Saving Amelie (9 page)

When her father finally returned, it was nearly the dinner hour and she was spent with worry. Neither had dressed for dinner, and going to the theatre was out of the question. He complained that he was tired from the journey and asked if she’d mind if they had something served in their sitting room.

“Not at all. I’d prefer it.” Rachel kept a grip on her emotions but knew she spoke too brightly. “And we must talk of going home—as soon as possible!”

After placing their order for room service, he sank into the sofa. “You’ve no idea the stress of this trip, my dear. The war—not unexpected, but still . . . I’m glad you were here in Berlin, waiting for me. It makes . . .” He swallowed. “At least, something . . .”

“Are you ill?”

He waved his hand as if to dismiss the idea. “It’s just . . . so many decisions, all the preparation for the conference in Edinburgh. And such a disappointment. So little cooperation between nations and ideologies. The tension between monarchs . . .” He closed his eyes. “They all want the same thing eugenically—ultimately—but refuse to align themselves with Germany for fear of what the world thinks. They don’t understand. We’re standing on the precipice!”

“We’re in the middle of a war!”

He brushed the air again. “It will blow over. France, Britain—they’re no match for Germany. They’ll soon see and come to their senses. As will Poland.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m afraid I’m like those nations you met with, Father. I don’t understand either.”

He was massaging the bridge between his eyes. “What is it? What do you not understand?”

Taking the deep chair opposite him, she leaned forward. “On Friday—the day the Führer declared war on Poland—”

“A counterattack, he said.”

She ignored him. “I saw something that disturbed me greatly—something I hope is not what it seemed.”

He opened his eyes. “And what is that?”

“I was shopping in the city. As I was waiting for a trolley I saw a van—its windows painted black—stop before an asylum for handicapped children.”

“Perhaps the children were going on a trip.”

“I didn’t say they’d gone anywhere. What makes you think they went somewhere?”

He waved his hand in dismissal once more, but she saw his shoulders tighten. “A supposition—you said there was a van.”

“Actually—”

But a knock at the door startled Rachel.

“Come in!” Dr. Kramer called, seemingly relieved, rejuvenated by the sight of the waiter wheeling the cart with their dinner.

They’d barely begun their meal when Rachel tried again. “You’re right, Father. The children were loaded into the van, but I don’t think they were going on a pleasure trip. The woman in charge said they were going for treatment. What sort of treatment would an entire vanload of handicapped children be going for—children with different handicaps?”

“How can I know that? Only their doctor would know.”

But she persisted. “At the gala I heard Herr Himmler talk about those who would become a drain on German society in the event of war—those whom the Reich could barely sustain in peacetime could not be supported during war. What did he mean?”

Her father was clearly annoyed by the turn in conversation. “How can I know what he was thinking? Rachel, you take these things too much to heart.”

“But that’s the nature of eugenics, isn’t it—to weed the weak from the strong?”

“Yes, of course. But you needn’t worry. You’re a perfect specimen.” He winked, as though he’d made a joke.

“How? How will they do it?”

“What Germany does is Germany’s affair. Just as what America does is America’s affair. We share our research, we benefit mutually from the findings of that research, but we do not dictate medical policy from one country to another.”

“But I’ve heard—”

“Rumors? Never give credence to rumors. You know better than that. What is important is that Germany is at war, and all her resources are needed for her soldiers. We’ll be fortunate indeed if Herr Hitler continues to channel funding to Dr. Verschuer’s work.”

Rachel tried again, but her father cut her off. “We owe Germany and Dr. Verschuer a great debt. Do you understand what it will mean to eradicate diseases such as tuberculosis, polio?”

“But not at the cost of other lives. You can’t justify—”

“Unusual sacrifices are sometimes called for in order to achieve a greater good. We must all make sacrifices. And contributions.”

Rachel’s frustration built so that she barely knew how to respond. “Father,” she pleaded.

“You’re in a position to make a valuable contribution. Your bloodline is pure; you are healthy and intelligent.”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached for her hand. “You carry the Aryan bloodline that all Germany, all the world, craves. By choosing someone of a similar, suitable line and continuing your bloodline, you contribute to strengthening the human race—the ultimate purpose of all our work.”

