by Cathy Gohlke
“I’m sorry, my dear. Hilde and I will do all in our power to help you through this time.”
It was not hard to manufacture tears. “I have a headache. I’m going to bed.”
“Shall I bring the pictures tonight?” Dr. Peterson’s voice, slick as oil, slimed over my nerves.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I’m going to take something to make me sleep. Perhaps when I wake this will all be a horrid dream.” I dug my nails into my palms and walked out, praying my performance was as convincing as theirs had appeared.
29
HANNAH STERLING
FEBRUARY 1973
The next morning I brewed coffee and spent hours going over the ledger. I copied out every name and address, the dates listed at the beginning and the end, and the entire inventory.
As I wrote, I pictured Grandfather, and perhaps Uncle Rudy in his Hitler Youth uniform, approaching frightened people—the Goldstein family first: Martin, Roseanne, their daughter; and then the Rosenbaums . . . the Kaufmanns . . . the Horowitzes . . . the Jacobses . . . the Eisners . . . the Levys . . . The list went on and on. I imagined him sympathizing with their circumstances, offering a hand, pitying the damage from Kristallnacht, commiserating about the Reich’s statutes against Jews, joining their disbelief, reinforcing their fear, gaining their trust. And then presenting the idea, the offer, the hope of salvation. I pictured it all—families waiting under cover of darkness for their promised savior. Then the Gestapo bursting through their doors. Searchlights blinding their eyes, cars and vans and trucks gunning their motors, whisking them away in the dead of night while neighbors cowered behind blackout curtains, praying they wouldn’t be discovered, praying they wouldn’t be next.
My head throbbed, my throat dried, and I held back my vomit.
There were twenty-three families in the ledger, and one hundred ninety-two individual names in all. The last family listed was the Kirchmanns. They numbered four, but there were no first names given.
I spent the next two days taking inventory of the storeroom, matching the items against the ledger. Carl had to work, but he telephoned twice a day to make certain I was all right, as solicitous as an old mother hen. Other times I answered the phone and no one responded. Eventually I’d hear a click. I didn’t know if it was Dr. Peterson or Herr Eberhardt or both, toying with me, determined to frighten me, seeing if I was there, hoping I’d fled. But I wouldn’t give in and wouldn’t give up.
When I’d finished at last with the inventory, I pulled open the curtain. Beyond the courtyard outside Grandfather’s garden, deepening shades of rose and gold and purple sank behind the rooftops. Dusk settled in quickly, along with a palpable gloom. I closed the book and sat in the gathering darkness.
The desk telephone rang, making me jump.
“Hello?” I hoped it was Carl but felt tentative each time I answered.
“Fräulein Sterling?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Dr. Keitzmann.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Herr Sommer regained consciousness less than an hour ago.”
Dread, fear, relief, disappointment warred inside me.
“Fräulein? Are you there?”
“Yes, Doctor. I’m here. I’m just surprised.”
“Ja, it is good news. I didn’t expect it myself. He is not able to talk, not able to feed himself, but that may come in time. We will give him a few more days. I wish to keep him here for observation.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for letting me know.”
“You may come and see him as you wish.”
“Thank you. Perhaps tomorrow.” That’s too soon!
“Good night, then.”
“Danke schön. Good night.”
If he had died, it would have been easier . . . so much easier. They’ll want me to bring him home, to care for him. How can I possibly do that, knowing what I know?
The telephone rang again and I nearly jumped out of my skin again.
“Hannah?”
“Carl.” Just saying his name was the greatest relief.
“Could you use some dinner? Can I take you out?”
“There’s nothing I would like more. But I look a fright. I’ve not even combed my hair today.”
“Then we’ll go somewhere dark, and if the waiter questions your appearance, I’ll tell him that I dug you up in the archives, that he should be pleased to be graced with such a relic.” The smile in his voice was the very best thing I’d heard all day. I didn’t even mind being called a relic.
