"My children," he murmured. "Here is where you must be as strong as your mother. As strong as Helmut and Werner."
"We have been strong, haven't we?" Theo asked. The boy wanted desperately to be as respected as his two older--in his mind, venerated--brothers. He wanted to be a soldier, too. To be needed. To not be a burden, a child who had to be watched over and managed.
Their father nodded at Theo, but he didn't smile. And instantly Anna understood. She glanced over at Helmut, the instinctive, yearning reflex of a twin for a twin. Her brother wouldn't look at her. Or he couldn't. He folded his arms against his chest and gazed at the caravan of wagons and wheelbarrows and carts that was inching its way over the ice. When she turned toward her mother, Mutti looked away. Her lips were thin and flat, and she had that stoic, gritty gaze she got whenever she did something that took enormous resolve: when she had buried the Luftwaffe pilot; when she had learned that her oldest son, Werner, had been wounded and she had had to share the news with the rest of the children; and when, only yesterday, she had been draping the chalk-white sheets on the divan and the chairs in the parlor.
And so Anna was only half-listening when her father told Theo and her that he and Helmut were leaving them here. They were returning east across the Vistula. Something about a counterattack on the Russians' bridgehead at Kulm. The need to defend Germany. Theo burrowed his face in his father's uniform jacket, oblivious of the cold and the wet and the frozen blood, his head bobbing either because he was trying hard not to cry or because he was trying to nod obediently or, perhaps, both.
And then Helmut was beside her, or--she realized after a moment--beside the wagon with Callum. Because it was to Callum he wanted to speak.
"You," he barked at the oats. "Take care of my mother and Anna and Theo. No surrendering this time. Do you hear?"
With a grunt Callum pushed his head and his arms free, a turtlehead emerging from its shell. "You know, I can't do a whole hell of a lot in here, Helmut," he said.
"No, but--" her brother started to snarl at the Scot, but before he could say more their father was silencing him. Reminding him that it was in no one's interest for Callum to make his presence known until they had reached the British or American lines--or until they were overtaken by the Brits or the Americans. He reassured both Helmut and Callum that the rest of the Emmerichs were more than strong enough--physically, emotionally--to get to the west on their own.
And then Callum was back beneath the feed and Helmut was checking his pistol and her father was saying something more to her. "I know it is an awful responsibility I am giving you, Anna. Awful. But you know the horses. And I know you can do this. Just keep moving. You are never to look back or turn back until we are all together again as a family. Do you understand?"
She had the sense that Helmut was too young and brash to understand for certain that he was going to die if he left them now to join in the fight against the Russians. But he probably suspected how badly the odds were stacked against him. He wasn't stupid. And, clearly, their father knew. She could tell by the way he was gently saying good-bye to Mutti, and the way he was lying--her father, lying!--about their return to Kaminheim. Joking now about the scavenger hunt they would have when they started to dig up the silver and crystal and china they had buried in their hunting park. Anna knew the truth: After a month in the deep freeze of January, the soil had become solid as granite. They had buried nothing. She and her father had simply thrown up their arms and left the serving trays and decanters and whole place settings upright in the snow like tombstones in a cemetery. If servants from the neighboring estates hadn't stolen the pieces by now, the Russians had. Or would any moment.
His message when he told her not to look back until they were together again as a family? Never look back, period. She wanted to throw herself against him just the way Theo had, beg him to come with them. Tell him how little sense it made to get killed by the Russians at this point in the war. But, clearly, he understood there wasn't a point. Everyone except Mutti seemed to realize it was over. Even Helmut: He had talked with the British POWs in the autumn. With Callum when he was home in the winter. Until yesterday, he had been the one who was putting the markers in the map in the parlor that showed the locations, as far as they could tell, of the different armies and the boundaries of the Reich.
Yet despite what they knew, now her father was going to join a bunch of other old men and boys and counterattack the Russian bridgehead at Kulm.
