by Cathy Gohlke
“Oma, you know I can’t—”
“I know you think you can’t. But let’s talk about it over supper. Let’s think it through carefully. I could watch over Friederich, even feed him while you’re teaching, just as I do while you’re at choir practice, and—”
“No!” Lea turned to the curate. “Truly, you must look for another.”
“We could certainly use the money, dear. And it would be a natural way for you to bring children home with you—as though they were refugee children, as Curate Bauer said.”
The curate looked from one woman to the other, hope springing in his chest, but uncertain whose word he should take as final. At last he urged, “I know crates that whimper need food and clothing. It would be one way of raising extra funds.”
“Give us two days. If Lea does not speak to you by then, consider the matter closed. But let us talk tonight.”
“Oma!”
Curate Bauer was not about to stay and dodge the squabbles of two determined women. He nodded hopefully, appreciatively, and bowed his way out the door into the cold December sunshine.
He pulled his hat over his ears and tugged his winter coat tightly round him, setting a good pace down the hill into the village.
Dramatics experience or no, he’d wager that Hilde Breisner would win this round with her granddaughter. He was rather sorry for the good Frau Hartman—but not sorry enough to withdraw his plea.
“It’s perfect! I’ll do it!” Rachel squealed, bursting from the cupboard. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it, Oma? That I’ll teach the classes?”
“You can’t be serious!” Lea spouted. “The moment you step outside this door we’ll be shot—all of us. Tell her, Oma!”
“Not if she appears as you, my dear.”
“As me?” Lea shook her head. “You can’t mean it. Think, Oma! Think what you’re saying!”
“I’m saying this is an opportunity to do something beyond ourselves, for the children—the Jewish children who have nowhere to go, none to take them in.”
“I know; I know they need someone. I’ve already agreed to building the secret room in my home, but—”
“Someone the curate can trust. Did you not hear him? For these children to come here means that their parents have already been taken. And the work will bring in more food money for us—to feed them and pay for forged papers. It will get Rachel out of the house before she drives us all over the brink.” She looked pointedly at Rachel. “It will give her a way to contribute.”
“There must be someone else. The risk . . .” Lea looked away.
“For Friederich?” Oma asked softly.
“Yes, if we do anything more to draw the Nazis here—and Rachel parading herself in the village will—”
“I won’t ‘parade’ myself! Give me a little credit!”
“Friederich cannot defend himself! You saw what they did here, but neither of you saw how they stabbed the mattresses in my home. They destroyed everything in their way—the walls, the furniture. The cupboards Friederich crafted and carved are ruined . . . and he can never defend himself,” she repeated. “Our home is not even livable, and it was surely a warning. No.” She shook her head. “No, I won’t do it.”
“Please.” Rachel bent her knee before Lea’s chair and clasped her sister’s hands. “Just hear me through, think it through. This can work.”
Lea closed her eyes.
Rachel moistened her lips, ready to give the most convincing performance of her life.
Curate Bauer had not expected to hear from Lea Hartman so soon, if at all. He slit the note’s seal at breakfast, assuming he’d find a firm refusal, without her grandmother’s goading.
But he was more than pleased to read that she would take on the theatre classes the week following the children’s public singing on the first Sunday of Advent, as long as the classes were on alternate days from choir practice and student enrollment was restricted to one class or the other. She would have her hands full preparing and executing two classes, and this would provide more children with opportunities to participate. She would also appreciate it if Maximillion Grieser could be kept busy elsewhere during her classes. He was becoming intrusive, and she didn’t believe children’s classes warranted Hitler Youth observation. She asked that, in return, the curate arrange for the repair of her house by trusted carpenters and for whatever other remuneration the village could afford. She formally thanked him for considering her and asked him to pray for the success of the classes.
Perfect. He would lay her letter, as it was, before the committee and encourage them to allow him to hire and oversee the carpenters—workmen he trusted. He’d assure the committee how glad they should be to agree—a relief for the village and a simple solution to occupying and incorporating the refugee children of Oberammergau into suitable—and approved—local activities.
