It's You (16 page)

“She shared with me about her past.” I wait for him to jump in, say something but he doesn’t. “About when she worked at the American embassy in Berlin. During the war.”

“Did she? That’s interesting. She rarely talks about those years.”

“It made me uneasy.”

“Those were difficult years.”

“Yes, but . . . she was American. And she married a German.”

“Yes.”

“A Nazi.”

“Yes, I guess he was.”

“Was
she
a Nazi?”

Craig’s brow creases. “No! Why would you think that?”

“Because of who he was—”

“I don’t think she’s told you enough. Franz was a German officer, and a member of the Nazi party, but he was also part of the German Resistance, and he paid for it with his life.”

Edie

I
sit in my room in the deepening shadows. It will be dark outside soon. I should turn on lights. But I like the shadows of twilight. It is now, when day turns to night, that I feel the ghosts of the past.

It is here, now, when I can feel Franz best.

In September, it will be seventy years since he died. In July, it will be seventy years since he kissed me good-bye.

I didn’t know when he put me on that train to Ascona that I would never see him again. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone. I am sure that’s why he didn’t tell me. He knew I couldn’t leave him. That’s why we married in the first place.

The shadows deepen and my room is blue black. If I don’t turn on a lamp soon, I could trip over something and fall.

Reluctantly I rise and make my way to the wall, and flip the switches for the overhead light. I blink and move to the kitchen, and turn on the light there.

I don’t think I will go down to dinner tonight. I think I shall heat up a can of soup and have some crackers. Some saltines. If they are not too stale. Chad says I keep my crackers and biscuits
too long, but I don’t understand throwing out a perfectly good cracker just because it is not as crisp as it used to be.

Opening a can of minestrone, I pour it into a small saucepan and place the pan on the stove.

As I stand over the pan and wait for the soup to boil I keep thinking about my conversation with Alison this morning, and her expression when I mentioned Franz, and how we met.

This is why I do not talk about my life. This is why I’ve learned to remain silent. There are things you don’t say. Things you can’t say. Who will listen? Who wants to hear the truth, because the truth is never simple? The truth is complex and dark and sometimes very dirty.

War
is sordid business.

War requires a victor and that means someone must win and someone must lose and then there are the consequences . . . winners, and losers . . .

Reparations.

I cannot talk about what I know and what I’ve seen. Who wants to think about what was done?

The Germans weren’t all bad. There were many who were very good. Many who tried to do the right thing.

When I first returned to America, I was told not to make excuses for them. And then again, later, when I tried to share how it was, I was criticized and condemned. Even Ellie told me it was better to be silent than share what I know.
It is just to protect you,
she’d say.

I agree that those in power had to be punished, but not all Germans were aggressors. There were plenty who didn’t agree with the government, thousands involved in the Resistance.

I stir the soup as it starts to boil but my spoon is short and the side of the pan burns my hand. I yank my hand back, dropping my spoon with a clatter, and go to the sink to run cool water on my skin.

I’m running the water when a knock sounds at my door.

I tense, and glare in the direction of the door. I’m pretty sure I know who it is and I’m not feeling conversational.

• • •

T
he soup boils over as I return to the kitchen with Alison trailing after me, talking at my back about misunderstanding me or something along those lines.

I wasn’t happy when I answered the door and am even less congenial now that my soup is bubbling and splashing all over my stove. With a wrench on the dial, I turn the heat off and shove the pan off the burner. I’ve burned the bottom of the pan. I can smell the scorched odor.

“Let me help,” Alison says, grabbing my dishrag from the sink and coming towards the stove.

“Leave it alone,” I snap, taking the cloth from her and wiping away the mess. “It’s my kitchen. My dinner.”

She falls back a step and watches me, her expression reproachful.

Or maybe I’m just feeling ashamed for being so crotchety. I look at her as I wipe the last of the soup. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry? Would you like a bowl?”

She manages a weak smile. “From the pan, or your dishcloth?”

My lips flatten and press, and then relent. I smile faintly, amused. “Craig would have my head if I gave you dishrag soup.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell him.”