He took off one of his gloves and stroked the side of her cheek, his fingers coarse, but still gentle and warm. His eyes were milky in the cold and he--a man who she knew loved her but was never going to verbalize such a notion--actually pulled her into him, and so he had both her and Theo wrapped in his arms. They stayed that way for a long, quiet moment, and then he pushed them away. He embraced Mutti once more, as Helmut awkwardly, almost tentatively, hugged their brother and her. Then, without another word, he took Helmut and the two of them started back across the Vistula, this time moving against the long procession of sleighs and wagons traveling west.
She told her mother that they should probably continue if they wanted to reach Klinger by nightfall, but Mutti said that she wanted to be sure that her husband and her son made it safely across the ice. And so they waited and watched. Thus they saw the men, one in so many ways still a boy, reach the east bank and start back into the woods. And then, seconds later, they heard the screech of shells--not a single one this time, this was no solo diving raptor--approaching and instinctively they curled themselves against the carts, but they continued to stare to the east. Instantly, in a series of blasts that reduced the ice on the river to slivers and sent shards and spray raining down upon them like hail--shards and spray, the grips and leather sides of valises, wood splinters from crates, wheels from wagons and the runners from sleighs, the flesh of horses and people, hooves and feet (bare somehow, as if their boots had been blown off them by the blasts)--the natural bridge was gone. Where seconds before there had been perhaps a dozen families working their way gingerly across the ice, now there was only the once more violently churning waters of the Vistula, the brief, choking screams of the living as they disappeared beneath the current, and the more prolonged wails of the German families on the eastern shore, still alive. Anna couldn't tell if they were despairing over what they had just witnessed, or because they knew what awaited them now that they had failed to escape the Russians.
Beside her, without saying a single word, her mother and Theo started leading Labiau and Ragnit west across the snowy meadow. And so Anna looped the reins of the other two animals around her wrists, stroked Balga once along his forehead and poll, and followed.
*
usually, it was only when one of the local soldiers was home on leave that Anna and her girlfriends ever saw the sorts of young men with whom, in different times, they might have danced. And, as the war had dragged on, the pool of marriage prospects--in Anna's mind, often enough that meant merely her older brother Werner's acquaintances--dried up completely. The soldiers were either missing or disfigured or dead.
But then came the POWs. Seven of them, sent from the prison camp to help with the harvest.
And a week after the POWs arrived at Kaminheim, when the corn was almost completely harvested and everyone was about to begin to gather the sugar beets and the apples, there came four naval officers in search of a plow. They were planning to mark a groove through the estate that would be the start of an antitank trench. When it was complete, the trench would span the length of the district, bisecting some farms, skirting the edges of others. Meanwhile, different officers were visiting neighboring estates as well, and the Emmerichs were told that at some point in the coming month hundreds of foreigners and old men would follow them, and descend on the estate to actually construct the trench.
And while the very idea of an antitank trench was alarming, the presence of all those handsome young men--the Germans, the Brits, and that one very young Scot--made it a burden Anna was willing to shoulder. This was true, at least in part, because she didn't honestly believe the fighting would ever come this far west. It couldn't. Even the naval officers said this was a mere precaution. And so she would flirt with the Brits during the day in the fields, where she would work, too, and dance with the naval officers in the evenings in the manor house's small but elegant ballroom. Mutti would play the piano, joined after that first night by Callum Finella on Uncle Felix's accordion, while her father--though distracted by the news from the east--would look on benignly. Sometimes Theo would put his toy cavalrymen away and watch as well, appalled in the manner of any ten-year-old boy that these brave and accomplished soldiers wanted to waste their time with the likes of his sister and her friends. He followed the men around like a puppy.
Helmut did, too. But Helmut actually would work with the officers as long as their father allowed him away from the harvest, helping them to find their way around the endless acres of Kaminheim, and thus mark out the optimum design and placement of the trench. Then, after dinner, he would dance with Anna's friends--girls who, previously, he had insisted were too puerile to be interesting. Seeing them now through the eyes of the navy men, however, he was suddenly discovering their charms.
