Never Turn Back (20 page)

“I have heard of this book.” He picked it up, read the title, then put down the massive tome. Meri could not see the expression on his face. From the waning smile on Madame’s face, Meri suspected Monsieur was not pleased.

Ilsa spoke before Greta had a chance to reply to her husband. “Michel, the book is all the rage in Germany. Everyone has one word for Hitler’s work: brilliant! Everyone has read or is reading the book. You must read it. Hilter is a genius. He is Germany’s savior. He has a plan to save all of Europe.” She spoke so rapidly and in a French thickened heavily with a distinctive, hard German accent. Meri had a hard time understanding everything Ilsa said.

Greta broke in. “Ilsa gave us the book as a gesture of gratitude for our hospitality, Michel. She also would love for us to read and discuss it with her. You can see how excited she is by Hitler’s ideas. Surely you agree a polite host keeps an open mind and receives a gift graciously,” Greta said with a smile.

“Greta, Darling, in what language is Hitler’s book written?”

Greta lost her smile again. “German, darling.”

“Well, perhaps you will read it. Then you and your sister will have many things to talk about.” They both remained quiet but still managed to say something malicious with their eyes.

Those eyes turned from each other to Meri. She stiffened.

“My journey has tired me.” Ilsa told Greta in German. Greta translated her comment to French for the benefit of Monsieur and Meri.

“Greta, Ilsa,” Michel spoke in French. “In this house, we speak French. Speak German if you wish between yourselves, but when you’re with any other member of the household—including staff—please speak French, the native language of this home.”

Greta’s lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. She remained silent, nodding so slightly she barely moved. Meri noticed Madame’s grudging acknowledgement. She had become adept at reading Madame’s every nuance.

Ilsa blushed. “Forgive me, Michel. You are right. I should practice my French. Meri, Kurt is hungry and Karla needs a nap.” Ilsa aimed her thin smile, so like her sister’s, directly at her brother-in-law.

“
Oui
, Madame.”
Wonderful. Now I serve two Mesdames
. She imagined Monsieur thought the same thing. They both walked out of the parlor together, Meri with two children in tow.

§

Little Kurt was a chubby, blonde handsome boy who had convinced himself he was one of Hitler’s best soldiers, second only to his father. Meri learned how to handle him: give him orders as if they were on an important Nazi mission, Meri the commanding officer and Kurt the brave soldier. Soldat kept Kurt both entertained and compliant.

“Soldat does what I tell him to do. You must, too,” Meri said on her second day caring for the child. Meri dare not scold the boy, even though he had been running amok all morning.
I must find a way to control the little monster.

“Why? I’m a soldier and I’m strong!” He stood as tall as his four-year-old frame allowed and spoke in German.

“Kurt, speak French. You’re capable and I don’t understand German.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and repeated himself in French. It lacked the demanding and abrupt German tone, which delighted Meri and seemed to disappoint Kurt.

“That’s better. So you’re a soldier. Do you know what the name ‘Soldat’ means?” Not waiting for a response, Meri told him. “It means soldier. He does everything I ask of him. Soldiers do as they are commanded, Kurt. Always!”

The boy’s eyes widened. Soldat’s size and energy fascinated him. “If Soldat is your strong soldier and obeys your commands, I will too.”
He’s so young to be obsessed with war. Are all little German boys war hungry?
Kurt seemed afraid to touch Soldat, yet Meri sensed he wanted the dog as his best friend.

“Good. Now let’s take your sister and Soldat out for a walk. If you’re very good, perhaps I’ll let you give Soldat his treat when we return.”

Kurt nodded enthusiastically.

Meri made sure Karla was properly tucked into the new carriage Madame arranged to have delivered to the house. Her mind flashed to the rickety old baby carriage sufficing as Jeannine’s only crib and carriage. Shaking the image and resentment off, she put the leash on the very anxious Soldat, looked at Kurt, and said in her most authoritative voice, “March!”

Kurt smiled and marched.