“I’ve told him you’re not right for him.”

“I agree with you. I’m not right for him. He’s far too lovely for someone like me.”

I shoot her a suspicious glance, wondering if she’s being a smarty-pants, but she meets my gaze directly. “So what is wrong with you?”

“I’m just not interested in a relationship, so you don’t have to worry. Craig is safe.”

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t like anyone—”

“Because you’re grieving.”

“Yes.”

“Well, everyone’s heart gets broken at least once or twice. That’s just a fact of life. And don’t think you’re going to meet a man who hasn’t had his share of grief. Craig lost his first love to leukemia. He was just a freshman in college when she died, but they’d been together since junior high and he adored her.” I reach into the cupboard for two small cups. “Last chance. Soup?”

She shakes her head. “I’m meeting Dad for dinner.”

I take down just one cup. “Eventually you’ll feel differently.”

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine ever wanting to go through this again.”

I get a spoon, and my crackers from the pantry, and carry my cup to the table. The soup is still very hot. I can feel the burn on my hand, the skin tender.

“Wait here,” I say to Alison, and instead of sitting down, I go into my guest bedroom and retrieve the box with the papers and letters and dark brown leather journal. I carry it back to the kitchen where Alison watches as I sort through the various papers to find a large manila envelope that has yellowed with age.

I take out the envelope, my fingers running lightly beneath the flap. “This is all I have left from my courtship with Franz. I’ve always kept a diary, and had kept a detailed diary from the day I moved to Berlin, until the night Pearl Harbor was bombed, but we had to burn everything at the embassy on December eighth. Anything that could be used against the US government or our allies had to go, and as I’d written a great deal about embassy life,
I had to destroy everything from the past two years so that we could close the embassy down.”

“That must have been absolutely chaotic,” she says.

“Leland Morris and George Kennan were responsible for overseeing the transfer of American interests in Germany to our Swiss representatives. Bank accounts had to be closed. Foreign staff terminated. US citizens protected.” I set the envelope on the table and sit down, careful not to slosh my soup. “Because of my language skills, back in June, I was one of those involved in the closure of the remaining American consulates in Germany, and so I was integral to the closure of the embassy in Berlin.”

Alison sits down across from me. “Were you afraid?”

“Worried, more than afraid. I grew up overseas, my father attached to several consulates during periods of turmoil and war, so I felt physically safe, just deeply troubled by the fact that the US was now at war with Germany.”

“How old were you?”

“In 1941?” I frown, trying to remember. It’s been so long. A lifetime ago. “Early twenties, I think. Let me see. I was born in 1920, so I would have been . . . twenty-one.”

“And your parents weren’t worried?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. My father and mother were both quite anxious to get me home. They’d wanted me to return back in June, when I was assisting closing the consulates, but my language skills and translation services were needed too badly for me to return then. So I stayed. It was not an easy decision, and ultimately, I do think it placed too much stress on my father. He was already having health problems—” I break off, shake my head, and focus on stirring my soup. It’s so hard going back, talking about a world that doesn’t even exist anymore.

I set the spoon down and fold my hands together. “He died before the war ended. Ellie said it was not my fault, that his heart
wasn’t strong anymore, but it couldn’t have been easy for him, knowing I was there, doing what I was doing.”

Alison’s brow creases. “I can’t even imagine.”

I nudge the envelope towards her. “There’s not very much here. Just twenty or thirty pages that one of my girlfriends from the embassy took with her after we were released from the Grand at Bad Nauheim, promising to mail it to my family in New Rochelle once she arrived back in the United States.”

“What was the Grand? And Bad Nauheim?”

“The Grand was the hotel in Bad Nauheim, a small resort town outside Frankfurt, where the embassy staff was interned after the declaration of war. We thought we’d be there for two weeks. We ended up at the Grand for nearly four and a half months.”

I pat the edge of the envelope. “My sister Ellie thought I should have these pages published, but I couldn’t. They were so very personal, and I don’t really think they explain the war, or Franz, or his friends. But it’s all I have of our courtship. All I have of those first few years together.”

