Breadcrumbs and Bombs

by Susan Finlay

  Lucas gave her hand a squeeze and then pulled another chair over. “Sit. You’re doing great, baby.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and grinned, then sat down. “You know, this group over here is the most interesting to me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They look foreign. Didn’t you say your father’s mother came from Ireland?”

  “She maybe did, but I don’t know when they came here. And that’s not Ireland in the photos. Looks more like the Alps in some of them.”

  “Oh.” She picked up one of the photos, one with a quaint house in the background, and turned it over. “It has writing on the back. It says Mutti und Vati, Altstadt, Sudetenland. Here’s another with a bunch of kids. The back on it says: Christa, Fritz, and some other names I can’t read. The handwriting is hard to decipher, and it’s blurred in spots. Like it got wet.”

  “The Sudetenland? Wait. I remember learning about it in one of my German classes in college. It was part of Germany for a while during World War II. If I remember my history lessons, after the war the Sudetenland was split up and became part of the Czech Republic and . . . well, I don’t remember the details. Anyway, the Sudeten Germans were expelled and sent back to Germany.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I vaguely remember learning something about it, too, in school. It wasn’t covered in much detail,” Tawny said, frowning, apparently trying to remember more.

  Lucas squinted at the photos Tawny was holding. “What I’d like to know is who are those people and why would my father have their photos in his file cabinet?”

  “You told me last night that your mother said the attic window was probably a façade. You think maybe she didn’t know the attic existed.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe my father didn’t know about it, either. Maybe nobody told him when he inherited the house. Then again he might have known and didn’t tell anyone else. It seems unlikely they never discovered the door in the closet.”

  She nodded. “All this stuff may have belonged to your grandparents or great-grandparents. That’s kinda exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. For all we know, this stuff could be a part of a collection that one of my relatives bought in a yard sale. Who knows? We shouldn’t assume these people in the photographs are my ancestors.”

  “Why not? I don’t believe for one minute that someone collected this stuff and stored it for years if it didn’t mean something to them. Your father never talked to you about his family, and now you have a chance to find out more about them. Who know, maybe something here will lead you to find descendent family members and meet them.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Lucas looked at the rest of the photos in that group. Quite a few of them were of children, and some were of adults and were labeled Mutti and Vati or Mutter and Vater. Other photos showed a picturesque village with mountains in the distance. “See, here,” he said, pointing to one photo. “I don’t resemble any of these people.”

  Tawny said, “Lucas, looks don’t mean a damn thing. Bianca looks more like me, with dark skin and dark eyes. She won’t be seen as Caucasian, and you know that. Which means that even though you have dark hair and most of the people in the photos are blondes, that doesn’t mean you aren’t related to them. We can’t tell their eye colors since the photos are in black and white, but even if we could, what difference would it make? You can be related to them, no matter how different you look from them.”

  “Yeah, I see your point,” he yielded and tossed the photos onto the table.

  “I sense a ‘but’ in that statement.”

  He held her gaze for a moment before looking away. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up. My parents never told us anything about our ancestors. Maybe they didn’t know anything. Or maybe they had a good reason to keep the past a secret.”

  “Don’t you want to find out?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t want to tell her why he had misgivings. Sure, he wanted to know who he really was and where he came from. But, sometimes, you’re better off not knowing. That’s where sayings like be careful what you wish for, don’t poke the bear, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions come from.

  “Look here, some of them have somewhat curly hair like yours. With blonde hair, I would expect some of them have blue eyes, like yours.”

  “You’re really reaching, aren’t you? Let’s face it, these are probably strangers and not relatives of mine.”

  She ignored that comment and continued examining photos. “Look at this last group of photos. These are from Germany, according to the writing on the backs of some of them. There are people’s names, too, but I’m having trouble reading them. Ilse and Ursula, I think, are two of them. Hard to tell the rest.”

  Germany. Nazis. What if he was related to Nazis? Oh hell.

