The German Wife(106)

“We have to talk about this,” I hissed.

“The V-2s have caused significant damage to London...to a few other cities too. That in itself is a tragedy that keeps me up at night. Our intelligence suggests maybe a few thousand people have died,” he whispered thickly. “It’s horrific. But...”

“But...?” I repeated, scanning his face.

“The guilt of that makes me sick to my stomach, but it doesn’t even end there,” he croaked. “We are losing that many prisoners every week manufacturing rockets. Maybe more. Between accidents, beatings, disease...they take train carriages full of bodies out every day. We produce two things in those tunnels—rockets and death. Mittelwerk is an extermination site, without even the pathetically small mercy of a fast death for its victims.”

I thought about how quickly word would spread if Jürgen took a stand and refused to join the SS. Whispers would race like wildfire from Nordhausen to Berlin—through party lines both official and unofficial. Maybe Berlin would fall within just a few months anyway, but it was likely I would be interrogated by the Gestapo too, and I couldn’t even be certain I would survive. The children would potentially be left without either of us.

But one day, the war would end. The endless bombardment of Nazi propaganda would stop. And my children could learn that their parents had tried to do the right thing. Too little, too late—yes. But they would at least know that there had been a line we refused to cross.

“Follow your conscience wherever it leads you, Jürgen,” I blurted. “Do whatever you have to do.”

After eleven years of ups and downs and varying degrees of distance between us, Jürgen and I were exactly together, on the same page.

The next morning, Jürgen and I faced one another as I stood beside my car. His eyes were red and so were mine. The sun was low on the horizon and the wind was icy—but the sky above us was blue. I wanted to feel every aspect of the moment. I wanted to remember every detail of those moments with Jürgen, as fraught and terrifying as they were.

We agreed we wouldn’t make a fuss that morning, but he and I both knew this would likely be our last goodbye. We discussed trying to bring the children for a final visit—but to arrange that would take time we didn’t have. I couldn’t bear to lose him, but I knew what the cost would be to keep him. He wasn’t willing to pay that price, and now that I’d seen Mittelwerk with my own eyes, nor was I.

To fail a test of loyalty like Otto’s invitation for Jürgen to join the SS was suicide. Jürgen was just determined that his death would come on his terms. He didn’t have a clear plan for the specifics—he was just going to go to Mittelwerk and look for an opportunity to make one first and last act of defiance, maybe to free a prisoner or two, or to sabotage the line itself somehow.

“I love you more than I knew I could love another person,” I said. My whole body was shaking with the effort it was taking to hold back my tears.

His expression softened, and Jürgen reached to cup my cheek in his hand.

“You have made my life, Sofie von Meyer Rhodes. My last thoughts will be of how grateful I have been to share it with you.”

And then we kissed, one last time, and I slipped into my car and drove away. Just a few miles out of Nordhausen, I had to pull over to the side of the road because I was sobbing too hard.

Sometimes, I thought I had, by necessity, grown used to living apart from Jürgen. Only now that our connection was likely about to be severed permanently did I understand that it was all that had kept me going through these years.

On that long drive back to Berlin, I wondered how quickly they would come for me. If Jürgen made some dramatic move, it was likely I’d be taken in quickly. I went straight to Lydia’s house to see the children, but a black car was already waiting in her drive. I parked near it, not blocking it in. I knew it would soon be driving me away.



40


Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

It was Friday morning and Gisela had been dawdling since she got out of bed. Now we were at the school gate and she didn’t want to get out of the car.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked her, looking at the schoolyard, where a handful of other tardy children were walking into their buildings.

“I just want to go home,” she said miserably.

“We can talk about this tonight,” I said firmly. “You need to get to class.”

She sighed impatiently and slipped out of the car, pausing just long enough to slam the door behind her.

“Mama?” Felix said hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I need to go to the potty.”

“I told you to go before we left.”

“I forgot,” he said, his voice small.

I sighed impatiently. I usually did the grocery shop on Friday mornings, but instead, I turned the car toward home.

The whole way home, Felix asked about the television—until I came to suspect that there was no urgency for the potty at all. By the time we reached the house, I was well and truly irritable—especially when he made a quick show of using the potty, then ran down the hall toward the living room.

“Felix Rhodes,” I said sharply, “you are not watching that television—”

But farther along the hall, past my son at the other end of the house, I saw a blur of movement as someone disappeared into the laundry room.