Saving Amelie (32 page)

By the time the sisters said their good-byes and Oma tearfully released Rachel with vows to find her after the madness of Hitler had passed, gray dawn crept over the mountain—first in lavender hues, then in shades of rose, amber, and melon. Lowing cattle, their bells jingling, heralded their morning milking from the outskirts of town.

Rachel closed her eyes as, bundled against the cold, she walked down the hill and through the village, toward the train station, her frame slightly bent and her gait uneven—a middle-aged woman with a touch of rheumatism. But she was glad to walk slowly. She wanted to ingrain every sound, savor every smell, every nuance of Oberammergau and this window into her mother’s—her real mother’s—and her grandmother’s and sister’s world.

Getting out of the village was the important thing. If anyone stopped her, it would likely be here, where everyone knew their neighbors’ business.

Lea had wagered that fewer villagers would be Munich-bound on the earliest train. Once they reached the big city, she’d said, they could more easily blend in. No one would likely know or recognize them. They must still pretend not to know each other, and Rachel must maintain her disguise and be on her guard, but they could breathe a little easier until they reached the Swiss border as long as they submitted their papers as required and did or portrayed nothing suspicious to alert Nazi patrols.

Lea would leave half an hour later. It would be best for the villagers to see her leave, to know her business. It might rouse gossip for a woman to try to sell her absent husband’s carvings, but stranger things had been done in this new wartime.

The borders were what worried Rachel most. They surely still had her photograph, were surely still on the watch for her. But if they thought Rachel might attempt to reach Oberammergau, wouldn’t they also be keeping track of Lea’s whereabouts?

Jason had thought so—wasn’t sure Lea’s participation was a good idea, except that she could be seen as truly innocent. There was nothing to link her to anyone on the train, and that might save Amelie.

Rachel had purchased her ticket and was about to enter the railcar when she heard someone calling.

“Frau Hartman!”

Rachel tried not to stare as the ruddy-cheeked priest thrust his hand toward Lea. Rachel took a seat in the railcar and lowered the window less than an inch, enough to hear.

“Curate Bauer—
guten Morgen
!” Lea returned the greeting.

“You’re out early this morning.” The priest nodded toward her luggage. “Off on a trip?”

“
Ja, ja.
I’m going to see what I can sell of Friederich’s Nativities, a little bit to tide us over until he returns.”

Concern—or disbelief, Rachel thought—sprang to the priest’s eyes. He eyed Lea as though he were a doctor, checking for symptoms of flu. “A good—a very good plan.”
Pity—he looks at her with pity!
“I, too, am going to Munich—just for the day.” He hesitated. “You mustn’t worry about the children. I’ll take the rehearsal tomorrow myself. It won’t matter if they miss today.”

“
Ja
—of course!
Danke,
Curate Bauer. I should have spoken with you first. I’m so very sorry.”

“It is no matter. I’m sure we can manage. I’ll get Frau Fenstermacher to help me for the remainder of the week, or the next. You won’t be gone longer than that, will you?”

“
Nein, nein.
Only a few days. Just to sell what I can for the Christmas season—the Advent markets should help.”

The priest searched her eyes, pity and questions in their blue orbs. He hefted Lea’s bag and they disappeared into the car ahead.

Rachel let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and moved to a seat nearer the rear of the car. She pushed her traveling case onto the shelf above, then took a window seat and closed her eyes, feigning sleepiness, hoping no one would engage her in conversation.

Minutes passed, and though she was conscious of the time, it seemed that the train delayed. She felt more than saw that the car filled and the fresh air diminished. The blast of the conductor’s whistle and his last call to board helped loosen the vise grip in her lungs. Still, the car did not move.

She peeked through her lashes. Lea was sitting six or so rows ahead. She couldn’t mistake the honey-colored braids wound just above the nape of her neck and beneath her hat brim.

At the front of the car stood two SS officers. All heads lifted toward them. Hands reached automatically into purses and coat pockets for papers. Everyone needed papers, must show papers on request, must have papers on their person at all times.

