Secrets She Kept (8 page)

Something inside me stirred, unsettled. Surreal. Everything, surreal. Snare drums from the marching band bandied about, but no cymbals this time. I ran a hot bath, much to Frau Winkler’s dismay at my American extravagance in the middle of the day, and nearly fell asleep in the tub. When I finally climbed between the bottom sheet and eiderdown, I blocked out everything before me and fell fast sleep.

LIESELOTTE SOMMER

SEPTEMBER 1939–APRIL 1940

The Führer swept Poland in less than two weeks. People in the street stood in shock and uncertainty while others reveled, drunk with victory. The Führer claimed it was our right, that Germany had been provoked.

My father drank more and stayed out late at political meetings with Dr. Peterson and their friends. Rudy, sixteen, begged to enlist, but Father ordered that he wait for his eighteenth birthday. The row that followed beggared description.

I wanted only to remain invisible. I kept up my school work, but lived for Sundays
 
—Sundays, when I attended Confessing Church with the Kirchmanns. Sundays, when I glimpsed Lukas at the far end of the pew.

I turned fourteen in October, and Vater ordered me to join the
League of German Girls
 
—the Bund Deutscher Madel. I didn’t want to join, couldn’t imagine myself running races and hiking and camping with the other girls. I felt so much older
 
—as old as the Alps since Mutti passed.

But Marta joined, and that was something. At least we trooped together. Walking to and from the meetings gave us good opportunities to talk about our brothers. Marta appeared nearly as smitten with Rudy as I was with Lukas. But Marta appeared smitten with so many boys, it didn’t seem serious.

BDM meetings were held weeknight evenings. For that, I was grateful. Nights alone at home loomed long, especially as winter set in.

And I believed it was just a matter of time before Lukas asked me to walk out with him. Surely he’d been waiting for my birthday so I’d seem older, so my father would allow it. I waited, as patiently as I could, through Christmas. And then the New Year celebration arrived and my hopes soared again. But Rudy and Lukas ran out on the town, carousing with their Hitler Youth, never mind the curfew. I told myself Lukas must keep up the ruse, though it was hard to see in him the same person that sat slurping soup with me the night after burying Mutti.

By the late spring of 1940, just after the armistice with France and the one-year anniversary of Mutti’s passing, concern for Lukas waned as worry increased regarding the new woman Vater courted about Berlin.

When Vater shrugged on a new coat and announced that he would be out late one evening, I grew bold, asking him where he was going.

“To a dinner party, that’s all.”

“With her? With that woman you saw last week?”

“‘That woman’ is a friend of Dr. Peterson, sister of an important SS officer, and an influential woman in her own right. He wants her to have a pleasant time, and I’m honored to help. That’s all.” Vater lit his pipe.

“Then why doesn’t Dr. Peterson show her the town? Why doesn’t he take her to the party?”

“Peterson is helping to host the affair, Lieselotte, though that has
nothing to do with you. If you’ve finished your schoolwork, you might take up more duties with the BDM. You should spend more time
 
—”

“I’ve plenty to do, Vater. I just think it’s too soon for you
 
—”

“You think? You have no right to think of what I do.” His face reddened.

“But
 
—Mutti. Have you forgotten Mutti?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished them back.

Vater’s shoulders sagged, but nothing compared to the slack in his face. “I will never forget your mother, Lieselotte. She was the best part of me. But she is gone. That part of my life is gone too
 
—over. Peterson encourages me to
 
—”

“Dr. Peterson again! He runs your life, Vater! You don’t have to do what
 
—”

“That’s enough, Lieselotte,” he ordered, uncharacteristically harsh. “I will hear no more. Dr. Peterson has been kind enough to point out my potential within the Party and see that I meet the right people. We’re colleagues working for the Reich. We must all think of the future. You must think most of all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will be fifteen this year.”

“Yes? And sixteen the year after, and seventeen
 
—”

“It is not too soon to think of your future.”

I didn’t want to think what he meant.

“You come from good stock. Your mother’s family line is impeccable, and my
 
—”

“Breeding? You’re grooming me for breeding?” I’d heard the Führer’s talk of the responsibility of German women to increase the population
 
—inside marriage and out. Lebensborn
 
—the Nazi program encouraging young, racially pure women to produce Aryan children fathered by S.S. officers. There were even breeding playgrounds for the convenience of the SS and Wehrmacht.

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“It’s a question. Can you answer the question, Vater, or should I ask Dr. Peterson? Is this his idea?” I tempted him to slap me.