“Then come quickly and whisk me away.”
True to his word, the restaurant was dim—candlelight dim. I felt faded and drained, completely washed out, but Carl coddled and doted on me as if I were Miss Universe.
“You finished the inventory?”
I nodded, sick at heart.
“It is as we thought?”
“Most of it’s still there. I’m guessing that’s what he’s been living off all these years—selling small pieces little by little. Probably with the help of Peterson and Eberhardt.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. Grandfather will be coming home soon, and everyone expects me to care for him. I’ve no idea how I can possibly do that, how I could possibly be near him now.”
“Everyone?”
“Dr. Keitzmann, Grandfather’s doctor at the hospital. Dr. Peterson—though I’m not sure he deserves to be called doctor. Herr Eberhardt. Grandfather himself.”
“They don’t know that you know yet.”
“No. And I don’t know how I dare stay there and tell them, or how I can stay there and not tell them.”
“You’ll go back to America, then?”
I shook my head. “I . . . I just don’t know. I’ve not accomplished what I came for. I’ve discovered far more about Grandfather than I’d bargained for, but so little about Mama. What happened to her between the time she became engaged to Lukas Kirchmann and the time she married my . . . my . . . the man I called Daddy? And who was my real father?”
“Perhaps she discovered precisely what you have. That would be enough to make her leave Herr Sommer, if she was trying to help the very people he turned in—and especially if he had her fiancé arrested. It is enough for you to turn against him now, is it not?”
“But where did she go? How did she end up marrying my—an American? I can’t help but wonder . . . It’s significant that the last entry is for the Kirchmanns. September 1944. Grandfather apparently stopped then. Why?”
“If he’d been instrumental in the arrest of her fiancé—in the destruction of his daughter’s life and hopes—you don’t think that would have been enough to make him stop?”
“It’s not that. I’m just wondering. The Kirchmanns are listed in the ledger as four, but their names are not given—the only entry where first names aren’t given. Your parents said that there were four Kirchmanns—Herr and Frau Kirchmann as well as Lukas and Marta.”
“And Marta did not go to the camps.”
“No, she was not arrested. So who do you suppose was the fourth one?”
He stared at me. I could see the wheels turning. “Now you are the one jumping to conclusions.”
“Am I?” I searched his face. “My mother gave Kirchmann as her maiden name on her marriage certificate.”
“That might be loyalty—or hiding from her father. The numbers might only mean the number of passports or identity cards Herr Sommer invented, not how many were actually arrested.”
“But he listed the arrests and date of arrests in a separate column from the family. In the case of the Goldsteins, he listed only three arrests. The fourth name was crossed out because—”
“Because the boy was killed on Kristallnacht.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
30
LIESELOTTE SOMMER
SEPTEMBER 1944
I locked my door and changed my clothes. I knew the importance of layering clothing for warmth and economy, of wearing two set
s of underwear, two dresses, a sweater and coat and carrying nothing but a handbag to hold everything I might want in hiding.
The only memento I tucked into the lining of my purse was Mutti’s photograph—one of the two of us together when I was but six. Laughing, smiling, cuddled together on a swing one summer holiday. It was the way I remembered her, before the cancer, before the world turned upside down. A toothbrush and powder, a hairbrush, aspirin, and the nightgown intended for my wedding night filled the little bag. I bunched up my pillow and eiderdown to resemble a sleeping form in the bed.
Finally, night came in earnest. When I heard Dr. Peterson’s car drive away, I listened for Vater’s feet upon the stairs. He paused by my doorway.
“Lieselotte?” he called softly, trying my door. But I’d locked it.
“Please, Vater. Go away and leave me alone. I’m going to sleep. I can’t talk about this any more tonight.” My voice broke.
“All right, my child. Sleep well.”
“Tell Sophia not to call me for breakfast. If I can sleep, I must.”
“I will leave word. Good night.”
I didn’t answer. How could he expect me to?
