“I did,” he said, looking up at her again. “My mother insisted I name her, so I gave her the name of Anna. It was my mother’s name, too.” He gave Elsie a sad smile.
“I’m sorry she died, Gunther.”
“Yes, it is very terrible.” His voice was soft, his heavy grief still apparent in his eyes. “She should not have come. It was too much for her.”
Elsie longed to reach out to him, to touch his arm—something—but she did not. “Why did she come?” she instead asked. “Why did all of you come? Why not just you?”
Gunther let out a deep breath. “Ach. I am getting ahead of the story.” He paused as if to recount the tale in his mind and then continued. “After the fraulein left, we begin always to argue, me and my mother. We could not agree what to do with Anna.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “My mother wanted to put her in a . . . what do you call it? Kinderheim? Orphanage? She is much attached to Anna, it is true, but she predicts it will only get worse as time passes. We cannot care for her forever, she says. I argue that is only for little while, but she does not believe this. She is sure that Fraulein Klinkhammer will never return. But I insist she will. I try very much to help my mother to care for Anna, but I admit I find it hard. I am not so good at this. I am not woman, and I have much demands on my time at school. Also I am making small fixes on house each day; always there is problem.
“Finally, after about six months, we receive much welcome letter from Fraulein Klinkhammer. It says that she is in Chicago, that she has found job in a school, near place called Mundelein. She has been ill, the letter says, and that she cannot return for now. She is trying to save money, but she finds it hard. It was very short letter, written by friend, she says. She does not say whether or no she found Heinrich, and she does not ask about baby. That was all. After I read this letter many times, I understand that she is not going to come back. That my mother is right. But still we wait, hope.
“My mother becomes, then, very ill. Many weeks pass, and much of Anna’s care falls to me. Some lodgers, too, help me, take pity on the girl, but I now see how much work it is for my mother to run house and care for baby. My mother was not young when I was born. And I see that she will be weak from her illness for maybe long time. So, I finally agree that we must take Anna to orphanage. My heart nearly was breaking for this, for I have grown to love her, even then. She is already turning one year of age. We were very sad, but we tell ourselves small lie, that it is only for short time.” Gunther gave another shrug. “But we do not believe. My mother packed a bag for her, and I was preparing things to leave with her when terrible thing happened . . .”
Gunther trailed off and looked away for a moment, and Elsie was surprised to see his look of anguish.
“She had a fit,” he said quietly, smoothing Anna’s hair. “Shaking on the ground, her eyes going back. It was terrible. We did not know what to do. We . . . we were very much frightened. One of our old neighbors was there, too, and she says that Anna is possessed by devil. Schwachsinn!” Gunther said fiercely. He rubbed his brow as if to calm himself and then went on, steadying his voice.
“We knew we cannot take her to orphanage like that. So we again keep her until we can understand what is happening. I take her to a doctor friend of mine from university. He examined her and tells me that she is probably having something called Epilepsie . . . epilepsy? I tell him the whole story and our plan to take her to orphanage. He agrees this would be for the best, but he warned me about the new Nazi laws under Herr Hitler calling for the Sterilisation . . . sterilization of the feebleminded. He tells me that in any type of institution, even in orphanage, Anna would probably be early victim. Not only that, he says, but many people have fear that this awfulness might go beyond sterilizing into something of more seriousness . . . maybe killing . . . murdering. I . . . I cannot believe this. It was ridiculous. Wahnsinn! How can this be? So I do more asking about this law, and I very soon come to same understanding as my friend. That our country is headed to very dark place.”
With his free hand, he reached for his mug and took a drink of his coffee, now cool. “I went to university library and find books about epilepsy,” he went on. “I learn more of what it is and how there is no cure. A few scientists predict salts of bromide and say that quiet life, good diet, some little exercise is only known treatment. Either way, me and my mother know then that we can never take Anna to orphanage, even for a short time. The authorities would know of her condition and maybe track her down later? We tried to follow what the books said—to give her a quiet, calm life. We tried these salts of bromide, but they only make her more ill. She fought taking them so much that sometimes it brings on another fit, so we finally stopped trying to give these to her. We tried to keep her fits a secret, but too many of the lodgers knew about them already. We asked them please to be silent about this, but,” he said with a shrug, “students cannot always be relied upon. More than them, though, we were having much worry about the neighbor, Frau Mueller, who is now hanging Nazi flag in her front window and is always asking about Anna.”
He stopped talking then and stretched his neck, the strain of holding the sleeping girl evident.
“Why . . . why don’t you lie her back down,” Elsie suggested, nodding toward the trundle.
“Ach, no. She will wake and start screaming. Best to hold her. She did not sleep well again last night.”
Elsie looked at him, her heart overwhelmed. Hesitantly, she held out her arms and inclined her head toward Anna. Gunther did not move for several moments, looking at her as if weighing the risk of transferring the girl, his face conflicted. Finally, though, he inched forward and gently placed the sleeping girl in Elsie’s arms, watching carefully to see if Anna would settle. Anna did stir, but Elsie carefully cradled her against her body. “Go on with the story,” she said softly to Gunther. “Your voice will soothe her.”
“There is not much more to say, I am thinking,” Gunther said, slowly easing back in his chair and tentatively watching Anna in Elsie’s arms. He gazed at her for several moments and then let out another deep breath.
“As time passed, things started to get very much worse. Lodgers started to leave. I suppose people everywhere are ignorant, yes?” he asked grimly. “Some of the lodgers were afraid of either the possessed girl, as she begins to be called, or the Nazis, so they went other places. Then other things not so good begin to happen. In the town.” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another war is coming, I am afraid, Elsie. Hitler is not the Kaiser. This is different. Much evil is already happening.”
He stood abruptly.
“Like this,” he whispered fiercely, gesturing at the sleeping girl. “Only a monster would . . . would sterilise her—or worse—because of her illness. Something she cannot control . . .” He gripped the back of the chair and bowed his head down between his arms. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “This is not the point.”
He stood up straight and began pacing back and forth, occasionally looking over at Elsie. “Each week we had less and less money, and we lived more in fear,” he said. “It was my mother’s idea to come to America. To get Anna out of the country and maybe back to her mother if possible. We had the fraulein’s one letter, so we were thinking that maybe we could find her. Idiocy, I know,” he said, glancing at Elsie. “Also, I read that this epilepsy can be passed down . . . hereditary? Is that the word?”