The Things We Cherished

  “This is it,” he said, and there was a glint in his eye that signaled the presence of something particularly rare and special in his trade. “Are you acquainted with this type of clock?”

  None of them responded. “This is called an anniversary or four-hundred-day clock,” the shopkeeper continued. “It is so named because it was made so that it only needed to be wound once a year.” Charlotte studied the clock, able to see it now in closer detail than had been possible in the photograph. There were four curved brass prongs suspended beneath the porcelain face, circular pendulums that she suspected would rotate in one direction and then the other if the clock was working and wound.

  “The design was actually pioneered in America,” the old man continued, and Charlotte looked up at him, surprised. The timepiece seemed innately European, so at home here in this world of clocks. “But a traveler brought the clock design to Germany at the turn of the century and it really took off here. So much so that American soldiers purchased them as souvenirs and took them back home in great numbers when the war was over.”

  “It’s not a particularly scarce clock, then?” Jack asked.

  The man shook his head. “Not at all.”

  Charlotte’s spirits fell. If this type of clock was so common, what had made Roger think this was the one he was looking for?

  “But the clock your friend inquired about was unique,” Herr Beamer added, seeming to read her thoughts. “It was the first known anniversary clock made in Europe, designed at the turn of the century by a Bavarian farmer. Later the clocks were produced in the factories, but I researched this one and it is handmade and quite distinctive.” He pointed to a mark on the front of the clock. At first glance it appeared to be a chip, a place where the clock had been dropped or bumped. But upon closer examination, Charlotte could see that it was actually the initials JRR engraved in the base. “This insignia sets the clock apart.”

  “May I see it?” she asked. The man nodded. She picked the clock up. It was much smaller than she had imagined from the pictures, not even a foot high, though the brass base gave it a certain heft. The details were more intimate than the photograph had shown, the legs that supported the face elegant twists of gold. The pendulums did not move, she noted, but sat fixed in time, as did the hands of the clock, set at ten minutes to six. When had the clock last worked, she wondered? Had it simply run out and not been rewound or had something caused it to suddenly stop?

  “Can you tell us where you got it?” Charlotte asked.

  Herr Beamer bit his lip. There was a certain sensitivity, she knew, among those who bought and sold artifacts from the war, even if they had been honestly procured, a kind of guilt about benefiting from the belongings of the dead. The shopkeeper went to a file drawer that looked like something from an old library and pulled out a card. “This clock came to us from Heidelberg. It was sold to us by someone who had bought it off a young girl on the black market many years ago. She said it belonged to a Jewish family in Berlin before the war and she’d found it left behind.”

  “Berlin,” Jack interrupted. “That can’t be right. The Dykmans clock was in Breslau through the war.”

  The shopkeeper shrugged. “The records are often unreliable.”

  Jack stepped closer, pointed to a small, round mark on the back of the clock. “What do you make of this?”

  Charlotte ran her hand expertly over the strange, uneven hole. She wasn’t a firearms expert but she had seen enough in her line of work to recognize the shape. “A bullet,” she replied authoritatively. “It must have grazed the clock but not gone through.”

  “Quite a lucky break for whoever the shot was intended for,” Jack mused.

  “And for the clock,” the shopkeeper added. “If the bullet had hit the glass, the whole thing would have been destroyed.”

  Jack walked over to the table and pulled the clock closer to him. He was just inches away from her now, and despite everything that had happened, it was all Charlotte could do not to shiver. He picked it up and turned it over gently.

  “I’m sorry but the timepiece is very valuable,” Herr Beamer said. “I’m afraid I must ask—”

  “I won’t hurt it,” Jack promised, sounding as though he was talking about a living creature. On the bottom was a piece of brown cloth. Jack pried it back to reveal a brass base. Reaching out for a file that was on the workbench, he worked to separate the base from the clock.

  “Carefully …” Herr Beamer implored under his breath.

  It was a fake bottom, she realized. The actual base, now revealed, contained a small door. The compartment containing the information.

  The clockmaker gasped. “I had no idea. How did you know?”

  Jack did not answer but worked at the small door. The room was completely silent except for the clocks that chirped like a flock of birds around them. There was a quiet pop and the door gave way. Jack reached inside, prying around with his finger, then shook his head, grimacing.

  “Can you?” he asked Charlotte. “Your fingers are smaller.” He held out the clock to her and she reached inside the compartment, feeling around the small box. Then she removed her hand, holding up her empty palm for the others to see.

  “There’s nothing in it,” she said. The compartment that supposedly contained the truth about what Roger had done was empty.

  Ten

  BRESLAU, 1943

  Roger opened his eyes. He had slept a bit longer than usual after Magda’s predawn departure and bright morning sunlight now streamed through the curtains. He stood, then walked to the window and opened it a crack. The air, though still brisk, carried a hint of spring. Birds called to one another from the eaves above.

  He felt a strange sensation, an emotion so long forgotten he had trouble identifying it. Optimism, he recognized finally. His change in mood was a marked contrast to recent weeks, when he had awoken with a sense of dread that made him want to pull the duvet up and hide. Looking down at the empty courtyard of the synagogue below, it was not hard to understand why he had been so morose. Things had gotten undeniably worse in the winter months. Lectures at the university had been suspended without explanation for the rest of the semester. Rations had become tighter and the sirens sounded continuously at night.

