by Cathy Gohlke
Rachel searched the old priest’s face, unbelieving. She clasped a hand to her heart.
“You are here to see the priest?” the soldier asked. “You just arrived in the village?”
“Ja, ja.” She nodded, bending over. “My heart.”
The priest pushed between them, taking her arm. “Allow me. You’ve checked her papers; now let me take her to sit down. You can see she’s not well.”
The guards stepped back, and the priest wrapped a protective arm around Rachel as they limped toward the church. “Say nothing,” he whispered. “I remember you from the Advent market. You were with Frau Breisner. I don’t know your game, Fräulein, but you’re a better actress than you are a teacher.”
Rachel couldn’t have agreed more. They returned to the main square and headed for the church. From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw a furious Gerhardt Schlick slam open the door of Friederich’s shop and drop into the backseat of an official black car, swastika flags flying. The car whipped into its turn and sped up the hill, just past Rachel and the priest, close enough for her to feel the spit of gravel from its tires on her face.
60
“OMA!” Lea, badly shaken from Gerhardt’s interrogation in her husband’s shop, reached her grandmother through the open door first. Friederich, grim, limped right behind her.
Oma groaned as her eyes opened, fluttered, and closed again.
“I’ll lift her. Support her leg,” Friederich ordered. “Eins, zwei, drei . . .”
Together they lifted their precious Oma from the cold tile floor.
“It’s broken—her leg is broken!” Lea’s teeth chattered in shock. She’d never seen her grandmother so ill-used—bruises across her cheek, her lip split, a cut just above her temple, her leg unnaturally twisted, surely broken. And the slight stench of urine. Lea’s heart broke. That, above the rest, would humiliate her proud Oma.
Lea pulled back the eiderdown and Friederich laid the old woman on her bed almost reverently, as though she were the crowning star from his Nativity scene. He adjusted the pillow beneath her head, and he and Lea arranged another pillow beneath her twisted leg.
“What monster would do such a thing to an old woman? To this dear, dear woman?” Lea cried.
“I’ll go for the doctor.” Friederich’s voice grated as he turned. Lea knew he was heartbroken and angry—angry enough to strangle the life from the men who’d dared to lay hands on their Oma.
“Amelie . . . Rivka,” Oma moaned.
Friederich’s eyes grew round. “They took them?”
“The cupboard,” Oma moaned again.
Lea’s heart caught. “No more talking, Oma,” she ordered. “Friederich, check the cupboard. See if they’re there.”
Lea could hear Friederich opening the cupboard, could hear Amelie’s guttural expression of delight upon seeing him. Lea closed her eyes, thanking God the little girl was safe. She heard Rivka’s soft whispers as she climbed from the hiding place, saw Amelie tear through the room to the chamber pot.
Rivka could tend to Amelie. But where was Rachel? Was she not back from Ettal?
Lea didn’t wish either woman harm. But after seeing her dear Oma beaten, she wished them both safely away.
She’d not finished the thought when Rachel appeared in the doorway, her face streaked and dirty from pulling off her disguise, her eyes nearly wild. “What did they do to Oma? What did they do?”
“Her leg is broken, I think. Friederich is going for the doctor.” Lea turned back to her grandmother and began removing her soiled dress. “Take care of Amelie and Rivka. You must hide before the doctor comes. They might return.”
“Let me help you with Oma.” Rachel pulled a fresh nightgown from the drawer.
“There is no need. I can manage.”
“I need!” Rachel countered. “I need to help her!”
“This is not about what you need, Rachel. It’s about what Oma needs. And she needs for you to be safe and out of sight.” Lea pulled the dress gently over Oma’s shoulder, but it took everything she had not to jerk the fabric in anger and frustration. If only her sister would do as she was told!
“I heard them.” Rivka appeared in the doorway. “I heard them scream at her and beat her! I heard her slump against the cupboard door. She was trying to shield us, to hide us.”
“Please let me help,” Rachel cried.