  “Take a look at this one,” she said, offering him a photo.

  He took it and studied it. “Okay, so maybe this is another group of relatives. Or maybe they are people who met the Sudeten Germans later, when they got expelled from the Sudetenland, they went to this other town.”

  “Maybe. Did you come across any family tree type documents?”

  “Nope. I haven’t gotten very far yet.”

  “Keep digging,” Tawny said. “This could be something big. Maybe we’ll uncover your family’s history—or, at the least, this house’s history. Wouldn’t it be exciting to find out how far back in your family tree this house could reach?”

  “Probably not that long. I mean, if these people who lived in Germany during the war are part of my family tree, wouldn’t that mean they didn’t own this house for more than a couple generations?”

  “There were photos of miners in the file, too.”

  “Yeah,” Lucas said. “That makes me believe my original idea—that the photos were merely part of someone’s collection.”

  “Oh, Lucas, stop being so closed-minded. You could come from a family of miners and a family of German immigrants. You already know your mother’s family came from Ireland. Maybe you have ancestors who came here from other countries hoping to become rich. Who knows who you’re related to?”

  He closed his eyes as his mind spun, considering the myriad possibilities. This must be what it feels like to suddenly find out you’re adopted and have no idea where your roots lie. That’s how his father had left him. Rootless. Bound only to this old Victorian house. The only thing he knew for sure was that his family had at least two racists that he knew of. Wasn’t it possible he came from a whole line of racists?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Christa Nagel, September 5, 1943, Altstadt, Sudetenland—

  CHRISTA NAGEL DAWDLED after school on Friday afternoon in front of her family’s house, an old stucco’d farmhouse her great-great-great-grandfather had built. The house, like most of the others in town, sat three feet back from the road and was two stories tall, with an attic at the top and red shingles on the roof. It had been passed down through the generations, most recently to her grandparents. But those grandparents had moved away to Germany almost ten years ago, when Christa was a baby. She didn’t even remember them. She often wondered why they’d moved and why her family hadn’t. But then, she thought, maybe we stayed because we got their old house. Her parents had installed indoor plumbing in the kitchen so that they had running water for the sink and had painted the house the palest of pale yellow seven years ago when Christa was three. Most buildings in town were white or off-white or beige. She guessed her parents wanted to stand out, but weren’t ready to commit to a bold color. The paint was already peeling due to the harsh winters, but her parents weren’t repainting. Their house wasn’t the only one deteriorating. No one had the money to keep their houses in good shape. And like her family, most couldn’t afford to add indoor toilets and bathtubs. They used an outhouse in the backyard and they bathed in a large tub that they set up in the middle of the kitchen. Only the village’s wealthiest families had indoor bathrooms. She sighed. Why can’t we be wealthy?

  Her younger sister,
Julia, standing on the front porch with their brothers standing on the steps below, turned her head and yelled to Christa, “Are you coming inside? Today is my birthday, remember? I turn eight.”

  “Ja. I am coming.” She followed Julia and the boys, Fritz and Ernst, into the house, then smacked into the back of Julia, who had stopped in the foyer without warning.

  “Why does Vati have a suitcase packed?” Julia asked.

  Their father was standing in the parlor with a suitcase at his feet.

  “He is going away on a business trip,” Mutti said “He has gone on those before, remember?”

  When had her farmer father ever gone on a business trip before? Christa wondered. In her ten years, she didn’t remember him ever leaving home except to visit his parents in a nearby town, and when he did, he usually took one of the kids with him. Whenever he sold their vegetables or fruits, it was to the locals.

  Hmm, maybe he is trying to sell some of our livestock. Maybe we need money and that’s the only way to get more.

  “Stay, Vati, please,” Fritz, the youngest of the school-age kids said.

  “Ja, stay home with us,” Julia said, arms crossed and feet firmly planted, daring anyone to argue. “Today is my birthday. We have to celebrate. It is tradition.”

