Saving Amelie (48 page)

He closed his office door and removed his uniform coat and hat, his gun from its holster. He loosened his tie and took the chair behind his desk. His office seemed smaller than he remembered, and dim.

Gerhardt leaned back, lit a cigarette, and inhaled.

Perhaps he should think about requesting long-term reassignment. Nothing held him to depressing Berlin, and life in Paris had its rewards. It wouldn’t be a bad place to wait out the war.

The more he thought, the more he liked the idea, and there was no time like the present. In fact, with recent victories, his superiors might be in an excellent frame of mind to grant his request. He checked his watch. There was still time to complete the paperwork before calling it a day.

An hour later he picked up the phone to call for a courier. He’d rather have his request hand-delivered than leave it to the delay and uncertainty of regular channels.

As he dialed, a junior officer entered with a stack of mail and waited at attention.

“Twenty minutes? Very good.” Gerhardt spoke into the receiver, pleased. He nodded an indication for the junior officer to leave the mail on his desk, gave a perfunctory salute, and watched as the young man turned on his heel, closing Schlick’s office door behind him. “I will expect him. Heil Hitler.” He replaced the phone, feeling quite in charge of his destiny.

Gerhardt lit another cigarette, flipping through the mail, tossing to the trash everything nonessential; most of it he deemed nonessential. There was a letter dated June 15 from a Hitler Youth in Oberammergau, claiming he’d found the woman the Sturmbannführer was looking for, that he could help him and could expose those in league with her. It wasn’t the first letter Gerhardt had received from youngsters who idolized and wanted to ingratiate themselves to an officer of the SS by claiming they could accomplish what the SS could not. What red-blooded German boy would not aspire to the ranks of the Führer’s supermen? He tossed it aside. He’d have his aide send a form letter and a signed photograph of the Führer.

At the bottom was the latest batch of propaganda newspapers—“Goebbels’s fairy tales worth reading,” as Gerhardt privately dubbed them. He’d take them home. True or not, they provided a good evening by the fire when he lacked companionship.

Between two of the papers was an envelope—large enough to hold an important communiqué. It was from Dr. Verschuer, who’d moved to the Institute in Berlin. Curious, Gerhardt ripped the seal and pulled out a handwritten sheet clipped to a magazine cover.

Sturmbannführer Schlick:

I find it difficult to believe this comely Madonna is the demure Lea Hartman, despite her Bavarian garb. Are you quite certain our mutual friend is no longer in Germany? Please advise.

Dr. Otmar von Verschuer

Gerhardt pulled the cover sheet from the periodical, blood rushing to his brain.

Provocative and arresting, the woman smiling from the cover was undoubtedly Rachel. Lea Hartman, even in her wildest fantasies, could not exude such confidence or that unique combination of refreshing innocence and come-hither look.

The child she held in profile looked vaguely familiar too. Something uncomfortable stirred in Gerhardt’s memory. The child bore an uncanny resemblance to his dead daughter, but this child appeared older, much happier, more fit—and apparently male, if somewhat effeminate. He pushed the thought away. He was becoming morbid. What Aryan child was not blond and bouncing?

A knock came at his office door, making him start. “Enter!”

The courier stood sharply before him, saluting. Gerhardt returned the salute. “What do you want?”

“Your communiqué, sir?”

“What?” Gerhardt couldn’t think, but he needed to think clearly, to plan.

A flash of uncertainty crossed the courier’s face. “You called for a courier, sir?”

Gerhardt stood. “Yes, yes, of course.” He plucked his prepared envelope from his desk but stopped, just out of the young man’s reach. He pulled back, reconsidering.

“No.” Gerhardt sat down. “No, I won’t be sending anything at the moment. I’ve changed my mind.” He saluted the air and turned his chair to look out the window, to get his bearings. “That will be all.”

When the door closed, Gerhardt pulled the Hitler Youth letter from his slush pile and a magnifying glass from his desk drawer. He peered at the small print in the bottom corner of the magazine cover. He could barely make out the photographer’s name—M. Eldridge. Gerhardt smiled, tapping the photograph, remembering his phone conversation with the newspaperman who’d guided him to that cocky
Jason Young—the one who either knew nothing or was extremely clever.

Gerhardt sat back in his chair, considering. He’d been naive, barking up the wrong tree—or led to the wrong tree by a smooth-talking American. He certainly wouldn’t make that mistake again.

57

O
NE
WARM
July afternoon, the curate stopped Rachel in the school hallway, just as she was about to leave the building. He pulled a small parcel from the sleeve of his robe and passed it into Rachel’s market basket. “Chocolate, from a friend.”

“Jason’s been here?”

The curate shook his head. “
Nein
, but I’ve seen him in Munich.” He smiled. “A good fellow, your young man.”

Rachel felt warmth surge through her. “Is he well?”

The curate nodded. “Though he says he’s sick of sitting in cellars with Berliners night after night, waiting for British bombers, and he hates the censorship. He says there is no truth in the news and no good news worth telling.”

Rachel smiled. It sounded just like him.

The curate sobered. “His friend Bonhoeffer is suffering some difficulty with the Gestapo. I believe the Confessing Church has given him an official leave of absence for ‘theological study.’ However, Herr Young made it clear that Pastor Bonhoeffer will be stationed between Munich and Ettal.”

