by Cathy Gohlke
Rachel’s disappearance, accompanied by her scientist father’s sudden death in Berlin, had created quite a stir in the international press and recriminations on both sides of the Atlantic.
But Gerhardt refused to believe that anyone in Germany’s ranks had eliminated the young woman. Drs. Verschuer and Mengele still wanted her; they’d questioned—such a mild word—Dr. Kramer until he was not fit to answer questions. They were furious, as was Gerhardt, that the experiment they’d invested over two decades in had been thwarted. He and SS troops had been sent to Oberammergau on the chance that Rachel had learned of her twin. The interrogation had been thorough, but to no avail.
More than angry, Gerhardt was humiliated when Dr. Kramer confessed that he was unable to control his daughter’s willful streak, that she was determined to have nothing to do with Schlick. It was for that remark that Gerhardt had struck him, perhaps too hard. The idea that Rachel would spurn him a second time was not to be borne.
No, he didn’t believe she was dead, nor that she had disappeared. Every border patrol had her photograph in hand—well before the doctor was interrogated, before she could have possibly reached Germany’s borders. They’d reported her at a border train station, but she’d run away. How? Where could she have gone? Who would have helped her? Whom in Germany did she even know once Kristine was eliminated?
He had the staff at the Institute interrogated, along with the hotel staff in Frankfurt, the driver of the car that took them to Berlin, the maids of their rooms there, the waitstaff, the doorman, the bellhop. Nothing.
Gerhardt racked his brain.
Then he remembered the gala. And a particularly obnoxious American who’d spilled champagne on his chest, his sleeve.
The second American—the one with spectacles—had pulled Gerhardt aside, taken his photograph, made quite a pretense of getting the exact spelling of his name, his address. He’d promised his photograph would appear in the foreign press, right beside Himmler’s—a tribute to the gala and the men leading the eugenics movement. A moment in the sun Gerhardt could not afford to miss.
Gerhardt had checked. He’d had his staff check every paper in Berlin. Their contacts had checked papers in New York and London—nothing.
The Americans had formed a team—a ruse to sweep Rachel from his arms. And while he was being photographed and questioned, where was Rachel? He closed his eyes, recapturing the vision—a swirl of blue, laughing, talking . . . with the champagne-spilling American. A reporter. Foreign press. Did she know him from New York? Who was he?
Gerhardt lifted the telephone receiver from his desk. It should not be hard to find out.
28
RACHEL’S ANONYMOUS, coded note finally reached Jason, looking as though it had traveled halfway round the world and been opened and resealed half a dozen times.
He telephoned Frau Bergstrom from a public box, saying that he’d heard the symphony and, knowing how she loved music, highly recommended it—the score was excellent and the evening worth sharing with friends. It was playing tonight. He’d have the tickets sent round.
Thirty minutes later Jason had borrowed a car and made his way to the country and the farmhouse where he believed Amelie was hidden.
The woman who answered the door denied that she housed a child, but when he produced thirty marks, her eyes widened and she showed him into the kitchen.
He’d seen Amelie from a distance the day Kristine had taken her to the clinic. He’d seen her just after they’d dyed and cut her hair and changed her clothes. Even so, the timid, sad child pulled from beneath the kitchen sink was barely recognizable.
“We call her—call him Herbert,” the Frau said.
Jason swallowed. He’d thought he was prepared. The disguise was for the little girl’s safety, after all. But he couldn’t have guessed this was the pink-and-cream beribboned cherub who had walked into the clinic with her mother—her mother who was dead. “She doesn’t look like herself.”
“But that is the point, mein Herr.” The woman huffed, motioning Amelie to the table. “Your coming here is dangerous—for her and for me. As you can see, she is well. In these times that is all you can hope for.” She lifted her chin, defensive.
Jason winced. “I appreciate that.”
The woman softened, sighing. “Come, sit with her at the table while I tend to my dishes. Eat something. That is the only thing you can share with her.”
