Two days after Rilla’s victory, Karl came to their classroom late in the afternoon. The children were with Hans and Alexander for supper, so Allina was free to greet him with a kiss.
“You’re early,” she said, and wound her arms around his neck. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Good, I’d hate to disappoint you.” He cupped her cheek. “I’m afraid I have news you won’t be happy to hear.”
Allina’s stomach plummeted. “What’s wrong?”
“I received new orders today, ones that will make things … difficult for me. For us.” He took a deep breath. “I’m leaving for Prague. It’s my next assignment.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Some months, perhaps a year. We need to establish control. The resettlement will take time.” He attempted a smile but the cords in his neck, the way his brows drew together, meant the situation was serious.
Resettlement. Allina felt the weight of that word on her chest.
“What will you do?”
His laugh was harsh. “Whatever it takes to make it through the day.” His voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. “At night, I’ll work with my friends to smuggle as many Jewish children out of the city as we can.”
“I see.” Allina should have expected this. She’d been naïve, even selfish. Karl couldn’t spend the rest of his career in Munich. But his clandestine activities would make his tenure in Prague dangerous.
He pressed a kiss to her trembling lips. “I’ll be fine. And we’ve got a month before I leave. Plenty of time to make sure your children have a decent start and enough to secure paperwork for Ursula and her family.”
Karl grinned then, and it made him seem very young. “And we’ll make time for us, of course.”
Allina sighed when Karl pressed her head to his shoulder. “I’m afraid. I wish you didn’t have to go.” He pulled her even closer and they swayed together, dancing in silence while she cried.
Allina spent every spare minute with Karl until he reported for duty in Prague. She devoted her days to the children and her evenings to him at the Sunflower House. They made it a point to dine together each night, no matter how late, on the food Ursula prepared or simple meals they cooked together. He had an extensive library, so Allina read to him from Goethe, Homer, and Proust. When she asked, which was often, Karl would read her father’s letters out loud, which was even better.
They slept in the same bed, but did little more than kiss the first week. Allina wanted more, but Karl proved to be a mountain of self-control.
“I won’t have you afraid of me,” he said on the first night, although Allina insisted she wasn’t. “Or pressured,” he added on the second, which made her laugh, since she was the one doing the asking. His eyes were often watchful, even haunted, when they were close, which told Allina just how much her reaction that first evening had scared him.
He gave her the gift of time, so she could grow comfortable with his body, allowing her to explore the muscles in his shoulders and the strong, graceful curve of his back. The tension in his limbs and the fine sheen of perspiration above his lip often revealed how much that gift cost him, but she learned to relax in Karl’s arms—so much that when the nightmares came, she turned to him instinctively. She loved the way his legs wrapped around her body, keeping her warm as they slept. The man was a heat machine. Only his feet were cold. His icy toes always seemed to find her calves in the middle of the night.
When he finally made love to her, it was a tender, tentative coupling. He was so careful not to hurt her. It brought Allina to tears.
She was eager to retire early each evening, because Karl talked more in bed than out of it. Somehow it was easier for him to reveal his secrets there, and he’d share his most intimate thoughts in the early hours of the morning as freely as he gave her his body.
He told her about losing his mother and father to influenza at nine, and of how he’d moved to Switzerland after their deaths to live with his aunt and grandmother, who, like Auntie Claudia, made excellent strudel. Karl hadn’t known his grandmother was Jewish until he moved to Basel; she’d never spoken of it. It was his Aunt Adele who’d shared the few precious details he knew after his grandmother’s death.
“Ekaterina’s family lost everything when they fled Russia, then she denied her faith out of self-preservation, and kept the secret to protect her children,” he said. “So much pain and loss, but you’d never know it. She always told me how lucky her life was, how blessed.”
Karl had returned to Germany after university, seeking memories of his parents, and made contact with Markus Klemperer, his father’s best friend. It was Markus who made sure his records were wiped of his Jewish ancestry when he recruited Karl for the SS in 1934, Markus who’d protected him and hastened a series of promotions, and Markus who joined Karl in turning away from National Socialism a year later. They’d begun their clandestine projects in 1936, working with a small group of comrades in an attempt to soften the Führer’s policies. Barring their ability to do that, Karl and Markus were united in their vow to help whom they could.
“The Führer is like a poison pill coated in chocolate,” Karl said, late one night when they couldn’t sleep. “If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat it. But poison always kills in the end.”
He tried to turn away from her then, and Allina took his face in her hands. They had to be honest with each other.
“You swallowed that pill,” she whispered, “to save yourself.”
“Yes. I wanted to serve my country like my father had. The Führer pledged to return Germany to its former greatness. For a while, I believed him. I turned my back on my grandmother, my own family. On myself.”
