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A Secret Life

By Lee Carver

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A SECRET LIFE
Lee Carver

CHAPTER ONE
September, 1942
Munich, Germany

Karl knew better than to raise his voice to Father, but his anger boiled within like steam under pressure. “Why did you leave Mother in danger? And Marta, too?” He paced the width of Father’s study. “We’re the same bloodline—”

“That’s enough! How dare you question my care of the family?” Father stood from his desk, went to the dark velvet curtains, and yanked them closed. Little good that would do now.
Father’s face flushed, creating headlights of his blue eyes. “Your mother and I have always been careful to maintain her dual citizenship and an active church membership. They have no reason to come after us.”

With a huff, Karl dropped into the burgundy leather armchair and rubbed the back of his neck. He had said enough to get Father furious, yet he pressed further. “They could still book passage to the United States. Or somewhere in the opposite direction. Brazil. Lots of people go to Brazil.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Father slapped a dark green folder on his desk, probably the Swiss account. “Portugal, maybe.” He muttered, slipping a hand over his retreating blond hair. “I’ve heard talk about Lisbon...”

So he had considered escape.

“But I can’t leave the business here in Munich.” Father’s chest strained the worsted three-piece suit. “If I abandoned my responsibilities, the economy of the Fatherland and all our clients—some of them life-long friends—would suffer an unthinkable blow.”

Only his father’s hands touched their firm’s securities and investments of the Reichland. No one else—no one—knew how much or where they were. Certainly not himself, as a junior officer of the firm. Father would be arrested and shot as a traitor if he tried to leave Germany now.

Karl shuddered. Since university graduation, he had little excuse for not serving in the Army. Worse, his native country had the power and the will to drag him into a labor camp. “But what about Mother and Marta? They don’t have to stay. I could continue in the firm with you. Keep hoping they honor my deferment. With the British bombing farther south all the time, it just makes sense for them to leave.”

His father paced the study, pausing before the medieval tapestry. He might be seeing its idyllic forest and mountain nymphs, or simply be using the weaving to ignore Karl’s plea. “Your mother says she doesn’t want to leave me. Our home.” His voice became a rumble. “She’s comfortable here. If the Allies lose the war, she will continue to be safe.”

“And if they win?”

“She’s an American citizen. Yourself and Marta too. She’d be the salvation of us all.”

“But when both nations are at war, we have to choose. Especially me.”

A rap from the hall cut them off. “Dinner’s ready.”

Karl opened the study’s door to his mother’s troubled face. Not wanting her to realize their closed-door conference concerned family safety, he forced a smile. “Come, Father. That account will wait until we’ve taken care of this beef roast.”
* * *
Even with a satisfying meal and a bit of schnapps, sleep eluded Karl. War consumed the world. Internal conflict tore the fabric of the nation. Years ago, when the Nuremberg Laws first required Jews to wear bright yellow Stars of David stitched on black armbands, Mother just went inside and pretended she had nothing in common with those people. She had never attended a synagogue in Germany, never spoken Yiddish to a shopkeeper, never worn religious jewelry other than the elaborate gold cross his father gave her when they married. Maybe she would be safe.

And his sister? No young, beautiful woman remained secure where battle raged. Karl tossed in bed to throw off horrible images. Though her hair darkened with maturity, her laughter drew suitors like butterflies to an apple tree.
Ah, Marta, what will happen to you?
* * *
May, 1943
Munich, Germany

Karl emerged from the kitchen, buttered bread in hand. Four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and his father remained at the firm.

A knock came from the front door, as strong as if a bear demanded entry. “Herr von Steuben, öfnen-sie. Hauptmann Schmidt, SS, hier.”

His mother gasped, her eyes wide. Motioning for the housemaid to come, she clutched Karl by the shoulder and shoved. “Go upstairs.”

“Why?” He spoke around the crunchy brotchen. “Who is Captain Schmidt?”

“The SS. Do as I say. Quickly.” She jabbed the air toward the stairs.

The pounding came again.

His mother removed her shoes and ran up the steps behind Karl. “Where’s your sister?”

“In her room, reading.” She spent her days sprawled on her bed with a book. Her velvet prison allowed little else.