Certainly Anna worried about her older brother, Werner, who had already been wounded once in this war and was fighting somewhere to the south. But she had rarely spent any time with men as interesting as this eclectic group who had descended upon their farm that autumn. She and Helmut had learned to speak English in school, though she had taken her studies far more seriously than her brother, which meant that she alone in the assemblage could speak easily to everybody--the POWs during the day and the naval officers at night--and appreciate how erudite and experienced everyone was. At least, she thought, in comparison to her. She was, on occasion, left almost dizzy as she swiveled among conversations and translated asides and remarks. And the longer stories? She felt like a star-struck child. When she was in grade school she had met English families the winter her family had gone skiing in Switzerland, but by 1944 she remembered little more than a very large man in a very poor bear costume, and the way she and the English children together had endured his clownish shenanigans because all of the parents had thought the fellow was wildly entertaining. But since the war had begun, she hadn't been west of Berlin. In the early years, they had still taken summer holidays on the beaches of the Baltic or ventured to Danzig for concerts, but lately even those trips had ceased completely. Two of their POWs, however, had seen the pyramids; another had been to America; and Callum--the youngest of the group, the tallest of the group, and the only one from Scotland--had been born in India, where his father had been a colonial official, and had traveled extensively throughout Bengali and Burma and Madras as a little boy.
Even the German naval officers were more interesting than any of the country boys--or men--she had met in her district. They, too, had seen places in Europe and Africa she'd only read about in books.
Initially, she had worried that there might be unpleasant sparks when the Germans and the Brits crossed paths, especially on the first morning when the naval officers would be marking out a segment of the antitank trench in the very same beet fields where the POWs were working. But the two groups of men had largely ignored each other.
It was the next day, when she was working alongside the prisoners in the apple orchard, that one of the POWs--that exuberant young giant named Callum--segued from the usual flirtatious banter to which she had grown accustomed and had come to expect from him, to guarded innuendos about Adolf Hitler and then (even more problematic, in some ways) to questions about the work camps.
"You're such a nice girl, Anna, and so sharp," he said, as the two of them stood together beside a particularly wiry tree, resting for a moment midmorning. There was a military policeman who must have been somebody's grandfather standing guard a hundred meters away, but he was so old he probably wouldn't have heard a word they were saying if they had been standing directly beside him. "And your family is much more hospitable than necessary-- given the circumstances and all." The POWs were sleeping in the bunkhouse that the farmhands had used before they had either run off or been commandeered by the Reich for work in the mines and the munitions factories.
"Thank you," she said simply. She was unsure where this conversation was going, but that opening, that apparent surprise that she was such a nice girl, had her slightly wary. She'd been laughing with Callum for days, and the thought crossed her mind that perhaps she had misjudged him. Grown too comfortable--too friendly--with him. With all the POWs.
"So, I was wondering," he continued, his voice nonchalant. "What do you think your Hitler is doing with the Jews?"
"My Hitler? You make him sound like one of my horses," she said, aware that she was not answering his question.
"I didn't mean that. I meant . . ."
"What did you mean?"
"I had a mate in Scotland who was Jewish, a chum I played soccer with. We were friends, our parents were friends. He had family somewhere in Germany. And they just disappeared. There was talk of them trying to come to Edinburgh, but they couldn't get out. Eventually, the letters just dried up. Stopped coming. Then, at the stalag this summer, I met two chaps from Wales who had been in intelligence. And they said--"
She cut him off: "At school, they told me not to ask when I inquired. They told me I didn't know what I was talking about."
"But you asked?"
Aware that she couldn't help but sound oversensitive, she answered, "Maybe it would surprise you, but I do have a brain behind my eyes. Yes, I asked."
"It wouldn't surprise me a bit," he said, smiling.
"I asked them where the Jews were going," she continued. "Before the war, my parents had friends in Danzig who were Jewish. That's where my father went to university: Danzig. He grew up on a farm in another part of Prussia, but for a time he considered becoming a lawyer. But he's a very scientific man. And he likes working the earth too much. Anyway, he has never understood the Nazis' obsession with Jews. Never. My mother? It's different for her: She's lived her whole life here. She, too, thinks it's ridiculous, but she has always been a little oblivious of anything that doesn't involve the farm or this corner of the country."