“I’m not a project, Father. Besides, I don’t have this ‘suitable someone’ tucked in my back pocket—I’m not interested in marriage now! Please stop changing the subject.”

Weariness replaced his affected charm. “Choosing someone you know is preferable to having the choice made for you.” He stared at her until she, confused, looked away. “I’m tired, Rachel. I must say good night. But you must think about all I’ve said.” At the door to his room he paused, not looking back. “We will meet Gerhardt and his wife for dinner tomorrow evening. You will see her condition for yourself.”

“Kristine—her name is Kristine,” Rachel insisted.
The girl I grew up with—the girl who spent nearly every weekend at our house!

He did not answer but closed the door, the latch clicking into place.

Rachel wrapped her hands round her head.
What is the matter with him? What was he talking about? And what about those children? What about Amelie?

An hour later, in the middle of a radio broadcast concert, the program was interrupted by another speech from the Führer, once again thundering about Poland and the importance of needed living space for the German Volk.

Rachel shook her head and snapped the dial, silencing the urgency.
He sounds as theatrical as
The War of the Worlds
! No wonder everyone back home was terrified by that radio broadcast. Invading Martians were like Hitler turned loose. If only Herr Hitler were a figment of the imagination too.

8

H
ELPLESSLY
,
C
URATE
B
AUER
trailed Frau Fenstermacher round the schoolroom. She wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t stand still, and couldn’t seem to pack her bags fast enough.

“Demons! They’re demons, Curate, I tell you, and I’m finished—
kaputt
!” She slammed sheet music into folders. “You must find someone else!”

“Now, now, Frau Fenstermacher, they’re children—a little high-strung, perhaps, with so many of their fathers being called into service, but good children in need of stability.” He pulled her bag gently from her arm.

“In need of stability? That’s the understatement of our decade!” she snapped. “Our own village children are handfuls quite enough. At least I can threaten that if they don’t behave, they’ll never be allowed to perform in the Passion! But these refugee children—there’s no such hope for them, and I’ve no leverage!”

“Perhaps in these unusual times we should make an exception. They’re truly good children.”

She jerked the bag away. “Ha! You’ll never get Father Oberlanger, nor the mayor, nor the town itself to allow a child not born in the village to perform in the Passion Play—that’s sacrilege. It’s a right of birth and a privilege to perform, not something passed round the table!” She sighed heavily, purposefully. “Not to speak contrary, Curate, but I don’t see good children when I look at those runny-nosed hooligans! Your rose-colored spectacles need polishing, and my nerves need a good shot of schnapps!”

“I’ll buy you a bottle myself, if you will only stay through Advent, Frau Fenstermacher,” he pleaded. “I’ll buy you the best and biggest bottle in Oberammergau—in all of Bavaria!”

She stopped suddenly and stared at him, pity in her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she laid a hand on his arm. “That’s good of you, Curate, what with your vow of poverty and all. But you can’t afford the schnapps that would make me stay another week with these wild things, let alone through Advent. And you may as well face facts. If the Führer doesn’t settle this thing and pull our troops back, well . . .”

“What will we do?” The young priest plopped on the desktop behind him. “The choir director has been sent for training. A third of the Passion cast is on military duty and more on alert. They’ll be called any day now. The schoolmaster is gone. We need someone who can control these children, someone who can direct and sing—not to mention direct their after-school auxiliary practices.”

“A tall order, all of that, requiring at least three stalwart souls.” She paused and looked away, speaking softly. “It might be time to think of calling off the Passion, though I don’t envy you the job. The entire village—we live for it every ten years.”

“They’d hang me, and I wouldn’t blame them. Call off the play?” He moaned. “Never. Oberammergau
is
the Passion.”

“Well, I’m not so sure we’ll get many patrons if Jesus and the disciples are off to war, and if Britain and France are shooting at us, never mind the tighter rations on
Benzin
. Folks are getting mighty nervous. It’s stirring too many memories of the last war, no matter that we’ve barely started in Poland. If we go on like this, it won’t matter that the Führer thinks our Passion is ‘the best example of anti-Jewry in Germany and should go on forever.’”

