The Watcher

by Joan Hiatt Harlow

  Frau Messner nodded. “She did have a difficult day.” She handed my coat to Adrie.

  Rikka and Gertrude were standing nearby, watching me with shaking smiles as if they were about to burst into laughter.

  “Don’t you want to say good-bye to the other girls?” Adrie suggested in English as she reached into her purse for her keys. “Surely, you should at least apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what?” I demanded. I looked directly Gertrude and Rikka, who stood behind Adrie. “Rohlinge!” The German for “cruel brutes” came out of somewhere in my brain. I spit the word in a loud whisper at their leering faces, and then stomped down the stairs and out to the car.

  Still shaking from anguish over Johanna’s arrest, I waited for Adrie. I could hear her say something in a soothing voice to Frau Messner before she followed me to the car.

  Without a word, I climbed into the passenger’s seat. Adrie started the car and backed out into the street. I dreaded the drive home.

  34

  The Ride Home

  For a short while, neither Adrie nor I said anything. Part of me wanted to tell her how sad I was. I wanted to ask her if she could help Johanna. I needed a mom who would understand, who would love me, and who would make everything all right—like my mom back in New York.

  I knew, though, that the most important person in Adrie’s life was not me. It was Adolf Hitler.

  Adrie finally spoke. “Do you want to tell me what happened today?”

  “You know already, don’t you?”

  “Only what I heard from Frau Messner—that Johanna was taken away by Reichsführer Himmler.” Adrie shook her head. “She told me that you ran out of the building in tears.”

  “You heard right.”

  “How do you feel about this? About Johanna?”

  “Johanna was . . . is . . . a good friend, a good person, a good German.” I realized it was not easy to pretend after all.

  Adrie drew a deep breath. “No, she’s not a good German.”

  I sat up straight in my seat. “There are criminals who steal, who cheat, who murder . . . but they will salute Hitler. Who is the better German—the criminals who disobey the law? Or some quiet, kind person like Johanna, who only asks for her right to worship God first?”

  Adrie was silent for a long time, thinking. Then she said, “If everyone believed as Johanna and those Bible Students, no one would fight, and we’d lose the war.”

  “If everyone believed as she does, there would be no war.” I turned my face to the window. “What those two girls did was unforgivable. They set the whole thing up just to see Johanna taken away.”

  “You knew girls like that in Maine—the Crystals. They were cruel to you.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted. “But they didn’t send me away to be killed.”

  “What do you mean? No one is going to kill Johanna.”

  “No? Herr Himmler told her she’d die like her brother—with her head cut off!”

  We were almost home when she said, “You have the wrong attitude. You don’t put the Third Reich first in your life.”

  “Of course I don’t. I’m not your perfect, Aryan, German maiden.”

  “I don’t expect you to be perfect.”

  “I can’t believe in or trust in the kind of government that is murdering thousands of Jews every day.”

  Adrie bristled. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

  “I’ve heard it . . . from lots of people.”

  Adrie put her foot on the brake, and the car squealed as she pulled up to the sidewalk and stopped. Then turning to me, she said angrily, “I want you to tell me right now where you ever heard such a thing.”

  I was suddenly fearful of Adrie. I would never tell her that Johanna confided in me. I certainly could not tell her that Opa and Barret had told me it was true. “I . . . I don’t know where I heard it. Just talk.”

  “It was Johanna, wasn’t it?”

  “She told me how her people were being killed.”

  “Her people deserve to die. They are traitors!” Adrie’s voice rose.

  “Is it true or not?” I demanded. “Are thousands of Jews being killed every day?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she sputtered. “S-sometimes I feel like sending you to a disciplinary school to Germanize you. Maybe then you’d learn to see the good things our Führer has promised for our Fatherland.”

  I felt as if a knife had stabbed me. I folded my arms across my chest to stop the pain. “You don’t mean that, Adrie, do you?” I asked, tears brimming again. “You’re my mother. Would you really send me away to one of those places?”

