Hidden Among the Stars

by Melanie Dobson

  He held up a moss-draped pine branch, and Annika ducked under it. Then he leaned his shovel against the wide girth of a tree. Hidden inside his jacket pocket was a small burlap bag, insignificant in appearance but the perfect cloak to camouflage its contents, worth thousands of the new Reichsmarks if the guard had found it.

  He had to do more than tell Annika what he did with these jewels and other valuables he collected. He needed to show her.

  “You and I can’t fight the Nazis on our own, Kätzchen, but there’s something we can do together to help Sarah’s family and the other Jewish people in these lakes.” Annika’s eyes widened as he took out the bag. “We can keep their family things safe until they return.”

  “But they can’t return until the Nazis leave,” she said.

  “One day they’ll be gone.” Hitler and his party thought they were here to stay—a Thousand-Year Reich—but Max couldn’t bear to think about evil settling into their country for another year. A thousand years was unfathomable.

  Annika glanced into the bag and gasped when she saw the jewels inside. Then Max placed the onionskin list in her hand, folded into a square. Her fingers curled over it.

  “Hermann will bring the things to you secretly. You will record them on this paper, using only the initials that he gives you, and then hide the paper away.”

  “Hermann?” She sounded shocked.

  “I’ll tell him tomorrow that you’ll be helping us.”

  She scanned the grass between the trees. “Does Hermann know where you bury these things?”

  “No—it’s safer for all of us if he doesn’t know.”

  “Are you leaving?” In her voice was a sadness that he felt as well, not in leaving Vienna but this lake and his friends here.

  “For only a short while.” He leaned toward her. “No one knows I’ve buried things here, Annika, except me and now you.”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” she swore.

  “I know,” he said solemnly. “That’s why—”

  A rattling sound, the worn engine of a car, echoed through the forest.

  Annika reached for his arm. “It’s Vati!”

  “We’ll tell him that . . .” But he couldn’t think of a valid reason why he and Annika would be out in the woods together at night unless he was trying to proposition the man’s daughter. He glanced down at Annika’s hand, but it seemed she’d already slipped the list into her pocket. He hid the jewels back in his bag.

  “Run to your house,” Annika urged. “I’ll tell him I was out walking.”

  He was tired of feeling like a coward, even more so on his own property. Herr Knopf couldn’t suspect what he’d been doing, but if he left Annika here alone, he’d feel as if he were throwing her into the den of a lion, one hungry enough to eat her alive.

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “It will be worse if he sees us—”

  A crash interrupted her words. Then a blaze of light.

  “Annika?” Herr Knopf shouted.

  Max felt her hand tremble before she ripped it away. “He can’t find us together.”

  But it was too late. Herr Knopf came thundering through the forest like a bloodhound that smelled a doe.

  Annika backed up against the branches of a fir tree as Max shaded his eyes, turning to confront the beam of the man’s flashlight. Herr Knopf glanced between him and Annika, gasping for breath before he spoke.

  “What are you doing with my daughter?” His words sloshed together like lager against the sides of a Weizen glass.

  “We were taking a walk,” Max said, praying that the man wouldn’t remember their confrontation come morning.

  “Go home, Annika,” her father commanded.

  She stepped up to him. “I’ll go home with you.”

  “I must speak with Herr Dornbach alone.” His words dripped with sarcasm even as they slurred. The man had never liked Max; he clearly hated the thought of reporting to Wilhelm Dornbach’s son.

  Max didn’t move. “What is it?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  “Tomorrow, Vati,” Annika insisted. “Right now we must rest.”

  “No.” His voice steadied. “I have to show him now.”

  What would this man, half-drunk, need to show him so late at night? Max glanced at Annika in the dim glow of the flashlight, but she kept her distance as they followed Herr Knopf to the cottage. Anger boiled inside Max at the fear—that he was afraid of his father and Annika was afraid of hers.

  He may not be able to challenge his own father, but one day he would be master of this estate. And when he was, he would release Herr Knopf to the wild like he’d released the canary, and keep Annika to care for the property. If she’d stay.

  “Inside, Annika.” Herr Knopf held open the cottage door, and she stepped through it, her father lumbering close behind. The canary sung out in the darkness above Max, and seconds later the cottage door banged open again. Herr Knopf stumbled back outside.

  “I know your secret,” the man said.

  Max struggled for his next breath. Everything would be ruined if Herr Knopf found out about the burial ground. The man would dig up all the heirlooms, Max feared, and sell them off. Or he would tell Herr Dornbach what Max had done.

  His father might fight for his wife, but if he found out what Max was doing, he’d turn his only son in to the Gestapo.

  “What secret?” he asked, much more strongly than he felt.

  Herr Knopf held up a chain and dangled it in front of Max, the gold reflecting in the light.

  Anger roared inside Max again, spilling out. “That’s not yours.”

  “Annika found it.”

  “Vati!” Annika exclaimed as she stepped out behind him, her eyes wide. Had she been digging in the old cemetery while he was gone? Perhaps he shouldn’t have trusted her with his secret.

  He would recover the rest of the items in the ground and hide them someplace else.

