Saving Amelie (34 page)

Even so, it was the waiting that was brutal—knowing the guard would come, knowing Gerhardt Schlick in all his arrogant SS glory would circle Jason’s chair, interrogate him again and again, order his underlings to slam iron fists into his face and his body like marks of punctuation with every question Jason refused to answer, then yank him off the floor and start again.

The minute he got out he’d tell the world how the Nazis treated foreign journalists under interrogation. That worried him. They’d have to know he’d report. Would they risk that? Or send him to Dachau? Or have his body dumped in the Isar River?

How easy it would be to give up, to shut down altogether, or to confess everything. But that wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. He’d never tell them what they wanted to know. He only feared that in his exhaustion and their hounding something would slip, something that could hurt or incriminate or lead them to Rachel or Amelie.

Dear God,
he prayed,
don’t let that happen. Save me from myself. Save them. Help Rachel find a way . . .

Just as his head fell to his chest, a guard slammed open the cell door and jerked him to his feet. Jason squared his swollen jaw. It was a new day for Gerhardt Schlick.

Early the following week, Curate Bauer returned from Munich on the late-afternoon train. He hurried up the hill to Frau Breisner’s home, intent on meeting Lea after choir practice. His was not news to give her in front of the children. It was not news he wanted to give her at all.

By the time Lea reached her Oma’s kitchen, the blackout curtains were drawn close and the table lamp lit. The curate held his breath, uncertain which news to share first.

“Curate Bauer? I thought you’d gone to Munich today.”

Neither he nor Oma spoke.

She hung her coat and scarf on the hook by the door.

The curate stood, offering his chair. “Sit down, please, Frau Hartman,” he urged. “I have news.”

Oma poured tea and slid a cup across the table.

“Tell me.”

“I learned today that Herr Young was to be released.
Sturmbannführer Schlick’s questioning methods were . . . were such that our friend will need time to recuperate.” He wanted to warn, to caution them. But he did not want to frighten them so they wouldn’t continue the work they were doing—and, perhaps, something more.

They watched him with wide eyes. “I saw Herr Young to the station and aboard the train for Berlin. Do not fear. He will recover—in time.” The curate swallowed. “We had opportunity to talk. He’s a good man, and he hopes to help—more than he’s helped already.”

“I’m glad he will recover,” Oma said. “It’s horrible to have a guest so treated in—”

Lea interrupted, “They released him to your care?”

“I took responsibility for sending him to your home—a respectable and comfortable home with a little room available for tourists, naturally suitable for members of the foreign press.” The curate paused. “A home that I hope will be open to receiving Herr Young in the future, and perhaps more guests from time to time.”

Lea didn’t respond.

“Herr Young expects to return soon to continue his interviews. He may occasionally bring someone with him to assist—someone who may need to remain behind.”

Oma placed a hand on Lea’s arm. Lea covered her grandmother’s hand with her own.

“What are you saying, Curate?” Lea’s eyes bore no trace of understanding.

“I am asking if you will take in refugees—Jewish refugees hunted by the Reich.” He searched the women’s faces. “Children, perhaps, and youths whose parents have been . . . relocated.”

“We have no food to give,” Oma began.

“One of our village shopkeepers will help, and two farmers from outside the village have promised meat—a little. Herr Young knows someone who will provide extra ration books.” He hesitated. “And papers, if needed.”

“Forged papers?” Oma’s eyes widened.

He nodded.

“Oh, Curate . . . I don’t think we can—”

“Yes,” Lea said quietly.

“Lea!” Oma cautioned.

“How can we turn them away—children?” She turned to Oma. “Do you know what they’re doing with Jews?”

“Resettlement—that’s what I’ve heard. Some to Poland.” But Oma’s voice did not carry conviction, and Lea did not speak. The curate looked away. “Where, then?”

Curate Bauer wondered if Hilde Breisner could comprehend the awful truth. “There is word that they are taken to camps. Not camps awaiting transport or resettlement, but concentration camps—work camps where prisoners are considered expendable, then worked, sometimes starved, until they die. And there is talk through my sources that the Nazis are planning to establish death camps—for the express purpose of killing vast numbers of prisoners. What exactly that means or when, I don’t know.”

“No,” Oma insisted. “The Rheibaum family left only a few weeks ago. They were going to Palestine—just going to wait for a ship to Palestine and resettlement.”

Curate Bauer shook his head. “The immigration quota was full. There were no more spots, and no safety here. If they tried to go, they went illegally. But I know the port where they tried to embark, and the Nazis were there first.”

Oma’s face blanched and she sat back, covering her mouth.

“We would take them, Curate Bauer,” Lea said quietly, “but I don’t know where we can hide them—how we can hide them with the Nazis raiding our homes at their whim.”

“Herr Young has thought of that too. While in your home, he saw a way.”

“I had no idea you knew Herr Young when you asked me to take him in.”

“I’d only just met him,” Curate Bauer confessed, “but I knew there was something in the questions he asked.” The creases in his forehead deepened. “And I am desperate.” He opened his hands and placed them, palms up, on the table. “I have nowhere to turn and my heart is broken for those I cannot help. I risk the church, and I ask others to risk much—though I have no right.”

“Then we will trust the American too,” Lea said, “and you. We’ll find a way. If Herr Young thinks more can be hidden in my house, we’ll do that.”

