by Cathy Gohlke
It was late when Rachel closed the file and turned down the light. She slipped beneath the blankets Sheila had left for her on the sofa, glad the generous young woman was not back yet. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, her imaginings, for a little while longer. But her eyelids were heavy. It had been a long, emotional, frightening, thrilling, and exhausting day.
She closed her eyes—just to rest them a minute—and fell into a deep sleep, rich in magnificent snowcapped Alps, Bavarian window boxes spilling over with bright-red geraniums, and variegated ivy attached to cream-colored stucco houses painted in gigantic scenes from the Passion Play she’d seen years ago or domestic scenes from the village’s country life. In her dream she walked the village, from end to end. At the very last house in the very last lane sat a quaint and cheerful cottage, a white-haired grandmotherly figure in Bavarian dress standing atop the stoop by the open door, arms spread wide, smiles wreathing her weathered face, welcoming her home.
When Rachel woke she closed her eyes again and bit her bottom lip, desperate to retrieve details, any tiny remnant of the dream. Because she knew it was just that. Life was beginning to show her that dreams were not always fulfilled. At least this way, she’d have something.
By midday Lea had returned order to Oma’s small kitchen and parlor. Together they mended the torn eiderdown, shaking their heads.
“As if someone could hide in an eiderdown!” Oma clucked her tongue.
“They meant to terrify us—to bully us.”
Oma sighed. “They certainly did that. But why? What did they want? Whom did they want?”
Lea had no answer. Both women decided it best that Lea move back indefinitely—until Friederich returned. “Safety in numbers,” Lea decided.
“At least comfort in numbers.” Oma smiled, reaching for her granddaughter’s hand.
Lea stayed all day until she walked into the village to teach choir practice. She slept at Oma’s again that night and tackled her own home next morning.
Most of Friederich’s carvings could be salvaged. Chips here and there—a nose or finger or staff gone that might or might not be found. But she would preserve them. She wasn’t sure Friederich would want to keep them, but she could not bear to throw them into the fire. Her porcelain was not so fortunate. Painstakingly, she glued the larger pieces together—like a puzzle. When they were dry, she packed everything away. She would not invite destruction. It seemed it needed no invitation, and the hateful SS officer in charge had sworn he would return. She shuddered.
While packing Friederich’s carvings, she made the decision not to write to him of the raid. It will only worry him—drive him nearly mad that he can’t be here to protect us. No, I won’t have it on his mind as he faces all he must. It is enough. And if God should bring us together again, as He must—oh, He must!—then we will share what we’ve been through. Lea brushed away a tear as she locked the door. In June, they’d been so hopeful for their future. But as the summer wore on and Friederich was conscripted, as she’d learned that she would never conceive, as Friederich had been deployed . . . all their hopes had fallen apart. And now this.
She lifted her head. But it’s not the end. No, I have the children’s choir and I have Oma, and I will hold this day.
Because nothing escaped the villagers of Oberammergau, everyone knew Lea and Frau Breisner had been visited by the SS. And everyone was curious why. What had two simple women done to bring the scrutiny of the SS to their village and terror upon their heads? But Lea couldn’t tell what she did not know.
A month ago she would have felt their stares and suspicion intimidating, judgmental, perhaps even calculating. But in many eyes she now saw fear, pity, concern, a “there but for the grace of God go I” camaraderie. And she was grateful. She would take that, embrace that.
The children, with their high, lilting voices, so lifted her spirits that by the time choir practice was over, Lea had determined to lift Oma’s.
When she opened Oma’s back kitchen door late that Friday afternoon, the magnificent aroma of apple strudel baking welcomed her home. Lea smiled as she unwound her muffler and hung it by the door, glad that she was cut from the same frugal but celebratory cloth as her grandmother. They would be vigilant and better prepared if they should be visited again. Together, they would survive.
An hour later, aged and wrinkled hands that had trembled in fear in the presence of the SS days before trembled in mirth. Oma spooned a second helping of steaming cabbage soup and weak coffee—the last of their real coffee—while Lea regaled her with tales from the children’s choir.
