Hidden Among the Stars

by Melanie Dobson

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “I distinctly heard the Fräulein say no.” A man half a head taller than Ernst stepped from behind the trees, dressed as a gentleman with the air of someone accustomed to being in charge. A blonde woman wearing a sweater and short skirt stood beside him.

  Ernst dropped the hem of Luzi’s dress, but he didn’t release his grasp on her arm.

  The man moved closer. “Must I call for the Polizei?”

  Ernst snickered. “The police won’t care.”

  “Any assault against a lady will greatly concern them.”

  “This one’s not a lady.” He lowered his voice with contempt. “Nothing but a Jew.”

  The blonde woman tugged on the gentleman’s arm, and when he took a step back, Luzi was afraid they would leave her. “I was playing with the orchestra tonight at the Rathaus,” she blurted, wanting him to know that she was a musician. That she was human.

  The man didn’t reply.

  “He has no right to me,” Luzi pleaded.

  Ernst traced his finger down her neck, lingering on her collarbone, and she felt as if she might be sick all over his shoes. “I have every right to you.”

  If this couple walked away, she had no doubt Ernst would force himself upon her. And her life . . . it would be forever ruined.

  “Go home, lad,” the gentleman finally said.

  “Leave us alone, and I will.”

  The man lifted his arm and punched Ernst in the nose. Ernst reeled back, holding his hand over his face, but before he bolted away, he spit on Luzi as if she’d betrayed him.

  “Are you hurt?” the man asked her, though it seemed that he’d lost some of the confidence in his voice.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He glanced at the path. “Do you live nearby?”

  “No,” she said, her entire body shaking. “I was planning to take a taxi home.”

  He responded with a brisk nod. “We’ll follow you out to Universitätsring, to make sure he doesn’t return.”

  “Danke.”

  Her body was still shaking as she climbed into the cab, down to the toes hidden in her mother’s narrow dress shoes.

  “Number 69 Elisabethallee,” she told the driver.

  “You shouldn’t be out by yourself,” he said as he turned south.

  “I know.” The conductor shouldn’t have made her stay so late at the hall, but she couldn’t blame him. Max shouldn’t have distracted her, and she never should have danced with him.

  She must stay focused on what was best for her parents and her sister, not what her heart might urge her to do. Music, she prayed, would be her family’s ticket out of Austria.

  The taxi stopped, and after she paid the driver, Luzi looked both ways before stepping onto the sidewalk, as if Ernst might have followed her all the way home. But she didn’t see him, nor did she smell cigarette smoke.

  She rushed into the building, up the steps. Inside their apartment, her mother waited for her in the sitting room, hurrying toward her with arms outstretched. “We were so worried.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Luzi set her case on a chair, her voice sounding as hollow to her as the belly of her violin.

  “The ball was supposed to end two hours ago.”

  “I was delayed,” she said simply. Tomorrow she would tell her mother about Max, but she’d never tell anyone about Ernst. Her father might retaliate, and if he did, she feared no one would fight for him.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “He took the trolley to the Rathaus to look for you.” Her mother scrutinized her. “You’ve stained your gown.”

  “Have I?” She looked down at the brown stain near her waist, the place where Ernst had spit on her.

  Mutti stepped back. “I’ll get some soda and water to clean it.”

  As Luzi moved toward her bedroom, ready to change out of her dress, she began humming “Village Swallows from Austria,” trying to remember the dance.

  She prayed that her mother was right. The music would carry her entire family, migrating like the swallows of Austria, across their country’s borders and perhaps across an ocean as well. They would get their visas, and then they’d all be safe from men like Ernst Schmid.

  CHAPTER 9

  The desk in my apartment overlooks Mount Vernon’s Main Street, quiet now after this morning’s parade crowd has returned home. When I’m not helping Brie with the store downstairs, I’m typically sitting here by the window, researching and writing posts on children’s authors like Felix Salten who use their life story as fodder for their writing.

  More than ten thousand people follow the Magic Balloon blog—librarians, kids, parents, other bookstore owners. Readers, I’ve discovered, enjoy hearing about the successes of their favorite authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, J. K. Rowling, and Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss), but even more, they like to read about their failings.

  The failures give hope to people both young and old. And the biography posts, along with our Lost & Found page, generate enough traffic to our site that Brie and I have managed to supplement our sales income with a bit of advertising.

  I tap onto the bookmark for our website, and a colorful bouquet of balloons lifts off from the bottom of my screen, the balloons floating to the top of the page and then dividing neatly into six topics—About, Blog, Shop, Lost & Found, Events, and Contact. The site, with all its whimsical colors and moving pieces, is designed to appeal to kids, but Brie and I want people of all ages to be able to navigate it.

  After logging in to the dashboard, I click on Lost & Found to update the page. Each item is listed with a bullet point—a Roger Clemens rookie card, a silver ring, an assortment of letters, photographs, and certificates. Visitors can click on each piece for a description of the used book, lost item, and sometimes a photo.

  I don’t include photographs of the valuable items; if anyone emails me about being the potential owner, I can ask for specifics. Plenty of people have responded to my listings, but I’ve never matched anything with its original owner.

