The Watcher (19 page)

“I'm fine. The fresh, cool air feels good.” I took Barret's hand and led him to a bench behind a row of evergreens, out of sight from the front entrance. Then I said, “Remember how you gave me that public letter from the White Rose group and how I tucked it away in my shoe, as you did?”

“Yes, of course. Have you read it? I hope you destroyed it.”

“No. I didn't read it. As you know, I was very ill that day and in a coma—unconscious—for a long time. Weeks later, after I was recovering, I found my shoes in the closet. Barret, the brochure was gone! I have no idea where.”

“Did Adrie find it? When I didn't hear from you or see you, I thought she might have discovered it and was punishing you in some way.”

“If Adrie found it, she'd have been furious. If it was Frieda, she hasn't said a word. Perhaps she found the paper and just threw it out. I'm sure I can trust Frieda not to say anything to anyone.”

“You cannot trust anyone, Wendy. Best friends turn on each other; neighbors are watching every move; teachers ply students with leading questions. It's not safe to rely on anyone.”

“Should I ask Frieda about it?”

“Saying nothing about it is the best advice I can give you for now.”

“Barret, I never did read it. Tell me what it was about?”

“It declared that the Nazi party was evil and destroying the German nation. It also said that at some point the German people would be ashamed of this era when Hitler ruled and of the evil that happened. It requested readers to pass the message on to others. However, it was nothing compared to the later brochures that revealed and spoke out against the murder of Jews.” Barret blew a soft whistle. “They actually dared to say that Hitler was the child of the devil!”

“It's no wonder the group is in such danger.”

We moved on to other things that had happened since we last saw each other. Later Barret, Watcher, and I walked to the apartment complex where Barret and Opa lived. He took me around to the back of the building, where a flagstone walkway led to a barn among the trees. It was a beautifully renovated outbuilding, with a red door large enough for a car to pass through. Under a large leafless tree were a bright red picnic table and benches.

Upon entering a smaller door to the right, I was surprised to see a huge, complete workshop. Tools hung neatly on the walls above long wooden counters. Windows at the back of the barn let in the afternoon sunlight. A large worktable with an overhead light above it stood in the center of the room. When Barret turned on the light, the room was as bright as day.

“This is quite a place!” I said. “Does Opa work here often?”

“Oh, yes. He loves to restore old furniture, lamps, jewelry. I often come here with him while he works.”

I could picture the sweet gentle man—one of the most important figures in the Third Reich—with a cobbler's apron, happily working on a lamp or some old broken object. “He's very tidy with his tools,” I observed, noticing again the variety of implements hanging on the wall.

“We keep everything in its place so I can find things more easily. We often work here together. I enjoy it because with the bright light, I can actually see some things in this room—such as those tools. They're mostly shapes, but I
can tell a hammer from a hatchet when he asks me to bring him something.”

“I would hope so!” I said, laughing. “You mentioned jewelry. Does Opa really work on gold and jewels?”

“Oh, yes. Even though it began as a hobby, he has become an expert. The jewelry he makes is quite beautiful. He hand-shapes silver and gold—in fact, Reichsmarschall Göring wears a ring that Opa made. The Reichsmarschall provided the stone—I think it's a diamond—and Opa structured the gold ring around it.” Barret's voice became bitter. “Then Opa discovered the stone had been taken—stolen, I should say—from a Jewish victim.”

“I saw Reichsmarschall Göring and his flashy rings in the newsreels back home. He looks like an arrogant buffoon!”

“He was quite a hero—an ace pilot—during the Great War,” Barret went on, “and was as popular as a movie star. Now he is in charge of the Luftwaffe—the Air Force.”

“He says Berlin will never be bombed or his name isn't Hermann Göring.”

“Berlin was bombed in 1940,” Barret reminded me, “but it didn't amount to much. However, it made Herr Göring and Hitler angry enough to blitz Britain fifty-seven nights in a row.”

“The bombs will come to Berlin again. The American planes have longer ranges now. I have to get out of here before then.” I sat on a chair at the worktable. “What I'd like to do is find a route for escape. I have thought of going to Bavaria. Perhaps I could discover where the secret trails are
through the mountains to Switzerland.” I heaved a sigh. “But I'm sure Adrie would suspect I was there and she'd find me.”

“Sounds like you've already been reading and planning.”

“I have! Adrie thinks I'm learning German culture, but I'm learning German geography. I've been trying to find the best and easiest way out of here.”

“I thought you said this was a dream—a game you're playing.”

“It's becoming more than a dream, but it is still a secret. No one knows but you.”

“Well, my Princess of Secrets, I will ask Opa, ‘What would be the best route?' I wouldn't be at all surprised if he knows many routes of escape.”

“Please ask him. He said he'd help me.” I took a deep breath. “I'm not going to beg you to come with me, but—”

“I've thought about it, Wendy,” Barret cut in. “But I'm concerned that . . .”

“I know, I know. That you'd be a burden.”

“That's one reason. The other is that if I did go and we were caught, they would find out I am Opa's grandson. He would be in great trouble. He does so much to help people in quiet, secretive ways. I never want him to be caught.”

I felt a bit ashamed. I had almost forgotten that Opa was one of the principal men in the Third Reich. If anyone knew he helped me—or anyone else—to escape . . . I didn't want to think about the consequences.

Barret, on the other hand, thought only of his grandfather and me—never of himself. I was realizing more and more what a wonderful person Barret was and how much . . . yes . . . how much I loved him.

D
uring December, Barrett and I were able to meet twice a week or more, and before we knew it, Christmas was here. Celebrations were subdued because of the war. People were quiet and fearful. Germans realized they could not take over Russia as easily as they had when they'd walked in and claimed Czechoslovakia, France, and Poland. The entire world was on fire with hatred and killing.