Rachel knew, before they’d ever reached her, that Lea was their target. She was their reason for harassing the locals and holding up the train. They were just making a scene, a show. It was every bit a play upon the stage as they made their way down the aisle toward her sister.

Rachel opened her leather purse. As she pulled out papers, a man—the priest who’d spoken to Lea—stood, blocking the path of the SS officer. Every eye widened at the man’s daring. “Is this delay necessary, Rottenführer Vondgaurdt? You know us. You can see we are all locals here. You’ve checked our papers a dozen times.”

“Sit down, priest.” The officer clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed the priest to his seat, continuing his slow descent of the aisle.

Rachel forced herself to breathe deeply, evenly, to keep her heart from jumping through her chest, to ignore the menace in the officer’s face.

“Frau Hartman.” The officer stopped. “I haven’t seen you on the train for some time. May I ask where you are going this fine morning?”

Even Rachel knew he was playing with her. But Lea rose to the occasion.

“I am taking our Führer’s advice at last and taking myself to see our Fatherland.”

“You are making the joy of journey? Alone?” He did not look amused.

But Lea cast embarrassed glances from side to side, taking in her neighbors. Rachel’s pulse quickened to realize that her sister had more
of the actress about her than she’d imagined. “If you must know, Herr Rottenführer, I am going to sell some of my husband’s carvings.” She looked up bravely. “I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and I must sell them to care for my grandmother and myself.”

“So,” the Nazi grunted, ignoring her confession, “our busy little choir director—a bee too busy to join the Nazi Women’s Party—has decided to tour the Reich? Before winter sets in with a vengeance? You are not too busy, Frau Hartman, with the training of the children’s choir—the Reich’s future Passion Players—to be away at this time? Just before Christmas?”

Rachel felt her heart rise in her throat, until all went as dry as cardboard. That was the mistake she’d seen in the curate’s eyes. Lea would never leave her children’s choir at such a time!

She nearly stood, determined to save her sister. But before she could speak the priest jumped up again. “We’ve arranged everything, Herr Rottenführer. Why do you bother us? Frau Fenstermacher and I will take over the children’s rehearsals until Frau Hartman returns.” The priest feigned impatience, but Rachel knew he did so at his own peril.

“Sit down, priest.” The order came sharper, the officer’s patience gone. “I am afraid that your presence is required in Oberammergau, Frau Hartman. You realize, of course, that the children cannot be without you at this time.” He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes sent shivers down Rachel’s spine. “Children are important to you, are they not?”

Rachel heard Lea’s involuntary gasp. She knew there was more than she grasped in Lea’s change in posture.

“It is only for a few days, Herr Rottenführer, and all has been arranged. This is my first excursion in months.”

“Since Frankfurt—if I am not mistaken.” He tipped his jaw. “I thought not. You see, we place great value on the Reich’s citizens.” He shook his head and sighed audibly. “It is a great pity, of course. But Oberammergau cannot do without its Frau Hartman—not today, and not in the near future. Do I make myself clear?”

“Herr Rottenführer, I ask you to please reconsider. This once.”

“We prefer to keep all our pawns on the chessboard, where we can clearly see them.” He stood at attention. “You will leave the train, Frau Hartman. Or do you need assistance?”

Rachel silently begged Lea not to fight back, not to argue, though she knew her sister—her sister who’d seemed so mousy—had grown a determined streak, especially where Amelie’s safety was concerned.

Lea stood and stepped into the aisle.

“You’ve made a wise decision, Frau Hartman,” the officer mocked. She did not look him in the eye. “This is your luggage?” He reached for the case above her head and set it at her feet. When she bent to retrieve it, he pushed back her hat and stroked her hair. “Such lovely Bavarian braids.”

Rachel’s fury and fear grew inside her, but the priest stood once more. “My journey can wait. I will help you, Frau Hartman.”

