All God's Children (10 page)

Beth clutched the coats to her chest. Surely if there had been the opportunity to take this matter up with the Friends, any clearness committee would agree that she had to do whatever she could to help these people—these innocents caught up in a world gone mad.

By the time Josef approached the professor’s block, the snow was letting up, but a blustery wind had taken its place, blowing the powdery snow into drifts that pressed against doorways. Josef turned up the collar on his overcoat and hurried on. He passed the deserted bookstore and heard movement and laughter. He realized the door was standing open, and inside he saw a group of youths vandalizing the place, tossing books onto the floor and breaking up the shelving. The front window was painted with the words
Juden Raus
and similar offensive epitaphs. The sight was hardly uncommon, but it was one that made Josef despair for this country that he loved—a country that had always prized its writers and poets as well as musicians and philosophers.

It would do little good to try and stop the vandals. The damage had been done, and no one was coming back to run the shop. The owners had been taken away along with several other Jewish families and shopkeepers in the area.

He cut through the narrow passage between two buildings to avoid the youths and used the rear entrance to the building. When he reached the fourth floor, Josef heard water running and the clink of dishes through the closed front door and knew that Beth was home. His heart beat a little faster as he used his key to enter the apartment, realizing that she would not hear his knock with the kitchen door shut and the water running. Once inside he slipped off his shoes, and, incredibly, he thought he heard a child speaking.

“It is Josef,” he called as he unwound his scarf and hung it with his overcoat on one of the hooks. But when he pushed the kitchen door open, the scene before him stopped him cold.

Sitting at the table was a woman he’d never seen before, holding a child on her lap as she shared a piece of bread with another child sitting next to her. Beth was just coming back from the bedrooms at the end of the hall. She held a bundle of clothing. But it was the crude yellow star on the frayed woolen coat spread over a chair near the stove that dominated the room.

In that instant a fear unlike anything Josef had known plagued him. Even his father could not help with this. To even consider offering comfort—let alone sanctuary—to Jews was a risk of such outrageous proportions as to be unfathomable.

Surely you cannot possibly be so naive
, he thought as he turned to Beth, ignoring the woman and children. “Are you insane?” His words came out on a hiss of breath.

She bristled, and her full lips hardened into a straight line, a stubborn slash of rose across her beautiful pale skin. The baby whimpered, and the mother tightened her hold. The other child—a boy—continued to eat, although his eyes were fixed on Josef.

“This is Frau Anja Steinberg,” Beth said in a tone overly bright and social. “And this is Daniel and his sister, Rachel.” She put the clothes on the bench opposite the one that the woman shared with her children and then dished up the few remaining eggs and handed Josef the plate. “This is Dr. Josef Buch,” she added.

The woman nodded warily and fed a piece of egg to the girl even as her ice-blue eyes darted around the kitchen, seeking avenues of escape. Josef realized that once again Beth had allowed her impulsive nature to override her common sense. But the deed had been done—the woman and her children were here. Now he had no choice but to help Beth find a way to get them to safety.

“Elizabeth, a word?” he said as he set the plate on the counter, then gently removed the spatula from her hand. He motioned toward the sitting room, and just before exiting the kitchen, he reached over and turned the woman’s coat so that the yellow star was hidden.

Beth waited for Josef to leave the kitchen entirely, then smiled reassuringly at Anja, ruffled Daniel’s hair, and followed the doctor into the barely heated room where a radiator clanked in protest to the demand for it to produce more heat.

He had turned on her uncle’s gramophone, and strains of an Italian opera filled the room. He raised the volume to cover their words. The room was cold after the steamy heat of the kitchen, and Beth crossed her arms over her chest, resting her hands on her shoulders. “I had no choice,” she whispered.

“As you had no choice but to give away your visa?” he asked. “There is always a choice,” he said wearily.

“Tell that to her,” Beth said, jerking her head toward the kitchen, biting out each word. “Tell it to those children who watched their father being hauled away. Tell it to—”

“You had a choice, Beth. What were you thinking? Bring her here and what? What if your uncle and aunt had been here? Then what?”

“I would not have come here,” Beth replied with the kind of self assured logic she had learned was often a source of confusion if not exasperation for many Bavarians. “I would have—”

“What?” Josef pressed his point, his face inches from hers as he snapped out the question.

“She’s in danger,” she argued.

“You
are in danger.”

Beth stepped away. “It’s all moot. My aunt and uncle are away until the end of the week. I brought her here. No one saw us. I prepared food for her and the children and—”

“And the food. We had three eggs to last the month. And the cheese—”

“I used only a little of the cheese, and the eggs are powdered,” she said, hating that she was defending herself over food rations when the real issue was that Anja and her children were homeless, hungry, and in danger.

“And now what?” he demanded.

Beth wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She was on shaky ground here both in the face of his accusations and her own growing doubts that instead of acting within the tenets of her faith she had once again acted on pure instinct. How many times when she was growing up had her parents despaired over her inclination toward making rash, on-the-spot decisions?

