by Dean Hughes
“Maybe I should,” Bobbi said. “Dad said some important things to us this morning.”
Wally folded his arms around his football, like a halfback. He had dark eyes and rich, full hair, and he had a softer look than the other males in the family. The girls at East High said he was “dreamy” looking. He was the tallest of the sons too, about even with his dad.
Bobbi walked to the door. Wally wanted to say something to lighten things. “So are you in love with Phil Clark? Or do you just kiss him for the thrills?”
When Bobbi turned back, Wally was stunned by the color in her face. She always blushed, but she was flushed all the way to her hairline now. “None of your business,” she said.
“I think you’re playing with his feelings.”
“What?”
Wally had never seen Bobbi so unnatural—so undone. Somehow he had hit a nerve he hadn’t been looking for.
“Wally, I’ve never, ever told Phil that I love him.”
“Well . . . Mom and Dad think you’re going to marry him.”
Bobbi looked straight at the floor. “I don’t know what to do, Wally.”
Wally had never imagined anything like this. Phil was already a “done deal” as far as the two families were concerned. Mom said Phil was the best catch in the whole valley. He had served a mission to the Northern States and was now in law school. Wally had heard Dad tell Mom, “That boy is a cut above any young man I know. He’ll be a bishop before he’s thirty.” Phil had moon eyes for Bobbi, too, which was a new thing. She had never had a boyfriend before.
“Don’t you think you’d better break it off with him now before it gets any worse?”
Bobbi nodded. “Probably.”
There was nothing Wally hated more than to see Bobbi unhappy. “Sis, I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded again, still looking down. “I never encourage him. He’s just sure we’re supposed to get married, and he won’t give up. I don’t know what to do. But I’ve got to decide before long.” She turned and left.
Wally was stunned. He had always believed that Bobbi never made a mistake. He walked over and sat on his bed. On the radio, a dance band was playing “Silent Night.” He thought about Bobbi for a time, and then he ran the conversation back through his mind and considered the things she had said about him—about the ways he had changed.
Gradually, Wally felt a sadness come over him. He thought of the fun times he and Alex and Bobbi had had on Christmas when they were little. The day had always been so dazzling then—with Santa Claus and all the new toys. He wished he hadn’t outgrown all that. He looked over at the other bed, where Alex had once slept. His presence had never seemed to leave the room. And it was that, as much as anything, that Wally wanted to get away from. Of course, there was always the other thing: his father never stopped trying to pile the whole Wasatch Range onto his shoulders, and he was worn out from pushing the weight off.
Wally lay back on his bed, and he looked at the ceiling.
And then an image came to his mind, completely by surprise. He remembered himself pumping hard—terrified, exhilarated—riding his Christmas bike for the first time. Dad had just let go, and he was shouting, “That’s it. Keep going.”
Snow was piled up on both sides of the walk, and steam from Wally’s breath was blowing back into his face. And then everything had gone out from under him. There was a moment of dizziness, and then Dad had been there, hoisting him up, holding him, saying, “Are you all right?”
Wally tried to hold that memory for a time, that feeling, all the concern in his dad’s voice, even the smell of his dad’s wet wool coat as he pulled him close and hugged him. But the little vision passed almost as quickly as it had come, and Wally’s sadness deepened.
Chapter 3
“Germans do Christmas up right,” Elder Thomas had told Elder Mecham. “They celebrate Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, the same as us, but they keep right on going the next day. They call it the ‘second day of Christmas.’”
Now, sitting in the Stoltzes’ living room on the day after Christmas, Elder Thomas was glad to see Elder Mecham having such a good time. He knew that the first Christmas away from home was tough. Elder Mecham seemed relaxed, however. He was putting away a slice of Kuchen, with peppermint tea, and he had already eaten a big dinner of Sauerbraten, potato salad, and red cabbage. After dinner Frau Stoltz had lit the real candles on the Christmas tree, and the family and the elders had taken turns leading each other in Christmas songs, German and American. Elder Mecham had a good voice for someone with no training, and Elder Thomas had sung in his high school choir. The Stoltzes had begged the two of them to keep singing, and the missionaries had been willing, but they loved to hear the German songs too. The Stoltzes were not great singers, but they spoke excellent “high German,” which made the lyrics wonderfully clear.
