by Jeanne Moran
“And he’s getting crazier about getting sick.” She plopped beside me which made her curls bounce. “You know how he stays an arm’s length away from everyone?”
I nodded, remembering how he stepped away from her once she’d moved that puppy. The useless eater Werner had called it. That’s where I’d heard the word recently. Useless.
“Now he’s so afraid of getting sick,” she continued, “that he drinks a health tonic every morning and takes cod liver oil and a dozen vitamins. He’s taken to sleeping with a mustard plaster on his chest and a hat on his head.”
“I’d like to get a picture of that!” I said, laughing.
Rennie grinned, her expression conspiratorial. “Have you ever seen him when someone coughs or sneezes?”
“I don’t think so. What does he do?”
“This.” She stood, drew a sharp breath, and lifted her hands to cover her face. Then she bent at the waist, made wet spitting sounds, and rushed to a pretend sink. There she cupped her hands and lifted them to her face over and over, spluttering. Then she rubbed her hands together and wrung them repeatedly.
“All because of a sneeze?” I couldn’t stop laughing at her antics.
“A sneeze or a cough. Sometimes he even changes his clothes.” That got us started in another round of giggles. “It’s a good thing he doesn’t do that while he’s on duty as Youth leader. I can’t imagine fifty boys splashing their faces when someone sneezes.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“The boys do what he does, like he’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”
I remembered the story. When the Piper played on his magic flute, rats poured out of homes and followed him. If the Piper turned, the rats turned. If the Piper stopped, the rats did too. Eventually, the Piper led the rats to a cliff where they fell off and drowned.
Rennie continued in a softer voice. “Can I tell you another secret?” Again I agreed. “I’ve thought about ways to change that story. Rewrite it.” I waited while she focused her thoughts. “A rat could bite the Piper’s ankle so he couldn’t walk. Or break the pipe so it doesn’t play.” A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Or maybe the whole pack of rats could turn on the Piper and push him off the cliff.”
I was surprised. Usually Rennie spoke so kindly.
She seemed embarrassed. “Horrid, I know.” Her silver eyes searched my face expectantly. “But I do think that sometimes. It makes me wonder how he’ll be after he goes through the Adolf Hitler School.” The school provided training for young men to become Schutzstaffel, elite SS officers.
“I didn’t know he applied.”
She nodded. “It’s a good place for him. He’d never make it in the trenches with the Wehrmacht. Too messy.” I had to agree. “But the school will give him more training on how to make people follow. That’s what I don’t like.” She patted my hand. “Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Tell me a secret.”
My eyes darted to the pine trees and Rennie followed my gaze. “What? What’s there?” I remained silent, unsure if I should share that particular secret with anyone. Her voice tinged with hurt, she whispered, “Don’t you trust me?”
I shifted a little and turned to her. “Aside from my mother, I never told anyone.”
She glanced at the trees and then back at me. “Told anyone what? Come on, Sophie. You can trust me.”
That was true. Rennie was a good secret keeper. But I didn’t know what she’d think of me once she heard the story. I glanced around to make sure I wouldn’t be overheard, then leaned closer and whispered, “It’s about Esther Kauffman.”
Rennie’s eyebrows pulled together. “The Jewish girl from our class? Didn’t she move?”
I nodded. “When we were ten or eleven.”
Rennie turned to me, her silver eyes intent on mine, her whisper a match for my own. “What about her?”
I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. Protected like that, I took a deep breath and began. “Our backyards faced each other, so Esther and I played together often when we were little. We especially liked playing spy, looking for clues to something or other.” Rennie nodded, either remembering that fact or encouraging me to continue. “A couple years before they moved, the SA stationed an armed guard outside Herr Kauffman’s tailor shop because they were Jewish. His customers, even the loyal ones, were frightened away. His business dried up. The Kauffmans couldn’t afford to stay there and had to move.”
“You must have been sad to see her go.”
I shrugged. “Yes and no.” I lowered my head and spoke to the ground. “The SA scared me, with their uniforms and their guns. Plus I heard rumors about the Jews…” I chanced a brief look at Rennie and searched her face. Seeing no reaction, I dropped my gaze again. “I didn’t want anyone to know I had a Jewish friend. I was afraid I’d get in trouble. So I made sure we played indoors or in the courtyard behind our homes where no one would see us.”
It was probably only a few seconds before Rennie spoke, but it felt like an eternity. Her voice was soft. “Did you get to say goodbye?”
I nodded. “The night before they moved. Esther and I agreed to keep in touch with notes stuffed in a pickle jar and buried at the base of those trees.” I pointed. “When we were younger, we dug for clues there during our spy games, so we both knew the place.” I tipped my head toward Rennie and was glad to see a small smile there. “She and her father were just moving to the other side of Munich, so she expected to come here to the park from time to time.”
Rennie turned to me. “And your friendship with her would stay secret.”
I nodded. I wanted to ask her what she thought about that, if she’d still be my friend after this confession. Clearly it showed that I wasn’t a true friend, one who would stand by steadfastly. But somehow, this story had unplugged a dam and my words wouldn’t stop until all had poured out.
