Secrets She Kept Read online

  Frau Winkler continued to fuss with the teapot, pour the tea, and finally pushed me a cup with a spoon and a sugar bowl. She opened her mouth to speak but, looking up and over my shoulder, froze, clamping her lips into a grim line.

  “Good afternoon, Frau Winkler. Fräulein Sterling, I presume.” A man who looked to be nearly as old as Grandfather, but taller and with a full shock of thick white hair, filled the doorway to the hall.

  Startled by his bigger-than-life presence, I didn’t speak, but caught the sudden fade and rise of color in Frau Winkler’s cheek.

  “I am Dr. Peterson, your Grossvater’s physician.”

  “Dr. Peterson.” I rose, extending my hand, but he stood at attention and bowed his head slightly. I half expected him to click his heels.

  “Herr Eberhardt told me you had arrived. I am honored to meet you.” He nodded again.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of my grandfather.” What else could I say?

  He looked slightly amused. “Herr Sommer has been my patient—and colleague—for many years.”

  “Then you know him well.”

  “I have attended the Sommer family since 1930.”

  “And you’re still practicing, over forty years? That’s amazing.” Immediately I realized what I’d said might offend. “I mean, it’s wonderful to maintain relationships with clients so long. I’m sure he counts you his friend as well, from everything Herr Eberhardt told me.”

  “We have a long history.”

  This was more like it.

  He gave a half bow, charming. “I will go to Herr Sommer now and see you this evening at dinner.”

  “I look forward to it.” I smiled my best Southern smile.

  The moment he left I turned back to my tea, but started when he spoke again, having reappeared in the doorway.

  “Any questions—concerning your Grossvater—you may ask me. My long and intimate acquaintance with the Sommer family should qualify me to explain all you might need to know. I am also able to translate any particular questions you might have.” He smiled ingratiatingly toward me, but his eyes frosted over Frau Winkler, who’d busied herself washing a pot that didn’t need washing.

  I had the distinct feeling I was being reprimanded, or warned. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  His departure sucked the warmth from the kitchen. Frau Winkler refused to look my way, did not open her mouth, even when I attempted to resume our conversation.

  What a long and wearisome—and confusing—day since Carl had picked me up, even if a mostly pleasant one. The sights and sounds of Berlin intrigued me, but the people and their expressions, verbal and nonverbal, made my head swim. I didn’t know if I’d imagined apprehension lurking around every lamppost. I carried my cup of tea upstairs and sank into the wingback chair by my window, closing my eyes, trying to fit together the pieces of the day’s puzzle.

  Nobody in this household seems happy. They avoid one another like the plague, and every time I open my mouth it feels like I’m pirouetting on eggshells. I just want to know about Mama. Why did she leave? Why did she never come back or tell me about Grandfather? Why hasn’t he asked about her? Why hasn’t he asked about me?

  Dinner with Dr. Peterson felt just as strained as dinner with Herr Eberhardt the night before.

  “You enjoyed seeing Berlin today, Fräulein?”

  “Yes, very much. Please thank Grandfather for me. I appreciate all the arrangements he’s made for my well-being.”

  Dr. Peterson nodded but didn’t say a word to Grandfather.

  After Frau Winkler served the meat and root vegetables, I tried again. “I’m very interested in my family, Dr. Peterson. Can you tell me something about them, or ask Grandfather if there are family albums I might look through?”

  Both men shifted in their seats, and Grandfather’s face clouded as he first addressed Dr. Peterson. Dr. Peterson replied at some length to Grandfather in German. It seemed he questioned him, that they disagreed, perhaps negotiated, but that finally Grandfather gave an order—almost an ultimatum.

  “Fräulein Sterling, your Grossvater realizes that it is natural you would like to know more about your family, but the loss of those dearest is a very painful subject for him. It has been the cause of much heartache in his life, the reason for the serious decline in his health.”

  He sounds like Daddy talking about Mama.

