Saving Amelie (17 page)

“What’s happening now?” Rachel peered up from the floor.

“They’re shoving him into a car. Schlick’s getting in the other side. I don’t recognize the others.” Jason inched the car forward, his fedora tipped toward the steering wheel. “There’re still a couple of guards stationed outside the hotel.”

As soon as the black cars pulled from the curb, traffic began to flow. Rachel pushed herself back into her seat.

Jason rounded the block and drove the length of the boulevard, heading for the Brandenburg Gate. “We need a plan.”

“They’re looking for me. It looked like they’d beaten him.”

Jason cradled the hand she nestled in his.

“I should turn myself in.”

“Did you forget that he was planning on turning you in, closing the file, subject B-47?”

She closed her eyes. “I keep thinking, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he didn’t mean it as it looked in the files. He’s my father. He couldn’t . . .”

“Sell you out?”

The sob she’d held so tightly broke through.

16

“
Y
OU
’
LL
BE
SAFE
HERE
.
” The thickset Frau pushed open the wooden trapdoor in her narrow hallway ceiling with the handle of a broom. “But you must keep very quiet and absolutely still during the day. My neighbor, Frau Weisman, is the courtyard monitor. She will report anything she thinks suspicious.” She eyed Rachel sharply, waiting, Rachel thought, for some reassurance.

“I’ll be very still.”

The woman nodded. “You can come down to use the toilet and to wash when my husband has gone to work and the children are at school. If that is not possible, there is a bucket in the corner. But you must not use it until they have gone. They might hear you. I will pass food to you once in the morning and once before my family returns for the evening.”

She pulled a chair from the kitchen, motioning for Rachel to step up. Rachel bit her lip, tentatively smiling her thanks, and climbed. She braced her elbows on the attic floor and attempted to hoist herself through the opening. The Hausfrau pushed from behind—to Rachel’s chagrin. But she made it.

“When I play the piano, that is my signal that you may move and stretch. The piano will cover your movement. I will always play Wagner last, so you will know you must be quiet. When I stop, you too must stop.”

Rachel nodded, now peeking down through the attic’s square opening. “Thank you, Frau Himmerschmidt—thank you for helping me.”

“
Ja
, well, we all need to help one another now.” The woman motioned for Rachel to set the wooden door in place.

Rachel remained where she was, sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor by the little door, around which showed the faintest rim of daylight. The attic peaked in the center, but even there she couldn’t stand. Corners of the attic room revealed shadows, faint outlines of trunks and boxes, broken furniture—a chair turned upside down and the railings of what might have been a bedstead. The air hung heavy, dusty, musty. Rachel wasn’t about to go exploring—not yet. She just hoped she was the only thing that lived and breathed in the attic.

Late that night, while she listened to the soft snores of the family below her, Rachel stretched, fully dressed, on the lumpy, sour-smelling pallet she’d found stashed in a corner of the attic. Running through the events of the last three days, she remembered the itinerary she’d believed to be real, at least what she’d believed from her father when they first set foot in Germany. They should have landed in New York this very evening. She should be lying in her luxurious bed, dreaming of tomorrow—her first day working in Manhattan as the newest gofer for the Campbell Playhouse.

Rachel bit her lip to keep from crying, silently rolled over, and stared into the darkness.

Jason rubbed the stubble on his face. When he’d returned the car and seen Rachel to safety, he’d stopped by his room in the hotel only long enough to rumple his bed, make it look as though he’d crept in late.
As if the nosy maid service will buy that!
If necessary, he’d come up with a story—drop a couple lines that he’d bunked in the makeshift newsroom, been working late and caught unaware by the time, the blackout—something.

He squinted. Things were getting complicated. The family hiding Amelie had refused to take Rachel—too risky. But their contact said
he knew someone who might. Jason had dropped Rachel off, praying the woman was a safe bet. But how could he know?

He cupped the rolls of Rachel’s film in his pocket several times throughout the day, waiting, wondering how he could get Peterson out of the darkroom long enough to develop them alone. The last thing he wanted to do was share this scoop. He had no doubt it was a doozy.

The afternoon wore long. Jason found himself nodding off, elbows on his desk, more than once.

“Long night, Romeo?” Eldridge, his colleague and archrival for the next best news story, dumped a file at his elbow, jarring Jason awake at half past five.

Jason sat back, yawning, and rubbed his eyes. “Me and Mrs. Hitler—a hot time on the ole town last night.”

“Show me Mrs. Hitler and I’ll take her out myself. That’s one story I’d like to scoop.”

“You, me, the rest of the world.”

“New York wants an editorial by midnight. Something on the way things are going here in Berlin since the war started—rationing, blackouts.” He thumped the file. “Everything’s here. Be a pal and whip something up—something the censors will allow through. I’ve gotta cover some hobnob dinner conference over at the US ambassador’s.”

“Plum piece. Kudos to you. Save me a slice of cake and you’re on.”

“Done. I’m taking Peterson along to see what we can get on film.”

“Feed the waif while you schmooze—he’s looking peaked on the new rations.” Suddenly Jason was wide awake. A dignitary dinner guaranteed an empty darkroom for at least a couple of hours—probably until morning unless something big broke. Plenty of time to develop Rachel’s film. He opened the file, pretending to read, and tried not to look too eager.

Less than an hour later he pulled the first set of prints from the chemical bath and clipped them to the line to dry. As near as he
could tell, Rachel had done a good job with the camera—no shakes or shadows. He should be able to read the documents once he got the prints into the light.

The first images of people she’d snapped looked like head shots for passport photos. But as prints developed, more revealing images began to line up—shots taken during medical examinations, but ones he felt fairly certain were taken without the patients’ knowledge. He whistled low.
No wonder she made me promise.

