by Cathy Gohlke
Once Rachel dyed Rivka’s hair a ripened-wheat shade of blonde and applied a little makeup, Rivka sat for her passport photo.
Doctoring Amelie’s passport to fit Rivka was cleaner, easier than Rachel had imagined. Changing the numerals in the year of birth was not so difficult for a local printer turned expert forger, nor was aligning Rivka’s new photograph.
Explaining the coming changes to Amelie had been more difficult. Preparing her to sit quietly alone in the attic or cupboard, sometimes for a few hours in case of a raid, was harder still. Rachel could only imagine how frightened the little girl would be without her or Rivka.
But when Rachel saw Lea’s freedom and joy with her new daughter, she knew she’d done the right thing for both of them. For all of them.
Rivka’s dark eyes lit like warm amber, her smile so radiant the entire family marveled at the change. Rachel decided it was a good thing Rivka was stuck in Oma’s house. It was hard enough for the older women to keep their secret from their faces. Only Oma seemed distressed.
The Nazis forbade fires on the mountain, citing blackout restrictions, even as Rachel had suspected. But dissension among the villagers over the cancellation of their beloved holiday increased tension, which prompted Sturmbannführer Schlick to condescendingly grant their petition to present an alternative indoor form of entertainment—as long as it was dedicated to the Führer and observed blackout restrictions.
Friederich reported that Forester Schrade, Father Oberlanger, and even the mayor, each with his own agenda, played their roles well in organizing the theatre hall and inviting troops stationed in and around Oberammergau.
Word raced through the village that the Ministry of Propaganda had gotten wind of the event through foreign news sources in Berlin. Goebbels was sending Brigadeführer Schellenberg to join Sturmbannführer Schlick for the grand affair, hoping to mend Nazi relationships with the Passion Village willing to honor the Führer and their Sturmbannführer. Word came that Goebbels was delighted to take advantage of photo ops for worldwide papers, all surely hungry for “German news.”
Rachel dared believe the ruse might work, that it might be the answer. While Gerhardt was in Berlin, she taught the acting classes, assigning roles and prompting lines. No matter that it was only two classes—it helped Lea get started with the production and enabled Rachel to better visualize potential pitfalls.
Exciting as it was, it spelled the end of her time with Oma, Lea, Friederich, and Amelie. Rachel told herself that it was best, that it was what she wanted . . . if only her heart would believe.
Gerhardt was not pleased and not taken in. Not for a moment did he believe the people of the Passion wished to present the gift of this event because they held him in high esteem. Villagers fearfully fawned to his face . . . or spit behind his back.
Still, he could not determine where the plan had originated, who was behind the push or why. Father Oberlanger didn’t seem the type—too frightened of Nazi intervention in the Catholic Church rituals he held so dear to try railroading an officer able to send him to a concentration camp. Lea Hartman was too mousy, reduced to a bundle of nerves at his very presence. And what could the community pull together that he’d not seen in her rehearsals, pitiful as they were? Still, it wouldn’t do to snub the officious Brigadeführer Schellenberg or let word of his lack of cooperation get to Goebbels.
Gerhardt had just returned from a grim recall to Berlin and a stern warning. He was “encouraged” to play the gracious recipient of this goodwill gift from the German people. It was the perfect opportunity to put to rest rumors among villagers and suspicions growing within the SS that he’d become obsessed with a dead woman to the point of madness.
Gerhardt had played the dutiful surrogate son to the overbearing Brigadeführer who’d been ordered to warn him. But he knew with every fiber of his being that Rachel Kramer was alive, that she was hiding somewhere—if not in Oberammergau, then nearby, somewhere in Bavaria. He knew not only from the photograph, but because the thing that Rachel Kramer had run to as a young woman, at least before her university experience increased her attitude of independence, was family—even when that family was no one but her scientist father.
The thought of family reminded him of the photographed child’s uncanny likeness to Amelie. The more he looked at the photograph, the stronger the resemblance, though he didn’t see how that could be.