  Adrie sighed, rolled her eyes, and then shook her head. “No. I only want what is best for you.”

  “Then let’s not talk about this anymore. Please. Can we just go home? All I want in this whole world tonight is to climb into bed and hug my dog.”

  To my surprise, Adrie reached out and touched my face. “I do love you, Wendy. I realize you are not German. That is my fault, for letting you live in the States. The only thing I want in this world is for us to be together and believe in the same cause.”

  “Adrie, you just told me that no one is going to kill Johanna. If that is so, is there anything you can do to guarantee that? Is there some way you can get her out of the camp?”

  Adrie looked into my eyes for a long time, then turned away, started up the car, and began driving again. “I can’t do anything to help her.”

  We drove along in silence until we reached our driveway. Adrie then slammed on the brakes and turned to me. “And I wouldn’t do anything, even if I could.”

  35

  The Three of Us

  I had a terrible headache that night. Yet, as sad and disturbed as I was, I fell asleep as soon as Watcher climbed onto my bed and snuggled against my legs. I did not want to think about Johanna—I knew I would stay awake all night if I allowed myself to remember everything that happened that day.

  Yet I could not get away from my dreams. I saw Herr Himmler with his sickening smirk. He hovered over me like a grimacing ogre—an evil man despite all his adoring fans.

  Then I was back in Maine with my friend Jill Winters. She and I were sitting on the floor by the radio, listening to her famous father sing “The White Cliffs of Dover.”

  In my dream Adrie called out, “Turn off that radio! Anyone listening to that music will be put to death!”

  I woke up, shaking. My headache was pounding, and now my throat was sore. I reached out for Watcher, who was sleeping at the foot of my bed. “Come here, boy,” I whispered.

  He crawled closer, and I put my arm around him, falling back into a restless sleep.

  The next morning, Thursday, Watcher and I were up before Adrie left for work at the Abwehr office. When we went downstairs, she was sipping coffee at the dining-room table with the newspaper spread out before her. “Frieda has a special breakfast for you this morning,” she said to me.

  “Why? Does she know everything that happened yesterday?”

  Adrie looked up. “Well, I told her some of it. She could tell you had been crying when you came home.”

  I went into the kitchen and let Watcher out into the yard. Frieda turned and smiled as she cracked an egg into a bowl and began whipping batter.

  Adrie followed me. “What are you going to do today, Wendy?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll take my dog for a walk, I guess.” I stayed at the open door, waiting for Watcher to come back. I could not see Adrie, but I could feel her penetrating gaze as I tried to be cheerful. My head was still pounding, and it hurt to swallow. I did not want to tell her. She would stay home, or get me to a doctor. I wanted to see Barret.

  Adrie put her cup into the sink and announced, “I’ve got to go to work. We are still looking for those White Rose members. It was bad enough that they distributed their pamphlets secretly. Now I hear they are painting their messages on walls and buildings.”

  “Why are you so worried about the White Rose?�
� I asked casually. “No one pays attention to what a few college kids are saying, do they?”

  “We can’t have our own people undermining our war efforts and saying slanderous things against our Führer.” Adrie took a small mirror from her pocket, checked her hair, and turned to me again. “I must go back to Munich for a few days. I hope you are well enough to be left alone again. After your reaction to what happened to Johanna, I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m not alone. Frieda is here.”

  “You’ll feel better once you go back to Lebensborn and face those girls who exposed Johanna. If they start in on you, let them see you do not give a hoot about them. Then they’ll stop harassing you.” Adrie picked up her briefcase from a nearby chair and headed for the door. “You should have done that with those girls in Maine. Instead you fell apart.”

  “I’m not the same girl I was when I visited Maine.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. See? Living here has made you a better and stronger person.” Adrie looked pleased as she went out the door.

  “Yes, I am stronger,” I answered.

