by Joan M. Wolf
"All right," I told him. "I didn't know."
"You will get in trouble if you ever go in there."
"I understand, Peter. I understand," I said, smiling at him uneasily. He crossed his arms and planted his feet in a firm stance.
"Vater is a very important man, you know. Very important," he said.
Elsbeth appeared next to Peter, nudging him aside. "Come now, Peter. Leave Eva alone. Cook made some treats for you."
"Chocolate biscuits?" Peter's face broke into a grin, and he uncrossed his arms, looking like a little boy again.
"Of course! Hurry, while they are still warm."
We watched him run off to the kitchen, then Elsbeth turned to me, her face serious. "Peter's right. About both things."
"What things?"
"Vater has an important job in the Nazi party, and you will get in trouble if you go in there. It's his office and he keeps it locked. Not even Mutter is allowed in. Peter is allowed sometimes, but no one else. You must stay away." Her eyes locked on mine, and something in her voice told me I shouldn't ask any more questions.
Herr Werner both frightened and fascinated me. His eyes were like Fräulein Krüger's, pleasant on the outside but hiding something hateful and frightening inside. He was tall and muscular but had a round belly that protruded over his belt. His mustache was always perfectly trimmed, and yet his hair flew wildly about his face, as if he often ran his fingers through it. He wore a lot of cologne, but that never quite covered the other smells that constantly clung to him: cigar smoke, wine, and that same smell that hung in the air around the house.
I had been instructed to call him Vater, but I tried not to call him by that if I could. I could hardly get the word out of my mouth without choking.
He was nothing like my own papa, who was short and trim with dark, gentle eyes that folded into small wrinkles at the corners when he laughed. There was nothing mysterious or hidden about my papa. He was who he was: strict but fair and kind to everyone. And someday, I knew, my own papa would come for me.
Herr Werner seemed to have only a certain amount of kindness within him, as if it was something that would run dry if he used too much of it. He was rough and rude with his servants and barely tolerated Elsbeth and her mother. But with Peter he was always kind and gentle, showing a side of himself I would not have believed existed if I had not seen him playing with his son. Because of this, I did not trust him.
After two days of watching me wander through the house, Elsbeth grew tired of following. She became my guide, leading me through various rooms and telling me stories that went with each.
"This is our recreation room," she said, leading me down a staircase near the kitchen and into a huge finished basement. It was fully equipped with games, exercise weights, a phonograph, and a dartboard. One side had a huge floor-length mirror and another side had a ballet barre attached to the wall.
I nodded, not saying anything, letting her lead the way. Like every other part of the house, the basement was large and elegant, although it was cool and smelled musty. At one end was a hall that led to a room, about the size of the formal dining room, and an even smaller room off of that. Elsbeth stopped at the entrance to the first room.
"This," her voice became a whisper, "is for air raids."
I nodded. Even though the Nazis had been in Czechoslovakia for three years before I left, I had not experienced air raids until I was at the center. The raids had been frightening, horrible things that happened during the night. A shrill whistle from the guard awakened us, and we would spring into well-rehearsed action, covering the windows with blankets and huddling together in a lower-level room. There we would stay, listening to the windows upstairs rattle and shake as planes carrying bombs droned close overhead. Even though we always emerged safe, I never slept well for many nights afterward.
I had heard no such sounds since arriving at the Werner house.
"We are far enough away from the fighting," Elsbeth said, shaking me out of my thoughts. "But Vater is very important, you know, and we live very close to his work. He is the commandant of a prison camp." She looked at me and patted my arm. "But don't worry," she added, suddenly cheerful again. "We have never needed this place.
"And this," Elsbeth continued, "is a most special radio. It uses batteries and can be taken anywhere. Mutter has another one upstairs in her sewing room just like this one. She likes to stay informed as to how the war is progressing."
There was a war. It could be easy to forget that while living in this place, in the midst of such luxury and quiet. Were there really people still fighting against the Nazis? By now I was sure they must be in charge of the whole world.
