Secrets She Kept

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Secrets She Kept

Copyright © 2015 by Cathy Gohlke. All rights reserved.

Background street image copyright © by Stephen Vosloo. All rights reserved.

Photograph of girl on bike copyright © Ryan McVay/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Designed by Stephen Vosloo

Edited by Sarah Mason

Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.

Secrets She Kept
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Order under ISBN 978-1-4964-0080-2

ISBN 978-1-4964-0983-6 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-0081-9 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0984-3 (Apple)

For Daniel,

My Dear Son

and

Fellow History Explorer

I delight in seeing the world through your eyes.

All my love . . . forever.

This unedited edition is for advance review purposes only. Content and design are not final.

“Reminiscent of Tatiana de Rosnay’s stirring stories of human compassion and hope, [
Saving Amelie
] should appeal to fans of both authors as well as to historical fiction readers.”

Library Journal

All her life, Hannah Sterling longed for a close relationship with her distant mother. Following Lieselotte’s death, Hannah determines to unlock the secrets of her mother’s mysterious past and is shocked to discover a grandfather living in Germany.

Thirty years earlier, as Lieselotte’s father is quickly ascending the ranks of the Nazi party, a proper marriage for his daughter could help advance his career. Lieselotte is in love—but her beloved Lukas is far from an ideal match, as he secretly works against the Reich. Yet Lieselotte never imagined how far her father would go to ensure her cooperation.

Both Hannah’s and Lieselotte’s stories unfold as Hannah travels to Germany to meet her grandfather, who is hiding wartime secrets of his own. Longing for connection, yet shaken by all she uncovers, Hannah must decide if she can atone for her family’s tragic past and how their legacy will shape her future.

CATHY GOHLKE
is a two-time Christy Award–winning author. She and her husband divide their time between Northern Virginia and their home on the banks of the Laurel Run in Elkton, Maryland. Visit her online at
www.cathygohlke.com
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Order under ISBN 978-1-4964-0080-2

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Fiction/Christian/Historical

Releases September 2015

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M
ANY CONTRIBUTED IN SPIRIT,
in prayer, and in fact to the journey of this book. I am deeply grateful to . . .

The late Corrie ten Boom and her faith-filled family for their obedience and passion in serving the Lord and His people. Their courageous story of helping and hiding Jewish people, and the consequences their family suffered at the hands of the Nazis, as told through The Hiding Place (book with John and Elizabeth Sherrill and film produced by Billy Graham), inspired and convicted me as a young woman, and inspires and convicts me still. Corrie’s and Betsie’s ability to forgive by the grace of the One who offers forgiveness freely is a magnificent reminder and a light to my path.

Rubin Sztajer, Holocaust survivor, for tirelessly sharing his experiences before and during WWII
 
—as a prisoner at Dachau, and later, as one who overcame great odds to build a new life in America. His moving memories of determination, human compassion, and resiliency of spirit inspired part of this story.

Two other Holocaust survivors
 
—one Gentile woman now in America and one Jewish man in Germany
 
—who graciously shared their amazing survival stories, but who for family reasons wish to remain unnamed. One of those was truly a miracle child born from a heap of corpses at Dachau
 
—her mother survived with barely a pulse when
rescued by American liberators. The other realizes that anti-Semitism is on the rise throughout the world and, although we say and pray “never again,” knows that the world has too short a memory.

WWII veterans in the U.S. and in Germany who shared their stories. History is said to be written by the victors, but I’ve learned that we each embrace our own story and our own view of history.

Jamie Dow Suplee, son of one of the Nuremberg trial lawyers, who years after the war met with some of the Nazi officers his father helped prosecute. Thank you for sharing your insights into the Nazi psyche.

My son, Daniel, who joined me for WWII walking tours of Berlin and Sachsenhausen and Natzweiler concentration camps and interpreted the stories of museum guides in France. My husband, Dan, who joined me in visiting Ravensbruk and Natzweiler concentration camps and interpreted German stories of Wehrmacht veterans and Holocaust survivors in Germany. My daughter, Elisabeth, who explored Berlin with me and shares my passion for stories. That we four made this journey together was an amazing gift and a blessing I’ll treasure always.

Museums and their curators and guides in Berlin and at Ravensbruk.

Meticulous records kept by the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., and their wonderful list of speakers, who faithfully share their stories.

Writing colleagues and friends Terri Gillespie and Carrie Turansky, who brainstormed portions of this book with me, read and critiqued early versions, and continually raised prayers and offered encouragement during its writing. You are dear sisters in Christ.