"They're both party members, right?"
She nodded. "My father wouldn't have the contracts he has if he weren't a member of the party. Even I know that."
"Tell me, then: These friends. Your parents' Jewish friends. Where are they now?"
"One, I know, was my father's banker. I don't know his name, but he took very good care of Father and Mutti on their honeymoon. The inflation was so horrible that suddenly they couldn't pay their bills and Father's stocks were worth nothing. Somehow, the banker solved everything for them and they had a perfectly lovely holiday after that."
"What do you think became of him?"
"He and Father lost touch. But I can tell you this: My father wrote letters on his family's behalf to different people. I don't know who or what the letters were supposed to accomplish. But he wrote letters for other friends, too. And for a few weeks in the summer of 1940, my parents had some Jewish friends who lived with us: a younger couple and their baby. A little baby girl. She was adorable. They had lost their apartment in Danzig. I was thirteen and I always wanted to babysit, but the mother wouldn't let the child out of her sight." She could have gone on, but it was a memory she tried not to think about. There had been some talk about hiding the family--and hiding was indeed the word her parents had used--but so many people in the village had been aware of the Emmerichs' visitors from Danzig that the couple had refused her mother and father's offer of sanctuary and simply disappeared into the fog one August morning.
"I'm badgering you," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I have a habit of talking too much. You might have noticed."
"You're inquisitive," she said, unable to mask the small tremor she heard in her voice. The truth was, she didn't want to be having this conversation. She knew she wouldn't dare discuss these sorts of things on one of the streets in the village or in a city. One never knew who might be listening or how they might be connected to the party. And, suddenly, she felt an odd spike of defensiveness. "But you tell me: How am I supposed to know where everyone is in the midst of a war?"
"Well," he said evenly. "You can keep track of the Jews because of the stars on their clothes. You've seen them."
"Yes, of course I have. I've seen them in Danzig and I've seen them in Berlin."
"Lately?"
"I haven't been to Berlin lately. Or Danzig."
He used a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration away from his temples. The hair there was a bay that reminded her of Balga, her favorite horse. "The folks who will be coming to build the antitank trench," he began, and she could tell that he was choosing his words with great care. "You know, actually digging where those navy blokes are leaving the plow marks? They're the lucky ones."
"They'll be more prisoners like you."
"Maybe. But I think they're going to come instead from those work camps. Not the prison camps. It will take hundreds of people just to dig through your farm. And, besides, it's one thing to put a group of us soldiers to work harvesting apples and corn and sugar beets. Trust me, this is luxurious compared to life in the stalag, and we are all deeply appreciative of your family's kindness. But it's quite another to make us dig antitank trenches. The Red Cross and the folks who penned the Geneva convention wouldn't exactly approve."
"So, the workers will be the criminals from the camps? Communists and Gypsies. Why should that trouble me?"
"And Jews. That's my point, Anna. They're in those camps for no other reason than because they're Jewish."
"What?"
"The Jews have been sent to the camps."
"No," she said. "No. That's not true."
"I'm sorry, Anna. But it is."
"The Jews have just been resettled," she continued, repeating what she had been told at school and at her meetings with other teen girls in the Bund Deutscher Madel whenever she had asked the question, but until that moment had never said aloud herself. Somehow, verbalizing the idea made it seem ludicrous. She certainly didn't add what so many of her teachers or BDM leaders had added over the years: They have to be resettled because they are not Aryan. They are inferior in every imaginable way, they are worse than the Russians and the Poles. Most have nothing that resembles an Aryan conscience, and they are interested in nothing but their money and mezuzahs and diamonds. Many are evil; all are conniving.
"And doesn't even resettlement seem, I don't know, a trifle uncivilized--even if it really is what's occurring?" he went on. "Think of that little family that was with you when you were thirteen. Why do you think there was talk of hiding them? I mean, suppose my government in England just decided to 'resettle' the Catholics--to take away their homes, their animals, their possessions, and then just send them away?"