It was also the perfect opportunity to build the secret passage, even the room, into the repairs of the Hartmans’ house. Herr Young’s idea was brilliant—a little thickening of the walls and a tunnel leading to the outside via the root cellar. He only hoped that the work could be completed before the end of Advent, when more children were expected, and that Frau Hartman would approve.
41
JASON AND AN attractive young blonde with dark-brown eyes booked the 10 p.m. train from Berlin. With her hair dyed, straightened, and pulled severely back, her smart American traveling suit and two-inch heels, fifteen-year-old Rivka Silverman looked every bit the Gentile and every bit the American journalist’s protégé. Occupation: photographer, just as her false identity papers vouched.
Jason only hoped she wouldn’t need to demonstrate expertise with a camera. It was not her strong suit.
Frau Bergstrom had assured him that Rivka’s English was excellent—as long as the English of the foot soldiers at checkpoints was no better. She could certainly bluff her way through a conversation if it didn’t become too probing. What do the Jews call it? Chutzpah? Jason grinned. She reminded him of Rachel.
By the time their train pulled into Munich, Jason’s ribs ached and both were road weary, longing for a boardinghouse breakfast, even a rationed one.
“Sorry, kid. This’ll have to do.” Jason handed her a hard roll and a cup of tepid roasted chicory sold by a vendor. “Too many eyes and ears at my boardinghouse, and I don’t think we’ll find a café open at this hour.”
Rivka waved a hand as if it didn’t matter, maintaining her professional demeanor, sipping the bitter brew as if she’d done it every day of her adult life. She checked her wristwatch and hefted her camera bag. Jason admired how she kept up the role of a journalist on a tight schedule—no coaching required.
A sharp whistle blasted from the far end of the platform. It was all Jason could do not to jump out of his skin as they boarded the train.
“Tickets! Tickets!” the conductor called, collecting and punching as he made his way down the aisle.
A Nazi patrol trailed, checking papers, faces, papers. Even that spelled routine. Not one of the officials seemed to have their mind on spies or saboteurs so early on a Sunday morning.
Jason slumped in his seat, pulled his fedora down over his eyes, and pretended to sleep.
The first Sunday of Advent services, the Advent singing of the many choirs, and the village Christmas fair should provide great photo ops for the papers in New York, as well as more freedom than usual to get lost in the crowd. He’d find Curate Bauer first and let him escort them through the village. He expected to see Lea Hartman conducting the children’s choir. But what he really wanted was to get a moment alone with her. He’d heard nothing since the raid except that Lea had been confined to Oberammergau, unable to travel to sell her husband’s carvings. But what did that mean for Rachel and Amelie? If only he could know they were safe. And he needed to retrieve a particular roll of film.
How he’d maneuver a moment alone with a married German woman who directed a children’s choir on this eventful village day or find his wa
y into her home was anybody’s guess. This one’s on You, Lord. I haven’t got a clue. And there’s Rivka, our first test case. Take care of her, Lord. Give us direction. Keep her safe.
It had been weeks since Rachel had stepped outside the house—the first time since she’d tried escaping and nearly been caught. She never thought she’d be glad to take up the garb of an older woman again, but the costume pulled from Oma’s clothes was a ticket to fresh air and freedom. Rachel was glad to play the role of a distant relative of Frau Breisner’s husband from Stelle, visiting to take in the Christmas fair with her grandson.
They’d waited until Lea left for the church and the gathering of her gaggle of choir children. They’d waited even longer, until Frau Hillman, nosy neighbor in all her Sunday finery, left for mass. Finally, they’d bundled Amelie in a little boy’s breeches and coat, her tousle of new short curls tucked high into her cap and a rag tied beneath her chin as if she had a toothache and couldn’t speak, then strolled down the snowy hill and into town amid refugees, transient laborers, and villagers alike.
