Secrets She Kept Read online

  I didn’t understand Lukas, and that is what I thought of as I sat on the hard wooden chair at Mutti’s graveside, half listening as the pastor droned on.

  Lukas attended a Confessing Church with his family each week that he could—when no marches were scheduled or mandatory camping trips with the Youth kept him away. He sang and prayed, his eyes lit with the fire of purpose as the pastor talked about allegiance to Christ as the head of the church, as the head of our lives. How could he sing praises to Jesus Christ one moment and pledge his undying allegiance to Hitler the next?

  The pastor lifted a handful of dirt above Mutti’s coffin and let it fall, plunking, across the lid. I looked away. Mutti was not there. I didn’t know where she was, but she wasn’t in that box.

  She’d been gone in spirit since Christmas, in and out of consciousness since the last of March. When she’d stopped eating and drinking, we’d all just waited, kept a deathwatch. When at last her chest stopped rising and falling, we sighed in collective relief. I could take no more, and I knew Vater could not. He’d stopped coming to her room the moment she lost consciousness the first time. Only Frau Kirchmann had been faithful to the end, staying through the night those last weeks and sleeping on a cot in Mutti’s room.

  I didn’t expect anything of Rudy. He’d left our lives on Kristallnacht. All he cared about was rising in rank in the Hitler Youth, longing for the day he could enlist in the Wehrmacht. He even tried to catch the eye of the SS—thank heaven Mutti never knew. He’d become brash, bordering on cruel at times. But Vater boasted of him, proud of his fervor for the Führer.

  It was as though they’d both found purpose in their lives—patriotism, obedience, a passion for the New Germany. They were not the only ones swept up in it, despite the cost. In fact, I hardly knew anyone other than the Kirchmanns who’d not caught and spread the flame.

  Did Lukas still help Jews in need? Was his appearance at our door on Kristallnacht a one-time abnormality in his life—because he was a friend to the butcher and his family, because he believed in the rightness of the thing at the time? Had the uniform turned him into another Rudy? I closed my eyes, not wanting to believe that.

  Frau Kirchmann wrapped her arm around my shoulder. I straightened, realizing I should be thinking of Mutti, not Lukas, at such a time. But I’d grieved so long for Mutti, had begged God to heal her. I’d even bargained with Him, to no avail. Now that her ordeal was over, I wanted peace. I wanted to close my eyes and sleep for a month.

  Everyone stood. A last hymn was sung and the coffin lowered. Vater threw one handful of dirt into the grave and walked away, Dr. Peterson by his side.

  Rudy nudged me forward. “Wake up, Lieselotte. This is the last. You can go home to your dolls after this.”

  He pressed dirt into my hand and nudged my arm forward yet again. I didn’t want to drop it on Mutti’s box. It was like throwing dirt in her face, but that made no sense since she wasn’t there. My fingers clutched the soil all the tighter, until it formed a clod. Frau Kirchmann wrapped her arm around me again and led me away. I heard Rudy’s clod thunk the lid of the coffin behind me.

  Ten feet away I heard Dr. Peterson’s wheedling. “It will do you good, Wolfgang. Best to get away from this. You endured it to the end, but now it’s over. A new chapter. A new beginning is in order. There’s nothing to stop you now.”

  Rudy swept past me, headed for the street, but Herr Kirchmann stopped him. “Do you want to come to our house for luncheon and coffee, Rudy? You and your father and Lieselotte? We’d be honored to have you.”

  “Nein, danke. I think my father has other plans, as do I. I need something stronger than coffee.”

  “You should not be alone now, son.”

  But Rudy pulled away. “I’m meeting friends. Are you coming, Lukas?”

  I saw the no in Herr Kirchmann’s eyes, and am certain Rudy caught it too.

  “Go on then.” Lukas sounded casual. “I’ll catch up later if I can.”

  Rudy snorted and took off. Marta ran to catch up to him—to pay her condolences, no doubt.

  The Kirchmanns pulled Vater to them, expressing sympathies and extending their invitation, which I knew he would refuse.