Jason didn’t openly disagree but was relieved he’d thought of something to bring the child. When the woman stepped from the room he pulled a small picture book, one with the brightest colors he could find, from inside his jacket pocket.
Amelie’s eyes widened and the first spark of life filled them. Jason felt a spark to match. He signed, My name is Jason, then made a J beside his ear, a whimsical sign he’d chosen for his name. Nothing in Germany could rival the tentative smile the little girl gave him as she made her name sign, an A beside one dimple in her cheek, in response.
Jason laughed, and Amelie pushed her hand to his chest.
“You feel that?” He laughed again.
Amelie smiled shyly up at him, but he could barely see her for the sudden dam behind his eyes. He coughed, pointed to the book on the table before them, and made a sign Eldridge had taught him, pressing his palms and fingers flat together, then opening them in an offering, like the cover of a book. He signed that it was a gift for her.
Amelie tilted her head and made the sign for thank you but looked puzzled. He made the sign for book again and waited.
She blinked, waiting too.
Jason smiled, then opened his arms.
Amelie climbed into his lap, all the while searching his eyes. Apparently satisfied, she settled in and opened the book. She began to mouth shapes, and Jason knew she was mimicking reading—surely memories of her mother’s reading aloud to her. She turned, clasping his face between her small palms, circled his mouth with her finger, then pointed to the book.
“You want me to read to you?” He stroked her hair. “But you can’t hear those words, can you, kiddo? You don’t know what they mean.”
But Amelie shook her finger at the book and leaned against him. Jason wrapped his arm around her and opened his palms again. Amelie opened hers.
The squat woman shook her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “She’s like a monkey—imitating everything she sees.” She set a cup of hot but watered-down chicory before Jason and a tumbler of milk before Amelie. “A pity—she’ll never be more than that.” The woman went back to her washing at the sink.
A monkey? Jason gritted his teeth to keep his opinion to himself. She’s bright. She’s quick. She can sign rings around both of us!
Amelie tugged his sleeve and pointed again to the book. Then she nestled her head once more against his chest.
“You feel the vibrations when I talk—that’s it.” He smiled. “I guess I can read anything, say anything, and that will be all right, as long as we point to the pictures.”
Amelie wriggled against him, and he knew she was content.
The book seemed to open a world of memory for her. As soon as he’d finished, she held up four fingers and proudly pointed to herself.
Jason held up all his fingers, peeled shoes and socks from his feet, and pointed to his toes, then his ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and one elbow. He pointed to himself, then mimicked astonishment. The Hausfrau laughed in spite of herself, and Amelie giggled in delight. She had a beautiful giggle, just a little off-key.
Barely an hour had passed when Jason stood and stretched. Amelie looked up at him, and he saw in her face a tentative fear that he was preparing to leave.
“Not on your life, kiddo,” he whispered, smiling. “I just needed you to know you can trust me.”
The Hausfrau walked in with a filled wash basket, linen fresh from the line. “Good. You’re leaving. My neighbors will return from the town soon. They must not see your automobile. Too many questions it would raise.”
“I’m taking her with me. T
hank you for keeping her this while. I know it was dangerous for you and your family. If you’ll just pack her things—”
“Taking her? Where are you going? The man who brought her said nothing about her leaving. He has not yet paid me for this week. He promised to pay me in two weeks.”
“There’s been a change in plans.” I should have known the urgent note was a middleman ruse for more money.
“You must not take her—not until I talk with him. Not until I have my money.”
Jason scanned the room as she spoke. He’d seen no telephone or telephone wires leading into the farmhouse, but he wasn’t about to get waylaid, to allow the woman to call for reinforcements. “Get her things. I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t know. . . .” She hesitated.
Jason shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’re leaving.” And he picked up Amelie as she was.
“Wait! Wait! I’ll search for what she came with—though it was very little.”
“Be quick.” Jason pulled out his wallet. He couldn’t risk leaving a trail of Amelie’s things for a blackmailer.
