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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: River's Edge
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Chapter 23
I
took Father to the Automat because it was the only restaurant I knew in New York. He ate every bite, even picking up the crumbs of leftover piecrust with a wet fingertip and putting them in his mouth carefully, as though it were the most normal thing in the world for my formerly fastidious father to do.
He was impressed, as I had been, by the rows and rows of vending machines and the myriad choices of dishes, each sealed behind its own private door. “Very inventive, these Americans,” he observed.
I walked with him to Grand Central Station to catch the train to Hartford, where Junior would be waiting to pick us up, retracing my path to Brightfield. I wasn't quite sure what to say to him, uncertain of how we were to relate to each other now, so I pointed out sights to him and tall buildings, reciting street names like a tour guide, though half the time I barely knew where we were myself.
It wasn't until we were settled in the train and had ridden some time in silence, each looking out the window at the passing scenery and thinking our own thoughts, that I worked up the courage to ask him what I really wanted to know.
What was he doing here? How did he survive the war? What was a former officer of the Abwehr doing on American soil only months after the surrender of Germany?
And the questions I dared not ask aloud, the questions that, even in my brain, pulsed unspoken.
As we sat side by side on the train, he told me his story—all the things that had happened since we parted on dock at Hamburg. He told me almost everything, I am sure—at least all that he could bear to tell me.
As he had expected, the plans for the invasion of Poland were being finalized even as my ship left port in Germany. As he had intimated in his letter, Father thought the plan was foolhardy and that Hitler was a disgrace to his office and country, but he was the leader of the nation, and Father was a soldier, trained from childhood to do his duty. He would fulfill his orders.
The operation had gone quite swiftly, with a minimum of German casualties. As an aide to Admiral Canaris, “Uncle Wilhelm,” he had accompanied the admiral on a trip to Poland. They saw terrible things there, the murder of civilians, the destruction of whole villages, like Mrs. Ludwig's ancestral home, not just the men but women and children, too. Father and many of the other career officers were horrified, but laid the blame in the lap of the SS, barbarians out of control and acting without orders, that must be it. General Canaris was outraged and flew back to Berlin to complain to the führer.
“The man is a pig, but he is the leader of the army. Surely he does not realize what has been happening.” But he did know. Hitler ignored Canaris's complaints, and the admiral and many other officers began to understand that these atrocities were being carried out with Hitler's approval.
That was the beginning of the resistance within the officer corps. Father was sure there were other pockets of internal resistance, but he thought that the group he was part of, a group of officers within the Abwehr who'd been specially picked by Canaris, were the center of the organization. As the war went on, they learned more and more about the horrific things that were going on, terrible beyond belief.
Here Father stopped, and he looked at me with solemn, pledging eyes. “Shocking things have happened in Germany, my daughter. A carnage of innocents. Soon the whole world will know about it, and they will hate us for it. They will be right to hate us. We may not have pulled the trigger, but we stood by and watched as the gun was loaded, aimed, and fired. We are guilty, too. But, I want you to know, Elise—it is important that you believe I did not participate in these”—he searched for a word—“these horrors. I tried to stop them, but it was too late, and my efforts were too feeble.”
He went on, explaining that as they learned more of what Hitler's true plans were, they decided that the führer had to be stopped. They made plans to assassinate him, even though they knew that if they were discovered, they would be tried and executed for treason. They planned several assassination attempts, but always something went wrong. Hitler seemed to have a sixth sense, often changing his schedule at the last minute, stepping neatly out of the noose they had laid for him.
They tried to make contact with the Allies, to let them know of their plans and possibly enlist their assistance. One of their number, Dr. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran minister, the man who had sent me the note in the candy box, had tried to open lines of communications through his old friend, George Bell, bishop of Chichester.
“He went to Switzerland to meet with him,” Father related. “We weren't supposed to speak to each other of our plans, to maintain secrecy, but I could not resist. I asked him to get a message to you, to let you know I was alive. He sent the candy to you from Switzerland. I thought about you all the time—wondered if you'd found the note or thrown the box away without realizing it was there.” Father sighed and closed his eyes. “I am so glad you found it. Bonhoeffer was a good man, a brave man of faith.”
