by Cathy Gohlke
“Okay. That makes sense.” But as a Christian, I would have thought that was the norm for Christians, not considered radical or heretical.
“They opposed the expulsion of Jewish Christians from the clergy, opposed the rejection of Jewish Christians from their congregations and the Reich’s attempts to break up marriages between Jews and Aryans, at least those of professing Christians.”
“So what happened to them?”
Carl shrugged. “Some were arrested, sent to concentration camps, if they became a nuisance to the Reich. If they became a perceived threat, they might be shot; some more prominent members—especially clergy, or those determined to throw a spoke in the political wheel—were hanged.”
“And your parents?” I held my breath, almost afraid to ask.
“Did not do much.” Carl all but winced. “I am ashamed to say they did not do enough. I did not do enough.”
I almost laughed. “You had to have been a child!”
“I was ten years old when the war ended.”
“Hardly old enough to be held morally accountable.” I tried to lighten the mood. But the pain in his eyes told me he didn’t agree.
“There were some who risked much . . . speaking publicly, protesting. And then there were those who worked behind the scenes: buying food on the black market, forging identity cards, stealing ration books to feed Jews, concealing them in their attics or secret rooms or basements or barns, moving them from hiding place to hiding place or smuggling them across the borders into Switzerland or Belgium or France or the Netherlands—at least early on.”
“I can’t imagine such a life.”
“Then there were Germans who turned them in—not always card-carrying Nazis, either. Sure, there was the Gestapo, the brownshirts, the SS to worry about, but there were also everyday people who turned others over to the Nazis—neighbors, relatives, people you worked with. Even children reported their parents. And then there were people like your Grossvater.”
“You remember Grandfather from the war?”
“Nein, but I heard the stories.”
“What stories?”
“You won’t like what I say.”
That’s what Frau Winkler said and she disappeared—but this isn’t Nazi Germany! “I want the truth, if it is the truth. Though how you would know after all this time . . .”
“He sold Jews to the Reich.”
I felt slapped. “He what?”
“He claimed that he would help them, get them out of Germany. He created false paperwork and passports, pretended they’d been accepted within the quota of a country willing to take Jews. He demanded exorbitant prices in cash and jewels, fine art—whatever they owned to sell or barter.”
“No—wait. You’re saying it cost them, extravagantly, but in the end he got them out. So, in the Germany of that time, my grandfather was a sort of hero—a mercenary, maybe, but a hero.”
“He sold them to the Reich. He turned them in.”
My head filled with cotton I couldn’t shake out. “I don’t understand.” I don’t want to understand.
“It was an arrangement. He worked for the Gestapo. He convinced the Jews to trust him, to give him their valuables, then reported them to the Reich. The Gestapo demanded that he turn over the valuables he’d collected—currency for the great Nazi war machine—but they gave him a cut after they arrested those who’d trusted Herr Sommer with their lives. They were sent to camps or hard labor in Poland.” Carl leaned closer, across the table, inches from my face, and whispered vehemently, “While men and women starved and were sent to camps and beaten and raped and experimented upon and murdered, Herr Sommer grew fat and rich because he’d tricked them.”
My meal heaved to my throat. He’s lying—he must be lying! How does he know this? I knew if I didn’t leave that café, I would vomit on the table.
I nearly turned over chairs in my rush out the door. I left my coat, my scarf, even my purse. Standing in the bitter January cold, I heaved against a metal lamppost.
Carl must not have been far behind, for he wrapped my coat around me. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you deserve to know. You must not let him deceive you as he deceived them.”
I came searching for my parents, for the family I want so desperately—have wanted all my life—and this is what I get? Dear God, what have I done in life that I deserve this? This is not the family I want! “It’s a horrid accusation! You have no proof!”
“My parents remember Herr Sommer.” He pulled my coat sleeves over my arms, but all the life had gone out of me. My arms hung like a rag doll’s—like my Raggedy Ann from childhood.
“I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”
“Ask him, Hannah. You came here to learn the truth.”
How can I ask such a thing?