Oma finally begged Lea to stop the hilarity, but to no avail. Helpless, she snorted coffee and doubled over at Lea’s impersonation of the irrepressible six-year-old Heinrich.
“One stunt after another—and another—and another!” Lea spouted. “He tied ribbons together from the girls’ plaits in front of him, and when they were to separate in staid formation both girls fell to the floor, skirts flying above their knees and scrambling like sea crabs—their heads bound together!” She threw up her hands. “How the room howled! And such a straight face! I never saw such a devil with an archangel smile!”
“Oh, Lea—you mustn’t say such things!” Oma admonished, eyes twinkling.
“It’s true!” And both women erupted again.
Oma wiped her tears with her napkin, then reached across the table to wipe the liquid laughter from Lea’s cheeks. “You are happy, aren’t you, my child?”
Lea grasped her grandmother’s hand. “Yes. They’re not my own children, I know, but most like my own that I’ll ever experience. I want to give them everything I have to give—every ounce of love and help and devotion, while I can. I want them to feel the joy they give me! I won’t waste these precious days being afraid.”
“I’m so proud of you, my Lea!”
Lea hesitated, then whispered, as though someone might overhear, “Sometimes I fear that this—working with the children—is a dream that will be suddenly swept away. The way those men came so suddenly. Everything is . . . is temporary, isn’t it?” She breathed, then caught her breath. “I’m almost afraid to be happy, especially in the midst of such madness and uncertainty—as though it might be wrong. As though I’m wrong.”
“No, oh no, my Lea. Joy is the gift of God, and you are His child. He loves you so. He rejoices over you with singing!”
Lea lifted her head and smiled. She wanted to believe that. But shades of doubt crept through her heart.
20
RACHEL FELT LIKE a ping-pong ball bounced between Jason and Sheila as they sat round the table in Sheila’s apartment just before curfew.
“You can’t carry any portion of that file with you,” Jason insisted. “If it’s found on you, every person listed is in deep trouble.”
“But I want my sister to see it—she’ll need proof that I’m who I say I am,” Rachel argued.
“If you’re stopped,” Sheila said quietly, “they’ll want to know where you got it.”
“I took the photographs myself—from my father’s files. I’m not afraid to implicate him. They already have him in custody, for pete’s sake!”
“But you’ll drag Jason down with you. They’ll want to know who developed the film—when and where. You need to memorize your family details, as well as names, addresses, train schedules—as though you’ve known them all your life. You absolutely have to remain in disguise at all times.” Sheila sat back. “Your twin’s identical; you shouldn’t have trouble convincing her or your grandmother that you’re Ibine Breisner’s daughter.”
“The tougher job will be convincing her to take you in—and maybe Amelie—for the duration, or at least until I can arrange safe passage for both of you to Switzerland. Or better yet, the States. If I can find Amelie.” Jason drummed his fingers across the table.
“What does that mean?”
“My contact was arrested two weeks after the explosion. The Gestapo doesn’t look kindly on supplying Jews with forged ration
books. I can’t get in to see him. The brass isn’t in the mood for prison visitors from the foreign press.”
“Jason.” Rachel didn’t know what to say.
Jason shook his head. “I’d agreed to one connection for safety’s sake. Big mistake. Now some guy’s demanding more money—he claims it’s too risky, and the woman hiding Amelie needs more incentive to keep her. I’ve got to get her to you and both of you to safety.”
Rachel hesitated. It was one thing getting Jason to save her friend’s child, to see that she was settled in a German home with a German woman who probably knew something about raising children. It was another to care for her personally. If she’d been able to take Amelie to New York, there were homes, schools for deaf children. She hadn’t imagined raising her herself.
But she didn’t like the way Jason was looking at her. He seemed to see her hesitation in a new light, as if he’d tasted something sour. Rachel pulled her best acting face, assuring him that she could hardly wait. If it came to pass that she actually needed to take care of Amelie, she’d pull that off too . . . somehow. It promised to be the most convincing performance she’d ever give. As long as she could imagine acting the leading role in a challenging drama, she just might be able to hold fear at bay.