“Was?” I asked. “What happened to him?”
“After the D-day invasion, we decided we had to try again to kill Hitler. We were desperate. One of our number, young Colonel Stauffenberg, planted a bomb in a conference room in the Eagle's Nest. It went off as planned. The room was destroyed, and several officers were badly hurt. One died. But Hitler survived with hardly a scratch. There was an investigation, and we were discovered. Admiral Canaris, Dr. Bonhoeffer, General Oster, and many others were arrested. Cousin Peter, too.”
“Cousin Peter?” I gasped. “But I don't understand. He wasn't in the military. How could he have been arrested with officers from the Abwehr?”
“He was part of a different organization, the Kreisau Circle, whose resistance activity was based on Christian conviction. He was arrested and hanged in August of 1944.”
“No!” I cried out. Tears welled in my eyes. Cousin Peter, laughing, handsome Cousin Peter, who was always late, who had given me the
Children's Encyclopedia of Animals.
He had been hanged in a Nazi prison? It couldn't be.
Father just nodded silently. His voice was flat as he continued his story. He had grieved for them all long ago and had no more tears in store. “Admiral Canaris and the others were executed in April, only weeks before the end of the war.”
I held my hand to my mouth. My tears could only bring Father more pain, and I could see in his eyes that he had already known so much of it. “But, why weren't you arrested with the others? How did you escape?”
“I would have been among them,” he said “but I was out of the office when the SS came. I saw the cars in front of the building, and I ran. I threw away my uniform, grew a mustache, and carried false papers I had prepared just in case. I went into hiding—always on the run, hungry, never able to catch more than a few hours' sleep before I felt compelled to move on. When they finally caught up with me in January, it was almost a relief. I was given a military trial in April, just before Canaris and the others were killed. I was found guilty and sentenced to be executed on May 15, 1945, but the war ended before the sentence was carried out.
“The Americans liberated the prison,” he continued. “They interviewed me, corroborated my story, and said I was free to go. They were kind to me. After all that. After we had shot and killed so many of their friends, they were kind to me!” he marveled.
“One of them even said I was an officer and a gentleman, a hero,” Father said, his voice dripping with self-loathing. “But I knew it wasn't true. I was a coward—a feeble, broken member of a failed conspiracy! We shouldn't have relied on bombs and plots. I should have just taken my pistol, walked up to Hitler, and shot him in the head. I would have died, too, but it would have been worth it to put a stop to Hitler—to regain a shred of honor for myself and my country, but I was a coward.”
I wanted to reach out and console him, but I could think of no words that would help. Instead I just stroked his hand.
“General Canaris and the others were executed. At least in death they regained something of their honor. Only I was left alive, but I didn't want to go on living. I left the prison. Found a room in a hotel and made a plan to kill myself—sleeping pills. I swallowed the whole bottle and lay on the bed, so tired. I was ready to let go, and then, I don't know exactly why, I knew I mustn't do it. It would be too easy.”
Oh yes, I thought. I knew. His foot brushed the sandy bottom and held on. I knew, even if Father didn't, that he was no coward.
“To face our destiny with unclean hands,” I whispered.
“What?” Father said, a bit startled. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, Father. I'll explain later. Tell me what happened then.”
“I pulled myself from the bed and staggered into the hallway looking for help. I collapsed, and someone found me. I don't know who it was, but they called an ambulance. When I woke up in the hospital the American officer, the one who said I was a hero, was sitting by my bed. Such a kind man. An honorable man.”
“Yes, Father.”
“He was worried about me. He said that I must find a reason for going on, that there had been enough deaths already—mine wouldn't change anything. It would just be one more casualty in a war that had gone on for too long. He said I must find the courage to go on, a reason to live.” Father stopped and turned to me, a sad, small smile on his lips. “I knew already what my reason was. It was you, Elise! It was you! I told him that I had a daughter, living in America, and that I would like to find you. He arranged for my passage and immigration clearance. He said I could stay as long as I wanted, even apply for citizenship.”