  Under a new bullet point, I type, Unusual list found inside German edition of Bambi. Then I link the headline to a full description.

  Early edition of Austrian book, Bambi: a Life in the Woods. Owner named Annika Knopf, dated 1932 by her mother. Unique list inscribed on the pages.

  I leave off the info about the photograph and Schloss Schwansee—those will help me identify the original owner or her family if someone does inquire.

  My online search for an Annika Knopf has revealed several contemporary women, but between the publication date of the book and the mother’s inscription along with the neatness of the script inside, I’m fairly certain Annika lived most, if not all, of her life pre-Internet. Back when people of all ages treasured their books and spent hours practicing their handwriting.

  Perhaps Annika was a girl with a grand imagination. Or perhaps she was keeping a list of her family’s heirlooms or things she wanted to buy one day. If I could reunite her book with her family, that would be the happiest ending of all for me.

  Rain begins channeling down my window, and when I glance outside, I see a family of five crossing the street, each of its members clutching an ice cream cone and smiling in spite of the weather. I turn quickly back to my iPad screen.

  At the top of my inbox are two articles about Felix Salten from Sophie, the Vienna researcher I’ve connected with online. With the help of Google, I begin translating the first one.

  Salten was born in Hungary, the grandson of an orthodox rabbi, but his family moved to Austria soon after his birth because the government in Vienna began granting full citizenship to Jewish immigrants in 1867. Salten wrote Bambi in 1923, and it was such a huge success that he sold the film rights a decade later to an American director for a thousand bucks. This director later sold it to the studio of Walt Disney, who released it in 1942—ironically, while Salten and his family were exiled from their home.

  The second article says Salten fled Vienna soon after H
itler annexed Austria to Germany. Many Jewish people tried to leave Vienna during the following year. Salten and his wife attempted—and failed—to obtain a visa through the American consulate, but their daughter helped them immigrate to Switzerland before the war began.

  In the novel, Bambi’s mother tells him not to look back, and I wonder about his creator—did Felix Salten ever look back? Surely he must have grieved the loss of the city he’d once loved and the thousands there—about sixty-five thousand Jewish brothers and sisters—who were killed during the Holocaust.

  I have a little over a month to finish my article on Salten and then start gathering info about another author for a new post, one with a happy ending, of course. People like to hear about the failures, but most of them read children’s books because they also want to read about their favorite characters fighting to overcome whatever obstacles are in their way, triumphing in the end.

  I thank Sophie for her help, then send one more request, asking her to find the Vienna newspaper from May 6, 1938.

  Someone knocks on my door, and I fold over the cover of my iPad before crossing the hardwood. It’s my sister, her apron still streaked with chocolate from this morning, her hair strung back behind her ears.

  “You want me to take over?” I ask.

  “Yes, please.” She loops the apron strap around her finger. “Ethan said the boys are about to drive him mad.”

  “From one zoo to another for you.”

  My sister lives a mile away from the store, in one of those Victorian homes on Gambier Street with their high ceilings and winding staircases. The house keeps Ethan and his carpentry skills quite busy, with the added benefit of offering plenty of space for the twins to play. On cold or stormy days, they’ve been known to roller skate across the cement floors in the basement and play leapfrog down the foyer.

  She checks the time on her phone. “It’s only an hour until close.”

  “I’ve got it.” With my declaration, Brie unties the chocolate-splattered apron and holds it out, but I decline her offer. “I’ll collect some dinner for us after I finish.”

  She tilts her head, skeptical. “On your bicycle?”

  “Pizza delivery. Extra pepperoni for the boys.”

  “Thank you.”

  But really I should be thanking Brie because Saturday nights with her crew are the highlight of my week. I’ll spend an hour cheering while the boys play hoops to give Brie and Ethan some much-needed couple time. A win all the way around.

  My iPad propped on the counter downstairs, the store empty, I begin writing an email to the bookseller in Boise, inquiring about where she obtained the copy of Bambi. It’s a favor I’m asking—most sellers won’t give out this information—but Brie said she’s purchased books from this lady before. Perhaps she’ll tell me as a courtesy.

  I start searching again for articles about Schloss Schwansee, but I’m obsessing now, hunting for answers I don’t need. Moving on is what I need to do, at least in my mind, or I’ll be stuck here all night.

  Slipping around the counter, I begin shifting beanbags back into place, reshelving books that have wandered. Inkspot is asleep in the corner, probably exhausted from the dozens of hands stalking him all day. I understand. Too many people, for too many hours, exhaust me as well. My sister and Charlotte are the only adults who don’t wear me out after an hour. And they are the only ones who understand that I still adore them, even when I need my space.

  Family, I guess, is supposed to be like that.

  Brie and I have the same father, but we have different moms. Brie’s mother ran away in the middle of the night, about six months after Brie was born, and never seemed to look back. I remember her vaguely, an apparition who haunted my mind until I found out that she wasn’t my biological mom.

  I don’t look anything like Sandra Dermott, the woman who gave me life, nor do I look like my father. But Brie and I, as different as we are, look just like sisters.