As they walked the grounds, Meri considered her situation. She was pushing a stylish new baby carriage around lush gardens with a stranger’s four-month-old girl inside it while her four-month-old daughter, ten kilometers away, lay in a cramped, dark apartment full of Finns, probably being neglected.
I’m working, yet living very comfortably. My daughter is merely surviving as, essentially, an orphan. How did I let this happen? What can I do to fix—

“Herr! Herr! Herr!” Kurt tried to get Meri’s attention. When yelling did not work, he pulled at the skirt of her droopy uniform.

“
Oui,
Kurt.” Meri became both annoyed and disoriented. Her thoughts were not mere daydreams; they were matters of life and death.

“I want to hold Soldat’s leash.” Again, he spoke in German.

“I only understood ‘Soldat.’ Kurt, use your French!”

“Herr!
Oui
, Herr!” Kurt stood at attention.

Meri shook her head and smiled. “Must you call me ‘Herr’ Kurt?”

“What else do soldiers call their commanders?”

Meri shrugged.

“Then I’ll call you ‘Herr.’ I want to hold the leash, Herr.” Kurt waited for Meri’s response.

“You’re a very serious boy for your age, Kurt.”

Kurt frowned. “I’m not a boy. I’m a soldier, and I want to hold Soldat’s leash.”

Meri examined this little boy-soldier. He stared back at her with an intensity that demonstrated his potential for cruelty if not handled properly.
He’s still a child and could take a kinder path—more like my brother, Jani. I must be careful with him.

“Soldat is new to you, Kurt. You both need time to get acquainted—as brother soldiers. I’ll let you hold the leash, with me.” Meri could see the beginnings of a tantrum brewing in his eyes. She needed to break his obvious expectation of always getting his own way. “Soldier Kurt. I gave you a direct order!”

Her words caught his attention. The storminess in his eyes waned. He clicked he heels and replied, “
Oui,
Herr!”

Did his father speak to him this way? Would she have to deal with him like a soldier all of the time? Would she be “
Herr
” to him forever more?
Meri dismissed her ruminations; more important questions she needed to answer were pulling at her.

Caring for Karla delighted and tortured Meri. Karla was a good baby, content to be held or to be left in her carriage.
How is such a happy baby German?
Every German I know, which admittedly is only a few, is mean-tempered and demanding. This little girl is sweet.
Meri found herself smiling and singing when she tended to Karla. She grew fond of the little girl. Guilt nipped at her.
I should be singing to Jeannine…

Fondness for someone else’s daughter ripped at Meri’s heart. She knew, or suspected, Jeannine’s care did not come close to the kind of tenderness Meri showed Karla.
This is just like when I took over caring for Jani. I was a kinder mother to him than Mamma.
Meri compared the quality of food and living conditions between Karla and Jeannine. Her stomach ached nearly as much as her heart.
I’m a better mother to this German girl than I am to my own daughter.
But Meri kept silent, which seemed now an integral part of keeping her job.

Keeping quiet had its advantages. Meri listened and learned a great deal about Germany, Jews, and Hitler’s plan for curing Europe of all evils. She gained bits and pieces of information over meal times as she served both
Mesdames
and Monsieur. They had to speak French in his presence, so Meri understood their conversations. She also learned Monsieur vehemently disapproved of Hitler and the Nazi Party. Just as she did with her Papa, she agreed with Monsieur’s opinions about matters she did not fully understand. Like Monsieur, Meri hated everything the
Mesdames
thought was wonderful about their German God, Hitler—even his ideas about cleansing the world of undesirable people like Jews, Slavic peoples, gypsies, anyone with physical or mental disabilities, and homosexuals.

“There are many inferior races and classes of people, but the Jews are the real problem,” Ilsa said, buttering a piece of bread as casually as if she was talking about the colors for new drapes.

Greta agreed. “I read his justification. They are an evil, dirty people. They are everywhere, too. Getting rid of them will take much of Germany’s resources.”