  “Lieselotte.” Lukas stood close behind—close enough to make me jump. “I’m so very sorry about your mother. She was a fine woman, a great lady.”

  The pressure in my chest expanded, making it hard to breathe.

  “You’ll miss her very much, I know. I wish there was something I could do to . . .”

  “To what?”

  “To ease the pain.”

  “Her coat, then.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Mutti gave her most prized possession—the fur coat her mother and father gave her when she married Vater. Was it too much for you to tell us if they made it to safety? Or has this uniform changed you so much that you no longer care, that you want to forget what we did that night?” I did not realize my voice rose with each phrase until Lukas pressed my arm.

  “Lieselotte, not now. Not—”

  I slapped him. I don’t know where it came from, but I slapped him hard across the face, biting back tears. I would not cry—not in front of Lukas, who’d betrayed me, betrayed Mutti with his hateful uniform and forgetting of everything important.

  Frau Kirchmann stood beside me in a moment, drawing me away from Lukas. I glimpsed my father, far off, pain in his eyes and resignation in the slump of his shoulders.

  Dr. Peterson pulled him along, ordering Frau Kirchmann to bring me. “Take her home. I will order a sedative.”

  “Nein.” I pulled away. “I don’t want a sedative. I want . . . I want . . .” I didn’t know what I wanted. But I hadn’t meant to strike Lukas. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Lukas . . .”

  “Pull yourself together; you’re making a scene,” Dr. Peterson ordered.

  Frau Kirchmann helped me to the car. “Perhaps Lieselotte could come home with us, for a time.”

  But Vater shook his head. “You’ve done enough, Frau Kirchmann. I am grateful. But we must find our own way now. Lieselotte must come home.”

  She started to protest, but something pulled her back. She squeezed my hand. “Your father is right. Go home and rest. Be together as a family now. It is the best thing. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  I was barely aware of the ride home, only that the rain started—at first a trickle down the windshield, then in gusty torrents across the windows of the black car. It seemed a fitting end until the downpour slammed wild sheets against the sides of the automobile, shaking its heavy frame. Thunder boomed and lightning cracked the sky. I wondered if Mutti’s coffin sat drenched in a pool or if the grave diggers had done their work quickly.

  When we pulled into the drive before our house, Vater made no move to get out. I’d paid no attention to what they’d said, but now Dr. Peterson shook me. “Lieselotte, do you hear me?”

  “What? Yes, yes, I hear you. What did you say?”

  “I said I am taking your father for a drink. Do you need someone to stay with you?”

  I could only stare at him. “Vater needs a drink.”

  “Ja, it’s been a hard day for him. It will do him good to get out.”

  I wanted to scream, “What about me? What will do me good?” But of course I didn’t. If Vater cared so little, why should I ask him? I didn’t want to go into the house alone, though it was hardly different than before. Except that Frau Kirchmann was gone and Mutti’s shell was no longer there. Vater had let the housekeeper go when Frau Kirchmann came to help, saying there were too many coming and going from our house, so now there was no one.

  “You are all right, then,” Dr. Peterson insisted.

  I stared at him until he blinked and looked away. “I am all right.”

  The driver opened my door, holding a gigantic black umbrella for us both, and we rushed up the walkway. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my key until the driver produced one, quickly unlocking the front door. “Where did you find that—the
key?”

  “It is Dr. Peterson’s, of course.”

  I stepped inside as he closed the door, his footsteps splashing back through puddles to the car. “Of course,” I said to no one. Why does Dr. Peterson have a key to our house? But the question was too hard for me, and why should I care? What did it matter?

  It was not late, but the storm, pounding and pounding against the windows and door, darkened the house as if already dusk. I stood in the foyer listening to the sounds of the empty house. I tried to conjure memories of days before Mutti’s illness, before Herr Hitler came to power and he, along with Dr. Peterson’s Jewish “purchases” and work schemes involving Vater, divided our house. But I couldn’t remember . . . couldn’t even remember last Christmas, as much as I tried.

