Risking Exposure

by Jeanne Moran

  Anna straightened, obviously looking for a compliment. “She wouldn’t have had time to shoot a second roll. I only left her alone a few minutes.”

  “You what?” the Youth leader screeched. “You left her alone when I ordered you to watch her?”

  Peter Massey took a couple lurching steps toward us.

  Anna hesitated and her voice broke a bit. “Don’t be mad, Werner. The crippled man was hurt. I’m a nurse and I had to…”

  Werner trembled and I thought he might strike her. She stopped speaking and slowly reached out her fisted hand and turned it palm up. The tiny note from Rennie lay there, crumpled. He read it, and then frowned at me. “You and my sister have been sending notes?”

  Klaus, Erich, and Anna exchanged glances. “That was written by Renate?” Klaus asked, obviously surprised.

  “Ja,” he said. “I know her handwriting. She and Sophie have been friends for many years. Always scheming and plotting, those two.”

  I smiled. Even at a time like this, thinking about Rennie made me smile.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked, shaking the note.

  “In the park,” Anna answered. “From what we could tell, Sophie dug up an old jar and buried it again. We checked – it was empty.”

  Werner stuffed the note in his pocket. “Little girl nonsense. Renate is fifty kilometers away. What I want to know is,” at this he leaned over me, “where is the other roll of film?”

  I didn’t answer. Peter Massey walked another meter or two toward us before his way was blocked by a knot of BDM girls waving flags.

  “You pledged loyalty to the Party, to the Führer,” he said to me, his tone threatening, pressing fists into hips and straightening to his full height. He towered over me, not hard to do since I sat in a wheelchair. “You of all people know the penalty for traitors. Do you denounce your pledge?”

  “You and Helga told me I’m not a member anymore. Remember? There’s no place in BDM for someone like me.” A strange sensation – a rush of heat to my cheeks and heart at the same time, some combination of pride and terror – surged through me.

  Erich fidgeted and studied me, worry plain on his face. I shifted my eyes down the curb, and Erich followed my gaze to where Peter Massey struggled through the crowd. Erich’s eyes widened briefly, then he turned to the others. “She must have left the film at the park,” Erich said abruptly. “Why don’t you three,” he gestured to Werner, Anna, and Klaus, “go look for it. I’ll wait here with Sophie.”

  My heart leapt but almost instantly, my hopes were crushed. “No, you three go,” Werner said. “When you find it, bring it to me.”

  Erich’s shoulders slumped as if air had been knocked out of him. He opened his mouth to argue, but I shook my head. With Werner’s mind made up, there was no point. Erich had to go.

  Peter Massey stopped his movement toward us and once again faced the procession, photographing.

  “And Anna,” Werner continued, “shame on you, letting a cripple get the best of you.” Anna hung her head.

  “Let’s bring Sophie with us,” Klaus suggested. “She can lead us to the film.”

  “No!” the Youth leader snapped. “This slippery girl stays with me.”

  I tried to keep my voice light. “Be back in fifteen or twenty minutes so you don’t miss anything you’ll regret.” Erich’s dark eyes widened and he gave a crisp nod and a hint of a smile. The three of them turned and headed toward the park and in moments, they blended into the crowd.

  I was on my own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Exposure

  W erner grabbed my wheelchair and spun it so I faced the Grandstand. “Our Führer is right across the street, Adler,” he announced, “and his men have binoculars. They can see everything. So no funny business. Understand?”

  I nodded and pretended to watch the procession. Peter Massey was close, so close. He didn’t know I had photos to give him.

  A crazy plan formed in my head, part desperation, part fear, part hope. I risked being seen – no, I definitely would be seen. By the Youth leader. By dozens of SS. By the Führer himself. But it had to be done. It was my only chance.

  As the moments passed, I sensed Werner relax behind me. I turned my chair a bit to my left where I could see Peter Massey still photographing. I tipped my face to the Youth leader. “Scharführer?” He leaned toward me, drawing close in an effort to hear me over the roar of the crowd. I whispered, so soft as to be barely audible. As I hoped, he pulled a bit closer to try to hear. I whispered a second time, and again, he drew closer. Once I was able to feel his breath hot against my cheek, I knew he was close enough. That’s when I did it.

