Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  Rachel bristled. “I don’t want to dance.”

  “Allow me.” He stood and, ignoring her response, led her to the dance floor.

  At least it was better than dancing with the SS officers or the fawning Dr. Mengele. Rachel was always surprised and pleased when dancing with her father. The moment he stepped onto a dance floor his carriage, his entire demeanor, changed from intent, slump-shouldered scientist to man about town. He bowed, lifted her hand, and they began a Viennese waltz. Perfect frame, perfect timing with the orchestra, and just the right pressure on her back, against her hand. Ballroom dancing was something he and her mother had shared, and though Rachel could not waltz as wonderfully as she remembered her mother waltzing, in his arms she knew she could be made more beautiful still.

  They’d taken one sweeping turn round the ballroom floor when her father stopped in response to a tap on his shoulder. He smiled, bowed slightly, and stood aside.

  Sturmbannführer Gerhardt Schlick was waiting, smiling in a way that made Rachel shudder, though she refused to show it. She allowed herself to be led round the floor. On the second turn he pulled her closer. “It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you again, Rachel.”

  She swallowed, smiling confidently, but her throat was dry. “Has it? And how is Kristine, and your daughter?”

  A coldness passed through his eyes. “You must judge that for yourself.”

  She raised her brows.

  He sighed. “Oh, come now. There must have been signs before. You should have told me, warned me. I thought we were friends, at least.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Your friend is not—” he hesitated—“genetically sound. She is not emotionally . . . I would use the English word stable.”

  “Kristine is more stable than any girl I know.”

  “And so I thought when I agreed to marry her. But as I said, you must judge for yourself.”

  “What have you done to her?”

  He looked the aggrieved, terribly injured party. “You wound me, Fräulein, and do me injustice.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Ever the champion of the underdog.” He smiled. “And as beautiful as the moment I first saw you.” He pulled her closer still.

  “And you are married, Herr Schlick.” She stepped away from him.

  He snorted softly. “Truly, my mistake.” Gerhardt bowed, but held her hand and kissed it. “I should have waited for you, no matter how long.”

  She turned, but he did not let go of her hand. “You’ll be in Berlin for several weeks, I understand, Fräulein Kramer.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I look forward to seeing more of you, and often.”

  “That will not be possible.” Rachel pulled away, more disgusted than frightened. She sensed that he followed her toward her seat. Her father was not there, but standing oblivious, deep in conversation within the doctors’ circle several feet away. Kristine was gone.

  All the you-should-have-known-better cuts she’d loaded in her arsenal, ready to aim at Kristine, evaporated. No matter the headlong foolishness of her rebound marriage, Kristine didn’t deserve Gerhardt Schlick.

  Rachel retrieved her bag from the table and headed for the ladies’ room, trusting that Gerhardt would not follow.

  3

  DESPITE CLOSE PROXIMITY and creative lurking, Jason Young had not maneuvered one minute alone with Dr. Kramer. “Himmler’s got him smothered and Verschuer’s got him dwarfed.”

  “Kramer’s a pale fish out of water,” Peterson agreed. “Doesn’t look like much beside those SS and the charismatic Mengele.”

  “So, who does? I’m thinking we’d all ought to wear jackboots and carry riding crops.”

  “Well then, what’s next?” Peterson grumbled, licking the base of a new flashbulb.

  “They don’t want him alone with the press. We’ve got to get him off to the side.” Jason edged toward the tight clique of officers and doctors.

  “Muscle through that crowd and you’ll find yourself on a swift vacation to hard labor,” Peterson whispered. “Perfect opportunity to buddy up with those concentration-camped German priests and pastors you love to champion.” He twisted the bulb into his camera, smiling into the face of a particularly nasty-looking SS officer with a monocle.

  Jason pushed a hank of sandy hair from his eyes. “We’re not supposed to know about that.”

  “Right,” Peterson snorted. “Neither is half of Germany.”