While in Berlin, he’d visited the scene of the clinic explosion where Amelie had died. He tracked down and interrogated the matron. She’d blubbered that it had all happened so quickly, moments after his wife had left the clinic. The fire was intense and the fire trucks misdirected. There was simply not time to get everyone out. She was so very sorry for his loss.
He was not satisfied.
Left to his own devices, Gerhardt would have arrested the old woman, Frau Breisner, and interrogated her personally. Persuasion during raids had proven unsuccessful, but now he wondered if seeing her granddaughter tortured might lead to greater success, or if torturing the old woman might loosen the young Frau Hartman’s tongue. Seeing his wife upon the rack might influence the stoic woodcarver. The possibilities pleased him, though he did not see how he could conduct such interviews under the Brigadeführer’s watchful eye.
On the way through the village, Gerhardt had his driver stop outside the woodcarver’s shop while he took a short stroll round the square. Just to let the provincials know he had returned. Gerhardt enjoyed the trepidation he brought to the eyes of the villagers. There were those who scurried by, averting their eyes, and those who all but genuflected.
He ordered his driver to pick up a pound of cheese, one of the few foods he did not import from Berlin. By the time he returned to the car, the driver stood at attention, an envelope in his hand.
The man saluted. “This was in the car when I returned, Sturmbannführer.”
Gerhardt took the ivory envelope—good-quality linen stationery—with only his name penned across the front. He recognized Rachel’s handwriting immediately.
Gerhardt ripped it open. Her perfume, rising from the page, made his blood race.
I regret that these months have been so devastating for both of us—all of us. But a new beginning is at hand—one in which we may each forgive and, I pray, be forgiven.
Be patient just a little longer. Consider this production my gift to you—the start of happier days, and the best these quaint people know to offer. I look forward to seeing you there.
After the show, when all have gone for the night, come behind the stage curtain. You won’t be disappointed.
Gerhardt read the missive twice, smiling the second time. He returned the note to its envelope, tucking it securely within his coat’s breast pocket. Yes, Rachel, I’ll indulge you this for the sake of showing the world and my superiors that I have been right all along. A promotion is more to my liking than a trip to the front. For Schellenberg to see you come humbly, willingly, to me will be worth a few days’ wait. I’ll be patient for you, but do not try my patience longer.
When Gerhardt walked into his office, he found Maximillion Grieser nervously awaiting an audience.
The boy had been useful at first, ferreting out rumors, playing Gerhardt’s eyes and ears among the villagers. But he’d grown tiresome, and his infatuation with Lea Hartman, a married woman, put Gerhardt’s pursuit of Rachel in a squalid light. Word had even reached Berlin of their mutual pursuit, though how, he didn’t know.
Now that Rachel had contacted him, he had no need of the boy. His nearly drooling devotion was, in fact, a liability. He’d have to see about having Grieser shipped to the front after the celebration. He was nearly old enough to be conscripted.
“What do you want?” Gerhardt threw his gloves to his desk.
“I have new information, Sturmbannführer—information about Frau Hartman.”
Gerhardt considered the teen. He wondered for a moment if he’d disgusted the Brigadeführer as Grieser disgusted him. The thought tightened his jaw.
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Grieser stepped forward. “While you were away, a woman impersonating Frau Hartman taught the acting classes. She was bold and decisive—a different person from the woman we observed last week. They are two different women, surely, though identical twins, as you said.”
“This is your astounding news? That you confirm my suspicions?”
“Yes, sir.” Grieser now seemed less certain. “They tried to fool me as they have fooled you.”
Gerhardt took a seat behind his desk, making a pyramid with his fingers.
Grieser licked his lips, a crease of worry lining his forehead. “To deceive you, sir.” He rushed on. “There is some trickery planned for the King Ludwig celebration—the performance being prepared. Something strange. I overheard Frau Hartman tell Father Oberlanger that a big surprise is planned for you. I don’t know what it is yet, but I do not trust Frau Hartman. You will need to take precautions.”
Gerhardt would have liked to slap the boy for his presumption. Instead he leaned back in his chair. “That will be all.”