“Lieselotte, there is no conspiracy afoot. It’s simply . . . expedient. You’re of an age to begin thinking about marriage.”

“I’m fourteen! I’ve two years of school and then university before I think of such things.”

Vater drew back as if I’d hit a sore spot.

I hated and feared the red flags that raised in my brain. “We’ve always talked of this. Mutti, you, me
 
—we knew, always, that I would attend university.”

“Times have changed. You must see that. In the New Germany strong young women must contribute as
 
—”

“As breeding sows?” My voice climbed.

“It is a privilege
 
—a duty
 
—to increase good Aryan families. If your mother and I could have had more children, we would.”

“So, it’s that you want more children? With this woman?”

“If not this woman, then perhaps another. I am not too old. It would be best if you . . . You’re nearly fifteen . . . It would be expedient if . . .”

“If I was not here.” The truth dawned. Why had it taken me so long to grasp? A nearly grown child from a first marriage would not be wanted . . . would interfere with a new wife . . . .ould be in the way . . .

Vater did not answer. “Perhaps Dr. Peterson can arrange a meeting in the near future
 
—a dinner, an opportunity for you to meet a suitable officer or two.”

“You will auction me off to the highest-ranking Party member?”

“You speak nonsense!” But I saw in his eyes that that was exactly what would happen.

“I won’t do it. I’ll spit in his face. Do you hear me? I’ll drool across the table and pick pretend nits from my hair. That will show them my wonderful Aryan breeding.” Now I nearly begged him to strike me.

“We’ll speak of this another time. It’s enough now that you think of it.” Angry, he stepped closer. I did my best to stand my ground though I shrank inside. I wanted a fight and I feared a fight. “Lieselotte,” he said,
softening. “You look so like your Mutter, but these sudden tantrums are not becoming. Your temper
 
—”

“Is becoming fierce.”

“You must learn to control your emotions, to use them for good. A strong nature will serve you well, or it can ruin your life.” He looked as if he might say more, but turned, pulling his topcoat from the rack. “Do not wait up.”

I never waited up, not intentionally. But I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of my room, each night until the key turned in the front lock, until the massive oak door swung in, creaking on its hinges. Once for Rudy, and once for Vater. It was a guessing game who might come home first.

Neither called my name. Neither checked on me. If I’d not been in my bed, they’d never have known. I could have been anywhere, doing anything, and neither the wiser. And though that was not a noble reason to change my life, it was what gave me the idea.

I waited until after church on Sunday, until we’d finished the delicious Schmorbraten Frau Kirchmann had stewed, until Marta and I had washed and shelved the dishes. Vater knew I spent Sunday afternoons with the Kirchmanns. He would not expect me home
 
—which was good; it would likely be a long conversation. But I never expected such an explosion.

“You cannot be serious!” Lukas looked as if he might burst a blood vessel. Even his mother could not calm him. “There is nothing you can do to help, Lieselotte. I’ve already told you, it is out of the question!”

I would have pledged my life to honor Lukas, but to obey him in this? “I know what you’re doing
 
—what you’re all doing. Do you think I sit beside you in church each Sunday and don’t see the looks passed between you? Do you think I do not see the pastor pass the hat after services at the back of the room, do not see the ration books dropped in or the forged identity papers, all while someone stands watch for the
Gestapo? I know those collections are not going for the running of the church
 
—not like the weekly collection. You’re hiding Jews, feeding Jews, helping them move from place to place . . . or someone. You’re all helping someone and I want to help too. There must be something I can do.”

“You’re mistaken. There is nothing!”

“Then why are you shouting, Lukas?” I shouted back.

Herr Kirchmann placed a heavy hand on both our shoulders. “This is not a football match. Stop it, both of you.”

“I think Lieselotte has a right to know.” Frau Kirchmann spoke softly to her husband. “She is right. She could help. She has helped before.”

Herr Kirchmann considered. My heart swelled with Frau Kirchmann’s affirmation, with the knowledge that Lukas had told his parents about me, and about Mutti.

“
Nein!
There is no need, and we operate on the basis of only those adults who need to know,” Lukas insisted.

“I know,” Marta took up my defense. “Since when have you considered me an adult?”

“No one suspects you. You’re a child!” Lukas spat.

“Then why would they suspect me? I’m the same age as Marta.”

“You are not a child. You don’t even look like a child!” Lukas declared the words before he thought
 
—it was written on his face.

His father smiled. His mother turned away, also smiling. My heart soared.

“It is too dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous for all of us,” Herr Kirchmann reminded him. “If Lieselotte believes the Lord has called her to help, who are we to turn her away?”