Karl listened from the upper hallway. The front door unlocked. The maid spoke a greeting. A growl responded. Heel-clicks of men entering their home echoed off the hardwood floor.

“What do they want, Mother?” he whispered close to her ear.

She put a finger across her lips and shook her head. Her trembling hands and the look of terror ignited his own fear.

He reached an arm around her shoulders, the instinct strong to protect her from a common enemy. His pulse pounded, banishing any thought of enjoying the bread and jam he still carried. His service to the nation through the investment company was arguable, making deferment of military inscription shakier every day the war continued. Father had all the power and held all the secrets.

The maid’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. She appeared, one hand on the banister and the other bunching her apron. “Frau von Steuben, I told them your husband isn’t here. They insist on speaking with you. What should I do?”

“I’ll go. It’s probably nothing.” His mother’s worried face belied her words.

She pushed Karl toward the deep linen closet.

Heavy moments dragged by like the gigantic feet of monsters. He shoved the last bite into his mouth, now too dry to swallow. The crust scratched down his throat. He dared not cough. His imagination rampaged through dark corridors searching the rooms of his mind but found nothing to grab. He feared American bombs, yes, but also the German military. Munich had no secure corners.
Waiting in the closet, unable to tell what transpired below, he squeezed out prayer-thoughts. Please don’t let them take her. Don’t let them come upstairs. He still obeyed his mother. He hoped that meant hiding in a closet at her command wasn’t cowardice.

He wanted to cruise down the stairway and confidently bluff his right to be here. The cost would be too great if he lost that gamble.

The heavy front door slammed, and her delicate steps on the old boards signaled her approach. She opened the closet, relief obvious in the slump of her shoulders.

“What was it, Mother? What did they want?” He emerged, squinting against the late sunlight piercing through lace curtains at the end of the hall.

“They wanted your father.” She always reverted to English when frightened. “I don’t know why they thought he would be taking Saturday off. I reminded them that he serves the war effort by keeping the firm going.”

“What did they say about that?” he replied in English, but whispered. Normally, she had him speak German even at home, suppressing his mother-tongue.

“They laughed. Snarled, really. But don’t worry. They won’t draft him.”

“Isn’t he too old anyway?” Fifty-two candles on the cake lit his face three weeks ago. “They might be coming for me.”

She sighed, the frown returning to her brow. “So many soldiers have died. Older men than your father and younger than you are pulled off the streets to fight.”

They drifted toward his room, his haven. “Why didn’t we leave when the war started? I don’t understand why Father didn’t move us before the passenger ships stopped.”

She lifted her shoulders in a futile shrug, her eyelids squeezing tears onto her cheeks. Nothing hurt more than to see his mother in pain. She didn’t deserve to be caught between two nations at war. His throat burned and the hard roll churned in his stomach.

“If Father left, the firm would collapse.” Karl flopped at the simple study desk and propped sideways on its straight chair. The room had changed little during high school and university. Except for the briefcase on a side table, a twelve year old might still live here.

She sat on the foot of his bed, fumbling with a lace-edged handkerchief. “You must understand. Your father is accustomed to responsibility. And wealth. He couldn’t imagine giving this up and starting over in America.” She worked the muscles of her hands in a tense massage. “And then, well, there’s the loyalty. He is German to the core, you know.”

“But you and Marta could have moved to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Atlanta, couldn’t you?” His mind conjured the cozy home, the hugs of welcome against Grandma’s bosom, the Passover they celebrated there his twelfth year. He chose to overlook how they ranted because Mother and he had become Christian.

Her face clouded like a storm in the Black Forest. “The house has been sold since they died. We don’t have a place to go anymore.”

“But Mother…”

She shook her head. As she drew up her posture, he watched doors slam closed in her mind. “Don’t question your father. He did what he thought best.”

She rose from the bed then crossed to the doorway. With a half turn, she paused and looked back at him. “He is working on a plan. Transferring our funds. Trying to ensure that even if Germany falls, we won’t lose everything.”

Hope filled Karl’s chest like a cool pool in summer. Father worked out plans, as expected of a shrewd investment counselor, but he shared few of those ideas with Karl. Ironic that he might have to be a full partner in the firm to discover his own family’s funds. He nodded to his mother with the glimmer of a smile.