Herr Stoltz was a teacher at a Gymnasium—a high school for advanced students. The position carried with it considerable honor in Germany. Or at least it always had. Elder Thomas was hearing things now about changes in education under Hitler. Nazis were skeptical about learning. They were dictating what could be taught in the schools and universities.
The Stoltzes had two children: a seventeen-year-old daughter named Anna, who was a Gymnasium student herself, and a twelve-year-old son named Peter. He was bright, like his parents, and he seemed fascinated to have American friends. Anna clearly enjoyed having the elders around, too, but she was openly skeptical about the message they brought.
Eventually the singing ended and conversation took over. The Stoltzes had lots of questions about the elders’ lives at home. They talked about Elder Mecham’s farm, and Peter wanted to know all about cowboys in America. Then Herr Stoltz asked about Salt Lake City and Elder Thomas’s family.
After a time, Elder Mecham said, “Herr Stoltz, could I ask you something about Germany?”
Elder Mecham confused his sentence structure, but the words were there, and Herr Stoltz understood. “Certainly,” he said. He nodded and waited. He was sitting across the coffee table from Elder Mecham in a straight-backed chair from the kitchen.
“Bruder Thomas and I saw the ghetto after the storm troopers were there. I don’t understand why that happened. What do the Nazis have against Jews?”
Elder Thomas was taken by surprise. He had warned Elder Mecham not to ask such questions. Herr Stoltz hesitated a moment and then asked, “Have you no difficulty with Jews in America?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Elder Mecham said.
Herr Stoltz looked at Elder Thomas. “What about Salt Lake City? Are Jews well accepted there?”
“Heinrich,” Frau Stoltz said. She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “We shouldn’t—”
“It’s all right. We’re just talking about America.” He looked at Elder Thomas and waited for an answer.
Herr Stoltz looked formal as he waited, sitting up straight, holding his tea. The Stoltzes normally heated only the kitchen, but tonight the living room, with its mahogany furniture, was warm, and it was filled with the good smells from the kitchen and from the Christmas tree.
“They’re accepted. Mostly,” Elder Thomas said, but then he admitted, “Once I heard my father say that some people wouldn’t shop at one of the stores in the city—because it was owned by Jews. That’s the only time I’ve ever heard anything like that.”
“I see. And what do Mormons believe about Jews?”
“They’re children of Israel, like us,” Elder Mecham said.
Herr Stoltz took a long look at Elder Mecham. He was a barrel-chested man with bulky arms. But his facial features were delicate, and he had probing eyes that were intensely blue. “Excuse me?” he said. “What makes you children of Israel?”
Elder Mecham glanced at Elder Thomas, apparently aware that he had gotten in over his head. Elder Thomas cleared his throat, and then he spoke for Elder Mecham. “We believe in the gathering of Israel, prophesied in the Bible. When gentiles—like us—accept the gospel,
we are adopted into the tribes of Israel.”
“So you see yourselves as brothers with the Jews?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
Herr Stoltz thought for a time, and then he said, “Don’t say these things to others. And don’t ask Germans what they think of Jews.” He leaned forward and looked at Elder Mecham, “You are putting yourselves in danger when you bring up such issues.”
Elder Mecham nodded.
“Heinrich, it’s Christmas. Let’s not talk of this,” Frau Stoltz said. She was an attractive woman, a little thick in the waist, and worn-looking around her eyes, but the contours of her face were flawless, as though someone had sculpted her. She was warm, too, not so skeptical as her husband and daughter.
“It’s best only to say this,” Herr Stoltz said. “Hitler has done much for Germany. We have much to thank him for.”
“Papa, don’t say that,” Anna said. “They’ll think it’s what we believe.” She was looking at Elder Thomas, not at her father.