My family
 
—husband, son, daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter, mother, sister, brothers, nieces, nephews, all their spouses, and the generations fast on their heels. Your love and laughter, constant prayers, brainstorming, and encouragement are the wind beneath my wings. You’re also the best word-of-mouth marketing team an author could imagine.

Natasha Kern, agent extraordinaire, who encourages my tough
questions, champions my stories, and blesses me with her friendship and guidance.

My amazing team at Tyndale House Publishers who’ve helped to shape this story, design a wonderful cover, and bring my heart to readers: Stephanie Broene, Sarah Mason, Shaina Turner, Christy Stroud, Alyssa McNally, and Stephen Vosloo.

Elkton United Methodist Church
 
—my church family in Maryland for many years
 
—for your love, prayers, and encouragement, and McLean Bible Church Loudon Campus
 
—my new church family in Virginia, for welcoming me into your fold and challenging me with new ideas, new questions to pursue in story form.

My Uncle Wilbur, who reminded me once that a sure way to know if I’m working in the will of God is to ask, “Do I have joy? Is this yoke easy? Is this burden light?”

And above all, my heavenly Father and Lord Jesus Christ, for forgiveness, for life, for love, for hope and a future. You are my everything.

HANNAH STERLING

NOVEMBER 1972

A summons to the principal’s office had the same effect on me at twenty-seven as it did when I was seven, and seventeen. Giant bass drums struck and rumbled my insides. Crashing cymbals raced my heart
 
—all as loud and out of step as our high school marching band’s rehearsals for the Christmas parade.

I’d grabbed my bag of sophomore essays to grade over the Thanksgiving weekend, desperately hoping to get an early start up the mountain to Aunt Lavinia’s, when the order to report to the office crackled over the loudspeaker.

Busses pulled from the school parking lot, the long hand of the clock ticked past four, and all the while the school secretary drummed her nails, eager to leave. At last the principal’s door opened. Out strode a grim-faced Mrs. Whitmeyer, mother of Trudy Whitmeyer, the last
tenth grade student crushed by my short-tempered venom, and the one I especially regretted humiliating. Mrs. Whitmeyer swept past, ignoring my half smile. I swallowed cardboard.

“Miss Sterling, come in.” Mr. Stone, six feet two inches tall, with broad linebacker shoulders that filled his office doorway, dwarfed me as I squeezed past. “Take a seat.”

Grown women should not be terrified by school principals. . . . Grown women should not be terrified by school principals. . . . Grown women should
 
—

“You saw Mrs. Whitmeyer.”

“Yes. Mr. Stone, I’ll apologize
 
—”

“She’s not the first.” He sat on the front of his desk, two feet from me, arms crossed. “We’ve talked about this before. You assured me you’d get it under control. This isn’t working, Hannah.”

At least he’s still calling me Hannah.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. I know I shouldn’t have snapped at Trudy
 
—”

“Or Susan Perry or Mark Granger
 
—all advanced placement students, none of whom are traditionally discipline problems. And that’s just this week
 
—this short week.”

“I know,” I acknowledged.

“If it had happened once, I’d say forget it. Twice? Apologize. But this snapping and ridiculing has gotten to be an ugly habit, not good for the students
 
—not the ones on the receiving end and not those who witness it. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s got to stop.”

I bit my lip.
I’m turning into my mother
 
—the last thing on God’s green earth I want
. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“I’m not convinced that’s a promise you can keep.”

“I can. I
 
—”

“Hannah, stop.” He walked around his desk and took a seat, then leaned back, considering. “Last year you were voted Forsyth County’s most innovative teacher.”

I moistened my lips. “That meant a great deal to me
 
—truly.” I’d poured out my heart for the kids and parents and they’d responded. I felt wanted, appreciated.

“I know it did.” He softened. “To all of us. But you’ve got to see that something’s changed.”

“I’ll get past it,” I promised, trying to assert confidence I didn’t feel. “By Monday I’ll
 
—”

“Not by Monday. Take some time.”

“I don’t need time. I don’t want time.” The drums in my stomach began to rumble again.

“The day after your mother’s death, you walked back into the classroom.”

“Her funeral wasn’t until the weekend. I didn’t need
 
—”

“Everybody needs time when they lose a parent.”

How could I lose a parent I never had?
“We weren’t close.” How many times do I have to explain that?

“You’ve not dealt with it.”

“I don’t
 
—”

“Go home, Hannah. Take some time and figure this out. Grieve. Grief is nothing to be ashamed of. It takes time to process, to figure how to move on. Life goes on
 
—in a different way.”