Playing a role would be good practice before taking on the impersonation of Lea next week. But if Jason Young should be there, as the curate had reported to Lea he would, Rachel was less confident of her ability to keep her heart rhythmic or the light from her eyes. She’d had long weeks to appreciate the sacrifices and risks Jason had taken for her and for Amelie, long weeks to remember his flamboyant fox-trot and the unruly hank of hair that tumbled over his forehead, sometimes hiding one eye.
“Pay attention,” Oma ordered quietly, smiling in return as if she and her cousin were in deep conversation. “Keep hold of Amelie’s hand. If you can’t do this, you’d better tell me now, dear.”
Rachel banished all thoughts of Jason from her mind. She wasn’t about to be ordered back into the cupboard like a reprimanded puppy. She smiled again, but this time in character.
The outdoor Christmas fair was in full swing. Rachel glimpsed Lea ordering the children’s choir into forms through the snow-shoveled square, a young man in Hitler Youth uniform close on her heels.
As the singing children wound through the village, Oma whispered the name of each one. Rachel, in turn, memorized all she saw, as if preparing for the opening night of a play.
She engraved their names in her mind, attached them as tags to some feature about them. Heidi, with flaxen tangled braids and bright ribbons. Therese, with a missing front tooth and spray of freckles across her nose. Herbert, with ears that stood like saucers against his small face. It was not difficult to recognize Heinrich Helphman from Lea’s descriptions—mischief written in every feature.
Amelie stared wide-eyed at everything. Oma kept her arm about the little girl, telling everyone she was her cousin’s grandson. “Such a pity the little fellow has a toothache and an ear infection! So congested he can’t hear a thing. But what can you do? They’ll be going home to their own dentist tomorrow. We didn’t want him to miss the Christmas fair.”
They’d just begun to peruse the booths when Jason rounded the corner of the table before them. He and an attractive young woman in American dress stood six feet away in stark relief against the swirl of red and black Alpine costumes. Rachel’s heart did not behave. She dropped her purse and a tugging Amelie. Both ended up in the snow. Oma scooped Amelie into her arms. Stooping too quickly, too lithely for the middle-aged woman she portrayed, Rachel rummaged for the contents of her purse, fumbling her compact, handkerchief, and precious forged papers.
And then he was there, stooped in front of her, awkwardly gathering the last of her bits and pieces. So close, she felt his breath on her hair, and she couldn’t speak.
“Here you go, meine Frau. Let me help you up.” He took her by the arm, raising her to her feet. He smiled a typical chivalrous Jason smile, even as he winced, but barely looked into the older woman’s eyes.
“Thank you.” It came out breathless and far too clear and pure for one of her feigned age.
Jason stopped short.
“I mean, thank you. Thank you, young man,” Rachel tried again.
Still Jason stood, frozen to the spot. A light leaped to his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, just a mite, and pulled away.
The younger woman with him stepped to his side. “So what do you want me to shoot first, boss?”
Rachel backed away, pulling a squirming Amelie from Oma. Amelie’s eyes had lit like stars at the sight of Jason, her little arms reached for him. Hunger springing from his eyes, Jason turned away. Rachel could barely see for the joy and excitement that filled her head. He’s here and well . . . but who is that woman with him?
Oma helped tug a fractious, struggling Amelie toward the next booth. Rachel felt Jason’s eyes upon her and deliberately took up her role again. When she looked up she found Curate Bauer, the priest she’d seen at the train station with Lea, staring at her. An older priest stood beside him, and he too followed her and Oma and Amelie with his eyes. She looked away. What a fool! What an utter fool I am!
For the next hour Rachel stuck like a burr to Oma, as her guest, not daring to glance at Jason. The only time she managed to steal a glimpse, she found Jason holding up a gold necklace at one of the booths. The young woman at his side took it from him and coquettishly modeled it. They both laughed. Rachel turned away, breathless from the sudden knife in her chest.
