by Cathy Gohlke
“Nonsense,” Fräulein Hilde intervened. “You can have your intimate engagement party if that is what you wish, but the wedding must be worthy of your father’s station in life.”
“I don’t think Vater will want a big—”
“Leave it to me. As long as it doesn’t rival our own, Wolfgang will be pleased with my arrangements.” She purred like a cat who’d eaten two canaries. “We’ll put on quite a show for those Party members who’ve hesitated to promote your father through their ranks. It will be a good investment—for everyone.”
Frau Kirchmann gave my hand a warning squeeze, so I smiled at Fräulein Hilde and squeezed the hand of my dear mother-to-be in return.
August sped by. Arrests among our network of Jews increased. No one could understand why—how it was our hiding places were revealed. Helping became more dangerous—at least it felt more dangerous, and I found myself nervous, forever looking over my shoulder. Being loved and loving Lukas, planning our wedding—suddenly my life meant more. I had so much more to lose if caught.
By mid-September Fräulein Hilde was in and out of our house at all hours, as were caterers, florists, wine merchants, and others whose function I’d no idea of. She kept the house abuzz and food flowing freely. It was not hard to steal away with small bundles at odd times—bundles I knew might save our starving fugitives.
No one seemed the least bit concerned about my coming and going. I supposed there was greater freedom afforded a young woman about to wed, and I took good advantage of that freedom.
My satin wedding dress and lace-edged veil hung outside my wardrobe door. My case for our honeymoon sat on a chair nearby, half packed. Everything else could wait until Lukas and I returned from our three-day wedding trip—two precious nights in the country home of a colleague of Fräulein Hilde. Before Lukas returned to duty I’d move in with his family, until we could secure a house—a home of our own, perhaps in the spring if the war truly ended by then. How good that sounded—how impossibly wonderful!
Fräulein Hilde promised a simple dinner for our engagement party—herself, Vater, the Kirchmanns, and a few Party members Fräulein Hilde insisted could not be omitted from “family affairs.” Now that she and Vater had announced their own plans, she played me as a pawn—a convenient Aryan daughter to show off, a daughter preparing to take her place among the ranks of good German wives, for Führer and Fatherland. My “simple dinner” grew and grew.
Frau Kirchmann counseled me to acquiesce, to maintain a sweet and low profile and pray that we’d all be forgotten in the wake of Fräulein Hilde and Vater’s far more lavish wedding soon to come—what Fräulein Hilde was determined would prove Berlin’s social event of the season.
“Anonymity,” Frau Kirchmann said, “is a blessed thing.”
Nothing mattered, as long as Lukas and I could be together, as long as I became part of the Kirchmann family.
I’d no idea where the silver and crystal came from that graced our dining room table that night, nor indeed, where the long banquet table itself had been found. Despite her weeks of planning, in two frenzied days Fräulein Hilde and Vater transformed rooms in the main floor of our house to rival any diplomat’s mansion in Berlin.
The wrinkle in those last few days before the engagement party came shortly after I’d delivered an unexpected package of cutlets stolen from my home larder to a family of four in an area along the outskirts of Berlin—one of the families on Lukas’s old route. I loved this family, not only because they were dear, but because they always asked about Lukas. Their genuine well-wishes and prayers for our coming nuptials lightened my heart.
Just as I pedaled from our agreed-upon spot of delivery, I had the oddest sensation that I was watched, though no one was in sight.
Two blocks from my drop-off point I stopped to check the chain on my bicycle, which had the bad habit of jumping its track. I was just wiping the chain’s grease from my hands when a black car slowed before passing.
Instinctively, my heart skipped its beat, and I pulled my bicycle onto the curb, against a stone wall, casually turning my face away. The car looked no different from half the cars in Berlin, but something about it, or about the driver who watched me as it passed, made me think Gestapo. It was only September, but I couldn’t help shivering.
