Saving Amelie (35 page)

In this case, waiting posed an unfortunate waste of precious time. But it could not be helped. His image as a member of the elite of Germany must, at all costs, prevail. If Rachel had not left the country by now, she would certainly not be able to leave once the German army invaded England. Border security would clamp down tighter than ever. And that could be any day now—as soon as Hitler gave the word. That, too, would require his time and attention.

But forget Rachel Kramer? Not likely.

39

F
RIEDERICH
HAD
GROWN
used to the blackness, used to the sterile smell of antiseptic and disinfectants he’d long associated with white-enamel-tiled hospital hallways. He anticipated the next skyrocketing explosions, the sickly sweet smell of blood mixed with sulfur, the rush of limbs shooting into the air. He swam between worlds of dark and darker that never reached beyond the voices—the sharp, tired voices, the barking orders—that cut the silence, then faded.

He couldn’t say when the voices changed or when the prolonged rumble in his bones, followed by more jostling and finally a deep-seated comfort, pushed back his haunted dreams.

New scenes bled onto the canvas of his mind—long-ago dreams of Lea releasing coiled braids and combing her hair, long and gold and silken, before the oval mirror above her dressing table at bedtime. Sweet symphonies of Lea singing, true Alpine soprano. Homey scenes of Oma pulling stubborn weeds from her kitchen garden, rolling dough across her table, and dicing purple plums for his favorite turnovers. The scent of fresh bread baking and the prolonged silence drew him nearer the surface.

And then there were more and new voices—whispers, soft and feminine, fleeting. Friederich idly wondered if the melodious rise and fall of questions and answers, of croonings and assurances, meant that he was attended by angels. Perhaps the brush against his forehead, the warm pressure on his lips, the wisp across his cheek meant the passing of a seraph’s wing. Sometimes he would dream that Lea’s softly
curved form slept beside him once again, that her gentle tears fell on his face, his hands, like spring rain. He knew that was heaven. But the light did not come.

Lea could not stop the tears from flowing over Friederich’s face, his chest, his arms.

The body returned to her was not her husband but a scarred, emaciated shell of the robust protector and lover who’d reluctantly gone to war.

She’d prayed and yearned for his return—but whole, as himself, not like this. He did not look at her, did not seem to hear her or even know she was near.

The first night she closed their bedroom door and lay beside him. His eyes never opened and hers never closed.

When morning came, Lea rose and washed and dressed herself. Then she washed and dressed the man who shared her bed, wrestling a fresh nightshirt over his head and pushing his fingers, his arms, his shoulders through the sleeves. She changed the sheets he had soiled. But she refused to believe this was her Friederich. She would steel her heart for this one day; there was not strength for more.

Tomorrow—perhaps tomorrow—he will open his eyes, and he will see me.

40

C
ONVINCING
C
HIEF
to return him to Munich in early December was easier than Jason had imagined. The editor had been impressed with Jason’s inside scoop on the failed assassination attempt at the Munich beer cellar. Just after rousing the troops with his glorified memories and much-hailed anniversary speech, Hitler had walked out, safe and sound, just minutes before the bomb went off. Despite his arrest in Oberammergau and subsequent beatings, Jason had overheard enough in the SS circle to give new inside angles to the beer hall story. The trick was in printing it, getting it beyond the censors. But his report under fire raised Jason’s worth in Chief’s estimation.

Getting out of the newsroom, brushing off Eldridge—convincing him that he had no ulterior motive or amazing Munich source up his sleeve—was another thing. It didn’t matter that Jason’s bruises were still fading, his jaw too roughed up to shave, or that three broken ribs nearly bent him double.

“So, who’s the Nazi in your pocket?” Eldridge demanded.

“What—you mean the one that beat me to a pulp or the one that pulled him off? Take your pick. You can have ’em both.” Jason placed his typewriter in its case.

“I mean the one that tipped you off about Hitler’s little time bomb in the beer hall. The one that put you in the right place at the right time for that scoop. Maybe the one that called here looking for you shortly after you left?”

Jason’s heart stopped.
Schlick called here? That’s how he knew—why he came looking. He followed me. I could have led him straight to Rachel and Amelie! I might have . . .
He forced himself to clamp the typewriter into place, close the travel cover, and snap the latch.
Nonchalant—breathe—take it easy.
“So what’d you tell him—go down there and beat up the kid? He’s probably digging up something scary—like, the Krauts don’t like meat rationing on the home front. Let’s send a letter to the Führer; that’ll teach him.”

“Funny.”

Jason winced, gently pushing his arms through his coat. “A million laughs, that’s me.”

“So what’s next? What’s your angle?”

“Christmas markets—ornaments, Nativity carvings, bells, beer, German pastries fit to adorn your waistline—gotta challenge the system sometimes. Everybody loves German Christmas markets, and Uncle Adolf’s not likely to be giving any speeches at those. Sounds safe to me.” He slapped his fedora on his head, tipped it to a jaunty angle, but even that made him wince again. “The Reich Chancellor’s glorious speeches are yours from now on. I’ve had all the ‘Heil Hitler’ I can stomach.”