“She could run courier
 
—with me.” Marta leaned closer, her arms crossed over her chest. “Or we could both run in different directions at once and confuse them utterly!”

“I like the idea of both girls going together,” Frau Kirchmann intervened. “I worry each time Marta goes out, but with two
 
—there is comfort in numbers, if not safety,” she urged her husband.

“Ja,”
I agreed, hardly knowing what I agreed to.

“Has the Lord called you, Lieselotte?” Lukas pushed.

“Has He called you?” I countered.

“Yes, I think so. I’ve believed it for a long while now. . . . Well? And you?”

They all stared at me. If I said yes, I would be lying. If I said no, would they let me help? I could not lie to Lukas or his parents. . . .or could I tell him
 
—explain to him
 
—that if I did nothing, I would die inside. I would burst and die of loneliness, of anger, of frustration, of helplessness. “I only know I must do something that helps someone. Everything I see frightens me nearly to death. If I am caught, I would rather die for something than live for nothing.”

Lukas understood. I saw in his eyes that he understood, though he didn’t want to. I saw that the consequence was not what he’d hoped, that he felt defeated despite his understanding. I could not stop him as he grabbed his hat and slammed the back door on his way out, or tell his parents to wait for me to run after him as they drew me into the parlor to explain their work. But I knew there would be another day. At least I’d earned the right to fight
 
—to get up and breathe
 
—another day.

HANNAH SOMMER

JANUARY 1973

I must have slept the day away. Frau Winkler’s pounding on the door at half past six roused me.

“Dinner is served at seven, Fräulein Sterling.” It was a pronouncement brooking no decline.

My head felt like somebody’d plopped an anvil there. But as the fog faded, excitement stirred.
I’m going to meet my grandfather, at last
 
—my grandfather!

After believing that all my mother’s family was dead and that I’d been entirely orphaned, except for Aunt Lavinia, I’d now gained a grandfather, my mother’s own father. I repeated the words over and over in my head, just as I had during the plane trip; it still seemed impossible.

Sconces in the dimly lit hallway cast gloomy shadows the length of
the walls, reminding me that during the war even electricity had been rationed
 
—or so I’d heard. I suspected the house had never been updated for stronger wattage.

Feeling eerily as if I’d stepped back in time, I rubbed my hand over the bannister as I took the staircase down to the second floor and then to the first in search of the dining room.
Mama must have run up and down these stairs hundreds of times as a girl
. Herr Eberhardt had mentioned that Grandfather Sommer’s family had lived in the same house since the early 1900s.

I reached the dining room five minutes early, but Grandfather was already waiting, seated at the head of the table, and Herr Eberhardt at the foot. “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I didn’t realize the time.”

“We are simply early, Fräulein. I had business matters to discuss with my client.” Herr Eberhardt rose from his chair and came to meet me. At the far end, Grandfather rose too, though more feebly.

“Please, don’t get up.” I walked quickly toward him, but was at a loss.
What’s appropriate? At home I’d hug his neck. Do Germans even do that?

Herr Eberhardt came to my rescue, his hand on my elbow.
“Herr Sommer, mai präsentieren Ihnen Ihre Enkelin, Fräulein Hannah Sterling.”

“Oh, please, call me Hannah.”

“Fräulein Sterling, allow me to present your grandfather, Herr Wolfgang Sommer, my client and my friend.”

“Hannah.” Grandfather clasped my hand and repeated my name warmly, with an accent so similar to Mama’s that my breath caught. He looked pleased to see me
 
—almost triumphant in his pleasure
 
—and so very frail that I couldn’t help myself. I hugged his neck and kissed him on the cheek, just as I would have done to Mama if she’d not held me at bay.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Grandfather. Thank you for inviting me, for the plane fare, and . . . for everything. It’s just amazing to me to be here in the house my mother grew up in and
 
—”

“One moment, Fräulein, allow me to translate,” Herr Eberhardt interrupted.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot he doesn’t speak English.”

“Much English.”

“Yes, much.”

Herr Eberhardt translated, though I didn’t think he did it with enough enthusiasm. Then he pulled out my chair and I sat. Frau Winkler served dinner.

It should have been a party
 
—a celebration, a homecoming. But the minutes ticked by and Grandfather said nothing. He stole glances at me each time I turned to Herr Eberhardt. I could feel his eyes searching my face. I wondered if he was looking for some trace of Mama in my features. It felt like sacrilege to break the silence.

