“I’m fine, really,” Christine had told them. “I don’t know how I managed it, but I landed on my face.”
Hurrying so they wouldn’t be late for church, the family gathered between the garden fence and the house, the narrow corridor dappled gray and white by the sun coming through the branches of the plum trees.
“Where’s Maria?” Christine asked when she noticed her sister missing.
“She’s not feeling well,” Mutti said, her forehead furrowed with concern. Christine knew what her mother was thinking: typhus or tuberculosis. With the ongoing shortage of medical supplies and lack of food, disease had become epidemic; either infection could be a death sentence. Christine’s first instinct was to ease her mother’s anxiety by telling her the truth, that Maria probably had morning sickness. But she couldn’t betray her sister’s trust. Maria was still too fragile. We’re going to have to tell everyone soon, she thought.
Christine thought about going back to see if Maria was all right, but she didn’t want to walk into church alone. This would be her first public appearance since her return, and her arms and legs already vibrated with nervous tension. Oma was halfway across the street, anxious to find a seat before the service started. Christine hesitated, looking up at the windows of the house, hoping to see Maria looking out, but the shutters were pulled closed.
“Hurry up, Christine!” her mother called. Christine rushed around the garden fence to catch up.
Clusters of people dressed in their Sunday best gathered like blooming sprays of wildflowers randomly sprouted in the green churchyard. Christine kept her eyes on the walkway, sensing numerous heads turning in her direction as she walked with her family toward the entrance.
Inside the sanctuary, the murmur of people talking gave way to silence, as every head turned to watch her come in. Christine looked down at her feet, painfully aware that her blue Sunday dress still hung loose on her frame. To hide her short hair and any bald spots she might have created, she wore Oma’s red scarf around her head, tied tight at the nape of her neck. She kept the edge of her sweater sleeve clenched inside her fist, to hide her tattooed wrist.
Because of the construction, the first rows of pews were kept vacant for the service. The new minister stood at the head of the center aisle, the raw, freshly-mortared façade rising high above his head. At the front of the church, a dozen wrought iron candelabras stood behind a string of lilac-filled vases. The smell of burning candles and the wet odor of fresh mortar overpowered the lilacs, making the inside of the church smell like a mausoleum.
Several people left their pews and came over to Christine, some speaking a soft “Welcome home,” and “We’re glad to see you’re all right.” Others smiled briefly at her, then turned their attention to Vater and Mutti. They put their arms around her mother, kissed her cheek, and shook her father’s hand. The elderly men and the few returned soldiers grasped her father by the shoulder and thumped him on the back. With trembling hands, nearly every woman held a handkerchief beneath her nose and watery eyes.
“We’re still waiting for word,” some sniffed.
The Kriegswitwen, war widows, were silent.
Christine and her family slid into a pew near the center of the church, Christine between her mother and father. Once settled, she looked around to see who else was there, then stiffened when she saw Kate sitting six rows ahead, wearing an emerald dress that shimmered like silk, her fiery red hair blazing along her shoulders. Compared to her, everyone else looked watered down and weary. Kate’s mother was beside her, and she turned to wave at Christine and her family. On the other side of Kate, sitting tall and erect, his dark blond hair precisely trimmed, was Stefan.
Kate twisted in her seat to see whom her mother was smiling at. When she saw Christine, she spun around, leaned toward Stefan, and whispered something in his ear. Stefan’s head slowly rotated on his neck, the rest of his body barely moving as he turned, his face flat and expressionless. When his clear blue eyes met Christine’s, she held his gaze. You can’t do anything to me here.
He turned back around, and she looked down at her wrist, at the red imprint of his nail splitting the numbers in half. She could still hear the hatred in his voice and remember the way he’d twisted her arm. She shifted in her seat. Maybe I should stand up and tell everyone what kind of man he really is. Craning her neck, she looked at the elderly woman sitting beside Stefan. She’d never met his mother, but she wanted to see what the parent of an SS looked like. She could see the top of her head, white hair smoothed into a braided bun. When the woman turned slightly, Christine saw plump cheeks above a sweet smile. Now you’re acting like them, she scolded herself. What did you expect, horns and a tail?
It reminded her of when she had first met Stefan, how excited Kate had been because he was teaching her English and taking her to the theater in Berlin. How does a privileged, educated man turn into a cold-blooded killer? Christine thought. A chill passed through her as she remembered what else Stefan had said.
She sat up, pretending to be bored, and scrutinized every unfamiliar man in the church. Blood rose to her cheeks as she looked for the others he’d warned her about, searching for evidence. Maybe it was crazy, thinking she’d be able to tell SS just by looking at them, but she looked anyway, certain she’d see or feel an aura of evil radiating from their heads, like a foul, poisonous gas. She knew that if she ever got close to anyone who’d worked in the camps, she’d recognize something in their eyes: a blankness, a disconnectedness, a black flash that would reveal the contamination in their ruined souls.