  “And I don’t do prison interviews—nasty smells.”

  “Wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  Jason skirted the small group, trying to ingratiate himself into the conversation, person by person. But it was no use. It was as though they’d formed a seal around the American scientist.

  Except that Jason knew the great doctor was fluent in German, he might have suspected Kramer did not understand the speeches—those from the platform or those given by the men standing next to him. Pretty radical rhetoric, even for the mad scientist. He didn’t appear the pompous, driven man Jason had shadowed in New York City. So what’s changed?

  Peterson nudged him. “You’re not the only vulture circling.” He nodded toward Kramer’s daughter, who seemed to be trying to capture her father’s attention. “Why not try the circuitous route?”

  Rachel Kramer wasn’t his first choice. Jason doubted she was privy to her father’s research or the alliance between the Eugenics Research Association and the Third Reich. He’d checked her out for just that purpose back in New York but had been convinced she had her head buried in modern theatre. He reconsidered now, giving her the once-over, head to toe—all business. Then he did it again—pure pleasure. She just might be a link to the great doctor off court.

  He swallowed. That was an excuse, and he knew it. It wouldn’t do to get distracted. Beautiful women had a way of doing that. Still, it was worth a try. He stepped closer and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Rachel.” A black dress SS uniform muscled between them, pulling her from the group. “I must speak with you.”

  But she turned on the German. “I don’t wish to speak with you. Take your hands off me.”

  “Please, my dear, let’s not make a scene. Consider your father.” The SS uniform leaned closer, wrapped his arm around her, but she struggled against him.

  “We’re on.” Jason elbowed Peterson and pocketed his notepad and pencil, picked up a glass of champagne from the nearest place setting, and slammed into the SS officer. “Entschuldigung, Herr Sturmbannführer. My fault entirely.”

  “You imbecile!” the officer exploded, releasing Rachel.

  “You’re absolutely right; I’m a clumsy oaf. Here—” Jason grabbed a linen napkin, dramatically sopping the man’s arm—“let’s clean you up.”

  “Get away from me, you Dummkopf!”

  “Now, now.” Peterson stepped between the two, steering the officer away. “There’s no need to get riled. International relations and such. Simple mistake. How about I get your photograph for the newspaper? What was your name again?”

  Jason just as smoothly cupped Rachel’s elbow. “Would you care to dance, Miss Kramer? Give this homesick American a Berlin memory?”

  Clearly relieved, Rachel stepped onto the dance floor. “Thank you. That was—”

  “Uncomfortable,” Jason finished. He took her hand, twirled her twice, then pulled her closer than necessary into a fox-trot. “Damsel in distress from the nasty Nazis and all that.”

  Rachel laughed, pulling back slightly. “Precisely. And who is this chivalrous Yank I must thank?”

  “Sir Jason, at your service.” He mocked a bow.

  She mocked a curtsy, smiling warmly. Jason felt his blood race.

  “Well, Sir Jason, what brings you to Berlin? It’s not exactly tourist season in the nation’s capital, is it?”

  “Hardly.” Jason took a half box turn to keep Peterson and the uniform in his peripheral vision. “First big gala assignment i
n the new regime.”

  “You’re a foreign correspondent?”

  He felt her tense. Jason laughed. “From your mouth to my editor’s ears! Confidentially—” he twirled her again—“I’m guessing he’s laying ten to one that I’ll fall flat on my face before the New Year, get kicked out of the country by the Gestapo, and be back on NY’s city beat before you can catch a cat’s meow.”

  “You’re that bad?”

  He grimaced. “Do you always say exactly what you mean?”

  Now she laughed. “I hope so. I don’t have a journalist’s gift for flattery.”

  “You give me too much credit.” He dipped her once.

  “And you’re a flamboyant dancer!”

  “Not so staid and serious as your German uniform?” He grinned, though he caught the uniform’s glare from across the room.

  She shuddered—enough that he felt it through her evening gown.

  “So, who is the creep?”