The curate felt the heaviness of what he must say next—what, perhaps, he should have said first, if only he’d had the courage. If he’d not been afraid they would refuse to help the others. “Before you agree, I must tell you, there is more. I have a friend in the war office. Two weeks ago I asked him to see what he could learn of Herr Hartman.”

Lea straightened, her face a mixture of hope and fear.

Curate Bauer swallowed. “Your husband was wounded—critically—in the Polish campaign. He was sent to a hospital in Berlin, for treatment.”

“Berlin—I must go to him!”

“No, Frau Hartman,” Curate Bauer said softly. “No.”

“Surely they will allow me to leave when they learn—”

But the curate shook his head. “No—they will not. I inquired. I begged on your behalf. But he will soon be returned to you.”

“Returned?” Oma said.

“Herr Hartman has not . . . has not regained all the functions of his brain or his body. It is not known if he will.”

Lea stared. “What does that mean?”

“It means he can lie in the bed or sit in a chair. He can be fed—simple, soft food and drink he can swallow. But his eyes remain closed. There appears no recognition, no speech of any kind.”

“They will send him home like this? Is there no surgery, no treatment?”

Curate Bauer felt the heat rise within him, the same indignation he’d felt when he was first told. “Apparently they need hospital beds for those they expect to recover—to recover and return to the front.”

Neither woman looked as though she comprehended.

“Friederich’s leg was badly splintered. He lost an eye. The bullet was removed—very near his brain. Even so, the doctors can see no reason why he has not spoken, why he is not alert.” Curate Bauer let the air hang between them, summoning courage, praying for what he must say next. “Even if he wakes, it is doubtful that he will be the same . . . as before.” He hated bearing such news—to Lea Hartman, of all people.

The women sat, hands clasped, silent before him. Twin tears escaped Lea’s stricken eyes, scrolling down her cheeks.

“I am sorry, Frau Hartman. With all of my heart, I am sorry.”

38

B
RIGADEFÜHRER
S
CHELLENBERG
all but ignored Sturmbannführer Gerhardt Schlick’s salute and “Heil Hitler,” so disgusted was he with his subordinate. He’d known the man since he was a boy on his parents’ knees, had served with his brave father, and had greatly admired his mother—a striking beauty with the cunning of ten women. The child of such parents held great promise. But Gerhardt had not lived up to expectations, and now his obsession with finding a woman who’d bested him—not once, but probably twice—had nearly cost the Führer his life.

“You were assigned to ensure the Reich Chancellor’s protection. While you were chasing this ghost of a woman through the Alps, our enemies plotted the murder of our beloved Führer!” It was all Schellenberg could do not to rip the SS insignia from Schlick’s coat.
The man deserves more than a beating. He deserves to be shot!

Schlick remained at attention.

“You have nothing to say? Well, that is good. There is no excuse for dereliction of duty.” Schellenberg sat back, staring at the failure before him, ashamed that such a man might be listed among the SS—supermen of the Reich, breeders of the master race. He was grateful Schlick’s parents were both dead. The boy had held some promise as a youth, but petty grievances got the better of him even then. No matter how his mother had reprimanded, no matter how she had tried to beat manliness into him, he’d kept tally of slights and small wrongs as though a glove had been thrown before him. Petty, vindictive, shallow, weak. How ashamed they would be!

Perhaps the death of his wife and child have addled his brain, though I doubt that is his problem from the way he pursues this woman.

“For the sake of your parents’ memory, I have saved your skin. This time.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk.

“Yes, Brigadeführer!” Schlick spouted obediently.

The Brigadeführer closed his eyes, turning his back on the man. He heard the pivot of his subordinate’s heel, the grasp of the doorknob. “Gerhardt,” he sighed wearily, “I speak to you with the wisdom of a father. Forget this woman. She is not worth your career. She may have been promised to you, but she has eluded you twice now. She is not a willing partner to the doctors’ grand experiment. And we are at war. Untoward things happen during war.

“There are countless eager and suitable women—Aryan women you will find most pleasing and who will not disappoint you. Women who would welcome an SS officer as the father of their children, women ready to do their duty for the Fatherland. Do not let pettiness or pride blind you, my boy.”

Gerhardt bowed slightly to acknowledge the Brigadeführer’s overture but did not answer, was not required to respond. Respectfully closing the door behind him, he straightened, clenching his jaw.

He pulled his leather gloves taut, punching the space between his fingers. He marched smartly across the great hall, the click of his heels echoing off the walls. Gerhardt Schlick was not a schoolboy to be reprimanded by a general who counted himself a surrogate parent. He’d taken more than enough from his mother in life; he would not listen to her chastisement and dressing-down in death.

It had been a mistake letting Jason Young go. He knew something about Rachel, Gerhardt was certain. But the journalist had not broken under pressure, and when Gerhardt’s superiors had learned that he’d detained and questioned, with all persuasion, a member of
the foreign press, Gerhardt had released Young. The journalist had returned to Berlin, somewhat the worse for wear.

Perhaps he must bide his time, erase this spot, this tarnish to his reputation. He was good at waiting and could keep his eye on Young from afar. His mother had taught him well—
“Wait until your enemy thinks you’ve forgotten, until they let down their guard; then pounce.”
It had certainly served him in taking his revenge in her dotage. An overdose of medicine here, a bit of neglect there. She had not bothered him long.