The woman’s eyes widened and she nodded, disappearing quickly up the stairs.
She returned in less than a minute with Amelie’s dress and shoes, her hair ribbons and underthings.
“Where’s her mother’s jewelry?”
“Jewelry? For a child? There was nothing.”
Jason knew she was lying. He’d seen Kristine finger something at Amelie’s neck before walking her into the clinic. He also knew it was likely that Kristine had given her daughter something of her own. Jewelry would have been the ticket—a locket, a ring on a chain, something small and wearable. Jason pocketed his wallet. “You’ve taken your pay. Try to sell that on the black market and I’ll have your name and picture in every newspaper in Germany for kidnapping.”
“Nein! Wait! Wait!” she cried.
“You’re trying my patience, Frau.”
“Let me look again. There may be something. One moment!” And the woman ran back up the stairs.
Jason heard a drawer pulled open, a bit of rummaging.
The woman returned to the kitchen, a little more slowly, a little less certain. “Let me see the money,” she insisted, her palm clenched.
Jason pulled out his wallet again. “Let me see the jewelry.”
The woman opened her hand. A small silver locket nestled there—a filigreed heart.
“Open it.”
Inside was a photograph of Kristine.
Jason wished he could drive Amelie to Oberammergau himself. He wanted to, felt the need to protect her. Nobody had ever looked at him with such trust, such hope.
He confessed to himself that he also wanted to see Rachel, to know she was safe, to see if her blue eyes held any response to his concern for her. But a member of the foreign press, an American, traveling with a young German child—male or female—would only arouse suspicion. He’d be headlights beaming a trail to their hiding place.
He knew that Amelie was in good hands with Frau Bergstrom, that her connections in Germany and her ability to see the little girl safely to Oberammergau or out of the country far surpassed his own. Still, he hated leaving Amelie with more strangers, especially the maid at the Bergstroms’ kitchen door.
But this time the sturdy woman placed a comforting hand on his arm. “We’ll take good care of her. You can trust Frau Bergstrom. Take the dress and hair ribbons and shoes with you and burn them. They must not be found—they’re too easy to identify. We’ll save the locket for her.” She began to pull the door closed. “Ach! I almost forgot. Frau Bergstrom said to give you this.” She shoved a scrap of paper in his hand and pushed him away. “Now go.”
Jason nodded miserably and pulled the door behind him. Amelie’s guttural sobs broke his heart.
That night, in the privacy of his room, he read the scrap of paper. An address, with the initials D. B. “Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” he whispered. “Somebody I need to know.”
Jason finished reading the Scripture passages Frau Bergstrom had marked for him, and he pored again over passages he’d marked in Bonhoeffer’s book. He closed both and turned off the light. It was easier to admit things in the dark—like the fact that he’d hoped to play the hero to Rachel and Amelie and still wasn’t entirely sure where his motives divided. He’d fallen hard for the little girl—a kid who’d started life with all strikes against her. He knew about that, had lived that in his own way when his dad, the town drunk, had beaten his mother silly before finally bailing on the family. Jason was six years old at the time, and all he could do was shove his kid sister under the bed, away from their dad’s boots. Jason had started out with high hopes to impress Rachel through helping Amelie—first for a story, but it was no time before he fell even harder for one older, shapely blonde.
Sacrificial? Hardly. “Cheap grace.” He winced. There’re no words more fitting.
Frau Bergstrom had him pegged. He’d even imagined the headline: “American Journalist Saves Deaf Child from Ruthless SS Father”—no matter how long he must wait to print the story. And he would have waited—for Rachel’s sake, and Amelie’s. But the risks he took weren’t selfless.
What was it Granddad used to say? “You can fool some of the people some of the time—but you’d best not be fooling yourself, the biggest fool of all.”
Jason punched his pillow and rolled over. It was well past midnight. Truth had a way of shining a light too bright, too penetrating, for sleep.