I fall silent, and the past weighs on me, as does the guilt.

Why didn’t we do more?

Why didn’t America take action sooner?

“You can read it, or not read it,” I add shortly, dipping my spoon into my soup, ready to be alone. “It’s up to you.”

Ali

I
’ve been dismissed again, but I’m not surprised. These conversations clearly tire her, and Dad’s waiting in the dining room.

I take the envelope with me, tucking it into my purse and head downstairs. Dad is already seated at a round table with eight place settings. Half the chairs are filled. “Wasn’t sure you were still going to join me,” Dad says, as I take one of the empty chairs.

“I was upstairs, talking to Edie.”

“Is she coming down?”

“Not tonight. She made herself some soup.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, aware that the others at the table are listening, and I’m not sure how much Edie would want revealed. “She was telling me about how she worked at the American embassy in Berlin and was there in 1941, when Pearl Harbor was bombed and the US declared war on Japan.”

“Which meant, Germany declared war on the US,” he adds.

I nod. “She had a diary she’d kept during her embassy service, but she had to burn it, along with all the official confidential papers.”

“Who are you talking about?” Floyd demands, looking up over his fork.

“Edie Stephens,” Bill replies. “Right?”

“Edie worked at the American embassy? Doing what? Nagging?”

“She was a translator,” I answer. “She speaks five languages.”

“Huh.” Floyd’s not impressed.

“She was married to a German,” George adds. “During the war.”

All eyes are on George.

“Here, in the US?” Bill asks.

“No. Over there, during the war, and when she returned to the US after the war, she had to go to one of those camps for Germans for a while. Not sure how long she was there—”

“There was a camp for Germans?” I interrupt.

“Sure. Just like for the Japanese. I think there were six or seven camps, with half of them in Texas, but far fewer Germans were actually locked up. You couldn’t put them all in internment . . . just too many in this country, and most of those interned were living on the coast. You couldn’t leave them there, you see. You had to protect the borders. Had to make sure there were no spies. Which is why Edie was sent there. Government didn’t know what to do with her, or if she could be trusted. I don’t think she got out until the war was over.”

Walter clears his throat. “The government must have thought she was a Nazi, if she’d married one.”

Isn’t that what I’d thought, too?

More than ever, I want to get home and read her diary.

• • •

A
n hour later I’m back at Poppy Lane, in my pajamas, climbing into bed with the envelope. I carefully draw the papers out. They are very thin, almost like tissue and the handwriting is quite delicate, almost spidery.

I lean over to turn on the lamp next to me, and begin reading.

December 11, 1941

Frantic day destroying files and burning all papers at the embassy. The sky was so black with smoke that the police complained that the ash was blanketing the streets and cars.

After work I met F. at the Adlon for drinks and dinner. We talk about the future and what we expect to happen. He tells me not to worry, everything will work out. Yet I worry anyway. I appreciate his calm and confidence but the situation is very different now.

December 12, 1941

F. stayed with me until quite late and then slipped away while still under the cover of darkness.

I didn’t want him to leave.

I didn’t want to return to the embassy this morning, but I’m here now and we wait in empty offices for our next orders. It sounds as if we are to be sent somewhere for a few weeks until our passage home can be arranged. I know the US is now formally at war with Germany but I do not want to go home.

Throughout the day, Leland Morris insists we stay inside, but as the hours wear on we become increasingly quarrelsome,
anxious to go home and pack and make decisions regarding our furniture and possessions in preparation for our expulsion. Rumors continue to swirl about where we are to go, and what’s to happen next. Some say we are to go to a villa in Potsdam. Others say Bavaria. I would much rather stay close to Berlin to remain near F.

Finally at 7 p.m., Morris released us and allowed us to go home with instructions not to gather with other Americans, speak English in public, or draw attention to ourselves in any way. We heard that many members of the American press corps are being arrested and questioned before being released and placed under house arrest.