  I sneezed in his face.

  Just as Rennie described months earlier, Werner’s hands flew to cover his face. He fumbled for a handkerchief, sputtering, spitting, cursing me, and wiping furiously. That gave me a few seconds of freedom.

  I pushed hard. “Herr Massey!” I called. “Peter Massey!” The Briton glanced my way, smiled, and started to walk toward me.

  But I was too close to the curb. My right wheels bumped to the street below. For a ridiculous moment the chair almost balanced, two wheels on the sidewalk and two on the street. Then it tipped over sideways. I threw my crutch forward and watched it skitter in the gutter toward Herr Massey just as my right shoulder crashed to the pavement.

  People screamed. Voices gathered around me. I blinked a few times, trying to focus as I gasped in pain. Peter Massey had stepped off the curb, picked up my crutch, and was moving toward me in his odd, lurching style. I wanted him to take the crutch and leave, but there he was, returning it to me. Didn’t he understand?

  “Thought you could get away that easily?” Werner hissed as he squatted beside me, his face now a healthy distance away.

  Two middle-aged women came over to help. “Does the girl need an ambulance?” one asked as the other righted my empty wheelchair.

  Werner’s voice took on a falsely pleasant tone, and he straightened. “Nein, danke, she’s with me.” He scooped me up from the pavement and plopped me roughly in my wheelchair. Knives seemed to pierce my right shoulder and I gasped and cradled my arm against my chest. Probably broken. “I’ll get her to a doctor.” The women murmured their good wishes and disappeared into the crowd.

  Herr Massey stood a meter or so in front of me, watching intently, holding my crutch and its hidden stash. I wanted him to understand.

  “I guess you won’t be pushing for a while, not with that shoulder.” Werner scanned the crowd and gestured at a pimply teen in an HJ uniform. “Find the ambulance.” The Youth saluted and left, and that’s when Werner faced me and hissed. “I’ll escort you to the hospital. When the doctors are finished, you can tell me where the film is. Or perhaps you’d care to tell the SS?”

  Herr Massey’s eyebrows shot up, creasing his forehead. The crutch was still clasped in his hand.

  I focused on the Briton. “I cannot finish my assignment,” I said wincing.

  Werner waved a hand in the space between Herr Massey and me. “This is no time for the press.”

  I stayed focused on Herr Massey. “I was to photograph the Youth.” I darted my eyes to the crutch and lifted my chin several times. I hoped the gesture would say, “Take that, please.”

  Werner looked from me to the Briton, then at the small crowd who watched our little drama. “Don’t you understand? The press isn’t needed here. This cripple is hurt, and we are waiting for the ambulance.” He shifted, obviously anxious to get Herr Massey away.

  “Can you complete the assignment for me?” I asked, my eyes moving between the crutch and Herr Massey’s face.

  He tipped his head and studied me. Again I pushed my chin toward the crutch in his hand. Suddenly his eyes widened. Understanding at last. He gave a quick nod and clamped the crutch’s cuff onto his forearm as if it were his own. “Always glad to help a fellow photographer.”

  I watched Herr Massey work his way through the throngs of spectators, his bright gre
en vest no longer lurching thanks to the stability of my crutch. Once and only once, he looked back at me and our eyes met. He lifted the crutch, tapped it, and waved. Weakly, I raised my good arm in acknowledgement.

  In minutes, I’d be on my way to the hospital. What would happen to me was anyone’s guess. But my photos were on their way to England. Maybe, just maybe, the world would see the whole truth.

  I closed my eyes. “Dear God, thank you for the courage.”

  I had nothing to feel guilty about. I had no regrets. I had done what I could.

  This story concludes in

  The Path Divided

  Check the author’s website for research photos, school visit info, and social media links.

  www.jeannemoran.weebly.com

  Glossary

  Altstadt: Old Town. The Medieval center of Munich.

  Anschluss: the occupation and annexation of Austria by

  Nazi Germany.

  Auf Weidersehen: Goodbye.

  Bahnhof: Train station.

  Bitte: please.

  BDM, Bund Deutsche Mädel: branch of the Hitler Youth for girls ages 14-18.