  “The husband of an old friend—who’s acting like neither.”

  “Check. Do you want me to walk you out?”

  “No, no, of course not—thank you. I’m here with my father.” She nodded toward the clique against the far wall.

  “Not one of the military types, I take it.”

  “No. The American scientist—Dr. Kramer.” She lifted her chin slightly but diverted her eyes. Jason caught her mixed glimmer of pride and uncertainty.

  “Ah—part of the cooperative eugenics program Himmler was going on about.”

  “I’m fairly certain Herr Himmler overemphasized America’s contribution.”

  “No need to be modest. It’s all the rage here in Germany—master Nordic race breeding. Sterilization of questionable bloodlines. Elimination of undesirable elements.” He twirled her again. “So, what do you make of it?”

  She looked taken aback, and Jason knew he was losing her. “What does your father think? Will the US be accelerating their program—keep pace with the Führer?”

  Her smile gone, she pulled away. “I don’t discuss politics, Mr.—Mr. Jason.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “My apologies, Miss Kramer. No offense intended. It’s just that this is a gala to celebrate the research shared between countries. I figured you’d be all for it, or at least your father would.” He stepped closer, staged his best repentant-little-boy look, and held out his hand. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

  She placed her hand in his.

  Jason couldn’t believe his luck. “Here’s something neutral. What will you do while in Germany? Need a tour guide?”

  “I’ve been coming to Germany ever since I was a child. What could you show me?”

  “Anything you want. Say the word.” He grinned. “I’ll become the best tour guide Germany has to offer, if I have to bribe every cabbie in Berlin!”

  At last she smiled, and he twirled her, glad to be in her favor once again.

  “As a matter of fact, Sir Jason, I probably know Berlin better than you. Perhaps I should give you the tour.”

  “Now you’re talking!”

  “But only if you stop twirling me—I’ll be too dizzy to walk!”

  They both laughed as the music faded.

  “Thirsty?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Before they lifted champagne flutes from the waiter’s tray, Peterson cut in. “Young, I’m out of here. I need to get these photos developed. See you tomorrow.” He nodded appreciatively toward Rachel. “Miss Kramer.”

  But when Jason turned back to Rachel, her jaw had gone rigid and her eyes cold. “Young? Your name is Young? Jason Young?”

  Jason swallowed, fairly certain what was coming.

  “The bounty hunter masquerading as a crusader out to ruin my father?”

  “Hey, that’s not my intention.”

  “You knew my name. You knew who I was. That’s why you danced with me—you wanted a story.”

  “I don’t rescue women in distress to get a story. I didn’t set up the uniform. You looked like you could use some help.” But he couldn’t hold her piercing gaze.

  “Your incessant hounding is driving my father into an early grave.”

  “My hounding?” He couldn’t let that pass. “Do you know what they’re doing as a result of his research and the research of his counterparts here in Germany? Did you hear what they said tonight?”

  Rachel turned to walk away, but Jason kept pace. “If he’s innocent, if there’s a good side to this, then help me get the story. Convince him to talk to me. I’ll be fair—honest.”

  “Honest?” She nearly snorted, reducing him to dung with her glare. “You’ve shown just how honest you are, Mr. Young. I don’t think either Germany or America can stand much more of your brand of honesty.”

  Jason stopped short, the wind knocked from his sails. “Hey, I don’t make the news,” he called after her. “It’s people like your father who do that! I just write it.”

  The piercing headache between Rachel’s eyes would not relent. Even the headlights of oncoming cars made her wince. But her father was in high spirits.

  “Quite the affair, if I do say so.” He spoke as if expecting an answer, but Rachel knew better. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat of the Mercedes.

  “I daresay Herr Himmler came across rather stronger than I would have, but Germany’s on the right track. They’ve moved ahead of us in America. We’ll benefit greatly from their studies.”

  She turned away, uncertain which was the culprit that made her feel sick—her headache or her father’s skewed reality.