Meri continued to place dishes of hot food on the table, remaining quiet. Her mind, however, buzzed with conflicting thoughts.
Evil and dirty? Not Amiel! He was funny, kind…and tidy. He did lie to me, though. Perhaps not all Jews are the same. Do they change to gain your trust? He wanted to marry me. Did he want me to suffer along with him? Non. He seemed so sincere in wanting us to be a family…
Still, I’m glad I turned my back on him. Being with Amiel would have put me and Jeannine in the center of a storm with a dire forecast.

“…Even if you marry one, you are infected.” Ilsa interrupted Meri’s confused ruminations.

Fists pounded the table. Everyone jumped. The dishes rattled. Petals from the flowers in the centerpiece wafted to the tablecloth. Monsieur had remained silent up to that point. “Stop this talk of inferior and superior races. I will not have it in my presence. I cannot stop the nonsense the two of you insist on sharing between yourselves, but I will not be a party to this insanity.” He picked up his plate and stood up.

“Michel!” Madame’s color, already pale, turned a lighter shade of ghostly. “Such outbursts are childish and rude. Where exactly are you going?”

“You dare speak to me about manners as you denigrate and condemn to death whole races of people on the word of one lunatic? I am going to eat my meal with Soldat. He is more humane than either of you.” Monsieur left the dining room and two women whose mouths were hanging open in a very unladylike fashion.

Meri stood frozen. Silent. Satisfied.

§

The one possession of Jeannine’s that Meri kept with her rather than sending it off to Hulta was the silver rattle Monsieur gave to her as a special gift. Meri kept the rattle safely tucked away in her grandmother’s old leather valise. She pulled the rattle out each night, careful to keep it level and quiet. The rattle was wrapped in two linen scarves. She would slowly peel away the layers of each scarf until the shiny silver rattle was exposed in her lap. Stroking it, she thought of Jeannine’s smooth skin—hoping she had not developed rashes. She dreamed of the day when she could care for her and make up for the mistakes her mother had made with her. The hard rattle also reminded her that she was the same as her Mamma—leaving her daughter for someone else to deal with.
At least I had my Papa—sometimes; Jeannine has no one. I am worse than Mamma!
When those thoughts came to Meri, she wrapped the rattled back up, returning the reminder safely to its hiding place.

Autumn yielded to winter. The treks to visit Jeannine once a week were more difficult as the cold winds of Paris blew without caring about Meri’s thin overcoat. Taking Jeannine out for the day became neither safe nor practical, and staying inside Hulta’s tiny apartment for more than a couple of hours was unbearable.

Ilsa grew more dependent on Meri to tend to her children, and Madame encouraged her sister to be free of the burden of child care. This meant her one free day each week—a day Meri treasured and needed—often was taken from her. Madame gave Meri extra compensation for working on her day off, which was uncharacteristic of her. Since Monsieur was not consulted, Meri suspected the money came from Ilsa. Meri justified not seeing Jeannine on those weeks by telling herself the extra money was for their future together.
Plus, you’re still so young, you won’t remember Hulta. You’ll be with me when your memories begin.

On a cold, but not too blustery, day in early March, 1934, Meri walked to Hulta’s apartment. She had not seen Jeannine in three weeks.
Hulta will want her money
, Meri thought.
What will I do once I get there? It’s too cold to be out for hours with a baby. The cold could kill her. Perhaps that would be the best thing. What kind of life can I give her as a servant to rich people who just use me? I can make a life for myself…but for me and for a baby, I don’t think I can. Mon Dieu! What am I thinking? What kind of mother thinks these thoughts? I don’t deserve to have a child. Perhaps she would be better off with other people. Two parents. A real family. There I go again! Trying to get rid of my baby! I’m a monster not a mother! I’ll never have sex again. I’ll never have another child. I don’t deserve the one I have. Mon Dieu! What’s happened to me and my life? I’m twenty-nine years old and my life is over.

By the time she arrived at Hulta’s apartment, Meri was as morose as any Finnish mother she had ever met.