left.”
Slowly, Gretchen lowered herself into a chair. Even through the haze of the months, she remembered each detail of the final hours she and Daniel had spent in Munich. They had caught a train to Dachau, intending to beg her grandfather for his car so they could drive over the border. They’d been walking near the old powder factory when Mama had appeared. She had assumed they would avoid the town center and keep to the outskirts, to decrease the risk of running into their pursuers. When she hadwarned them that SA men had already arrived at the farmhouse, Gretchen had seen their chances of escape evaporate like mist. Until Mama had given them her life’s savings and they had hiked to Ingolstadt, where they’d boarded a train bound for Switzerland.
“When I got back to the farmhouse,” Mama said, her voice hissing between her missing teeth, “the SA men were beating Opa. They wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know where you’d gone.” She raised her head, tears shining in her eyes. “They tore the painting over the mantel. You know how Oma loved that picture. Then they hit me.” She touched her lips.
They must have hit her many times, to knock out so many teeth. Gretchen felt sick. This was her fault. While the SA had attacked her mother and grandfather, she’d been hiking through the countryside with Daniel, safe and unhurt and starting a new life.
She took her mother’s hand. Mama’s fingers felt cold, and the backs of her hands were knotted with blue veins. They’d never been pretty hands. Red from preparing meals for other people to eat and washing clothes for the boarders to wear. Nails broken and skin mottled from endless labor to keep Gretchen and Reinhard fed and clothed.
But Gretchen had loved those hands. They had protected her.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks. For once, she didn’t try to stop them.
“I know, Gretl,” her mother said. She didn’t squeeze Gretchen’s hand back, but she didn’t let go either. “Just as Herr Hitler would be, if he knew what had happened. The Party has grown too big. When it was small and within Herr Hitler’s control, itwas a good organization. Now it’s expanded beyond his grasp and there are rogue members doing wicked deeds in his name.”
Gretchen snapped her head up to look at her mother. Thin and pale in her old nightgown, her face painted yellow by the light of the lantern on the table. This was what Mama told herself, so she could keep going. Alone on a dying farm, abandoned by the people she’d thought were her friends. Oblivious that the man she admired so greatly had killed her husband and ordered her son’s death.
“Uncle Dolf isn’t who you think—” Gretchen stopped. Her mother’s eyes were steady on hers. And bright with tears.
Gretchen glanced at the dirty kitchen and thought of the fields that probably wouldn’t yield many potatoes in the fall. What harm was there in letting Mama believe what she needed to? She had no power, no influence, nobody to listen to whatever she might say. The truth seemed crueler than a lie.
Gretchen clutched her mother’s hand. “Yes, Mama,” she said. “I’m sure Uncle Dolf would be very sorry, if he knew.”
10
HER MOTHER TOASTED BREAD FOR GRETCHEN AND Daniel. As they ate in silence, Gretchen watched Daniel sneaking glances around the kitchen, his expression pensive. She realized a city boy like him had probably never seen a home without running water or electricity before. This must seem like another world to him.
She thought of the Whitestones’ kitchen: bright with electric light, an icebox full of fine cuts of meat. And the cupboards in her family’s old kitchen, so often empty, when they had lived in an apartment and Papa had been alive. She could still hear Papa’s hoarse mutter that he wasn’t hungry. But she’d seen the way he’d looked at the pieces of turnip on her plate. He’d been starving, and had pretended he wasn’t
Slowly, Gretchen lowered herself into a chair. Even through the haze of the months, she remembered each detail of the final hours she and Daniel had spent in Munich. They had caught a train to Dachau, intending to beg her grandfather for his car so they could drive over the border. They’d been walking near the old powder factory when Mama had appeared. She had assumed they would avoid the town center and keep to the outskirts, to decrease the risk of running into their pursuers. When she hadwarned them that SA men had already arrived at the farmhouse, Gretchen had seen their chances of escape evaporate like mist. Until Mama had given them her life’s savings and they had hiked to Ingolstadt, where they’d boarded a train bound for Switzerland.
“When I got back to the farmhouse,” Mama said, her voice hissing between her missing teeth, “the SA men were beating Opa. They wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know where you’d gone.” She raised her head, tears shining in her eyes. “They tore the painting over the mantel. You know how Oma loved that picture. Then they hit me.” She touched her lips.
They must have hit her many times, to knock out so many teeth. Gretchen felt sick. This was her fault. While the SA had attacked her mother and grandfather, she’d been hiking through the countryside with Daniel, safe and unhurt and starting a new life.
She took her mother’s hand. Mama’s fingers felt cold, and the backs of her hands were knotted with blue veins. They’d never been pretty hands. Red from preparing meals for other people to eat and washing clothes for the boarders to wear. Nails broken and skin mottled from endless labor to keep Gretchen and Reinhard fed and clothed.
But Gretchen had loved those hands. They had protected her.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks. For once, she didn’t try to stop them.
“I know, Gretl,” her mother said. She didn’t squeeze Gretchen’s hand back, but she didn’t let go either. “Just as Herr Hitler would be, if he knew what had happened. The Party has grown too big. When it was small and within Herr Hitler’s control, itwas a good organization. Now it’s expanded beyond his grasp and there are rogue members doing wicked deeds in his name.”
Gretchen snapped her head up to look at her mother. Thin and pale in her old nightgown, her face painted yellow by the light of the lantern on the table. This was what Mama told herself, so she could keep going. Alone on a dying farm, abandoned by the people she’d thought were her friends. Oblivious that the man she admired so greatly had killed her husband and ordered her son’s death.
“Uncle Dolf isn’t who you think—” Gretchen stopped. Her mother’s eyes were steady on hers. And bright with tears.
Gretchen glanced at the dirty kitchen and thought of the fields that probably wouldn’t yield many potatoes in the fall. What harm was there in letting Mama believe what she needed to? She had no power, no influence, nobody to listen to whatever she might say. The truth seemed crueler than a lie.
Gretchen clutched her mother’s hand. “Yes, Mama,” she said. “I’m sure Uncle Dolf would be very sorry, if he knew.”
10
HER MOTHER TOASTED BREAD FOR GRETCHEN AND Daniel. As they ate in silence, Gretchen watched Daniel sneaking glances around the kitchen, his expression pensive. She realized a city boy like him had probably never seen a home without running water or electricity before. This must seem like another world to him.
She thought of the Whitestones’ kitchen: bright with electric light, an icebox full of fine cuts of meat. And the cupboards in her family’s old kitchen, so often empty, when they had lived in an apartment and Papa had been alive. She could still hear Papa’s hoarse mutter that he wasn’t hungry. But she’d seen the way he’d looked at the pieces of turnip on her plate. He’d been starving, and had pretended he wasn’t
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