Saving Amelie (49 page)

Heinrich stopped in his tracks and, standing firm, fixed her eyes with his. “I won’t tell—not that I’ve been here, and not about the girl. I know secrets are not meant to be told. You can count on me, Frau Hartman.”

Lea stared at the little boy—the menace of her class who suddenly showed eyes as old as time. He was smart, and he offered her . . . what? What was he offering? Could Amelie’s secret be safe with him? Lea didn’t know, couldn’t guess, was terrified to imagine. She wrapped her arms around Heinrich, squeezing him tight—a sign of trust. He returned her hug and touched her face before running through the door and down the path.

Lea closed the door behind him and wept.

58

R
ACHEL
AND
R
IVKA
crept from the hiding place, joining Oma and Lea in the kitchen.

Rivka trembled. “I’m so sorry. I thought she was in the attic. I wouldn’t have gone in without her. I—”

“I know, my dear; I know.” Oma held Rivka close. “What’s done is done. It can’t be undone.”

“I think we can trust Heinrich,” Rachel said, pulling a worried-looking Amelie from the kitchen doorway and into her arms. “I believe him.”

“He’s a child!” Oma insisted. “He’ll tell, just to have something sensational to share.”

“No,” Lea said. “It’s a great risk, but I think Rachel’s right. There’s something he’s hidden for the longest time—something about his taking the Christkind. He knows how to keep a secret.”

“The important thing is what to do about Curate Bauer.” Rachel bit her lip.

“What can we possibly do?” Oma lifted her hands.

Rachel shook her head. “He thought this might happen. He told me, if he was taken, to get word to Jason not to bring any more papers. He said it would mean death for him and the discovery of the entire network.”

“How can you get word to him? You can’t pick up the telephone and call!” Oma insisted, her voice rising. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Dietrich—his friend Dietrich is in Ettal. I can find him, tell him. He’ll reach Jason.”

“Oh no!” Oma begged.

“What about the people hiding in your cellar?” Rivka asked Lea. “The curate supplied them food.”

“Did he? Or did someone else do it for him? What about Forester Schrade? He knows something. He helped us.” Lea pushed her hair back. “I must tell Friederich. We’ll have to go by the house, see what’s needed.”

“Not with the Gestapo crawling through the streets!” Oma nearly cried again.

“No, of course not. We’ll check on Friederich’s way home from work. I’ll walk with him. It won’t seem at all strange that we stop by our house for something. We may even need to stay the night.” Lea guided her distraught grandmother to the kitchen rocker. “There’s nothing to worry about, Oma. It will all be so easy to take care of.” She motioned to Rachel from behind Oma’s back. “It’s time for a cup of tea. Rivka, will you bring the kettle?”

Rachel saw that the danger had grown beyond Oma’s ability to cope. The risk to her heart was too great to draw her into their plans more than necessary. She shifted Amelie to her other hip, tickling the little girl under the chin to make her smile. “I’ll go in disguise,” Rachel whispered as Lea poured. “That way I have papers, even if I’m stopped.”

Rivka offered, “And I’ll keep Amelie with me in the cupboard. We won’t move until you return.”

“I heard that,” Oma insisted, motioning for Amelie to come to her.

“It’s perfectly safe, Oma,” Rachel chided, releasing the little girl to her grandmother’s arms. “Who will notice a middle-aged woman walking to the monastery?”

Rachel set out before the summer sun broke over the mountains, hoping to make the journey before the heat of the day, before the Gestapo rose for rounds, before other eyes roamed abroad. By the third kilometer, a dozen scenarios had raced through her mind.
What if Pastor Bonhoeffer isn’t there? What if he has no safe way to reach Jason? What if he’s somehow connected to Curate Bauer’s work and has been taken by the Gestapo too? Jason said they were watching him closely.

When she finally reached the monastery, a local cock crowed and a milk wagon stood in the lane. She skirted the wagon, keeping her head low, and made for the great door. Locked tight, no matter that she jiggled the handle in desperation.

There must be another way. She stepped back to get her bearings and spotted the rectory.

So anxious was she that she forgot to maintain her aged character and nearly ran to the small side door.
Stop it!
She scolded herself into breathing, smoothed her skirt, and knocked softly on the door.

No one answered. No one came. Rachel tried twice more, then gave way to frustration. It took five minutes of incessant pounding, but the door finally opened to a large, rotund man, who introduced himself as assistant to the abbot.

“Father, help me. Please, Dietrich—Pastor Bon-Bonhoeffer.” She couldn’t get the words out for her fear of the passing time. “Is he here?”

The priest stepped back, admitting her without a word. He closed the door behind her. “You are Brother Dietrich’s family,
meine Frau
? Come in, come in.”

She hadn’t anticipated needing a story. “A friend of his family. Please, I must speak with him—it’s urgent.”

“He is leading a psalm reading for our brothers now. He’ll be
through soon. I’ll send him in then.” He stopped at the door. “You’ve walked far?”

“Not so far. I’m just out of breath.” She tried to add years to her voice. “The sun rose hotter than I expected.”

“You’re not from Ettal.”

“No, no. I’m visiting friends. But I must see Dietrich.” She knew an older woman, a family friend, might use his Christian name.

“Would a cool drink help?”

Rachel nearly shook her head just to be rid of the man, but thought again of her return walk to Oberammergau. “That would be excellent—
danke schön
.”

The monk nodded, his forehead creased, and left the room, only to return momentarily.

She drained the glass, grateful to the priest for the pitcher he left.