Elder Thomas was surprised. He thought Herr Stoltz had told them what he believed. Herr Stoltz said, calmly, “Anna, I doubt I believe in much of anything.”
“It’s not true,” Frau Stoltz said. “He told me only yesterday that he finds something genuine in the two of you. It makes him want to believe what you teach.”
Herr Stoltz laughed softly. “Well, now, don’t give away my secrets.”
“Let’s sing some more now. Let’s enjoy Christmas.”
“Yes. In a moment, Frieda.” But then he said, “My friends, I will trust you. I want to tell you what I feel—in reality.”
“Don’t, Papa,” Peter said. He suddenly sat up straight.
“It’s all right, Peter. I need to say this.” He looked back at Elder Mecham. “I know it’s difficult for you to understand what’s happening here. But you have to know our history. The Treaty of Versailles, at the end of the World War, reduced our boundaries, and the reparations we had to pay made economic recovery impossible. People struggled even to put bread on their tables. And then along came Hitler, who offered jobs, who told people to take back their pride. He’s rebuilding the military—in defiance of the Treaty. He justifies his actions with grand speeches, puts on magnificent parades, which the people love, and tells Germans that they are superior to all others. I suppose that’s something everyone likes to hear.”
“He also takes away your freedom,” Elder Mecham said.
“Yes. Of course. Hitler is an evil man. A liar. Make no mistake about that. There is nothing he will not do.”
“Heinrich. Please.”
“I am a history teacher. But I cannot teach real history. Truth, you see, is whatever Hitler says it is. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach—these are great composers. But Mendelssohn is not. Why? Because he was Jewish. Hitler says it is so, and it is so. German history must show that Germanic people—Hitler calls them Aryans—are greater than all other people. Jews, Slavs, Africans, Asians, Gypsies—these are lower forms of life. That is how far this criminal has perverted everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Elder Mecham said. “What makes those people so bad?”
“Bruder Mecham, there is no explanation. Hitler is a fanatic. He’s been raving this madness all his life. Jews are dirty, he tells us. They are the source of every problem—part of a conspiracy to destroy us, to control our finances, to pollute the pure blood of the Teutonic people. It’s nonsense.”
“Then why do people love him so much?”
Herr Stoltz shook his head slowly back and forth, his eyes taking on a sadness they had not shown before. “It’s what I told you before. Full employment. National pride. All those things. And the Jews make a good target. They always have. People like to believe they have an enemy, and hatred of Jews goes very far back in this country. Judengasse wasn’t created by Hitler. It goes back to medieval times, when Jews were forced outside, beyond the city wall and next to the city dump. Even Martin Luther preached intolerance for Jews.”
“We see signs on shops,” Elder Thomas said. “‘Jews not welcomed here.’ That sort of thing. People must believe what Hitler tells them.”
It was Anna who spoke up. “Some do. Some don’t. But those who don’t are afraid to speak up. My friend’s father is a minister, and he preached in his church that hatred for Jews is wrong. The Gestapo took him away. They told his family that he’s in ‘protective custody.’ He’s been gone for over a year.”
“What would Hitler do to you, Herr Stoltz,” Elder Thomas asked, “if you taught your students the truth?”
Herr Stoltz folded his big arms over his chest. “Some teachers have disappeared. We know they go to concentration camps—as the SS calls them—but we have no idea what happens to them. So the rest of us do what we have to do. Personally, I don’t teach Hitler’s lies, but I don’t deny them either. I am a pitiful coward.”
“What else can you do, Papa?” Peter asked.
Herr Stoltz didn’t answer.
“How would anyone know what you taught?” Elder Thomas asked.
“We are a police state,” Herr Stoltz said. “The SS, Hitler’s ‘protection squad,’ has hundreds of thousands of men in it. Every police organization is part of it, and sub-groups have developed. There’s the ‘security service’—the SD—that deals with ‘enemies of the state,’ and the Gestapo, the ‘secret state police,’ which supposedly deals with internal disorder. But no one knows who does what. We only know not to say the wrong thing to anyone. There are thousands of informants. Block leaders. Spies in every apartment house. Even children in the Hitler Youth are taught to inform on their parents.”