Lea wanted to shout at her sister, They beat Oma because of you! Because they didn’t believe her when she said she was not hiding you, that she didn’t know where you are! I know this because I know Oma and how she loves you! And we all know why the soldiers came! But she didn’t shout it, didn’t say it. She swallowed and repeated, “The doctor may be here any moment. Please, Rachel—for Oma’s sake, do as I ask. Oma knows that you love her. Now show her by doing what is needed. Take care of Amelie and Rivka—and yourself. Get into the cupboard.”
Rachel looked as though she was struggling—what she wanted and what was wanted of her warring at the top of their lungs within. She kissed Oma’s free hand but stepped back and disappeared through the bedroom doorway.
Lea heard the quiet rattle of crockery in the kitchen, the kettle being filled and placed on the stove. A few moments later Rachel reappeared in the doorway. “Everything’s ready. We’ll take Amelie into the cupboard, and we’ll wait there until you come for us.”
Lea nodded without turning. “I hope it won’t be long. But I think he’ll set her leg. I don’t know how long that will take.”
“Please,” Rachel whispered, “when she wakes . . . tell her I’m sorry. Please tell her I’m so very sorry.”
Lea gritted her teeth, conscious of the tension in her arms, her shoulders, her neck and face. She forced herself to breathe, to turn, to say, “You can tell her yourself tonight. Now into the cupboard, and please—please keep Amelie still.”
Jason handed over the forged passports to Dietrich’s contact. Despite their best sources, neither had been able to track down Curate Bauer—where he’d been taken or what he’d been charged with.
It was another week before Jason got wind of Schlick’s transfer to Oberammergau. But a call from a phone box to the chief told him why the SS officer had requested transfer to the Bavarian village.
“What do you know about that photograph Eldridge took—the Bavarian Madonna, they’re calling it?” Jason could hear the chief chewing on his cigar through the telephone lines—no typewriters clattering in the background. He must not be in the newsroom. So what’s up?
“Not sure I can tell you anything,” Jason answered. “Seeing it in that US rag was the first time I laid eyes on it.” That’s the truth—best stick to the truth.
“That’s what I told that Sturmbannführer Schlick who keeps pestering. Apparently he’s out looking for the broad—says she’s the American, Rachel Kramer. The guy’s on some kind of crusade, if you ask me.” The chief yawned. “I’m just as glad Eldridge went back to the States. I’ve a feeling this thing with Schlick could get ugly.”
“Ugly is an SS signature,” Jason agreed.
“Censorship, my boy. Watch yourself,” the chief warned.
“Roger. Over and—”
“Wait. I’ve a lead for you. Word on the street is that mercy killings are up.”
“What do you mean, ‘up’?” Jason could barely breathe.
“The Gestapo’s ‘relieving society of the mentally deficient of the Reich.’ No idea what that means in numbers. Probably only Himmler and a handful of his cronies know. There’s an asylum in Bethel. Nazis are pressuring the pastor to give the kids up. Word is neither will give and something’s gonna blow. Ever since Hitler got France, things have gotten even nastier, more out in the open. See what you can dig up—but be careful.”
“Roger.” Jason dropped the receiver into its cradle, sick in his stomach, wishing Rachel and Amelie were stateside, knowing that with Schlick stationed in Oberammergau, they’d run out of time.
He picked up the phone again and dialed. Three rings a
nd a woman answered. “Ja?”
“I’m looking for a stenographer. Know any good ones?” It was his regular code question.
“One or two?” Her standard response.
“Three.” Rachel, Amelie, Rivka.
“Not three. I’ll be in touch.” The phone went dead.
Jason replaced his receiver. Not three. Whose life do I save? Whose do I lose?
61
FRIEDERICH MADE the train trip to Munich himself. He was the least likely of his household to be followed, and he could legitimately take care of a little business in the city. He also took the opportunity to speak with Jason, albeit not face to face. Back to back on benches in the train station would have to do.
