35. Danner

THIRTY-FIVE

Munich, Germany

I’ve spent many days on trains in my lifetime, but none have felt quite like the ones I’ve been on since yesterday when I left Poland. This final train to Munich is no different to the others. There are more members of the SS and Gestapo police than there are civilian passengers, making my appearance, blonde hair, and all, stand out among the crowd. Great-Uncle Igor made it clear I had to avoid showing any signs of stress or nervousness because the Nazis pinpoint those particular people and run them through the question mill. If I can avoid the questions, I’ll have my best chance of making it off this train into the city, which won’t be much better.

My hands are raw from gripping this bulky crate of mead. Every seat on the train is taken so I must keep everything with me, on my lap. All the while, I continue to repeat the story I should use if questioned by authorities.

I’m a cook for an SS-Obergruppenfuhrer, sent to Poland to collect bottled Dwójniak mead for an elite dinner party.

I’ve done what I can to remain awake, but particularly during the daytime hours as the sun casts a spotlight over everyone seated on the left side of the train.

This next stop is Oberschlei?heim. Oberschlei?heim will be our last stop before arriving at the final destination, Munich.

The shrill screech of metal grinding against metal sends a phantom pain down my spine. I’ve become tired of hearing the sound so often over the last day. The doors open, only a few step off, and twice as many board, all of which are in uniform. I’ve never considered what it takes to appear unfazed and calm, but avoiding eye contact seems like the worst way to behave. I force myself to peer at each man passing by, giving each a quick nod of respect while praying the heat burning through my limbs isn’t apparent in my face.

My pulse slows as the train doors shut and the brakes are emphatically released. I rest my head back in the seat, trying to breathe through my tidal wave of panic. Unclench your fists, I tell myself. Drop your shoulders. One breath every five seconds is a sign of a contentment, as Emilie used to tell me. Anything more would be a sign of stress. I’m not sure I had ever wondered how many breaths I take in a minute’s time, but it’s been a helpful practical fact to hold on to over the years.

I count my breaths like seconds ticking on a clock, giving me something to focus on while we travel the last kilometers to the train station in Munich.

The screaming halt from the brakes doesn’t bother me this time. The awful sound is more like music to my ears now. I stand from my seat, my satchel secured across my torso, and the crate locked within my grips.

“Papers!” I hear just before stepping onto the platform. It’s not that I didn’t know I would have to present my fake identification again, I was just putting the thought off until now.

I hoist the crate over my left leg and pull my papers out of my coat pocket.

I’m Albert Amsler. People call me Al for short, I remind myself.

I hand the papers to the police officer reaching for them. He scans them, takes a look at me, returns his gaze to the papers, then again, back at me. A third will mean he’s spotted something…or so I tell myself.

“Albert Amsler,” he says, “what are you traveling with in that crate?”

The words tango on my tongue as I try to place in them in the right order as quickly as I can. “I’m a personal chef to an SS?—”

“Okay, move along,” he says before shifting his gaze to the next person in line.

I feel as though I’ve gotten away with murder, giving me the extra bit of energy and confidence I need to make it back to my old neighborhood in the hope that Papa has made it home. The walk feels much longer than it ever did before. Everywhere I look, red flags wave, loudly claiming this city as a home to the Nazis. I haven’t felt welcome here since I was thirteen. I shouldn’t feel any differently now.

One block left to walk before reaching my old, enclosed neighborhood. What once smelled like firewood from piping chimneys and a faint scent of pine from the outer encirclement of trees, now only reeks of horse manure left behind from whatever parade must have come through here last.

The street I lived on looks the same until I reach my house, first up on the left. Mama’s curtains in the front window have been replaced with green linen. I’m not sure Papa would do something like that. I grab the doorknob and twist to push my way inside, but the knob doesn’t budge. I knock while keeping my gaze on the window. The curtains billow against the glass a brief second before the front door opens.

“Yes, can I help you?” A tall, thin woman with rigid stone-like features stands before me with her eyebrows angled to a point.

“Uh, yes, are you—do you live here now, or?—”

She glances over her shoulder as if she needs to check her response with someone but when she returns her cold hard stare, she says, “It appears to be so, doesn’t it now? What can I do for you?”

“I apologize for bothering you. I was only looking for my father.”

“The only man who lives here is my husband, and he’s most certainly not your father.”

She closes the door without giving me a chance to apologize again.