“That's wonderful!” I exclaimed. He bobbed his head and spoke before I could say anything more.
“Yes,” Father agreed. “He was a very kind man. A gentleman, but I told him I would not stay. I just wanted to come and see my daughter, thank the kind family that cared for her all these years, and then bring her home.”
“But Father,” I protested. “We can't—”
“I know,” he said. “I know. The house on Alexander Platz is gone. Destroyed in the bombing. Everything is gone, but we can start over,
Liebling.
You'll see. We are together again, and that is what matters. We can begin again.”
Chapter 24
F
ather rode in the front seat and I in the back. Junior took the wheel. Now that the twins had installed the hand-controlled brake, Junior was able to drive as well as ever. Father was perfectly polite. No matter how strained the circumstances, Father was always polite; this was one thing about him that had not changed, but the car ride home was awkward at first. Junior cleared his throat self-consciously and tried to make small talk.
“Colonel Braun, sir. How was the voyage? You must be very tired after such a long trip.”
“It was a good crossing, but, yes. I am tired. I'm not a colonel anymore, you know. I am simply Mr. Braun now.”
“Mr. Braun,” Junior repeated.
Another awkward silence ensued. This time Father was the one to break it. “Elise told me about your father, Junior. I am very sorry for your loss. So very sorry for everything,” he said. His eyes rested on the spot where Junior's pants leg fell skinny and unnatural over his lifeless wooden leg. “I am sorry,” he said again, as though he were personally responsible for throwing the grenade that took Junior's leg.
“Your father was a very good man. He was so kind to take Elise in. Who knows what might have happened if he had not? The bombings were so terrible. There is almost nothing left of Berlin. Your father was a good man, Junior.” Father repeated, then paused for a moment, his brow wrinkling in a question. “It's such a strange name—Junior. I never heard it before. Does it mean something special?”
“Oh, it means something like ‘the younger.' Junior isn't my real name. I was named Carl, after my father, but everyone called me Junior so they wouldn't get us mixed up.”
“Hmm.” Father considered this and shook his head. “But now that your father is gone, perhaps you should consider going back to your real name. Carl is a fine name. A strong name, and you don't look like a ‘Junior' to me somehow.”
“Well, I don't know, Mr. Braun. Papa is Carl, not me. Everyone in town loved him. I don't think they'd feel right about calling me by his name. I'm not sure I'd feel right about it myself.”
Father tilted his head, as if he simply couldn't grasp Junior's objection. “Why not? I am sure your father would have been proud to know you were carrying on his name. He was a good man, and you are a good man. What is the difficulty?” Father gestured with one hand and then the other, weighing the equality of his argument on scales of logic.
“My father ... well. It's just hard to explain, Mr. Braun. He was something very special. As I said, everyone in town loved him. He was the pastor in Brightfield his whole life.”
Father bobbed his head. “Yes, I know, a minister. I knew another minister, during the war. I was telling Elise about him. He was a good man, too.” Father paused a minute and looked out the window, thinking. Then he turned back to Junior. “You're very like your father, I'm sure. Elise said you were a minister, too, in the war.”
“Oh no, sir,” Junior corrected. “I was just a chaplain's assistant. I helped my father, but I wasn't a pastor. Papa was an ordained minister. I worked alongside him. Something like an aide, but I'm not trained like he was.”
“Training, you can always get,” Father said dismissively with a trace, just a trace, of his old haughty attitude. I smiled, glad to know that something of the old Father was still in residence. “I am sure you would be a fine minister. You need training? Go someplace and get some. You are very like your father, I am sure. Very like him in many ways, but not all, and that is best. You should train for the ministry,” Father declared with conviction. “And you should change your name to Carl.”
Father finished his speech, but Junior didn't comment. He just kept his eyes on the road, but when I glanced up to the rearview mirror, I could see him thinking.
