Chapter 19

December 1916, Essen, Germany


Too much rain in August had ruined the majority of Germany’s potato crop, so even though there were few smells more repugnant than rotting potatoes, Julian carefully saved what he could from each nauseating lump. Dorothea had bartered a set of bedroom furniture for a hundred kilograms of potatoes, but it wouldn’t be enough to last until next year’s harvest. The food situation was looking especially bleak after yesterday’s discovery that most of the preserved fruits and vegetables from the garden had spoiled. Julian supposed it was a combination of Dorothea’s inexperience and Mathilde’s age, but somehow the jars hadn’t been sealed properly. They couldn’t waste any of the remaining food, not even questionable potatoes. Over the next hour, he managed to salvage two thirds of the small pile, just enough for the midday meal. He didn’t peel them—good Germans didn’t do that anymore for fear of wasting food—but he chopped the large pieces and put them all in a pot. Dorothea and her father wouldn’t eat the peels, but Julian and the boys didn’t mind them.

He stretched his neck in the chilly kitchen and held back a yawn. He’d spent a late evening listening to three slightly intoxicated factory workers complain about the long shifts and their fears that the new gas shells they helped produce would leave them permanently disabled. He’d compounded his exhaustion with a nocturnal visit to Herr Sauer’s study. According to Herr Sauer’s diary, Lohr was running four different intelligence rings in France. None of the spies were named, but Julian included the clues he’d gleaned in his report, along with mention of decreased civilian morale at what was being called the Turnip Winter.

Julian moved the pot to the stove and added pieces of a duck Willi had brought home the day before. Willi had probably poached it, but Julian hadn’t asked. Duck was one of the few meals Gerta didn’t complain about. Julian went into the dining room and found the little girl sitting in a dark corner, her legs pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees. “Gerta, what’s wrong?”

She shrugged.

“I hope the floor is clean. Your mother might be unhappy if you get your dress dirty. She waited in line half a day for soap and can’t get any more until next month.”

“This dress is too short anyway.” Gerta stood to show him.

“Yes, you’re getting taller. But there might not be material to replace the entire dress. If I know your mother, she’ll add a ruffle to the bottom. Perhaps one that will look like a flower if you twirl.”

Gerta spent many an afternoon spinning in the sunlight, watching the way her skirt flowed around her, but Julian’s suggestion didn’t even bring a smile, so he tried a new tactic. “What if we were to decorate for Christmas a little early this year?” Christmas was still a few weeks away, but the snow outside provided the right atmosphere.

Gerta shook her head.

“Hey now, why so sad? It’s the best time of the year. Maybe Mathilde will make a special treat.”

“Mathilde doesn’t cook anymore. You and Mama do. And soon Willi will go away and you too.” Gerta burst into tears, and Julian couldn’t think of anything to say that would comfort her. Willi would leave in the coming month with all the other boys who comprised the conscription class of 1918. The call-up was a year and a half earlier than expected. As for Julian, a new law meant to ensure enough labor for Germany’s vital industries threatened to end his time with the Kallweit family. The scars on his forehead and side wouldn’t be enough to ensure his continued exemption from the war effort. “Why does everyone have to go away?” Gerta sobbed. “I hardly remember Papa or Kurt.”

Julian knelt next to Gerta and gave her a hug. He wondered which lot was harder—Gerta’s, because she didn’t remember her family members who were gone, or his, because he still thought of his parents and his dead brother daily. He didn’t cry over them, but he missed them. Bittersweet memories of their times together permeated his thoughts and came to mind with most of his actions. But Gerta didn’t even have memories to hold on to. “Come, Gerta. Let’s go read that last letter your father sent.”

* * *

Whenever he had an evening off, Julian went out. He would have rather stayed at the Sauer estate and caught up on his sleep, but spending time with the workers relaxing after their shift at the Krupp factory often proved worthwhile. Sometimes he wondered if he was crazy, socializing with people who would rip him apart if they knew his true origin. Ironically, he expected more mercy from front-line German soldiers. In parts of the front, it was wiser to live and let live, easier to feel sympathy for the men across no-man’s land stuck in the same awful conditions than to feel a connection with the officers handing out orders or the civilians living in relative comfort back home.

This evening’s stop, however, was not about gleaning information from factory workers. Julian walked around a city block, then doubled back to make sure no one had followed him. He crept into a building that stood amid a row of apartments and checked the third door from the main entrance. As expected, it was unlocked. Julian glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby, then went inside.

A broad, sixty-year-old Dutchman waited in the front room, his hand in his pocket, where Julian suspected he hid a pistol. Julian nodded his recognition and went into the back room, where Lieutenant McDougall waited.

“Glad you made it,” Julian said. McDougall spoke extremely poor German. He depended on the Dutchman to see him safely in and out of Germany and a British sailor to see him in and out of Holland.

McDougall gestured to several discarded strips of cloth. “I wore a bandage around my head with a spot of blood on it and put my arm in a sling. No one expected me to converse with them.”

Julian filed the technique away in case he needed it later.

“I have a list of letter boxes for you. A bookstore in Düsseldorf, a grocer in Bonn, a butcher in Recklinghausen. Only use them three times each. By then I will have others for you.”

Julian took the addresses. He would mail his reports there, and the new contacts would see that they were sent on either through Holland or through Switzerland. “I’m a little nervous about the auxiliary service law that just passed.”

“The what?”

“The Hindenburg program. All German males are now required to serve in a vital industry. Either the armed forces, government work, war industries, or agriculture. My name isn’t listed on any national register, but locally they know who I am.”

“See if Herr Sauer will help you apply at the Krupp works. I would very much enjoy inside information about their production. Offer to do small jobs for him in your free time so you can continue to live at his manor.”

“Yes, sir.” Julian hesitated before bringing up his next concern. “I worry that anyone healthy enough to work in the factory and do odd jobs at the Sauer estate will be considered healthy enough to go back to war. I don’t want to serve in the German Army.”

“If it comes to that, you have my permission to leave. Frau Von Hayek can help you to her brother in Holland, and we can extract you from there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is the ink still working?” McDougall pulled out a vial of liquid.

“Fine on my end. You’re able to read my reports?”

“Yes. Well done thus far. We’ve found several of Lohr’s men with your information. That vial is more ink, should you need it.”

“Thank you.” Julian slipped the ink into his pocket.

“Anything else before I leave?”

“I have another report, sir. And a real letter for my parents. Would you mail it for me?”

McDougall took the report eagerly and the letter with less enthusiasm. “A letter in French does not fit with my masquerade as a wounded German officer.”

“I realize that, sir. So I wrote it in German. My mother is fluent, and I used a limited vocabulary so my father can read it too.”

McDougall sighed and took the letter. “I suppose I sometimes forget that most people have a relationship with their parents worth preserving. A personal letter increases the risk to both of us. I will mail one for you this time but not the next.”

Julian wondered if there would be a next time. He had been in Germany slightly over a year, and this was McDougall’s second visit. Julian had only a modest hope that he would survive until the next meeting at least six months in the future. But in the meantime, he had other things to worry about, like how he was going to manage work at the factory, work at the Sauer estate, and biweekly midnight escapades into Herr Sauer’s study, all on limited rations. It sounded exhausting.