The threesome spent the next two evenings inventing a character for Rachel and perfecting her disguise. The third night Jason arrived with her new passport concealed in the lining of his jacket: Elsa Breisner, age fifty-seven, from Stelle.
Sheila offered to dye her hair several shades darker and streak it heavily with gray. “It will grow out. But at least guards at the station won’t see a honey blonde when they’re looking.”
“But if I’ve the same color hair as Lea, that will help convince my family.” Rachel loved the words my family and used them at every conceivable opportunity, savoring their taste on her tongue. She didn’t want to admit vanity—that she loved the color of her hair, that it was a significant part of who she believed herself to be. “A wig and a kerchief will work. Can you get them?”
Sheila lifted her brows, clearly not fooled. They’d settle for powdering her hair gray.
During the next week they perfected her papers, her story, her disguise, and did the best they could with her accent. Rachel alternately panicked and champed at the bit to go.
Ready or not, the time of departure finally came. The night before, Rachel hugged Jason in an awkward good-bye. Sheila packed her bags to leave for the States, where she would drop Rachel’s passport aboard ship as it neared New York. Jason’s plan just might work, since the Germans already knew of Rachel’s attempt to leave the country.
They all hoped that Germany’s fixation remained on London’s response to Hitler’s peace proposal and the end of recognized Polish resistance, that the circulation of Rachel’s photograph through checkpoints was no longer news.
“I can’t thank you enough—for everything.” Rachel allowed Sheila to fold her in her arms before they left separately for the train station.
“I sure hope you’ll thank me later, kid.” Sheila’s eyes clouded. “Be careful. Be safe. Don’t write!” She grinned. “But when this is all over—and someday it will be—you owe me a meal, a bed, and a drink in New York.”
“Done.” Rachel shook her hand, clinching the deal. “A night on the town and a place to crash—for as long as you want—in New York.” Those words sounded so good, so impossibly far away.
And then Sheila was gone. They’d agreed that Rachel should wait until the courtyard monitor left for his daily marketing, then slip down the apartment stairs and out through the back gate.
Rachel washed the breakfast dishes and stacked them in the cupboard. She wiped the hot plate and table, folded up her flannel sheets and returned them to the top shelf of the closet. Domestic duties were new to her, but for now it all seemed like part of the script.
She set her bag behind the door, then perched on the edge of a kitchen chair to wait another hour. Never had the minutes passed so slowly, or the clock on the wall ticked so loudly.
21
BERLIN TO MUNICH, the train stopped several times, both to take on and discharge passengers at appointed stations and to heed military checkpoints. At each checkpoint, armed guards roamed the aisles, checking papers at will.
“They’re looking for Jews, you know,” the woman beside Rachel whispered. “As if they don’t know enough now to ride in the baggage car.” The woman clucked her tongue.
Rachel swallowed. She’d barely paid attention to the talk at her father’s table in New York of reducing immigration quotas of undesirable Eastern Europeans. She simply took it for granted that he knew best, that they would indeed weaken American bloodlines. But here she saw the prejudice, the hate, living and breathing before her.
Even if the Jews are not the same as us, the harassment is inhuman. Why don’t the German people stand up, do something—revolt? As the officer neared, she sat back, knowing why.
Just before they reached Munich, the papers of a woman two seats in front of her were checked, and those of her son beside her. Rachel could barely see the boy’s profile. He was young, too short for his head to reach the top of the bench back. “Your name is Cohen? Jewish?”
“No—I mean, that was my husband’s name. He’s . . . he’s no longer living.” The woman spoke out, her voice shaking only a little at the official’s intimidation.
“So, a Jew whore. This is your son?”
“Erich, my son.” She didn’t acknowledge his slur.
“This boy’s name is Cohen?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And he’s half-Jewish, ja?”