I nodded again, following Elsbeth back upstairs. Besides their maid, Helga, and their butler, Erich, the Werners had the chauffeur, Johann, a groundskeeper, Karl, and a cook, Inge, all of whom lived in a smaller house close to the edge of the woods. Inge was old and wrinkly and very fat. The Werners never called her by her real name but referred to her simply as Cook, a name she seemed to embrace. She made the most delicious foods I had ever eaten. Her meals were rich and filling and mixed with spices and textures I had not tasted before.
Usually we children and Mutter ate in a small dining room off the kitchen. If Herr Werner came home from work early enough, the entire family would eat together in the formal dining room, which had a long dark wood table and a huge chandelier hanging above it. The crystals of the chandelier twinkled and glittered with light from the small candles hidden inside its dozens of crystal cups. Before dinner Helga would climb a ladder and light each candle individually. Even though there was an electric light nearby, the Werners were very proud of this antique chandelier.
My first dinner in the formal dining room took place on my third night in the Werner house. Cook served plates and plates of delicious foods: bratwurst, Wiener schnitzel, sauerkraut, and strudel.
"Did you enjoy your dinner, Eva?" Mutter asked as we finished dessert.
"Delicious, thank you." My voice sounded strange to me when I spoke, echoing in the large space of the dining room.
"We have only the best," Herr Werner replied, finishing the wine in his glass in one gulp.
I ate the last bite of my strudel and stood, taking my dish off the table and reaching for Elsbeth's at my side. An immediate and absolute silence filled the room, and everyone froze in place. Peter's eyes widened and he stared at me, his spoon in midair. I quickly put the plates back on the table and sat down, realizing I had done something wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Eva." Mutter's voice was firm. "The servants are here to clear the table. It is not proper for you to do this chore."
Everyone remained still, and the room stayed unearthly quiet. I braced myself for what was to come from Herr Werner, sure that beatings were within his nature.
Helga suddenly rushed in to clear the table, and her quick movement so startled me that I did what I had done repeatedly at the center.
"Heil Hitler!" I said, giving the Nazi salute toward the picture of Hitler on the wall. "I apologize to the Führer and to the family."
Mutter released a small sigh, and Herr Werner nodded at me and then at Helga.
Everyone relaxed while Helga finished taking the dishes away. I sat with my hands in my lap, looking down at the now-empty table.
For the rest of that evening and late into the night, something restless and ugly swirled inside me. I was bothered, but I wasn't sure by what. I tried to tell myself that it was because I wasn't used to having people serve me. But deep down I knew that wasn't really what had upset me.
My mind kept replaying the scene from dinner. I had made a mistake, and I had apologized by making the Nazi salute. It wasn't as if I had never made the salute before—I had made it every morning for two years at the center. What bothered me was how naturally it had come to me earlier that night—almost as if it was something I had grown up doing.
***
A few days later Peter came dashing into the sun
-room, dropped a letter in my lap, and ran back out. My hands began to shake as I opened it and realized it was from Franziska.
6 May 1944
Dearest Eva,
This letter brings you many good wishes. I have been adopted by the loveliest of families in Berlin. I understand you are living very close to us in Fürstenberg—only an hour by car, even less by train. You must come visit soon! I am also to understand that your father is a high-ranking Nazi. How lucky for you! My father is a Nazi soldier who works at the processing center here in Berlin. I have two younger twin sisters who are quite adorable. They keep Mutter and me very busy. I have also made two new friends, Hilde and Berta. We attend the school that is near our house. I have even become friends with a boy, Kellen, who shares many of my interests. Please write soon, Eva, and tell me all about your family. I look forward to receiving your letter.
Yours truly,
Franziska Schönfelder
I sat and stared at the letter for a long time. Franziska Schönfelder. Ruzha had faded to a distant echo: a shadow, no longer even so much as a name. I stood and paced the room, my stomach churning. Snatches of a conversation I had had with Franziska at the center replayed in my head.