29
LEA HADN’T WORRIED about Friederich’s missing letters for the first few days. After all, he’d told her that there might not be reliable post in war zones. So much depended on supply and the time and opportunity to write, the means to send or receive mail. He’d urged her not to worry.
But when October turned to November, and Germany had formally annexed western Poland, Danzig, and the Polish Corridor, she wondered. If things were going so well for the German military, why was there no mail?
Frau Rheinhardt, one of the village shopkeepers, received word that her husband, who’d been deployed at the same time as Friederich, had been wounded outside Warsaw and was recovering in a hospital near there. Widow Helmes received a formal letter stating that her son had been killed in the Polish campaign, that he had died bravely for the Führer. Still, Lea heard nothing.
When other women in the village received letters from their husbands and sweethearts detailing military victories, Lea’s heart constricted. It was all she could do to smile at her neighbors and wish them guten Morgen.
By the time a brisk knock came at Oma’s door late one Sunday evening, Lea’s heart had nearly failed her.
But it was simply a delivery. At first Lea argued with the man hefting the large wooden box. They’d ordered nothing, and if it was forgotten wood for Friederich’s carving shop, it should be delivered there. She had no way to carry such a load. The driver ignored her and pushed past her into the house, talking loudly. He glanced anxiously into the gathering dark, shook his head, and urged her to sign. She refused without knowing what was being delivered.
“You are Frau Lea Hartman?”
“Ja, ja, certainly.”
“Then the package is for you.” He urged in a whisper, “Close the shutters before you open it, but open it quickly. This goes with the package.” He pulled a small envelope from his chest pocket and shoved it into her hand.
Lea blinked, and the man was gone. She closed the door.
“What is it?” Oma asked.
“I’ve no idea. Friederich said all his orders were in before he left—that I should not be bothered. Who delivers on Sunday night?” She circled the box, clutching the envelope. “The man said to close the shutters and open it quickly.” She tore open the small envelope and tipped it toward her palm. Out fell a small heart-shaped necklace. “A locket.”
“What does that mean?”
Lea shrugged just as the box gurgled. Both women stepped back.
“What is it?” Rachel whispered from the
bedroom.
“We—we don’t know,” Oma answered. “It—it—”
“Get your hammer, Oma. We must pry off the lid. Rachel, close the shutters and black the windows.”
“Isn’t it early?”
“Do it,” Lea ordered.
Oma handed her the hammer, and Lea expertly pulled long nails from the perimeter of the lid. She pushed the top aside. A tiny whimper came from the box, and Oma’s mouth fell open.
“Rachel, I think you’d best come here.” Lea spoke in wonder at the child curled in blankets, hair matted into spikes, tearstained eyes wide and blinking in the sudden light.
Rachel stepped beside her sister. She gasped, speechless.
“Is this your Amelie?”
“No—I—I don’t know,” Rachel stammered. “This is a boy. I mean, I’ve never seen her—except her picture. But this . . . Jason said they cut her hair to make her look like a boy. So—”
Lea opened the locket in her palm. A woman’s smiling face looked up at her—a beautiful, fair-haired woman. She held the locket up for Rachel to see. “Do you know her?”
“Kristine!”
Lea waited only a moment longer for Rachel to reach for the child. When she didn’t, Lea lifted the little one from her nest of blankets. “I’ve surely never seen a boy this pretty!”
The child looked from one woman to the other, fear written in every feature.
“What an ordeal you’ve had, Amelie,” Lea crooned. “To think you’ve ridden all this long way in a box! You must be famished and thirsty.”
“She can’t hear.” Rachel sniffed and stepped back. “She’s soiled the blankets.”
“So would you, if you’d been locked in a box for who knows how many hours,” Lea retorted.
“Help me pull them up, Rachel,” Oma ordered. “We’ll set them to soak—see if there’s a note in the bottom.”
But there was nothing, and no return address.
“Your friend is certainly creative in his modes of transportation,” Lea observed.