Saving Amelie (56 page)

Rachel trembled when she realized their cohort this night was Father Oberlanger. If he recognized her or called out, if he reported them, all would be lost. But as she climbed into the wagon beside Forester Schrade, Father Oberlanger whispered, “Godspeed, Fräulein Rachel. Godspeed!”

She peered into the old priest’s face—the priest who’d helped save her a second time—and found mercy and hope in the eyes she’d never quite been able to read, in the creased forehead she’d always thought evoked disapproval. She squeezed his shoulder and touched his face, her heart too full and too frightened to speak. There were so many mysteries in life—Father Oberlanger was one more.

Chief Schrade cracked his whip above the horse’s head. Together they clopped steadily through wide, familiar village roads. Passing the village’s edge, the road opened quickly into a winding ribbon of late-summer moonlight.

Rachel reached her hand beneath the straw and burlap behind and caught Rivka’s hand raised in return.

“The first checkpoint is just ahead,” Chief Schrade said. “Get a bottle ready, or two.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before a light flashed across the roadway, and soldiers, guns raised, stepped into its beam. “Halt!”

Chief Schrade reined in his horse, gliding to a stop. “Heil Hitler! We bear gifts from the village and good wishes from Sturmbannführer Schlick! It’s a shame you’re stationed out here in the dark—that you’re missing the celebration. So we bring you a little party, eh? Something to warm you through! No cake, but something better, eh? Helga, hand me a bottle for our strong soldiers!”

“Schnapps? The Sturmbannführer sent you?” The soldier in charge didn’t believe it.

“
Ja! Ja!
For the celebration—Brigadeführer Schellenberg is there too! No curfew tonight!”

Rachel handed bottles to men on each side of the wagon.

“Don’t be stingy!” Chief Schrade laughed. “The Sturmbannführer ordered a bottle for every man! Drink up! He may rue his generosity when he’s sober!”

The men could not raise a bottle and a gun at the same time. Bottles won.

“Where are you going?”

“Just beyond Ettal. We’re not to miss a soldier—deliver every bottle. Only the best for you men serving our Fatherland!”

“Serving the Führer!”

“
Ja! Ja!
Heil Hitler!”

The soldiers stood back, raising their bottles in good humor. “Heil Hitler!”

Chief Schrade waved a merry good-bye to the troops and was gone.

Two more checkpoints brought them to the base of the mountain. Chief Schrade pulled his horse off the road and through the field.

“We’re leaving the road?” Rachel felt her panic rising.

“
Ja
, it’s better this way—just to reach the road beyond the wood. We want them to think we drove on, beyond Ettal. I don’t want them to think we took to the mountains.”

“What about our tracks?”

“Can’t you smell? Rain is coming. By the time they’ve figured out we’re gone—if they realize you existed at all—our tracks will be washed clean.”

Rachel prayed it would be so.

The moon swept between clouds. The horse emerged at last onto a mountain road. Up, up, and around they went, the horse going slower the higher they climbed.

“Will he be able to make it to the top?” Rivka peeked from beneath the sack.

“Nein,”
Chief Schrade replied. “It’s much too steep . . . but you will.”

“What?” Rachel could not imagine walking the mountain in the dark.

The man nodded. “Sit back. Enjoy the ride, for we’ll all be walking soon.”

Less than twenty minutes later, true to his word, Forestry Chief Schrade pulled the wagon off the road and through a grove of trees. A faint light broke the darkness. By the time they’d come within close view, Rachel realized there was a cabin. The door opened. A woman, silhouetted against a softly burning lamp, beckoned them inside.

But Chief Schrade refused, calling instead for the woman’s
husband. “
Danke
, but we must be on our way. I’ll be back tomorrow for the horse and wagon.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” the farmer replied, stepping around his wife. “He’ll be ready for you.”