  Herr Knopf motioned toward his daughter. “Tell him where you found it.”

  Max shook his head. “It’s not nec—”

  Herr Knopf interrupted him. “She found it in one of your mother’s shoe boxes.”

  “You stole it?” he asked Annika. But even as he said those words, relief washed over him. His secret—the secret he’d shared with the girl in front of him—was still safe.

  “I’d never steal from you!”

  “I took it,” Herr Knopf said with a disconcerting pride.

  Max leaned closer, his hand outstretched until the pendant on the end settled into it. The golden star was like the ones Herr Weiss had given to him. A Magen David.

  Perhaps his mother was helping their Jewish friends hide things as well.

  Herr Knopf rolled his shoulders back. “I suspected it all along.”

  “Suspected what?” Max began to close his fingers around the necklace, but Herr Knopf snatched it away.

  Herr Knopf reached for Annika’s arm and yanked her back toward the door. “Ask your mother.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Story Girl!”

  Ella Nemeth races toward me. I’m standing on a stool instead of reading from one, placing a boxful of new arrivals in their proper place.

  As I climb down, Ella twirls to display the pink ribbon around her ponytail, then motions toward a couple in their sixties standing near the door behind her.

  The man is dressed in neatly pressed khaki shorts with a button-down shirt, his brown hair graying at the temples. The woman beside him has on a paisley sundress, the hem nearly reaching her tan-colored sandals. Her copper hair is clipped short, her nose the same shade as her hair, as if she’s plagued by a cold.

  The woman sneezes into the crook of her arm, confirming my thoughts.

  “Who are these fine people?” I ask as Ella reaches for my hand, tugging me toward them.

  “Grammy and Gramps.”

  “It’s better than Grumps,” the man says with a smile before he shakes my hand. “Peter and Lottie Nemeth.”


  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Nemeth.”

  “Likewise,” he says. “And please call us Peter and Lottie. It makes us feel younger.”

  I decide right then that I like Dr. Nemeth’s parents. “Are you from Columbus?”

  “Atlanta is our official home, but Ella is our only grandchild, so Columbus is like home for us as well.”

  “Josh said he emailed you a few days ago about their adventure,” Lottie says.

  I nod. “He told me they found a wooden box in Lake Grundlsee that looked promising, but when they recovered it, all they found inside were milk bottles.”

  “I never believed Leo’s story,” Peter says, “but he convinced Josh and my other two sons that Hallstatt and those other Austrian lakes were stocked with treasure.”

  Lottie blows her nose. “Josh and his team are arriving in Hallstatt today.”

  I already know this but don’t say so, worried that they might wonder about the relationship between their son and me. Dr. Nemeth has been keeping me informed about the team’s expeditions in the surrounding lakes and his search for Annika’s family.

  Ella tugs on my shirt. “Are you reading a story soon?”

  “No.” I stack the books onto an empty shelf. “We have story time on Saturdays.”

  Her lower lip trembles as if this is catastrophic news, and when she wipes her sleeve across her eyes, my heart begins to plunge.

  Lottie leans over, whispering to me. “She’s missing her dad.”

  Ah. Sad and sweet alike that she misses her dad. At her age, I’d always been thrilled to see mine walking out the door.

  And it makes me wonder—why isn’t she missing her mother as well? Dr. Nemeth has yet to mention his wife in our correspondence. If she stayed behind with Ella, where is she today when her daughter’s heart is breaking?

  I glance at the empty rug near the back of the store. “Any day is a good day for a story, isn’t it?”

  Ella pumps her head slowly at first and then deliberately, rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes again.

  “Would you like me to read one right now?” I ask her.

  “Yes, please.”

  I look up at her grandparents. “Do you have time?”

  “Of course,” Peter says, and his wife nods in agreement. This time she’s smiling at me.

  I hold out one jean-clad leg and strappy sandal, displaying them to Ella. “I’ll need to get my socks and cape.”

  Ella grinned. “You can read without socks.”

  “I’m not certain that I can.”

  I scan the room, looking over at Brie, who’s working fervently at the counter, and then at the dozen or so children with their adults, flipping through book pages and utilizing the slide. My sister won’t mind if I slip in an extra story or two on a Friday afternoon.

  “Why don’t you spread the word to the other children,” I tell Ella. “I’ll meet you at the back of the room in about five minutes.”

  Ella rushes to one of the children nearby, and Lottie mouths a thank-you. I retrieve Story Girl’s cape and socks upstairs, and when I return, Brie catches my eye, holding up the store’s landline. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  Ella is still busy rounding up an audience, so I step to the counter and answer the call.

  “Is this Callie Randall?” a woman asks.

  “It is.”

  “My name is Liberty—” She hesitates as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to tell me her last name. “A bookseller from Boise called and said that you found some sort of list in one of my parents’ books.”

  My heart pumps harder as the chatter and laughter around me seem to dull. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “My mom and dad have both been gone for several years, but my brother and I have had a hard time parting with their things.”

  “I understand.” Not because of my own parents, but one day Charlotte will be gone and I can’t imagine selling anything of hers to strangers.

