The German Wife(37)

My face flamed as I realized I had no choice but to choose the other path—the lesser path. The Nazis had not just made comments like Otto’s acceptable—they’d made them fashionable. That was why there was no pause, no silent acknowledgment of the line that had been crossed. The line had been moved. How on earth had the Nazis flipped things around so quickly?

“I’m embarrassed to admit it,” I said, forcing a weak laugh. “I was just wondering how far away that pork knuckle is. Doesn’t it smell delicious?”

The brittle tinkle of laughter echoed around the table. Jürgen almost slumped with relief, and he fished for my hand under the table, then squeezed it. Hard.

But Otto’s eyes stayed on me a moment too long, as did Dietger’s. Before the main course was served, I was counting down the seconds until we could leave.

Guests were excusing themselves by eleven o’clock. Dietger and Anne were the first to go, rubbing their full bellies and thanking Lydia and Karl as they left. When Aldo rose to leave, he stumbled as he tried to push back his chair. The wine and beer had flowed thick and fast all evening, and many of the men looked disheveled.

There was a flurry of conversation about how everyone would make their way home. Jürgen offered to take Aldo. We’d be traveling well out of our way, but I didn’t mind—the young man was clearly in no state to drive. Others decided to drive despite their evening of indulgence. To my surprise, Otto asked for assistance.

“Do you think you could see to it to have your driver help Helene and me get home?” he asked Karl. He’d had plenty to drink, but it was over many hours, and he seemed relatively sober compared to some of the others.

“I’ll fetch Gerhard,” Lydia said, offering Otto a reassuring smile before she turned toward the staff wing. Jürgen was still deep in conversation with another colleague, so I fell into step beside her, frowning.

“Gerhard?”

It struck me suddenly that it had been some time since I’d seen Karl’s driver, Fischel. That wasn’t unusual—the zu Schiller staff generally remained invisible unless there was a need for them.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “Our lovely new driver.”

“What happened to Fischel?”

“It was time, Sofie,” she said, dropping her voice.

“You fired him?” My stomach dropped. Fischel worked for Karl for years—since even before he married Lydia. I thought the two men were friends.

“He moved on,” she simply said. “And thank God he did, because I’m fairly sure Otto is only asking to use our driver to double-check that we let the Jew go. It really was for the best.”

If I’d been a braver woman, I’d have asked: The best for who?

But that lonely moment at the table was so fresh in my mind, and I hadn’t even had the chance to sort through my thoughts on it.

I fell behind as Lydia powered toward the staff quarters, but a sudden wave of sadness hit me, and instead of waiting for her, I turned and walked back to Jürgen and Aldo.

“You just can’t do things like that,” Jürgen said. We were still at the curb out front of Aldo’s parents’ home, watching as the young man walked unsteadily up the path toward the front door. Jürgen pinched the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses askew. “I told you in the car on the way to the party. You have to ignore the comments you don’t like. It’s the only way.”

“Did you know Karl and Lydia fired Fischel?”

Jürgen sighed and tilted his head back, as if looking to the heavens for help.

“What?” I said impatiently.

“Of course they fired Fischel.”

“But—”

“Unlike me or most of those men you met tonight, Karl is replaceable. He doesn’t have a science background to bring to the program, so instead, he plays politics to advance his career,” Jürgen said. “It’s working for him so far. Otto is fond of him.”

“But Fischel has been on Karl’s staff as long as we’ve known him. I cannot believe that Karl would fire him just to climb the ladder.”

“Maybe Karl’s decision is just like when you and I realized we simply have to give the salute.”

“So...you don’t think Lydia and Karl really buy into all of that nonsense about the Jews?” I asked Jürgen uncertainly.

“If they are acting, they are doing a very convincing job of it.”

“We could ask them.”

He pulled away from the curb, sighing heavily.

“It’s my intention to do everything I can to focus on my work. If we force a confrontation with the zu Schillers, there’s a good chance we’re going to be disappointed with how they respond, and by asking the question, we’ve revealed our discomfort. It’s like listening to Otto when he rants about the Jews or the disabled or the homosexuals. I could argue back—I mean, for God’s sakes, what ‘science’ is this? But does that really help? Does it change Otto’s mind? No. All it does is force him to confront the reality that he and I disagree. It’s best to stay focused on what we still have in common. In the case of Karl and Otto and me, that’s the rocket program. For you and Lydia, it’s our children and our friendship.”

In those first few early years of Nazi rule, each day mostly felt like the one before—warm family dinners, lunches at the park with Lydia while our children ran wild around us, frustrating and wonderful moments with my children, Mayim and I chuckling over some private joke, sharing glances at Adele each morning as I somehow, yet again, managed to offend Jürgen’s aunt with a single word or phrase.