"My family is dead," Franziska had said. "They were killed in an Allied air raid."
I looked down at the piece of paper and noticed that my hands were still trembling. Angrily, I ripped the letter into little pieces and threw it into the empty fireplace. Ruzha was gone forever, replaced by a German girl named Franziska.
***
As I adjusted to life with the Werners, I settled into the family's routine. Peter boarded the bus to attend school in Fürstenberg each morning, while Elsbeth and I stayed home for our training. We started with early-morning calisthenics, to keep our bodies healthy, and then turned to home economics lessons. In the afternoon we studied math or science, but we never went beyond simple addition and subtraction or the biology of children and race. Mutter had her teaching degree and provided all our lessons. But I found myself missing the kind of school we'd had at the center, with teachers and students and breaks for lunch. Mutter and Elsbeth were helpful and patient, but everything was the same, day after day, and boredom quickly set in.
One afternoon Mutter decided we needed to practice polishing silver so we would know how to prepare for entertaining important guests. The three of us were in the formal dining room near the large china cabinet where the silver was stored. Mutter reached into a drawer and took out a small jar of black polish. Its round shape and metal top brought back a memory of a similar jar I had once held in my hand. A jar of homemade hair straightener for Terezie.
I had always loved Terezie's hair, even though she had not. She had inherited the dark-brown curls of her aunt and despised the way they refused to be tamed. I would try to braid her hair, but it wouldn't stay in the braids for longer than a few hours. Then little puffs of hair would rebel and start escaping.
So one day we had tried using a hair-straightening remedy of my grandmother's. It consisted of a variety of foul-smelling kitchen ingredients, including vinegar and raw eggs, which we mixed together and put into a small jar that looked like the silver-polish jar. Terezie and Grandmother and I had spent an entire Saturday afternoon wrapping Terezie's hair in corn husks that we had soaked in the awful-smelling solution.
But after being released from the husks, Terezie's hair was even wilder than usual, and she didn't speak to me for a whole week after that. I tried everything I could think of to get her to forgive me, even passing notes of apology to her during class—a risky venture under our teacher's watchful eye. Terezie had finally responded to one of my notes in her perfect swirly handwriting. Dear Eva, she had written.
I shook my head. No, she hadn't written that name. She had written a different name.
"Eva."
I jumped and looked around, remembering that I was in the Werner dining room.
"Eva!" It was Elsbeth. She was shaking me.
"Eva, are you well?" Mutter, still holding the small jar of polish, came over and put her hand on my forehead.
"Yes. I ... I was just thinking." I looked at the jar in Mutter's hands.
"Well, you need to begin polishing," she said briskly, handing the polish to Elsbeth. "Peter will be home soon."
Mutter left the room, and I picked up a silver candlestick.
"Eva, oh, Eva...," Elsbeth called out in a singsong voice.
I turned to see that she had dabbed a small amount of black polish under her nose and chin to make it look as if she had a mustache and goatee. "Heil Hitler!" she said in a deep voice, and we both started giggling. Her antics kept me laughing and made the polishing go quickly.
Elsbeth was funny and smart and easy to like. I began to look forward each night to the time after dinner, when we would go to her room to knit or look through movie magazines. Sometimes we would talk about movie stars—which ones we thought were the most beautiful or whose clothes we liked best. Other times we would just sit quietly, letting the room fill with the soft clicking of our knitting needles.
One evening, when Elsbeth and I were in her room knitting scarves, the sound of laughter from the yard below brought us both to her window. Herr Werner was home early from work. He and Peter were in the yard, playing tag on the grass. Herr Werner was laughing, a deep belly laugh that boomed across the yard. We watched them play for a while, then went back to sitting on the bed. Elsbeth sighed.
"He likes Peter best, you know." Her tone was flat.
"What?" I asked, surprised by the certainty in her voice.
"He likes Peter best. He told me once. He thinks Peter will grow to be a fine German Nazi, ready to build the new Germany for Hitler. But me..."
