“Didn’t you often work as a team?”
“Yes.”
“But not for that interrogation?”
“I wasn’t there that night.”
“Where were you?”
“I’m sure that’s in your report too.” There was a moment’s pause. “Sorry. I was in a village about twenty clicks away.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“Do you know anything that’s usual in a war?”
“What were you doing in the village?” the JAG officer asked.
“Walking around in a Wehrmacht uniform trying to make contact with some Germans we’d heard were trying to set up a resistance cell.”
“So Lieutenants Blau and Meyer interrogated Kropp without you.”
“I told you, I wasn’t there.”
“But you did interrogate Kropp the second time he was taken prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a difficult prisoner?”
“What do you mean by difficult?”
“Was he hard to break?”
“I didn’t try to ‘break’ prisoners. I tried to extract useful information from them. In my experience you get more flies with honey than vinegar.”
Millie had to smile. It was their mother’s expression.
“Was he cooperative?”
“He was a former communist who’d been interned in a concentration camp for being unworthy to bear arms. But when the losses started piling up, they decided he was worthy to die for the Fuhrer after all. So yes, as you can imagine, he was a cooperative prisoner.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he wanted to report a war crime.”
“Is that the way he phrased it?”
“He said it in German.” There was another pause. “Sorry.”
“I know this is difficult, Captain. How did he describe the war crime?”
“He said he had been taken prisoner by the Americans with about twenty-five or thirty others in his unit on November 16, 1944. They were questioned that night by two German-speaking interrogators.”
“Lieutenants Blau and Meyer?”
“He didn’t know their names, though I did from the reports. He said the interrogators had no accents. They spoke perfect German. So the prisoners decided they were German. And since they were in the American Army, they must be German Jews. Ironic really.”
“Why?”
“It was drilled into us at Ritchie never to let an interrogee know we were German, let alone German Jews. We all had cover stories for why we spoke the language so well. Mine was that I’d spent summers in Germany with my grandparents. The fear was that if we got captured, being German Jews would make it worse for us. Like the Jewish GIs who threw away their dog tags before they went into battle. And given what happened to Danny and Sam, I guess the warnings were on the money.”
“Did he tell you what happened after he was questioned the first time?”
“He was held in a pen with the rest of the prisoners. A few days later the Germans retook the area. The German prisoners were repatriated, and the Americans became the prisoners. Some of the repatriated Germans pointed out the two Americans who had interrogated them. They told the commanding officer they were German Jews.”
“Did the prisoner tell you who the commanding officer was?”
“Hauptmann Franz Hoffmann.”
“What did Hauptmann Hoffmann do then?”
Again there was another silence.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the JAG officer said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“He ordered a detail of his men to take the two interrogators who’d been pointed out as Jews down the road and shoot them.”
“Did anyone protest?”
“You know a German soldier who’s going to contradict his commanding officer?”
“What about Lieutenants Blau and Meyer?”
“According to Kropp, Lieutenant Blau reminded Hoffmann of the Geneva protocols regarding prisoners of war.”
“What did Hoffmann say to that?”
“He said the Geneva protocols didn’t apply because they weren’t captured soldiers. They were Jews. And Jews had no right to live in Germany. Then he repeated his order to take them down the road and shoot them.”
“Did Kropp witness the shooting?”
“He said he did.”
“Did you ask him how the men were shot?”
This silence went on for longer. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that, Captain?”
“In the back,” David said.
“One more thing, Captain. I want to make sure I have this absolutely right. You deemed this prisoner reliable?”
“I listed him as ‘highly reliable.’”
There was another silence, then she heard the sound of clasps on a briefcase being snapped shut and floorboards creaking as David walked the officer to the door. She couldn’t hear what they were saying until suddenly David raised his voice. “Do me a favor,” he said.
“If I can.”
“Make sure the bastard gets the firing squad.”
“I’ll do my best, Captain.”
During the next few days Millie kept turning over the conversation in her mind. She even went into David’s room and stood staring at the snapshot of the three GIs in a jeep, and as she did, something David had said in the interview came back to her. It wasn’t relevant to the war crimes case but it was to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. He’d said he hadn’t been there the first time the German POW had been questioned because he was in a village twenty kilometers away walking around in a Wehrmacht uniform trying to make contact with members of a nascent resistance cell. Suddenly she knew what David was up to all those nights he disappeared. He wasn’t with a Fraulein. He wasn’t even with a girl. He was still working in intelligence. She was sure of it.
Fifteen
Frau Kneff’s visit that first night became a routine. Every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, she came for dinner. No weather, no time of day, no marauders in the Russian sector could stop her.
Frau Kneff made the effort, but Millie knew how much the invitations cost Anna. No, not the invitations, Frau Kneff’s presence. Once Millie complimented Anna on her generosity.
“I hate her,” Anna burst out, then stopped, shocked at the violence in her voice. “No, hate is the wrong word. She saved Elke’s life. I’m jealous of her.”
“Elke just needs time.”
The words had become familiar, and like all familiar refrains, they were beginning to lose their meaning.
