Hidden Among the Stars

by Melanie Dobson

  Annika retrieved her Bambi book from under the bed. Inside, stuffed between the pages with Max’s photograph, was the onionskin list from Max. But if Vati or someone else ever opened the book, the paper would slide to the floor.

  As she sat cross-legged on her bed, Annika began to meticulously record the items that Hermann brought for her, but instead of putting the words on onionskin, she wrote them inside the pages of Bambi. Her father might open the cover, searching for paper, but he’d never think to scan through the text.

  After she finished recording each item from Hermann’s list, she transcribed Max’s records into the book as well. Tomorrow afternoon, when her father was gone, she’d take Max’s place in the forest and bury these items between the animals in the ground. Then she’d burn both Max’s and Hermann’s lists. These treasures, they would be safe in her care.

  CHAPTER 22

  “May I look through the Hatschi Bratschi story?” I ask Charlotte before settling into one of her two living room chairs. We have less than an hour before story time begins—and she’s my featured guest—but it’s enough time to look at this old book.

  “Of course,” she says, nodding toward the bookcase. “Would you like some hot tea?”

  “Yes, please.” Usually I help her brew the tea, but I want to examine the book while she’s in the other room.

  When she slips into the kitchen, I inch Hatschi Bratschis Luftballon carefully off the shelf. The blue spine is cracked, ready to split, and the last thing I want to do is damage Charlotte’s only connection with her past.

  Inside the cover is the name I remember well.

  Luzia Weiss.

  White light.

  I skim the pages, hoping that whoever this Luzia was, she wrote something in the pages like Annika did, but the only handwriting is the fancy script recording her name.

  What would Charlotte say if I told her that perhaps the name Luzia originally belonged to her mother instead of her? I’ll hold that information close to my heart until I find out what happened to her family, if I can find out. Annika’s story somehow connects with this Luzia Weiss’s story; I desperately hope it also connects with Charlotte’s.

  It seems impossible, but like Mrs. Murry told Meg in A Wrinkle in Time, you don’t have to understand things for them to be.

  I don’t understand all that is happening, but I’ll search until I can find answers. And I pray that I find a thread of joy stitched into the sorrow and agony of war.

  Liberty hasn’t returned my calls, but I have a list of questions ready for when she does and some new information as well. Early this morning, Dr. Nemeth sent me a photograph of Schloss Schwansee, and then the birth and marriage certificates for Annika Knopf from the Evangelische Pfarrkirche, the evangelical church in Hallstatt. They didn’t have a death certificate on record for her.

  The Dornbach family, Dr. Nemeth said, owned Schloss Schwansee before the war, but according to the certificates on my iPad, Annika was only sixteen when she married the caretaker of the castle, a man named Hermann Stadler.

  One of the students on Dr. Nemeth’s team is taking the train to Salzburg tomorrow to find out who owns Schloss Schwansee now.

  Charlotte places a mug of green tea in front of me.

  “Thank you.” I take a sip as she glances out the window at two songbirds perched on a slender branch.

  “Listen,” she whispers.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re singing for us.”

  I quiet my racing thoughts and listen with her to the melody of these birds, simple yet sacred in a sense as they embrace this gifting of song. Charlotte’s gaze travels down to the book with the wicked wizard on the cover searching for children to steal.

  “Do you mind if I borrow this a few days?” I ask.

  “What do you want with old Hatschi Bratschi?”

  “It’s for my research.”

  “Of course.” She reaches out to touch the cover as if it might transport her as well before looking back up at me. “How is our Dr. Nemeth?”

  He’s not exactly ours, but I decide not to debate the topic. I haven’t told either Charlotte or Brie that he’s a widower. It doesn’t change anything between Dr. Nemeth and me, but they might drop hints about our relationship when it’s strictly a professional one. “He and his team are starting to dive today in Lake Hallstatt.”

  “Have they discovered any treasure?”

  “Not the treasure they’ve been hoping to find, but they recovered a Nazi dagger from Lake Grundlsee.” He sent me a picture of it along with pictures of several smaller items they discovered in the depths of the lake. All of it would be turned over to the Austrian government.

  “And Annika?” she asks.

  “He confirmed that she lived there during the war, but he doesn’t know where she went after. The gates to the estate are locked, and he said no one that he’s asked remembers her.”

  “It’s very difficult to talk about what happened then. The memories . . .” Charlotte’s hands shake as she reaches for the porcelain mug that holds her tea, taking a sip before she continues. “You have to relive the pain to tell the stories.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say. “I still wish someone had told Nadine who brought you to the orphanage.”

  “By the time she needed that information, everyone was gone.”

  I lower my tea. She’s answered my questions over the years when I was searching for her family, but she rarely talked about her memories of France. “What do you mean, they were gone?”

  Her green eyes are clear when she looks at me. Her mind might want to run, but she presses forward. “The Nazis came to our orphanage; did I ever tell you that?”

  “No—”

  “Near the end of the war. The Gestapo decided to clear it out before the Allied soldiers arrived.” She looks at the book cover again, a new sadness stitching her words together. “Nadine had been volunteering to help with the children. I was sick that week, before the Nazis came, so she . . . she’d taken me to her home.”

