The German Wife(82)

The knock at the door was unexpected, and at the same time, irritating. I just wanted to sit with my grief for a few minutes. I stuffed Adele’s letter into my pocket and dragged myself to the door, and was startled to find Lydia there.

She was holding a Crock-Pot in her hands, her expression one of intense sympathy, mixed in with some awkwardness.

“I heard about Adele and I just—Sofie, I’m so sorry. I know she was important to your family.” She extended the Crock-Pot toward me. “Soup. So you don’t have to cook your children dinner tonight.”

I took the Crock-Pot and set it on a little table inside the foyer, and then I turned back to her.

“When did you change your mind about the Jews?” I blurted. Her eyebrows rose in surprise and alarm. I was a long way past thinking straight, and that Crock-Pot reminded me that at her best, Lydia was a great friend—a woman of true kindness. But something ugly had emerged in her, and I desperately wanted to understand what had changed.

“I always knew,” she said quietly. “Don’t you remember at finishing school? I was polite to...that girl...because that was the way, but I never understood why you couldn’t see that she wasn’t like us. We had to pretend for a long time, so it was a relief to me and Karl when right-minded Germans came to power in this country.”

I never once noticed her reticence toward Mayim. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. In any case, she’d proved Mayim right. The Nazis didn’t make people like Lydia anti-Semitic, not really. They had only uncovered what already existed.

“What about you?” she said gently. “When did you change your mind about the Jews?”

“Deep down, I always knew the truth,” I said. “What you say is true. Sometimes you have to do and say certain things for acceptance.”

She nodded sadly, misunderstanding me as I knew she would. Adele had been right about so many things—people heard what they wanted to hear. Lydia’s expression grew somber.

“And...Adele? Do you know what she was mixed up in?”

I raised my chin, and just as Adele had told me to, I spoke harshly, as if I were handing down a judgment, and not breaking my own heart.

“The Gestapo suspected her of disloyalty to the Reich. I have no idea what the details were.”

“I’m so sorry, Sofie,” she said again, shaking her head.

“Me too,” I said flatly, and then I thanked her and closed the door before I could say something I would regret.



31


Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

I found Lizzie’s address in the telephone book. She lived just a few blocks away in a very large house by a young but extensive garden. I went there unannounced. It seemed safer to arrive on her doorstep unannounced with a gift, and to look her in the eyes while I apologized.

“Just wait here a moment,” I said to Felix, who was sitting in the back seat, playing with his wooden truck. He nodded, distracted by the toy.

I walked up the path to knock on the door, then waited, hovering on the little porch with the cake in my sweaty hands. The door swung open and there stood the man in the brown uniform, the one who walked up and down my street each day. Up close, I could see the embroidery on his shirt. Henry, and below that, Walt’s Lumberyard.

“You,” he said. His tone was flat, almost emotionless, but there was something dark in his eyes that unnerved me. I took a step away from the door.

“Hello,” I said nervously. “Is Lizzie home?” The man stared at me, his gaze intense and unblinking. “I’m looking for Lizzie,” I said again. “Lizzie Miller? Is this the right house?”

“What do you want with Lizzie?”

“I just wanted to say hello and to drop off a gift,” I said uneasily, as I motioned toward the cake with my chin.

“She’s not here.”

“Could I just leave this here for her?” The man—Henry—ignored the question, staring at me with narrowed eyes. I extended the plate down toward him, but he made no move to take it.

“You said segregation is worse than the camps.”

He knew about my argument with Lizzie. Worse, he knew exactly who I was. My breath caught.

“No. No, th-that wasn’t what I said,” I stammered. “I was just trying to explain that anytime you separate a group of people—”

Henry reached for the cake, and for a split second I thought he was going to take it and give it to Lizzie, as I’d asked... But his face was red and his nostrils flared. I only realized I was in trouble when the weight of the plate left my palms.

I cried out, automatically covering my face as he threw the cake, plate and all, into a brick pillar on the front porch, right behind my head. Shards of ceramic and dense cake and sticky lemon frosting rained down the back of my dress. I turned and ran toward my car. If he gave chase, I was done. He was easily twice my size, and so angry—

“You don’t get to judge us, Nazi!” he called after me, and I was too scared to look back, but weak with relief to hear he was some distance behind me. His voice broke with frustration and anguish as he added, “Stop coming round here. Why do you people keep coming here!”

My hands were too sweaty to grip the key properly when I tried to start the car.

“Come on,” I choked out. “Please, start.”