Saving Amelie

by Cathy Gohlke

  “And who are you? What is your business here?”

  Rachel’s theatre training kicked in, as though she’d deliberately summoned it. “My cousin brought her daughter here. I demand to know what you’ve done with the children.”

  The woman paled as Rachel spoke. “They are sleeping. It is afternoon nap time. That is all. Tell your cousin to call before she comes to visit.”

  “The ones I saw getting into the van—the black van, just now.”

  The woman’s eyes grew unnaturally bright. She looked over her shoulder, then back again. “They—they are being . . .” She hesitated barely a moment. “Taken for treatment.”

  “What kind of treatment?”

  “That is up to the doctor, what they need. What each one needs.” She stepped forward, urging Rachel backward, toward the door. “You will excuse us, Fräulein. We have work to do.”

  Rachel nearly gave way, uncertain, knowing she couldn’t truly be sure, couldn’t prove anything. But a mournful wail filtered through the hallway, reaching her ears as she stepped away. “Who is crying? Who is that?”

  “Children cry often, Fräulein. In a house as large as this it is only common. You must go now.”

  “That was not a child!”

  The woman’s frustration erupted. “It is Frau Heppfner. If you must know, her only son has been sent to the front. She is a good German, but she is frightened for him.” She pushed Rachel through the open doorway. “Now you must go.”

  From behind the shrubbery covering the corner of the street, Jason watched Rachel step from the orphanage. He had a good idea about what had happened to the children; he’d been tipped off to expect as much. But he’d no idea what role Rachel Kramer played. He’d expected her to be coldhearted and pretty much an ostrich, hiding her head in the sand about things that impacted anyone other than herself. He hadn’t expected that she might be in some way linked to Hitler’s nightmare.

  He shoved his camera deep into his coat pocket and followed, several steps behind, to the corner.

  She walked slowly. When she turned, looking lost and troubled, he knew for certain she wasn’t part of the horror he’d just witnessed, and his heart pricked for her.

  “Miss Kramer?” He reached for her arm. She pulled away, staring at his hands, then up into his face, as if she didn’t know him. He stepped closer. “Rachel? Are you all right?”

  Jason pulled her to the bench amid her jumble of packages and bags, some of which had been rifled and emptied. She lifted a torn brown wrapper.

  “You can’t trust anybody.” He tried to make light.

  But she looked up with tears in her eyes. “No. No, you can’t.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”

  She slumped against the bench back.

  “What did that woman say to you?”

  Rachel stared straight ahead. It was getting to be a habit with her. Jason thought that if he waved his hand in front of her face now, she might not notice.

  “She said that the children have gone for treatment—what each one needs, what the doctor thinks each one needs.”

  “Did she say when they’re coming back?”

  Tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks, making her look vulnerable, almost childlike. She shook her head slowly, finally whispering, “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

  She knows—but how? “Is this part of your father’s research?”

  She looked at him, her eyes regaining focus. “What?”

  “You know what they’re doing in the van, don’t you? Did your father tell you?”

  She cringed. “He’s got nothing to do with that! He works to make the world a better place, not—not that!”

  He leaned closer, wishing he could shield her, knowing he mustn’t. “This is where eugenics leads, Miss Kramer. This has been the end goal all along—to rid the world of the disabled, the elderly, the politically expendable, and any race or group of people Hitler deems unacceptable.”

  “No,” she nearly whimpered. “It’s not the same.”

  Jason sat back, and though he wanted to shake her into reality, he also pitied her. “If you believe that, you’ve bought into the lie. There’s nothing I can do to help you if you won’t open your eyes.” He pulled a card from his coat pocket. “Here’s my number. Call me anytime, day or night, if you want to talk. They’ll know where to find me.” He hesitated. “Let me walk you back to your hotel. Tonight’s the first blackout. You don’t want to be out alone.”

  “No, thank you. It’s not far. I can manage very well.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Miss Kra—”

  “I can manage!”