  But in the past few weeks the downward spiral seemed, if not to actually have reversed itself, at least to have reached a plateau. There was a kind of quiet and the Gestapo was less prevalent on the street. He’d heard whispers, also, that the Soviets were advancing, and that all available Germans were being redirected to the front. Rumors were that the deportations had died down too, though perhaps that was because the Nazis had simply concluded that there were no more Jews to be taken.

  Almost none. Roger’s stomach tightened as Magda appeared in his mind. A year had passed since the Nazis had visited the house, yet his heart still seemed to stop each time a car rumbled down their street, not beating again until the sound of the engine faded in the distance. Though she seemed to have escaped detection for now, nothing, save the Reich’s defeat, would ease his fears. Of course the end of the war would likely signal Hans’s permanent return and it seemed a cruel irony that the very thing that could ensure Magda’s safety would surely end their affair as well.

  He washed and dressed, then made his way downstairs. Magda stood in the doorway to the kitchen, already wearing her coat. She crouched to adjust the baby’s hat low and snug around her brow.

  “Darling, surely you aren’t going out?” he asked. It was a familiar refrain—him begging her to stay home because it was too dangerous on the street, her insisting that if she allowed them to stop her then they had already won. But even with lectures canceled he usually departed for the library to work on his thesis before she started her day and he could tell by her guilty expression now that she more often than not refused to respect his wishes. He was reminded once again that there was a part of her he did not know, that in some ways she would always remain a stranger to him.

  “I have to go to market
,” she replied. “Frau Hess said there’s milk to be had.” She was going for the child. Magda would not pass up an opportunity to find nourishment for Anna. Her own milk had dried up just a few months after Anna was born, owing, he suspected, to the limited food that was available, as well as the slight nature of her build. They weren’t starving, but more and more often their meal consisted mainly of a watery eintopf stew, intended to stretch whatever beans or potatoes could be had.

  “Let me go for you,” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “I always go. You would only raise suspicion.”

  “But it’s too—”

  “I’ll not be a prisoner in my own home,” she retorted, cutting him off. Her eyes widened angrily. There was something in her determination that bespoke a darker side of her past, a place to which she would not be returned. He wanted to ask what had happened but he knew it was not the time, and that she would not answer.

  There was a moment of stubborn silence as they stared at each other, neither backing down. Magda adjusted her cuffs. “All right,” she said, relenting unexpectedly. There were circles under her eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep. It wasn’t the child, he reflected, who was keeping her up nights. Born in the era of the bombing raid, Anna had quickly grown into a sound sleeper, not roused even as the house shook. No, it was worry that disturbed Magda’s sleep, though whether for herself and Anna, or Hans, or all of them he did not know.

  “Thank you, Liebchen,” he said.

  There was a scuffling by his feet. “Lee chen.” Anna raised her tattered rag doll, imitating him. “Lee chen.” Roger looked from the child to her mother, then back again, and he could not help but chuckle at the child’s attempt. Magda joined him and soon they were both laughing so much harder than the moment seemed to warrant, a grateful respite from the heaviness around them. For if they could still find a moment’s lightness, he reflected, perhaps things weren’t so bad after all.

  Anna watched, wide-eyed and earnest, puzzled to have generated such a reaction. She held out her arms and Roger picked her up, his laughter subsiding. He exchanged uneasy glances with Magda. They would have to be more careful, now that seventeen-month-old Anna saw and repeated so much. He handed the child to Magda, fighting the urge to kiss her as he did so. Then he turned and walked from the house.

  He returned that night a bit later than usual, detained at the library by a conversation with one of his professors. He hesitated at the front door, still feeling that he should knock as he had the day he arrived. The perennial guest. Inside the foyer, he paused. The air seemed different and for a moment he wondered if Hans had come home unexpectedly. But it was not that kind of change; instead of seeming supercharged, the house felt hollow.

  “Hello,” he called. He did not use Magda’s name, not wanting to sound overly familiar in case his instincts were mistaken and Hans had in fact returned. There was no response. Roger’s skin prickled. Magda was always home this time of day, feeding Anna and preparing dinner. He walked through the kitchen but the countertops were scrubbed clean, the dishes that lay drying in the rack this morning now put away.

  Willing himself to breathe calmly, he continued swiftly to the dining room. Nothing here seemed amiss, a thought that gave him fleeting comfort. Then he noticed Anna’s milk cup lying sideways on the table, its precious contents spilled onto the placemat in a pool. The subtle message gripped his throat with an icy hand. Magda never would have permitted the child to be so careless, or allowed the spill to remain there. Something wasn’t right.

  He went back to the foyer, took the stairs two at a time. “Magda,” he called now, not caring who heard him. He checked each room, including the water closet, but they were all empty. Then he raced back to the bedroom and pulled back the armoire. “Magda,” he called into the dark gaping hole in the wall.