The day of the party, the house buzzed with caterers and florists creating wonders. A truck from the best bakery in Berlin arrived early, and the spry man who jumped out set to work assembling the most beautiful three-tiered cake I’d ever seen. If this was Fräulein Hilde’s idea of an intimate engagement dinner with the closest family and friends, what did she intend for a lavish wedding?
Dr. Peterson arrived for a later afternoon meeting with Vater, but Fräulein Hilde would not hear of it. She pulled Vater upstairs and called for the tailor. I should have gone immediately to my room.
“Lieselotte.” Dr. Peterson plucked a rosebud from the dining room table arrangement. I waited while he inserted it in his buttonhole. “I ran into an old friend of Rudy’s yesterday. I was just about to tell your father.”
“Oh?” Why does he want to raise sad memories now? My senses remained alert.
“Fulstrom. Heyden Fulstrom, I believe he said his name was. Do you remember him?”
I shrugged, turning away, and ran my fingers across a fan of linen napkins. “Rudy was very popular with his friends. There were many.”
“Herr Fulstrom remembers you. And your fiancé. And your cousin.”
My heart hammered against my chest.
“He was quite surprised to learn that you’ve only recently become engaged. He was certain he remembered you rescuing your lover from the clutches of another woman, oh, nearly a year ago. Your cousin, I believe he said.”
“How odd. He was mistaken.”
“It was in his report, verified by a colleague on duty with him at the time. A most mysterious affair, wouldn’t you agree?”
I didn’t know where he was leading, but I thought it worse to entertain him than to leave. “You will excuse me, Herr Doktor. I must get ready for this evening’s festivities.”
But as I walked past him, he grabbed my arm. “Who is this cousin, named Anna?”
“Please let go of my arm, Dr. Peterson; you’re hurting me.”
“Herr Fulstrom thought she looked Jewish—was convinced that Lukas Kirchmann protected her, was hiding her, until you appeared and flung yourself at them.” He squeezed my upper arm until I knew there would be bruising.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. A year ago? A cousin? I’m sure you’ll find I have no cousins.”
“Then you won’t mind if I share this small oddity with your father, or in a toast this evening—good for a laugh, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It doesn’t seem very amusing to me. But what you do or do not do, what you say or do not say to mein Vater, is of no concern to me.” I lifted my chin, casting my best bluff upon the waters and praying it carried me through.
He let go of my arm. “You’ve made quite a show of marrying your Lukas Kirchmann. I hope he’s all you expect him to be, all your father expects him to be. A man of Wolfgang’s station—”
“Will be most pleased to have a daughter married to an upstanding citizen of the Reich.”
“Members of the Abwehr remain under investigation, as you are no doubt aware. Your father’s position will not protect Lukas Kirchmann if he is found guilty.”
“And he is not.”
“Rest assured, Fräulein Lieselotte, enemies of the Reich will be ferreted out, no matter who they are, no matter who their families are, no matter how long it takes.”
“I should hope so. But you’ve no need to worry about Lukas or me interfering with your work or the work of the Reich, if that is your concern. I could not be less interested, and Lukas is not one to steal the limelight from another. In any case, we’ll be out of this house within the week. Then you and Vater and Fräulein Hilde can plot and plan and do whatever it is you do, unhindered by concerns fo
r me.”
“And what will you do, while your husband is off and away, fulfilling his mysterious Abwehr duties, my busy bee?” He leaned too near.
“Perform the duties of a good German Hausfrau, of course.”
The party started at seven, less than half an hour after Lukas’s train was scheduled to arrive. I prayed he would not be late. I did not wish to enter the lion’s den alone.
At ten of seven I was dressed in a rose satin gown with draped back and diamond earrings—an extravagant engagement gift from Fräulein Hilde and mein Vater. I sat at my dressing table, drumming my nails against its top.
Just after seven I heard the first guests arrive and the greetings of the Kirchmanns. Barely a moment later Marta pounded at my door. “Are you decent? Let me in, Lieselotte!”