“It’s not time,” Anna said, “it’s me. I don’t know how to be a mother.”
“What do you mean you don’t know how to be a mother? You are a mother,” Millie insisted, but she understood what Anna was saying. The war had taken its toll on Frau Kneff, but the camps had broken Anna. She’d become fearful and suspicious. Walking the streets, she gave a wide berth not only to those in uniform, but to civilians as well. In shops and even at home, a sudden movement made her flinch. She kept the world at arm’s length. She gave Elke no breathing space. She couldn’t keep her hands off her daughter, always hugging her, smoothing her hair, reaching for her hand. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of her. When she spoke to her, her tone was a wheedling plea for affection. Like any attempt to coerce love, the harder she tried, the more unlovable she became. And the more Elke punished her for it. Sometimes Millie wanted to slap her cruel little face. Then she’d catch Elke’s expression in an unguarded moment—what child should have only moments of unguardedness?—and she didn’t know which of them she felt more sorry for, except that pity is not a competition.
One night after Anna finished putting Elke to bed, she came into the parlor where Millie was sitting with a copy of Der Weg and took one of the chairs opposite her. Her hair had stopped falling out, and she’d put on a few pounds, but the improvements were only cosmetic. Pain brimmed like tears in her eyes. The full mouth that used to look as if she was about to take a bite of li
fe was now a gaping wound in her face.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she said.
“About what?”
“King Solomon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about being a mother. About what Elke needs, not what I want. She’s miserable with me. Time isn’t going to change that. Maybe she’ll get used to me, but she’ll never forgive me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s true, and you know it. She’s happier with Frau Kneff.”
“So what are you going to do, give her back to Frau Kneff?”
“I have my name down for a flat.”
“I thought you had your name down to immigrate to the States.”
“I do, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Millie was incredulous. “You’re going to stay in Germany? You’re going to give up your daughter but stay in the graveyard of the Jews to be near her?”
“I’m going to stay where Elke can be happy. When the flat comes through, Frau Kneff can come live with us.”
“And you’ll be Aunt Anna?”
“Better a loved aunt than a hated mother.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Millie said, but she was, in a way. “You realize you’re sacrificing yourself for a child’s whim?”
“It’s not a whim. It’s the only world Elke has ever known. It’s five years of love and care and a thousand little things I’ll never be part of. It’s the foundation of her life. I can’t knock that out from under her. You call it a sacrifice. I say it’s what parents do for children. That’s what I did when I gave her away in the first place. That’s what thousands of parents did when they sent their children off on Kindertransports. That’s what your parents did when they let you and David go.”
It hadn’t happened quite that way, though that was the way Millie had made it sound to Anna. The only consolation for Anna’s decision was that the flat wasn’t likely to come through quickly, and Millie would make sure that Anna’s name stayed on the list for immigration to the States. Anna was bound to change her mind. And Elke was bound to come around. The scars of childhood remain, but the convictions and prejudices are less steadfast. It would just take time, Millie told herself again. But what, it suddenly occurred to her, if they went back in time rather than forward? She was still toying with the thought when she saw the display of picture frames in the PX.
Years earlier when the visas had come through, her mother had divided among the five suitcases more than the Leica lenses, the remaining jewelry, and the little money left. She’d also divvied up the family photographs. The lenses, jewels, and money would be valuable. The pictures would be priceless. These days the photograph of her parents on the beach at Wannsee stood propped up on the mantelpiece in the parlor, the picture of her father in his uniform wearing the Iron Cross Second Class on the dresser in David’s room, and the snapshot of her and David and Sarah again on the beach at Wannsee on the childish chest of drawers in the small room she’d moved to. Sarah’s hand puppet was there too, but tucked in a drawer rather than on display.
Her mother had packed other photographs as well. She’d gone through album after album choosing pictures of family celebrations and holidays and rites of passage. One snapshot that had ended up in Millie’s suitcase had been taken at the lake the summer she had perfected her dive and Anna had met Sigmund. In it, Meike and Anna are standing side by side in their one-piece woolen suits, all the rage that year, with their arms around each other’s waists and their mouths so happy you could almost hear the laughter bubbling out of them. Sleek bobs curl forward on both their cheeks, and even in black and white, the radiant richness of Anna’s hair comes through. Millie had never put that picture out in the States. There wasn’t space. And how much misery could she court? But after she placed the other three photos in the new frames from the PX, she took the one of her and Anna, slipped it into a small silver-plated frame, centered it on the breakfront in the parlor, and stood staring at it. The photograph was beginning to yellow with age. The world it captured had faded completely. It seemed impossible that they’d ever been so happy. It seemed impossible they’d ever been so blind.
The photograph stood there unnoticed by anyone except her for a few days. If Anna did spot it, she didn’t say anything. Perhaps all that joy was too painful for her. Or perhaps she was willfully blind.