  “Do not worry, meine liebling. I am not leaving until the morning,” Vati said. “We have a birthday celebration planned for tonight. Your mother is going to make a cake and a delicious meal.”

  Christa, too, folded her arms across her chest. No, he wasn’t trying to sell livestock. He wouldn’t pack a suitcase for that. He would only go away for a day. Something wasn’t right. No, they weren’t telling the truth. The younger kids might believe it, but not her.

  “I need you to all do your chores quickly today, so we can work on making a special dinner for Julia’s birthday,” Mutti said. “Christa, I will expect you to help with the cooking.”

  Big surprise. I always help with the cooking. “All right, Mutti. I will be back inside after I feed the chickens.” She rushed up the stairs and tossed her rucksack on her bed, then back down the stairs and out the side door to the yard where they kept their chickens.

  She opened the pen’s door and stepped inside, closing the door behind her to keep roaming chickens from escaping. Her family was lucky they still had chickens and still got fresh eggs. Most people in town didn’t have any. Christa’s mother often sold them or bartered with their extra eggs to get flour for making bread.

  “Are you ready for your dinner?” Christa said to the chickens that were romping around her feet. “You will have to leave me some room to get through.” She giggled, and pushed her way through the yard. Reaching the bin where they stored the grain, she opened the lid, took out a scoop full, and fed the hungry fowl.

  Next, she went out back to their garden and pulled out four potatoes and four carrots. She hoped that would be enough for the soup she knew her mother would make for dinner. Before long, the weather would turn cool and their garden would end for the season. She was glad now that she and Mutti and Vati had stockpiled vegetables in their root cellar and canned their fruit in there, too. They would certainly need them later.

  Most of their land and cattle and goats had been seized by the Wehrmacht, the German military, leaving them only a small patch of garden, two cows, and two goats—enough for their family, for now, anyway. She’d heard that in nearby towns, like the one where her other grandparents, Vati’s parents, lived, the soldiers were taking all livestock and even confiscating produce grown by farmers.

  It wasn’t like they could go to the store and buy them. Not here, not during the war. She’d heard on the radio that in Germany and other European countries, every family got ration cards that allowed them certain foods, if those were available. Often, the foods were gone before the people standing in the long lines made it into the shops. Mutti had said that she feared rationing would begin here, too, and they needed to be prepared.

  She entered the stube (parlor) and found her mother feeding the baby milk from her breast.

  “I will bake the cake in a few minutes,” Mutti said. “Will you get out the flour, eggs, and milk for me? Oh, and put the large pot on the stove and start cutting up the vegetables for our soup.”

  “All right, Mutti.” Christa carried the potatoes and carrots into the kitchen and set them down on the counter top, then looked up at the assorted utensils, pots, and pans—dented, tarnished, and worn from years of service—that hung above the stove. In the afternoon light she could understand why her youngest sister was afraid of the massive black iron stove with its narrow chimney and wouldn’t go near it, saying it was a monster that would eat her. Too much of listening to the Hansel and Gretel story Mutti read to them, Christa thought.

  She shook her head, and pulled over the step-stool, climbed up, and pulled down the soup pot, filling it with water for the soup and setting it atop the stove. She also grabbed the tea kettle that was sitting on top of the stove and filled it with water. Looking at the pile of small logs stacked on the floor next to the stove, she decided her brothers would have to bring in more wood soon from the pile of wood their father had cut and stacked outside.

  She walked over to the cupboards next to the stove. Her father had painted the cupboards a year ago, a pale blue, and added glass knobs on the outside, making the kitchen cheerier than it had been when they first moved in. She opened one of the doors and pulled out the burlap bag of flour and set it on the countertop for her mother.

  Above the cupboards were two unpainted pine shelves holding jars of various sizes and shapes, jars that were filled with spices, oats, and salt. She picked up the salt and the pepper and set them on the stove top for seasoning the soup.