  Danke: thank you.

  Deutschland: Germany.

  Eins, zwei, drei: One, two, three.

  Fatherland: Germany.

  Frau and Fräulein: Mrs. and Miss.

  Führer: leader, used as Adolf Hitler’s title during the Nazi era.

  Great War: World War I.

  Gruβ Gott: God’s greeting, the traditional Bavarian ‘hello.’

  Guten Abend: Good evening.

  Heil Hitler: Hail Hitler, the accepted and expected greeting to be used by all Germans during the Nazi era.

  Herr: Mister.

  HJ, Hitlerjugend, Hitler Youth: Both the overall organization for children ages 10-18 and the branch of Youth specifically for boys ages 14-18.

  Ja: yes.

  Jungmädel: Branch of the Hitler Youth for girls ages 10-14. All transfers to BDM occurred on April 20th, Hitler’s birthday, once a girl reached age 14.

  Karnevale: an annual celebration the day before Lent, known in some other countries as Fat Tuesday.

  Königsplatz: a large open plaza in Munich, site of many Nazi Party rallies.

  Mach schnell: hurry.

  Marienplatz: a large pedestrian plaza in Munich, bordered by shops, restaurants, and the Old and New Town Halls.

  Mensch Ärgere Dich Nicht: A German board game similar to Parcheesi.

  Müncheners: Residents of Munich.

  Mutti: mom.

  Nein: no.

  Oktoberfest: a huge annual multi-day celebration which originated in Munich. Smaller versions are celebrated as harvest festivals in many locations worldwide.

  Party: the Nationalsozialistische deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP) – National Socialist German Worker’s Party, commonly called the Nazi Party.

  Reich: Empire. The Nazis called their plan for Germany’s expansion the Third Reich or the Thousand Year Reich.

  SA: Sturmabteilung. An independent, brazen group of Nazi soldiers known for their street thug style, SA were also called storm troopers or brown shirts.

  SS: Schutzstaffel. Known for their all-black uniforms, they acted as the Nazi Party’s notorious “Protection Squadron.”

  Scharführer: Master Sergeant.

  Schwabing: a Munich neighborhood.

  Schwärzwalder Kirchtorte: Black Forest cherry cake.

  Star on clothing: The Star of David, a yellow six-pointed star sewn on clothing or worn on an armband, used to identify people with Jewish heritage.

  Strasse: street.

  Uhr: literally hour. Similar to military time, Germans use a 24-hour clock, so 15 Uhr is 3 pm.

  Useless eaters: Term used to disparage people who did not contribute to the financial gain of the Reich.

  Vater: Father.

  Volk: People. During the Nazi era, the term was synonymous with people of Aryan heritage, their ideal Master Race.

  Wehrmacht: The German armed forces.

  Work camps: concentration camps.

  Author’s Note

  The seeds for Risking Exposure were planted early in my childhood. My roots are German – my grandparents emigrated from Germany during the 1920s. One set of grandparents lived in the apartment above ours and the other grandmother lived with us during my teen years. My sisters and I grew up surrounded by the language, food, music, and culture of their homeland. When I was old enough to learn about the Nazi years, I wondered as most people do: how could a civilized country allow such a thing to happen?

  Another story seed was planted within my own family. My sister Joyce was born with significant disabilities. She didn’t walk until she was five and never did learn to speak. By the world’s standards, Joyce was to be pitied and our parents praised for handling ‘such a burden’ at home. But the world was wrong. Aptly named, Joyce was the most joy-filled person I’ve ever met, and as such was my young life’s greatest teacher. From her, I learned to take pleasure in the warm sun on my face, a visit from a neighbor, or a cookie fresh from the oven. She was content with simple things, a trait I still admire. By example, she taught me that each of us has inherent value as a child of God regardless of our outward abilities. Because of Joyce, I chose to become a pediatric physical therapist. Causes which support children, people with disabilities, and those without a voice have always been my passion.

  At the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, I was well into adulthood when I picked up a pamphlet called “Victims of the Nazi Era: Handicapped.” That’s where I first learned of the Nazi pogrom which targeted people with disabilities. I was stunned. Why had I never heard of this pogrom? And what would have happened to Joyce or my patients if they lived there then? I dove into research. Within weeks, I knew I’d found the subject and the passion for my first book-length piece.