I heard his door close and waited until the clock in the hall struck nine. He would listen to the radio until he fell asleep. Silently, I unlatched my window, climbed onto its wide sill, and let myself down by the thick wisteria vine that clung to the back side of the house. A dog barked three houses beyond. I froze, crouching behind an evergreen, until his owner opened the door, cursing, and dragged the dog inside.
Frost had already settled, making the cobblestones slippery. I ran on the balls of my feet, lightly, soundlessly, keeping to the shadows of stone walls and foliage. It seemed hours before I reached the Kirchmanns’ back door. Three short taps, and then three again—so soft I feared they might not hear.
But the door opened and I slipped in.
“Lieselotte!” It was Lukas, and before I could speak he pulled me into his arms, my lips to his. It was as though we’d both been starved, and here, at last, grew luscious fruit.
But there was no time. I pulled away. “Where are your parents?”
He led me into the living room—already disheveled from packing books and table linens and family photographs. As if they were really leaving Germany, embarking on a new life with treasures from the old.
Herr Kirchmann looked up in surprise. “Lieselotte. I have the money. I was coming first thing in the morning.”
“Nein. It’s a lie, all a lie.” I pulled the bundles of stones from my pocket. “They’re planning, as soon as you bring the rest, to have you arrested—all of you.”
Frau Kirchmann came from the bedroom. “What is this? Wolfgang promised. He told Helmeuth—”
I shook my head, exhausted. “He’s tricked us. He’s used us—me most of all. Father and Dr. Peterson are behind the arrests. That’s how they make their money—they and Fräulein Hilde. Sudden wealth, they call it, and laugh.”
“No—”
“Yes—you’ll be next. They’ve only waited this long because of Fräulein Hilde. Father wants me to publicly call off the wedding so there will be no connection between our family and—” I couldn’t say it.
“Die Juden,” Frau Kirchmann finished, sinking down onto the sofa.
“Ja,” I whispered. “They believe Fräulein Hilde would not marry Vater if she knew, would expose him to the Party—that they would both be ruined if . . .” I pulled my beret from my head, the room suddenly too warm, and looked up at Lukas. “They’re going to say you were found sleeping with Anna—a Jewess—and that I called off the wedding.”
“How could—?”
“Dr. Peterson is creating pictures from pieces. I don’t know how it’s done, but they will make them look convincing. You will all disappear as soon as you pay the money.”
“And you—what will happen to you if you do not marry Lukas? What about Herr Sommer’s wedding? They wanted you married before then, or sent to . . .” Marta did not finish.
“Lebensborn,” I said. “Vater’s already made arrangements. He’ll convince Fräulein Hilde that I chose to go there of a broken heart. Chose to do my duty for the Reich after all.”
“Nein,” Lukas swore. “I will not let him—”
“You can’t stop him,” Marta insisted. “But you can marry Lieselotte. Marry her now—tonight.”
Chills of hope ran the length of my legs, my torso.
“If she is married to you, what will he do?”
“Whatever he wants.” Herr Kirchmann sat down heavily beside his wife. “He has the upper hand and can do whatever he wants.”
I held out the bundle of precious stones from my pocket. “When I realized what they were planning, I gave them only the coins and brooches to make them think I knew nothing. These can help you go into hiding—tonight. You must go quickly.”
“And you will come with us,” Lukas insisted. “You can’t go back.”
I squeezed his hand and smiled into his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Who has room? Where can we all go on such short notice?” Frau Kirchmann asked her husband.
“I don’t know. I’ll talk with Pastor Braun. We might need to split up—five is too many to take into one home.”
“Lieselotte and I will stay together,” Lukas insisted.
“You’re not married,” Frau Kirchmann whispered. “You can’t—”
“Then we must change that,” Lukas vowed.
One hour later we’d all stolen away from the house, with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a small satchel each to carry whatever was most precious, to take into hiding and the hope of life ahead.