  Mutti came into the kitchen and put on her apron, then broke open some eggs and began working on the cake while Christa sliced vegetables and dumped them into the soup pot. Working alongside Mutti made Christa smile. Alone time—just the two of them—meant a lot. Julia looked after the baby and gave their mother some time away from the baby and that, too, meant a lot.

  After dinner, the family sat in the parlor, ate birthday cake, told ghost stories, and sang German folk songs until the youngest kids could barely keep their eyes open. Mutti and Vati put baby Andreas, four- year-old Giselle, seven-year-old Fritz, and eight-year-old Julia to bed and Vati said goodbye to them and told them he would be gone by the time they awoke.

  Mutti and Vati instructed nine-year-old Ernst and ten-year-old Christa to come back downstairs with them.

  “We need to talk to you about something,” Mutti said.

  Christa held her breath for a moment upon hearing that. She was right. They had lied to them.

  Downstairs, Mutti sat in a chair and said, “Sit down, children.”

  They both sat stiffly on the sofa, side by side. Christa didn’t look at her brother, but she knew he was nervous, too. His right knee was bouncing.

  “Vati has been conscripted into the Wehrmacht. He has to report for duty in Hitler’s army tomorrow.”

  Christa squinted her eyes at her parents. “Why? We are not Nazis, are we?”

  “Es macht nichts,” Mutti said. “They give the orders. We have to follow them. They do not care about our political beliefs.”

  Vati put his hand on Mutti’s leg. “We have to be careful what we say. But your mother is right. Disregarding their Wehrmacht’s orders can get you imprisoned or killed.”

  Ernst said, “I do not understand. We live in the Sudetenland, not in Germany. It is not our war.”

  “That is not entirely true,” Vati said. “The Sudetenland and all of Czechoslovakia are part of Germany now. We heard the news on the radio of the Nazi takeover of the Czech government. They control the whole country.”

  Christa struggled to hold back her tears, for Vati’s sake. “How . . . how long will he be gone?”

  “We do not know,” Vati answered.

  “But why does he have to fight for Hitler?” Ernst asked. “I still do not unders
tand. We do not live in Germany. None of us were born there. We are Sudetendeutsch.”

  Vati sighed out loud. “Ja, my family and your mother’s family have lived in this land for several generations. We have never even been to Germany. But, as your mother said, it matters not. The Sudetenland is now part of the German Reich. Hitler claimed it in 1938. Even if they did not control Czechoslovakia, they control us.”

  “I heard about that in school,” Christa said. She’d also heard that many of the Czechs living in Altstadt thought that all the Sudetendeutsch were Nazis or supported “Der Führer” and “Hitler’s Army”, and they didn’t want them here anymore. If her father joined the army, wouldn’t that confirm their beliefs?

  Vati said, “We have been lucky so far that we have not been as affected as citizens inside Germany have been, but the war is expanding and we have been sucked in, too.”

  “You could be killed,” Christa whispered. “Do not go. Please do not.”

  “I have no choice, meine liebling.”

  “What would happen if you refused to go?” Ernst asked.

  “As I said, they would come for me and throw me in prison or shoot me dead. That would not help our family.”

  “You could go away or we could hide you,” Ernst said.

  “Nein,” Vati said. “That would put all of you at risk. The Nazis kill resisters and they kill people who interfere. I have talked to other people and I have listened to the radio—both the Volksempfänger radio and the BBC broadcasts on our old radio. You must not tell anyone that we still have that old radio. It is against the law.”

  Christa knew about the Volksempfänger radio. The Nazis had delivered them to every German household, and her parents sat and listened to it in the evenings after the kids went to bed. She had overheard it sometimes when she came downstairs to go to the outhouse. She never got to hear much, but she’d overheard some women in town talking about that radio and they called it the “All Nazi, All the Time” radio. Christa hadn’t known about another radio until now. She wanted to ask about it, but kept quiet.