Rachel had hoped they could stop for a cup of something resembling coffee, or anything at all to steady her nerves. But Chief Schrade helped her down, uncovered Rivka from the straw, and urged them to follow him quickly into the dark forest. He handed each a length of rope to keep connected. But neither woman was used to strenuous hiking these last months, and they stumbled in tandem.

“Can we slow down a little?” Rachel called.

“You must keep up,” Chief Schrade hissed. “You must keep up or you risk being shot!” Rachel didn’t waste her shortened breath on another word, but bent her head into the climb.

Up, up, and up—forever they climbed, until Rivka slowed and Rachel felt her legs would break.

At last the terrain leveled and they stepped onto a crooked path, descending into a small glen. Rachel prayed they would not have to climb back out.

The trees thickened so they could barely see one another through the darkness and branches. One moment Rachel was holding the rope and following Rivka, and the next minute she stood alone, empty-handed. “Rivka! Rivka!” she called.

“Silence!” Chief Schrade whispered fiercely. “We’re nearly there. Stay close to one another.”

Rachel groped silently in the dark until Rivka grabbed her hand. Rachel breathed deeply, relieved but tense, and followed her friend.

A small clearing opened and something tall and dark loomed before them. At first Rachel thought it was another copse of trees. But Forestry Chief Schrade reached the darkness first, and she heard the thumping of shoes against a door.

“Thank you!” she whispered.

“Come in, come in,” Chief Schrade urged. “We rest for one hour, and then go. We must meet our contact before midnight.” He struck a match, and the lamp’s sudden flare hurt Rachel’s eyes. But she was grateful for the shattered darkness, even for the crazy shadows that danced upon the walls, across the broad tables and chairs.

“What is this place?” whispered Rivka.

“A lodge—used by hunters in times gone by. Since the war, the Nazis use it as training barracks for the mountaineers.”

“Do you think—?”

“
Nein, nein.
No one will come up here tonight—they’ll all be celebrating till dawn. The Sturmbannführer doesn’t even know of this place.”

“What about Maximillion?” Shivers ran the length of Rachel’s spine.

“
Ja
, he knows, and he knows whom to tell. Let’s hope he’s not that smart.” He handed them a lamp. “Do not worry. Before it crosses their minds you’ll both be safely on your way to Lisbon.”

“I pray you’re right.” Rachel had done more praying, more almost believing, that night than she’d done in her life.

Chief Schrade nodded. “We’ll all pray, Fräulein Kramer.”

It was so strange to hear her own name; to think she would soon hear it every day seemed a miracle. If only she could hear Jason say it—aloud—once more. All the way up the mountain she’d wished she could have spoken with him, said good-bye. To see him in the audience, unable to smile at or acknowledge him, seeing the hurt and betrayal in his eyes when she’d brazenly flirted with Schlick from across the room—it seemed too cruel an ending, and one Jason didn’t deserve after all he’d done to help. Surely Lea would explain that it was safer he not know their exact plans ahead of time, so he could better act as surprised as everyone else.

By the time they’d bedded down, Rachel could barely keep her eyes open. She and Rivka shared a sofa, and Chief Schrade kept watch
by the window. Rachel was nearly asleep when Rivka whispered, “Oma and Amelie and Lea and Friederich will be safe now—won’t they? And we’ll be all right?”

Rachel forced her voice to smile in the darkness. She pressed her new younger sister’s hand. “More than all right. Everything will be wonderful—for all of us. You’ll see.”

Rivka squeezed her hand in return.

Rachel closed her eyes.
Let it be true.

68

R
ACHEL
DIDN
’
T
WANT
to wake when Forestry Chief Schrade touched her shoulder; she wanted to finish her dream. And all her bones ached from the evening climb.

But he shook her, insisting that she waken. He shook Rivka. “We must be on our way. I have rolls for you. But hurry! We must make it look as if no one has been here.”

“Coffee?” Rivka yawned.

“No fire—no smoke,” he ordered. “Hurry!”