  The clock in the sitting room struck three, as if giving me permission to leave off my wet things. So I did, and lit the sitting room lamp. The puddle of light helped. So I lit the hallway, and the kitchen. It was the only thing I could do to chase away the darkness—the darkness so heavy I could barely breathe. I tore through the house, lighting every lamp in every room—except Mutti’s. I would not go there, but pressed my back against the wall next to her door.

  And that’s when the storm inside broke loose. The tears, the sobs that rivaled the downpour outside, racked my body, racked every nerve until I slid to the floor, my back still pressed against the wall and my head buried in my hands. I cried and moaned and screamed until I thought I might throw up—all the tears I’d held in through Mutti’s illness, through Lukas’s indifference. I cried in the bright hallway with no one to hear me as I’d never cried in the dark.

  When my storm finally spent itself, I curled in a ball and slept on the floor. One hour . . . two hours . . . I didn’t know until the clock struck seven how many had passed. The house remained silent. No Vater, no Rudy . . . certainly no Mutti. The storm no longer raged—inside or out.

  I pulled myself to my feet, splashed my face with cold water in the bathroom sink, and leaned my hot forehead against the cool tile. My temples and neck ached. My stomach rumbled. A cup of coffee . . . or at least a cup of sweet and creamy ersatz might help. Who cared about rationing today?

  The kitchen stove had gone cold. I lit the pilot and set the kettle to boil. I’d just taken the pot from the shelf and spooned the coffee substitute into the pot when a soft knock came at the back door. Who could it be at this hour? With Rudy and Vater gone . . .

  The knock came again, this time more insistent. “Lieselotte!” A whisper loud enough to be heard through the door.

  “Lukas?”

  “Ja, it’s me—open the door!”

  Greater heat than that from my aching head crept up my neck to my cheeks. How could I face him after what I’d done?

  “Lukas, it’s late. Please—” I pushed my hair from my eyes, combing it back with my fingers. I must look a fright!

  “Mother sent some refreshment. Open the door, Lieselotte—please.”

  I pulled my cardigan tight across my chest, drew a deep breath, and turned the lock.

  He pushed in with a platter of sandwiches and a kettle of something that smelled like heaven, making my stomach rumble again.

  “Mother’s cod stew.” He set the platter and warm kettle on the kitchen table. “You know she cooks enough to feed armies. She wanted you all to have some.”

  “They’re not here. There’s no one here but me.” I didn’t know what else to say—was afraid to say more lest the tears shoot up and spill out again. So I shook my head, just shook my head, but it wouldn’t stop.

  “Lieselotte, my little Lieselotte.” Lukas pulled me into his arms. “It’s all right. It will be all right.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I slapped you. I don’t know—”

  “It’s all right. I’m still here, you see? If you’re going to slap someone, let it be me. I’m a safe person to wallop—but only for you.” And he tweaked my fallen braid.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help but laugh, and pulled away, wiping my eyes. “Same old Lukas.”

  “Better, and no harm done.” He smiled, pulling off his coat.

  “No uniform? Aren’t you all marching in some parade tonight?”

  “Nein—well, yes, our unit. Rudy is there. I told them I have essential work tonight.”

  “With your father?”

  “Eating this good soup with you.”

  “Lukas, they won’t like— You’ll get into trouble. You’ll—”

  “It will be all right. I saw your father with a group from the Party. He and Dr. Peterson are not likely to be home before the parade. I thought this would give us a chance to talk.”

  “With me?” Mutti had just been buried, but the knowledge that Lukas wanted to talk with me made my heart beat faster, made the blood that had seemed so still in my veins an hour before rush through them.

  He pulled me to a seat at the table, holding both my hands. “I should have told you what happened. I should have found a way to thank you and your mother for your help that night.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I thought I was protecting you, protecting her. The less you know about . . . anything, the safer it is for you.”

