would deny him again, and eventually he would go away. But a replacement would come and the process would start all over. But if she agreed to cooperate she risked her life, as well as Kurt’s and Manfred’s, even though she couldn’t really care less about him. Even Hannah, her domestic, was in danger. It didn’t seem worth it. It wasn’t her fight. Or was it?
She also realized that, if the British were smart enough to contact her, the Germans were shrewd enough to realize they would. They might start following her, if they weren’t already, or feed her with false information, something easily validated if the Allies acted upon it. It seemed no matter what she did, her life was about to drastically change.
She wondered if she should tell Manfred. It seemed the safest course. But now she despised him, and would rather not talk to him at all. If she did tell him, it meant the loss of any freedom she still had. German agents would watch her constantly, or escort her, like Klein did when they gave concerts outside of Berlin. And it meant Michael’s arrest and probable death; that was certain. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be responsible for that.
She had to admit she liked him. Mr. Becker, the wounded German soldier, classical music aficionado, amateur piano player who was really an Englishman with a photographic riddle to share. How much did he tell her that was untrue, other than his nationality? Somehow, and for no reason at all, she didn’t think he had lied about much else, including his attraction to her. She hated to admit it, but he showed more interest in her music during their ten-minute conversation at the café than her husband had in ten years.
Manfred had proven how despicable he was. Amanda wondered how long he had been unfaithful. How many women were there? Was it only the bank manager, and the red-haired woman she caught him with the past winter? Or were there many − multiple affairs juggled concurrently. He even had the audacity to tell her it would continue, and there was nothing she could do about it. What made it all worse, almost surreal, was that he was probably right.
Fortunately she rarely saw him; their paths never crossed except on Sunday. On the few days he was home, he left the house early in the morning, before she awakened, and returned late at night, well after she was asleep. Usually he didn’t come home at all, when some crisis caused him to stay in his office. That had become much more frequent, which was fine with her. She didn’t care if she ever saw him again.
She had a thought, fleeting, but alive long enough to plant a seed. Maybe Michael Becker the Englishman could help her. But what would he want in return, if he did. She had information she wouldn’t hesitate to provide, who influential Party members were, or the horrible treatment of Jews. She could disclose what she knew without compromising her family. Maybe there was a solution, maybe there was a way out.
When she returned home, she went to her music room, frantic and overwhelmed. She needed to practice; she needed to find refuge in the sweeping movements of the masters. It gave her solace.
*
The parade was that Saturday, highlighted by the German troops from France on leave before reassignment. The citizens of Berlin turned out in earnest, lining the Ku’damm and saluting or waving small hand-held Nazi flags. The troops goose-stepped past, their faces stern, their loyalty unwavering, keeping an appointment with destiny on the barren steppes of the Russian Front.
Amanda stood on the pavement, her camera raised to her eye whenever something caught her attention. In rapid succession she took photographs of a small boy saluting, a teenage girl who ran into the street to kiss a passing soldier, a stern policeman with a handlebar moustache, and a yellow bird on the limb of a sycamore tree, squawking at the commotion.
Her stepson Kurt stood beside her, his face flush with enthusiasm, his right hand raised in
She also realized that, if the British were smart enough to contact her, the Germans were shrewd enough to realize they would. They might start following her, if they weren’t already, or feed her with false information, something easily validated if the Allies acted upon it. It seemed no matter what she did, her life was about to drastically change.
She wondered if she should tell Manfred. It seemed the safest course. But now she despised him, and would rather not talk to him at all. If she did tell him, it meant the loss of any freedom she still had. German agents would watch her constantly, or escort her, like Klein did when they gave concerts outside of Berlin. And it meant Michael’s arrest and probable death; that was certain. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be responsible for that.
She had to admit she liked him. Mr. Becker, the wounded German soldier, classical music aficionado, amateur piano player who was really an Englishman with a photographic riddle to share. How much did he tell her that was untrue, other than his nationality? Somehow, and for no reason at all, she didn’t think he had lied about much else, including his attraction to her. She hated to admit it, but he showed more interest in her music during their ten-minute conversation at the café than her husband had in ten years.
Manfred had proven how despicable he was. Amanda wondered how long he had been unfaithful. How many women were there? Was it only the bank manager, and the red-haired woman she caught him with the past winter? Or were there many − multiple affairs juggled concurrently. He even had the audacity to tell her it would continue, and there was nothing she could do about it. What made it all worse, almost surreal, was that he was probably right.
Fortunately she rarely saw him; their paths never crossed except on Sunday. On the few days he was home, he left the house early in the morning, before she awakened, and returned late at night, well after she was asleep. Usually he didn’t come home at all, when some crisis caused him to stay in his office. That had become much more frequent, which was fine with her. She didn’t care if she ever saw him again.
She had a thought, fleeting, but alive long enough to plant a seed. Maybe Michael Becker the Englishman could help her. But what would he want in return, if he did. She had information she wouldn’t hesitate to provide, who influential Party members were, or the horrible treatment of Jews. She could disclose what she knew without compromising her family. Maybe there was a solution, maybe there was a way out.
When she returned home, she went to her music room, frantic and overwhelmed. She needed to practice; she needed to find refuge in the sweeping movements of the masters. It gave her solace.
*
The parade was that Saturday, highlighted by the German troops from France on leave before reassignment. The citizens of Berlin turned out in earnest, lining the Ku’damm and saluting or waving small hand-held Nazi flags. The troops goose-stepped past, their faces stern, their loyalty unwavering, keeping an appointment with destiny on the barren steppes of the Russian Front.
Amanda stood on the pavement, her camera raised to her eye whenever something caught her attention. In rapid succession she took photographs of a small boy saluting, a teenage girl who ran into the street to kiss a passing soldier, a stern policeman with a handlebar moustache, and a yellow bird on the limb of a sycamore tree, squawking at the commotion.
Her stepson Kurt stood beside her, his face flush with enthusiasm, his right hand raised in
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