Grieser frowned, confused. He leaned in. “Did they call you in for the raids? I don’t think they should have done that. You were only doing your duty.”
Such overstepping was the last straw. Gerhardt could feel his collar tightening around his neck. “Get out!”
Grieser’s face fell. His eyes flashed confusion. But he shot out his arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Gerhardt raised his hand in a perfunctory salute as the youth spun on his heel.
65
WHEN UNCLE FRIEDERICH had slipped through the back door and untied the brown paper package, all the women had gathered round him, their mouths shaped like O’s. Amelie squirmed between them just in time to be covered by floating, cool waves of blue silk—a little bit of sky fallen from the heavens. Where he’d found it, she couldn’t imagine. That it was a secret, she knew right away. That Oma and Aunt Lea could fashion such a thing into a magnificent gown in three days was like watching fairy godmothers at work.
The night of the play, Amelie watched Aunt Rachel apply her makeup carefully, unwind her braids and curl her long and golden hair, then step into the long, dusky-blue silk gown and pull it up to her shoulders.
Aunt Rachel looked, to Amelie, like a princess dressed for the ball—the Cinderella of her storybook. The vision stirred some deep memory of her mother—a memory sustained through daily peeks into the tiny silver locket she wore beneath her little boy’s shirt.
Amelie laughed to see Aunt Lea dress as Oma’s friend, the woman who’d accompanied them to the Christmas market last year, where she’d seen Uncle Jason. She watched, fascinated, as Aunt Rachel painted Aunt Lea’s face to look almost as old as Oma’s. She wondered if Aunt Lea still felt the same age beneath her old face.
She watched Oma dress in her best frock as Rivka packed two small knapsacks. When the ladies finished, Aunt Rachel motioned for Amelie to crawl into her lap. Amelie knew she musn’t crush her pretty dress, but Aunt Rachel didn’t seem to mind.
Aunt Rachel had explained days ago that she must go away without her, but she must have forgotten that she’d told Amelie, because she did it again, using the simple signs that Amelie understood.
She signed that Amelie would be Aunt Lea and Uncle Friederich’s little girl now—always. They would be her Mama and Papa. Amelie loved that idea. She’d wanted her mother for a long time, but even with her picture in the silver locket, it had been hard to remember her mother’s arms about her, the feel of her mother’s voice as it rumbled in her chest. Aunt Lea—no, Amelie must call her Mama now—sang all the time, especially when Amelie sat in her lap. Amelie loved to press her ear against Mama’s chest and feel the vibrations. It made Mama smile, and Amelie saw that she and the singing brought Mama joy. Papa Friederich had signed that God in heaven is like that—that He rejoices over us with singing.
Aunt Rachel promised again to love Amelie always. She pointed to the picture in Amelie’s locket, promising that she would always love Amelie’s first mother. She promised to someday return to Oberammergau to hold Amelie close once more. She didn’t know when that would be—someday, when all the bad men went away.
Amelie understood those conditions. She wasn’t afraid. There had been so many more things to fear in life. Knowing she was loved by many people, even if they couldn’t always be with her, was not one of them. She knew that Aunt Rachel would come back to her when she could. And maybe she’d bring Uncle Jason. Amelie loved Uncle Jason. She had dreamed of him becoming her papa, but she loved Uncle Friederich, too. Amelie sighed. It was happiness to be loved and wanted.
Aunt Rachel and Mama Lea explained that Amelie must go to sleep early and remain in the cupboard until someone came for her, that in the morning Oma would be there to give her breakfast.
Amelie saw the two women—identical on the outside—exchange anxious glances. That was the only thing that frightened Amelie: the uncertainty that flashed between her grown-ups.
She was not sleepy, but she allowed Aunt Rachel to tuck her into her little pallet bed in the cupboard and kiss her good night. Amelie watched as her princess aunt swiped away tears that fell and streaked her makeup, and then the door was shut.
