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Authors: Anne Blankman
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either; presumably it was too early for the men to have left work for the day. A brass band played on the stage, but even beneath the wailing tubas, Gretchen could hear how unnaturally silent the beer hall was.
Before any of the waitresses could approach her, she hurried away from the main room, making for the long corridor where the lavatories were located. A public telephone hung on the wall by the men’s room. She snatched up the receiver and dialed the exchange for Herr Hoffmann’s photography shop. Somehow herfingers still remembered the numbers. The telephone buzzed twice in her ear before someone picked up on the other end.
“Photo Hoffmann,” chirped a cheerful voice. Eva . She sounded the same—sparkling and bright, like quickly moving water in a creek bed.
Tears clogged Gretchen’s throat and she had to force the words out. “Eva? It’s me.”
There was a pause. Finally, Eva whispered, “Gretchen?”
Gretchen bit her lip, wondering whether she could trust Eva. But what choice did she have? There was no one else to go to. “Yes.”
“You’re alive!” Eva cried. “I knew it! Everybody said you must be dead, but I wouldn’t believe it. Where are you? The connection is wonderfully clear.”
“I’m here. And I need your help. Please, Eva, I’m begging you.”
Silence hovered over the line. Gretchen gripped the receiver so tightly her fingers started going numb.
“All right.” Eva sounded cautious. “What do you need?”
Gretchen sagged against the wall in relief. “Thank you.” She glanced down the corridor, but nobody was coming. “The SA arrested the reporters from the Munich Post this afternoon. I need to know if Daniel Cohen was among them, or if he’s already in jail. He would probably be an important enough prisoner to be housed at the central precinct.”
“Who’s Daniel Cohen?” Eva snapped. “The Jewish boyfriend you never told me about? I had to hear about him from my boss after you disappeared. But I guess we girls must have our secrets,” she added in a changed tone, and Gretchen understood what shewasn’t saying: Neither of them had been honest with each other about who they had loved. “How the devil am I supposed to find out if he’s been arrested?” Eva demanded. “Do you really think the police would give me that sort of information?”
This was the difficult part. “Not you. But your boss is an important man in the Party. They would tell him.”
“How do I trick Herr Hoffmann into ringing up the police station and asking—never mind,” Eva interrupted herself. “This is something you truly need to know?”
“More than anything.”
Eva blew out a breath; it sounded like a thunderclap over the telephone line. “Very well. I’ll come up with some reason when I ask Herr Hoffmann. Be at the Englischer Garten at half past six at our favorite spot. If I can find out anything, I’ll know it by then.”
She banged down the receiver, leaving Gretchen standing in the corridor, listening to the whistle of the disconnected telephone line. Hoping her friend wouldn’t betray her.
7
THE SUN WAS SETTING IN A POOL OF ORANGE AND red when Gretchen reached the Englischer Garten. At the massive park’s entrance, she looked back at the Königinstrasse. The long street stretched out in both directions, the ends falling into shadow. She could barely make out the skinny stone boardinghouse where she used to live. On the front steps, a woman was brushing off the snow with a broom.
Even from a few hundred yards away, Gretchen could tell the woman was short and plump. Not her mother, then. Someone else must run the place now.
The patch of pavement where Gretchen had skipped rope and Reinhard had thrown jacks was empty, and the bedroom window where she had hung red curtains she had sewn herself was now lined with lace draperies. It was as though the Müller family had never lived there, all traces of their lives gone. For a longmoment, Gretchen stared at the house.
Before any of the waitresses could approach her, she hurried away from the main room, making for the long corridor where the lavatories were located. A public telephone hung on the wall by the men’s room. She snatched up the receiver and dialed the exchange for Herr Hoffmann’s photography shop. Somehow herfingers still remembered the numbers. The telephone buzzed twice in her ear before someone picked up on the other end.
“Photo Hoffmann,” chirped a cheerful voice. Eva . She sounded the same—sparkling and bright, like quickly moving water in a creek bed.
Tears clogged Gretchen’s throat and she had to force the words out. “Eva? It’s me.”
There was a pause. Finally, Eva whispered, “Gretchen?”
Gretchen bit her lip, wondering whether she could trust Eva. But what choice did she have? There was no one else to go to. “Yes.”
“You’re alive!” Eva cried. “I knew it! Everybody said you must be dead, but I wouldn’t believe it. Where are you? The connection is wonderfully clear.”
“I’m here. And I need your help. Please, Eva, I’m begging you.”
Silence hovered over the line. Gretchen gripped the receiver so tightly her fingers started going numb.
“All right.” Eva sounded cautious. “What do you need?”
Gretchen sagged against the wall in relief. “Thank you.” She glanced down the corridor, but nobody was coming. “The SA arrested the reporters from the Munich Post this afternoon. I need to know if Daniel Cohen was among them, or if he’s already in jail. He would probably be an important enough prisoner to be housed at the central precinct.”
“Who’s Daniel Cohen?” Eva snapped. “The Jewish boyfriend you never told me about? I had to hear about him from my boss after you disappeared. But I guess we girls must have our secrets,” she added in a changed tone, and Gretchen understood what shewasn’t saying: Neither of them had been honest with each other about who they had loved. “How the devil am I supposed to find out if he’s been arrested?” Eva demanded. “Do you really think the police would give me that sort of information?”
This was the difficult part. “Not you. But your boss is an important man in the Party. They would tell him.”
“How do I trick Herr Hoffmann into ringing up the police station and asking—never mind,” Eva interrupted herself. “This is something you truly need to know?”
“More than anything.”
Eva blew out a breath; it sounded like a thunderclap over the telephone line. “Very well. I’ll come up with some reason when I ask Herr Hoffmann. Be at the Englischer Garten at half past six at our favorite spot. If I can find out anything, I’ll know it by then.”
She banged down the receiver, leaving Gretchen standing in the corridor, listening to the whistle of the disconnected telephone line. Hoping her friend wouldn’t betray her.
7
THE SUN WAS SETTING IN A POOL OF ORANGE AND red when Gretchen reached the Englischer Garten. At the massive park’s entrance, she looked back at the Königinstrasse. The long street stretched out in both directions, the ends falling into shadow. She could barely make out the skinny stone boardinghouse where she used to live. On the front steps, a woman was brushing off the snow with a broom.
Even from a few hundred yards away, Gretchen could tell the woman was short and plump. Not her mother, then. Someone else must run the place now.
The patch of pavement where Gretchen had skipped rope and Reinhard had thrown jacks was empty, and the bedroom window where she had hung red curtains she had sewn herself was now lined with lace draperies. It was as though the Müller family had never lived there, all traces of their lives gone. For a longmoment, Gretchen stared at the house.
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