It is a most uneasy night, tonight, as friends come and go to say good-bye and I give away everything I no longer need, from extra ration cards to my best coats and boots since it is so difficult for my German friends to get the food, soap, thread, and clothing they need.

And each time there is a knock at the door, I feel a little ripple of unease. The Gestapo prefer to make their arrests under the cover of darkness and I wonder if the knock will be a friend, or foe.

The Gestapo do not come. But then, neither does F. I fall asleep waiting for him to come by.

December 13, 1941

Everyone is tired and subdued this morning at the embassy. We’d been gathered for an hour or two before we were given firm travel plans. Tomorrow we leave Berlin. We may take
all our personal belongings, and there is no limit on our luggage, provided we have it at the embassy in time for the 10 a.m. departure. Morris reminded us that there will be no taxis tomorrow, Sunday, so luggage must be at the embassy tonight.

We leave to go home and finish packing and say our final good-byes.

At home I can delay no longer as I must return with my trunks tonight. F. has a car but I do not know if he will be able to assist me so I pack my clothes, my books, and personal mementoes. I’m dragging my big trunks down the stairs from the third floor to the second when I hear voices at the bottom of the stairwell—the traditional
Heil Hitler
salute followed by the sharp click of boot heels on the steps.

I know that voice. I know that step. F. has arrived.

December 14, 1941

Difficult saying good-bye to F. He left very early in the morning while it was still dark. He says I am not to worry, that I might not know his whereabouts but he will always know mine and I will not leave Germany without seeing him again. He promised and I believe him.

But my bed was so empty after he left and I rolled into the spot where he had lain, trying to keep it warm, trying to pretend he was still with me.

We still have not made love. F says it is not responsible, that we cannot take such risks when there is so much uncertainty. I told him my feelings were not uncertain and he tapped my nose and said I was deliberately turning his words around.

“Then I wish you were not so old-fashioned,” I complained.

“But you would not love me if I were not honorable,” he answered.

How well he knows me, for I do love him. Dearly.

Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz.

Dawn is breaking now, and in the next hour I shall make my last cup of faux coffee and gather the last of my things, and put on my coat and hat and scarf and walk down Unter den Linden for the last time. I shall pass the great buildings and hotels, the Staat, the opera house I have so loved, bombed earlier in the year and already being rebuilt so it can reopen in the coming year. Germans need their art. I need my art. I remember the first opera I attended at the Staat when I was just a little girl, traveling through Europe with my family. It was such a different Europe than now. All the light is gone. Hope dimmed. If it were not for F., I would have no hope at all. But he believes that Germany can be saved, and reborn. But first the enemy within must be contained.

Walked to the embassy in the rain. I didn’t mind the rain though, it hid my tears. Police and soldiers inside and outside the embassy check papers and cards. Kennan mentioned quickly and cryptically that attaché office’s chief clerk, Herbert Burgman, would not be joining us as he’d chosen to remain in Berlin. Everyone knew what that meant. He was defecting.

Kennan’s announcement didn’t seem to disturb the fifteen or so American newsmen who have joined us this morning at the embassy. They are adventurous fellows, quick-witted and full of stories. Not everyone enjoys their jokes but I find it a relief after the tense past few days. Some of the embassy fellows aren’t happy
to have the journalists with us, predicting trouble. I can’t imagine how they can cause any more trouble than the Germans themselves! Several of the newsmen are quite handsome (although none as handsome as my F.!) and have learned to survive on coffee, cigarettes, liquor, and a devil-take-all attitude during these past few years in Germany. I feel sorry for our embassy men. The newsmen make our diplomatic corps appear quite dull.

It rained the entire way to the Potsdamer Platz train station where we boarded our cars. The rain continues now as the luggage is loaded. There is far more luggage than anyone (much less the Germans) anticipated and the luggage is delaying our departure now. With the newsmen joining us, I believe there are now 114 or 115 of us altogether. Oh! And there are birds traveling with us, too. One of the press brought a birdcage . . . with birds!

No, the newsmen are nothing like the rest of us.

We finally set off some time after one o’clock.

And it is a Mr. Alex Small who brought the birds. They are canaries.