Curate Bauer moaned again. He loved the true Passion of Christ and supported the town’s mission to present the play every ten years, but he hated the anti-Semitic slant the script conveyed, the way it demonized
Jews—the very thing that had, for centuries, roused Christians to perpetrate pogroms, intent on killing off the “Christ killers.” The very apple of God’s eye, brothers and sisters Jesus had died for.

Frau Fenstermacher shoved the music folders into the bookcase opposite the door and hefted her shopping bag. “Well, you know a thing or two about the miracle business, Curate. I’d say you’d best get to it.”

“You border on sacrilege, Frau Fenstermacher,” he chided, but without heart.

“Not at all, Father.” Though she crossed herself. “You yourself said that the Lord turned water into wine.”

“Wine I can get; a children’s choir director I cannot.” He sighed. “Please, Frau Fenstermacher, just until I can find a replace—”

“All I’m saying is that under the present circumstances you might not be able to find a good Catholic choir director to get these refugee children ready for Advent. What you need is a Gestapo agent! In lieu of that, you might try the evangelicals. Wouldn’t they just love to slip in the back door and insinuate themselves into our play! Maybe it’s time we trained them.”

A yowl shot up from the courtyard. Curate Bauer knew he should investigate, but it would have to wait. “See here—”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “All you need at this late date is someone who can read music and keep them in line—that’s all you can expect with everything gone helter-skelter, thanks to—oh, never mind. The scallywags born and bred here know their parts, if they’d just settle down. But those refugee children won’t settle for me, and my old heart won’t take another rehearsal.”

“But—” He could barely hear himself for the howling in the corridor beyond the door.

“My best advice, Curate, and I thank you for asking, is to take the first person through that door who knows anything about drilling
children. Give them the job before they can say no. Don’t even ask if they can sing.”

The distinct knock at the door and the sobbing beyond cut the wind from Curate Bauer’s sails. “What is it?” he shouted, defeated.

The door flew open and a furious Lea Hartman stood with six-year-old Heinrich Helphman’s ear in a death grip. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Curate Bauer, but Heinrich has been snitching the baby Jesus from Friederich’s Nativity scenes again. I really must ask you to do something about . . .”

Curate Bauer did not hear the rest of Frau Hartman’s tirade. He was too impressed with Frau Fenstermacher’s raised eyebrows and the significance of miracles.

9

A
SINGULARLY
UNCOMFORTABLE
AFFAIR
,
Rachel decided of their meal with Gerhardt and Kristine. Gerhardt, the picture of Germanic efficiency gilded in arrogance; and Kristine, the intimidated and nervous mat on which he wiped his boots. His affected chivalry in holding chairs for the ladies and in ordering for his wife served more to underline his control over her than his gentlemanly attention.

Each time Rachel tried to draw Kristine into the conversation Gerhardt answered for her or swiftly corrected and ridiculed her responses.
She’s absolutely cowed, just as she was at the gala.

“Tell me about your daughter,” Rachel pushed. Gerhardt’s smile remained, though his eyes turned cold. Kristine looked suddenly paralyzed. “She must be four by now.”

“Amelie is something of a throwback.” Gerhardt glanced at his wife, accusingly. “How do you say in English—feebleminded, slow?”

Kristine leaned forward, a lioness shielding her cub. “Amelie has a hearing difficulty; that’s all. She’s bright—truly bright—and says the funniest things.” Her eyes begged for Rachel’s understanding, her belief.

“She speaks?” Dr. Kramer questioned.

“She signs—quite well for a small child,” Kristine enthused.

“She grunts like an ape.” Gerhardt shuddered. “Kristine has convinced herself that the child is nearly human.”

“She is hum—”

“Enough!” Gerhardt stopped Kristine cold. “She will be sent for
treatment.” He spoke as though the matter had long been settled. “As you know, Dr. Kramer, there has been much research done of late on such cases. She will be well cared for in ways that will no longer drain Kristine’s energies.”