I’m not grieving because she died. If I’m grieving at all it’s because of what never was
 
—what can never be changed now, what wouldn’t have changed if she’d lived another fifty years.

“I’ll arrange for a long-term substitute.”

“A long-term
 
—No, please, Mr. Stone, I’ll be fine by Monday.”

“Take until the first of the year, then contact me. We’ll talk.”

“The first of the year?” The cymbals crashed and fell to the floor three seconds before my frustration and voice rose. “I don’t need a month
 
—”

“I don’t know what you need, Hannah, but find out. And when you do, when you find again the Hannah Sterling, teacher extraordinaire, who taught here last year, we’ll be glad to have you back.”

It was well past midnight when Aunt Lavinia put the teakettle on for the third time and wrapped her favorite burnt orange and earth brown
afghan around my shoulders. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe you do need some time away. That doesn’t mean you have to take it here, sweetie. A trip, somewhere completely different
 
—a vacation, a fresh view
 
—might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“A fresh view.” I pulled the afghan closer, battling irritability. “How can I see anything new if I can’t sort my past?”

“There’s nothing to sort. She’s gone. She made your life
 
—and Joe’s
 
—miserable. You did everything you could to please her from the time you could walk, but it was never enough. Let her go, Hannah, and move on. Don’t let her demons wreck your life.”

“Daddy always said it was the war. Something happened to her and her family during the war, but he’d never tell me what.”

“I don’t know that he knew.”

“He married her in Germany. He must have known something.”

Aunt Lavinia stiffened, like she always did when talking about Mama.

“You were his favorite sister,” I accused. “If he’d told anybody he’d have
 
—”

“As much as it may surprise you, he didn’t confide everything to me. I doubt he knew all of your mother’s past. She certainly never told me.” She poured the steaming water over fresh tea bags. “Ward Beecham’s still trying to get in touch with you. He said you didn’t return his phone call. He’s got to read the will, you know.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

She raised her brows.

“I know. I’ll call him. I just couldn’t stay here after the funeral. And I already know what it says. There’s nothing but the house and land.”

“Well, you’ll have to go see him. It’s his obligation to finalize things, and you need to do that before you can sell the house.”

“Next week.”

“Why your mother used him and not Red Skylar, I’ll never know. Red’s family’s been part of Spring Mountain forever.”

“She probably just liked breaking the mold
 
—or not having an attorney so eager to share his clients’ business.”

Aunt Lavinia ignored me. “Did I tell you that Ernest Ford agreed to take the house on multiple listing? He said he might be able to sell it without you fixing anything up, but you’ll have to clear it out. I talked to Clyde about that. He’s between jobs now. If you let him sell the contents, that would cover his labor. There’s not much there worth anything.”

“I don’t want anything.”

She pushed the cream pitcher my way. “Do you want me to confirm it with Clyde? It’s the quickest way.”

“Sure.” I dropped my spoon to the saucer, startling us both with the clatter.

“We can tell him at dinner tomorrow. He’s got no family, so I invited him and Norma. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not, as long as they don’t ask me how I’m doing since Mama died or how my job’s going or anything personal.” Aunt Lavinia regularly invited her best friend, Norma Mosely, and half the kinless in her church for holiday meals. By tomorrow there would be at least seven more. There was nothing I could do to change that, but I didn’t have to like it.

Aunt Lavinia ignored my sarcasm. “I think Clyde might be a little sweet on you.”

“You’ve been saying that since I was ten.”

“It’s still true. It wouldn’t take much encouragement on your part to light that fire.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please, Aunt Lavinia.”

Aunt Lavinia ignored me and pried the teacup from my fingers. “Now, you’d best get to bed. I’d like to keep my good china in one piece, and I’ve got a date with a turkey at half past five.”

I’d hidden the windup alarm clock in a bureau drawer between bed linens so I couldn’t hear it tick, but that meant the alarm was just as useless. Still, the aromas of roasting rosemary-stuffed turkey and cranberries and apples simmering in cinnamon and cloves made their way up the stairs,
tickling my nose beneath a mountain of quilts, drawing my feet to the bedside rag rug.
I should have been downstairs and helping two hours ago.

The back porch door slammed, the kitchen door opened, and a “Yoo-hoo!” rang through the house.
Norma, with three pies and a bridal congealed salad. Aunt Lavinia won’t miss me.

Still, I raced through my hair and makeup, zipped my favorite gray wool skirt, and pulled on a rose knit sweater set and the pearls Daddy’d given me for my sixteenth birthday
 
—the only thing I’d kept to remember him by. Aunt Lavinia believed in dressing for Thanksgiving dinner. It was one of the things I’d always groaned over as a child, but had secretly appreciated. It made the day seem more special.