“The day they moved was the day our Jungmädel troop toured the Residenz Palace.” Rennie made a “Hmm” sound. She remembered the day, so I continued. “We walked single file to the Palace, all of us in our uniforms and Anna in the lead. We went right past the Kauffman’s shop.
“When we got close, Esther and her father were loading bags into a truck. They both waited, watching us. Someone at the front of our line sniggered and called them names. Maybe it was Anna, maybe one of the girls. I never knew because I was at the end of our line. Anyway, as I passed Esther, our eyes met. She took half a step toward me as if to reach out and hug me one last time.” I closed my eyes and pictured Esther’s silent expression, her dark eyes pleading for connection, for caring, for the friendship that had once been ours. My voice caught. “But I walked right past her. I was ashamed to show our friendship in public.”
Long silent moments passed and I peeked over at Rennie. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I knew Esther from school,” she said. “I could have stopped to say goodbye, too. So you’re not the only one.”
I shook my head. “You and Esther barely knew each other, but she and I were friends. I should have stood by a friend.” After a few shuddering breaths, I pushed on. “In those first months, we stayed in touch with notes in the pickle jar and she never mentioned how hurt she must have been. I shared news from our neighborhood – a new baby down the street, someone going on a trip, a film I’d seen at the cinema, that kind of thing. Her notes were different, sad and frightened. She wasn’t allowed in school anymore, and her father had to sew everything by hand since the Party took his sewing machine.” I shook my head. “He didn’t make much money. They had to share an apartment with other Jews, people they didn’t even know, just to make ends meet. Every time I read one of her notes…” I stopped to focus my thoughts.
“We wrote regularly, probably once a week, placing the notes in the jar when we could.” I closed my eyes again and tried to hold my breath steady. “One day, I noticed she hadn’t picked up my last note. Another week or two went by,
and it was still there. I began to worry. When a month passed and that note was still there, I was afraid for her.
“So I told my mother everything and asked her what to do. She was horrified. She said I could get in trouble for having a Jewish friend. She told me to concentrate on pulling up my mathematics grades and forget about Esther and silly notes.” I sniffed. “How could I forget?” I lowered my legs, propped my elbows on my knees and leaned my forehead onto my hands.
Rennie’s hand rested on my shoulder. “When was the last time you checked for a note?”
I shrugged. “Probably a year ago.”
“Do you want to look now?”
I nodded slowly and, after making sure we were unseen, I led her to the spot. I scraped a stick across needles and soft earth which stirred up a sharp piney scent. Once the stick hit a hard surface I tossed it aside, scrabbling through the loose soil with my bare hands. When I’d cleared enough metal lid and glass to grab, I wiggled and tugged and pulled out the jar. Small globs of dirt spattered us. I twisted off the lid and pulled out the lone folded paper, musty and wrinkled. “This is the last note I wrote.” I showed it to Rennie. “We always signed with initials, just S and E. Part of our spy games.”
Rennie stared at the jar, its empty interior and its outside clotted with dirt. She shuddered. “It’s spooky, isn’t it? I mean, where did…” her words trailed off.
I responded slowly. “At first, I liked to think they were traveling on holiday, or maybe they’d left the country – I’d heard of other Jewish families doing that. But I’ve heard rumors, I guess we all have, about Jews going to work camps.” I stopped speaking and Rennie didn’t ask any more questions.
A few minutes passed and I stood, stretching my aching legs and back. “I don’t need this anymore.” I crumpled my old note and threw it in an overflowing bin several meters away. Rennie shoved the empty jar back in the hole and started to bury it, but I interrupted her. “I’ll throw the jar out too.”
Those dark curls of hers bobbed in a hopeful question. “What if Esther comes by someday? Don’t you want some way for her to get a message to you?”
I hesitated but eventually agreed. I guess it wasn’t risky, not really, and it did help me feel less guilty.
Since I’d already gone this far I forged ahead. “I hope you don’t think poorly of me for telling you the biggest secret of all.” Rennie’s eyes widened and I gulped. “When these horrible things happened to Esther, I was sad for her. But I was awfully glad they didn’t happen to me.”
There. I said it.
Rennie hugged me. We sat in silence for a long, long time.
Chapter Three
Shadows
25 April, Monday
I gobbled dinner, changed into my BDM uniform, and hurried downstairs. Klaus waited there in his starched brown HJ uniform, his blond hair wet combed and his eyes bright as a spring morning. “We’ll be home after the activity,” he called to our mother, then stepped onto Reichenbach Strasse without waiting for a response.
I followed him. “So where are we going?”
“To meet up with other Youth.”
“Where? What will you be doing? What am I taking pictures of?”
Klaus clucked his tongue. “You’ll photograph whatever the Scharführer wants you to photograph.”
“But I like to plan my shots…”
He flashed a smile my way. “Of course you do. You like things predictable and safe. Otherwise you’ll just skitter off like the cat you are.” I gulped. He faced forward again and gazed at something only he could see. “I like the challenge of split second reactions.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re a good boxer.” And a nasty fighter.
Another smile. “That’s my dream. To be a world-class boxer.”
“I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. For now, I just want to box.”
It was hard to keep up with his ever-changing dreams.