Strains of Viennese waltzes provided background music for Karl and Marta to arrange the blackout curtains that evening. Bombing raids, though infrequent, ranged this far south, so they performed the nightly ritual without question. Marta twirled from one window to the next, adding a strange dimension to a somber task.

Their father arrived after nine, not unusual lately. The family had waited for him, despite the allure of roasting meat and buttered carrots drifting from the kitchen.

A serious mood prevailed at dinner. Mother sat at the corner near his father, rather than at the far end of the long mahogany table. Eating by candlelight and Wagner, they spoke little except in appreciation of their greens, carrots, and potatoes.

“Father, Mother told you about the SS men who came this morning?” A lame way to open the conversation, but he needed a toe-hold.

“Of course, son.” His father sawed a bite off the tough beef roast. They were fortunate to have meat at all.

“What did they want?” Father didn’t make this easy.

“Don’t worry about it. They needed to talk to me.” His gaze fixed on the silver candlestick centered on hand-worked lace halfway down the table.

Karl leaned forward, unwilling to be brushed off. “Excuse me, sir, but I do need to know what’s going on.”

His father paused chewing to level a warning glare at Karl.

“Father, is it me? Were they coming to draft me?” His voice scratched around the lump in his throat.

His father sipped from a cut crystal wine glass and inhaled deeply as he relaxed against the carved chair back. “No, son. It isn’t you, though if you don’t stay out of the public eye they might grab you.”

“Then…why did they come?” He treaded touchy ground here. Improper questions wouldn’t be tolerated. “Please don’t keep me in the dark. I’m an adult professional. I should be aware of any threats to the family.”

Karl expected rebuke. A storm of emotions played on Father’s face, and then his stern expression melted.

“Son, they came to request that I accept civil patrol duties in our neighborhood.” He paused for another taste of wine. “They reminded me your mother is American, and my loyalty to the homeland must never be in question.”

He reached for his wife’s hand, and his eyes captured hers for a charged moment.
She looked down, but held on tightly.

“Do they know…uh…about her parents’ religion?” This last he whispered, as if the walls hadn’t already heard the secrets they enclosed.

His bushy eyebrows gathered in a severe line. “No. And they must not know.”
* * *
May, 1943
Atlanta, Georgia

Grace Shore filed into the memorial service with Matthew’s parents. At the front of the sanctuary, where a casket might have been, an American flag hung from a pole topped by a decorative golden eagle. The absence of Matthew’s body made the scene surreal. The sole evidences of his death were the words of two uniformed men in an olive drab car and General Eisenhower’s letter of condolence they left with the Grangers.

No one prayed harder. Surely God understood the Grangers needed their only son, and she needed the man she had loved since tenth grade. She dug for another tissue but had saturated them all.

She tried to shut out the organ’s gentle hymns and the tenor’s solo. Intended for comfort, instead they rent her heart.

The pastor’s homily began with Matthew’s birth and a kindergarten incident that indicated his brilliance…

She would never bear his children. Never be Grace Granger. The life she dreamed of dissipated like the fragrance of a magnolia bloom browning in the Georgia sun. They would meet again in heaven, little consolation for a woman planning a wedding.

She must sit up straight. Consider the loss to his parents. Her crying made the service even harder for them. Her thoughts meandered to what might come next. Not working would kill her. She had to return to nursing duties and stay involved with her patients.

Her eyes fell to her clasped hands and her mocking bare ring finger. Money for Matt’s medical school took a higher priority than an engagement diamond. She missed her chance. She would never love again like she had loved him.
So close to marriage and family, she longed for independence. To do things the way she wanted. Gain freedom from her parents’ watchful eyes, their well-intentioned rules.

“Matthew Granger served admirably to save us all from the world domination of an evil tyrant.” Words of the sermon sometimes connected with her pounding head. Something about Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Matt’s death in a scorching, dry land made no sense to her in springtime Atlanta. Did he die thirsty? With his last breath, did he call for a cup of water?

“God mourns with us,” the pastor said.

Then He should stop this madness. How many men would fall before good triumphed? Where was the God of mercy now?

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