  I traveled back to Washington DC, to the Library of Congress where I handled and studied photos and the propaganda-laden newspapers which had been in circulation in 1938 Germany. There’s nothing quite like touching yellowed pages and faded images to connect one to past times.

  My daughter Katie accompanied me on a research trip to Munich. We stayed in the part of town where my fictitious Sophie lived, located the school and church she’d likely attend, even identified a spot for her family’s bakery. On walking tours of the city, we visited sites where book burnings, rallies, marches, and other Nazi Party activities took place, several of which appear in this book. At the Munich City Archives, we studied era maps of streets and rail lines as well as original photos. In all, the trip to Munich allowed me to get a sense for the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of that city which hopefully translates onto the page.

  Roots for the pogrom against people with disabilities, nicknamed T4, were laid down early in the Nazi regime. In an effort to define why Germany was slow to recover from the Great War, Party-controlled media churned out propaganda. Those newspaper articles, radio reports, public speeches, etc. defined the problem clearly: everyone who did not meet the Party’s standard of heritage and ability was to blame. Those outsiders, it was said, created an emotional and financial burden on the country. With mocking caricatures, twisted statistics, and demeaning language, the Nazi propaganda machine steadily poisoned German minds against their fellow citizens.

  The most well-known targets of Nazi propaganda and aggression were people with Jewish heritage. Romani and Sinti (Gypsies,) political adversaries, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and people with significant disabilities were also targeted by the tens of thousands. Under T4, an estimated 70,000 people with disabilities were murdered between 1939 and 1941. And yes, they were indeed called ‘useless eaters,’ meaning people who used the Reich’s resources without making a contribution.

  The T4 pogrom was a small piece of the horrible machine that was Nazi Germany. Since this bit of history connects both my heritage and my passion for people with disabilities, my own ignorance of it surprised and embarrassed me. Family and pe
ers often confessed that they too were unaware. Our ignorance is unacceptable. I set out to change that, to ‘do what I could’ as Sophie would say. And so, Risking Exposure was born.

  Since many students first learn about the Holocaust through The Diary of a Young Girl and Number the Stars, this book is geared toward middle grade and YA readers. My fervent hope is that subsequent generations learn and apply these lessons of history. Then we can all say, finally: Never Again.

  Acknowledgements

  This book’s journey from idea to publication took years. I’ve been blessed with incredible support and encouragement along the way. I’d like to thank:

  Nancy Butts, my instructor at Institute of Children’s Literature. She repeatedly urged me to find the heart of my story, and her honest purple pen kept me searching for it;

  Elisabeth Angermair, Librarian at the Stadtarchiv München, Munich Germany;

  Jeff Bridgers and Amber Paranick, Reference Librarians at the Library of Congress in Washington DC;

  David Rose, Archivist at the National Office of the March of Dimes, White Plains, NY;

  The amazing members of the Dietrich Endless Mountains Writers critique group, who tolerated a dozen new beginning chapters and endless revisions. Lauren Andreano, Joe Barone, the late Carlton Brown, Phyllis Cohen, Mary Fox, Hildy Morgan, Mary Slaby, Nora Stepanitis, Ann Vitale, Dale Wilsey, Lena Ziegler, and many others. Your suggestions enliven my writing and your friendships enliven my life;

  My beta readers – Ann Armezzani, Katie Barnett, Clay Bradley, Joni Bradley, Jalinn Chapman, Phyllis Cohen, Nicole Dixon, Virginia Fiore, Tara Gwyn, Emily Johns, Carolyn Kerkowski, Alyssa Kristeller, Brian Lucas, Abby Mappes, Karin Mappes, Kathy Moran, Michael Moran, Hildy Morgan, Mimi Palmere, Christa Parry, Judy VanHouten, Ann Vitale, Nancy Walter, Anna Wrobel, and Lena Ziegler. Your excitement about this book energized me when I flagged, and your recommendations helped me fine tune it;

  My sister-in-law Dana Perrow-Moran and my husband Michael for insightful, detailed editorial help;