While waiting for the images to dry, he perched at a desk outside the darkroom, sitting guard—even though the floor was empty—and pecked out the bargained editorial. It wasn’t hard, but still he made several false starts, doing his best not to snark about the Nazis but to reveal the state of Berlin, hoping Americans could read between the lines. He wasn’t optimistic. They hadn’t raised their voice against Hitler’s Nuremberg Laws that dispossessed Jews of their citizenship, nor shed many tears over Jason’s reports on
Kristallnacht
when synagogues were torched and Jews were thrown out of their homes, imprisoned, and their stores and businesses ransacked.

Not even when he’d done the feature on Jacob Goldman, the seventy-six-year-old owner of a little family bookstore—a Berlin landmark as old as time. Storm troopers had pulled the old man and his wife from their beds above the store and thrown them both into the street. After clubbing the terrified couple into silence, they’d smashed the windows of their store and set it—and two stories’ worth of inventory—ablaze.

Jason shook his head. Even with the Nazis’ heavy censoring, enough came through to New York that it should have infuriated the country. Where was his “Christian nation,” anyway? Weren’t they supposed to help the oppressed and needy?

Two hours later, the editorial done, the darkroom so squeaky clean that Peterson would never know he’d been there, Jason sat alone in the newsroom with the prints.

He’d read everything, and it was hard to swallow. He was sure Rachel didn’t know much about her father, about her adoptive mother’s role in her upbringing, let alone anything about her family of origin.

What a story! Not just about Rachel, but all the victims. The very kind of personal profiles that would paint these monsters of manipulation for what they are. But can I print it? What will it mean to them if I do?
He breathed deeply, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
In any other time and place it would be an exposé—bring the bad guys to their knees. But publicizing this here, now . . . it’s more like signing the victims’ death warrants—and mine. More than a few have blown the whistle and disappeared. An idea—I’d settle for an idea!

Jason stacked the photos and slid them into an envelope. Then he slipped the negatives into a separate, smaller envelope and taped it to the bottom of his top right desk drawer. He switched off the light, welcoming the dark to better think.

It’s time you stop worrying about your doctor father, Miss Kramer—he’s not worth it. It’s a sure thing you’ve been little more than a guinea pig to him. Trouble is, with or without him, the good doctors of Germany are just getting started.

But if I tell you the truth, if I show you these files, will you stay where you are? And if you don’t, if you race down to Oberammergau to meet your long-lost family, it puts them at risk—and ultimately Amelie, and me, and all those who’ve helped save your hide.

Jason closed his eyes. He’d just stepped onto his own slippery slope.

17

N
EARING
THE
END
of a long day, Curate Bauer stopped by the after-school program, pausing just outside the classroom door to listen to the children singing. Frau Hartman had a way about her—a way of leading the voices of the children into such harmony that they sounded like one angelic host.

The curate didn’t even bother to pull a chair from one of the other rooms. He simply slid down the wall, resting his back and head against the cool plaster. He closed his eyes and allowed the blending of voices to raise him above the earth, away from the worries of the parish.

“Curate,” a voice whispered, so near that it tickled the hairs in his ears, making him start. But he didn’t open his eyes. He recognized the voice.

“Why aren’t you in choir practice, Heinrich? Frau Hartman has already begun.”

“I know,” Heinrich whispered. Still Curate Bauer did not open his eyes. But he felt the little boy, all arms and legs, slide down the wall and plop beside him. “I have a confession to make.” The voice was lower still, but determined.

Curate Bauer opened his eyes. “A confession? But you’ve not made your first confession yet. And you won’t until you’ve completed catechism next year.”

“But, Father, I’ve sinned.”

“No doubt.” For the first time that day Curate Bauer smiled.

“But I won’t take it back,” Heinrich insisted.

“The sin?”

“No, the baby.”

“The what?” Curate Bauer was awake, fully alert.

“The baby Jesus—I won’t take him back.”

“You mean Herr Hartman’s Nativity carving?” Curate Bauer had recovered more holy infants from Heinrich Helphman in the last six months than he’d done from all other parishioners combined in all the years of his life.

“Yes, Curate—stealing was the sin. And I know stealing’s not right.”

“No, it’s not right. There seems something especially blighted about stealing the Christkind, Heinrich. Frau Hartman’s been so good to you. Why would you steal from the Hartmans?”

“It’s because Herr Hartman is the best carver. And because of his smile—he’s got such a lovely mouth.”

“Herr Hartman?” Curate Bauer agreed that Friederich Hartman had a ready laugh and a warm smile, but what had that to do with stealing his carvings?

“No, the baby Jesus.” Heinrich spread his hands as though patiently explaining to a toddler.

“I don’t think you can convince yourself that stealing makes the Lord Jesus smile, Heinrich.” Curate Bauer was getting a headache. To deal with near-starving families bound for who knows where and who knows what in the morning and a belligerent little thief in the afternoon was more than should be required of a saint, let alone a penitent sinner like himself. He’d like to take a strap to the boy. “Give me the carving and I’ll return it for you—only because you’ve confessed, and only this once. It must not happen again.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” Heinrich scooted away from the priest. “I’m just confessing; that’s all.”

“Heinrich.” The priest’s patience was wearing thin. “You must—”

But before he could repeat what Heinrich must do, the boy was up and off, fleeing down the hall and out the door.

Wearily, Curate Bauer found his feet. He liked to think of himself as fairly fit, but he was no match for the pumping legs of a mountain child. He stopped at the school door and watched the youngster sprint through the hedges and down the cobbled hill. The curate threw his hands up. He wasn’t old or decrepit, but he refused to chase the fleet feet of Heinrich Helphman through the village. He and Frau Hartman could deal with Heinrich another day.