Now Operation Winter Storm, which was supposed to resupply the German troops, failed to help the Sixth Army, and General Paulus's men were without support and without supplies. Word crept out that the troops were starving and freezing to death as well as in pain and dying from their wounds. For the first time the question floated among the common people like a morning fog—silent, gray:
Could Germany possibly lose this war?
But still, it was something no one would outwardly ask.

Adrie gave me a necklace for Christmas. It had a golden heart with a ruby in the center. Engraved on the back was the word
Daughter
. I bought her a tortoise shell mirror with a matching comb and a brush trimmed in gold. Of course, the money came from Adrie, who had begun giving me an allowance. I also wrote a poem. It was hard enough to write in English; I didn't dare compose it in German. It was probably awkward, grammatically, but I hoped Adrie would like it. I printed it by hand on a white Christmas card that showed a lone deer standing in the snow with a full moon overhead.

No matter if the world stops turning,

Or if the moon shuts off its glow,

Or if the sun should fade and vanish,

Or if the tides stop in their flow.

No matter who I am while living,

When I am old, or should I die.

My love for you remains forever,

You are the rainbow in my sky.

It probably sounded mushy, and I was almost embarrassed to give it to her. Still, I needed to tell Adrie that I would always love her. Someday, if I really did leave, I hoped she would remember these words.

Adrie loved the present and she kissed the card when she read my poem.

For Frieda I bought a linen handkerchief with at least two inches of pink and white tatting around it. I
remembered how my mom—Aunt Nixie—had loved tatted hankies as presents. I was surprised to see Frieda's tearful eyes when she opened the little package from me, and I wished I had given her more.

Frieda made gingerbread cookies and taught me to sing “Silent Night”—
“Stille Nacht.”
She had a deep alto voice that rang out like a church bell, and she stressed each word with feeling. I told her it did not make sense to me that warring nations sang the same Christmas carols, about peace on Earth, and yet were killing one another. Frieda did not answer. Instead she shook her head sadly and shrugged.

I never dared ask her about the brochure that I hid in my shoe.

O
ne Saturday, after visiting with Barret, I discovered Adrie was back from Munich and waiting for me. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “It's so cold. I can't imagine you staying out so long after being ill.”

“That's exactly why I asked you to buy me these boots and this warm jacket.” I hoped she wouldn't ask where I had been again. “So, how did everything go in Munich?”

“Very well, thank you. We caught the kids. They became too sure of themselves and were no longer careful. In fact, that girl—Sophie Scholl—gave herself and her brother away by tossing their extra bulletins from the second-floor atrium and onto the main floor of a university building. Stupid girl! The janitor saw Sophie and her brother and reported them to the police.”

“Where are they and what will happen to them?”

“They are in the People's Court—
Volksgerichtshof
. They'll have a fair trial and sentence.”

Frieda, who had been standing in the doorway, spoke up in German. “Who is the judge who has been appointed for their trial?”

“The presiding judge, Roland Freisler, Chief Justice of the People's Court has already been called from Berlin.”

“Oh, he is very . . .” Frieda paused, searching for the right word. “. . . harsh.”

“He will see that justice is done,” Adrie said quickly in German to Frieda, and then in English to me. I realized Adrie was not yet sure how well I understood German.

As Frieda turned from the doorway, I saw disappointment—along with a flash of anger—cross her face.

“In other words, he is not kind,” I stated. Before Adrie could answer, I left the room and headed upstairs with Watcher at my heels.

I plopped onto my big chair by the window and stared at the somber world outside.

What would happen to the White Rose students? Adrie said they would receive a just trial, but I knew they would not. Even Frieda looked upset when she heard who the judge was. He would not be compassionate to the students. Adrie practically admitted that.

I fingered the three gold monkeys on my bracelet. They reminded me of the German people who said nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing. At least the White Rose group tried to speak out to the German people.

I thought about myself. I did not have a strong character,
like Sophie Scholl or Johanna. I was upset when I saw bad things going on, but I wasn't brave enough to stand up for what was right, like they had done. I felt tears rush to my eyes, and I put my hands over my face. I was just Wendy Taylor, who liked boys, nice clothes, and going to the movies. I wanted to see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.

On Saturday, Adrie was busy in her office typing up a report for the
Abwehr
. I was surprised when she told me that while she was in the university, she had met and talked with Sophie Scholl.

“What is she like?” I asked.

“Nothing special. I had a feeling she was one of them, as she seemed cautious about making new friends.”

Adrie frowned. “I examined the letter so many times, I memorized the first lines: ‘Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be “governed” without opposition by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct. It is certain that today every honest German is ashamed of his government.' ” Adrie slammed her fist onto her desk. “Can you imagine? After all the Third Reich has done for Germany, these troublemakers decree it an irresponsible clique!”

“Students have a right to voice their own opinions. We had assignments back home where we had to pick some constitutional law or amendment and argue against it. It helps people to see the other side of things—”

Adrie interrupted. “Our government here—which in case you've forgotten, is your government—has proved it has God-given rights to take over Europe and bring a thousand
years of power and enlightenment. Then these . . .
Scheine
 . . . hand out poison to bring it down.” Adrie's voice rose. “And that quote is only a miniscule part of the traitorous things they've said.”

“Johanna told me that—”

“I don't want to hear anything that foolish girl told you.”

I ignored her and continued. “If an organization like the White Rose or the Bible Students is from God, it can't be taken down or destroyed. If it's not from God, it will simply fall apart eventually. So why not just wait and see what happens?”

Adrie stood up and pointed to the door. “Leave. I don't want to argue with you about this.” She shut the door with a slam when I left.