The Watcher (13 page)

In the fenced-in yard, I took off Watcher's leash, found a stout twig, and threw the stick across the grass. My dog leaped, snatched it in midair, and brought it back to me. I repeated the game for several minutes. Then, without thinking, I tossed the stick too high and watched as it hurtled over the hedge between our property and the house next door. Watcher ran after the twig, his eyes on it as it spun through the air. Then he came to a stop at the thick bushes, puzzled, as if wondering where his toy had gone. He looked back at me questioningly.

“I'm sorry, Watcher,” I called. “Let's go inside now.”

However, Watcher still sniffed the ground and lawn beneath the hedgerow. Suddenly he vanished into the
greenery. I ran to where Watcher had disappeared, got down on my knees, and peered under the thick hedge. Watcher was tunneling his way under the branches and roots, scratching and pawing through to the opposite side.

“Come back, Watcher!” I called.
“Komm züruk!”
I stood up and brushed the dirt from my hands. Now I'd have to go out to the street and around to the next house to get him.

Just then I heard more scratching. I peered under the hedge again. Watcher was on his way back. He scrunched down as flat as he could make himself, while his front and back legs pushed him frantically through the shallow tunnel he had created. All the while he gripped his stick in his mouth. I couldn't help laughing as he made his way through the tangles of leaves and dirt. Once free of his leafy tunnel, he stood up and shook off the twigs and soil. Then, with his tail wagging wildly, he dropped the stick at my feet.

“Oh, thank you, Watcher.
Guter Hund!
” I laughed and hugged him.
“Guter Hund.”

Frieda called from the door. “Wendy.
Abendessen!
”

I clapped my hands at Watcher, who sat at my feet, tail still wagging. “Dinner is ready, Watcher. Let's go.”

After washing my hands at the stone sink, I plunked myself at the table.
“Oh,
Frieda
, Ich bin am Verhungern!”
I spread a slice of homemade bread with butter and stuffed it into my mouth.

I realized I had said, “I'm starving,” in German. How did I know those words without even thinking? Typically, I
had to think hard to put the German words together, or struggle to find the right word. It was just as Adrie had said—that suddenly, without realizing it, I was speaking German words and sentences. Turning to Frieda I said, “Frieda,
Ich spreche Deutsch!
I speak German!”

Frieda poured some tea for both of us then held up her cup as if making a toast.
“Prost,
Wendy
!”

“Prost!”
I responded happily. “Cheers!”

Adrie stayed in Munich for the next several weeks, so I was able to alternate my weekdays between Lebensborn and meeting Barret. He and I took walks around the park or down the street to the hospital, where we also found pleasant walkways to sit and talk. He had a personal name for me in both German and English. “Wendy Vendy!” I loved hearing him tease me and call me Wendy Vendy.

Barret and I worked with Watcher, teaching him to pause at street corners or at the edge of sidewalks. When walking with me, Watcher veered me away protectively from other people who passed by. We rewarded Watcher with Frieda's dog cookies.

We talked about our lives growing up. I told him about Mom and Daddy in New York, my school and my friends. I related what had happened in Maine with the malicious girls there, and about my friend Jill and her famous father, the singer Drew Winters.

Barret told me about his years in England and how he came back to Germany . . . to attend his father's funeral.

Several times Barret confided in me his feelings and
fears about the Third Reich. That was when I told him my decision to “see no evil, speak no evil, and hear no evil” like the three wise monkeys on my bracelet. “I want to be happy. I am going to block out all the horrible things I hear.”

He listened, then reached for my hand. “Wendy Vendy, be happy, but don't hide from the truth.”

O
ne morning I arrived at Lebensborn as a few young children were eating breakfast at their little tables. Hunfrid, who was with them, didn't seem to be eating.

I went to Hunfrid, took his spoon, dipped it into the oatmeal, and held the spoon to his lips.

“Nein.”
He turned his head away.

“Aren't you hungry?” I asked. I noticed his flushed face and runny nose, then put my hand to his forehead. “You're burning up with fever, poor baby!” I whispered. I looked around, hoping to see Frau Messner or Johanna. There was no one to help, so I gathered him into my arms and headed for the nursery.

After setting Hunfrid into a crib, I filled a small basin with water from a nearby tub. I pulled Hunfrid's shirt up, dipped the cloth in the cool water, and was about to wipe his hot little back and chest when he began to shudder violently.
His head fell back, his eyes rolled, and his body arched. At that moment Hunfrid threw up, the vomit spewing out all over the crib and me. “He's convulsing!” I yelled in English, not knowing the word for “convulsing” in German.

A nurse came, grabbed the wet face cloth from me, and wiped Hunfrid's mouth and his stiff, trembling body. Then, snatching him from the crib, she raced to the set tub, and shoved him into the water. Slowly, the little boy's tremors subsided. The nurse splashed water and soap over him, wrapped a towel around him, and carried him back to another, clean crib.

I asked, “What's wrong?” in German. She answered me but spoke so fast, I could not follow all her words. I was ready to cry myself, when Johanna appeared. She looked me up and down, and I realized how I must look and smell with my clothes covered with vomit.

“Johanna, little Hunfrid is so sick. He had convulsions.”

