Secrets She Kept Read online

  Advance Praise for Secrets She Kept

  “Weaving the timeless themes of forgiveness and redemption against the backdrop of the Holocaust, Gohlke paints a faith picture that is deeply moving and rich in hope. I was left breathless long after the last page.”

  KRISTY CAMBRON

  author of The Butterfly and the Violin

  “A sweeping, lyrical tale of hope and light, even in the darkest places. The deep characterization, striking settings, and twisting plot draw you in and raise poignant questions. Don’t miss this book!”

  SARAH SUNDIN

  award-winning author of Through Waters Deep

  “A beautiful and moving story that illuminates a dark chapter in human history, Secrets She Kept fairly shimmers with important truths about faith, forgiveness, and the transformational power of hope.”

  DOROTHY LOVE

  author of A Respectable Actress

  “Open the cover of Secrets She Kept and be swept into one young woman’s attempt to do something that matters . . . and her daughter’s search to understand a mother who was filled with secrets. You’ll be guessing and hungering to know how each heroine’s story will end. I highly recommend this for lovers of historical fiction.”

  CARA PUTMAN

  award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace

  “Cathy Gohlke beautifully weaves together truth and heroism against a stark backdrop of the unbelievable evil of the Holocaust. Readers can expect mystery, drama, intrigue, and romance in this unforgettable story of love and sacrifice. A must-read!”

  CARRIE TURANSKY

  award-winning author of the Edwardian Brides series

  “Why do parents keep secrets from their children? This compelling question launches Cathy Gohlke’s latest novel as her equally compelling characters wrestle to understand the past. I was immediately swept into this profound story about an evil so intense that it devastated generations. And a love so powerful that it transcends time.”

  MELANIE DOBSON

  award-winning author of Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

  “A riveting story that seeps into your soul, Secrets She Kept elegantly gives insights into the little-known world of Holocaust survivors and the next generation of children who must live with the results of their family’s painful secrets. A must-read.”

  TERRI GILLESPIE

  retired director of operations for the Messianic Jewish Alliance of America and author of the Hair Mavens series

  “A powerful and stirring tale, written with sensitivity and honesty. Cathy Gohlke is a master storyteller and Secrets She Kept is my top pick for inspirational WWII novels.”

  ELIZABETH BYLER YOUNTS

  author of the Promise of Sunrise series

  “Through the breathtaking highs of a young German girl’s first love to the indescribable horrors of Dachau and Ravensbrück concentration camps, Cathy Gohlke weaves a story of the redemptive power of the cross in the mist of unimaginable loss and betrayal. My face was wet with tears as I turned the last page.”

  PATTY SMITH HALL

  author of Hearts Rekindled

  “In Secrets She Kept, Cathy Gohlke masterfully weaves a story of injustice and pain from the Holocaust with a story of forgiveness and truth from the generation that followed. Engagingly researched. Powerfully written. A tapestry of intrigue.”

  JANE HAMPTON COOK

  author of American Phoenix

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Cathy Gohlke’s website at www.cathygohlke.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Secrets She Kept

  Copyright © 2015 by Cathy Gohlke. All rights reserved.

  Background image of car in Munich taken by Stephen Vosloo.

  Cover photograph of bicyclist copyright © Ryan McVay/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Back cover street photograph copyright © Stephen Vosloo. 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.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gohlke, Cathy.

  Secrets she kept / Cathy Gohlke.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4964-0080-2 (sc)

  I. Title.

  PS3607.O3448S43 2015

  813´.6—dc23 2015011961

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

  Build: 2015-06-02 14:59:37

  For Daniel,

  My Dear Son

  and

  Fellow History Explorer

  I delight in seeing the world through your eyes.

  All my love . . . forever.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Note to Readers

  Preview of Saving Amelie

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  MANY 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 US 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 the Sachsenhausen and Natzweiler concentration camps, and who interpreted the stories of museum guides in France. My husband, Dan, who joined me in visiting the 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, DC, 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.

  1

  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.

  Buses 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 latest 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 did 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 out 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, as 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?”