my hands gather stems and begin to shape and arrange, my thoughts drift free. I have to return to Arizona soon, and I’m going to miss Dad. He’s not the greatest conversationalist but it’s been nice having this time with him. I do feel closer to him. I feel more secure as well. Hopefully the secure feeling won’t go once I’m back in Scottsdale. I’ll be back at work in just ten days and I’m sure Dr. Morris will be relieved to have me back. He really relies on me and I can’t let him down.
But it’s hard to believe that I’ve already been in Napa three weeks. Three weeks today, actually. I can’t forget to buy my return ticket to Arizona, buy the ticket while it’s cheap.
I smash the thought.
I’m not going to Berlin.
I need to save my money and work and focus on my commitments.
But as I start the next arrangement, I find myself thinking about Edie, Franz, and Berlin. Not just the Berlin of the war, but the Berlin before, the Berlin of music, literature, architecture, and art. Her stories have teased my imagination. I want to know what she knew. I want to see the Hotel Adlon. I want to walk beneath the lime trees on Unter den Linden, and take a car to Potsdam and tour Sanssouci and walk through the gardens and have a coffee and a slice of kuchen.
As I finish the arrangement, I take a quick break, refill my water bottle and then just out of curiosity, I pull out my laptop from my purse and go to my favorite travel website, type San Francisco to Berlin, putting in Sunday’s date, and giving the following Saturday as a return travel date. I check that I want a flight and a hotel package, as few flight connections as possible, and as good a price as I can get. And then I hit enter.
I hold my breath as the travel site sifts through the various fares and deals before starting to list my options. There are a lot of options. I narrow down the search by choosing the shortest duration of flight and scroll through the best fares.
I can get a twelve-and-a-half-hour flight to Berlin from San Francisco in economy, with a fourteen-hour return flight, one stop in each direction, for a little over twelve hundred dollars. If I purchase a hotel and air package, I get a special discount, with three nights free, and a significant savings on both air and hotel, making the package price just under fifteen hundred for both.
I could fly to Berlin and stay five nights for less than fifteen hundred dollars. It’s a lot of money when I’ve got the mortgage payments on the house but my credit cards are pretty empty and I’ve been careful this last year. I rarely shop or spend money . . .
My fingers itch. I curl them into my palms, tempted. So very tempted.
Travel is so easy these days. All my information is stored on the travel site. I’d just have to hit enter and it’d be done.