  He stood, rebuked but undecided. He hated leaving her there distraught, especially with the gathering dusk and impending blackout. But she was arrogant, even in her misery. He’d have to wait around the corner, follow her, make sure she made it safely back.

  He knew she was thoroughly frightened. Yet he also knew that she and the whole world needed to be terrified. There was no other way to wake them up, to force their hands.

  7

  SUNDAY DAWNED CLEAR AND SUNNY, a perfect late-summer morning caressed in breezes—the kind of day meant for boating on the Spree or picnics and ambling along the Tiergarten’s shaded pathways.

  But Rachel had not left the hotel since she’d returned from her ordeal Friday night with the van and Jason Young. Traipsing back to her hotel in the darkness, hearing footsteps echo off the pavement around her but unable to see anyone in the blackout, hearing hushed whispers—every whispered voice equally afraid—had been more than enough of Berlin for her.

  Besides, she was intent on staying by the phone in case her father called. She gathered all the frightening news she could stomach through Reich-approved radio stations and through her chambermaid.

  “I heard Herr Hitler with my own ears, over the loudspeaker in Wilhelmplatz this noon!” the girl had insisted. “At eleven o’clock Britain declared war against us! But our Führer let them have it—lambasted those warmongering British and those capitalist Jews!”

  Rachel’s stomach churned.

  “There’s a new decree. Listening to foreign broadcasts is verboten. The Führer doesn’t want us discouraged by foreign propaganda, like in the last war. Too many women wrote their husbands at the front about what they’d heard of the war, and about the harsh rationing and such—meine Mutter told me how it was. It brought our soldiers low, and they gave up the fight too soon. It was all Bolshevik Jew lies behind it, you know, meant to destroy morale.” The girl spoke knowingly while she snapped pillow slips and shook the eiderdown. “Meine Mutter says it’s why we suffered the humiliation of Versailles. The Führer says we needn’t have lost at all. But thanks to him, we’re stronger now. We’ll not listen to the lies this time, and we’re to report those that do.”

  “You’ve no idea what war will mean,” Rachel tried to persuade her.

  “We don’t want war, but we’ll not lose to those that force it upon us!”

  Berlin women sewed cloth bags. Men and boys packed them with sand, slamming them by the hundreds against the bases of houses, intent on breaking the impact of explosions. Government stations distributed gas masks—to Aryan residents—but did not evacuate women and children.

  Rachel dared hope Hitler’s boast that the British and French planes would never breach the city’s lines was true. And then she wondered if she should regret that, if she should hope instead for the crazies to be blasted from the Reichstag.

  Lists of blackout regulations were posted in the newspapers. Only the whitewashed curbs helped navigate the darkened streets.

  But Rachel was done going out after dark. Even the theatres, which still opened their doors, could not compel her. She was packed, ready to leave for the US the moment her father returned from Frankfurt. The only person she’d telephoned since she’d witnessed the van of children being driven away was Kristine. She’d phoned her on Saturday, intending to say she would do whateve
r she could for Amelie, but hung up without speaking when Gerhardt answered the phone.

  If Gerhardt is back early, why isn’t Father?

  Rachel paced the carpeted floor of the sitting room between her father’s bedchamber and her own Sunday morning and afternoon. Rehearsing her lines over and over—what she would ask him, what she could say while shielding Kristine and Amelie. He couldn’t possibly be part of this madness. He would know what to do. And they must leave right away—before they couldn’t.

  When her father finally returned, it was nearly the dinner hour and she was spent with worry. Neither had dressed for dinner, and going to the theatre was out of the question. He complained that he was tired from the journey and asked if she’d mind if they had something served in their sitting room.

  “Not at all. I’d prefer it.” Rachel kept a grip on her emotions but knew she spoke too brightly. “And we must talk of going home—as soon as possible!”