  Rumors fester and grow in a town like ours, but if people whisper any longer about the Randall girls, I’m not privy to it. Unless their parents have told them stories, the kids who crowd my floor each Saturday don’t know about my broken family, and most of the students from Brie’s and my school days have since moved to the big city or a state farther south where the sun shines warmth for most of the year.

  When Brie and I were kids, our father was on the road most of the week and often weekends as well, driving a tractor trailer. On my eighth birthday, he decided that he didn’t have the extra cash for frivolous things like child care while he was traveling. For that matter, he didn’t have much time to care for his kids when he was in town, but at least an adult was home those nights and brought us an occasional bag of fast food.

  So I moved into the mother role for Brie, out of necessity. In hindsight, the state should have stepped in, but back then I didn’t know that kids could borrow another family for a season. I made up all sorts of stories when adults asked about my father, because I’d somehow gotten it in my mind that Brie and I could end up in prison for being home alone.

  Charlotte—Mrs. Trent to me then—never once shamed us. She offered Brie and me a safe place to spend our after-school hours. On Sundays, when the bookstore was closed, she invited us to church and into her home. She and Mr. Trent didn’t have children, and for all intents and purposes, Brie and I didn’t have parents. A match truly made in heaven.

  When I was ten, Mr. Trent passed away, and after his funeral, I marched into Magic Balloon and informed Mrs. Trent that I’d decided to adopt her into our family. Ridiculous, looking back, but she didn’t laugh at me. Instead she said that it wasn’t often someone had the privilege of being adopted twice.

  Our dad died when I was sixteen, Brie fourteen, and Charlotte invited two bewildered teenagers to come live with her. We both helped her with the bookstore each afternoon during high school. That switched to full-time after I graduated, working at the store to pay for my tuition at a local university called Mount Vernon Nazarene.

  It took me six years to obtain my degree in English, but late into the night, when I couldn’t sleep, I delved into web design so I could launch a site for the store. The web experience proved to be just as valuable as my degree. Instead of leaving Mount Vernon like my high school friends, I opted to stay working here, helping Magic Balloon thrive. Brie headed up to Michigan for college and returned home four years later with a husband who adored her.

  I’d so wanted a family of my own, like Brie, but men had terrified me during my college years. I deftly warded off any potential dates by proclaiming the supremacy of my busy life, and I think I terrified a few college men as well by seeming indifferent to their interest. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m protective of my heart, not indifferent, but during my early twenties I didn’t waver far from that facade.

  Five years ago, Scott stopped by Magic Balloon in search of a gift for his niece. He worked remotely for a tech company, and our website, he said, needed some work. After I assured him that anything Fancy Nancy would jockey him into position for uncle of the year, he gave me a few tips on how to update our site. Then he invited me to dinner.

  Initially, with our conversations focused solely on the website, Scott and I became friends, but as the weeks went by, we fell into something else. I thought it was love—and he declared it to be so. But I was wrong, and the loss just about crushed me.

  The shopkeeper’s bell rings, an old-fashioned chime to remind our customers that we retain old-fashioned customer service. Several children walk through the door.

  Two tween boys ask me about a creepy kids’ series they say they’re dying—lots of snickering—to read. I explain politely that we don’t carry any books in that genre. We have to draw the line somewhere, I tell them, and we’ve decided that there’s enough horror in real life for some children. No more reason to add to the fear.

  One of the kids, the older boy with bangs hinged up like a ladder, pushes back, saying there’s no problem with pretend scary. Smiling,
I start my well-rehearsed lecture for such a time as this.

  “Books are a lot like food,” I begin, stepping between the boys and the exit. “First is the healthy stuff that most parents want their kids to read. Some of it tastes great, others perhaps not so much, but it’s good for the body and mind.”

  Hands stuffed in his pocket, the hinged-bangs boy is not buying it, so I continue on. “Next there’s brain candy, the sugary sweet stuff that tastes good going down, but turns into a bellyache if you binge. . . . And then there’s the poison.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Kids need to eat real food for their bodies to grow, not the pieces of poison left out for, say, rodents.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with rodents—”

  “I think some books for kids can damage a perfectly good brain.”

  At least, they can kill the hope that flickers inside it, stamp it out. Those books begin to define their readers.

  “This store is a refuge,” I finish, “for a young person’s body and mind.”

  The boy and his friend rush around me, fleeing for the door, and another child, about two years younger, taps my arm tentatively, asking me if we have The Humming Room. I direct him straight to the section for middle grade.

  When the store clears again, the telephone rings, and I rush toward the front counter.

  “Magic Balloon Bookshop,” I answer. “This is Callie.”

  “Callie Randall?” a man asks.

  “How can I help you?”

  “This is Josh Nemeth, from Ohio State,” he says as if I’m supposed to know who he is.

  “Did you order a book?” I watch Inkspot skulk around the perimeter of the room, checking to see if the kids are gone.

  “I’m calling about the book you found. The one owned by Annika Knopf.”

  I lean against the back wall, surprised. “I just posted that.”

  “I have an alert set up,” he explains. “I’ve been searching for information about an Annika from Austria for years.”

  I want to reunite this book with its owner, not someone else searching for her. “I don’t know that she’s from Austria—”