That reminded him of the film.
Jason waited until evening, when the newsroom was empty. Just before leaving for Munich, he reached into the back of his desk drawer for the small cylinder he’d taped to the inside top. The first time his hand swept the empty space he wasn’t concerned, certain he’d just missed it. But the second swipe and a third left him empty-handed. He pulled out the drawer, checked the back, checked each of the drawers and the floor. Finally he switched off his desk lamp and sat, every imaginable scenario racing through his brain. None of them good.
49
“
T
HE
CHILDREN
were magnificent!” Curate Bauer whispered in Rachel’s ear as the roomful of parents rose to their feet in applause. The Easter skit had come off beautifully, down to the tiniest performer. Rachel, nearly bursting with pride, crowed over her charges. She was thrilled to play Lea for the day, and grateful to her sister for exchanging places and watching Amelie.
It wasn’t the Passion Play by any stretch of the imagination, but a story about a child who came to know Jesus, a skit she and Lea had secretly written together—an Easter miracle all its own.
In the process, Lea had insisted Rachel read the Gospels, focusing on Jesus’ last week. Initially, Rachel had balked at the notion, remembering her father’s claims that Christianity and its book were crutches for the weak, a soft religion for those unable to navigate life under their own steam. The Nazis said the same, ridiculing the idea of a sacrificial, suffering Savior rather than one strong in military might like their Führer.
But once she realized her prior programming, Rachel was willing—determined—to investigate for herself. She was surprised to find that Jesus was not the weakling her father had insisted, but a strong and radical man who stood against the hypocrisy of His time. That unsettled her, shifted her moorings. But she kept at it.
When she’d finished reading, she and Lea wrote the skit in a sitting, then edited and edited for days, until every line sang. Rachel had imagined the story from Amelie’s viewpoint, a little girl who
came to Jesus in need of help—Lea added that she came in need of forgiveness.
But Rachel knew she was that little girl, that parentless child who recognized her need at last. She wanted her ending to be as happy as the child’s in the skit, but that required belief in Jesus as the Son of God. Rachel winced. Belief—in anyone or anything—was more than she could swallow.
Rachel saw the light of that belief and accepted forgiveness in Lea’s eyes and life, in Oma’s and Friederich’s. She wanted that feeling of being clean and whole too, but yielding, humbling herself, raked against the grain of her self-sufficiency.
“An unusual rendition, Frau Hartman,” Father Oberlanger suggested, making her jump, bringing her back to earth. “May I ask what script you used?”
“I wrote it myself.” Rachel could not keep the pride from her voice.
“I see.” But Father Oberlanger looked none too pleased. “You understand, do you not, that all scripts must be presented to the council and are subject to their approval?”
“No, I didn’t—I mean, yes, I understand that about the Passion Play,” she stammered, “but I didn’t think it applied to simple skits for the children.”
He raised his chin. “You’ve lived here your entire life, and yet you don’t know this? You are mistaken. Because we are at war does not excuse us from conforming to established guidelines.”
“It was just a little skit,” she defended. “I thought the children did very well, didn’t you?”
Curate Bauer stepped into the breach. “The children were wonderful, Frau Hartman. We very much appreciate your fine endeavors with them.” He glanced at grim Father Oberlanger. “Please forgive me, Father. I should have spoken with you about the script. I did not think.”
“Not thinking,” Father Oberlanger replied, “can be very dangerous, especially in these times. You may have noticed our Gestapo guest?”
“Yes, Father.” Curate Bauer spoke humbly, much to Rachel’s chagrin. “It won’t happen again.”
“I hold you responsible, Curate.”
“Yes, Father.”
Rachel waited until the older priest had walked away. “Why did you kowtow to him? You know the play was well done. The parents were pleased as punch! What is his problem?”
“His problem,” Curate Bauer whispered, “is the Gestapo agent scribbling away in the last row. And Maximillion is not on duty outside the door because he loves the church. He’s a snitch in Hitler Youth uniform—not one of your American Boy Scouts.”
Rachel waved the notion away. “Maximillion is moonstruck and harmless. And what can the Gestapo possibly complain about? This is the Passion Village. Plays about Jesus are the norm, not the—”
“Anything that declares our need for anything beyond the perfect Aryan man or woman or recognizes any savior but Hitler is frowned upon.” Curate Bauer and Rachel glanced at the door and the agent leaving, writing in his notepad. “We must be careful, very careful.”
