by Kathy Kacer
She awoke slowly, hours later, in the exact same spot, in the same clothes in which she had arrived. She had been dreaming that she was back in her dorm room at the orphanage, with Dot and Tess in the beds across from her. Joe was cooking downstairs, and the smell of eggs and toast was drifting up to her room. Soon Miss Webster would begin knocking on the doors of all the orphans, signaling them to get up and get ready for chores and breakfast. For a moment, Sara allowed herself to stay there, comforted by an image that was familiar and felt safe. Then she began to stretch and slowly opened her eyes, taking a moment to orient herself to her surroundings. Her head felt thick and filled with cobwebs. But slowly the floral wallpaper came into focus, and she knew she was not in Hope. She was in Frau Klein’s inn, waking up to her second day in Germany. The smell of breakfast being prepared below wafted up to fill her room. With a deep sigh, Sara knew it was time to get up.
She rose, but not before she had turned to the window to check on the baby robins. All appeared to be quiet there for now. Then she went to shower and change her clothes, putting on one of the blouses she had made before leaving Hope. Finally, she made her way down to the kitchen, where Frau Klein was busy making breakfast. The smell was heavenly, and Sara realized that she was famished.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Guten Morgen.” Frau Klein smiled and guided Sara to the table, where she presented her with platters of eggs, toast, fried potatoes and a delicious thick yogurt with fresh fruit. All this was to be washed down with strong coffee and hot milk. Sara hadn’t had a feast like this in a long time. Just as she was digging in, John Wayne entered the kitchen from outside. When he saw Sara, his tail began to wag furiously, practically throwing him off his feet. His ample behind swayed from side to side as he wobbled over to sit next to her chair.
“Good morning, John Wayne,” she said, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand.
At that moment, Frau Klein placed the dog’s bowl of food in a corner of the kitchen. John Wayne didn’t wait for an invitation. He pranced over to bury his face in his own breakfast.
From the size of him, he looked like he’d had his share of Frau Klein’s cooking, Sara thought, amused. And she could understand his enthusiasm. Frau Klein continued to bring plate after plate of food to Sara. “Komm, iss, komm, iss!!” the innkeeper insisted. Sara knew without really understanding that she was being urged to eat. She lifted her fork and began to dig in. Even though she could barely communicate with Frau Klein about anything, there was no awkwardness in their interaction. They smiled at one another, nodded, and every once in a while, Frau Klein would squeeze Sara’s arm and mutter something in German. Sara just grinned back and continued eating.
She was just finishing her second freshly baked cinnamon roll when the door opened and Peter entered. He sat down opposite her without being invited and leaned forward. “Hello. You’re looking well rested.”
She looked away self-consciously and pulled on her ponytail. Why did he fluster her so much? Instead of responding, she pointed to the cinnamon roll she was enjoying. “This is so good,” she said.
“It’s called a Schnecke,” Peter replied as Frau Klein set one down in front of him. Sara laughed at the strange-sounding word. “You’ll think it’s even funnier when I tell you what it means,” Peter added through a mouthful of bun. “Schnecke is the German word for snail, which is what we think this bun is shaped like. Laugh all you want,” he added. “People line up to buy them from Frau Klein. She must like you a lot.” Frau Klein continued to smile and hover in the background as Sara and Peter talked.
“I can’t remember the last time I ate this much food,” Sara said, reaching for another schnecke and setting it down on her plate. “But I have to ask you, where are all the other people? I haven’t seen anyone else. I thought this was an inn.”
“You’re the only guest staying here right now. But the truth is, this is a small town, and not many people pass through. It gets a lot busier in the summer, but this is still early in the season.”
“It’s just like where I come from. There’s a fishing derby that brings people out in the summer, along with the bird watchers. But other than that, my hometown is as quiet as this place. But does that mean that Frau Klein made all of this just for me?” The breakfast was enough for a banquet.
“She doesn’t need much of an excuse to cook.” He pointed at the platters in front of them. “There are two things that make Frau Klein happy—cooking for people, and watching them eat. Besides, as I said, I think she likes you. She doesn’t really have any relatives left. Her husband was killed in the camps, and they had no children. The other Jewish families try to watch out for her, though you can see that she’s strong and quite independent. She’s kind of like everyone’s substitute grandmother.”
Frau Klein motioned for Sara to have some more. She shook her head gratefully and pushed her plate away. “Tell her I’m going to explode if I have another bite.”
Frau Klein laughed as Peter translated. Sara wondered briefly how this woman, who had clearly lost so much in the war, could continue to smile and reach out so lovingly to those around her. Sara could learn a lot from Frau Klein’s example.
Peter was still polishing off his cinnamon roll. “Is your suitcase packed?” he asked through a full mouth. “Would you like me to go upstairs and get it?”
Sara rose from the table and began to bring dishes to the sink. She turned to face Peter. “My plans have changed. I’m not going anywhere for a while.” She explained about having a return ticket one week from today, and about how she needed to spend more time trying to figure out the puzzle of her birth. “Besides, there’s no reason for me to go back to Hope. I really don’t have anything there.”