“Ask him about the Confessing Church. Make him tell you what happened to your mother.”
Carl must have driven me back to Grandfather’s, but I didn’t remember it. I didn’t remember unlocking the door or walking up the stairs to my room. I only remembered curling into a ball on my bed—my mother’s bed—still dressed in my wool coat and boots, shutting tight my eyes and willing the world to stop, to close down until it had righted itself and I could wake from this wretched dream.
When I opened my eyes the sun had stretched across the sky, and late-afternoon rays filtered through Mama’s white organza curtains, dancing in patches over my coat. Against all reason my stomach growled. I was famished. And then I remembered Carl and his accusations. Hunger fled as quickly as it had come.
There was no way I could ask such questions of Grandfather, demand such answers or make those accusations. But what if it’s true? What if he sold people? What did Carl mean about my mother? Was she opposed to Grandfather or did she play a role in selling Jews—is that what he thinks? Impossible! That doesn’t fit—she could be irritable and disagreeable, but would never . . . Please, God, don’t let that fit.
I sat up on the side of the bed and unbuttoned my coat, pulled off my boots. Whatever the truth, I was alone in the house with Grandfather now. Neither he nor Dr. Peterson could have found a housekeeper in a day. The thought of preparing dinner for us both and serving Grandfather with Carl’s accusations ringing in my ears made me nauseous and dizzy.
I pulled on an extra sweater—as much for an imaginary shield as for warmth—and combed my hair. I ran the tap water until it came out scalding, then bathed my eyes and face with a damp cloth, holding it until the flannel chilled. If Grandfather were guilty of such a thing, he wouldn’t have invited me here. Knowing that I’m looking for answers about Mama . . . Carl’s wrong. It can’t be. It can’t be.
16
LIESELOTTE SOMMER
DECEMBER 1942–OCTOBER 1943
Once again, the misfortunes of others gave me reprieve. Deportations of Berlin’s Jews stepped up. Vater’s secretive work kept him so busy with Dr. Peterson and even Fräulein Hilde—something I feared was connected with the Aryanization of Jewish property—that I seldom saw any of them.
Increased deployments sent Green Eyes and Mustache to the east, and though it would surely be seen as unforgivable, I failed to return phone calls or acknowledge the flowers and candy delivered by the Standartenführer’s driver.
I was only sorry the special dinners had stopped. Smuggled pounds of leftovers had been such help in feeding those in hiding. It was getting harder and harder to obtain extra ration cards. Sometimes I feared Marta and I might be reduced to begging.
Rudy had not written for my birthday—a thing neither Vater nor I understood. We supposed at first that the mail had gone awry, as it often did from war zones. We received one postcard at the beginning of November, but it had been mailed in September.
By the middle of December Vater began making inquiries, to no avail. We kept busy. Still, it did not seem right to put up a Christmas tree. We placed holly and a candle beside Rudy’s uniformed photograph on the mantel in the parlor. But neither of us wanted to sit in tha
t room.
I remembered Mutti’s last Christmas, and how the Kirchmanns had saved us all in so many ways. Marta asked if I’d like them to come to our home this year, to help us celebrate, or if we would come to Christmas dinner at their house.
“Thank you, sweet Marta, but no,” I answered. “We’ve heard nothing from Rudy. Vater will not want to celebrate, and I’m not sure it would be right. It doesn’t feel right.” I could not say it to Marta, but I didn’t want to go to their house for Christmas, didn’t want to see Lukas, who would surely try to come home for the holiday if he could. I couldn’t bear to have him look at me the way he’d looked at me the night of my party.
And I knew that Vater would not welcome any of the Kirchmanns. He’d made it clear he wished to distance himself from them and their connections to the church, no matter that Lukas worked for the Abwehr. Even allowing me to remain connected bordered for him, as Dr. Peterson insisted, on political suicide. But he did not forbid me, for the sake of Mutti’s memory, I think, and because the Abwehr was respected.
Perhaps he also thought time with the Kirchmanns kept me busy and out of trouble until he could deal properly with me. Little did he know.