  “You’re a Hitler Youth member now. You do what Rudy does. He hurt—”

  “Nein, Lieselotte. I wear the uniform because I must. I am not one of them. You must know this.”

  I had known, at least had begged in my heart that he was not one of them, but I’d needed to hear him say it. How I’d needed to hear him say it! “What happened to Herr Weiss and his family?”

  “We got them across the border.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Who doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  But he ignored me. “Your mother’s coat saved their lives. The nights turned bitter. They slept in your shed one night, then in ditches two more. Had it not been for the fur, the children might have frozen. Your mother saved them. You saved them.”

  The wonder of having helped to save a life—several lives—stole my breath. It gave meaning to Mutti’s sacrifice, to the danger of lying to Vater and to Rudy. “Have you saved more? More Jews?”

  Lukas sat back. He pulled his hands from mine and the warmth was gone. I wanted him to take them up again, but I wanted even more to know. “It’s not something I can talk about.”

  “Are you afraid I will report you? I would never!”

  Very quietly he said, “You almost gave me away today. You almost gave all of us away.”

  He was right, so very right. “I’m sorry. It will not happen again, if you’ll only—”

  “It is not a game to play. It is not—”

  “Not for children? Is that what you think, that I am a child not to be trusted?”

  “I didn’t say that. Of course I trust you. It’s just not so simple. There are other lives—not only my own—at risk. I cannot talk about anything, for their sakes.”

  “I could help. I could help again.”

  “Nein. It is too dangerous.”

  “No one would suspect me. I can—”

  “Nein. Lieselotte, your father is a ranking member of the Nazi Party and, with the help of Dr. Peterson, rising every day. Your brother is more eager to please the Gestapo than Müller is to lead it. One mistake—one word spoken in anger or in your sleep—and you could be arrested. There would be nothing I could do to stop that. And I won’t have it on my conscience. I won’t have you in danger.”

  I would have protested more loudly, vehemently, but for the first time Lukas did not look at me as he had before. I did not see a child reflected in his eyes. And suddenly he was embarrassed, reaching for his coat.

  He cares for me.

  “I thought you were staying to eat with me.”

  “Perhaps it’s better if I—”

  “I’ll heat the soup. You find the bowls—in the cupboard, there.”

  I wouldn’t look at him, but busied myself at the stove, stirring the fragrant stew. Th
is was something new, something different with Lukas. And if this had changed, what more might change?

  I heard him rummage in the cupboard, pull the spoons from their holder.

  “Tumblers are on the shelf by the sink.”

  Less than five minutes later we sat at the table, like two members of a family. Lukas searched my face, and whispered, “I’ll pray, then?”

  “Ja.” I bowed my head, certain my heart sang. “You pray.” With Mutti and all the angels in heaven, my heart sang.

  7

  HANNAH STERLING

  DECEMBER 1972–JANUARY 1973

  Three anxious and excruciating weeks passed while I waited for Ward Beecham’s call. He’d felt certain he could track the two addresses in Germany. Whatever he discovered might close the door on my past with Mama or open it wide. Either way, there was so much I wanted to know. Why had Mama and Daddy both lied to me—never told me Daddy wasn’t my father? And since he wasn’t, who was? I couldn’t see myself closing the door on the past without knowing. What would that search mean for my teaching position in Winston-Salem? And what about my future relationship with Aunt Lavinia? Was there anything else she wasn’t telling me? All my life I’d trusted her implicitly. Now there was no one to trust.

  Ward and I had agreed that all correspondence to and from Germany would go through him. It felt safer that way, he was still on Mama’s retainer, and I needed a confidant and ally. I certainly didn’t have one in Aunt Lavinia, despite our tentative truce.

  Clyde emptied the house of everything I didn’t want and sold what he could to a secondhand shop and the local junk man. The boxes and few pieces of furniture I’d saved were stored in Aunt Lavinia’s attic. I closed up the house and turned the key over to Ernest Ford and multiple listing two days before Christmas Eve. Ernest posted a For Sale sign on the property before the ink was dry. It felt like the beginning of the end.