“Ja, but he’s only a child, and he is with me.”
“A Jew is a Jew—he sits in the baggage car or goes off the train.”
“Please, mein Herr, I—I’ll hold him on my lap, if that is more acceptable.”
But the official was not about to lose face in front of the other passengers. He’d make an example of the woman and her son. Rachel saw it in his expression. She drew in a breath and held it.
“Up!” The official jerked the boy from his seat, shoving him along the aisle. The mother grabbed her bag and the parcels they’d stowed, stumbling after him.
“Not you!” the guard shouted, forcing her back toward her seat.
“But he’s my child!”
“A child by the road if you don’t sit down. This is what comes from sleeping with der Juden!”
The boy, eyes wild in terror, said nothing.
The horrified woman looked from one passenger to another, a desperate plea for help. But Rachel saw them look away, bury their heads in newspapers and books, look out the window, even feign sleep—as if anyone could sleep through that.
Rachel wanted to stand, to stomp after the repugnant official and give him a sharp piece of her mind, put him in his place for the outrageous bully he was. When the young mother glanced toward her, Rachel felt as if she must see into her soul, must know what she was thinking, imagining, refusing to do.
Rachel looked away. She could not help the woman or the boy, dared bring no attention to herself lest she be discovered. But what if I wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding myself? Would I help him then? And even if I am . . . She closed her eyes, leaned back against the bench, and feigned sleep. She only knew she was very much afraid.
22
HILDE BREISNER laid her heavy, braided carpets saddle-style over wooden benches set squarely in her garden and beat them with a vengeance. There was nothing she liked better than beating the swirling dust from her rugs when she had something on her mind. She found it satisfying in the extreme—no matter the doctor’s warning about overtaxing her heart. Whack!
She’d tried for days to push the SS raid from her mind. But something they’d said—before Lea arrived—kept running through her brain.
Whack!
They’d demanded to know if her granddaughter had come. She couldn’t imagine why they wanted Lea, but she didn’t want to tell them
where she was.
Whack!
And yet when Lea suddenly appeared, they didn’t seem to want her after all. They said they wanted “the other one.” It was so puzzling. Surely they had the wrong Breisners.
Whack!
“Frau Breisner?” A halting, middle-aged voice with a slightly strained accent spoke from the back garden gate.
“Ja?” Hilde jumped. “I’m Frau Breisner.” She hated when visitors came to call in the midst of her housework. Everyone in the village knew you didn’t make calls until after midday meal and the washing up! It was an unwritten rule that only outsiders would not observe.
“May I speak with you, Frau Breisner?” The woman with gray-streaked hair stood patiently on the garden walk. “Alone?”
Hilde spread her hands wide, open to the great out-of-doors. “We’re quite alone here.” She wiped them on her apron, eyeing the woman’s carpetbag. “But if you’re peddling wares, meine Frau, you’d best go along. I’ve no money to buy.” She turned back to her rug beating.
“Nein, meine Frau! I’m not peddling anything at all, but—” the woman lowered her voice and spoke with some urgency—“I must speak with you—privately.”
The voice rang stronger than the woman’s appearance warranted, and that gave Hilde pause. There was also something familiar about her. Her face? Her eyes? Hilde shook her head. She’d never seen this woman before; she was sure of it. “What is it you want?”
The woman glanced from side to side—nervously, Hilde thought. “Please, Frau Breisner, allow me to come inside—to sit and talk with you. It’s . . . it’s important to us both . . . and very personal.”
Hilde frowned, discomfort rumbling in the lower regions of her stomach. She’d heard about foreigners slipping into Oberammergau, begging to be taken into homes as parts of Germany emptied of its Jews and Poles.
She felt sorry for them, of course. Hitler had created havoc and there were rumors of random cruelty. But those things were far from Oberammergau. The people of the Passion Play would not behave so—it violated everything the Passion stood for, at least ideally. Of course she knew the play, as it stood, was anti-Semitic. That didn’t mean the villagers were. At least she hoped not. At least not all of them.