It was agreed that we’d hide in the church until a family—or two or three families—could be found to take us in.
As we waited, not knowing what the next day or hour might bring, Lukas and I stood before Pastor Braun. Herr Kirchmann—Vater Kirchmann—stood for Lukas, and Marta for me—just as we’d planned all along. Frau Kirchmann—Mutter Kirchmann—and Frau Braun sat on the front pew, looking on as our witnesses.
Lukas took my hands in his, and we pledged our hearts and our lives—however long they might be, whatever they might be—to one another. Blessed of God, and by his family and the church, no wedding could have meant more to me.
When it came time for the ring, Lukas’s mouth straightened in regret. Pastor Braun nearly shrugged it off—and it wasn’t important, not in the wretched scheme of things. But my mother—my dear mother-in-law and mother-in-love— stepped between us and pulled her wedding ring from her finger.
“I’ve worn this since the day I married your father.”
“Nein, Mutti. It is yours,” Lukas whispered.
“It is the future.” And she slipped it on my finger.
I gasped, my heart spilling over—the evidence in tears streaming down my cheeks.
I thanked God for my husband, and for his family, and whispered the memory of Ruth’s story: “Your people will be my people. Your God my God. Wherever you go, I will go.”
Mutter Kirchmann took my face in her hands and kissed me on both cheeks. And then Lukas pulled me to him. Our lips met, and we kissed, the longest, warmest kiss of our lives so far, until the pastor coughed and, smiling, we pulled apart. Whatever happened next, at least we belonged to one another.
Pastor Braun hid us in the cellar of the church. Just before dawn we stole through back streets to attic rooms above a private library—an alcove for Marta and her parents on one end, and on the other an alcove for Lukas and me—a bridal suite beneath the eaves.
Throughout the day we maintained absolute silence, wound in one another’s arms, sleeping from sheer exhaustion, then waking, stirring silently, sleeping again, and listening to the sounds of library patrons, visitors, and workers coming and going in the hallways below. That night we whispered all the things we’d never said, the words we’d kept pent up in our hearts. And then we stopped talking, stopped remembering. There was no po
int in planning—not now. Others planned for us—what they could do, who they could find to feed us, move us, help us. Who knew what tomorrow might bring to two newlyweds hiding in a library attic? There was only this night, this moment. We lived and breathed and loved as though it was our last.
And in the morning, just before dawn, the raids began.
31
HANNAH STERLING
MARCH 1973
I visited Grandfather once in the hospital, but he was sleeping and I did not wake him. I left word with the nurse, asking her to let him know I’d been there. That was the best I could do, the most I could bring myself to do for him.
It was over two weeks before Grandfather regained enough strength to return home. By then he could hold a fork, albeit shakily, with his right hand, though he couldn’t always bring the food to his mouth. He was unable to speak and needed help dressing and bathing. Dr. Keitzmann’s nurse connected me with a male nurse to help with the more intimate details of his care for the first month. After that Dr. Keitzmann promised to reevaluate him.
I imagined staying another month—cooking, cleaning, overseeing Grandfather’s finances and bills. I didn’t want to stay, to be in the same house with him and under Dr. Peterson’s possible scrutiny, and yet I didn’t see how I could leave Grandfather as he was. Another month would give me a better picture of his health, and with Geoffrey, his nurse, in the house to look after him, I could spend more time working on a new plan with Carl.
Dr. Peterson had not visited Grandfather in the hospital to my knowledge and hadn’t phoned—at least hadn’t identified himself as the caller—or come to the house. But Herr Eberhardt stopped by the day after Grandfather returned home to make certain his client was well cared for.
“This nurse is competent, is adequate?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. I prepare Grandfather’s food and check with Geoffrey several times a day. So far Geoffrey seems very attentive. We just don’t know how much recovery to expect.”
“Perhaps it is an act of Providence after all that you are here,” Herr Eberhardt conceded. “At least you are family.”