66
JASON ENTERED the theatre with Peterson an hour before showtime. Jason didn’t want to miss a moment of either production—the one onstage or the one behind the scenes. He should be able to capture everything needed to complete his story of the evening’s production for the newspapers—even make it pass muster for Goebbels. Peterson could keep the propaganda press ball rolling with his flash photography.
They’d missed call time by ten minutes. The directors and cast were backstage, getting the kids ready to perform.
Half an hour before the opening number, troops filed in, boisterous and glad to be freed from duty for any reason. Villagers began to arrive, straggling in through the next twenty minutes. He recognized Frau Breisner and her relative from Stelle—the one he’d bumped into at the Christmas market. But was she Rachel or Lea? He dared not look too long or appear too interested, only prayed that all would go well this night.
He wished he could have said good-bye to Amelie. Chances of seeing her again weren’t high. He couldn’t think of many more good reasons to visit the Passion Village without a Passion Play. He couldn’t have stood for Amelie to go to anyone less loving and motherly than Lea, and there was no better man than Friederich. Of that, Jason was certain. He’d have to be content with that.
Just before the lights dimmed, Schlick and Brigadeführer Schellenberg marched in, surrounded by lower-ranking officers and security, as though they were the show. Jason felt his stomach grip, the sickening grip that had never quite disappeared in his years of covering the Reich.
Peterson stepped quickly in front of the stage and snapped a picture of the Nazi entourage. The Brigadeführer gave his best profile. Jason smirked to see the nod Schellenberg gave Schlick, the “smile for the camera” order. Things were going according to plan.
House lights went down and the orchestra began to play. Gradually, a soft spectrum of lights filtered across the stage, looking almost like fireflies. Into the center-stage spotlight walked Rachel Kramer, golden curls flowing past her shoulders, voluptuous and magnificent in a floor-length blue silk gown that draped low on her ivory neck. It was a dress eerily similar to the gown she’d worn to the Berlin gala. A collective gasp ran through the audience. Rachel blushed, smiling appreciatively.
From the corner of his eye, Jason saw Schlick rise in his seat, then suddenly plop down, as if the brass next to him had jerked him into place.
Rachel swept the audience with her arm. “Welcome, Brigadeführer Schellenberg and Sturmbannführer Schlick. Welcome, officers of the SS and soldiers of our illustrious Fatherland. Welcome, meine Damen und Herren of Oberammergau—old friends, dear friends, and all who are new in our midst.” She rested her eyes on Schlick, whose posture straightened even more. “We are delighted that you came. We trust that this evening, this new
twist on our longtime celebration of King Ludwig’s birthday—prepared for your pleasure by the children of Oberammergau—will lighten your hearts and make you smile. May our good memories of former traditions be honored and preserved—though we will be lighting no fires on our mountain or in this hall tonight.”
The chuckles through the audience fed the performer onstage, and she laughed with them—beautiful, intoxicating. Jason swallowed hard.
“May this special evening mark a new beginning in forging stronger relationships between us all for the good of our Passion Village and our nation.”
“Heil Hitler!” Schellenberg shouted, saluting.
Hands shot forward throughout the room in response. “Heil Hitler!”
Rachel’s eyes fell again on Schlick. She smiled warmly before taking her seat in the front row, nearest the stage entrance.
Jason could not still the erratic beating inside his chest. If Schlick, seated on the opposite side of the auditorium, was affected anything like he was, it would take the Brigadeführer and every officer in the room to keep him from rushing the stage and sweeping Rachel off her feet, show or no show. He knew that playing up to Schlick was part of Rachel’s staged scheme, but he didn’t like it. She was playing with fire.
Peterson waved his hand in front of Jason’s face. “Earth to Young,” he whispered. “You’re here to do a story, sport, remember? Can’t say as I blame you. She’s a looker. A year or so in hiding hasn’t done her any harm.”
“Who?” He tried to sound innocent.
“Kramer, genius—the elusive woman of the hour.”
Jason scribbled notes in the darkened room, notes he’d never be able to decipher. “Read the program. That’s Lea Hartman. But they sure do look alike.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Rachel’s back.