I took Metta in my arms and let the tears flow. For Mama. For Harald. For Papa. For the life Metta should have had. For Oskar, who was all but lost to me. Metta pressed her lips to my forehead and I could feel that her eyes were as wet as mine.
“I’m so sorry you had to bear that without me,” I said. “I wish I could have been there for you.”
“Hush now,” she said, wiping my tears with her thumbs. “None of this was your fault. You would have been there if you could.”
“I would have,” I agreed, nodding through fresh tears. “When was it?” I asked, forcing my shaking hands to still themselves. I’d been on the point of calling Mama to invite her back to the cottage when Metta arrived. I’d thought to have her back under my roof within a week once I’d gotten things cleaned up.
“A month ago, Jojo. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this way.”
“Thank you, Metta,” I said, taking her in my arms once more. “It just seems impossible that we’ll never all be together again.” The telltale lump formed in my throat, and I wanted to indulge in a good cry, but Metta pulled away and held me at arm’s length.
“I have more news, Johanna. Ansel has been snooping through the family papers since Mama died. He’s become obsessed with the records that were lost on Papa’s side. He doesn’t like the fact that I haven’t fully proven my Aryan status. I’m worried he’s going to dig until he finds something that could be dangerous for you. Or all of us.”
I blanched. To tell her the truth would be to give her the information that could lead to her own death warrant. To them, she was as good as Jewish and had tricked a lieutenant colonel into marrying her to boot.
“We found Papa’s birth certificate and baptismal record, but nothing for his father or any of his forebears,” she continued. “Do you know anything more? Something that might appease him?”
“There’s good reason you haven’t found anything. All the records from Opa Hoffmann were lost in a fire before he moved here from Poland. There was a fire in the church where he was baptized, so far as the story goes.” The lie was a practiced one and I was confident I delivered it convincingly.
“He won’t like that. He’ll go on yet another rant about how disorganized the Polish are.”
“It was a long time ago,” I reminded her. “Before many of our modern methods. It’s why I had to apply for honorary Aryan status.”
“You did?” she asked. “I had no idea they made you.”
“It came last year,” I said.
“Ansel will be fuming.”
“Tell him the truth. Papa rarely spoke of Opa, and I didn’t think it wise to make it known that I had to apply for honorary Aryan status. It might have raised unpleasant questions if the news fell on meddlesome ears.”
“You’re right to be discreet, Johanna, but I’m not sure this will be enough to keep him happy . . .”
“I do have a letter that Harald’s attorneys drafted saying that the records were irrecoverably lost,” I said. I popped up from the sofa and rummaged about Harald’s desk where he’d kept copies of important papers. It didn’t take long to find, even though everything had been strewn about by Ansel’s henchmen.
She read it over and nodded. “This may mollify him. I can hope. He’s astounded that Papa didn’t tell us more about his family.”
The truth was that Papa cared very little about his lineage, mentioning only that he was born into an old respected German family that had settled in Poland for a time. “Remind Ansel that you and Oskar were still schoolchildren when he passed away. One doesn’t trouble schoolchildren with such matters as family paperwork, now do they?”
“Perhaps not,” she conceded.
Metta squeezed my hand in solidarity, and I knew she was going back to face a furious husband.
The biggest kindness I could do for her was to ensure she never knew of our grandfather’s Jewish heritage, but Ansel had tools for research beyond my imagining, and I worried that I would be unable to shield her from his wrath.
I went back to DVL the next day, as per my agreement. Louisa didn’t even do me the courtesy of a greeting. Her obdurate gaze stared past me and over to Peter, who was tainted by his association with me, but the less repugnant option before her. She thrust a dossier into his hands.
“The gun positions on the Ju 88 still aren’t right. Do them again.” She stalked off without another word.
“Not exactly pleased to see you, was she?”
“She never has been,” I said. “Why would that change now?”
Peter just shook his head and followed me into my office. It was in shambles, clearly having been searched multiple times during my incarceration.
“I’m sorry, Flugkapitän Mueller wouldn’t let me tidy it up. She wanted you to see it this way.”
“She’s quite right, Peter. It’s good for me to see the disruption I caused,” I said, a penitent answer to please unsympathetic ears.
Because he was usually so reserved, I was shocked when Peter crossed the room and pulled me to his chest by the shoulders. He lowered his lips to my ear.
“You are being watched, closer than you know. If you step one foot out of line, prison will seem like a lark. Be careful, trust no one.”
“Even you?” I whispered back.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “But I know what I’ve heard and seen over the past six weeks. They want to find a reason to execute you because of your connection to Harald, but there has been enough push to keep you alive that they’re reluctant to do it.”
“Thank you, Peter,” I said, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. If anyone saw, I hoped they construed it as a sisterly kiss to a much-loved assistant. If he was right, and I was certain he was, I couldn’t afford to have any slander associated with my name or Peter’s. He raised his hand to the spot I’d kissed on his cheek and lowered it just as quickly.
I buried myself in schematics until the office began to clear out. I didn’t want to be the last to leave, but certainly not the first either.
I rode my bicycle home to the cottage, willing myself to ignore the headlights from the car that followed me slowly. When I got to the house, I saw two men with stern expressions eyeing me as I unlocked the front door. As soon as I was inside, they sped off into the night.
This is how I was to live. Followed to and from work. Every trip to the grocer’s under scrutiny. Every excursion to the cinema or the music hall, if I summoned the heart to go. But movies and music had been among Harald’s dearest pleasures. To go without him seemed utterly disloyal.
I wanted nothing more than to consult him on what was best to be done. To crawl into bed with him and curl up against him, letting the world fall away.
But that was exactly what I couldn’t have, and never would again. Not with him.
I calmed my hands by preparing a meal. I wasn’t hungry, but I wouldn’t waste the food in my rations. Chopping carrots and browning chicken was familiar and restful. That I was cooking for only myself felt as strange as a green sky or a purple ocean. I ate my meal reluctantly but left nothing to waste.
Later, as I lay in bed, the schematics of Junkers Ju 88s swirled in my head. I loved my work. I was passionate about the job. But I’d deluded myself for more than seven years, and it was time to stop. I could not divorce the work I was doing from the politics it served. Harald had advised me to keep working, even though we loathed the regime and all it stood for. In order to remain safe, we never made a fuss when the regime stripped away some freedom or another.