  Frieda did make a special American breakfast—hot cakes with sweet syrup and lots of butter and thick slices of ham. I sank down at the kitchen table and allowed her to wait on me—even to tuck a napkin into the neck of my pajamas. The syrup felt good on my sore throat, but it was hard to swallow the ham. And even though the pancakes were soft, I could only manage to eat half of one.

  “Danke, Frieda,” I said, pushing the plate away.

  Frieda looked at me with concern. Then she came around the table, put her arms around me, and kissed me on the cheek.

  At her gentleness and affection, the tears came spilling out over my lashes and dribbled down my face, as if a dam had broken. I clung to Frieda and trembled as she held me. Adrie must have told her yesterday’s events at Lebensborn. It did not matter how Adrie may have told the story, all I needed was that hug and that show of affection.

  Later I was eager to get to the park, where I hoped Barret was waiting, but I walked slowly. My head pounded with each step. Watcher tugged and whined. He wanted to see Barret too.

  Barret was already there with his white cane, sitting by the fountain. I hurried over and sat down next to him. “I knew you were here because Watcher was so excited.”

  Barret reached out and grabbed both of my hands. “Wendy Vendy, how are you?” he asked. “I’ve been worried about you. You were so distressed when we talked yesterday.”

  “Barret, yesterday was the worst day of my life. I have never witnessed anything so cruel —not even in the scariest movies. Johanna says the Bible teaches us to love one another, including our enemies, and she stayed respectful even when Himmler said they had beheaded her brother. What an ugly monster of a man.” Once again the tears welled up in my eyes. “I’ll . . . probably never see her again.”

  Barret could not see my tears, but he had to have heard the distress in my voice, because he pulled me closer and put his arm around my shoulders. “Wendy Vendy,” he whispered, using his teasing name for me. “You are like a little sister—innocent and trusting. You have never been conditioned to circumstances like these.”

  I leaned against him. He felt strong and warm. “Why are the Bible Students hated so much?”

  “One reason is that their magazines are distributed all over the world, exposing what is going on here.”

  “Do you think Johanna has been killed?”

  “Honestly, we may never know.” Barrett seemed thoughtful, then asked, “Have you heard about the White Rose? They are speaking out too, in their own way.”

  “Yes. Adrie told me about them. She said they will be caught and punished.”

  To my surprise, Barret bent over and took off his shoe. Inside was a folded paper, which he pulled out and handed to me. “This is one of their leaflets. Opa read it to me.”

  “Having that paper is dangerous, Barret,” I warned, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Suppose someone found it on you.”

  “They’d know I couldn’t read it.” He laughed, and then said seriously, “But it wouldn’t matter. If I were caught with this, they’d suspect me—blind or not.” He whispered in my ear. “I wanted you to see there are Germans who are willing to speak up, even though they do so anonymously. Once you have read this, burn it immediately.”

  “I’ll be careful.” I took off my own shoe and tucked the folded leaflet inside. Then I sat back and faced my friend. “Barret, I want to leave Germany. I want to go home—back to the States. Opa said he’d help me.”

  Barret nodded and looked sad. “Ja, but if you go away, Wendy, I’ll be very lonely.”

  “You can come too! We’ll go together. We will find the way out of Germany. Watcher will come with us. As long as we have each other, we can do it.”

  Barret took a long sigh, and then shook his head. “I would be a burden.”

  “Barret, I have to have hope. Please do not tell me it’s impossible. I need to believe there is a way out. Go along with my dream. Even if it never happens, it’s comforting to pretend there is a way. We’ll make plans for the three of us. I will not go without you—even in my pretend world. We will all go together.”

  Watcher seemed excited, because he jumped up from the cement, put his front paws on Barret’s knees, and licked his face.

  “See? Watcher knows that the three of us can do anything!” I put my arm around Barret and hugged him. Then I whispered. “Barret, I must go home now. I’m not feeling well. My head is pounding and my throat is sore.”