This doesn’t mean he isn’t around here somewhere. The house could have been occupied as soon as we were forced to leave. I knew it would be unlikely to find him here in our home after all this time, but it had to be the first place I’d start.

I spin around, debating which door to knock on next, wondering if Emilie’s parents still live here, and Felix’s, Otto’s and Gerty’s parents too.

I choose Emilie’s door first and my heart thunders as I lift my hand to knock. Seeing her again after all this time would more than make up for the disappointment of not finding Papa right away.

There isn’t a sound from the other side of the door, but I wait another moment before knocking again. The stillness within the house seems clear so I move on to Felix’s front door. Please, be home.

Seconds after I knock, footsteps scuttle along the wooden floors until the door opens, leaving me face-to-face with Frau Weber, Felix’s mother. The sight of a familiar face stiffens my chest as I want to jump into her arms and steal a moment of what feels like home from her.

“Danner?” she whispers.

I glance around, nervous about who might be listening, hearing my name is something other than Albert Amsler. I shake my head. “May I come inside?”

She scoops her arm behind my back and pulls me in at once, then draws the curtains inside just as quickly. “What in the world are you doing back here? You should be in Poland with your Mama and David, yes?”

I place the wooden crate down between my ankles, happy to free my hands for a moment. “I was there, but there was news that some of the Jewish prisoners were released due to overcrowding. I thought Papa might have…”

By the mere look on her face, I can already tell she hasn’t seen Papa and hasn’t heard a word about this news.

“You thought he was back home,” she says, placing her warm hand on my cheek. “Sweetheart, we haven’t seen him at all. I’m so sorry you’ve traveled all this way.”

“Thank you, I just need to find him somehow. He’s somewhere and, well, if anyone will find him, it will be me.”

“Of course,” she says. “I hadn’t heard about the police releasing any of the previously arrested Jews but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

I contemplate what to do next. I put all my hope into walking back into my home as if we had never left. “Thank you for letting me know,” I offer, reaching down to lift my crate back up with my sore hands.

“Where will you go? Who are you staying with?”

Emilie’s parents might take me in. “Do the Marxes still live down the street?” I ask, curling my fingers around the wooden frame.

“Of course,” she says. “Although they’ve been quite busy lately with planning a wedding and all. They hardly ever seem to be home much these days.”

I release the crate again and stand back upright. My hands become ice cold, so do my legs, back, and torso. They’re planning a wedding.

“You weren’t aware, I see,” she says. “Oh, Danner, sweetheart. I know you loved her…”

“She’s to be wed to Otto, I assume?” The words taste like vinegar on my tongue, knowing I’m the one who made the suggestion to her years ago.

“Of course,” she says. “Who else?”

Me. In another life.

“Do you not have a place to stay?”

“I’ll find somewhere,” I say.

“Nonsense. You’ll stay here with us.”

“I can’t insist on that. No one wants to house a forbidden Jew.” Emilie’s parents were the only other couple on this street who never treated me any differently to the other kids. They didn’t see religion when they looked at my face and now, I see how rare that sentiment is.

“Well, we’ll have to work out some details, but you’re welcome to stay with us.” She combs her fingers through my hair. “You’re already blonde.” She chuckles then pinches my cheek.

“I have updated identification papers too,” I say, reaching into my pocket to show her. “They worked at the train station.”

“Felix will be so happy to see you when he gets home from work,” she says, seeming to be choking on her words. “And Herr Weber will be just as thrilled. Does Gerty know?”

“No, you’re the only one who knows I’m here. I think it might be best that Emilie, Gerty, and Otto’s family don’t know.”

I plan to remain inconspicuous, for the sake of making sure I don’t overstay my welcome or make anyone uncomfortable. The thought of not telling Emilie I’m here is torturous, but I would only disrupt her life and it may only be for a brief time that I’m able to remain here.

“I understand, and I’m happy to keep the secret in our home. You don’t need to stress about making us feel uncomfortable, though, okay?”

I know the look on her face. It’s the same look anyone has when they’re trying to act as if they aren’t afraid to be seen with a Jewish person. I can’t blame her. Fear is fear, no matter what the cause.

“Okay, but if anything changes, I can find somewhere else to go,” I offer. “I truly don’t want to be a bother.”

“You have nothing to worry about, dear.” There’s a questionable inflection in her voice.

It’s understandable. No one truly means the words: “You have nothing to worry about.” Not anymore.