After a time I wondered if chewing troubled him too much to speak. I didn’t know if all German food tasted like this or if Frau Winkler preferred to cook her meat dry and tough. And there was absolutely nothing green on the plate.

“You are not hungry, Fräulein?” Herr Eberhardt asked when Frau Winkler took away my plate of half-eaten sausages and potatoes.

“It’s just been a long day for me. I think my body clock hasn’t quite adjusted to the time yet.” I smiled and straightened, dabbing my napkin to my mouth. Even my smile felt a bit out of place.

I thought there was an upward lift at the corner of Grandfather’s lips but was uncertain he could have caught what I’d said.

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.” The silence lasted through dessert
 
—dry cake covered in whipped cream and coffee so strong I expected my spoon to stand up straight.
Good thing I got that nap. There’ll be no sleep tonight.

Grandfather said something to Herr Eberhardt in German, and the exchange went on for a minute or so.

“Your grandfather wishes for you to ask Frau Winkler for anything you need and offers to provide a tour of Berlin. Are you prepared to begin tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’d love it. Will you go with us to translate?”

Herr Eberhardt looked surprised and a bit offended all at once. “Your
grandfather has bid me hire a tour guide for you
 
—a guide who speaks enough English to accommodate your lack of languages.”

“Grandfather won’t be going?” I did my best to ignore the slight on my “lack of languages.”

“Surely you can see that is unwise, Fräulein Sterling. There will be a great deal of walking.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a walking tour. I thought perhaps he meant we’d drive. It’s just that I was hoping to spend the day with Grandfather.” But Herr Eberhardt’s expression gave no quarter. “Please tell Grandfather I’m most grateful and know I’ll enjoy getting to know Berlin.”

Herr Eberhardt nodded and stood. I realized he signaled the end of the meal, but didn’t realize I was being dismissed.

“You will be so kind as to excuse us, Fräulein Sterling. I have further business with Herr Sommer. Either I or your grandfather’s longtime physician, Dr. Peterson, will join you for dinner tomorrow evening. Dr. Peterson’s English is quite good, and you will find him a tremendous help in communicating with your grandfather.”

“Thank you, that sounds very nice. Well, good night, and thank you again. Good night, Grandfather.”

“Gute Nacht,”
Herr Eberhardt corrected.

“Gute Nacht,”
I repeated to him and again to Grandfather. Grandfather nodded, barely looking at me, as though I’d been privileged to address the king of England.

I passed Frau Winkler in the hallway. She raised her eyebrows significantly but I looked away. I had no idea what her expression implied or if I was to take particular meaning from Herr Eberhardt’s comments.

My family
 
—it felt less like a family than I’d hoped or imagined.
Maybe it’s just the language barrier, and that I’m tired. I need to communicate directly with Grandfather, not go through a translator, to ask him questions about Mama. Well, I’m not stupid. I can learn German, and I can learn it as quickly as I need to.

“Everything looks brighter in the morning”
 
—that’s what Aunt Lavinia would say.
And she was right. I woke early, due to the time change, and enjoyed watching the sun rise above Berlin’s dark rooftops, drenching the frosted tiles in diamonds.

Frau Winkler stirred down the hallway about half past six. At seven she descended the stairs. By the time I’d finished in the bathroom and put my room to rights, the clock hands approached eight and still no summons. So I made my way downstairs to the dining room . . . dark and silent.

But the kitchen hummed
 
—egg water bubbled and a load of clothes spun in a primitive electric washing machine. A loaf of dark, dense bread stood on the counter with a long knife and a crock of butter. Steaming hot coffee that had curled my toes last night unfurled them with the morning sun’s rays. I’d just about decided to help myself when Frau Winkler stepped into the kitchen behind me.

“Good morning, Frau Winkler.” I tried to sound bright and cheerful.

“Guten Morgen,”
she responded, reserved.

I smiled.

“It means ‘good morning.’”

“Yes, I understand.
Guten Morgen
.”

“
Ja. Das gut.
You need to learn the language. You need to learn it quickly.”

As if I don’t know.
“I don’t expect to be here long, but I would like to learn.”

“We will see.”

This woman gives me the creeps!
But I simply smiled, stepping back to give more space. “May I help myself to breakfast?”

“
Ja, ja.
Here is bread and the butter. Americans like a little sweet, so here is the marmelade. The Kaffee is ready.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Danke schön.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thank you . . .
Danke schön
.”

“Oh.
Danke schön.
”

“Bitte schön.”
She waited, but I must’ve looked blank. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Thank you.”

