Secrets She Kept (17 page)

He grinned. “Thank you for not linking me with the geriatric set
 
—not yet. Though I realize that ten years makes quite a difference.”

“Not so much.” I blushed, astonished at my boldness, but it only set a light off in his brown eyes. I moistened my lips and swallowed.

“Ah, good. Then I will be bold. Would you like to go to dinner some evening this week?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, something more substantial than
 
—though not necessarily as delicious as
 
—your apple strudel.” He grinned, helping himself to a bite. “And a film, perhaps.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I mean, I’d like that very much, but I’m not certain about leaving Grandfather alone in the evening.”

“He is not well?”

“He has a heart condition, and he depends on me, you see.”

“He depends on you so much that an evening out with a friend is not possible? Has he not hired another housekeeper?”

“No.” I stirred my coffee, realizing how strange that must sound. “Not yet.”

Carl waited.

“While I’m here there’s no reason I can’t do those things. I’m just on my way now to pick up an order at the greengrocer’s.”

“Yes, I see.”

This was the half that I wished might never darken my door.

“Have you asked him about your mother?”

“No,” I admitted. “We’re getting along really well right now, just getting to know each other for the first time.”

“And you fear that talking about his daughter would upset him so very much.”

“He’s made it clear that the past is very painful for him; he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I imagine not.”

“You’re quick to jump to conclusions.”

“And you refuse to accept that there are conclusions to be made after considering relevant facts. But if you do not examine those facts, Hannah, if you do not investigate to find out if they
are
facts, you avoid having to form any conclusion.”

“You have no proof.”

“That doesn’t mean there is no proof. Germans are known for keeping meticulous records. There may be
 
—”

“Just because I don’t believe my family hunted Jews and sold them for blood money doesn’t mean
 
—”

“I never said that your family hunted Jews
 
—not all your family. You should listen more carefully.”

I yanked my coat and scarf from the chair and threw down the marks for my bill. “Good-bye, Carl.” This time I made my dramatic exit on my own terms.

Who does he think he is?

“He convinced the Jews to trust him, to give him their valuables, then reported them to the Reich. . . . They gave him a cut, after they arrested those who’d trusted Herr Sommer with their lives. . . . While men and women starved and were sent to camps, Herr Sommer grew fat and rich because he’d tricked them.”

No matter how many days passed, Carl’s words echoed in my brain. I jerked my bicycle from the rack and sped off, pedaling faster and faster,
skidding on icy patches, nearly losing my brake blocks as I tore down the hill. I just wanted to get home, to forget Carl and all he implied.

I must ask Grandfather, must summon the courage to tell him what Carl said
 
—how else can he deny it?
Surely he could explain the source of such a vile rumor and how we might set it straight. I’d grown to love Grandfather, was sure he loved me. I’d stay in Berlin until we had set it right, even if that meant all summer. The community at home had ostracized my mother because of her accent. Here Grandfather’s accent was perfect, natural, but still the community ostricized him, if Carl’s words or Frau Winkler’s attitude was any indication. Certainly no friendly neighbors had popped in during my stay. Next it would be me. I wouldn’t take it
 
—not anymore, not again.

Someone called to me as I raced round the bend, but I refused to slow. I swerved into the narrow drive only to find Dr. Peterson’s automobile blocking the path. I guided my bike to the outside kitchen wall, let myself in through the back door, and leaned against it, willing my heart to still. Voices rose and fell from up the stairs, intense, argumentative.

I set the kettle on the stove. A cup of tea might warm me through, might stop my hands from shaking.

The door behind me rattled with a sharp pounding and I jumped, clapping a hand over my heart. I pulled it open, half expecting to see Carl, ready to give him another piece of my mind. But it was the greengrocer’s son.

“I have your order, Fräulein Sterling.” The boy, fourteen or so, removed his cap. “I saw you race by, and mein Vater thought you may have forgotten.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I did forget
 
—completely. Thank you.” I took the box, heavier by half than what I’d imagined, grateful for his kindness and help.

“Do you want me to put it on Herr Sommer’s bill?”

“No, I have the money
 
—just a sec. How much?” I set the box on the table.

“Five marks should cover it.”

“Five marks. Here.” I pulled the change purse from my coat pocket. “One, two, three, four . . . I’m a little short.” I remembered the purse
Grandfather had shown me on the library shelf.
I shouldn’t interrupt him and the doctor upstairs.
“Please come in and have a seat; it’s too cold to wait outside. I’ll get the rest.”

The library door stood ajar. It felt like prowling to walk in without Grandfather there.
That’s silly. He said his house is my house. He’s already told me I could use the purse whenever I need it. I’m just taking him at his word.
I’d switched on the brass desk lamp to better see when I noticed his desk drawer was not quite closed. He was always very particular about his desk. But he’d left a small brass key in the lock
 
—unlike him.

