Page 98

Besides, the gesture was intended to do good, but in a way, it was also selfish. It was the quiet reminder Ineeded. It didn’t matter who I pretended to be. The Nazis could take my best friends and even my children from me—but they would not touch my heart.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Martha greeted me that Wednesday. “It’s good to see you. And hello, sweet Gisela.” Just as Adele might have done if she were alive, Martha bent into the stroller and gave my excited daughter some candy.

I set the basket on Martha’s kitchen table. She bustled around the kitchen, chatting about this and that as she made me tea.

“The strangest thing happened,” she said. “I got this letter and I don’t know what to do with it. I think it might have been incorrectly addressed. Could you take a look and tell me what I should do?”

I accepted the letter as she handed it to me—but almost dropped it when I saw the familiar handwriting.

Dear Frieda,

Do you remember me from those days as childhood neighbors in Potsdam, all of those years ago? You probably do not, so I will try to jog your memory.

There was that time when I fell and broke a bone in my wrist, and as I lay on the ground in such pain, you were so distressed that we forgot our roles somehow, and I wound up comforting you. And then one summer we wanted to swim in the creek but my brother was unwell, so my mother told him he couldn’t join us. He set fire to a cloth in her kitchen to distract her and followed us to the creek! Such a rascal back then, and he’s such a rascal today—even now that he is a husband and father.

It was his idea that I write you to let you know that I still think of you, even after all of these years. I imagine you will wish you could reply to me, but the timing of this letter is unfortunate, as I’m about to go traveling, so I won’t leave a return address for now. Life is too short—one never knows what lies around the corner, so I wanted to send you my well-wishes while I could.

If I settle someplace, I will write you again so you know where to find me. For now, just know that I am happy and well, and my life has worked out just fine. I will never forget you or your kindness to me.

Very best wishes,

Anna

Mayim!Frieda—my grandmother’s name; Anna—hers. So many references to our past together, not one of them subtle, but clever Mayim had found a way to hide her identity in such a way that no one in the world could possibly know who wrote that letter except me.

“What should I do with it?” Martha asked me innocently. I looked up at her, my vision blurred from tears, and she winked at me. “Yes, it’s clearly not intended for me. Since there’s no return address, I’ll throw it into the trash.”

But later, Martha followed me to the door, and as we embraced, I whispered in her ear, “She didn’t know where you lived. I remember she said that, the night Adele died. How did she find you? And how did you know the letter was for me?”

“I gave her my address as I drove her to the border, just in case there was anything else I could do for her. The envelope was addressed to me, but when I opened it, I was so confused to see the letter addressed to someone else. I almost threw it out, until I remembered her telling me she met you in Potsdam. Now at least we know she made it to her family. I hope that brings you some peace.”

I was at Adele’s apartment one morning in early September. Gisela, now eighteen months old, was stumbling clumsily around the courtyard, one of the young rabbits following her like a puppy. I had the wireless on for background noise, but I wasn’t really listening until a sudden flare of trumpets and drums sounded. The Reichstag had been assembled for an extraordinary session and Hitler was about to address the nation. There came a cacophony of noise—shouting and cheers from parliamentarians as the Führer arrived.

Hitler announced that Germany had invaded Poland but only as an act of self-defense.From now on, bombs will be met with bombs.He told the nation to brace itself.This will be a fight until the resolution of the situation.

When the children came home from school, they were abuzz with excitement, although it was clear they had little understanding of what had actually happened. Georg was convinced that Poland had dropped a bomb on Berlin. Laura thought Hitler was at the border, wielding a sword in defense of the Reich. When I went to tuck Georg in, I found him on his knees by the side of the bed, whispering what I thought was a prayer. As I waited by the door, surprised but determined to give him space to pray, I heard the words he was murmuring to a rhythm that suggested he’d said them many times before.

“Führer, my Führer, given me by God. Protect and preserve my life for long. You saved Germany in time of need. I thank you for my daily bread. Be with me for a long time, do not leave me, Führer, my Führer, my faith, my light, Hail to my Führer!”

“Where did you learn that?” I asked, forgetting my plan to give him privacy. Georg climbed up onto his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin, flashing me a bright grin.

“At theJungvolk,” he said easily. I kissed his forehead and turned his light out, and then walked briskly into the study to call Jürgen.

It was too much to bear alone—the “prayer” I’d overheard, the conflict with Poland—what it all meant, and what might happen next. I didn’t trust the media anymore, but I had no alternate way to find information. Everything felt completely out of control.

“Hello?” my husband answered gruffly.

The instant I heard his voice, I knew I was going to weep, and I couldn’t do that—he’d ask me why I was so upset, and I couldn’t tell him because we likely had an audience. I hung up the phone and went to bed, muffling the sound of my sobs by pressing my face into my pillow.