Half an hour passed before the door opened again and a man, much younger than she’d imagined, stepped through. A sturdy and muscular build, blond, with wire-rimmed glasses. He bent to take her hand. “You’ve come to see me,
meine Frau
? Brother Peter said you know my family?”

“Pastor Bonhoeffer?”

He nodded.

“Are we—?” Now that the moment had come, Rachel could barely catch her voice. “Are we quite alone?”

The man opened his hands, looking about him, and smiled. “Quite, I think.”

Rachel swallowed and whispered, “Curate Bauer has been taken—by the Gestapo.”

Bonhoeffer’s smile vanished. He pulled a chair closer to Rachel. “When?”

“Last night. They came in the early evening.”

“Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

She shook her head, a willful tear escaping her eye. “He knew it
was coming—he must have known. He told me, if he was taken, that I must get word to—”

“To me?” Bonhoeffer looked puzzled.

Rachel bit her lip, knowing she was putting everyone at risk.
Dear God, let my instincts be right about this. Let him be the friend, the man, that Jason believes he is!
“A friend—a journalist.”

Now Bonhoeffer’s eyes registered caution. “Do you know his name?”

“Jason,” Rachel whispered. “Jason Young.”

Bonhoeffer stared at her, narrowed his eyes as if trying to discern the truth. “You’re Rachel.”

“Yes,” she admitted, relieved. He could only know that because Jason had told him.

Bonhoeffer’s lips turned up in a half grin. “You’re not precisely as he described.”

“Begging your pardon, but I’m probably exactly as he described.”

Bonhoeffer laughed. “Yes, I think perhaps you are.” He sobered. “The curate was expecting a delivery from our friend?”

Rachel nodded, feeling the weight of her world fall away. “He said that Jason must not come, that if he was taken, they’d be waiting and watching, ready to break the network. If Jason is caught—”

“Yes, yes, I understand. We can’t let that happen.” Bonhoeffer sat back. “When is he expected?”

“This week—he’s stationed in Munich. Please, can you get word to him?”

“I can do better than that. I’ll go to Munich and intercept him myself. I need to go anyway. I have my own difficult appointment there.”

Rachel did not like the sound of that.

“Not to worry; it’s not as it sounds.” Bonhoeffer searched her face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my activities, but you must trust me when I say that things are not always as they seem.”

Rachel knew that to be true. She spread her hands, smoothed her skirt. “Apparently.” She smiled.

“Yes.” He smiled in return, a clear and genuine smile. “Apparently. And you must call me Dietrich—but perhaps not in public, if we should meet again, Frau—what is your new name?”

Rachel lifted her chin. “Frau Elsa Breisner, age fifty-seven, from Stelle.”

“Well then, Frau Breisner, leave this to me.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Dietrich.”

“Jason has told me much about you, and about your Amelie, how you are helping Rivka. You are a brave woman, Fräulein Kramer. It is no wonder our mutual friend is taken with you.”

Rachel’s heart beat faster. Jason had confided his feelings for her to Dietrich. “And I with him.” But she could take no credit for the good that had come of their friendship, what she hoped would become more than friendship. “Jason gave me your book.”

“Ah, so he said. And did you read it?”

“Yes. I’m not certain I understand it all, but I’m learning.”

“An honest answer. We are all always learning.”

“Jason told me of the trouble the Gestapo’s given you. I hope I don’t bring you more trouble, more scrutiny, through what I’m asking.”

“
Nein.
Jason is my brother. I love him and will do all I can for him.”

She frowned, trying to understand the man before her. “You barely know him.”

“Grace.” He shrugged, smiling.

“Your book talks about that,” Rachel whispered, still trying to grasp the concept.

Dietrich tipped his head to the side, as if considering her. “‘Love I much?’” he quoted. “‘I’m much forgiven. I’m a miracle of grace.’”

She recognized the words from Oma’s hymnbook. “Costly grace,” she said, feeling the warmth of understanding kindle inside her chest.

Dietrich’s eyes shone. “We are all miracles of costly grace.”

59

L
EA
DID
NOT
go to the church to teach her choir lesson that afternoon. Father Oberlanger had telephoned that morning, just after Rachel left, saying that classes were canceled for the day. He made no mention that Curate Bauer had been taken by the Gestapo.

To maintain a semblance of normalcy, Lea accompanied Friederich to his woodcarving shop in the village after lunch. She would paint and gild carvings. He had nearly an entire new Nativity set ready. Rivka and Amelie would be safe with Oma, and Lea desperately needed to keep busy.

Worry for Rachel filled her head, and fear for Curate Bauer. If the Gestapo beat him, if they tortured him, what might he say? And if they locked him up—sent him to one of Germany’s many concentration camps—what would become of all those refugees he’d hidden and placed throughout the countryside? He was the one connection to the black market for food, and Jason’s contact to provide forged passports and ration books. He was the key to moving the Jewish children out of the Alpine valley. Even she and Oma depended on Curate Bauer for extra food for Rachel, Rivka, and Amelie in exchange for milk their cow produced.

“You’re painting the sheep red, Lea,” Friederich quietly observed. “Pay attention, please.”

Lea dropped her brush. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry!” Never had she done such a thing. She covered her face with her hands.

Friederich left his carving table and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s all right. A little sanding, a few wisps from the wool, and it will
be new again.” He pulled her to her feet and held her close. “You’ve borne so much for so long,
meine liebe Frau
. This is too heavy.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s no more than others bear. I’m just so frightened. I’m frightened for the curate—and for Rachel, for Amelie, for us.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m frightened too.”

Friederich was still holding his wife when the shop door opened and Gerhardt Schlick strode in.