remain on Mama’s good side, if they wanted to be allowed to stay.
“We just need a place to spend the night,” Gretchen said. “Please, Mama. We won’t be any trouble, I promise.”
Tears clogged her throat. She couldn’t believe that she had to beg her own mother for shelter. This was what Hitler did to us , she thought bitterly. His insidious lies had torn them apart. For the thousandth time, she wished her father had been assigned to any regiment besides the 16th, in which he had met Hitler during the Great War. There was no telling what their lives might have been like, if not for that one turn of fate.
Sighing, Mama held the door open for them. They slipped past her into a filthy parlor lit by the glow of Mama’s lantern. The fireplace looked cold and black, and the box where Gretchen’s grandfather used to keep the woodpile was empty. Ice crystals glittered on the wood-paneled walls. Months of rain and wood smoke had darkened the windowpanes. The watercolor painting above the mantel had been ripped; someone had stitched it together with red thread.
“What happened to the farm?” Gretchen asked. “Where are Oma and Opa?”
“Your grandparents are dead,” Mama said dully.
“What?” Gretchen gasped. “What happened to them?”
“They fell ill last winter.” Mama curled a hand over her mouth, hiding her missing teeth. Each word was accompanied by a soft whistling sound. “Pneumonia.” She walked into the kitchen.
The backs of Gretchen’s eyes stung. Not Opa, who liked to smoke pipes in the evening and tell stories about his childhood, back when artists had flocked to Dachau to paint the ever-shifting landscape with its play of sunlight and shadow. And Oma, who smelled of cherries and could roll a piecrust perfectly on her first try and used to guide Gretchen’s young fingers on knitting needles.
Daniel wrapped his good arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”
She buried her face into his shoulder, counting her breaths. One. Her grandparents had been old. Two. She and Daniel were still alive, and they had to do whatever it took to stay that way. Three—she stopped, remembering that Hitler had taught her this calming method years ago, when she had been anxious about a school exam. She’d rather drown in grief than use any of his tricks. Even if they worked.
She pulled back from Daniel. He smiled a little, running his knuckles down the side of her cheek. “Go and talk to her,” he said quietly. “You haven’t seen each other in ages. I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll stay out here.”
How did he know what she needed, without being told? She nodded her thanks at him and followed Mama into the kitchen. This room was worse than the parlor: The cast-iron stove was cold and coated with a layer of grease, and the brown linoleum-topped table was gritty with spilled food. The tin bathtub hergrandparents used to fill with water from the well sat in the middle of the floor, its bottom wavering under a film of soap-scudded water.
How could Mama live in such filth? At the boardinghouse, she’d been a stickler for cleanliness, washing the linens, scrubbing the lavatories, scouring the windows with vinegar, and beating carpets on the back steps. What had happened in the past eighteen months to change her so completely?
“You must be hungry,” her mother mumbled, but Gretchen laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her down into a chair.
“Please,” she said. “What’s happened here?”
Mama sighed and undid her kerchief. Her hair fell forward like a curtain, shielding her face. Silver threads glinted among the blond strands. “After they died, I couldn’t keep up with the farm. There’s so much work to be done, and I can’t afford to pay anyone to help me. . . .” She trailed off.
“And you?” Gretchen forced herself to ask, praying the answer wasn’t what she suspected. “What about your teeth?”
Mama cradled her head in her hands. “It was the night you and your Jew
“We just need a place to spend the night,” Gretchen said. “Please, Mama. We won’t be any trouble, I promise.”
Tears clogged her throat. She couldn’t believe that she had to beg her own mother for shelter. This was what Hitler did to us , she thought bitterly. His insidious lies had torn them apart. For the thousandth time, she wished her father had been assigned to any regiment besides the 16th, in which he had met Hitler during the Great War. There was no telling what their lives might have been like, if not for that one turn of fate.
Sighing, Mama held the door open for them. They slipped past her into a filthy parlor lit by the glow of Mama’s lantern. The fireplace looked cold and black, and the box where Gretchen’s grandfather used to keep the woodpile was empty. Ice crystals glittered on the wood-paneled walls. Months of rain and wood smoke had darkened the windowpanes. The watercolor painting above the mantel had been ripped; someone had stitched it together with red thread.
“What happened to the farm?” Gretchen asked. “Where are Oma and Opa?”
“Your grandparents are dead,” Mama said dully.
“What?” Gretchen gasped. “What happened to them?”
“They fell ill last winter.” Mama curled a hand over her mouth, hiding her missing teeth. Each word was accompanied by a soft whistling sound. “Pneumonia.” She walked into the kitchen.
The backs of Gretchen’s eyes stung. Not Opa, who liked to smoke pipes in the evening and tell stories about his childhood, back when artists had flocked to Dachau to paint the ever-shifting landscape with its play of sunlight and shadow. And Oma, who smelled of cherries and could roll a piecrust perfectly on her first try and used to guide Gretchen’s young fingers on knitting needles.
Daniel wrapped his good arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”
She buried her face into his shoulder, counting her breaths. One. Her grandparents had been old. Two. She and Daniel were still alive, and they had to do whatever it took to stay that way. Three—she stopped, remembering that Hitler had taught her this calming method years ago, when she had been anxious about a school exam. She’d rather drown in grief than use any of his tricks. Even if they worked.
She pulled back from Daniel. He smiled a little, running his knuckles down the side of her cheek. “Go and talk to her,” he said quietly. “You haven’t seen each other in ages. I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll stay out here.”
How did he know what she needed, without being told? She nodded her thanks at him and followed Mama into the kitchen. This room was worse than the parlor: The cast-iron stove was cold and coated with a layer of grease, and the brown linoleum-topped table was gritty with spilled food. The tin bathtub hergrandparents used to fill with water from the well sat in the middle of the floor, its bottom wavering under a film of soap-scudded water.
How could Mama live in such filth? At the boardinghouse, she’d been a stickler for cleanliness, washing the linens, scrubbing the lavatories, scouring the windows with vinegar, and beating carpets on the back steps. What had happened in the past eighteen months to change her so completely?
“You must be hungry,” her mother mumbled, but Gretchen laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her down into a chair.
“Please,” she said. “What’s happened here?”
Mama sighed and undid her kerchief. Her hair fell forward like a curtain, shielding her face. Silver threads glinted among the blond strands. “After they died, I couldn’t keep up with the farm. There’s so much work to be done, and I can’t afford to pay anyone to help me. . . .” She trailed off.
“And you?” Gretchen forced herself to ask, praying the answer wasn’t what she suspected. “What about your teeth?”
Mama cradled her head in her hands. “It was the night you and your Jew
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