When she and Oma and Amelie finally climbed the hill to home, Rachel was exhausted from carrying out her role—as much from all she refused to allow herself to experience as that which she’d performed.
But Amelie was more alive than Rachel had ever seen her. Her eyes had danced as she’d watched the dozens of children in the village, her cheeks burning bright with the cold. Up and down, up and down she hopped between her two ladies as quickly as her feet could manage. Oma laughed at the child’s happiness and periodically nudged Rachel, reminding her to portray the indulgent grandmother.
By the time they’d fed Amelie and tucked her into bed for her afternoon nap, she was nearly asleep with happy exhaustion.
But Oma was wide awake and perturbed. “You were very nearly discovered today—by Herr Young, by Curate Bauer, by Father Oberlanger, who is more aligned with the Nazi Party than not, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve no idea who else saw. I’m not at all sure you can manage in the village two afternoons a week.”
“I’m sorry. I was just . . . flustered . . . for a moment. I was so glad to see Ja—”
“All it takes is a moment to end everything—for all of us, including your Herr Young. This is no time for you to play the lovesick schoolgirl. You hold our very lives in your hands!”
Rachel had never seen Oma so distraught, not in all the time she’d hidden in her home. “It won’t happen again.”
“Your promise is not good enough. I can’t subject Lea and Friederich and Amelie to your whims and flirtations.” She untied her apron and threw it to the table.
“Oma, I just said—”
“No more, Rachel. I’m going to check on Friederich.” And she stalked from the room.
Rachel stood motionless in the center of her grandmother’s kitchen. Never had Oma so severely reprimanded her. Rachel picked up her grandmother’s apron from the table and hung it on the hook by the door. She leaned against the sink, digging the tips of her fingers into her temples.
When Lea walked in an hour later, Oma hadn’t returned. Rachel swiped the last of her tears with the back of her hand.
“Everything all right?”
Rachel nodded.
“Did you like the choir?”
“Yes.” Rachel looked at her sister with new respect. “It was wonderful. The children were wonderful . . . and so were you.”
Lea flushed. Rachel realized she’d never complimented her sister. Lea was very pretty when she smiled. She’d smiled less since Friederich had come home to lie in her bed, dead but not dead.
“You’ve done an amazing job with them.”
Lea shrugged. “The v
illage children are raised from infancy to sing, to act, to play an instrument—one or more of those gifts run in their veins, nurtured for the Passion Play. Did you get their names? Oma told you?”
“Yes.” Rachel swallowed. “Yes, she did.”
“Could you pick Heinrich out of the crowd?”
Rachel laughed, despite herself. “In a heartbeat—mischief personified.”
Lea laughed too, then sobered. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
“I nearly gave us away today.” The confession was harder than Rachel had anticipated.
“When you saw Jason Young?”
“Yes.”
“You love him. I saw it in your eyes.” It was said as a matter of fact.
Rachel’s eyes filled.
“He saved your life, and Amelie’s. He’s the only American you have any contact with—or had. He’s the person who saved you from your father and that SS officer. Why wouldn’t you love him?”
Rachel couldn’t hold back the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I nearly gave us away.”
Lea shook her head, sympathy in every turn. She walked toward Rachel with open arms, but Rachel couldn’t move, couldn’t step into such grace. It didn’t stop Lea from folding her sister into her embrace or Rachel from sobbing quietly into Lea’s shoulder.
Lea brushed Rachel’s hair from her forehead and whispered, “When you love someone, it is not possible to keep it from your eyes, your face, your posture.”
“But the curate saw—and that older priest.”
“Curate Bauer is our friend. Whatever he knows or suspects he will keep to himself. And Father Oberlanger . . . well, I don’t know. But he knows nothing for certain, and the friend who walked into town with Oma today will not be here tomorrow. She was a slightly vain and preoccupied woman flustered by a dashing young American—much as the rest of the village women were! But she is gone—as soon as you wash the gray from your hair and take off those awful clothes.”
Rachel gasped.