Anneliese

 

On the night of November 9, 1938, everything in Germany changed.

I run to my window. There are people everywhere. What are they doing? Wait…I recognize them. My neighbors. They are carrying a flame in one hand and a brick in the other. My teeth chatter. I see dark images moving closer. I back away from the window. Glass shatters at my feet.

“Papa!”

He opens his arms and I run into his embrace. Someone is pounding on our door. The house begins to shake. Books fall to the floor. The shutters knock against the stone exterior. He pulls me closer. I lean into him, crying against his shoulder. He strokes my curly blonde hair. I think he might have said something to me, but I can’t hear him. Dogs are barking, and people are shouting obscenities. “It is time to put you people in your place.” I hear someone shout.

“Someone’s coming!” Papa says. “Hide. Quickly. Under the bed.”

“Don’t leave me, Papa.”

“Shhh,” he says.  

The door creaks open. An officer enters, raises his arm out. “Heil Hitler.”

I try to remain quiet, but my teeth are still chattering, and now my body is trembling with irrevocable fear.

“By the order of Joseph Goebbels, you are under arrest.”

“Please, sir. I can’t go.”

The black-clad SS soldier looks around. “Is someone else in here with you?”

My Papa’s silence is an obvious answer.

Another soldier runs into the room, blowing his whistle. I hear footsteps coming closer. I try to hold my breath, but I can’t. I need air. In the darkness, a hand snakes out and coils around my wrist. Tightening his grip, he yanks me to my feet. “Foolish girl.”

Papa looks at me with eyes of defeat. “Go upstairs to Tante Victoria. She will look after you while I’m gone.”

The soldier releases his grip. Quickly, I run over to Papa, clutch his hand, and bury my wet face into his brown wool overcoat.

“You should do as you're told.” The soldier’s voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard. He walks toward us, his black boots marking up our floor, and pushes Papa forward with the barrel of his gun. I can smell cigarettes on his breath and notice a scar above his left eyebrow.

“No, no,” I demand. “You will not take him away from me.”

The soldier gives me an assessing look and takes my arm. I can see merciless power searing from his evil eyes. Drunk on it. I yank my arm back from his grip and become unsteady. He smiles and pushes me across the floor, sending me into the wall. Warm blood runs down my face and into my mouth.

Papa bends down at my feet. “Anneliese.”

“Don’t,” the soldier says sharply.

Papa moves closer to me.

The soldier cocks his gun. “Steh auf!”

Papa glares at the soldier. He slowly stands and stares directly at the weapon. The soldier aims. I see the white in his eyes. Papa lurches for the soldier’s gun. Bang, bang. Papa staggers sideways and turns to look at me one more time. Blood drips from his shirt, and his face turns pale. His knees buckle, and he falls face-first onto the hard floor.

“Papa, wake up, wake up…”

“Hanns,” the other soldier says. “Let’s go.”  

The two men disappear. I hold Papa’s cold, limp hand, not wanting to let go, not ever. My eyelids are heavy. I try to keep them open, but I can’t. My head is throbbing, a pain I’ve never felt before. The light from the oil lamp is flickering on and off, or is it me?

There’s an unfamiliar aroma: chicory coffee and fresh bread. Wait…I blink my eyes open. Papa doesn’t drink coffee. I sit up. The room spins, and my head is pounding. This is not my bed. Where am I? How long have I been here? “Papa! Papa!” I grab my stomach. “Oh, Papa…Come back to me.”

“Eat. No time to dawdle.” Victoria wraps her scarf around her head and neck. She reaches for the wholemeal bread.

“I’m not hungry.” I brush the plate away from her hands, and it falls to the floor and breaks.

Victoria frowns. “Tsk, tsk…You want to starve, so be it.” She pulls a brown leather suitcase from under the bed. “Hurry, dress. We must go.”

I follow her downstairs. There are people in my apartment as we pass by, my neighbors. They are taking our good paintings, leaving black shapes on the wall in their place. Tante Victoria shoves the suitcase in front of me, blocking my eyes. I glance up at her and see her stare at them with a sting of judgment.

The sky is bright red. As we pass the Synagogue, I see flames engulfing the building. Nearby, firefighters stand idly by, making sure flames don’t extend to other buildings. School kids watch from across the street. Smiling and laughing. It looks like they are at a circus. I am so confused. This destruction is bad, not good.

I climb the steps of the train. The sharp whistle blows, making me cover my ears. Victoria rushes me to my seat and nods for me to scoot near the window. I am grateful for the black whirling smoke from the train that fills the morning air. It prevents me from seeing out.

Victoria leans over and whispers, “If anybody asks, you are my daughter,” she says. “From this point, you’ll be Sophie Durand. You were born in Paris like your mum and me.” She adjusts her scarf to cover most of her face. “It is good that you look like me. Oui?”  

I don’t respond.

“Your mum, she was beautiful.” She clears her throat. “I miss her every day.”

Warm, salty tears fall, unchecked.

“No, no,” she says. “You mustn’t fall apart.” She tilts my chin up. “Courage, it is in you. I know it is.”

When we arrive in Paris, automobiles rumble past us as we walk the narrow cobblestone streets. Ivy threads around the side of the limestone buildings, and the balconies are embellished with colorful mums.

