The Curator's Daughter

by Melanie Dobson

  The man looked back at her, and she expected him to demand an answer, a tour of her house even. “If you are hiding your husband, you will be held responsible for collaborating with the enemy.”

  She almost scoffed at this. Just weeks ago, this man in front of her was supposed to be the enemy.

  He tapped the pen on the writing pad. “Kolman Strauss is his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what your husband has been doing the past five years?”

  “He was in charge of an archaeological team. They were digging for German artifacts.”

  “During a war?”

  “It was important to Himmler . . . ,” she began, but the words, her lingering loyalty to a man who’d deceived them all, sounded absurd. The former Reichsführer had since taken his own life, swallowing a cyanide pill after he was apprehended by the British.

  Kolman’s digging, she suspected, had stopped years ago. Maybe even before the war.

  The agent studied her face before slipping the pad back into his pocket and handing her a card with a telephone number. “You will alert me if Kolman returns.”

  “I have no telephone line,” she said. “Nor electricity.”

  The man was generous enough to look concerned. “How about water?”

  “We have a well.”

  “One of my men will check on you soon to make sure you have supplies.”

  “There’s no need.” She’d had men checking on her for the past five years, and the oversight had exhausted her. Now she just wanted to be left alone as she waited for news about Luisa and Frau Weber and the many others who’d disappeared.

  40

  EMBER

  “Where does Frau Cohn live?” Dakota asked as they traversed a narrow winding lane.

  Ember checked her phone. “Two blocks over.”

  The clouds had rained themselves dry during the night, the cobbles as shiny as the polished stone that Mrs. Kiehl wore around her neck.

  “I need to take a picture for your grandmother.” She snapped a photo of him standing beside a medieval arch. Later she’d text it to Kayla.

  “And how are we supposed to ask questions about Hanna if Frau Cohn only speaks German?”

  “I downloaded an app.”

  Dakota smiled. “I have a half dozen of those apps and I’ve yet to find one to replace a human.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” she said, mustering up much more confidence than she felt.

  Frau Cohn was more prepared for the visit than Ember and Dakota. A woman in her thirties, wearing a summer dress and Birkenstocks, answered the door. And she greeted them in English.

  “I hope it was a good trip,” she said, inviting them into an Ikea-inspired apartment, modern pieces of art crowning the walls.

  Ember wanted to hug the woman, but she extended her hand instead. “Your English is perfect.”

  “My grandmother insisted that I learn.”

  “Frau Cohn is your grandmother?” Ember asked.

  “No, but she’s like a grandmother to me.”

  The woman’s name was Christine, and she introduced them to Frau Cohn, a slight woman whose stern-looking face broke into a smile when she welcomed them into her home. She was 103, Christine told them, and her mind was as sharp as it had been when she first secured her secretary job at the museum.

  Over coffee and pastries, Christine seamlessly moderated the discussion between them.

  “You’re Lilly’s grandson?” she asked, translating Frau Cohn’s question for Dakota.

  “I am.”

  “So many threads were left dangling in the aftermath of war. One day Lilly was here, and the next, it seemed, she was gone. Like so many during that time.” Frau Cohn smoothed her hand over her thin hair. “I always wondered what happened to her.”

  Dakota inched forward on his seat. “She moved to Massachusetts with my great-grandfather, Charlie Ward.”

  “The investigator?”

  He nodded. “He was only in Nuremberg for a few months . . .”

  “I remember Herr Ward,” Frau Cohn said through Christine. “He came back years later to look for Hanna.”

  “Do you know where Hanna went?” Ember asked.

  Frau Cohn drew her fingers in a small circle on the evergreen-colored upholstery beside her. “Those years were a lifetime ago, I’m afraid.”

  History had a way of repeating itself, as if it were serving penance. The truth was a delicate line to navigate alongside the lingering guilt from those who survived the regime. The older generation suffered the weight of guilt from following a man like Hitler into the Holocaust, and their children and grandchildren now suffered from the wondering of how it could have happened.

  Ember tried to soften her tone, tried not to press too hard. “Did you see Hanna before she left?”

  “Everything was in shambles after the war. Old friends didn’t even recognize each other in the streets.” She took a slim bite of her pastry, Christine continuing to translate her words. “Is Lilly well?”

  “Yes, but her childhood memories are confusing. She’d like to know what happened to her mother.”

  “Hanna adored her,” Frau Cohn said. “I’ve never seen a better mother, especially one who’d adopted a child.”

  Ember looked over at Dakota, but his eyes were glued to the woman. He didn’t seem surprised by this information. “Do you know where Lilly’s biological family was from?”

  “Berlin, I believe. Someplace up north.” Frau Cohn sipped her black coffee before redirecting the conversation. “Hanna collected stories during the war, including the story of Christine’s grandmother. It was remarkable really. She kept evidence for the investigators to use after the war, but they were only a glimpse of the atrocities that happened. Many things we didn’t find out about until the trials.

  “During the war, Jewish families were sent to a camp at the edge of town, just below the zoo,” she explained. “They waited there with their mounds of things, anxious to begin their new life in the east. They thought it would be much better there.”