  “We’ll be leaving for the conference on Tuesday. I’m driving to Hamburg with Major Schlick and Dr. Verschuer, then taking the ship to Scotland. There will be meetings after the conference. Two weeks is a long time on your own.”

  “I prefer it. I’d like to do some shopping while we’re in the city, and I’m eager to see what the local theatres are producing.” She tried to push back the throbbing. “I didn’t know Gerhardt was part of the eugenics conference.”

  “He’s taken an interest. He’s quite the favorite with Dr. Verschuer. Someone worth knowing . . . a rising star in the SS.”

  She felt her father’s eyes upon her, even in the darkness. The thought of Gerhardt Schlick numbered among Germany’s finest made her queasy.

  “The trip would give you opportunity to get to know him better.”

  “I have no desire to know him better. He was beastly tonight—to his wife and to me.”

  “I don’t imagine their marriage will last.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Now he turned his head away, toward the opposite window. “You saw how things are between them.” He hesitated, but only a moment. “Did you speak with Kristine?”

  “No.” Rachel felt her exasperation rising. “I’d intended to, but we were not sitting near enough during the speeches, and by the end of dinner she was completely cowed by Gerhardt.”

  “She was drunk.”

  “I can see why. He’s horrid to her.”

  “You don’t know what he contends with. You mustn’t judge harshly.”

  “Harshly?”

  “It was a poor match from the start. You could have handled him so much better. You were . . . hasty.”

  Rachel could not believe her ears. Surely her father must have had too much to drink. “What about their daughter? Amelie must be—what—four, by now?”

  But her father dismissed her and the notion of Amelie with a flick of the wrist. Rachel was just as glad to drop the conversation. Perhaps by morning he’d regain his senses.

  Rachel woke to find a note pushed beneath her door. Her father had gone out to an early breakfast meeting with colleagues. He’d apologized that she must eat alone and promised to see her that evening for dinner. They were invited to join the American ambassador and his wife. Rachel knew it was an order.

  She opened the balcony door of her hotel room, glad for the morning sun, glad she would not need to spend the da
y with her father and his cronies. Rather than call for room service, she decided to go exploring—find an outdoor café specializing in strong ersatz German coffee and good rolls.

  She was nearly out the door when she remembered her room key. Rummaging through her evening bag, she pulled out her comb and lipstick, her compact and passport—but no room key. She turned the bag upside down. Still no key. She massaged the purse all round, could feel the key in the bottom, but couldn’t see it. Taking her bag to the window, she opened it. When it was held up to the light, she saw that a hole had been torn in the lining—a hole she knew was not there before. Rachel wriggled her finger through, felt the errant key . . . and something else.

  She tried to grab hold of the paper, but both slipped away. Retrieving her nail scissors, she snipped the hole a little larger. Out came the key and a slim, rolled paper. Rachel recognized the hastily scrawled handwriting as Kristine’s.

  4

  FRIEDERICH TURNED the small block of limewood over, and over again—first this way, and then that. It was the finest piece he owned, with the finest grain. He’d saved it until last. There was something about carving all the other figures of the Nativity first—the magi and shepherds, the sheep and donkeys, and even the archangel—that brought him with great satisfaction to the holy family, and finally to the Christkind. By saving its carving until last, he knew intimately the nature of the wood and the deeper personality of the family. For surely each was unique.

  Ever since he’d married Lea he’d been carving her loving, concerned, and doting smile into Mary’s face. He’d carved his own protective nature into Joseph’s stance. And the babe—the babe was the child they hoped for, prayed for. The perfect child they imagined suckling and gurgling by day, the child Lea would sing to sleep at night. He’d carved a dozen in the last year—each one a work of which he was proud.

  Friederich dropped the wood onto his worktable and stood. He walked to the window of his small woodshop and stared at the sun-drenched mountain. Mockery. There would be no babe to imagine. No babe for them—ever. What hope, what contentment could he carve into the holy family’s faces now?