  He returned downstairs, sinking to the bottom step in disbelief. Magda was gone, and Anna too. Had the Gestapo come again? He tried to tell himself to be calm. She could have gone visiting. But Magda did not have any friends, at least none that he knew of, and surely she would have left a note. No, a voice down deep said, full of certainty and foreboding. She had been taken by the Nazis, he was sure of it.

  But if the Nazis had arrested Magda, surely there would have been signs of a struggle. Even as he thought this, though, he knew that Magda would not have fought in front of Anna and risked frightening the child or worse. With no time to flee or hide, she would have cooperated because it was the safest thing to do, ensuring their well-being, at least in the short run. Because she understood, despite being married to Hans, that resistance under such circumstances was futile.

  What had brought the Gestapo this time? If it had been simple questions again, Magda and Anna would still be here. Had someone learned of Magda’s background and tipped them off? It could have been one of the neighbors, like the family down the street who flew the large flag with the swastika from their second-floor balcony. Or perhaps an enemy of Hans—though it was hard to imagine anyone bearing ill will toward his charismatic brother, surely Hans had angered someone along the way in his work.

  Roger’s mind flashed back to the conversation he and Magda had that morning, the debate over whether it was too dangerous for her to go to market, her acquiescing to his request that she remain home. Now, looking around the empty kitchen, he cursed his own stubbornness. He had thought he knew best. But if Magda had gone out as she usually did, she and Anna might not have been here when the Nazis came. He had, in fact, caused her to be arrested.

  I should have been here, Roger berated himself. But to do what, exactly? If Hans’s contacts and influence hadn’t been enough to protect Magda, there was little Roger could have done. He wished more than anything, though, that he had taken the chance and risked that one final embrace.

  Enough, he thought. Regrets will not help Magda and Anna now. Breathe. Think.

  Hans appeared in his mind. Surely his brother, with all of his connections, would be able to help. And he could not refuse, now that the worst had happened. He needed to find Hans. But how?

  He ran back upstairs to Hans’s office and opened the drawer his brother had indicated during their last conversation. Then he stopped short. The drawer was filled with money, neatly bound stacks of reichsmarks, dollars, and pounds. Why would one leave such a sum in a place where it could so easily be found? Because, he realized, it was intended to distract whoever found it from what lay beneath. Roger removed the money from the drawer, pried up the bottom. There were papers, undoubtedly related to Hans’s work. He thumbed through, searching for Hans’s contact information.

  A minute later he found it, a paper listing addresses in Berlin, Warsaw, Prague. Where was Hans now? Berlin, he thought, recalling a vague reference his brother had made before his departure. Roger grabbed it and started from the office.

  On the street he stopped again. He would send the telegram to Hans, of course, but there was no telling whether his brother was actually at the address now, or how long it would take to reach him if he was not. Magda might not have that kind of time. There had to be something else he could do.

  He looked at the house to the right of theirs. It was occupied by the Baders, the elderly couple Magda had once mentioned. His breath caught. He did not dare to hope that Magda had gone to them, that they had been able to help before the Gestapo came. But perhaps they had seen something.

  He walked to their door and rapped on it loudly, fighting the urge to knock a second time immediately. Frau Bader opened the door a crack and he could see that she was wearing an apron. “Excuse me,” he began, “I’m sorry to interrupt at dinnertime. But I was wondering, that is, my brother’s wife and child, they seem to be gone. Perhaps you saw something …”

  The woman eyed him warily, then shook her head. Today’s dragnet had just missed her house and she would not risk its return by helping him.

  Wordlessly, Frau Bader closed the door, leaving Roger standing on the front step alone. He considered knocking again, de
manding answers. Then he decided against it—he didn’t want to cause a fuss and he sensed from the old woman’s steely demeanor that she would not be swayed. But the fear in her eyes told him all that he needed to know about what had happened to Magda and Anna that day.

  Magda. His anxiety grew as her face appeared in his mind. Suddenly, he heard his brother’s voice, as vividly as though he were standing beside him: Take care of Magda if anything happens. Roger’s guilt rose to full boil. Of course, when Hans said that, he had anticipated something happening to himself; despite the concerns Roger had voiced, Hans had never imagined it might be Magda whom something bad befell.

  What would Hans do if he was here? He would go to Nazi headquarters, Roger decided, and ask—no, demand—information about his wife. So that was what Roger had to do now. He started into the street, then stopped again. How could he possibly manage it? Hans was important, and he had a way about him that made people bend to his will. But Roger was, well, just Roger. There was no other choice, he decided. He had to try.

  Ten minutes later he reached the edge of the market square, der Ring, as the Germans called it. It was lined by tall row houses, their brightly colored facades now faded and covered with soot. He raced across the square toward the turreted Rathaus, which sat at the center. The gothic town hall had been expropriated by the Nazis as their headquarters and a large swastika flag now marred the ornate front of the red brick building. The air seemed to have grown suddenly colder and a sharp breeze blew, sending old newspapers and other debris dancing along the pavement.

  In the doorway he stopped, scanning the names of the officials. Gauleiter Koch, he read, his eyes stopping on a nameplate halfway down the wall. Hans had referenced the official once as someone with whom he had to deal. “A total ass,” he said, “but perhaps a bit less of a Nazi than some of them.”