Josef paced the confines of the room. He stopped at the chair where her uncle usually sat, while she stood opposite him, clutching the back of the chair she often occupied. In the slice of light that filtered through the crack under the kitchen door, she could see that he was far more unnerved by this than she might have imagined he would be, and it was her turn to register a guess as to why he should be so upset.

“Something has happened.” She took a step closer, intending to bridge the distance between them, but he waved her away. “Something has happened to make you overreact to something that is easily remedied.”

His laugh was a bark that held no hint of mirth. “You think having that Jew in your kitchen is ‘easily remedied’?” he argued.

“How dare you speak like that of another human being? She is an innocent woman who is only trying to protect her children. Her religion should matter no more than do her politics.”

Josef had the decency to look abashed. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant—”

“Besides, she is not Jewish,” Beth interrupted, her voice deadened by her disappointment in this man she had begun to believe might be different from other Germans in uniform she had met. “She is Danish and also a Quaker like we are. She married a
German
citizen who follows the Jewish faith, and because she chose to stand with her husband, she has been labeled as well, stripped of her rights as he has—as they all have.” She watched Josef’s features soften slightly, and the reaction only made her angrier. “Oh, so now that you know she’s not Jewish you have some sympathy?”

“That’s not fair,” Josef answered, his voice hoarse and weary. “Why the star then?”

“Apparently she had the audacity to participate in a protest rally that the authorities found to be objectionable, and they all have suffered the consequences.”

Beth slumped into the chair as the magnitude of what she had brought on them hit her. Josef was right. Jewish or not, Anja and the children were in danger, and so was anyone who tried to help them. “I could go to—”

Steps in the corridor outside the entrance to the apartment made both of them freeze. The doorbell sounded, followed by a firm knock.

“Are you expecting someone?” she whispered.

Josef nodded and motioned for her to stay quiet. “It’s my father,” he said. Beth started for the kitchen. Other than climbing out a fourth floor window, the front entrance was the only way out of the apartment. What were they to do? Josef grabbed her arm to stop her just as there was a second, more insistent knock.

“It’s not what you think,” he whispered. “I have not betrayed you, Beth. I would never…your uncle…”

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded, glancing toward the kitchen and then back toward the front door.

Josef motioned for her to get the woman and children and take them upstairs to the attic. Beth gathered the clothing drying near the stove and the dry things she had gathered for the family and handed them to Anja as she pointed to the stairway that led to the attic.

A third knock, this one rattling the frosted-glass in the door.

“Coming,” Josef called and glanced around the kitchen, his focus settling on the half-eaten food Beth had prepared for Anja and the children.

“Give me a moment,” she instructed as she reset the table as if the two of them had been sharing a meal. She motioned for Josef to answer the door and steadied her nerves by refilling the kettle and setting it to warm on top of the stove. When she heard Josef greeting his father, she knew she must go into the hallway herself.

“Oh, hello,” she said, extending her hand to the older man dressed in a business suit and black overcoat. “I am Elizabeth Bridgewater.”

Josef hurried to complete the introductions. “This is my father, Beth. Herr Detlef Buch.”

“So you are the professor’s
American
niece,” the man said, placing the emphasis on her nationality. She had spoken to him in German, but like every native he had seen through that. What had she been thinking to trust Josef? She felt what was becoming a familiar lump of pure fear tighten around her lungs.

“Won’t you join us, Father? We were just finishing our supper.”

“Yes, please,” Beth said. “I think we have one last jar of the pickled tomatoes that my aunt puts up every summer, and we have enough powdered—”

“Your mother is waiting supper for me at home, Josef. A nice
Schweinebraten
with those potatoes you like so much and red cabbage,” the older man replied, his eyes focused on Josef. “It would please her greatly if you would agree to dine with us from time to time.”

Beth glanced at Josef as, through the slightly open door leading to the sitting room, they heard the phonograph needle scratching out a rhythm on wax now that the record had ended. Josef hurried to lift the arm and set it on its rest.

“I’ll just leave you two to visit,” Beth said, backing down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Actually it is you I have come to see, Fräulein,” Josef’s father said as he reached inside his coat and produced an envelope. “I believe you have been waiting for this to be returned?”

Beth opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. “My visa,” she whispered. “Thank you, Herr Buch. Thank you so much.”

“May I suggest you put that to use at the earliest possible moment? I have made arrangements for you to leave the country by the end of the month. Please do not make me regret taking such an unusual interest in your situation.”

Before Beth could respond, Josef’s father had turned away, replaced the shallow-brimmed loden-green hat so popular with Bavarian men on his carefully groomed silver hair, and opened the front door. “Josef,” he said as he brushed past his son.

“Danke
sehr,”
she heard Josef murmur, and she did not miss that it was gratitude his father refused to acknowledge.

“You did this?” Beth asked as soon as Josef had closed and locked the front door. “Why?”

“The professor rightly recognizes the importance of getting you out of the country as soon as possible. My father has made the necessary arrangements.”

“Pfui Di Good.”
Beth could barely form the words that expressed more than simple gratitude—words intended to show appreciation to someone who had gone to great lengths. “Thank you, Josef, and may God bless your father for his kindness.”