  “I didn’t know there was a camp in Nuremberg,” Ember said.

  “Langwasser, they called it. On the old rally grounds. At first the Nazis used it for the Jewish people and others whom they considered to be enemies of the state. Then it was a camp for prisoners of war from Poland and France and other countries. After the war, the Allies used it to contain thousands of SS members.”

  “When did you see Hanna last?” Dakota asked.

  “During the military trials,” Christine translated. “When she brought her daughter over for a visit. Soldiers were being billeted at her lodge at the time, so Lilly came here to play.”

  Ember leaned forward. “I thought Hanna lived in an old convent.”

  “She did. The convent had been renovated into a hunting lodge long ago.”

  A piece—one of many, she feared—that she’d missed earlier.

  “Do you know who lives there now?” she asked. “We would like to visit the labyrinth and church on the hill.”

  Christine translated the words, and Frau Cohn replied with a nod.

  “You may visit,” Christine said. “Tomorrow would be best for the owner.”

  Ember glanced over at Dakota. Neither of them would endanger the offer by asking who exactly owned the property.

  They thanked Frau Cohn for her help; then Christine stood, escorting them back toward the door.

  “Was your grandmother Jewish?” Ember asked Christine, wondering why Hanna had kept her story.

  “No, but she didn’t play by the Nazi rules.”

  “What exactly did she do?”

  Christine stepped outside with them, the aroma of wood-fired sausage streaming up the lane. “She helped Hanna collect the stories at first and then she managed to get food and other supplies to the prisoners through the barbed wire at Langwasser. The Nazis captured her several months before Liberation, and the British found her later at Bergen-Belsen. Eventually she made her way home.”<
br />
  Another hero, Ember thought, in the midst.

  “How did your grandmother know Hanna?”

  “They were cousins.” Christine smiled. “After the war, Oma distributed these stories to the people who came home or to those who had loved them.”

  41

  HANNA

  Charlie knocked on Hanna’s door after a rainstorm had turned her drive into a lake. She opened the door, expecting another agent, and fell back against the post when he took off his hat.

  The handsome grin from Charlie’s youth had been sculpted into the mature smile of one who’d experienced much after their university years. They were the same age, but he looked a decade older than thirty in his suit and tie, as if the war had hewed away any glimpse of boyhood, replacing it with a man.

  How she’d loved him when they were in Berlin, thought him to be the Emrich to her Cristyne. And this man, for a season, had seemed to love her back.

  White blossoms dangled from the edge of her basket, the wild carrots on their ends robed in fresh dirt. She probably bore two extra decades on her face. The war had stolen years from all of them.

  He slapped the doorpost, speaking to her in German. “I was hoping you still lived in this old house.”

  “The war forced me home,” she said, closing the door behind him.

  “It’s nice to see you, Hanna.”

  Emotions washed over her like the rain. Memories of his visit ten years ago, of the many times she’d wondered about him since. She’d never imagined that he would return to Germany. Especially not to Nuremberg.

  How different her life would have looked if he had proposed marriage. And if she’d been willing to give up her pursuit of archaeology to travel to America with him.

  “I can speak English just fine.”

  “But my German is rusty,” he replied. “I need the practice.”

  They’d spent hours together at the university, practicing both English and German and discussing the peculiarities of German law since Charlie had wanted to become a lawyer. She’d grown to care deeply for this man during their year together.

  He studied her face as if she were on display. “Sadly, this war forced me far from my family.”

  “Martha’s Vineyard,” she said, remembering his description of the beaches. This man she’d loved with all her heart had returned to his island, a place far from the rubble. “You have a family?”

  “I married a classmate from college.”

  Of course he’d married. Girls were probably lined up back home, waiting for a proposal after he graduated. “Why are you here?”

  “The zoo is in shambles,” he said.

  She glanced out at the meadow, but the giraffe wasn’t there today. “The United States government sent you here for a zoo?”

  “People are living in the cages,” he said. “My superior wants us to put the place back into order and protect the animals who remain.”

  The Americans, she’d heard, were still searching for members of the SS. Those they’d apprehended were being interned on the old rally grounds, but many more were hiding out so they wouldn’t have to face the consequences of their actions. Perhaps their occupiers thought party members had found shelter in the zoo.

  “I’ve wondered about the lions,” she said.

  “Those predators who didn’t die in the bombing were shot.”

  “What about the elephants?” a quiet voice asked behind them.

  They both turned to see Lilly standing in the kitchen entry, her stuffed animal tucked firmly under an arm, her lower lip trembling.

  Charlie’s eyes grew as wide as sunflowers before he responded. “The elephants are just fine.”

  “There’s a baby—” Lilly started.

  “The baby is with her mother.” Whether Charlie was telling the truth or not, Hanna didn’t know, but the words seemed to comfort her daughter. “Now we must make sure the rest of the animals are safe.”

  Lilly glanced up at her. “The mothers of the other animals must be worried.”

  “We’re here to return all of them home.”

  Questions raged through Charlie’s eyes when Hanna introduced him to her daughter.