  After placing their order for room service, he sank into the sofa. “You’ve no idea the stress of this trip, my dear. The war—not unexpected, but still . . . I’m glad you were here in Berlin, waiting for me. It makes . . .” He swallowed. “At least, something . . .”

  “Are you ill?”

  He waved his hand as if to dismiss the idea. “It’s just . . . so many decisions, all the preparation for the conference in Edinburgh. And such a disappointment. So little cooperation between nations and ideologies. The tension between monarchs . . .” He closed his eyes. “They all want the same thing eugenically—ultimately—but refuse to align themselves with Germany for fear of what the world thinks. They don’t understand. We’re standing on the precipice!”

  “We’re in the middle of a war!”

  He brushed the air again. “It will blow over. France, Britain—they’re no match for Germany. They’ll soon see and come to their senses. As will Poland.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m afraid I’m like those nations you met with, Father. I don’t understand either.”

  He was massaging the bridge between his eyes. “What is it? What do you not understand?”

  Taking the deep chair opposite him, she leaned forward. “On Friday—the day the Führer declared war on Poland—”

  “A counterattack, he said.”

  She ignored him. “I saw something that disturbed me greatly—something I hope is not what it seemed.”

  He opened his eyes. “And what is that?”

  “I was shopping in the city. As I was waiting for a trolley I saw a van—its windows painted black—stop before an asylum for handicapped children.”

  “Perhaps the children were going on a trip.”

  “I didn’t say they’d gone anywhere. What makes you think they went somewhere?”

  He waved his hand in dismissal once more, but she saw his shoulders tighten. “A supposition—you said there was a van.”

  “Actually—”

  But a knock at the door startled Rachel.

  “Come in!” Dr. Kramer called, seemingly relieved, rejuvenated by the sight of the waiter wheeling the cart with their dinner.

  They’d barely begun their meal when Rachel tried again. “You’re right, Father. The children were loaded into the van, but I don’t think they were going on a pleasure trip. The woman in charge said they were going for treatment. What sort of treatment would an entire vanload of handicapped children be going for—children with different handicaps?”

  “How can I know that? Only their doctor would know.”

  But she persisted. “At the gala I heard Herr Himmler talk about those who would become a drain on German society in the event of war—those whom the Reich could barely sustain in peacetime could not be supported during war. What did he mean?”

  Her father was clearly annoyed by the turn in conversation. “How can I know what he was thinking? Rachel, you take these things too much to heart.”

  “But that’s the nature of eugenics, isn’t it—to weed the weak from the strong?”

  “Yes, of course. But you needn’t worry. You’re a perfect specimen.” He winked, as though he’d made a joke.

  “How? How will they do it?”

  “What Germany does is Germany’s affair. Just as what America does is America’s affair. We share our research, we benefit mutually from the findings of that research, but we do not dictate medical policy from one country to another.”

  “But I’ve heard—”

  “Rumors? Never give credence to rumors. You know better than that. What is important is that Germany is at war, and all her resources are needed for her soldiers. We’ll be fortunate indeed if Herr Hitler continues to channel funding to Dr. Verschuer’s work.”

  Rachel tried again, but her father cut her off. “We owe Germany and Dr. Verschuer a great debt. Do you understand what it will mean to eradicate diseases such as tuberculosis, polio?”

  “But not at the cost of other lives. You can’t justify—”

  “Unusual sacrifices are sometimes called for in order to achieve a greater good. We must all make sacrifices. And contributions.”

  Rachel’s frustration built so that she barely knew how to respond. “Father,” she pleaded.

  “You’re in a position to make a valuable contribution. Your bloodline is pure; you are healthy and intelligent.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He reached for her hand. “You carry the Aryan bloodline that all Germany, all the world, craves. By choosing someone of a similar, suitable line and continuing your bloodline, you contribute to strengthening the human race—the ultimate purpose of all our work.”

  “I’m not a project, Father. Besides, I don’t have this ‘suitable someone’ tucked in my back pocket—I’m not interested in marriage now! Please stop changing the subject.”