  “Nevertheless, he does not intend to disappoint you. After dinner he wishes me to show you his library and the family album. They will reveal happier days, before your Grossmutter’s death, before the war. Perhaps then you will understand your Mutter’s family better, and all that my friend has lost.”

  “Thank you; I truly appreciate that. And thank you, Grandfather—danke schön. I can’t tell you what this means to me.” Picture albums aren’t answers, but they’re a beginning.

  Grandfather nodded, his brow creased as if he understood at least part of what I’d said.

  The rest of the meal passed in silence. The moment I set my dessert spoon down, Grandfather stood and spoke softly. “Schlaf gut, Hannah.”

  “He is wishing you a good sleep.”

  “Schlaf gut, Grandfather,” I returned, so pleased to communicate with him directly.

  “Grossvater,” Dr. Peterson corrected.

  “Danke, Doctor. Schlaf gut, Grossvater.” I smiled at Grandfather.

  He nodded his tentative approval, picked up a cane from the floor beside his chair—a cane I’d not noticed before—and made his way through the door and up the stairs.

  Sitting alone with the intimidating Dr. Peterson had clearly been Grandfather’s design, but I forged ahead. “Dr. Peterson, what caused the rift between my mother and grandfather?”

  “You have no idea?”

  “None. Before December I didn’t even know that I had a grandfather. Mama claimed all her family had died in the war. She never spoke of them—not one of them.”

  Dr. Peterson sighed. “It’s a long story, and I’m afraid it does not cast your mother in a pleasant light.”

  “My mother and I were not close. I’d say . . . she kept a part of herself shut off from Daddy and me.”

  “Your father was an American soldier, I understand.”

  Now I was uncomfortable and looked away. “Yes.” I forced a smile, wondering if Dr. Peterson might have any idea as to the identity of my real father, wondering if I dared ask.

  “Your mother was an unusual young woman. I admit that I was surprised to learn she had married an American. It must have been soon after the war ended.”

  Was he quizzing me? “Yes, I believe it was. But my parents never really shared that part of their lives with me.”

  “As though she had something to hide?”

  I thought about that. “Maybe. I don’t know. She certainly hid her father from me. I don’t think Daddy knew anything about him either.”

  He nodded. “Your Grossvater commissioned an attorney, you know—Herr Eberhardt’s predecessor—to locate your mother some years after the war. He found her in America and wrote to her. She never answered.”

  “That was the envelope that led me to Grandfather. I just don’t understand why she didn’t respond, why she cut off communication like that. I’d have thought she’d have been glad to hear from her father.”

  “Perhaps your mother was afraid.”

  “Afraid of Grandfather? That’s hard to imagine. He’s so . . .”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So feeble, and kind.” I spread my hands.

  “This is true.”

  “Then?”

  “I am not certain Wolfgang will appreciate all that I am going to tell you, but it is clear to me that you are a determined young woman.”

  I straightened my shoulders, relieved that someone at last took me seriously and glad that I’d given the impression I wanted.

  “Come, let us see what we can find in the library.”

  The library door opened to a smallish, fairly dark room, mor
e like a study. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two walls. In the center of the room stood a mahogany desk polished to a high sheen, covered by a blotter holding an ornate gold pen and inkstand. Two large wingback chairs in black leather flanked a fireplace. Everything in the room spoke of order and sobriety and looked as if it had not been used in a very long time. Not that there were dust mites floating—nothing of the sort. But it looked more like a museum—a place to see rather than to work in.

  “What did Grandfather do for a living—before he retired?”

  “Your Grossvater has not needed to work for many years.”

  Grandfather—wealthy? “But . . .”

  “He worked for the government in younger days—a well-positioned clerk. He has not squandered his finances through lavish living. Sadly, since your mother left him, he has had no one with whom to share his life.”

  “But that had to be at least twenty-seven years ago.”

  “A long time to live alone.” He ran his fingers over a shelf of thick books, stopped, and pulled a slim volume from the case. “Here you will see your family, Fräulein.”