His bark of laughter was as sharp as a slap. “I was a fool. And I’ll spend every day of my life trying to make up for it.”
A week before he left for Prague, Allina was charmed speechless when Karl walked into the bedroom and set the breakfast tray down over her legs.
He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss. “Good morning.”
“What’s this?” she asked, although the question was a silly one. The evidence was on the tray. Karl had brought her eggs and bacon and a roll with butter cheese. The spicy scent of chocolate and cinnamon hovering around the teapot meant it was filled with hot cocoa. And nestled into the napkin on her tray was a single dark blue pansy. Allina couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. She’d brought him a pot of them last week to brighten up the kitchen. The pansy was a perfect match for his eyes.
She was starving—not a surprise, given last night’s activities. The memories of those activities brought the heat to her cheeks. “Are you plying me with flowers and chocolate?”
“I am,” he said, snagging a piece of bacon from her plate, “because I have a question to ask you.”
“Mmmmm. It must be a big one.” She reached for the pot to pour the cocoa, but set it down when the tips of his ears turned pink.
“There’s something I’d like you to consider,” he said, “before I leave for Prague.” He took her hand and ran his fingers over her knuckles. “I’ve asked Ursula if we could attend a service with her. I thought you might want to learn more about your mother’s religion. That you’d feel closer to her.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “We’ll be safe. I promise you that.”
“How do you always know?” she whispered. They’d spoken of Irene Schenck as they read her father’s letters, and she’d told him about her longing to know more about her mother. But this was beyond anything she’d expected.
Of course she said yes.
They drove to the service the next evening in Karl’s ancient Wanderer. The sun was still above the horizon when they parked in front of a two-story cobblestone house. It was modest with a steeply pitched roof, a bright red door, and candles in the window that seemed to welcome them.
Ursula was waiting outside, and she hurried over. “You came. I’m so glad,” she said, taking Allina’s hand. “Do you have any questions before we go in?”
Allina’s stomach fluttered, nerves kicking in. “I’ve never been to a synagogue,” she answered. “I don’t know what to ask.”
“Let me tell you what to expect then,” Ursula said. “Tonight is Shabbat, our sabbath. We pray together inside, and there’s teaching or discussion. I believe you may find it similar, in some ways, to your own church services.” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a small book and placed it into Allina’s hand. “I brought an extra siddur for you, so you can follow along.” She opened it and pointed to the three columns on the page. “Here’s the Hebrew prayer, and then the pronunciation in Hebrew, and then in the third column, the prayer in German. Just do as I do,” she added, “or not. You may want to watch without participating. That’s fine, too. Remember, you’re welcome here.”
Allina squared her shoulders and nodded. “I’m ready.”
The slight, stooped gentleman who greeted them at the door had a salt-and-pepper beard and kind, intelligent eyes. “You must be Allina,” he said. “I’m Rabbi Guttmann.” His hands were toasty warm as he clasped them around hers.
“I’m pleased to meet you.” Allina bobbed her head and took a deep breath to calm her nerves.
The rabbi ushered them inside. His gaze shifted to Karl. “It’s good to see you, my friend,” he said, as the two shook hands. “This young man,” the rabbi said, jerking his head in Karl’s direction, “speaks highly of you. He tells me you’re a most uncommon female.”
Unexpected laughter bubbled out of her. “Is that right?” She relaxed into his merry brown gaze and unwound her muffler. “Thank you for letting me join you tonight.”
The rabbi’s smile was serene. “It helps, I think, to understand where one comes from, to have a sense of history.” He motioned them to the door at the end of the hall. “We pray downstairs, and there are fewer of us now, but I’ve no doubt the Almighty hears us from my cellar as clearly as he ever did in temple. Keep your coats on,” he added when Allina began unbuttoning hers. “It’s chilly.”
The murmur of voices in quiet conversation filtered up the stairs as they descended. About a dozen adults were already seated in four rows of chairs. The cellar’s walls were made of gray and brown bricks and the room was musty and damp, but dozens of candles were lit in wall sconces and on side tables. The candles did little to heat up the space, but they gave the cellar a warm glow and sent flickering shadows across the floor.
They found three empty chairs next to each other toward the back, and sat together, with Allina in the middle. “Relax,” Karl murmured as she smoothed down the front of her coat. He took her hand. Allina nodded at the curious glances and warm smiles of the people who turned to greet them.
A hush descended when Rabbi Guttmann moved to a small podium at the front of the room. He took the ivory-and-blue striped shawl from over his shoulder and unfolded it slowly before kissing it and holding it open. The rabbi intoned in Hebrew before wrapping the shawl around his head and upper body. He held it there for a few seconds before unwinding it and adjusting the cloth around his shoulders.