  “Were the children Jewish?”

  “Most of them.” She glances out the window, and I turn with her to see a red-winged blackbird on the branch. “But it shouldn’t matter.”

  “No, it shouldn’t.”

  “The Nazis killed all the children and caregivers except Nadine and me. As if it were a crime to be young or help a child.” When her voice breaks, I reach for her hand, clasping it. “I was seven by the time the Nazis left France. Nadine and I returned to the abandoned orphanage, and almost everything had been taken or destroyed, including my baptismal certificate. But we found my book. What was worthless to the Nazis was priceless to me.”

  My phone buzzes, and I scan a text from Brie.

  Thirty children are here, asking about Story Girl. Any idea where she went?

  To France, I want to tell her, more than seventy years ago.

  We’re coming, I reply.

  Charlotte picks up the mugs, the interruption from my phone bringing her back, but it takes me longer to process the threads of this story. What a burden Charlotte has borne her entire life, surviving the invasion of the Nazis while almost everyone close to her was killed.

  Did everyone in her biological family die during the war as well? If most of the children in the orphanage were Jewish, Luzia and her daughter might’ve been too.

  How did Luzia Weiss transport her baby from Vienna to France?

  So many missing pages between the covers of their story, if there is a story connecting Charlotte and the Luzia who danced at the Opera Ball.

  When we reach the store, I introduce the kids who don’t know Charlotte to the matron of our story hour, and she surprises them by selecting a modern book, the one about cows that type. They listen, mesmerized by her ability to click and clack and moo without a red cape.

  I step back into a row of books, watching her work her magic for both the children and the dozens of parents standing behind them. And I scan the small crowd for Ella Nemeth, disappoi
nted that her grandparents weren’t able to bring her back today.

  Charlotte smiles at me before turning the page, content in who she is even though her past is muddied. I admire her courage and grace with children and adults alike.

  Did she inherit these qualities from Luzia, or did she learn them from Nadine?

  Last night I asked Sophie to look for Luzia’s name in the archives, but I may never find anything else about Luzia until I get myself on an airplane to Austria to search through the records of the many churches and synagogues in Vienna.

  How do other people do it with such ease, the traveling away from all they know to a place of total unknowns?

  “Callie,” Brie whispers as she steps beside me, “I’m afraid we have an unexpected visitor.”

  I glance over at her. “Why are you afraid?”

  “It’s Scott.”

  I stay frozen beside the row of Star Wars books, feeling as if I’ve been invaded in my safest of places. Scott and Kathleen join the adults in the back while Jack squeezes between the other children to create a new seat.

  Scott has gained a few pounds since the night before our wedding, his midsection expanding within the comfort of marriage. The last time I saw him was at The Alcove, during our rehearsal dinner. I distinctly remember thinking how handsome he was. And how lucky I was that he’d picked me to be his wife.

  I suppose there’s a chance—albeit slight—that he would have been faithful after we said our vows, but his heart wouldn’t have been mine. I hope for both Kathleen’s and Jack’s sake that he chooses to remain faithful to them.

  As Brie slips back to the refreshment table, Scott catches my eye, and I respond with a quick nod before looking away, any fondness between us gone.

  I’ve wondered often in the past two years what would happen when I saw him again. I’m greatly relieved to realize that I feel nothing at all. The longing in my heart, the regret, is gone. I can’t change my past—I’m well aware of that—but I can change the course of my future. Like Charlotte, my past doesn’t have to define me.

  “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

  The words from the Bible—the most powerful book of all—flood through me. I might sequester myself in my room, trying to hide away, but God is with me here just as He would be on an airplane across the ocean and into Austria.

  I know I must go now—to help Charlotte find her family. And if this Luzia isn’t related, Charlotte will never know. She’ll just be pleased that I was courageous enough to fly to Europe on my own.

  Hours later I slip into the office at the back of the store. I’ve agreed to work the evening shift so Brie can transport her boys to the pool, but before she leaves, I want to search for plane tickets to Salzburg, the nearest airport to Hallstatt.

  A message from Dr. Nemeth appears in my inbox. It’s a long note detailing their find in Lake Hallstatt this morning, a watertight box with a list and silver coins inside. The World Jewish Congress is extremely interested in it, he says. Sadly the list he found is very different from the one in Annika’s book. It’s the names of Austrians who were taken to a concentration camp.

  My stomach turns. Not only did the Nazis try to rid themselves of the people on this list, like the children at Charlotte’s orphanage; they tried to hide any record of their imprisonment and, presumably, their deaths.

  The evil that raged during that time . . . it still rages all over the world today. How can people be so cruel to others? This is one thing I don’t want to ever understand.

  I read the rest of Dr. Nemeth’s email.

  No one we’ve asked seems to remember Annika Knopf or Annika Stadler, though we’ve discovered the current owner of the property, a man named Jonas Stadler. Probably her son or grandson. Tomorrow I’m going to the estate to see if anyone is at home.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to form the words in my head before I type. He invited me to join their search when he visited the bookstore. There’s nothing wrong with accepting the invite.