In less than twenty minutes, we reach a two-story stone country villa, embellished with crimson shutters. Overgrown shrubs cling to the weathered rock. Centered in the courtyard stands a statue of a nude woman, balancing a basket of fruit on her head with vines and weeds entwining the sides. Damp red and orange leaves lay upon the brown grass. The place looks sad, almost as sad as I am.

Victoria pauses in front of the sturdy red door, her hand hovering over the worn brass knob. With a trembling hand, she turns it. She looks around the orchard and pushes the large door open with her foot. She sets the luggage down on the floor. “Anneliese—” She hesitates. “I mean, Sophie. It is dangerous for us to mention that name again.”

I nod.

 “We’re home.” She flattens the front of her dress and rips the white sheet off the couch. “It’s time to clean and get settled in.”

While dusting, I find a picture of my mum that sits on the mantel above the fireplace. Her deep blue eyes radiate with serenity. I sense she is here. Papa never kept pictures of her visible for me to see. I do not know why. Maybe her memory was too much for him. Now, I have something to hold, to talk to.

Victoria comes up beside me. “This picture,” she says. “I remember this day. Our parents took us to the park to have a picnic.” She snorts. “Your mum. She thought she was invincible. She walked the top of fence posts and rode her bicycle with no hands.” She sighs. “Listen to me. In the coming days, life…it will get hard. I need you to be brave like your mum. Can you do this for me?”

I glance at the picture and then back at Victoria. “Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “Now, come. Let me fix you some supper.”

 

 

On a cold day in early January 1941, I stare out the window, looking at the six inches of snow that blankets our yard. Last night, I had a dream that my papa and mum were holding my hands. I woke up smiling. These days, it is rare that I smile.

Wearing layers of clothes, I walk downstairs and feel a wave of warmth splash over me, noticing the fire that Victoria has made. Quietly, she sits on a divan in the living room, reading. Darkness fills the room even with the light from the fire. Curtains stay closed these days. She says only danger lurks outside.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Don’t answer it,” she says, with a jerk toward the door.

We both stare at one another. Silence.

A few minutes later, another knock at the door, but this time it’s louder.

“Stand behind me.” The door rattles. Another knock. Victoria reaches for the knob, but before she can open it. The door swings open, knocking her to the floor. “Mon Dieu,” she mutters.

A German soldier with bloodshot eyes drops a piece of paper to the floor and kicks it over to Victoria. “I have a requisition order to billet here.”

“A Nazi living in my home?” she questions. “I think not. You must leave.”

“I will do no such thing.” He removes his military hat and stands as straight as a flagpole.

Those eyes. They are familiar and that scar. “No, no,” I say. “We must not argue with the soldier. Here. Let me take your things to your room.”

“Finally,” he says. “A girl who knows how to respect a man of my status.” He hands me his bags.  

Victoria tilts her head to one side.

He chooses the biggest bedroom in the house and looks around.  “Yes, this will do.”   

I drop his bags with care and turn to leave.

“Wait,” he demands.

I swallow hard and spin around.

“I’m Hanns Ewers. You are?”

“Mademoiselle Sophie Durand.”

He pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lights it. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“It is how I was raised, perhaps?” I force myself not to look away.

His icy blue eyes study me behind a veil of white smoke.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

He waves his fingers in the air and lowers his head. “No.”

I step out of the room. Once I’m out of sight, I release my breath. Victoria comes around the corner and drags me into the kitchen. “Are you mad?” she whispers. “He will kill us if he finds out the truth.”   

I wrap my hands around hers. “You told me to have courage, right?”

She shakes her head. “We’ll need more than courage,” she says. “We need a plan.”

I want to tell her this is the man who killed my papa, but we have a plan to discuss, and before I can explain my actions…

“Ah, Madame and Mademoiselle,” he says, his gaze narrowing as he approaches. “There you both are.”

“Oui,” Victoria says, taking a deep breath.

“I will, of course, need to see your identity papers,” he says. “It is only customary.”

“P-papers?” Victoria says, her voice unsteady.

“Did you not hear me correctly?” His voice thunders.

Victoria walks toward the living room.

Hanns Ewers circles in front of her and stops, his hands clasped behind his back. “Where are you going?”

“To get the papers as you asked,” Victoria says.

“You tell me where they are, and I’ll get them.”

“There’s no need. It’s much easier for me to retrieve them for you.”

He stomps his foot, leaving a muddy footprint on the floor. “You will not leave my sight.” He points to me. “Girl, you go get the papers. Now!”

In the living room, I pause for several seconds at the locked drawer in the desk. I know what’s in there. Victoria told me. The key is hidden underneath the chair.

Slowly, I draw the Pistol from the drawer and hide it beneath the papers and walk into the kitchen. Paralyzed. Face-to-face with a man I do not know but who has declared himself my enemy. I cannot move. Nor do I want to. It’s all lies. All of it. Our people are no different than his people. Why doesn’t he understand this? Why must I lie about who I am to protect their injustice? “My name is Anneliese Strauss, and you killed my papa.”

“I know who you are,” he says.

Bang, bang.

The room becomes blurry. My body is heavy, so heavy that I cannot stand anymore.  

“Anneliese!” Victoria cries, crumbles to the floor, and sweeps me into her arms. She lifts my head as warm blood drips from my stomach.

“Was I brave like my mum?”

“Oui,” she says brokenly. “So brave.”

I feel her arms slip out from beneath me.

Bang.

Hanns Ewers staggers backwards and collapses.