He cut his eyes to me. “What about you, little cat? What’s your dream?”
I didn’t trust him with anything that intimate. “I want to get better at photography.”
“Tell me something I didn’t know,” he said, chuckling.
I was still weak and achy from that lingering flu, but I did my best to match his long strides, the oversized camera bag bumping my hip. We stopped in a narrow street behind our old grammar school. The brick building had been an empty shell for a year or so since the Party closed it. I wondered where Sister Immaculata and the other nuns of the parish had gone. They were better teachers than those at my new Party-approved school.
A dozen or so Youth in uniform clustered in the street. Erich was there, and he gave me a small smile. My heart pounded.
“Most of you know my stepsister Sophie.” Klaus poked his thumb toward me. “She’ll photograph our,” he snickered, “our activity later tonight for the newsletter.” A sly smile spread across his face, one that I knew meant trouble. He turned to me. “Wait here. No photos yet.”
Even if my camera had been ready, I wouldn’t have been quick enough to photograph everything that happened next. Boys picked up rocks. Threw them at our old school. Glass shattered and crashed. Again. And again. Boys whooped. Reached through jagged edges of windows. Unlatched and pushed frames upward and climbed into the dark school.
My heart jumped and raced and my breath tried to catch up. But my body stood frozen.
Klaus. Why would my stepbrother vandalize our grammar school? And Erich. Where was he? I’d lost sight of him when the first window broke.
Footfalls, crashes, and shouts echoed through the empty building. In no time, the boys climbed through the shattered windowpanes, raised fists holding booty.
Crucifixes.
Brass crosses high and glinting in the late day sun, the boys raced down the street, hollering. Horror poured lead into my legs. Klaus gestured for me to follow. I didn’t, I couldn’t. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me along, stumbling and silent. Ahead of us, Erich ran with the pack.
When the boys hopped on a streetcar, Klaus practically had to lift me up beside them. I sat staring at my fingernails, out the window, anywhere but at the loud and rowdy boys with their shiny prizes. I definitely couldn’t look at Erich.
As we neared the Haus der Deutschen Kunst, the art museum, Klaus tugged my arm and we followed the boys off the streetcar. They fell into formation and paraded, right arms raised in salute, past the Party guards posted at the museum, then broke off and raced each other into the English Garden Park. Klaus’ firm pressure pulled me after them.
We reached an empty field where a brass crucifix had been propped against each of a dozen thin trees. The boys stood at attention in front of the pacing figure of the Scharführer. Klaus released my arm and fell into place beside them.
“Ah, here’s our photographer, at last,” Werner whined. “Come, come. Don’t be afraid, Adler. Photograph our excellent Youth during their target practice. Show their camaraderie, their focus, their intensity, and their joy.” He raised an eyebrow and continued. “Don’t show the targets. The targets are,” he hesitated, “unimportant.” He gave each boy a handgun.
Crucifixes used for target practice. My heart pounded and my hands shook as I obediently opened the large bag and lifted the camera.
“Eins.” The boys stiffened.
“Zwei.” The boys raised their guns and took aim.
“Adler,” Werner scolded, “You aren’t ready.”
He was right. I wasn’t ready. Not with my camera, not with my thoughts, not with any part of me. I took a deep breath and glanced around quickly. “Excuse me bitte, I’m on the wrong side for the photo. I need to stand over there,” I pointed to the other side of the line of boys, “with the sun at my back.”
“Ja, ja.” He waved a hand. “Schnell!”
The boys froze in their ready pose while I hurried behind them. Erich’s eyes followed me part of the way, but I couldn’t think about him. I refocused my camera, chec
ked my lighting, and nodded to Werner.
“Drei.”
Waves of deafening blasts pounded my ears and I stiffened against the jarring force. Click.
Again and again, noise assaulted me, metallic pings, dull thuds, triumphant shouts. I trembled, but I focused. Click. Click.
Steady hands on guns. More blasts. Click.
Smoke at gun barrels. Concentration etched on faces. Click.
Just the boys. No targets. Click.
My nostrils burned, my aching ears buzzed, and my head throbbed. Thankfully, one by one, the boys lowered their smoking weapons.
If I hadn’t been assigned to photograph the event, I know what I would have done – run home at the first sign of this sacrilege. But I’d mustered up the courage to stay and finish my assignment.
I glanced at the camera. Two exposures left. I started to pack up when white chalky smudges on the sharkskin caught my attention. Papa’s floury fingerprints. “Photograph the truth,” he’d told me. “The whole truth.”
So this is what Papa meant. The dented crosses, the spent shells told the whole truth. I could capture that in two photos, as I’d promised. Now that would take real courage.
Erich walked over. “You have film left?” I noticed his hands trembling. From excitement? Fear?
“A couple shots.”
Then Werner’s voice was behind me. “Then you’ll photograph the first aid demonstration for our Youth newsletter.” He pressed his fists to his hips and shifted his gaze from the camera to my face, waiting.
What else could I do? I tucked the camera in its case and snapped the bag shut. But the back of my throat thickened. I’d just broken a promise to Papa. I was one of those cowards Papa talked about.