“Right.” Eldridge clearly didn’t believe him. “And you’re retiring to the land of Bavarian fairy tales.”

“The glory’s yours, old boy—take it away. And Merry Christmas.” Jason pushed through the newsroom door, not looking back, hoping Eldridge bought it . . . but betting the squealer wasn’t through.

Inspired, Curate Bauer hurried up the hill to Frau Breisner’s house.

Three months ago he could not have imagined asking quiet, mousy Frau Hartman to fill such a role, but three months ago he’d not seen her muster seventeen unruly hooligans in the children’s choir and transform them into neat rows of singing cherubs. He’d not known she could hide whimpering children in crates or that she was
in some way connected to the older woman on the train who’d saved them both through her uproar—a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Lea Hartman, if only about the eyes.

As far as he was concerned, Lea Hartman could walk on water.

But Lea turned him down.

“It is all I can do to care for Friederich and teach the children’s choir. I’m sorry, Curate, but I know nothing of theatre, of dramatics. It’s only in singing that I’m able.”

“It is less a matter of significant training than of keeping the children focused, occupied. And—” he searched her eyes—“of moving Jewish children through the town among the refugees—as though they, too, are children of German soldiers fleeing the cities. It’s only a little training they need—a happy afternoon twice a week.”

She shook her head. “I feel I’ve let you down. But I simply ca—”

“I am the one to apologize, Frau Hartman. I only thought you might have more hidden talents that you’ve not revealed. I should have realized the impossibility of what I was asking with the burdens you already bear.” He hesitated. “There is no improvement?”

Lea bit her lip. “I hope . . . every day.”

Oma squeezed Lea’s shoulder. “We both hope, and we pray.”

The curate nodded. “The mysteries of God . . . I don’t always understand them.” Wearily, he sipped the herb tea Oma had placed before him.

“Curate,” Oma ventured.

He looked up.

“How soon do you need someone to begin the theatre classes?”

“A week; two, perhaps. No more. It must be someone I can trust to overlook hidden guests—a challenge greater than finding someone to teach the class.” He shrugged. “And truly, the children here need more structure to their time. ‘Idle hands and mischief,’ you know.” He smiled. “Tell me, then, are you thinking of taking them on, Frau Breisner?”

She laughed. “
Nein
, Curate. These bones are too old and these nerves too brittle for a dozen sprites. But I think Lea may wish to reconsider.”

“Oma, you know I can’t—”

“I know you
think
you can’t. But let’s talk about it over supper. Let’s think it through carefully. I could watch over Friederich, even feed him while you’re teaching, just as I do while you’re at choir practice, and—”

“No!” Lea turned to the curate. “Truly, you must look for another.”

“We could certainly use the money, dear. And it would be a natural way for you to bring children home with you—as though they were refugee children, as Curate Bauer said.”

The curate looked from one woman to the other, hope springing in his chest, but uncertain whose word he should take as final. At last he urged, “I know crates that whimper need food and clothing. It would be one way of raising extra funds.”

“Give us two days. If Lea does not speak to you by then, consider the matter closed. But let us talk tonight.”

“Oma!”

Curate Bauer was not about to stay and dodge the squabbles of two determined women. He nodded hopefully, appreciatively, and bowed his way out the door into the cold December sunshine.

He pulled his hat over his ears and tugged his winter coat tightly round him, setting a good pace down the hill into the village.

Dramatics experience or no, he’d wager that Hilde Breisner would win this round with her granddaughter. He was rather sorry for the good Frau Hartman—but not sorry enough to withdraw his plea.

“It’s perfect! I’ll do it!” Rachel squealed, bursting from the cupboard. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it, Oma? That I’ll teach the classes?”

“You can’t be serious!” Lea spouted. “The moment you step outside this door we’ll be shot—all of us. Tell her, Oma!”

“Not if she appears as you, my dear.”

“As me?” Lea shook her head. “You can’t mean it. Think, Oma! Think what you’re saying!”

“I’m saying this is an opportunity to do something beyond ourselves, for the children—the Jewish children who have nowhere to go, none to take them in.”

“I know; I know they need someone. I’ve already agreed to building the secret room in my home, but—”

“Someone the curate can trust. Did you not hear him? For these children to come here means that their parents have already been taken. And the work will bring in more food money for us—to feed them and pay for forged papers. It will get Rachel out of the house before she drives us all over the brink.” She looked pointedly at Rachel. “It will give her a way to contribute.”

“There must be someone else. The risk . . .” Lea looked away.

“For Friederich?” Oma asked softly.

“Yes, if we do anything more to draw the Nazis here—and Rachel parading herself in the village will—”

“I won’t ‘parade’ myself! Give me a little credit!”

“Friederich cannot defend himself! You saw what they did here, but neither of you saw how they stabbed the mattresses in my home. They destroyed everything in their way—the walls, the furniture. The cupboards Friederich crafted and carved are ruined . . . and he can never defend himself,” she repeated. “Our home is not even livable, and it was surely a warning. No.” She shook her head. “No, I won’t do it.”