Metta, always the peacemaker, wanted to believe that Oskar’s mention of Harald was an affirmation of brotherly love. I saw it for what it was—a barbed insult to his manhood. The Hitler Youth all believed that true men were warriors. That they should be clamoring to join the fight and uphold the honor of the fatherland. A bookish man like Harald was anathema to them. He wasn’t different in their eyes, he was lesser. But I dared not defend Harald or denigrate Oskar in Metta’s hearing. I hoped that the BDM hadn’t claimed her heart as thoroughly as the Hitler Youth had claimed Oskar’s, and that she was still very much the gentle creature I’d known growing up, but I was scared to trust her.
It was everywhere—mothers being reported by their own children for “unpatriotic acts” or behaving in a manner that might be considered “anti-German.” Muttering a kind word about a Jewish person or a mild critique of the Führer would send even doting children to the nearest youth leader. They grew more fervent with each passing year, their rallies more impassioned, their songs bathed indelibly in bloodlust.
“Yes,” Mama said at length. “I do hope the two of them will have the chance to become better acquainted. It’s a shame for brothers not to know each other. Even brothers by marriage.”
“I agree,” Metta said. “It would be good for both of them, I think.”
“So, have you given any more thought to your university plans?” I asked, changing the topic. “You know you could stay at the cottage with me and take the bus into town. You’ve always been good with words; I thought the idea of your studying German or journalism was a grand one.”
“I couldn’t go so far and leave Mama alone,” Metta said. “I’d be miserable the whole time, thinking about it.”
“Children are meant to leave their parents behind, darling girl,” Mama objected. “I’d love to have two well-educated girls in the family. I’d be able to boast all over Berchtesgaden about my two smart girls.”
“And Mama can come stay with us whenever she’s lonely. For good, if she likes. It would be snug, but we could manage.”
“The BDM doesn’t believe that a university course is useful for a woman. And that which is not useful is wasteful. That which is wasteful is an affront to the Führer himself.”
“Yes . . . quite,” Mama said, her voice faltering despite her efforts.
“I would think a good mastery of the German language would be a noble gift to use in service to the country,” I countered. “Surely there could be nothing more patriotic than to be able to use our mother tongue with grace. Even the BDM must agree with that.”
“They might,” Metta said, looking down at the grooves on our heavy oaken table and tracing the patterns in the grain with her index finger.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” I pressed.
Metta looked up at me, her deep-blue eyes assessing my face.
“I’ve had an offer of marriage.” She spoke the words like a child confessing a great wrongdoing.
“Why have you said nothing?” Mama asked, pulling Metta to her and kissing her cheeks. “Who is he? You’ve not mentioned a beau before now.”
“His name is Ansel Ziegler. He’s an Obersturmbannführer in the SS.”
I felt my stomach clench. That Metta had attracted the attention of a young man in the party was no surprise. She didn’t show Oskar’s enthusiasm for the cause, but she was lifted in their estimation because of his fervor. But to attract the attention of a lieutenant colonel was another matter. If she accepted him, she would be tied to the party, inextricably. From what little I knew of the upper echelons of the party, I doubted a refusal was something he would take with good grace.
“If he’s an Obersturmbannführer, he can’t be a very young man, can he?” Mama asked.
“I haven’t asked him, but I would guess he is in his forties,” Metta replied, still not meeting our gazes.
I took a steadying breath before speaking so that the fear and distress wouldn’t creep into my voice and set her on guard. “You don’t seem particularly excited. Perhaps he’s not quite the match for you?”
I looked over to Mama, who had kept her expression impassive but had gone white as cream. We could not voice one word against this man, likely more than twice Metta’s age, who wanted to steal her from us. I made haphazard plans in my head; if she wanted to refuse him, I could spirit her away to Berlin, then use the connections of Harald’s family to keep her out of his grasp. England? France? It was possible, but I couldn’t offer her salvation until she asked for it.
“You misunderstand me. It’s a good match,” Metta said, straightening up and finally looking at us directly. “If I show any hesitation, it is only because I’ve just met him a few weeks ago. He is very well liked by the Führer himself, and has already built a promising career for himself. His attentions are an honor.”
“Of course they are,” Mama said. “And that he has chosen you shows he is a man of good taste. You must invite him to dinner as soon as he can be spared from his duties.”
“He’s very busy, Mama, but I will ask. Even if he cannot attend, I am sure the invitation will flatter him as much as the meal itself.”
“Certainly there isn’t a hurry to be married,” I said, my tone light. “With all that is going on, I would think family is of secondary importance for such a man.”
“Quite the opposite, really,” Metta said. “He wants to marry as soon as he can get the permission of his superiors. With the world as unsettled as it is, he wants to secure a family and a legacy before duty takes him out of the fatherland. As you say, he’s not a young man.”
“But he plans to ask for Mama’s blessing, I hope?”
“He seems to think such traditions are old-fashioned. And since Papa is gone, unnecessary. That was part of his reason for choosing me. He was worried for me without a male protector, especially with Oskar out of the country.”
I bit my tongue against a rebuke of his chauvinist arrogance.
“You’ve yet to mention if you care for this Obersturmbannführer of yours. It might be a sound match, but does he make you happy? Could you possibly know in just a few weeks?”
“In times like these, who can bother with such silly romantic notions? We must look to what is best for the fatherland.” She stood and strode off in the direction of her bedroom. I heard her door shut with what seemed to me a resigned click.
I wished to God she’d slammed it shut in fury. If she was angry, we still had a prayer of convincing her to leave. There was nothing we could do with resignation.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARCHIVING HEARTACHE
BETH
April 28, 2007
Encinitas, California
Lunch had been served and cleared away a couple of hours before, so I made use of the dining table to spread out Dad’s photos, postcards, and other war trinkets. The Luger I left at home, guessing the staff would just as soon not have me bring a firearm into the house. He’d not told me what he was looking for or why he wanted to see these things after so many years, but I hoped he would confide in me. Growing up, whenever I’d had to write school papers about the war, he’d always deflected the questions to Mom or the county library, though I knew in my gut he had more insight than either could provide. Different insight at least. But even for me, he wouldn’t discuss what he’d been through, apart from an acknowledgment that Paris was beautiful, even when torn by war, and the German forests were as magnificent as any he’d ever seen.