In May of 1943, Marta and I finished our secondary schooling. The Kirchmanns celebrated Marta’s graduation with a picnic in their garden, and Vater allowed me to plan a dinner for all I wished.
But two days before the dinner we finally received a telegram that Rudy’s unit had been taken prisoner somewhere in Russia—that they’d been imprisoned through the long winter. We didn’t know the names of those who’d lived or died in battle, let alone languished or slaved in a Russian prison.
The news and the long winter of waiting had grayed Vater’s hair and made him hesitant in ways uncharacteristic. But now, with such fear at our door, he threw himself into his work with greater zeal, spending each evening with Fräulein Hilde and Dr. Peterson, sometimes at our house and sometimes away with them. I didn’t know where.
It was as though he could not allow the silence of our house to catch up with him. I think he did not force me to choose a husband because he didn’t want the house empty at night. I was glad of that, and if that was what it took to keep the wolves at bay, then I would gladly become a prisoner in my home.
Soon after, the Nazis reported a great victory—that Germany was Judenrein—free of Jews—though I knew that was not true.
Around the same time, Vater hired a cook and spent more evenings at home. Though Fräulein Hilde had not committed to him—a thing I didn’t understand—Vater began hosting more lavish dinners, inviting every dignitary he could wheedle into attending. I deemed it all calculated to impress Fräulein Hilde, and to keep noise in the house.
Vater’s social calendar, his comings and goings, became my barometer for safety—to know when I dared run food routes or risk the curfew. Despite my care, I was stopped and searched one night in mid-June, returning to the city by a different route than usual.
The guard stood uncomfortably close. “Do you not know these streets are not safe at night for a young girl?”
“Ja.” I stepped back. “This is what my father, Herr Wolfgang Sommer, tells me all the time.”
“Herr Sommer, the Party—”
“Ja.” I nodded vigorously, pointing to my full name on my papers. “He’ll have my head for being so late. I was stupid—not watching the time. Listening to records with my schoolmate.” I made good use of my eyelashes.
He smiled. “You’re lucky it’s me who stopped you.”
“Ja, danke schön. I will tell my father what a good and careful man you are.”
He handed me back my papers. With a stern warning and a wink I was sent on my way.
But it meant removing my muddied shoes and slipping through the kitchen door after the dinner had already started—Vater’s dinner alone with Dr. Peterson that night. I crept through the kitchen and up the stairs as Sophia, our latest cook, carried platters to the dining room. But the intensity of Dr. Peterson’s and Vater’s voices drew me to the banister, and I leaned over.
“Our work is not over. The Führer might have declared Germany Judenrein, but we know there are Jews still in hiding—wealthy Jews, perhaps the wealthiest with their treasure troves. Wolfgang, we cannot stop now—do you not see this? Fräulein Hilde would not understand your hesitancy to grasp this opportunity.”
“I am not hesitant; I am tired. I’m hoarding what we cannot sell—dare not sell until after the war. We’ve been successful, but we must wait until things settle down.”
“He who slumbers—”
“I do not slumber!” Vater’s fist slammed the table; I heard the silver and crystal jump. “But I’m prudent. I’m careful. I did not get this far by—”
“You’re home, Fräulein!” Sophia gawked at me from the landing below. I jumped, dropping my satchel. I’d not even heard her soft shoes leave the dining room.
“Lieselotte?” Vater called. I closed my eyes and swallowed. “Sophia, is Lieselotte there?”
“I’m just home, Vater! Let me change and I’ll be right down.” Without waiting for a response I took the stairs two at a time to my room, hastily threw off my muddied socks, ran a brush through my hair, and pinned it back. I changed into my Sunday dress and flat dress shoes. I knew that would please Vater—if anything could please him. In less than five minutes I slipped into my seat at the table.
“You’re late again, Lieselotte,” he accused. “What kept you?”
“Another flattened bicycle tire?” Dr. Peterson mused.