The gild was off the lily. Rachel smiled mechanically at the parents who thanked her, the children who reached their arms to hug her on their way out the classroom door.
She’d written the play from the best that was in her. She’d believed that the Passion Village powers that be would love it—love her for it. Now, to be reprimanded for doing the first truly good thing she could remember doing—for sharing, in her way, what she’d been given—was a slap in the face.
And where was Jason? Rachel had heard he was in Oberammergau, conducting interviews. She was sure he’d hear of and come to the play, that he’d find a way to visit her at Oma’s one evening after
curfew. She’d wanted him to see what she could do, had hoped it would relieve his unspoken anxiety as to the state of her eugenics-drilled soul. But he hadn’t come.
When the room was empty, she packed her bag of scripts and collected the small hand props to store, tossing them into the box with more energy than necessary. She swiped at tears that sprang unbidden.
“Frau Hartman?” Maximillion stood at the classroom door, his hands behind his back. “You are crying.” He was across the room and at her side in a moment.
“No.” Rachel blinked her eyes and dried her face. “Just something in my eye. I’m quite all right.”
Maximillion pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Allow me, please.”
Rachel smiled, self-consciously, trying to decide how Lea might behave in this situation. Would she be meek? Appreciative? Standoffish? Rachel couldn’t decide, and allowed the teen to brush the last of her tears away.
“There. Is that better?”
“Yes,” she sniffed. “Thank you.” She turned away, but the boy took the liberty of pressing her arm.
“Perhaps these will cheer you.” He handed her a lovely, mildly fragrant bouquet of hothouse flowers. “I grew them myself.”
“They’re lovely, Max!” Rachel meant it. It had been ages since she’d seen flowers, even longer since she’d been given a bouquet.
Maximillion smiled. “Max—I like that. Always call me Max.”
Rachel blushed, realizing she’d betrayed her American penchant for nicknames. “It suits you.”
He stepped closer. “I heard of the priest’s reprimand. That was not warranted.”
“You saw the play?”
“No, I am sorry; I did not. I was on duty in the hallway. But I’m
certain that whatever you did was in the best taste. You’ve given so much—music, singing, and acting classes for the
Kinder
. The priest should be grateful. He should not question you.” He pocketed his handkerchief. “I’ll be sure to check my duty roster the next time your class performs. I will not miss it again.”
Rachel’s heart was warmed by his righteous indignation, though she knew he was just a boy adoring a teacher. “That’s very sweet of you, Max.” She touched his face, just as she’d seen Lea do to Amelie when the child had especially tried to please her. “I look forward to that.”
But Maximillion did not respond gratefully in the cherub-like manner of Amelie or her students. His eyes lit with a lust Rachel had seen only in grown men. He covered her hand, clasping it to his cheek. Too late Rachel realized her mistake and tried to pull her hand away, stepping back. But Maximillion was not put off. He grabbed her hand and stepped forward, too near, inches from her face, his eyes riveted on her lips. Rachel’s heart gripped. She realized for the first time that the boy was at least three inches taller than she and a good thirty pounds heavier. She had nowhere to go.
A loud knock at the open door intruded. Jason Young stepped into the center of the room. If disgust were a lance, the Hitler Youth would have been impaled. “Frau Hartman, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the children’s skit for the newspaper.”
Maximillion turned, his cheeks a furious shade of red, frustration shooting from his eyes.
Rachel nearly sank to her knees in relief. “Yes, yes, Herr Young. Gladly.” She straightened, pulling her hand away and regaining her composure. She placed the flowers on the table beside her. “You must go along now, Maximillion.”
Maximillion, still shooting daggers at Jason, didn’t move.
“I believe you heard the lady.” Jason stepped closer, pulling a
notepad and pen from his coat pocket, never taking his eyes from the Hitler Youth.
Maximillion grabbed the cap he’d tossed to the table, defiantly placed it on his head, and marched past Jason, his shoulder brushing hard against the journalist.
When he was out the door, Rachel slumped against the table, heaving a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Looks like you have a problem on your hands.”