I pulled open the door in great relief and flung myself into Marta’s arms. “Is Lukas here? Has he come?”
“Nein. But Papa is meeting him at the station. They should be here anytime.”
“I-I’m afraid Dr. Peterson will make trouble. Somehow he’s discov—”
“Lieselotte!” Fräulein Hilde knocked impatiently on the door. Not waiting for an answer, she burst in. “Are you ready? Your guests are arriving. Come, come! Where is Lukas?”
“He’s on the way from the station. He and Papa will be here any moment,” Marta offered.
“I hope so! It’s not much of an engagement party without the groom!” She ushered us out the door and down the stairs.
I’d only been upstairs an hour, but the house had been further transformed into a bower of late-summer roses and autumn blooms.
Frau Kirchmann welcomed me with a kiss on each cheek. Vater glanced me over and made a slight bow in reserved approval. Dr. Peterson gave a formal nod but a narrow glance, and my stomach turned over.
A moment later, Lukas and Herr Kirchmann walked through the door and everything flew from my head but the startling blue of Lukas’s eyes. I’d always admired them—flecks of light shot through the irises, shining on the darkest of days. But that night they shone like beacons—and they shone for me, radiating a joy I’d never seen.
“My Lieselotte,” he whispered, kissing my hands, my hair.
“Ah, ah—you must wait for the wedding night, mein Herr!” one of the officers laughed good-naturedly.
We laughed in return, and the room erupted in happiness for us. I’d not smiled so since Mutti was alive, I was sure of it. I glimpsed Vater. The wrinkles in his forehead faded. Fräulein Hilde took his arm and he nodded to whatever she whispered in his ear, smiling. Though it hurt that it was not Mutti standing there beside him, alive and well, it was good to see him happy. I dared to think it a time of new beginnings.
The twelve-course dinner was superb, I was certain, though later I could not remember a thing I ate. The wine was beyond description—that I did remember, and wondered how such a vintage could be found, where Vater had procured such luxuries during our age of rationing, or the money to buy them. That he’d gone to such expense for me—for Lukas and me—touched me, warmed my heart. Surely it could not all be Fräulein Hilde’s show and doing.
The clock struck ten and the cake was cut, more toasts made. I couldn’t imagine our wedding being happier than that night, though I was eager to move the calendar forward. To imagine that in five days I would be Frau Lieselotte Kirchmann, wife and love forever of Lukas Kirchmann. That when I woke each morning he would wake beside me. Those almost iridescent blue eyes would be the first sight I would see. My heart nearly burst its chamber.
And then the doorbell rang. Dr. Peterson waved away the butler who’d been hired for the evening and answered it himself, as if he expected someone. I felt a flicker of concern but turned away, determined not to let that man rob me of joy.
But when he returned to the room, tucking what looked to be a telegram in his breast pocket, and glanced from Lukas to Frau Kirchmann in triumph, my heart sank. When his eyes found mine, I knew this evening would not end well.
23
HANNAH STERLING
FEBRUARY 1973
I took a tray to Grandfather’s room in the early afternoon, but he was sitting in his chair, staring out the window, and did not acknowledge me. I took another tray to him at supper, but saw that he’d not eaten, and there was no sign that he noticed me now.
“Grossvater, you must eat.”
He kept staring out the window.
“You must keep up your strength.”
“For what purpose?”
It was all he’d said since our time in the library. But the question was too hard for me. I pitied my grandfather as I pitied any old and feeble person, as my heart went out to the brokenhearted. But I was quite sure I didn’t like him very much, that he had not told me all—even of his own version of the story—and that I should not trust him.
“Do you want Dr. Peterson to stop by?” It was the last thing I wanted, but I knew Grandfather depended on him.
“Nein. They both warned me against . . . What’s done is done.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d not asked him to leave me anything, and yet I felt caught, trapped in a web of guilt. “Do you need help in getting ready for bed?”
“I am not so feeble as that, Hannah.” He nearly spat my name.
