Saving Amelie (18 page)

Lea had just locked her classroom door when two black Mercedes, swastika flags flying, barreled through the quiet village streets. It was a rare-enough occurrence that shopkeepers quickly closed their doors and mothers bade their children inside, shuttering windows. As if anything could keep the Gestapo or SS out!

Unsettling though it was, such things had happened before—usually preceding raids. In fact, the same cars had roamed the streets of Oberammergau the week before, parking first in one place and then another for hours, as if watching. Then they’d disappeared. Why were they back now? Lea pitied the object of their attention. Perhaps someone had been reported for hiding political enemies.

She took her time. No one would be visiting or looking for her. She’d nothing to hide, and she’d promised to walk five-year-old Gretchen Zuckerman home that day, as her mother helped to midwife a laboring neighbor. By the time they arrived, Gretchen’s older siblings would be home from their Hitler Youth meetings and could watch her.

Such extra moments with the children were like icing on cakes for Lea. She loved it when Gretchen tucked her small hand into Lea’s larger one, happy to walk with her teacher, dimples punctuating her smile. Lea’s heart swelled to feel the child’s sturdy body move in
rhythm with hers, arms swinging. It was a happy trust, and Lea was thankful.

She forced herself not to linger at the Zuckerman gate despite the temptation to stay until the children’s mother returned. It wasn’t necessary, might even be thought presumptuous. She squeezed Gretchen’s hand good-bye and smiled as the child waved her up the street.

Lea had nearly reached home when the red-and-black swastika flags appeared round the bend, pulling to a sudden stop in front of Oma’s gate. Lea’s heart skipped.
They must have the wrong address!

But two black-clad warriors piled from the official car, thrust open the gate, and strode to her grandmother’s front door while two more pulled revolvers and crept round the side. Lea’s heart pounded as she hurried up the hill. Mistake or not, Oma’s poor heart couldn’t take such shock.

Lea heard them barking orders and shouting before she ever reached the neighboring garden. She walked faster, fear holding her back, fear propelling her forward. In slow motion, Lea saw Oma open the door, saw one of the guards shove the older woman aside and push into the small house. Lea raced uphill.

“Oma! Oma!” She slammed open the gate and sprang through the door but was jerked off her feet by one of the SS guards, her arm wrenched behind her.

Amid stars she saw Oma grasp her heart as the guard closed the door.

18

J
ASON
LOOSENED
the knot of his tie, then pulled shirt and tie over his head in one fell swoop.
Good enough for tomorrow.
He tossed shirt and pants to his bedside chair and collapsed into bed, too weary to worry about food or drink. He’d spent the last forty-eight hours interviewing every foreign ambassador left in Germany, getting their take—their country’s official take and digging for their unofficial take—on Hitler’s bulldozing.

The war on Poland had not lasted long. The Poles did not have the military might or air power to fend off Germany’s war machine. When Russia entered eastern Poland, the job was all but done. Warsaw fell in twenty days. The foreign press hunkered down in Berlin, taking unholy bets on how long their British friends across the North Sea would take to enter the war they’d declared on Germany.

September was nearly over. Just that morning Jason had learned that Dr. Rudolph Kramer was reported to the world press as being in critical condition. He cringed to imagine what kind of interrogation the doctor had received at the hands of his tormentors. He’d no doubt that Dr. Kramer had been condemned as an accomplice in Rachel’s escape from the moment she showed up at the border. What father would not have helped his daughter escape a life of misery with the likes of Schlick?

Only Rudolph Kramer had done nothing of the sort, intended nothing of the sort. Jason shook his head, remembering the files.
It stinks. It all stinks. And where does that leave Rachel?
He was glad she was in hiding.
At least I don’t have to tell her—yet.

Frau Weisman, the nosy neighbor and courtyard monitor, had stopped to visit Frau Himmerschmidt during Rachel’s second week in the attic—just before lunch, ostensibly to borrow a knob of lard.

She’d wondered about the extra portion in Frau Himmerschmidt’s pot, how it was she even had a knob of lard to share considering the new rationing restrictions, and where she got it.

Rachel listened, her chest tight, her ear pressed to the attic floor above the kitchen, as the women talked of this and that, as Frau Himmerschmidt, perhaps too cheerfully, advised her neighbor on the best ways to stretch potatoes, which supplements could be mixed with flour for bread.

Without seeing, Rachel could tell that Frau Weisman did not buy her neighbor’s frugality. More was more, and rationed meats did not lie.

By the time Frau Weisman and her many pointed questions had gone, Frau Himmerschmidt, frazzled to the bone, had decided it was simply too risky for her family to hide Rachel in the attic any longer. Just before her children bounded in from school, she whispered to the attic door that Rachel must find another place, and right away, so certain was she that Frau Weisman suspected her secret and would find them out.

By midafternoon, Frau Himmerschmidt’s children had finished their luncheon and returned to school. Rachel heard her call good-bye to her courtyard monitor as the curious woman, martyr that she was, plowed through rain puddles toward her local hospital to fulfill volunteer obligations. Less than two minutes passed before Frau Himmerschmidt pushed the attic door open and helped Rachel down.