“I am tired,” Father said, turning to me. “I hope you will not think me rude if I take a nap.”
“No, Father,” I reassured him. “That's fine. Try to sleep. I'll wake you when we are home.”
We drove in silence the rest of the way. When the car turned into the gravel driveway, Father awoke on his own. Mama came out on the porch to greet him, and the family joined her. Introductions were made, with Father greeting everyone individually, even bowing to kiss Cookie's hand.
He gave a manly handshake to each of the boys in turn. In a voice that could have been Uncle Wilhelm's, he said to Curt, “It's a pleasure to meet you at last, young man. I have a gift for you, in my suitcase.” And turning to Mama with a charming smile, he said, “I have gifts for all of you.”
Mama dipped her head in acknowledgement and opened the door for him. “Please come in, Mr. Braun. Let me show you to your room. Junior, will you bring in Mr. Braun's bags, please?”
Junior opened the trunk. “Did you tell him about us?” he asked out of one side of his mouth while keeping an eye on Father.
I shook my head. “Not yet. I will.”
 
Initially I was concerned about how Father would react to the Mullers and their simple lifestyle: children running in and out of the house; doors slamming; men's dirty workboots lined up on the back porch; plain, homey meals around a kitchen table, with no one to serve; laundry hanging out on the line for everyone to see. But I needn't have worried. Father fit right in. The war had changed him, made him accepting, able to see and appreciate the good that was inside people rather than concentrate on the external. He was still Father, but he was different. Humble.
He was also very tired. He slept for days, it seemed. He got up and ate meals with us, but that was all he seemed to have energy for. But he was a delightful and appreciative dinner guest.
That first night he ate prodigiously, complimenting the cooking, taking seconds and sometimes thirds, as if he were trying to gain back all the weight he'd lost in one sitting. I had baked for him—an international menu of sweets: chocolate chip cookies, Mrs. Ludwig's
sernik babci,
and an apple strudel that he said tasted exactly like the strudel from the bakery on Willhelmstrasse.
“Delicious!” Father said, cutting into another piece of strudel with the edge of his fork and eating it with relish. “I cannot believe that you made this yourself, Elise!” And then, turning to Mama, he said, “You're an excellent teacher, Mrs. Muller.”
“I had very little to do with it, I'm afraid,” Mama replied. “A dear old friend who is now gone taught her. Elise is a very accomplished young woman.”
Father nodded as if he knew exactly what Mama meant, “Yes. She was always a very clever girl. Even as a child—”
“Father,” I chided him gently. There was no need to bore everyone with stories of my imagined childhood accomplishments.
“Well, it's true! You were always very bright. You loved to read, almost as much as this young man does,” Father said, giving Curt an approving smile that Curt returned. “And how she could play the piano! Even as a tiny little girl! What an artist! You still play, don't you, Elise?”
“Yes, Father. I'll play for you after dinner if you'd like.”
“I would like that very much,” he said. “Very much.” He turned to Mama again. “Her mother was also a pianist. She taught Elise herself. Lale said she was practically a prodigy. She wanted to send her to the conservatory to study, but I said no. I didn't like the idea of my daughter playing in public.” Father sighed. “Silly of me. Now that I think about it, I don't know why that would have been so bad. So many things I might have done differently ...” his voice trailed off.
I reached across the table and patted his hand. “No, Father. It was for the best. I wouldn't have wanted to leave Mother to go study, and I'm very happy with my life here.”
“So many things,” Father repeated, as though he hadn't heard me.
Mama spoke. “Mr. Braun. There are always different choices to be made. Other paths we might have taken. There's no way of knowing if they would have been better. None of us are completely innocent,” she said gently, her eyes full of compassion, “or completely guilty.”
Father nodded as if to agree, but I could see in his eyes that he couldn't quite believe her. A film of liquid flooded his eyes, and we all sat looking at our plates, trying not to notice. Curt spoke up to break the awkward silence.
“You should see what else Elise can do,” he said. “She's a farmer.”