She looked as if I’d tried her patience beyond endurance. I was saved by a knock on the back kitchen door, and while she answered it, I cut and buttered my bread. I’d have preferred toast smothered in apple butter or preserves, but didn’t dare ask, grateful for the “sweet” we Americans craved, even though I’d say their marmalade was mush and slightly bitter compared to the preserves made from Aunt Lavinia’s mountain blackberries. The coffee was just as strong as the night before, but more welcome in the light of day.

“Your driver is waiting in the street.”

“My driver?”

“
Ja.
Your tour guide.”

“He’s here? Now?”

“In New York they say, ‘the meter is running’
 
—
ja
?” She raised her brows significantly toward me.

I swallowed one last steaming gulp of the bitter brew and bolted for the stairs, dark rye bread in hand. “I’ll be down in five minutes!”

I had no idea where we were going or what I’d see but was certain I’d at least need my Brownie camera and a couple rolls of film, a notepad and pen, my English-German dictionary and shoulder bag, and some of the deutschmarks I’d exchanged at the airport yesterday. A sturdy pair of walking shoes and layers beneath my coat and scarf must be in order.

Fifteen minutes had passed by the time I emerged, breathless and frozen stiff by the outside temperature. My driver stood nonchalantly by the car, reading the morning newspaper. Wrapped against the cold, he didn’t seem to mind it or me until I coughed two feet from his ear.

“Ach, pardon me, Fräulein. I was lost in the events of the day.”

“Your English is perfect!”

He smiled, his teeth gleaming like a Colgate commercial. Then he sobered. “Is that not what you require?” He sounded as British as Prince Charles.

“Yes, I mean, no
 
—I just expected you to be altogether German. I’m glad you’re not.”
That doesn’t sound right! Will I never stop slapping egg on my face with these people?

Now he raised his eyebrows
 
—thick, arched brows over brown, smiling eyes that twinkled at my expense.
What is it with Europeans and their eyebrows?
“
Ja
, I am German, born and raised in Berlin
 
—except, of course, the years I spent in one of England’s finest boarding schools.”

Where you surely knocked the local girls dead.
The man stood at least six feet and his blond, curly hair hung over his eye in the most appealing schoolboy fashion. He must have been several years my senior, but his broad shoulders and athletic build looked that of a younger man. “I’m so sorry. I meant no offense.”

He really did look sympathetic, as if pitying tourists was an everyday affair. “None taken, I assure you. Americans often say exactly what they’re thinking, even if it’s not quite what they mean.”

I smiled, nodding to agree, then stopped, nonplussed.

“Carl Schmidt.” He tipped his cap.

“Hannah Sterling.” I extended my hand.

He took it, smiling, then opened the car door. “Shall we?”

I slid into the backseat, doing my best to regain my composure.

Carl glanced into his rearview mirror. “Where to, Fräulein? Anywhere in particular, or would you like the general Berlin tour?”

“Are you on a clock? I mean, is there a certain length of time we have, or should I choose from specific options?”

“We have all the time you want. Herr Eberhardt has hired me to be completely at your disposal, both for driving and for translation purposes.”

“For the entire day?”

“For as long as you’re in Berlin, as often as you like.”

“Just like that. I can’t believe it. This must be costing Grandfather a fortune.”

“I believe he can afford it.”

Why do I hear ulterior motives behind every statement? I’ve got to stop this.
I leaned back against the soft leather seat and breathed. “The general tour sounds wonderful.”

Unter den Linden, the Humboldt University, the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the Tiergarten, and Charlottenburg Palace topped Carl’s choices for the day
 
—a long and exhausting day that focused on the accomplishments of the German people. I wanted to ask about the Berlin Wall, but there was no time or space, and I didn’t want to interrupt his obviously prepared tour.

By mid-afternoon I was weary, but grateful for my companionable guide. “I must say it’s so good to speak comfortably in English. I haven’t needed my dictionary once today.”

Carl laughed. He didn’t look tired in the least. “You give me good practice, Fraulein. Most of my clients are German, of course. It’s a pleasure to use my English.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking . . .” I hesitated.

“Ask.”

“You mentioned having attended a fine boarding school in Britain, and therefore I assume university.”

“So, why am I driving for hire? Is that your question?”

“Yes, not that it’s any of my business.”

“It’s not so bad a job, and it gives me flexibility to do other things, to research other projects of interest to me. It’s temporary, until I find something better here . . . or elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? You’re thinking of emigrating
 
—to England?”

He smiled indulgently, but without condescension, and winked. “I think of many things.”