  Weariness replaced his affected charm. “Choosing someone you know is preferable to having the choice made for you.” He stared at her until she, confused, looked away. “I’m tired, Rachel. I must say good night. But you must think about all I’ve said.” At the door to his room he paused, not looking back. “We will meet Gerhardt and his wife for dinner tomorrow evening. You will see her condition for yourself.”

  “Kristine—her name is Kristine,” Rachel insisted. The girl I grew up with—the girl who spent nearly every weekend at our house!

  He did not answer but closed the door, the latch clicking into place.

  Rachel wrapped her hands round her head. What is the matter with him? What was he talking about? And what about those children? What about Amelie?

  An hour later, in the middle of a radio broadcast concert, the program was interrupted by another speech from the Führer, once again thundering about Poland and the importance of needed living space for the German Volk.

  Rachel shook her head and snapped the dial, silencing the urgency. He sounds as theatrical as The War of the Worlds! No wonder everyone back home was terrified by that radio broadcast. Invading Martians were like Hitler turned loose. If only Herr Hitler were a figment of the imagination too.

  8

  HELPLESSLY, CURATE BAUER trailed Frau Fenstermacher round the schoolroom. She wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t stand still, and couldn’t seem to pack her bags fast enough.

  “Demons! They’re demons, Curate, I tell you, and I’m finished—kaputt!” She slammed sheet music into folders. “You must find someone else!”

  “Now, now, Frau Fenstermacher, they’re children—a little high-strung, perhaps, with so many of their fathers being called into service, but good children in need of stability.” He pulled her bag gently from her arm.

  “In need of stability? That’s the understatement of our decade!” she snapped. “Our own village children are handfuls quite enough. At least I can threaten that if they don’t behave, they’ll never be allowed to perform in the Passion! But these refugee children—there’s no such hope for them, and I’ve no leverage!”

  “Perhaps in these unusual times we should make an exception. T
hey’re truly good children.”

  She jerked the bag away. “Ha! You’ll never get Father Oberlanger, nor the mayor, nor the town itself to allow a child not born in the village to perform in the Passion Play—that’s sacrilege. It’s a right of birth and a privilege to perform, not something passed round the table!” She sighed heavily, purposefully. “Not to speak contrary, Curate, but I don’t see good children when I look at those runny-nosed hooligans! Your rose-colored spectacles need polishing, and my nerves need a good shot of schnapps!”

  “I’ll buy you a bottle myself, if you will only stay through Advent, Frau Fenstermacher,” he pleaded. “I’ll buy you the best and biggest bottle in Oberammergau—in all of Bavaria!”

  She stopped suddenly and stared at him, pity in her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she laid a hand on his arm. “That’s good of you, Curate, what with your vow of poverty and all. But you can’t afford the schnapps that would make me stay another week with these wild things, let alone through Advent. And you may as well face facts. If the Führer doesn’t settle this thing and pull our troops back, well . . .”

  “What will we do?” The young priest plopped on the desktop behind him. “The choir director has been sent for training. A third of the Passion cast is on military duty and more on alert. They’ll be called any day now. The schoolmaster is gone. We need someone who can control these children, someone who can direct and sing—not to mention direct their after-school auxiliary practices.”

  “A tall order, all of that, requiring at least three stalwart souls.” She paused and looked away, speaking softly. “It might be time to think of calling off the Passion, though I don’t envy you the job. The entire village—we live for it every ten years.”

  “They’d hang me, and I wouldn’t blame them. Call off the play?” He moaned. “Never. Oberammergau is the Passion.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure we’ll get many patrons if Jesus and the disciples are off to war, and if Britain and France are shooting at us, never mind the tighter rations on Benzin. Folks are getting mighty nervous. It’s stirring too many memories of the last war, no matter that we’ve barely started in Poland. If we go on like this, it won’t matter that the Führer thinks our Passion is ‘the best example of anti-Jewry in Germany and should go on forever.’”