As Lea stepped forward, the Rottenführer placed his baton across the aisle in front of her, blocking her path. “Do not attempt to leave the village again.”

She didn’t speak.

But Rachel caught the priest’s fearful and pitying glance and realized that he knew—knew she was hiding something.

Lea and the priest, clutching her case, stepped down from the train, Rottenführer Vondgaurdt on their heels. Lea’s foot had barely touched the platform when the whistle blew again.

From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw the stationmaster swing the last of the bags to the boxcar. Two men began hefting the larger crates and trunks aboard. One of the men had just grabbed Amelie’s crate when a group of SS shouted for him to stop, that they intended to inspect the luggage.

“But the schedule!” the stationmaster shouted.

An SS officer pulled a gun. The stationmaster’s hands shot into
the air. He stepped back without another word. The Rottenführer stepped quickly toward the commotion.

The crate beside Amelie’s was pried open, its contents scattered across the platform. Across the street, SS poured from trucks. Above the whistle of the train, Rachel heard the crash of glass, the pounding of rifle butts on doorframes.

A raid! A raid!
Rachel and every man and woman aboard the train gasped, crowding the windows.

The train, not waiting for the larger boxes, blew its whistle once more and lurched forward. Rachel found Lea’s panicked eyes, and in that moment the priest beside her gazed straight into Rachel’s. His eyes narrowed for less than a second, then widened.

He knows!

The black-clad SS at the end of the platform raised his rifle butt to smash Amelie’s box. One thrust and the lid cracked in the middle. Lea screamed.

Rachel pulled her papers from her purse and thrust the open purse beneath her seat. She screamed at the top of her lungs, lunging off the slowly moving train, flying straight into the arms of the SS with the raised rifle butt. “Help! Help me! He stole my purse! A thief on the train! Stop him! Stop him! Oh, please stop him!”

The SS pushed her aside and in three long strides jumped onto the moving train. Men and women alike jumped from the train onto the platform, screaming, stumbling over one another as they landed—a cache of hand luggage topsy-turvy, flying among the fleeing passengers.

Rachel continued to scream and gesture wildly as two more SS chased and boarded the departing train. Others divided into the streets, pouring through the village, while the priest, under Lea’s guidance, quietly pulled one broken crate from the platform.

36

W
HEN
THE
CLOCK
struck seven, Jason heard the train whistle in the distance. He rolled over, finally daring to breathe, trusting that Rachel, Lea, and Amelie were safely headed for Munich and points west. He’d close up the Hartmans’ house in another hour, interview a couple of locals, and catch a later train, as planned.

But at 7:08 a truck rumbled up the mountain road, screeching to a halt outside his window.

Vehicle doors slammed. A German shepherd barked, setting off another. Panic pushed the remaining fog from Jason’s brain. He pulled on pants, stuffed his feet in shoes. He was almost to the stairs when he remembered the roll of film, the one with Rachel and Amelie’s picture. He wound and yanked it from his camera, then stuffed it into the pocket of a man’s jacket hanging from a hook in the hallway, all the while praying the Hartmans had a camera, and that the jacket belonged to Herr Hartman.

There was a mad banging against the downstairs doors, front and back. Jason stumbled down the stairs, fumbling with buttons.

He’d made it to the lower hallway and was just pulling back the bolt when the door slammed open and he was shoved against the wall, a rifle butt to his jaw.

The rush of soldiers, guns, dogs, and a barrage of orders flew fast and hard. Soldiers ransacked the house, throwing open cupboards, smashing dishes, tossing books to the floor. One rushed Jason, pushing him to the center of the living room, and pointed a gun at his
belly. He forced Jason to his knees, motioning for him to keep his hands clasped behind his head.

Jason flinched as beds and dressers overturned in the upstairs rooms, as jackboots stomped on floorboards in search of hollow hiding places. From outside came the shatter of glass, the crash and thudding of the woodpile, and the vicious barking of dogs.