Rachel layered her clothing and stuffed her pockets beneath the Frau’s raincoat to make herself look heavier. She powdered her hair and made up her face to look older, using whatever Frau
Himmerschmidt could provide and all the theatrical tricks she’d learned in the makeup department at NYU.
This isn’t how I’d planned to use that knowledge.

Rachel knew she should be frightened. But she was sick of the attic, and the anticipation of walking out of doors revived her.

Frau Himmerschmidt telephoned the foreign correspondents’ office and asked for Jason Young. “Your laundry is finished and ready to be picked up. I’m sorry, but I’ve decided that I will no longer take in laundry. I have enough to do with my own family. You must find someone else.” Not waiting for a response, she hung up, turning to Rachel. “I’m sorry—” she spread her hands—“but I have children. I don’t know why they are after you—you seem like a nice young woman.” She helped Rachel into her raincoat. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“No.” Rachel blushed, then felt ashamed that she’d blushed. “Would that matter?”

The woman sighed. “I don’t want it to matter.”

Rachel nodded. She understood, at least as best she could. Everyone was afraid to hide Jews—afraid of the Nazis, of the Gestapo, of the SS, of the brownshirts, of the Hitler Youth, of the monitors in their apartment blocks and courtyards, of nosy neighbors quick to report longtime friends and quicker yet their enemies. Fear reeked. She’d just been too self-absorbed and blind to see it before. She’d not needed to see it—it hadn’t threatened her until now. “Thank you for hiding me these days. I know it was a risk.”

Frau Himmerschmidt blinked, then pulled the curtain from the corner of the window, whispering, “Through the courtyard and turn left. The trolley stop is up one block and over one.”

Rachel hesitated, terribly aware that she had no place to go, no one to trust. But the woman stepped back and lowered her eyes. She’d been dismissed. Frau Himmerschmidt pulled open the door,
and Rachel slipped through. Imitating her benefactor’s heavy walk through the courtyard, she made her way toward the next block.

Riding the trolley was a risk, but so was walking the streets.

She prayed Jason had understood the message, prayed he would once again come to her rescue and find her a place to stay—all before she remembered she didn’t believe in praying. She walked slowly, not increasing her pace to catch the trolley just in view.

She was halfway through the second block when a taupe BMW pulled beside her. “A lift,
meine Frau
?” It was an attractive young woman.

“Nein, danke.”
Rachel pointed toward the trolley stop.

“Friend of Jason’s,” the woman whispered, leaning across to open the door.

Rachel hesitated.

“Come, Frau Wagner.” The woman spoke well and brightly, but with a distinct American accent. “I’ll give you a lift. It’s no trouble at all. I’m eager to pick up my laundry.”

Rachel drew a deep breath and slipped into the car.

“Sheila Graham.” The woman extended her hand.

Gratefully, Rachel clasped it.

“Don’t say anything. Jason’s told me not to ask.”

“Then how—?”

“It’s better I don’t know. We all operate on that basis from time to time.” She grinned, pulling back into the line of traffic. “Jason will meet us at my apartment later. You can get a bath—relax, maybe get some sleep before he comes over. I’m guessing those lines aren’t all about great stage makeup.”

“I’m afraid they’re not,” Rachel breathed. “Thank you.”

Sheila nodded, shifting gears. “I have a date tonight. You and Jason’ll have plenty of time to talk. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll help any way I can. You can stay with me—for now.”

Rachel shuddered, nodded her thanks, and determined to keep tears of relief from spilling down her made-up cheeks.

Never had a bath and hair wash felt so good. Rachel thought she could stay in the small tub forever, and she might have fallen asleep there had Sheila not called her from the other side of the hanging comforter. “Jason will be here soon. You might want to get decent.”

Rachel dressed quickly, glad for Sheila’s loan of a skirt and blouse. She pulled back her hair in a taut ponytail, hoping it would dry without springing tiny ringlets all over her head.

She was tucking the blouse into the band of her skirt when Sheila opened the door. Jason slipped through, bearing dinner.

“Takeout Chinese—Berlin style!” He grinned, mouth triumphant, eyes relieved and alight at the sight of Rachel.

“My favorite!” She couldn’t stop the grin spreading between her ears.

Sheila glanced between the two of them and laughed. “I’m outta here. Keep it down and keep the door locked. Keep those lights low. I’ll jingle the key in the lock before I come in.”

Rachel felt herself blush.

Jason, too, turned crimson, but was quick on the draw. “I’ll be gone before you get back.”

“If you do, make sure you’re not seen. You know about my courtyard monitor.”

He nodded, and Rachel was surprised how easily, how smoothly they communicated. She must not be the first secret they’d shared.

When the door closed behind Sheila, Rachel felt suddenly shy. “Sheila made some coffee. Would you like some?”

“Real coffee? Sure. That’s a rarity outside the best restaurants these days. Sheila must be using up her stash. I’ll dish up the grub.”