He straightened his spine and addressed the group. “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”
Allina closed her eyes and bowed her head as the prayers began. The group recited certain parts together, their soft whispers blending in unison. At other times, only the rabbi’s rich, melodious tones filled the room.
When Allina opened her eyes again, the cellar was bathed in a golden haze, and she settled even deeper into the comfort of the voices around her. Ursula pressed the prayer book into her hand, pointing out the passage they were reciting. Allina scanned the translation.
You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart,
with all your soul, and with all that is yours.
These words that I command you this day shall be taken to heart.
Teach them again and again to your children;
speak of them when you sit in your home,
when you walk on your way,
when you lie down,
and when you rise up …
My mother prayed this way. She could picture Tomas here so clearly, with one arm around Irene’s shoulders and the other on her pregnant belly. That image sent a sharp yearning deep inside, both from the sweetness of the connection she felt, here in this dark, damp basement among friendly strangers, and the bitter certainty she’d never know more of her parents. As she let her mind drift into nothingness, time seemed to melt into the voices swirling around her and in the beautiful cadence of each prayer.
Behold our suffering and greatly deliver us. And redeem us soon for the sake of Your Name. For You are a redeemer of strength. Blessed are You, Lord, who delights in repentance.
When the prayers ended, a pregnant silence filled the space. She took three steps back with the rest of the assembly and sat down.
Rabbi Guttmann clasped his hands in front of him. “This prayer, the Amidah, is very important. We recite it three times a day. But we must be mindful of the words we speak so the Lord knows our intention.” He cleared his throat. “You’re aware it’s my custom to pray for our persecutors. Doing so isn’t easy. It’s a conscious act of will. Some of you disagree with my choice to include the Führer in my prayers. In fact, three of you came to me yesterday with a question. You asked me: Why do we pray for him in defiance of the Amidah?”
A low murmur rose through the crowd and the rough scrape of shoes against the pavement seemed to underscore the rabbi’s words. The hot knot in Allina’s chest doubled.
The rabbi raised his hands in appeal. “Does the Amidah call for our enemies to be subdued and crushed, or simply the evil they do? This is the question. Looking to the Talmud, we can find an excellent example that illuminates the answer.”
He put on his glasses and read from the paper in front of him:
There were certain hooligans who resided in the neighborhood of Rabbi Meir, and they caused him much misery and anguish. Once, he prayed for mercy regarding them, so that they would die.
Rabbi Meir’s wife, Beruriah, was outraged and said to him: “What makes you think such a prayer is permitted? Is it because the verse states ‘Let sinners cease from the earth?’ But the word as it is written here is not chotim, the Hebrew word for sinners. Rather it is chataim, meaning that which causes one to sin.”
His wife continued to scold: “You should pray instead for the sinners, so they will understand their sin and repent. Then there will be no more wicked people.” And Rabbi Meir prayed for them, and they repented.
The Rabbi lifted his shoulders and grinned. “A smart man knows the greatest wisdom comes from his wife’s lips.” The room erupted in chuckles.
“I pray tonight for the cessation of sinning,” he added, “not the destruction of the sinner. Men are not evil, though they may perpetrate evil acts. I won’t add to that evil with my own hatred.”
The rabbi looked at Karl before he turned to Allina. “Remember, also, that in the midst of this evil, we have true friends, some from unexpected places. Friends who have already transported our children to safety.”
Murmurs rose in the crowd again, and sobs.
“Every act of courage is an answer to a prayer,” Rabbi Guttmann continued. “We can see the Lord’s hand in these actions. I ask you to remember each simple act of grace and have faith.”
The rabbi lifted his arms and the congregation prayed again. Allina closed her eyes, allowing her mind to settle as the soft murmurs floated around her.
The prayer ended, and a velvety stillness enveloped the room. Allina lifted her hands to her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. There was a peace and an ease inside of her that hadn’t been there since before Uncle died. The knot in her chest was gone.
She turned to Ursula, who gave her a sturdy hug. Allina relaxed into her plump arms and the familiar scents of bread and apples, onions and spice. These were the scents of her childhood, of Badensburg, of Aunt Claudia, and, for the first time since she’d come to Hochland Home, they brought comfort instead of pain.
Karl’s arm came around her shoulders and he steered her toward the cellar steps, where the rabbi waited.
“I’m glad you attended tonight,” he said. “Karl’s told me about the work you’ve done at Hochland Home and the work that lies ahead. I predict you two will do great things together.”
“You’re very kind, Rabbi,” Allina answered. “I hope you’re right.”
“Come back whenever you wish. You’re always welcome here.” He winked at Karl and chucked him on the shoulder. “This one’s a most uncommon man, don’t you agree?”