For all the frustration and even humiliation I’d felt about Carl’s accusation, a tiny doubt lingered at the corner of my mind. Grandfather’s desk was the one thing I knew he kept locked, the only place I could imagine there might be secrets hiding.

It took but a moment. Before I could rationalize the impropriety or think myself out of it, I turned the key and pulled open the narrow drawer. Inside was a single object
 
—a long, gray-bound book, frayed at its browned edges, worn round at its corners. Carl’s words flashed through my mind.
“That doesn’t mean there is no proof. Germans are known for keeping meticulous records.”

I took a deep breath and pulled it out, opened the cover. The front page had one word,
Rechnung
, with dates penned below:
November 15, 1938–1944
. The second page was divided into columns. The first listing gave the date again
 
—November 15, 1938
 
—then a surname, Goldstein, with four Christian names indented beneath.
Or are they “Christian” names?
There was an address in Berlin, and then a listing
 
—perhaps an inventory of some kind. I tried to read the German words, but I wasn’t sure what they all meant. One heading was
Geld
. I knew that meant money
 
—like the word
gold
in English. I didn’t know what the next word,
Juwelen
, meant, nor
Ausgabe
and
Gemylde
, and under that
Renoir
.

My pulse beat loudest in my ears, my brain.

“Fräulein?” It was the greengrocer’s son calling through the hallway. I’d completely forgotten him.

The rumble of voices upstairs stopped. Footfalls down the stairs and a sharp tirade in German
 
—
Dr. Peterson!

I slid the ledger back into the drawer and had barely turned the key when the library door flew open.

“What are you doing in this room?” Dr. Peterson thundered at me, his grip on the boy’s arm formidable. His eyes flew round the room, then back to the desk and me. “Answer me! What are you doing here?”

Stop shaking . . . stop shaking . . . stop shaking.
“I just came in to get the purse for market money. I need to pay the greengrocer, and I respectfully suggest that you stop manhandling his son.”

“He is not a thief?”

“He is most definitely not a thief. He was kind enough to bring over a delivery too heavy for me to carry on the bike.” I summoned all the indignation I could muster. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will pay this kind young man, whom you’ve most certainly traumatized, and send him on his way.” I pried Dr. Peterson’s fingers from the boy’s arm and gently pushed the frightened young man through the door, intending to brush past Dr. Peterson. I willed my steps even, tried to appear in control of my pounding heart and racing pulse.

But Dr. Peterson stepped between the boy and me. “You will forgive me, Fräulein Sterling. I am most concerned with Herr Sommer’s privacy in his vulnerable state. I am his lifelong friend, and there is nothing I would not do to protect him. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Dr. Peterson. But I must remind you that I’m his granddaughter, and he does not need protecting from me
 
—or the greengrocer’s son. And as far as I know, Grandfather and I do not have secrets from one another.” I waited, perhaps a heartbeat too long. “So you really have nothing to worry about.” I straightened my spine, glaring.

He stepped aside. “Did you not forget something?”

He caught me off guard.

“The purse you require . . . the reason you came into this room.”

“Yes, of course.” I brushed my forehead, doing my best to look as
though forgetting my head was an everyday occurrence, and retrieved the purse from the shelf behind Grandfather’s desk.

I paid the pale, wide-eyed grocer’s son, who would surely never deliver another thing to this house and warn every other merchant against doing so. I closed the back door, chilled to the bone
 
—and not because of the northeast January wind that whipped through the kitchen.

LIESELOTTE SOMMER

OCTOBER 1943

Lukas did not evaporate into thin air this time. He and the entire Kirchmann family attended Rudy’s memorial service, a quiet and simple event with close friends and our dwindling family. Once the lists were published, there were so many funerals, so many memorial services, and too few bodies returned to families. The Führer ordered private affairs for the most part. It was too demoralizing for the people, just as he’d predicted.

Rudy’s body was not returned. Still, Vater erected a stone for him next to Mutti’s. Because we did not know his death date, Vater had it inscribed as July 18, 1943. Rudy would have been twenty years old on that day. So young. That was the hardest of all.

After the service, just as after Mutti’s funeral, Dr. Peterson took Vater
out drinking, as if that would make him forget the death of his only son. Fräulein Hilde cast me a pitying glance, but joined them.

Sophia had gone to visit her mother, so that night I put the kettle on alone in the kitchen. Was that to be my funeral ritual?

The days had grown short, and it was dark before seven. I opened the door to the larder but had neither heart nor stomach to eat. I brewed the ersatz strong and dark, and dumped a week’s worth of sugar rations into the pot. Sophia would be furious.