  Charlie knelt beside the girl. “How old are you, Lilly?”

  “Nine.”

  Charlie looked back up, his brown eyes flickering as he seemed calculate the numbers. “Nine?”

  “You must be hungry,” Hanna said, stepping away. “I have fresh berries in the kitchen.”

  He rose again, studying Hanna as if she’d wiped some of the dirt from the wild carrots across her face, his easy smile fading away. “She’s nine years old . . .”

  She didn’t want to explain to this man how she’d raised a daughter who would have been born the year after she and Charlie had been together.

  “You are always welcome to visit us.” She turned toward the kitchen, her head spinning. “Dinner, perhaps, when we receive our next rations.”

  “Hanna—”

  But she didn’t want to hear what else he had to say. He followed her and Lilly into the kitchen, and when she looked out the window, she saw a canvassed army truck wading through the pool on her drive, the kind of truck that transported soldiers.

  She turned slowly back to him, knowing the truth but wanting to avoid it for as long as possible. “You’re not just here for a visit.”

  He shook his head, speaking in English now. “Our commander is billeting six of us in your house to be close to the zoo.”

  “You were sent ahead to calm the storm,” she said.

  “No storms, Hanna. Simply to visit an old friend.”

  Friends. That’s what she had been to him. Only a friend.

  She placed the carrots into a colander and turned on the faucet, the water washing away the dirt. “The zookeeper has a large house. It’s right outside the entrance.”

  “Most of it was destroyed in the bombing.” He took the colander from her shaking hands, put it on the counter before turning off the water. “You’ll have electricity soon, and we’ll be hiring a housekeeper. I’ll share our rations with you and Lilly.”

  “You’re not supposed to be fraternizing with Germans.”

  Fraternizing—even those who didn’t speak English were well-versed in that word. Fraternizing and denazification.

  “We’re rooming with you. Not fraternizing.”

  “I don’t want soldiers in my house.” Nor did she want Charlie here with his questions.

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a choice either of us get to make, but George Patton has mandated these men be on their very best behavior. If not, they’ll face stiff consequences.”

  She nodded as if she had a choice in the matter. Then she decided to claim her space before the soldiers took over every room. “Lilly and I will sleep together in my bedroom.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Hanna wiped a puddle of water off the counter as she spoke to her daughter. “Go pack up your things.”

  Lilly nodded, her blue eyes tinted gray in this light, before hurrying out of the kitchen.

  Charlie didn’t move. “Is she mine?”

  “I’m not going to talk about her.” She wouldn’t lie to him, but she wouldn’t tell him where Lilly had come from either. If he drew conclusions, so be it. He was the one who’d shown up at her door uninvited this afternoon, without any time for her to prepare. Now she had to protect her daughter from him and all the men still inside that truck.

  “I have a right to—”

  “You have a right to my house perhaps, but you have no right to my family.”

  Except for the man she’d married. Charlie could have him.

  42

  EMBER

  White lights were strung along Nuremberg’s ancient limbs, the castle glowing like a Christmas angel on its throne of pine. Dakota and Ember strolled through town on this warm night, into the Hobbit-like hole of a restaurant with waxed tables and a row of beer steins displayed like porcelain on the wall.

  “It’s not
exactly a coffee date,” Dakota said after they ordered sauerkraut and local sausages, charred over a grill.

  “It’s better.”

  “I doubt there’s anything left in that labyrinth,” he said as if he needed to soften the blow from Mrs. Kiehl’s memory of Hanna digging in that place.

  “We can always pray while we’re there.”

  He took a sip of dark beer. “Have you ever prayed in a labyrinth?”

  She nodded, her mind wandering to the riverside labyrinth in Georgetown. “It’s like a prayer pilgrimage,” she explained. “You draw closer to God as you circle; then you drop your burdens in the middle. On the way out, you thank God for His blessings.”

  “There’s no one quite like you, Ember.”

  She studied his face to see if he was teasing her, but he seemed serious. “Every day, I think, should be a pilgrimage.”

  Christine had told them about Luisa Gruenewald and her first husband, Paul. The stumbling stone that her family had designed for his childhood home after he’d been killed at Auschwitz. While the biographies had been used during the Nuremberg trials, it turned out they were even more important for those who’d lost loved ones and for those who returned from concentration camps. They validated what each person had experienced when so many were trying to forget.

  The autobiography of Christine’s grandmother had told the story of Luisa’s humiliation in front of the entire town of Nuremberg. But she didn’t let the shame of it keep her from doing good. She’d loved her husband fiercely, being faithful even when the government demanded a divorce. She’d cared for the hungry and sick and oppressed when the authorities saw them as problems instead of people.

  Courage like that, Ember thought, could change the world.

  She would use Luisa’s story in her dissertation.

  A server dressed in a tan-and-white dirndl, teal earrings dangling an inch above her shoulders, delivered their steaming plates of food. As they ate, Ember was transported back to high school, to their junior year when Dakota had sat across from her in the library to discuss The Odyssey. They’d been assigned to write a speech together about secrets and identity. About what makes a hero.