“Ach, nein.” I swept my napkin across my lap. “I stopped to talk to . . . to a young man.” The lie heated my face, but perhaps created an appropriate blush. “I’m sorry to be late, Vater. Please forgive me.”
My innocence and my respect before Dr. Peterson stroked Vater’s ego. He would have dismissed my errant ways, but Dr. Peterson did not.
“And who is this most fortunate young man?”
“I didn’t ask his name.” Sophia placed a steaming bowl of soup before me. “Thank you, Sophia.”
Dr. Peterson tipped his head, waiting.
“One of the guards near the train station. I thought I recognized him as one of Rudy’s old friends and thought, if he was back, he might know something.”
Vater’s eyes flashed with hope. Immediately I regretted misleading him.
“But I was mistaken. He was not with Rudy’s unit. He knew nothing.”
“You assumed a guard had been at the front? You cannot possibly be so ignorant of our country’s military structure,” Dr. Peterson all but scoffed.
I swallowed. Even a child should know that. “Sometimes, if a man had been wounded, I thought they were reassigned to work in the city until they could return to the front.”
“He was wounded?” The doctor’s sarcasm grated my nerves.
“Not that I could see. But why else would a strong young man be on guard duty now, when all are needed in the field?”
He ignored me. “I find it fascinating that you did not find time within your busy schedule to reply to the Standartenführer’s gracious gesture of goodwill, and yet you willingly miss your father’s dinner table to converse with a guard for—what—nearly an hour? A guard who knew absolutely nothing?”
Dr. Peterson dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Without looking at Vater, he said, “Wolfgang, I suggest you instruct your daughter in both the structure and etiquette of the Reich, and influence her ability to choose her companions wisely.”
I lifted my eyes and chin to challenge Dr. Peterson but detected Vater’s stiffening. Submissively, I lowered my eyes, rethinking my demeanor. “It will not happen again, Vater. I’m so very sorry.”
“About being late, Lieselotte, or about ignoring and insulting the Standartenführer’s attentions?” Dr. Peterson pressed. “Do you not realize the opportunities such a liaison could provide you? Could provide your father?”
I was sick of his meddling and could stand no more. “And you?”
I asked, feigning innocence. “In what way would such an arrangement benefit you, Herr Doktor?”
“Lieselotte!” Vater brooked no disrespect toward guests at his table. “That’s enough. Apologize this instant.”
“I apologize,” I said, smiling through gritted teeth.
“Lieselotte,” Dr. Peterson crooned, “I have known you since you were a little child—since you were born. Your father and I have been friends since boyhood. I desire only the marriage that is best for you. You have grown into a beautiful young woman with impeccable bloodlines.
“You’ve no doubt read Herr Goebbels’s words—words that should be inscribed on every German woman’s heart: ‘The mission of women is to be beautiful and to bring children into the world.’ As Herr Goebbels says, this is not so ‘unmodern’ as it sounds. ‘The female bird pretties herself for her mate and hatches eggs for him. In exchange, the male takes care of gathering food, and stands guard and wards off the enemy.’” He shrugged. “It is natural—the natural order of things. Do you not see?”
I could not answer him respectfully. He would twist my words. The tension increased and the silence prolonged. My temples pounded. I could not eat with this man, could not sit across the table from him. Finally, I folded my napkin, placing it on the table. “You must both forgive me. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well and must excuse myself.”
“You have not eaten.”
“Truly, I cannot, Vater. I’m sorry. I’ll see you in the morning.” I looked directly at Dr. Peterson as I rose and saw that in some way he believed he’d won this round. “Good night, Dr. Peterson.”
“Lieselotte.” He smiled. “I trust you’ll soon recover.”
“Danke schön.” I walked as quickly as I dared from the room and up the stairs. As I reached the landing above, I heard Dr. Peterson below.
“She’s lying. She bears watching, Wolfgang. The girl has far too much liberty now that she’s finished school. It’s bad enough she’s not made a useful match. You don’t want her to become a liability. If she won’t comply, I urge you to reconsider Lebensborn.”