Two rows behind Stefan and Kate, a broad-shouldered man had his arm around a petite, golden-haired woman, his freckled, beefy hand resting on the back of the pew. Possibility number one, Christine thought. A few rows farther back on the opposite side, an oily-faced man about her father’s age sat with his chin raised. Possibility number two, she thought, her breath growing shallow. Possibility number three sat near the middle of the church; a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and unruly eyebrows.
The air of the church grew heavy. Her vision blurred. On her lap, her pale hands swam like white fish in the blue sea of her skirt. I have to say something, she thought. I have to tell everyone about Stefan. But what if they won’t do anything? What if they don’t believe me? I have no proof.
Mutti linked her arm through Christine’s, resting her hand on top of hers. Christine thought maybe she’d noticed her fidgeting, her thumb unable to stop moving over the number on her wrist. But when Mutti did the same to Heinrich, sitting on her other side, Christine realized her mother was just happy to have her children by her side.
Softly at first, as if the organist was unsure of either his instrument or his ability, the pipe organ started to play. Slowly and cautiously, the music reached higher and higher crescendos, filling the hushed, cool church. Since her return, Christine hadn’t heard real music, only the screeching, ghoulish waltz that swirled and twisted throughout her nightmares. Now, hearing the strong, perfect notes from the organ, her neck tingled and her eyes welled up. The last time she had been in this church was the day her father was drafted. It felt like a lifetime ago. Isaac was still alive, she thought. What if I’d known how bad it was going to get? What could I have changed?
She looked down at her mother’s calloused hand resting over hers. With every crease and blister, with every age spot and hard piece of skin, she saw her mother’s hard work. Hard work carried out in the name of love. Her mother always did what she thought was right. And so did I, she thought. But all the love and hard work in the world won’t protect anyone from fate. Lost in thought, Christine jumped when the wooden pews creaked in unison, like a thousand snapping bones, as everyone stood to sing.
She stood, and her father put his arm around her. He smiled and tightened his grip, pulling her closer. Then, with soft tentative voices, the choir and congregation began to sing. What did Maria and I do to deserve all this pain, she thought, while Stefan still walks free? Was it something we did? So
me unknown sin we committed as children? Or is it that the world is getting closer to the end of its days, and the devil is winning the war for people’s souls, preparing for his final reign? She’d found herself asking the same questions during her dark, hopeless time in the camp, more certain with every passing day that the entire world must be coming to an end. But then the war was over, and Hitler’s diabolical plan had been stopped in its tracks. Good had conquered evil. Now she wondered if the end of the war was only a temporary pause, a stumble over an obstacle on the certain path toward complete destruction. Hitler was dead and Europe lay in ruins, yet she was surprised and distraught to find that the questions hadn’t changed. But good can still stand up against evil. And maybe the best place to do that is here.
The minister’s sermon was brief. After he finished, he asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer. He thanked God that the war was over, that the people of the village were able to return to worship in the church. He thanked the Americans for providing assistance. He prayed for his fellow countrymen in the French, British, and Soviet zones of occupation, giving recognition to all who’d survived, civilians and soldiers alike. He prayed for the refugees who’d found themselves on the wrong side of borders, the inhabitants of communities established for centuries who were now being killed or driven from their lands by those opposed to anything or anyone German. He prayed for those who hadn’t survived, expressing gratitude to the brave men and boys who’d given their lives for their country, and asked for the safe return of the tens of thousands of soldiers still missing. He prayed for the Jewish families who’d vanished.
“May they find peace wherever they are, and may the perpetrators behind their disappearance be brought to justice,” he said. “And may those who know the truth speak out.”
Christine went rigid. She opened her eyes and looked up at the minister, certain he would be looking directly at her. But his eyes were closed. Her heartbeat quickened. She knew the truth. Six rows ahead sat a guilty man. She scanned the congregation of bowed heads, wondering if anyone else knew there was an SS murderer in the crowd.
All at once, she was overcome by the burning desire to get up and walk out of the church. How can there be a God when Stefan is allowed to live, while Isaac was slaughtered like an animal? How can we thank God when the innocent have been raped, starved, tortured, and murdered, while the truly evil men will probably die of old age in their beds? She put a hand on the back of her neck, her fingers pressing against the scarf, searching for the threadlike hairs beneath the material. She needed to touch her hair, to feel the silky softness against her fingertips. To rip it out, she thought. With herculean effort, she pulled her hand away from her head and folded her arms across her chest. Nein. I can’t let them win.
She gripped the pew in front of her and leaned forward, her heart thundering like a train in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother’s head lift and turn toward her. Christine took a deep breath and stood. She cleared her throat.
“I have something to say.”
A sea of heads bobbed upright. A hundred faces turned toward her. The minister stopped praying and opened his eyes. Christine’s mother grabbed her hand. Christine looked at Kate, who had turned completely around in her seat and was staring back at her with wide, shocked eyes. Stefan turned to see who had spoken, his blue eyes calm, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. He doesn’t think I’ll say anything, Christine thought. There’s not a trace of fear on his face.
Just as Christine opened her mouth to speak, her mother tugged hard on her hand.
“Nein,” Mutti whispered.