It was Peter’s turn to push his plate away. “Nein, danke,” he said, shaking his head when Frau Klein tried to give him another bun. He stared over at Sara. “What do you think you’re going to find here?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve come all this way to search for my mother. If Dr. Pearlman isn’t going to help me, then I’ve got to try something else. I’m not ready to give up yet.”
There was a long pause as Peter also rose and began to help clear the dishes. Frau Klein was busy wrapping the leftovers in smaller bowls. John Wayne was still loudly crunching his breakfast in the background. Finally, Peter turned to Sara. “I’ll help you, if you’d like.”
Sara turned away, not wanting to show how relieved she was at the offer. At this point, she still didn’t want to rely on Peter—or anyone, for that matter. But she knew that she could certainly use his help, if for no other reason than to be her guide and translator. That was as much as she was prepared to admit for the time being, even though, deep down inside of her, there was the stirring of something else. She pushed that thought far away.
“Thank you,” she replied, keeping her voice even. “I think I could use the help.”
Thirteen
PETER SMILED. “SO, where would you like to start?”
“Here,” Sara said as she pulled out the medical document that she had slipped into her pocket. “It says here that I was born in Föhrenwald. You told me it’s where Dr. Pearlman also went after the war. Maybe if I go there, I’ll find something or someone who can help me.”
Peter studied the document. “It’s not far from here. We can bicycle there. Frau Klein will lend us the bikes.” He said something in German to the innkeeper and then glanced out the window. “It’s sunny right now, but I know it’s supposed to rain later today. I hope you don’t mind getting wet.”
Frau Klein pointed to the sky and responded in German.
“She says that the sun must have come out just for you this morning. She says that the blue sky matches your eyes.”
Sara blushed and tugged at her ponytail again, while Frau Klein laughed and said something else to Peter. This time it was his face that reddened.
“What did she say?”
Peter shook his
head. “Frau Klein thinks she’s a matchmaker. I’ll just leave it at that.”
Frau Klein’s laughter followed them out the door and into the shed, where Peter located the bikes under a gray canvas oilcloth. While Sara wiped one of them down, Peter began to fill the tires of the other using a pump he found nearby.
“I’m afraid the bikes haven’t been touched all winter,” he said. “But it won’t take long to get them ready.” They worked side by side until Peter broke the silence again. “I must ask you about your name—Sara Barry. It’s not a very…Jewish-sounding name.”
Sara laughed. She knew it wasn’t even her real last name, just the one that Mrs. Hazelton had given her upon her arrival at the orphanage. She explained this to Peter. “Our matron liked to name the girls after characters in the books by the authors she loved the most—Chaucer, Brontë, Mitchell. But she kept her favorite book for me and the six other older girls in the house—my best friends,” she added. “Our last names came from Anne of Green Gables. Have you heard of that book?”
“Yes,” Peter replied. “But it’s not one that I’ve read.”
“It was written by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Mrs. Hazelton said that even though I was recovering from TB when I arrived at the orphanage, I was such a round child—cheeks exploding across my face, she used to say. It reminded her of Anne’s best friend, Diana Barry, who she said was also rather plump. I never really questioned it,” she added. “I was always just Sara Barry.” Luke had sometimes made fun of the name, Sara recalled. He’d called her Hairy Barry, or Cherry Barry, which she hated. She didn’t tell Peter that part. “My mother’s last name was Frankel. So I guess that’s my real last name, unless there’s more to this puzzle than I thought.”
They set out, riding side by side out of Wolfratshausen and south toward Föhrenwald. The sandwiches Frau Klein had insisted on packing for them were in a container in the basket of Sara’s bicycle. It was a clear, warm day. And although Sara could detect dark clouds gathering on the horizon, she couldn’t believe they would turn into anything more menacing. The sky above her was too bright. The morning sun was welcoming as it pitched its rays across the town. Sara pumped her legs up and down on the pedals, enjoying the exercise, reminded of the days she used to bicycle to work at Loretta’s.
Eventually Peter took the lead, and Sara fell in behind him, following closely as he wove through the streets of Wolfratshausen and then turned away from the river to follow a smaller road south. Here, the houses were separated by larger patches of green land. The sun played hide-and-seek in the tree branches that hung low over the road. The road itself was unpaved and rough, and her bicycle wheels rattled and bounced underneath her. After only about fifteen minutes, Peter began to slow down, and Sara did the same. They were approaching a residential area, and the road was beginning to smooth out once more. Ahead of her, Sara could see homes and buildings lining both sides of the street. There were several office buildings, a church and a school. Children were gathered in the playground, running across the pavement and squealing as they passed one another. Peter pulled over by the side of the road. He gestured around him.
“I told you it wasn’t far. This is Föhrenwald.”
Sara glanced around. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but this wasn’t exactly it. This looked like one of the neighborhoods back in Hope, not a place that had once housed Jews who had survived the Holocaust.
“You look puzzled,” said Peter.