“The train is impossible. There’s no way to get them out in cars or trunks. Schlick has checkpoints at every entrance to the city. The entire village is on tenterhooks and treating Lea like a pariah, waiting for her twin to show up. Schlick has shown Rachel’s picture all over the village. There is a reward for the one who finds her.”
“Rachel’s lying low?”
“She’s not teaching the theatre classes anymore. It’s too risky, and Lea’s stalling—saying Oma needs more care since her ‘visit’ from the SS. Lea’s not an acting teacher. She’s frightened out of her wits. Schlick comes to watch her teach choir—anytime he wishes. Lea will have to start the theatre class up again soon, but we’ve no doubt he’ll show up there, too.”
“Intimidation. Schlick’s trademark.” Jason sighed. “Okay, so no trains, cars, buses—nothing on the road. We need a diversion to get her out.”
“Something to keep every guard from his duties?” Friederich nearly grunted. “Impossible.” He sat for a moment, hating to confess one more need. “We’re low on food. Oma’s garden is not enough, and there are those hungrier—pilferers we cannot turn away.”
But Jason didn’t seem to hear. “Smoke and mirrors.”
“What?”
“Smoke and mirrors. Making something look like something it’s not.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Rachel will understand. Ask her for an idea—a diversion that will keep them all busy long enough to get her out.” Jason stretched, checking his watch against the clock. “I’ll be waiting.”
Rachel had put Amelie to bed in the attic. The five adults sat in the kitchen, blackout curtains pulled tight and pinned.
“Smoke and mirrors?” Lea asked.
Friederich shrugged. “That’s what he said, and that Rachel would know what he meant.”
All eyes turned toward Rachel.
“I know what he means; I’m just not sure how to make that work.”
Oma shrugged helplessly, then peeked beneath the blackout curtain, keeping watch from her rocking chair.
“It’s just what Lea and I have been doing with our classes—or were doing. By me pretending to be Lea, we could pull the wool over the eyes of everyone who saw us.”
“And those who didn’t,” Rivka added thoughtfully, tapping the table.
“Yes?” Lea asked.
Rivka turned to Lea. “You were in two places at once. You were at the church, and you were here. You were able to accomplish twice as much because there were two of you, pretending to be one. The same would be true if you both pretended to be Rachel.”
“I still don’t see—” Lea began.
“I do,” Rachel said, grasping Lea’s hand. “What if, instead of everyone thinking I was you, Gerhardt really thought you were me? What if he thought you were me, and was diverted—kept busy just long enough for Amelie and Rivka and me to get away? And then he would realize that you’re not me after all—that he was mistaken.”
“No.” Friederich stood up now. “It’s been risky enough having you pretend to be Lea. I won’t have Lea pretending to be you, to be put in such danger. That man, thinking my Lea is you, that he could do with her as he wishes, even for a minute, is out of the question! No, that is the end of such talk.”
Rachel looked at Lea, pleading. But Lea shook her head, pulling away. “I agree with Friederich.” She shuddered. “Maximillion trails the Sturmbannführer like a shadow. No telling what he’s told him, what lies or half truths, what distortions. Any moment I expect them to tear me away as they did the curate! I’m afraid. . . . And how would we ever get you out of the village? There’s no way—there’s simply no way!” Lea’s voice had risen; her panic spread round the table.
Rachel reached again for her sister. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
But the days of July passed, and inspiration did not come.
Rations in the little house thinned without Curate Bauer’s intervention. Friederich worried over the Jewish family hidden in the cellar of his and Lea’s home. Others were helping to feed them, but lines of communication had broken down, and not enough black-market food was getting past the Nazi patrols into the village. Amelie cried herself to sleep in Rachel’s arms at night from hunger, no matter that Rachel saved her little bits from her own food to provide a bedtime snack. After that, Rachel and Rivka halved their shares, insisting that those who were working eat. Oma continued to recover physically from her beating, but slowly, and everyone’s nerves frayed.
62
THE FIRST WEEK in August, Forestry Chief Schrade stopped by Friederich’s shop to place a Nativity order and to slip him wedges of cheese and one of beef. “I’m sorry it is not more.”