  For the next hour Dr. Peterson pointed out the people in photographs—many of them stilted and posed, but a few more candid snapshots taken at odd moments or family events.

  “This is your Grossvater when he was a young man, and your Grossmutter, when they married. She died in the late thirties—of cancer.”

  “Like Mama.” Grandmother looked like Mama, but smiling—in all the pictures, smiling. How I wished I’d known her.

  “The cancer tends to run in families. You do not resemble her so much—a little, maybe.”

  “No. But I don’t look much like my daddy, either.” I held my breath.

  “No?” He studied me. “Your name . . . Hannah. It is an interesting name. A family name from your father’s side?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Mama just said it was a name she’d always liked.”

  Dr. Peterson’s brow creased, but he pressed on. “And here is Rudy—Rudolph, your Mutter’s older brother.” He sighed. “A fine young man. Such a loss to Herr Sommer. Rudy’s death stole the wind from Wolfgang.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Killed in the war, as were thousands upon thousands of good men.”

  The next picture showed the same young man in a uniform, proud, even arrogant. “Was he a Nazi?”

  “A Nazi?” Dr. Peterson adjusted his glasses. “Why do all Americans think that every German was a Nazi?”

  “Excuse me, but I didn’t say that. I just asked—”

  “He was a soldier in the Wehrmacht. Every young man served, doing his duty for the Führer and the Fatherland.”

  “Boys in America were drafted too.”

  “Drafted?”

  “Conscripted.”

  “Rudy was not conscripted. He joined eagerly, to help create a New Germany.”

  Dr. Peterson sounded so proud of Rudy. I didn’t want to be rude, but that gave me the creeps. “What about Mama? What was it like for girls in Germany then?”

  “They joined the Young Girls League, then the BDM—the Bund Deutscher Mädel, a female division of the Hitler Youth for girls ages fourteen through eighteen. A very important part of a girl’s education at that time.” He closed the album. “The organizations provided excellent training for the physical and mental growth of young people. Sorely missing today.”

  And provided brainwashing, from everything I’ve read. “So, Mama was part of the BDM?”

  “At first. But she was not regular in her attendance.”

  “Is that because she took care of Grandmother—Grossmutter?”

  “Perhaps . . . at first. Sadly, after Elsa’s death, your mother spent a great deal of time unsupervised. Rudy was diligent in his studies and training, and your Grossvater worked very hard in those days.”

  “What di—”

  “Your Mutter became involved with a fanatical group, much to the embarrassment of her parents and to the detriment of her Vater’s reputation. I’m sorry to say that she was not concerned with the shame she brought upon her family.” Dr. Peterson’s tone spoke as much disapproval as his words.

  Shame? Mama? “Mama was always very strict with me. As poor as our relationship was, it’s hard to imagine her bringing shame on anyone.”

  Dr. Peterson removed his glasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he sighed again. “Perhaps her strictness with you was how she reconciled her behavior in later years. It was, in some ways, a relief when she ran away.”

  “She ran away?”

  He closed the album. “I have no wish to destroy whatever fond memories you may have of your Mutter, Fräulein Sterling. I only wish to protect the fragile health of my patient. Your Grossvater and I have been business partners since before the war; did you know that?” He gave a benevolent half smile. “That must seem like a very long time to you.”

  “Longer than my lifetime.” But my lifetime is shrouded in confusion, in absolute mystery. What did Mama’s relationship with this fanatical group have to do with her running away? And who is my real father? Did she become pregnant—not married, and pregnant? Is that the shame she brought on her family? Am I the shame? But I couldn’t ask Dr. Peterson. It was too personal . . . and too humiliating that I didn’t know.

  I took the album with me and pored over its pages for hours, tracing Mama’s and Grandmother’s faces and forms, searching for some link to them, until I heard Frau Winkler turn off the lights in the hallway and lock her door. The hall clock struck eleven. Why does she lock her door at night? It’s not like Grandfather’s going to climb the stairs and attack her.