Then, one night Elke came into the parlor to say good night. Anna insisted on the ritual, though Millie wished she wouldn’t. Forced gratitude is worse than ingratitude. At least she no longer curtsied. That had been a holdover from Frau Kneff, not as bad as a Nazi salute, but an expression, Millie couldn’t help thinking, of the same instincts. She was wearing pink cotton pajamas and a pink flannel robe, again from the PX, and Anna had braided her hair into two long plaits tied with pink grosgrain ribbon. She was a beautiful girl with the saddest mouth Millie had ever seen on a child. Even the street urchins who scuffled over cigarette butts didn’t look so lost. They were too busy fighting for survival.
Elke said good night and was about to turn to leave when something caught her eye. Instead of heading out of the room, she walked to the space between the windows where the breakfront stood and leaned closer to get a better look at the photograph. She turned back to Millie. “Who’s that?”
“You don’t recognize us?”
“I know that one is you.” She pointed to Millie in the snapshot. “But who’s the other lady?”
Millie stood and crossed to stand behind Elke. She put her hand on the birdlike shoulder. “Look closely, Elke.”
Elke looked but said nothing.
Millie picked up the frame and bent until her head was beside Elke’s. “Doesn’t she look familiar to you?”
Elke still didn’t speak.
“It’s your mama.”
“No.” She started to pull away, but Millie kept a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes. Look again.”
Elke stood with her face averted, as if she were afraid to look again. Millie took her chin in her hand and gently turned her back to the photograph.
“Don’t you recognize her?”
Elke stood staring at the snapshot.
“I’m the one on the left and your mama’s the one on the right. It was taken a long time ago, before you were born.”
“She’s pretty.” Elke didn’t so much speak the words as breathe them.
“Would you like to put the picture on the mantel in your room?”
Elke pulled away. “No.”
Millie grinned. “Good. I was only being nice. I prefer it here. That way I can look at it as much as I want.”
As Elke started out of the room, she glanced back at the photograph. Millie had the feeling she was having second thoughts about not wanting it, but that might have been wishful thinking.
* * *
The photograph didn’t change anything, not really. Elke remained sullen and angry. She went on periodic and focused food strikes. Some nights she closed her mouth against soup, others potatoes, still others meat. Her tantrums continued. But then, a week or two after the night she’d spotted the photograph, Anna reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull it away. A few days after that, she reached for Anna’s hand. When she did, she looked up at Anna with an expression Millie couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t love. Millie wouldn’t go that far. All she knew was that it didn’t look like hatred either.
* * *
Perhaps Millie’s displaying the snapshot helped, but David was the one who saved the day. That hadn’t been his intention. He wasn’t thinking of Elke. He certainly wasn’t concerned about Frau Kneff. He was trying to help the Zelinskys, a young couple he’d worked with in the DP camp who were now living in a flat on the outside, as the expression went. The rest was an unintended consequence.
David didn’t talk about his war experience, and of course he didn’t even hint at whatever he was doing in intelligence now, but he didn’t mince words about the misery of the sick, lonely, and a
bandoned displaced persons, or the licentiousness of those who’d gone so numb to pain and death that only a moment of pleasure, or at least gratification, could light a spark of life. Occasionally, however, in moments of optimism, he admitted that wasn’t the whole story. As the bar mitzvah in the desecrated cemetery had shown, hope refused to die. In German town halls, Jewish men and women were registering their marriages, though sometimes they had to compensate for their lack of proper papers with their rations of American cigarettes. In German hospitals, Jewish women were giving birth to Jewish babies. On German streets, Jewish mothers were parading their offspring in carriages and strollers. And not only was hope rearing its head; happiness was beginning to show its face. But as Harry Sutton might have put it, the situation wasn’t all beer and skittles.
Many of these proud new mothers had been weakened and broken by years in concentration camps. The problems weren’t only physical. They knew nothing about caring for newborns or infants or toddlers. They had no mothers or grandmothers or aunts to teach them. But what they, or the Occupation, did have was a surfeit of hungry German women, many of them widowed by the war and made childless by the bombing. Only a recalcitrant fool, David said when Millie protested that she didn’t like entrusting Jewish babies to German women, would resist the obvious solution. Suddenly it was not unusual to see those proud Jewish mothers, and sometimes fathers, who had no more experience in being a spouse or a parent than their wives, parading those carriages and strollers accompanied by a German woman, all three of them fussing over a small beribboned miracle, the future of the world.
In this particular case, Mr. Zelinsky had come to David’s office. He was, he apologized, at his wit’s end. For months he and his wife, who had met right after the liberation of Buchenwald, had done nothing but talk about the coming baby, plan its future, speculate on its likely characteristics, debate its name. Aaron after his late father, if it was a boy; Miriam after his wife’s late mother, if it was a girl. Though he wanted to honor his father, he confided to David that he loved the idea of having a little girl called Mimi.
Everything had gone splendidly. Mimi had arrived on time. The delivery had not been too difficult, though, the young father blushed, who was he to talk of difficult or easy? He wasn’t the one who had given birth. She was a gorgeous baby with ten wondrous fingers, ten wondrous toes, and a head full of dark ringlets that hadn’t fallen out. And his wife, the baby’s mother, was terrified of her.
The Living and the Lost Page 17