I lit one small lamp and sat at the kitchen table, sipping the too-sweet brew and scalding my throat. At least I felt something.

Three light taps at the window made me jump.

“Lieselotte! Let me in!”

I opened the door and there stood Lukas, a platter of sandwiches in one hand and a kettle of something hot emanating an amazing fragrance in the other. I blinked. I’d played this role before.

He held up his offerings with a conciliatory smile, recognizing the sad irony.

I stepped back, glad that he brushed my shoulder, glad not to be alone, glad it was Lukas bearing gifts. “Your mother’s soup?” I inhaled.

“You know Mutti. She means well.”

“Thank her. But, I can’t eat. Not now.”

“Ah, ah.” He wagged his finger. “Mutti says you must or she will come over here herself and spoon it into your mouth.” He set the pot on the stove. “I begged her to let me do it.”

“Lukas.” I couldn’t hold back the tears.

He said nothing but pulled my head to his chest, wrapping me in his arms, stroking my hair as he would comfort a child. “I’m sorry, my little Lieselotte. I’m so very sorry.”

No more words between us. Only soft kisses in my hair and a gentle drying of my tear-stained face before he slipped through the door and into the night an hour later.

I slept that night as I hadn’t slept in months.

The next morning I left before Vater came downstairs, to return the platter and pot to Frau Kirchmann, in hope of seeing Lukas once more. But he had already gone.

“A message came last night, and he packed his bag right away. He said it was urgent and didn’t know when he could come again.”

I nodded, as if that were the most natural thing in the world; inside, my heart was breaking.

Frau Kirchmann motioned me into the back garden and closed the kitchen door behind her. “Lukas thinks that our house might have
 
—what do they call it
 
—a listening device of some kind. That they might be suspicious of our work, or of his work.”

“Have you seen this?” I’d heard of such things in novels and films, but not in real life.

“
Nein
, but our house was searched. Things . . . were taken. We cannot be too careful. His life
 
—all our lives and those we help
 
—might depend on it.”

“That’s why you talked so strangely about Anna the other day. Now I understand.”

She nodded. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I dared not let our conversation steer them to Anna. Marta told me what you did for Lukas and Anna. It was a terrible risk, but I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Lieselotte. If Lukas had been taken
 
—”

“Shh, shh
 
—it did not happen. We’ll all work to make certain it does not happen.”

She pulled her cardigan tight around her, as if the threat of arrest chilled her through. “I don’t know exactly what he does. But it’s dangerous, so very dangerous. We must pray hard for him.”

“Gathering intelligence? This is dangerous?” Of course it was; I knew this. What was it but spying, and what could be more dangerous except standing in front of a firing squad? But I wanted to talk to her, to anyone, about Lukas. To say his name. Despite the terrible loss of Rudy I
could not stop thinking of Lukas as I’d boldly kissed him that day in the street, as he’d tenderly held me last night. It could mean nothing for our future, or everything. It was my lifeline.

Frau Kirchmann must have understood
 
—when had she not? She caressed my arm. “He can’t make commitments now, you know. The work he does is uncertain and depends so much on his having no ties, no inhibitions about anything
 
—not even protecting his own life for the sake of another’s heart. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes of course, I understand.”

She nodded, as if she believed me. “Good. That’s good. You must plan your future apart from Lukas, Lieselotte. You must protect your heart.”

I didn’t want to think about what she’d said, refused to think about it. “I must get back. Vater does not know I’ve gone out. He
 
—he came in late, and will need something for his headache.”

“
Ja, ja
 
—you go, my dear. But come anytime
 
—anytime at all. Only remember
 
—be very careful what you say in our house or on the phone.
Ja?
”

“
Ja
, I will. Thank you again for the soup and sandwiches, Frau Kirchmann.” I forced a smile and she hugged me in return.

The door closed behind her, and I was left in the cold. I’d come with such warmth and hope
 
—and now, nothing. It was only October and the sun shone brilliantly, the sky a startling blue, but all the world felt gray, and the numbness of an early winter seeped into my bones.

I was halfway down the street, lost in my own world, when Marta, breathless, caught up to me, shook my arm. “Did you not hear me calling? Are you deaf?”

“
Nein
, I did not hear.” I stared at her. Her nose, her forehead resembled Lukas’s. I didn’t even want to think about that. “What do you want, Marta?”

“Lukas,” she panted.

“Your mother already told me he left.” I turned to walk away.

“He gave me this
 
—to give you. He said not to tell anyone and that if something happens to him, you must ignore this. He said it breaks
every rule he’s bound to.” She shoved a folded paper into my hand. “Don’t tell Mutti.”

“Did you read it?”

She laughed, “Yes, of course!” and was gone.

I unfolded the paper. Three words scribbled in the hand I had memorized since childhood:
Wait for me.