“Thank you, Chief Schrade. You’re a godsend to us.” Friederich meant it.
Chief Schrade glanced over his shoulder, waiting until the guard outside the shop door passed the window, then quickly pulled a slim, zippered pouch from inside his vest. “Herr Young sent these. He said to say that he’s sorry he could not do three—there are so many needed. He wants to know how you will get them out.”
Friederich glanced at the papers but had no idea how he could transport high-profile refugees under the nose of Schlick. He momentarily closed his eyes against the hopelessness, the enormity of the question.
“I’ve been thinking that with all the roads blocked and those Nazi bloodhounds on the prowl, there is only one way,” Chief Schrade whispered.
Friederich was ready to listen—ready for anything.
Now that Sturmbannführer Schlick was stationed in Oberammergau—an apparently long-term fixture—it was entirely too risky for Rachel to leave the house.
But Lea had never taught dramatics, did not understand improvisational games or the high drama of children’s skits, had no concept of the American humor Rachel naturally interjected into her classes under Lea’s name. Lea’s first class fell flat and the children left disappointed and bewildered. Lea excused her odd behavior with a stomach disorder. The mothers who came to retrieve their children sympathized but went away as puzzled as their children by Frau Hartman’s abrupt change in teaching methods.
That night Lea grilled Rachel, begging her to better prepare her for class, to help her devise a skit and assign roles that would take the attention off of her and place it on the children once more. They didn’t get far that night. Lea taught choir the next day.
Sturmbannführer Schlick strode, arrogant and commanding, into Lea’s second dramatics class, an alternately fawning and gloating Maximillion Grieser glued to his side. Between the two, all of Lea’s training under Rachel flew from her head.
“Sturmbannführer Schlick,” Lea began, her throat drier than the cardboard clock prop she held in her hand. She hated that the man had this same effect on her each time she encountered him, hated that her own body betrayed her, that her heart raced and fingers trembled. All she could remember was his raid on Oma’s house—his intimate humiliation and cruelty to them both. What could stop him from doing as he pleased again? The children—perhaps the presence of the children!
“Frau Hartman—” he circled her once—“we meet again.” His eyes roved, calculating, over her face, her hair, her body, then turned suddenly cold. “You will not mind if I observe your class
today.”
She swallowed, knowing her fear was palpable and noting he’d not asked a question. Jason had warned her that to act afraid served only as enticement to cruelty. She fumbled with the prop in her hand, closing her eyes, willing herself to breathe. What would Rachel say? How would she respond? What has Maximillion told him? “You are welcome to observe, Sturmbannführer. We are working on facial muscle skills and voice projection today. Heinrich, set chairs for the Sturmbannführer and his guest.”
But Heinrich stood his ground, glaring at Maximillion until Schlick, distracted by the boy’s sullenness, focused on him. Maximillion did not have the decency to be embarrassed by the youngster’s challenge.
“Heinrich, please. Do as I’ve asked,” Lea gently admonished. The last thing she wanted was for Heinrich to come under Schlick’s scrutiny.
Lea did her best to muster the confidence she felt when conducting singing lessons, but the facial and body movements Rachel had taught her were not natural to her. So she fell back on what she taught her young choir about breathing from their diaphragms, about projecting their voices to the mountains, about lifting their chests and chins and singing from the depths of their being, not from their throats. This must be true for acting, surely. But Heinrich looked worried, the other children looked uncertain, and Maximillion whispered incessantly in Sturmbannführer Schlick’s ear. Schlick narrowed his eyes, drilling an imagined interrogation into Lea’s mind. He reminded her of Dr. Mengele at the Institute. She could barely hold her head up from the cringing in her soul.
Never had the clock on the classroom wall ticked so slowly. Never had she stumbled so incompetently through a class.
Once the children had gone, Gerhardt Schlick accompanied her to the town square, where she tried valiantly not to crumble. “An enlightening afternoon, Frau Hartman. Not what I expected based on your choir classes or the laudations of parents and children alike.”