I touched her shoulder. "I'm sure it's not that way. He's just busy or—"
"No," she said, looking past me toward the window. "It is that way. It will always be that way." She shook her head and forced a smile. "Let me show you the next stitch," she said, picking up her needles. Her hair fell in short waves above her shoulders, and her fingers worked with the yarn swiftly, her needles clacking lightly together and apart, together and apart.
Peter was a complicated part of Elsbeth's life. He knew he was the favored child, and he used his father's adoration to get his way at everyone else's expense. Sometimes Elsbeth appeared to only tolerate Peter. Other times she seemed to genuinely care about him and have true affection for him.
One afternoon Peter arrived home from school in a particularly grumpy mood. Unable to find anything to do, he began following Elsbeth and me, copying everything we said and did.
"Come on, Eva, let's go outside and sit on the grass," Elsbeth said.
"Come on, Eva," Peter copied, using a false, high-pitched voice, "let's go outside and sit on the grass."
"Just ignore him, Eva. He's an ill-mannered child," said Elsbeth.
"Just ignore him, Eva," Peter continued. "He's an ill-mannered child."
We walked out to the lawn in the back of the house. The smell was strong that day, but we ignored it, as we always did, and made our way to the edge of the grass where the woods began. Peter followed, walking as if he was wearing high heels. Kaiser trailed Peter, sniffing the ground and wagging his tail madly.
Elsbeth and I walked a few more yards. Then she turned suddenly and charged at her brother. Peter screamed in fright and took off running for the house with Kaiser close at his heels. But Elsbeth was too quick. She easily grabbed Peter and wrestled him to the ground, tickling him until he was giggling helplessly.
"Stop, Elsbeth! Stop! Please!" he begged.
"Are you going to stop following Eva and me?" Elsbeth had him pinned to the ground with her knees.
"Yes! Yes!" Peter choked out between giggles. "And do you admit that I am your queen and you are my slave?" Elsbeth demanded.
"No! You're nothing but a stupid girl!" Peter spit out, still giggling.
"Say it!" Elsbeth pulled off one of his shoes and socks and started tickling his toes. I
stood off to the side by myself but smiled, thinking of the times Jaro and I had fought like that.
"All right, all right. You are my queen and I am your slave," Peter muttered.
"Louder!"
"You are my queen and I am your slave!" Peter screamed, the sound reverberating through the trees at the edge of the woods. Elsbeth let go of his arms, and he lay on the grass, panting, while Kaiser licked his face. Suddenly, Peter sat up and reached for Elsbeth, trying to tickle her. But she was too big for him, and he couldn't get her down.
"Oh, Peter. Your nose," Elsbeth said. A small trickle of blood had begun to run from Peter's nose. "I'm sorry." She took a handkerchief from her skirt and began dabbing it above his lip.
"No, like this," I said, hurrying over to them. I squeezed the handkerchief on the bridge of Peter's nose, as I had learned in my first-aid lessons at the center.
"It's not bad," Peter said, looking from Elsbeth to me. "I won't tell Vater."
Elsbeth helped Peter up and slowly walked with him back to the house. I hung back, watching, and realized that I had come to genuinely care for them both.
***
Just as I enjoyed spending the evenings with Elsbeth, I also began to look forward to bedtime each night, when Mutter would come to my room to tuck me in. I loved the feel of her hands playing with my hair and the smell of flowers that always floated around her.
One night, several weeks after my arrival, she stayed longer than usual, running her fingers through my hair and humming softly. I was almost asleep when she spoke.
"Eva?"
"Yes?" I opened my eyes.
"What kind of cake is your favorite?"
"Cake?" I asked, confused.
"Well, we were going to surprise you, but..." Her voice was quick and sounded nervous. "There is going to be a party. In your honor. And I want Cook to make your favorite cake. It's an adoption party. For you. In your honor." Her words spilled out, stumbling over one another and repeating.
I could no longer feel her hands. It was as if my whole body had gone numb.