“Are you sure this is it?” Sara asked. “I mean, are you sure this was the displaced persons camp?” Was she looking for evidence of suffering? Or death? Of course, that was ridiculous. The war had ended years ago.
Peter nodded. “This is it. My parents told me a lot about this place.” He went on to explain that at one time there had been over 5,000 Jewish refugees living here. “There were dormitories and small apartments, there and there.” He pointed. “There was a school, probably smaller than this one, a library, a hospital and even a synagogue.”
“But where is all of that now?”
“A lot of the original buildings were torn down when the DP camp closed in 1957. That’s when all of these smaller homes were built. Now it’s really just a…” He struggled to find the word. “What do you call a place that is part of a city, but just outside?”
“A suburb?” Sara offered.
Peter nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Föhrenwald is a suburb of Wolfratshausen. Everything’s changed in the last few years. It’s not even called Föhrenwald anymore. Now the place is called Waldram. Even the street signs are different,” he said, indicating a pole with a rather new-looking banner on it. “My parents told me that the streets used to be named for people and states in America. This corner was once called Roosevelt and Pennsylvania.”
Sara looked up at the street sign. They were at the corner of Thomasstrasse and Faulhaberstrasse. “Why did they change everything?”
“Once this place closed, everyone tried their hardest to forget about the past. There was, and is, such shame associated with the concentration camps in this country and what the Nazis did to the Jews. If people could change what this place was called, perhaps they could erase what it once was.”
Sara was silent. She understood the desire to try to cover up the past, or to forget about who you were and where you had come from. But here she was, trying to do exactly the opposite—she was trying to uncover her past. How was she going to do that if everything had changed or been wiped out? She needed to find out what was once here. She needed to see if anyone knew or could remember her mother. There was only one way to do that. Sara climbed off her bicycle, flipped the kickstand down and began to walk up the stone path leading to one of the small houses. Peter quickly parked his bike and ran up the path to stop her.
“What are you doing?” he asked, reaching out to grab her arm.
“I want to talk to someone,” replied Sara. “I want to see if anyone can give me information about my mother.”
“I’ve got to warn you,” he cautioned. “Some of the people around here may not be so willing to talk to you.”
“Why not?”
Peter cast his eyes downward. He looked uncomfortable. “As I said, people around here have been trying to forget the past. What Germany did to the Jews of Europe is a”—he searched for the word—“a stain on this country, a crime that shocked the world. The families who lived in this area at that time don’t want to admit that they may have seen what was happening and yet did nothing to try and stop it. Some may even have helped!”
“But I’m not blaming them.”
“No,” Peter continued. “And many were simply too scared for themselves to do anything at that time. They may have hated what was going on and yet still could do nothing to stop it. But even that is something they would prefer to forget.”
Sara hesitated. And as she stood on the pathway, with dark clouds approaching from the distance, she had a fleeting memory of what Luke had done to Malou back in Hope. How he had harassed her and called her horrible names—and how Sara had ignored it. She was determined to be better than that from now on. Besides, Mrs. Hazelton had said that she needed to look back in order to get on with her life. Maybe the people of this place needed to do the same. This feeling of purpose was all new to her, and it was pretty fleeting. Sara stared back at Peter. She knew that if she blinked, she might lose her nerve, and she needed all of it to push forward. Then she pulled herself free of his grasp.
“I understand what you’re saying. But I have to try this,” she said as she approached the front door of the house. With only a brief hesitation, she reached up and knocked.
Within seconds, an elderly woman answered. She appeared to be about Frau Klein’s age and had the same worn hands and wrinkled face. She wore a colorful scarf tied around her head and a matching apron around her waist. She glanced at Peter and stared suspiciously at Sara’s Star of David, which had freed itself from her blouse in the ride here. “Ja?” she asked.
Sara turned he
lplessly to Peter. “Please!” she begged. “I need you to translate.” Reluctantly, he approached the door and stood next to Sara. “Tell her that my mother lived in this place when it was a DP camp. Tell her I’m looking for someone who might have known her or seen her.”
As Peter began to talk, the old woman’s eyes narrowed and darkened. She said something harshly. Sara didn’t need the translation to know that she was angry.
“She said she had nothing to do with what went on back then,” Peter began.
Sara urged him on. “Tell her that I understand that, but I just want some information.”
The woman said something else, just as harshly, and Peter looked even more helpless. “She says she doesn’t know anything about that time.”
Sara would not be stopped. “Tell her I’ve got this document with my mother’s name on it.” Sara began to dig in her bag for the paper to show the woman. But before she could find it, the woman barked out one more statement and then slammed the door with a loud bang.
“She said to leave her alone,” Peter said.
Sara looked around, undeterred. “Well, that was only one house. There are plenty more to try.” With that, Sara approached a second house, where another elderly woman greeted her with the same response. At house after house they got the same reaction. After each attempt, Peter trailed farther behind, ever more reluctant to question the people of the town. Sara thought she might have some luck with a younger man who opened his door and listened politely as Peter filled in Sara’s story. But it turned out that he had just moved to this neighborhood from Berlin. He knew nothing of the town’s past.