  I turned back to the album. I look so little like you, Mama, or like Grandmother or Grandfather either. Not even Uncle Rudy—at least not much. Only enough to see that I’m related. Did Grandfather know my father? Did you run off with some boy you hardly knew—some political dissident who shamed Grandfather? Was that boy a Nazi or something else? The possibility that my mother was a Nazi swept over me like the flu, and I thought I might vomit. If my father was a Nazi, what did he do? But I shouldn’t have to ask. I knew what Nazis did.

  12

  LIESELOTTE SOMMER

  SEPTEMBER–DECEMBER 1941

  I pled chronic trouble with my monthlies until Vater agreed to wait until my sixteenth birthday before parading me in front of more officers. He said Fräulein Hilde had offered to help him throw me a party the likes of which I’d never seen, never enjoyed. I doubted very much that I would enjoy it at all.

  Lukas left for compulsory military training in late September—there was no avoiding it now that he’d turned eighteen. We hoped against hope that his ranking for “essential war work” might even yet keep him from the Wehrmacht. Marta and I did our best to cover the routes he’d developed in delivering food to those in hiding, adding them to our own.

  The same month, Jews were forbidden to use public transportation, which complicated everything. How could people get to work? How would they buy food? Helping older members of the Jewish community find food and fuel became a full-time occupation.

  I attended the BDM as usual, volunteering whenever possible for projects across the city. I prayed I’d not be reported for not showing up each time. Too often I made the excuse that the bus did not run on schedule, or that my bicycle tire punctured and I couldn’t find a rubber patch in time. Meanwhile, I pedaled furiously through the countryside collecting whatever I could and lied freely when stopped for identity papers. I prayed those on patrol never compared notes. There was no plausible explanation for one schoolgirl having so many sick relatives on the outskirts of Berlin.

  My favorite customer was old Frau Bernstein, very much alone since her husband died the year before. Each time I brought her a thermos of Frau Kirchmann’s soup you’d have thought I’d stolen all the crown jewels of Europe and laid them on her doorstep. Long white hair braided into a high bun and smile wrinkles wreathing her cheeks, Frau Bernstein greeted me warmly. Effervescent despite her po
verty, she was everything I imagined a Grossmutter to be.

  My next stop for her came on a Tuesday afternoon near the end of September. Sunshine dappled between the changing leaves as I pedaled through the streets beside Marta. We kept pace, laughing and joking, until we passed Unter den Linden, then winked and swerved our separate ways. Frau Kirchmann had been given a little bit of sugar, and I carried a thimbleful tightly wrapped in my sewing kit for Frau Bernstein’s tea. She’d clap her hands in surprise, so pleased. I pedaled faster to have extra time to visit with her.

  Had I not been so intent on envisioning Frau Bernstein’s pleasure and our happy scene to come, I might have sooner seen the crowd gathered, or the blockade and the black cars at the end of the street. I nearly ran into a curly-haired toddler escaped from his mother’s arms.

  “Watch where you’re going, stupid girl!” the mother yelled, scooping him into the air. “You could have killed him! Dummkopf!”

  “Bitte,” I pleaded, thankful the screaming child was only frightened. “What’s going on?” I pulled my bike to the side of the road, along the edge of the crowd.

  A girl not much older than me jostled through the onlookers, rising onto her toes to see beyond the shoulders in front of her. “Who did they take? Who’s going now?”

  “What is it?” I said again.

  “Don’t you know? It’s the rehousing,” she whispered. “Transporting those Jews to settlement houses. Everybody’s been waiting, wondering when they’d be taken. It will be a rush for the best things—wait and see.”

  “They won’t take them all, will they? The old—they’ll leave them?”

  “A clean sweep of the block is what we’ve heard. They’re supposed to catalog everything—take it all for the Reich. But you know they can’t do it all at once. Everybody’s hoping for a chance to go through. Some of those Jews have gold hidden beneath their floorboards. They just pretend to be poor, you know. Hoarders—it’s bad for the war effort. Well, this will be the end of that.”