I picked up the untouched luncheon tray. “If you need anything, just call for me. I’ll come.”
He didn’t answer.
It was a long night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw my mother as a young woman, furtively throwing things in a bag—clothing, a photograph of her mother, her favorite book—and stealing away in the dark of night in the midst of blackouts, curfews, and frightening uncertainty. Did she have any money? Where did she go? Did anyone help her? Who was the Jewish boy she ran off with—the one she was “besotted” with since childhood? Could he have been my father? What did Grandfather mean about his mother nursing Grandmother? They must have been longtime friends or servants. And yet they were helping Jews . . . my mother was helping Jews right under Grandfather’s nose. My mother, part of the resistance. I rolled over, punching my pillow. That did not describe the reserved and closed-off woman I knew to be my mother. . . . The young Lieselotte sounded so brave, so passionate, so in love. What happened to change you, Mama?
I replayed Carl’s words about questioning Grandfather on his activities during the war and the Confessing Church. “Make him tell you what happened to your mother.” So much for that.
Grandfather had given me his view, his version of the Confessing Church’s sins, but he’d skillfully avoided answering questions about Mama, except to accuse her of ruining his life. What was the tipping point? What was the shame that made him disown her, force her to run away?
If Carl’s parents knew Grandfather during the war, might they also have known Mama? Why hadn’t that registered before?
It took me less than ten minutes to dress and reach the phone in the hallway. It rang seven times before being answered. “Carl?”
“Ja? Hannah? Isn’t it a little early?”
“Is it? I need to ask something.”
“Anything, my early-bird American friend.”
“I want to meet your parents.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Carl? Are you there?”
“Ja, ja, I am here.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“You are very eager and I am flattered—a bit surprised, but no, I do not think that it is too soon.” I heard his smile. No one else I’d met in Germany could melt the phone lines with their teasing. “I will phone them in a couple of hours. They will not yet be awake.”
I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway and realized it was four thirty in the morning. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how early it is.”
“I will forgive you if you meet me for breakfast. And I will take you to them afterward.”
“You’re not driving today?”
“This is my day off. You’re in luck, Fräulein Sterling.”
>
“I’ll see you at the café then—at eight?”
“I count the minutes.”
Thank You, God, for Carl. I replaced the receiver and waited, but this time did not hear Grandfather prowling the house, did not catch him listening above stairs.
There was no point going back to bed, so I washed and dressed, curled my hair. I picked up a photograph of Mama from the dresser and stroked her face. A very little like mine. Enough to tell I was her daughter, but I bore other features more prominent—wide brown eyes, a fuller mouth, broader at the cheekbones, a little higher forehead. I was not as small or delicate as my mother had been—more tall and lean, but sturdy. Still, I wondered if I’d have been up to running away in the middle of a war.
I pulled back my hair and wound the sides up into soft rolls, pinning them to look like Mama’s picture as a young woman. The oval dressing table mirror reflected some resemblance. Perhaps it would be enough to jog the memories of Carl’s parents.
Carl’s entrance into the café filled the room like May-morning sunshine on the mountain back home—a breath of fresh air after a long and frigid winter.
We’d drained second cups of coffee by the time I finished telling him about Herr Eberhardt, about Grandfather’s making me a co-owner of all his assets, and finally about his tirade against Jews and the Confessing Church. “You said your parents knew of my grandfather. I’m hoping they’ll remember Mama.”
“Ja, they remember her.” He set his cup on the table, wiping the ring it left with his finger. “They will tell you all they know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“You weren’t ready to hear. You were angry because I questioned Herr Sommer’s character, his ‘contribution to the war effort.’”
Heat rose from my stomach to my hairline. “Well, I’m ready now. Grandfather was furious over the idea that Mama helped Jews. I’ve never heard anything like it—the hateful way he talked. It was almost like hearing people in the South talk about blacks when Rosa Parks wouldn’t give up her seat on the bus—so denigrating.”