  “We don’t have enough room between us to keep everything, but still it’s tough. . . .”

  “Did your parents collect a lot of books?” I ask, hoping Annika was her mother.

  “My father was the collector, though most of his books were scientific in nature.”

  “Was he a doctor?”

  “A veterinarian,” she says. “He was much more fond of animals than people.”

  “What were your parents’ names?” Perhaps the question is too personal, especially since she still hasn’t told me her last name, but I can’t think of a more tactful way to ask about Annika.

  “Why don’t you tell me first what you found in his book?” She sounds nice enough, just suspicious.

  I tell her about the list embedded in the pages. “The name Annika Knopf was inside the cover along with Schloss Schwansee and a photograph of a young man.”

  She doesn’t respond, so I ask, “Have you heard of Annika?”

  “My father talked often about the castle, but not about the people.”

  My heart begins to speed up again. “What did he tell you?”

  “My father—” She stops. “I need to speak to my brother before I say anything else.”

  “Of course.”

  I give her my cell phone number so she can contact me after she talks to him. If she’d known what was in this book, perhaps she wouldn’t have let it go. These special books, I think, should be cherished like the treasures they are.

  Then again, what if I was opening something that her parents deliberately closed? It could be that Annika didn’t want her children to know about her past. Who was I to step into their family and rearrange their secrets—if her parents were trying to keep secrets?

  Someone tugs on my shirt, and I look down to see Ella. She doesn’t say anything, simply nods toward a small group of children who have assembled in the back corner.

  “Pick out a book for us to read,” I say.

  Ella scans the shelf and pulls out a book as I take my place in front of the audience.

  Where the Wild Things Are. Another old story about a naughty child on an adventure, a book that a lot of parents didn’t want their children to read when it was published. Perhaps some parents still don’t want their children to travel where the wild things reside, though I like the journey of this boy named Max, who realizes that home is an awfully good place to be.

  I glance over at Peter and Lottie, but they don’t seem the least bit concerned about the selection. So I begin to read about Max meeting all sorts of fierce creatures along the way.

  Several years ago, I researched the author, Maurice Sendak, for a blog post. Sendak based the wild things in his book on childhood memories of his relatives—the ultimate writer payback, I suppose. Max is grounded in the memories and imagination of Sendak’s childhood, and the kids in front of me seem as mesmerized by Max’s rumpus as generations before them, trailing this boy through an adventure of epic proportions.

  I continue reading about his voyage, how he confronts his fears and, in a sense, tames the monsters who wanted to eat him. They play for a season until he’s ready to go home. “‘And Max—’” I lower my voice so the children lean in—“‘the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.’”

  When I glance up, Ella is grinning at me. Who in the room, young or old, doesn’t want to be with someone who loves them? Nothing wipes away loneliness like genuine love, the promise of it overcoming the thrill of the greatest adventure. Making an adventure a joy, not an escape.

  As our hero begins his voyage home, my mind wanders to the adventure of little Fritz in the magic balloon book, another boy who travels around the world until he ultimately reunites with his parents. Perhaps one of the best parts of a grand journey is knowing you have someone to come home to when you’re done.

  I read two more books to the children before several parents begin stepping toward the door, clearly ready to head to their own homes. My little audience groans when I tell them we
’re finished.

  “Come back tomorrow if you’d like to hear more,” I say before they disperse. Then I stand to reshelve the wild things.

  Lottie steps forward again. “It’s such a joy to see someone who still delights in a good story.”

  I smile—that’s me, I suppose, finding meaning and delight in the musings of someone else’s adventure.

  “Max reminds me of Josh when he was young.”

  “Really?” I don’t mean to sound shocked, but Dr. Nemeth doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would lose himself in the world of pretend.

  “He’s changed a lot since Grace died.”

  “Grace?”

  “His wife,” she says, seemingly surprised that this is news to me.

  I collapse back onto my stool, my legs trembling as the weight of her words bear down. The conversations between Dr. Nemeth and me, they’ve been focused mainly on finding Annika and the missing treasure. He’s had no reason to mention the loss of his wife.

  Poor Ella. I never should have criticized Mrs. Nemeth for her daughter’s sadness, like she was my mother abandoning me. Every girl should have a mom to talk to, a woman who cares about what she thinks. Who’s there when her body—or her heart—is hurting.

  Who loves her when she feels alone.

  “Losing someone changes everything,” I say.

  She nods. “Josh is just now starting to live again.”

  Ella slips up beside me. “Do you think there are any wild things in Austria?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She grins. “Except my dad.”

  “You’re a blessed girl, Ella, to have a father who loves you.”

  When she takes her grandparents to the slide, I lean back against a shelf, processing Lottie’s words. And my heart breaks for Dr. Nemeth. How sad to lose his wife, the mom of their sweet daughter. What appeared to me as cool and calculated is perhaps someone trying to venture back out of his shell.

  “Story Girl!” Ella calls, and I watch her lunge down the slide one more time before her grandparents say good-bye.

  Hours later, as I’m trying to craft an email to Dr. Nemeth about the woman who called from Idaho, a new message appears on my screen. It’s from Sophie in Vienna.