Christine looked down at Mutti’s frightened eyes. She looked at her father, aware of how much he’d aged, his hollow cheeks and gray hair telling the story of all he’d endured. He sat with his arms folded, staring at the floor. When she’d told him about Stefan two days ago, he’d understood her anger, but said it was too dangerous to get involved. And yet, now, he wasn’t stopping her.
“Do you have something to say?” the minister asked in the quiet church.
Christine gritted her teeth, unable to feel anything but her mother’s fingers crushing hers. She pulled her hand out of her mother’s grasp. I’m sorry, she thought. But I have to do this.
“Ja,” she said, lifting her chin. She looked at the minister, blood rising in her cheeks. Her eyes wandered over the crowd of expectant, staring faces. Then she pointed at Stefan. “That man right there,” she said. “I saw him. In the camps. He was an SS guard in Dachau.”
A collective gasp filled the church. Women put gloved hands over their open mouths. Old men turned in their seats to look at her. Everyone started whispering and talking at the same time. Kate jumped up from her seat, her face pale, her hands balled in fists.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” she said. “She’s crazy! When I went to see her the other day, she was going on and on, telling the most unbelievable stories!”
“I’m telling the truth!” Christine said. “I saw Stefan in Dachau! He did this to my face because he thinks he can keep me quiet!”
“Bitte, let’s settle down,” the minister said, gesturing with a Bible in his hand. “Fräuleins, bitte. You’re in the house of God!”
“You can’t believe anything she says!” Kate said, wild eyes scanning the crowd. “Look at her! She’s been sick! She’s delusional! She risked her life to save a Jew!”
Stefan stood and put a hand on Kate’s arm, trying to calm her, his face void of emotion. He looked in Christine’s direction, causing anger and frustration to unfurl in every fiber of her body, like a scorching, vile wave that washed over every muscle and nerve. Christine felt her mother beside her, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
“He has a black uniform,” Christine said. “She told me. He’s proud of it. He showed it to her.”
“A black uniform doesn’t mean anything,” a man said. “The Waffen-SS wore black, and they fought on the front lines.”
“Stefan’s uniform has a skull and crossbones,” Christine said. “He was a member of the Totenkopfverbände Unit. I saw him hold a gun to a young boy’s head after ripping him from his mother’s arms!”
Stefan’s mother slowly got to her feet, holding her son’s arm for support. She smiled, the skin of her plump cheeks as pink and smooth as the underbelly of a newborn goat.
“I’m sorry, Fräulein,” she said in a soft, wavering voice. “You must have my son confused with someone else. He came home wearing a feldgrauer uniform. He was with the Heer, the land forces of the army. He’s a decorated war hero.”
“That’s right,” Kate spit at Christine. “He served his country well!”
“Just like your father, Christine!” another voice said.
“Then he stole that uniform!” Christine said, feeling veins pulsate in her forehead. “He’s pretending to be Wehrmacht because he was a guard at Dachau!”
The minister was moving down the aisle now, toward Christine, his lips pressed together in a hard, thin line.
“Stop saying that!” Kate yelled. She started to move past Stefan, to fight her way out of the pew, but Stefan held her back, whispering in her ear.
“It will be better to let it go,” the minister said to Christine. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
“We were at war,” a woman shouted. “I’m sure everyone was forced to do things they didn’t want to do.”
“We have to stick together,” someone else said. “The entire world hates us now.”
Christine looked around the room, a sea of faces looking up at her, mouths hard with anger, brows furrowed in fear, eyes filled with shock and pity. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” she shouted, feeling as if she’d saved all of her pent-up rage for this moment, and now it was boiling over.
“What if you’re wrong?” someone shouted. “What if you’re accusing an innocent man?”
“If Stefan is innocent,” Christine said, “he should tell everyone what the SS guar
ds did.” She looked at Kate. “Did he admit that to you? Or did he lie about that too?”
“He’s a good man,” Kate said.
Stefan’s mother had pulled a white handkerchief from her purse and was using it to wipe her eyes, her hands trembling.
“Let it go!” someone said.
“You have no idea what I saw!” Christine shouted. “You have no idea what the SS did!”
The minister was talking to the suspicious-looking man with the unruly eyebrows and pointing at Christine. The man with the unruly brows came out of the pew and stood beside the minister, his chest puffed out, ready for a struggle.
“It’d be best if you go home and get some rest,” the minister said. “You’re welcome to come back when you’re feeling better. The rest of us are here to worship. We’re very sorry for what you’ve been through, but this is not the time or place. It’s not up to any of us to decide who is guilty or innocent.”
“They were murdering women and children!” Christine cried. “And Stefan was helping them!”
The people sitting next to Christine and her family emptied the bench and stood in the aisle, staring at her as if she’d gone mad. The man with the unruly eyebrows started to enter the pew, but Christine’s father stood, putting an arm out to stop him.
“We’ll take her home,” he said, a hand on the man’s chest. “There’s no need for force.” The man stepped back, glaring at Christine. Vater took Christine by the arm.
“You can’t let them get away with it!” Christine shouted as Vater guided her out of the pew and led her out of the church, her mother, brothers, and Oma close behind. Out on the steps, Christine yanked away from her father’s grasp and ran out of the churchyard.