Another favorite pastime was spying on my aunt whenever she let me sleep over. Anytime things got too tense or loud or silent at home, Aunt Lavinia gave me sanctuary. I must have been five or six when I discovered I could peek through the coarsely cut circle in the floor, the one the black stovepipe shot through to reach the roof. It heated the upstairs bedroom just enough to keep icicles at bay. If I caught the right angle, I could watch Aunt Lavinia working in the kitchen, and learn more than my share of gossip.

Twenty-seven was too old to be eavesdropping, but when Norma hissed, “Why don’t you tell her? She’s a right to know,” my ears perked. I sat cross-legged on the floor and squinted until I saw Aunt Lavinia shushing her. But Norma protested, “She can’t hear me; she’s not even up yet. I’m just saying
 
—”

“I know what you’re saying, but it would only bring her more grief. She’s had a lifetime of that woman’s cold heart. No matter how bad things were between Joe and Lieselotte, he was a good provider and a good father and I’m not about to shame him now.”

“He’s been dead eleven years. There’s no shame for him
 
—only credit due. I don’t know another man who’d do what he did for that woman.”

“It would break her heart. I won’t do it.”

“What if she finds something telling in the house? There’s bound to be something from Lieselotte’s past.” Norma snapped a dishtowel open
and plucked a pot from the drainer. “That could open up a whole new can of worms, and when she finds out you knew and never told her . . .”

“Clyde Dillard’s going to clean out the house, burn everything he can’t sell. That’ll be the end of it.”

“She’s not going through it herself? Not even curious?” Norma sniffed. “I don’t know. It seems like an awfully big gamble. All it takes is a little math.”

Thirteen squeezed around Aunt Lavinia’s table built for eight. Despite the cheerful banter, I barely touched her lavishThanksgiving dinner. Norma teased that I seemed off my feed. I stared back, doing my best to bite my tongue. She flushed and turned away. I wouldn’t confess that I’d eavesdropped, but I couldn’t pretend what they’d said made no difference.

After the meal, Aunt Lavinia sliced the pumpkin pies. I cut the mincemeat and apple. Clyde grabbed two half gallons of ice cream from the freezer, and Norma carried trays into the dining room.

“I haven’t eaten this much since last Thanksgiving at your table, Mrs. Mayfield.” Clyde heaped dollops of vanilla ice cream over too-big slices of pie. “I’m much obliged.”

“We love having you, Clyde. You and that strong arm just keep dipping that vanilla.”

“Yes, ma’am. And I’ll get busy over to the house first thing tomorrow. I know you want to get it on the market before Christmas.” He glanced at me, his face as red as the cranberry chutney.

“That’ll be wonderful.” Aunt Lavinia patted his shoulder. “The sooner, the better.”

“About that . . .” I wiped the stickiness of the last pie slice on a tea towel. “Let’s hold off on clearing out the house. I want to think about it some more.”

Aunt Lavinia straightened, and from the corner of my eye I caught Norma’s sideways glance as she set down the empty pie tray.

“But, honey, we settled that last night. Clyde has some free time now. And, just think, if you could sell the house before the end of the year, you’d have all that money to do whatever you want. There’s no need to wait.” Aunt Lavinia spoke a little too brightly.

“You mean, in case the school won’t take me back?”

“I didn’t mean that. Of course they’ll take you back. They’re lucky to have you. But, Hannah, honey, you don’t want that old house. It’s best to let it go.”

“Whose best? Yours? Mine? My dead parents’?”

Aunt Lavinia’s color rose and she smiled, flustered, at Clyde, who glanced uncertainly between the two of us.

Aunt Lavinia didn’t deserve that after how good she’d been to me, all my life. But I couldn’t get past the idea that she knew something about Mama and Daddy and hadn’t told me
 
—something that even Norma knew and thought might be important. If there was something in the house that might help me reconcile my relationship with my dead mother or at least help me understand her and move forward, that would be worth any amount of embarrassment.

I picked up Norma’s second tray and headed for the dining room. “I want to go through the house on my own, Clyde. I’ll let you know soon what I want to do about the contents
 
—but it won’t be tomorrow.”

The company gone and the dishes finished, Aunt Lavinia shoved the clean turkey roaster to the back of the pantry for another year and turned on me. “I don’t understand you. You wanted nothing to do with that old house. You couldn’t wait to get away after high school, and you hated coming back last summer to nurse your mother. Have you forgotten?”