“A farmer?” Father asked, not quite sure if he understood what Curt was saying.
“Yup. Those tobacco fields outside were all her idea,” he reported. “And she works them herself, too. She can hoe and harvest tobacco as well as anybody. Faster than me, even.”
Father turned to me with a curious expression. “Those are your fields?”
“No,” I corrected him gently. “Those are
our
fields. We all work them together. The whole family helps.”
“But it was your idea, Elise. Your plan,” said Junior. “We would never have tried it if Elise hadn't pushed for it. We've got a fine crop out there, and it is all thanks to your daughter, Mr. Braun. You should go out later and have Elise give you a tour. I think you will be very proud of what she's been able to accomplish.”
“I already am,” Father said as he reached out to squeeze my hand.
“Would you like to see the fields, Father? We could go for a walk after dinner?”
He shook his head slowly, “Yes, I would, but not tonight. I think I will go to bed early. I'm suddenly very tired. It has been such a long journey.”
 
We stood at the sink, washing the dishes after dinner. Mama said, “Elise, I was talking to your father. He says that you are going home together.”
“I know,” I said and sighed. “He wants us to go back to Berlin. He thinks he can make everything like it was, that we can begin again.”
Mama was quiet, and for a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the sloshing of soapy water. “So you're leaving?”
“No, Mama! Of course not! This is my home now! You and Junior and the family. You are my new beginning! I just ...” I faltered. “I just don't know how to tell him. He seems so tired and fragile.”
“He has been through so much,” Mama agreed, “but he's a strong man on the inside, Elise. The two of you are very much alike. He'll heal. He just needs time.”
“I don't want to hurt him.”
“I know, but you're going to have to tell him. Do you remember how I cut back the rosebushes every year?”
I nodded. “By the time you're finished, they always look like you hacked at them with a butcher knife.”
“Yes, but I do it for a reason,” Mama said as she rinsed another glass and put it on the counter for me to dry. “I cut away the old dead branches, all the parts that aren't needed anymore, because that's what I have to do to force new growth in the spring. I always hate doing it, it seems so cruel somehow, but after winter ends and the sun warms the ground, they sprout new branches and leaves, and the whole thing grows back. It is never quite the same as it was before, but it grows back stronger and more beautiful than ever.”
I looked out the kitchen window at the fields. The wind had picked up and was blowing across the top of the tobacco plants, making the leaves wave in the wind, almost as if they were beckoning me. “I'll talk to him,” I said. “I'll do it tomorrow.”
 
We walked on the edge of the fields, along the south side, near the Schollers' place. Father seemed very interested in the process of tobacco cultivation and was fascinated by the design of the drying sheds with their adjustable louvers that let air pass freely through the shed without exposing the curing leaves to the weather. He asked very intelligent questions. I was surprised at how much he seemed to know about agriculture and told him so.
“You forget, Elise, we Brauns are not just soldiers, we also had estates in Silesia and grew all kinds of crops. As a boy, I used to spend my summers there and enjoyed helping in the fields. Or at least, supposing I was helping.” He smiled. “I may have been more underfoot than anything else, but the farmworkers were always kind to me, and the estate manager, old Fuhrmann, was almost like a second father to me.”
I was surprised. “Father, you never told me that story before. I had no idea.”
“Well, there is a great deal you don't know about me,
Liebling.
A great deal we don't know about each other.”
I continued the tour. “That is the Schollers' house over there,” I said, pointing across the fields. “They were our neighbors before Mr. Scholler died and Mrs. Scholler moved to Virginia.”
“Who lives there now?” he asked.
“No one at the moment. The place is up for sale.” I chuckled. “I had this crazy idea in the back of my mind that if we made enough money from the tobacco I could buy it. Our tobacco should bring a good price at market, but I know it won't be enough. It was a silly idea.” I shrugged. “But the boys are all good farmers, and they seem to enjoy it. I thought, if we had the Scholler land, too, there would be enough for all of them, and Mama would always be taken care of.”
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