The German Wife(111)

My breath caught in my throat.

“The children?”

“God forgive me, as soon as they started talking about the ways they’d torture our children to death, I lost my nerve. I should have expected it,” he whispered miserably. “They think nothing of imprisoning and murdering Jewish children. Of course they wouldn’t hesitate to interrogate the children of a traitor.”

It was one thing to take a stand when Jürgen and I were going to pay the price for it. It was another thing to threaten the children’s lives.

Jürgen was freed after he expressed his remorse and begged for another chance, just as the Gestapo hoped. He was again invited to accept an SS rank, and this time he relented.

“You said the rocket program will be forced to wind down soon. Why go to such lengths to force you to join the SS?” I whispered, frustrated and bewildered.

“I think this may be Karl’s fault,” Jürgen whispered back. “A few weeks before Castle Varlar, Otto suggested we might need to make preliminary plans so we can quickly ensure the destruction of the Mittelwerk site. He suggested we plan to cover our tracks as protection against accusations of war crimes once the Allies take the district.”

“Even Otto knows that what has gone on is not right.”

“He does. Karl agreed we should be ready, because if we can hide the truth about Mittelwerk, he and I may have a chance at refuge with one of the Allies because of our experience with rocketry.”

“Karl isn’t a scientist.”

“No, but he’s a manager with a unique insight into what it takes to mass-produce rockets. Or so he tells me.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s a fantasy,” Jürgen said dismissively. “Even if we could destroy the Mittelwerk site, there would still be witnesses. The truth will prevail. But the thing is—Karl didn’t mention Otto ‘escaping’ with us.”

“Because even if you could somehow suppress the truth about Mittelwerk, none of the Allies would ever pardon an SS officer,” I surmised heavily.

“Exactly. Otto is a man who delights in cruelty, my love. It wouldn’t surprise me if he put us through all of this just to make doubly sure Karl and I were trapped along with him.”

We had made one crucial mistake in our attempt to take a stand. We forgot that, in the Reich, control was absolute. There were no measures too extreme when it came to ensuring perfect compliance.



43


Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

It was still dark when Felix tugged at my hand. I cracked my bleary eyes and found him standing against the bed, his face pressed right against mine as I slept.

“Mama,” he whispered, then hopefully, “Television?”

“You’re surely joking...” I groaned, and I looked at the alarm clock. It was just past 5:30 a.m.—the worst possible time for him to wake me. It was too damned early, but I also knew it was late enough that he’d never go back to sleep. I pushed myself into a sitting position, groaning.

“What’s wrong?” Jürgen mumbled beside me.

“Felix wants to watch television—” I started to say, but my words turned into a scream.

We’d left the drapes open a little the night before, and now, in the gap between the drapes, a face stared back at me. Someone was looking through the window.

I grabbed my startled son, instinct forcing me away from the window and out of the room. Jürgen was shouting behind me—what is it? Sofie? And then he must have seen for himself. I heard him shout, “Oh my God!”

“Mama?” Felix called out.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, my voice shaking as much as my knees. I took him into Gisela’s room and all but threw him onto the bed.

“Mama?” she mumbled, even as she opened her arms to her brother.

“Stay here,” I said fiercely. “Stay here and stay away from the windows.”

I ran toward the back of the house—I could tell from the cool breeze coming down the hall that the laundry room door was open. I surmised that Jürgen had gone out that way into the backyard. Had it been Lizzie Miller’s brother staring through my window? I thought so, but couldn’t be sure. It all happened so fast in the predawn light.

I’d just stepped out of the laundry room into the yard when I heard an explosion—so sudden and so loud that dogs began to bark, and the birds in the trees squawked as they scattered into the silvery sky. My instincts told me to run away from it, but I wasn’t sure where Jürgen was, so instead I ran toward the sound. As I rounded the corner of the house, my footsteps stalled. Jürgen was on the ground, in a heap against the wall.

A dozen or so feet away from him in the middle of our small yard, Lizzie Miller’s brother was standing with a handgun dangling limply from his hand, an expression of shock and disbelief on his face. He released a low whimper when he saw me. Then he dropped the gun and leaped over the low fence in the back of our yard.

The instant Henry was away from the gun, I ran to Jürgen. He was alive—his eyes wild as he stared at me. His hands were clutching his abdomen. The bloodstain on his nightshirt was spreading fast, and he was sucking in deep, desperate breaths.

After everything we’d survived, I couldn’t lose him like this.