Part 2 (2/2)

”Odd. Most people are quite proud to tell you that they are Berliners. It's a highly cultured city. Herr Mueller didn't seem to want me to know he was from Berlin.”

”Why does that seem odd?

”A Berliner named Heinrich Mueller is head of the Gestapo.”

”Louisa, this is America,” he said, giving me a fatherly sideways glance. ”You don't have to feel suspicious of people here.”

Perhaps he was right. Mueller was a common German name. But I still felt uneasy.

As long as I stayed out of Miss Gordon's sight, she seemed to mind me less. Taking William on outings pleased her; at last I had found a way to make a contribution to the household.

Each afternoon we walked to the library and went straight to the children's department. I picked out a few picture books, sat next to William and read to him, pointing to the pictures. He peered at the pages with such rapt attention that I wondered if anyone had ever read to him. Miss Gordon was busy with her housework and Robert was preoccupied with the church. I glanced fondly down at William's little blond head. He and I were going to be good friends. We needed each other.

I asked Miss Bentley, the librarian, if she could find any books on deaf education for me and if she could locate the address of this new clinic in Los Angeles that the family on the train had mentioned to me. She promised to contact the traveling libraries and see if she could find the information.

I wanted to learn more about what options William might have. I would worry about Robert's reaction to my research project later. For now, I was just gathering facts. Certainly, he couldn't object to fact-gathering.

One morning, Miss Gordon asked me to pick up her groceries at Ibsen's General Store, so off William and I went, grateful for an excuse to get out of the house.

Rosita Gonzalves, an olive-skinned, well-padded Mexican woman with fruit earrings that dangled down to her shoulders, bustled right up to us as we came through the store door. ”Hola, Louisa. Como estas? Hola, Guillermo,” she stroked William's head, obviously familiar with him. ”I am Rosita. I live two doors down from Father Gordon.”

I thought I had noticed her as she walked past the house now and then. ”How are you, Rosita?” I couldn't help but stare at her earrings. Bananas, grapes, strawberries, all hanging in a cheery row. They reminded me of my father's fis.h.i.+ng lures.

”Today, I am very sad. It is your hair. Your hair makes me sad. We must do something about your hair.”

I put one hand on the lone, fat braid hanging down my back, wondering what she meant.

”Is too...too...antique,” she rued.

Oh, that.

Rosita was probably right. The more accustomed I became to modern American fas.h.i.+on and hairstyles, the frumpier I felt. American women wanted people to look at them. In n.a.z.i Germany, it was prudent not to be noticed.

As Rosita chattered on, my mind wandered to a story Dietrich told once about his twin sister, Sabine. In 1938, as anti-Jewish regulations started to escalate in Germany, all Jews were required to carry the letter ”J” in their pa.s.sports. As a result, many Jewish families made a last-minute dash for freedom before it might be difficult to leave the country.

Sabine's husband was a believing Jew and, like me, would be affected by those new regulations. They decided to leave Germany before the borders were closed. I would never forget Dietrich's recollection that Sabine wore a long, brown suede jacket to placate the German officials. I understood it perfectly.

Reluctantly, I asked, ”What do you suggest, Rosita?”

”A bob. All of the Hollywood movie stars have a bob now. You are young and pretty. You should not look so antique. You come into my shop, and we fix you up. Maybe we find you a boyfriend, s?” She winked and smiled a wide, toothy grin.

No thank you to the offer of finding me a boyfriend, I thought to myself. But the bob, that I might consider. First, I had to find out what a ”bob” was.

William and I took the long way home and walked past the school. The children were having recess. I watched William's face as he stared at a group of boys playing kickball. He looked so wistful, longing to be included. Just to be a normal boy. Suddenly, one of the boys blasted the kickball out of the schoolyard. It bounced in the street and landed on the ground near William. He picked it up as a boy ran up to him to retrieve the ball.

”Hey, you're the preacher's dummy that don't talk. Thanks, dummy,” sneered the boy, as William smiled benignly and handed the ball back to him, unaware of what the boy was saying to him. I recognized the boy from church last Sunday.

When the boy returned to his circle of friends, he told them something, then turned and pointed back toward William. The group of boys laughed, mercilessly, before returning to their game. I looked protectively at William, but thankfully, he hadn't noticed the boys. He was already walking ahead of me, kicking a can up the street.

In a flash of blinding insight, I understood why Robert was so reluctant to let his son face the outside world.

After dinner each evening, I made a habit of going out on the front porch to watch the sunset. It dropped behind the steep rock hills so quickly that the light changed dramatically. I had never seen such beautiful sunsets, filled with rose and yellow-tinged hues. The night falls in Arizona were long and peaceful. William often joined me, slipping his hand into mine.

”William, do you know that you have early sunsets here? The sun hides behind the hills. Look, watch carefully! Going, going, gone.” And the sun disappeared, leaving us surrounded in pale, purple twilight.

Every Wednesday night at seven o'clock, Miss Gordon promptly marched off to choir practice. I felt like celebrating when she left the house. Tonight, I took the chess set down from the mantel over the fireplace and took it over to William. I showed him each piece and told him their names. I was teaching him how to set the pieces up for a game when Robert came in from his office and noticed what we were doing.

Interest piqued, he sat down on the davenport next to William and started to play the game with me. I checkmated Robert in just three moves. In clearly an unexpected defeat, he sat there, stunned, frowning at the board, while I took William up to bed. When I came down again, Robert was still on the davenport next to the chess set.

”Give me another chance?” he asked.

So we played again. This time, he paid closer attention. It took a few more moves, but I was still able to checkmate him.

”How did you ever learn to play chess like that?”

I laughed. ”My father taught me.”

”He taught you well.” He leaned back on the davenport and crossed his arms against his chest. ”Where are your parents now?”

I picked up one of the chess pieces and held it in my hands. ”My mother died long ago, many years before the war. My father was murdered by the n.a.z.is.”

Robert's grey eyes grew large. I couldn't tell if he wanted me to elaborate or if he wasn't sure he should ask anything more; he continued to look directly at me.

”Hitler ordered all Jews to wear a large yellow star on their jackets to identify them. My father had worked for the Berlin Symphony but, back in 1933, all Jewish musicians were fired from the symphony and the opera. That's when my father relied more heavily on tuning private pianos and one of the reasons he refused to wear that Star of David armband.”

I picked up the rook from the chess set, holding it in my hands. I needed time to say this without emotion. Robert waited patiently for me to continue.

”My father didn't want to bring attention to himself or to his clients. He needed the work. Jobs were extremely scarce for Jews. Most were on welfare a.s.sistance. However, posing as a non-Jew was an act punishable by death. One night, the Gestapo stopped him in the street.”

Someone had informed the Gestapo about my father's ident.i.ty, but that was another story.

I replaced the rook on the chess board and looked directly at Robert. ”The Gestapo shot him. Right then and there. They left his body on the street as a message to other Jews who might be tempted to hide their ident.i.ty. Soon after, I went to Dietrich and joined the Resistance Movement.”

A heavy silence hung in the air.

”I thought you had said you had heard stories about the atrocities of the n.a.z.is.”

Robert s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably on the davenport. ”Well, yes, but nothing like that. Is there no justice in the legal system?”

I gave a short laugh. ”Justice? No. Vengeance, yes.” I looked down at the board. ”I'm sorry. We were enjoying a challenging game of chess, and I brought up unpleasant things.”

”Actually, you were enjoying a game of chess; I was losing quite badly. And I'm the one who is sorry, about your father.”

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