“Ettal? That’s the Benedictine monastery—just over the way.”

“
Ja.
I think his friend Joseph Müller initiated an invitation from the monastery. It’s a good place to work, to write. I pray Pastor Bonhoeffer will find peace there, though there is little peace anywhere now, I’m afraid. And there is danger. More of the foreign correspondents are returning to England and America.”

“Jason—will he—?”

“He stays as a courier for those in need. I don’t know how long before he’s . . . These are uncertain times, Fräulein, especially for the disciples of Jesus. You must prepare your heart and mind. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Rachel’s heart sank, but she nodded, as bravely as she could.

“There is something more.” He pulled her into the shadows. “If I am taken—”

“Please don’t say that!”

The curate smiled sadly but continued. “If I am taken, you must get word to Herr Young not to bring the papers. It will mean our network has been infiltrated. It would mean death for him and discovery for those we are trying to save.”

“We couldn’t manage without you—the rations, the passports. How would—?”

“God will provide all that is needed. He will show you the way. None of us are unexpendable.”

Rachel was not at all sure she believed that. She wanted to ask him more, but the heel clicks at the far end of the hallway told her that the Hitler Youth on patrol was making his rounds. Curate Bauer pressed her hand and was gone.

Rachel pulled Lea to the attic as soon as she got home and sent little Amelie and Rivka scurrying. She told Lea everything Curate Bauer had said.

“I was afraid of this. I knew last night something was wrong. Just as Friederich and I were leaving the church, a black car pulled up. I’m sure Maximillion was in the backseat. It was the first time I’ve seen him in weeks. He’s been avoiding me like the plague ever since that day—”

“But what could he possibly know?”

“He patrolled the church and the school for nearly a year. Perhaps he saw things, heard things.”

Rachel shook her head. “Curate Bauer is no fool. I’m sure he was careful.”

“Of course he was—he is. But there are many he’s helping. It would be so easy—just one slip of the tongue, a paper, a passport, a door left ajar.” Lea rubbed her temples.

“Stop it! We can’t think like that. We must make a plan. What we will do if—?”

A loud banging came at the back door. Lea clutched Rachel’s arm.

“I’ll go—I’ll be you,” Rachel insisted. “Stay here and get hold of yourself.”

“No!” Lea pushed her away. “Get in the crawl space. Oma will send in Rivka and Amelie. I’ll get the door.”

There was no time to argue. Rachel did as she was bid. She crawled through the trapdoor and onto the ladder just as she heard Lea open the back door. She met Rivka coming in through the false wall of the cupboard. But where was Amelie?

Lea opened Oma’s kitchen door and caught the little boy pounding so frantically. “Heinrich! What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I went back to the church. I went back for my lunch pail!”

“Yes, it’s all right. I’m sure it’s still there. Did you look on the piano?”

He pushed away, shaking her arms. “Listen to me! They took him! They came and took Curate Bauer away—in handcuffs! I saw them!”

Lea felt her face drain and her knees go weak. “Who took him?”

“The Gestapo. I think it was the Gestapo—a black car!”

Oma appeared beside Lea, kneeling before the little boy. “Was there anyone you recognized?”

The frightened child nodded, the threat of tears brightening his eyes. “Maximillion. Maximillion Grieser was there. He wasn’t nice
to Curate. I thought he might help him. I begged him to help, to explain to the men that Curate Bauer is a good man, that there must be a mistake, but he just stood and watched. He laughed and pushed me away.” Great tears scrolled down the child’s face. “I couldn’t stop them. I tried, but I couldn’t stop them!”

Lea folded the boy into her arms. “No, you couldn’t. Of course you couldn’t. But you did right to come here and tell me. We must pray for Curate Bauer. You’re so very right. He’s a good man—a very good man. He helps many people. . . .”

But Heinrich seemed to have frozen, to have suddenly lost interest, fascinated by something over Lea’s shoulder. “Who’s she?”

Lea and Oma turned quickly.

Amelie stood with one arm wrapped around her handkerchief doll, the other hand a fist with a thumb in her mouth.

Oma gasped.

“She’s your little girl?” Heinrich was fascinated. “She’s beautiful.”

“No, no,” Lea stuttered. “A boy—he’s visiting—a friend’s child.” She stood, turning Heinrich toward the door. “You must go home now, Heinrich. You must go along.”

“She’s not a boy, Frau Hartman.” He looked at her as though she’d lost her mind, then back at Amelie. “I’ve never seen you, but I saw your doll. What’s your name?” He waved to Amelie, who didn’t answer but laughed her inharmonious laugh, waving back.

Oma swept toward Amelie, pushing the little girl out of the kitchen and pulling the door behind them.

“Are you hiding her?” Heinrich’s eyes grew wide. “From the Gestapo?”

“No, no, of course not.” Lea could see that he didn’t believe her. “It’s just that . . . that the child has a fever and must be kept quiet. He’s visiting. I wouldn’t want you to catch it. Now you really must go home.” She pushed him gently but firmly toward the door. “Perhaps it’s best that you don’t mention . . . that you’ve been here.”