  “It’s no wonder, after what you went through yesterday.” He reached for his cane and stood up. “Go home and get rested.”

  “Adrie will be away, so I’ll see you here on Saturday.”

  We walked to the sidewalk then turned in opposite directions. Watcher looked after Barret, as if undecided with whom he should go. I gave him a tug. “Let’s go home, Watcher.”

  The walk home seemed longer than usual. I felt hot and weak. When we reached the entrance at the back of our house, I was relieved to find the gate unlatched. We went inside and up to the terrace where Frieda was sitting at a table, drinking tea and reading mail.

  “Frieda!” I called. I did not recognize my own voice. “Frieda!”

  She looked up, puzzled, and then came to me. “Are you all right?” she asked in German.

  “I’m so ill,” I whispered. “It hurts to talk . . . and my head . . .”

  Frieda put her arm around my waist and felt my forehead with the inside of her other wrist. “You are burning up.”

  I felt myself my legs give out—and Frieda holding me. I knew I was about to faint.

  My shoe! What if someone finds the White Rose paper in my shoe?

  It was too late. I dropped into a deep hole of blackness.

  36

  Lost Time

  Where am I? I am deep in the sea—with icy water on my face and neck. I am turning over repeatedly in the waves. Shivering. So cold.

  I hear echoing voices far away. They are speaking German. I can’t understand. Is it Johanna? What have they done with Johanna?

  I try to call out. “Adrie! Frieda!” My voice is garbled.

  A man is speaking. He is forcing my mouth open. Get away from me. Are you Himmler? Do not take Johanna!

  Now . . . I feel cool facecloths and comforting words. Is it Mommy? My mommy in New York? Am I in New York? Is that my daddy holding my hand?

  I miss you, Daddy and Mommy. Please come for me.

  Over the next several weeks—or so I found out later—I was in a dark place, not knowing much of anything. Night and day dragged into one long nightmare. At times I knew I was in my room. Other times I thought I was back in Maine, or in New York. How disappointing when I realized I was still in Berlin.

  I was often aware of Frieda sitting me up in my bed, fluffing pillows, coaxing me to swallow the soft food she made for me—scrambled eggs, chicken soup, oatmeal. I was afraid to swallow because of the pain. I dreaded to hear footste
ps coming toward my room, because I knew someone would be forcing me to eat and drink.

  One morning Adrie brought water with icecubes and a straw to sip. “You must have fluids, Wendy. You are severely dehydrated.”

  I could barely speak. “No. Please.”

  “If you don’t drink, we will have to feed you with a tube down your throat. I will have a nurse come and force you to eat. You don’t want that, do you?” Adrie held the straw to my mouth, and I tried to sip—just the smallest amount—to satisfy her.

  “Shards of broken glass,” I whispered, pointing to my throat.

  “It’s time we called the doctor again. He has been here several times, but you probably don’t remember.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You have an infected throat. He coated your tonsils with iodine. You must remember that. You put up a big fuss.”

  I shook my head.

  Adrie left the room, and I could hear her speaking on the telephone in her bedroom. The overhead bedroom light was harsh and bright, and my eyes hurt; there was also the unbearable headache. My head pounded with every sound—squirrels quarreling in the big tree outside my window; dogs barking; telephones ringing; doors shutting.

  “The doctor is coming,” she said later, peering into my room. “I’m staying home again today. I cannot go back to Munich when you are so ill.”

  “Johanna?” I tried to ask about Johanna, but it hurt too much.

  “She is gone” was all that Adrie said.

  Frieda came into the room and spoke softly in German to Adrie. It was an effort for me to translate what they were saying. I wanted to hear only English.

  The doctor came. He forced my mouth open again, looked down with a light, then shook his head and spoke seriously to Adrie. I turned away and prayed they wouldn’t poke at my throat again.

  Suddenly someone shoved a rubber mask onto my face, and I smelled the sickening sweet scent of gas. I slipped back, deep into that strange sea where dreams and reality all melded together.