Rachel shook her head. “Lea cautioned me, but I thought he was harmless. He’s just a boy.”
“A big boy,” Jason warned.
“Yes.” Rachel swallowed. “A big boy.”
Jason looked about to say more but stopped. “It’s good to see you.” A smile lit his eyes.
“And you, Herr Young.” She grinned.
He reached for her hand, froze, and glanced quickly back at the door.
“I guess you’d better stay on that side of the table, and I’ll stay on mine,” she whispered.
He pouted. “What fun is that?”
“None,” she said, meaning it. “I’ve missed you.”
“You have no idea,” he lamented. After a moment he straightened. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Her brows rose expectantly.
Jason pulled a magazine from his coat pocket and plunked it on the table between them. The cover—graced by a stunning Rachel, smiling into the camera with a winsome Amelie clasping her face—took Rachel’s breath away. “You took this.” She picked up the magazine. “I remember when you took this. But you published it?” She felt the room sway and the floor drop beneath her.
“No.” Jason frowned. “It was on a separate roll of film—just those couple of pictures I took of you and Amelie.” He tossed his fedora to
the table. “It was stupid, foolish, I know. And selfish. I just wanted your picture, and Amelie’s—I never thought anybody’d see them. I didn’t even develop them—didn’t dare.”
“Then how—?”
“Check the attribution—the name at the bottom of the photograph.”
She squinted to bring the fine print into view. “M. Eldridge. Who’s M. Eldridge?”
“My archrival, a guy in the Berlin newsroom who’s made work a living nightmare. It’s a race for every story, the Indy 500 for photo sales. He must have been snooping in my desk.”
“You left my photograph in your Berlin desk?” She couldn’t believe such stupidity.
“I left the cylinder of film there, taped to the inside, sure nobody would find it. And they wouldn’t—couldn’t—if they weren’t looking for something.”
“And you didn’t think after being interrogated and beaten by the SS looking for me that someone might go snooping through your desk?”
“I said it was stupid on my part. Taking the picture in the first place was stupid, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rachel.”
“Is this on the newsstands in Berlin?”
“No. He sold it to this rag in New York. Berlin’s not likely to see it.”
“Not likely? This could get us killed!”
“I don’t think anyone would recognize Amelie. She looks like a boy—is dressed like a boy.”
Rachel wondered if he’d lost his mind. “How did you find it?”
“I searched the newsroom—Eldridge’s desk. He was evidently proud enough of it that he kept it in his own desk drawer—stupid move number two.” He leaned forward. “The thing is, if anybody in the Party sees this—”
“Gerhardt.”
He nodded. “If Schlick sees this, he’ll think it’s Lea.”
“Does this look like Lea to you?” she demanded.
“No, it doesn’t,” he confessed. “But she’s dressed like Lea, and a case can be made. You’d better warn Lea to own it, to make up some story about the kid she’s holding.”
Rachel felt like tearing her hair out. After having been so careful so long . . .
“The German censors keep tabs on all the foreign newspapers and periodicals. They’re bound to see it, and eventually somebody’s gonna realize this is the spitting image of the missing Kramer woman.” Jason sat on the table’s edge. “We might get lucky where Schlick’s concerned. We might not.”
“If he realizes this is me . . .”
“He’ll be back. Maybe not soon.” He almost smiled. “I think that nearly letting the Führer get blown up—all for chasing the ghost of you through this remote Alpine village—has convinced him to toe the line in Berlin for a while.”
“How do you know?”
“Sources.” He sobered. “If there were a safe way to get you out of Germany right now, I would. But the borders are locked down. Trains, roads, waterways, ports, checkpoints—drum tight. Getting out through Switzerland is our best bet, but even that . . .”
“This makes leaving less safe.” Rachel wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She’d wanted desperately to leave before, but now she didn’t know.
“It raises awareness again.” He closed his eyes. “Things are closing in everywhere. Remember me telling you about my friend Dietrich?”
“Bonhoeffer!” Rachel remembered the book the curate had passed on to her, the book she’d barely skimmed, then set aside to work on the skit.
“The Gestapo closed down his school in Sigurdshof. He’s no longer allowed to teach ordinands.”