  I type a short email back to him.

  If the invitation is still open, I’d like to join you and your team in Hallstatt this week.

  I stare at the message for a moment and then hit Send before I change my mind, expecting it to take hours before Dr. Nemeth contacts me in return.

  Minutes later, my cell phone rings.

  “You’re really coming?” he asks, clearly surprised.

  “I believe I am.” I’m not ready to tell him or anyone except Brie about Luzia yet. I’ll just search while his team is diving.

  “We’ll be in Hallstatt all week, but you should stay in Europe as long as you can.”

  An idea slowly occurs to me—Ella and her grandmother are planning to visit him soon. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if I join them on the plane. “When are Ella and Lottie flying over?”

  He’s silent for a moment before responding. “Unfortunately, my mom was just diagnosed with pneumonia.”

  “Oh no—”

  “The doctor caught it before any serious complications, but no traveling for her until she’s recovered.”

  His daughter’s face appears in my mind, those tears of sadness on her cheeks yesterday. “Ella must be devastated.”

  “I’m coming home the day my team finishes here.”

  I hear the concern in his voice, and I understand—I’ve spent much of my adult life afraid to travel in case something bad happens while I’m gone. But then I remember my birthday wish, that I would have someone to share my trip. Ella would be good company . . . and insurance that I would actually step onto that plane.

  “Why don’t I bring Ella with me?” I ask. “We can come after your team leaves.”

  He’s quiet again, and I chide myself for asking. For all he knows, I’m like Hatschi Bratschi, waiting to steal children away.

  “I wasn’t trying to hint—” he starts.

  “I know.”

  “You like children, right?”

  I burst out laughing. “Of course I like children.”

  “Stupid question.”

  My laughter stops, but still I’m smiling. “In all my years as Story Girl, no one’s actually asked me that before, Dr. Nemeth. They just assume I like kids.”

  “You have to start calling me Josh.”

  I hesitate. Names are important and changing what I call him means tearing down a wall.

  But then again, if I’m flying to Austria, perhaps it’s a wall that must come down.

  “Josh,” I finally say.

  “Having you bring her . . . it’s a lot for me to ask.”

  “You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”

  He pauses again. “Honestly?”

  “Yes.” Kids and books, both of them energize me.

  “If we haven’t found Annika yet, you and I can search for her together.”

  And I like this idea of searching for Annika with him, after I find what I need about Luzia.

  “I bought traveler’s insurance for my mom’s flight. I’ll just transfer her ticket into your name.”

  I stiffen, not wanting to be obligated to him. “I can purchase my own ticket.”

  “Please, Callie.”

  I wish I could see his face, understand his motivation. “It’s hard for me to be away,” he says. “If you are taking care of my daughter, then I want to make sure I’m taking care of you, too.”

  How can I argue with that? I’m not entirely certain what to say, but I relent.

  “They were supposed to fly out this Thursday.”

  “I can meet Ella and your father at the airport.”

  “You’ll need a passport,” he says suddenly, as if he’s just thought of this glitch.

  “I already have one.”

  Brie peeks her head into the office. “The pool closes in two hours.”

  “I have to go,” I tell Josh.

  “Thank you, Callie.”

  After I disconnect the call, Brie asks, “Why are you smiling?”

  “Do I have to u
se my birthday money for Hawaii or France?”

  She eyes me curiously. “No.”

  “Because I’d like to go to Austria.”

  Her scream rocks the books on our walls. And probably scares away any customers left in the store.

  CHAPTER 23

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  OCTOBER 1938

  Divorce.

  That’s how his honorable father chose to deal with his wife’s Jewish problem: by ending a marriage that had lasted more than twenty years.

  Neither Max nor his mother told him about the necklace or that Herr Knopf knew her secret. The Gestapo were quite adept at uncovering information about the Jewish people on their own. Weeks after they returned to Vienna, the Gestapo discovered what his mother had paid Herr Knopf handsomely to ignore. The records of Klara Bettauer Dornbach’s heritage were buried, but like the jewelry at his family’s estate, they weren’t buried very deep.

  The relentless Gestapo exhumed her family’s records with the precision of trained grave robbers and then issued her husband an ultimatum: either divorce his half-Jewish wife, or Wilhelm Dornbach would be considered a Jew as well. And eventually, they explained, he would lose everything, including his position at the bank.

  But with a divorce, Wilhelm could keep his job, their home, and the many assets—including the Schloss—that his wife had brought into their marriage. All Jewish property, they explained, was being redistributed to Aryan owners, and his Aryan pedigree had been documented and certified.

  Max wanted to think that his father proceeded with the divorce to protect his wife, but if he considered leaving Austria for her sake, Max never heard of it. Instead his father visited the French consulate, a loyal customer of his bank, and was able to expedite the process for his wife to visit her sister in Paris. She would leave tomorrow, using the baptismal certificate that the Gestapo hadn’t confiscated to travel through Switzerland and then up through France. If she stayed any longer in Vienna, Max suspected the vision in the Gestapo’s blind eye would clear.