“No wonder people are scared,” Elder Mecham said.
Herr Stoltz looked from one elder to the other. “Yes. And now I have put my life in your hands. If you were to tell anyone what I have said, I could be arrested. My children have not joined Hitler Youth. That already makes me suspect. There are those, I’m certain, just waiting for me to make a mistake. And you could be in equal danger for listening to what I have said.”
“We won’t say anything,” Elder Mecham said.
“You must also know that Hitler is moving Germany steadily toward war with England and France—and in time, with America. You and I, my friends, are destined to be enemies.”
Elder Thomas didn’t want to believe that. He always thought, somehow, that Germans would see through Hitler. “Elder Mecham and I will never be your enemies,” he said, quietly.
“I hope you’re right,” Herr Stoltz said. He smiled.
“Herr Stoltz, we have a Jewish friend. He’s a member of our Church. He tells us not to visit, but we have gone to see him in the ghetto a few times. We’re careful. We go there by back streets. But are we putting him in danger?”
“Definitely. You are also putting yourselves in danger.”
“Why? All we do is visit him.”
“But you’re foreigners. And he’s a Jew. The Nazis see conspiracies everywhere. You must not go there again.”
Elder Thomas nodded, but he wasn’t at all sure he was willing to give up the visits.
“It’s Christmas,” Frau Stoltz said again, and she patted her husband’s arm.
“Yes,” Herr Stoltz said. “But let me say one last thing.” He looked at Elder Mecham. “As you form your judgment of the German people, think about your own land. You wonder about the attitude toward Jews in Germany, but ask yourselves about the way you think of Negroes and Indians in America. Ask yourself whether you see yourselves as superior to these people.”
Elder Thomas had thought of this before—had seen the parallel—but he saw the surprise in Elder Mecham’s face. “We don’t. . . .” But Elder Mecham seemed to think better of what he was going to say, and he stopped.
“I only ask you to think about it,” Herr Stoltz said, and the room fell silent. “I’m sorry. Enough of this. Do either of you young men play chess?”
“I do,” Elder Mecham said. “I’m not very good, but I play.”
“It�
��s all right not to be so good. I told you that Germans like to be superior. We like to win.”
“First, let’s sing some more,” Frau Stoltz said.
And so everyone sang “Stille Nacht” again, and “O, Du Fröhliche,” Elder Thomas’s favorite German Christmas hymn. But Elder Thomas didn’t feel as warm and relaxed as he had when they had sung the songs before.
After the singing, Herr Stoltz got out the chess set, and he and Elder Mecham walked into the kitchen, where they seated themselves across the table from each other. Peter went with them to watch, and Frau Stoltz and Anna picked up the dishes.
Elder Thomas was left alone, so he decided to join everyone in the kitchen. But Anna came back just as Elder Thomas was getting up. “Papa has never said those things to anyone but us,” she said. “He trusts you.” She sat in the chair where her mother had sat, across from Elder Thomas, and he sat back down. He hoped Frau Stoltz would return soon. Even though the door to the kitchen was open and Elder Thomas could see his companion, he felt a little strange sitting there “alone” with Anna. “I won’t break your father’s trust,” Elder Thomas said.
Anna smiled and said, “You always do the right thing, don’t you?”
“I try to do what is right.”
With Anna, a smile was always close, flitting into her eyes or appearing as a little arch in her lip. He never knew when she was teasing him—or whether she always was. She had a face like a porcelain doll, the curve of her cheek bones perfect,
and eyes almost too blue to be real. Elder Thomas knew he shouldn’t notice all this, but he told himself she was only a pretty kid, the same age as his little brother.
“I found a book on Mormons in the library. It says the men in your church marry many wives. Is that true?” She smiled, seeming to take pleasure in making Elder Thomas uncomfortable. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he spoke seriously, without looking at her eyes. “In the early days of our church, certain men were called upon to take more than one wife. It’s not something we do anymore.”