Rachel pulled herself together. There was no way to change her clothes or do more than wipe the worst of the homemade stage makeup from her face. But at least the face that peered back at her from the cracked mirror over the washbowl was her own—a little bleary, a little older and more careworn than the young woman who’d come to Germany the year before, but her own.

Soon she would be free to be herself, would not need to pretend to be Lea Hartman or her grandmother’s relative visiting from Stelle. She wondered for a moment what that would be like, who she would be now that she’d lived this other life, now that she’d learned all her life before had been a lie.

Rachel and Rivka took the rolls Chief Schrade handed them and stuffed them into their pockets to eat along the way. They wrapped their jackets tight against the cold mountain air and followed him into the night.

They climbed and climbed, for an hour or more.

“It’s not far now—not far at all,” Chief Schrade whispered, hoarse.

Suddenly the trees stopped, the mountain dropped, and the moonlit path swerved almost back upon itself through a sharp cleft.

“A pass!” Rivka called behind her. “A pass! The going will be easier.”

“Thank you!” Rachel whispered to the night. Her calf and thigh muscles strained to the breaking point.

Hidden at the base of the pass was what looked like the outline of a building. Chief Schrade motioned for the girls to stop, to wait. Rachel caught up to Rivka, and they stood close in the shadows of the trees. Chief Schrade continued down the path, disappearing inside what looked like nothing but a makeshift hut, a shack. Sounds of two men, maybe three, talking, possibly arguing, floated toward them.

Three minutes must have passed before a man started up the shadowed path toward them. But it wasn’t the shape of Chief Schrade. They couldn’t see his face as it bent toward the climb, but he scrambled up and up. Rachel was ready to turn, to pull Rivka back through the trees the way they’d come, to stumble down the mountain. Perhaps they could make it back to the lodge, lose the man, make it to Ettal or even Oma’s attic.

“Rachel! Rachel!” the man called.

The swimming, swirling fears in Rachel’s head stopped short. “Jason?” She gasped, trying to escape hallucination. “What are you doing here? How did you—?”

“I couldn’t let you go . . . without seeing you.” He reached them, panting. “Rivka . . . good to see you again.”

“And you, boss.”

“How did you get here ahead of us? It took us all night to get this far—we only rested an hour.”

“Schellenberg was grateful for good press and offered me a ride with his motorcade. I picked the nearest ski lodge—told him I’d been
assigned to do a story on Bavaria’s ski resorts, reasons the world might still like to visit Germany this autumn. The last hour I took on foot.”

“What about Gerhardt?”

“I believe our good Brigadeführer’s going to keep Schlick very busy coordinating concentration camps deep in Poland for some time.” He stepped closer. “Lea told me where to find you. We don’t have much time.”

Rivka squeezed Rachel’s hand, said, “See you later,” and continued down the path toward the shack.

“How long do we have?” Rachel didn’t want to think of Gerhardt Schlick again, didn’t want to miss this moment.

“Five minutes. Just enough time for the two of you to drink something hot and change clothes. You can wear a set of mine—with suspenders.” He grinned. “Your contact’s ready to go—got to get you through the pass and to the other side before daylight.” He wrapped an arm around her back. “Chicory’s on. I want you warmed through. You’ve got a long road ahead.”

But she needed to stop time. It had all been such a rush, such high risk, and now there was no more time. “Jason. When will I see you?” She knew she should thank him for all he’d done—for saving Amelie, for saving her from a father who would have sold her to the Nazis, for helping her find her real family, for saving Rivka, for introducing her to Bonhoeffer and, more importantly, to Jesus—his Jesus and perhaps, one day, her Jesus—someone she needed to know better. She should say a thousand different things. But just now, this was all that mattered. “Tell me.”

He cupped her face in his hands and turned it to the night sky. “Do you see that half moon?”

She sniffed, unable to keep the twisted knot from rising in her throat.

“Each night I want you to look at that moon, and know that
I’m looking at it, thinking of you, counting its cycles until I see you again—in New York.”

“And what will happen when you reach New York?” She could barely breathe.