Johanna's shoulders sank and she shook her head. “Oh, no! He must not get sick,” she responded in English.

“For goodness' sake, it's not his fault,” I said. “Is there a doctor here?”

The nurse standing nearby understood.
“Ja. Doktor,”
she said, leaving the room.

Johanna pointed to a nearby lavatory and said, “Go clean up, and I'll change Hunfrid.”

In the bathroom I took off my clothes, washed up, and a found a pile of clean housedress uniforms on a shelf. I put
one on, stuffed my own clothing into a bag, and went back to Hunfrid's crib. A woman doctor had arrived and was listening to his heart and lungs. I recognized her. It was Dr. Ernst—Gertrude Ernst's mother. She didn't seem to recognize me.

“Is he all right?” I asked in German.

“He is not well, this boy.” She pointed to his thin body and shook her head. “He is German, right?”

“He is . . . ,” I began.

Johanna quickly cut me off. “There are many cold germs going around,” she said. “Several children have come down with this. I'm sure he will be fine.” Johanna held Hunfrid up while Dr. Ernst poured a tablespoon of liquid into his mouth. He coughed and sputtered, then looked up at me helplessly. I felt helpless too.

“We must give him this every four hours,” Johanna said after Dr. Ernst left. She set the medicine on a nearby table.

“Why did you say he must not get sick, Johanna?”

Johanna whispered. “Don't you understand, Wendy? He's not German. We have to keep him well and healthy. If he's sickly and doesn't fit in as a German child . . .” Her voice trailed off, but I could hear every word. “They won't waste more time or money on a little Polish boy.”

I never left Hunfrid's bedside all day. Although he slept most of the time, once or twice he opened his eyes and looked for me. When he saw I was there, he went quietly back to sleep.

I wondered about his mother and how she must be missing him—and then I remembered hearing his mother
was dead. “Do you know what happened to Hunfrid's mother?” I asked Johanna when she came by to see how I was doing.

Johanna shook her head. “Oh, Wendy, she was shot and killed when she tried to grab him away from the SS officer who took him. Hunfrid is a perfect Aryan. Blonde hair, blue eyes. He looks German.”

“I thought the war was being fought for . . . land, power, or other things. But kidnapping a baby because he is blue-eyed and blond, and then killing his mother? That's too terrible to bear, and I am trying not believe or even listen to such horrible stories.”

Johanna put her arm around me. “It is horrible, Wendy. Yet, it is true.”

I recalled Barret's words to me:
Don't hide from the truth, Wendy.

T
hings may work out well for Hunfrid,” Johanna said with a bright smile that I knew was meant to cheer me up. “Many Germans adopt or at least care for Lebensborn babies. In fact, an SS officer and his wife have come in several times to see Hunfrid. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they decide to take him home.”

“Were they kind? Did he like them?”

“They thought he was sweet and intelligent. They played with him, and he was laughing and being merry. He seems happy when they come to visit him.”

“What if no one takes him? What will happen to him? How long will Lebensborn take care of him?”

“If he stays well, maybe . . .” Johanna turned away. “I do not know. I hear . . . terrible things.” She stopped as if considering whether to tell me. Then she whispered, “Remember, there are death camps where thousands and
thousands of people—including mothers and babies—are murdered every day.”

“If this is all true, why don't the German people do something? It's as if there's a big secret that everyone knows but no one talks about.”

Johanna nodded. “Those who know are afraid for their own lives, so they close their eyes and ears to the horrors going on here. However, God knows and sees everything. He will see that this wickedness ends.”

I was suddenly angry with God—wherever he was. “God is silent too!”

“He's not silent. He is using people who risk their lives to get the truth of what is going on here out the world—as well as bringing God's message of hope for the future. Trust me, Wendy. God is not silent.”

“How can you go on, being helpful and upbeat, even though you and your family are imprisoned?”

“I believe that God is watching and he will end the atrocities in his own time.” She gave me a hug and went back to work. Somehow she always had a way of making me feel better.

Before I left Lebensborn late that afternoon, I washed Hunfrid's hot little body with cool water, dressed him in clean pajamas, and rocked him until he fell asleep.

I was getting up to leave when I noticed two new girls had arrived and were putting their jackets into the closet. When they turned around, I recognized them from the tea party reception. It was Gertrude Ernst and her sidekick,
Rikka Himmelman. I turned away quickly, but they saw me.

“Isn't that Wendy Dekker?” Gertrude muttered in German to her friend. “I'm surprised that they trust an American to work here.” She bitterly spit out the word
American
.

“
Ja.
Will we need to work with her?”

“Of course not. We are here to . . . Johanna . . .
Bibelforscher
.”

I strained my ears but could not hear the rest of Gertrude's words. However, I did hear Johanna's name and the word
Bibelforscher
—the name for the Bible Students who were being imprisoned and killed. Gertrude and Rikka were here to make trouble for my friend Johanna!

The two girls probably didn't know I saw them or that I could speak German pretty well now. So, without a word, I quickly went into the nursery where Johanna was working.

“Hunfrid's asleep,” she said gently, when she saw me. “He'll be fine now, Wendy. Don't worry.”