Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(56)
“Heil Hitler,” the commandant said.
“May I help you find something, Herr Jaeger?”
“We shall see.” Herr Jaeger paraded around the shop, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. He peered at each shelf as if inspecting troops for any irregularity or breach. It was his calm that unnerved Sophie. Always watching with those sharp eyes. Sophie could imagine him sitting in the woods for hours, waiting for a buck or doe to drop their guard and step into the clearing. She could practically feel him taking the shot.
With the flick of a finger, Herr Jaeger lifted the cover of a book of poems.
“Do you like poetry, Herr Kommandant?” Sophie asked. Her heart was beating very fast.
“Soldiers have little time for poetry, Fr?ulein.” He let the cover drop and fixed her with that gaze. She felt like prey in his sights. “But … I do not see Mein Kampf.”
Sophie could not answer. Her mouth had gone dry. She wished her father were here to answer instead of her.
“Surely, such an important book should be here, hmm?”
“Yes, Herr Jaeger. We sold the last copy yesterday. More will come soon,” Sophie lied. “It is very popular, of course,” she added.
Did he believe her? It was impossible to tell.
“You are not at the BDM meeting today?”
“My mother has been ill. I am needed in the shop.”
“But surely, preparing yourself for your duty to the Reich is important?”
It was shaped as a question but it was not a question.
“Duty is always important, Herr Jaeger. Duty to country and to family.”
“Mmm.”
“May I help you find something else?” Sophie said with a polite smile.
The commandant took a last sweeping look around the shop. “I have what I need,” he said. “I hope your mother recovers soon.” He snapped his arm into salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Sophie did not raise hers. “Good day to you, Herr Jaeger.”
* * *
By mid-June, Paris had fallen to Germany. The Nazis had rolled their tanks down the Champs-?lysées while Parisians fled just ahead of them pushing wheelbarrows of whatever they could save. In Kleinwald, life went on. The newspapers carried reports about the boys who’d gone off to fight. Commendations. Victories. Injuries. Deaths. There was grumbling in town when Rolf Veidt was killed in battle. The notice in the paper, written by his grieving mother, did not end with the common patriotic phrase Died for the Führer but instead the pointed Died for the fatherland. Mostly, people blindly accepted these new inconveniences of war: They went to work. Hung the wash. Listened to the radio. They complained about the weather and their knees. They told themselves it would all be over soon. People just went on being people and Sophie didn’t know if this was good or bad.
The police had great power now. They no longer needed a warrant for a search, they only needed suspicion—and there was a great deal of suspicion to go around. One Tuesday, they surrounded the bicycle of a student delivering newspapers. The newspapers were harmless, only the local paper. Still, the police questioned him—to whom did he deliver his papers? Were any of the people suspicious? Did they take other papers? Days later, Sophie was in the shop reading in that very newspaper about a man who had been pulled from a train in Leipzig for carrying a briefcase of forged passports and birth certificates. Just outside of Kleinwald, a farmer and his wife had been arrested for hiding a Jewish family in their attic. The family, the farmer, and his wife were marched into the forest at rifle point. They did not come back out.
There were rumors about the forest. About things done in the dark of night. Disappearances. Enemy soldiers and saboteurs. Sophie promised her mother she’d be careful, but in truth, she’d risk any danger for another letter from her prince, her precious Nobody.
My Dearest Nobody,
Yesterday, the Gestapo came for the piano teacher, Herr Ohlsen. I was standing on Hauptstrasse with my ration card. Mother had sent me out to see if they might have butter. I miss butter dearly, and sometimes, I chide myself that there is around us war and death and I could waste a moment on missing the glory of butter sunk deeply into soft, warm bread. But I confess that I do. I suppose you must think me terrible now.
The men pulled Herr Ohlsen from his house. He had been beaten. I could see the bruise purpling around his left eye like a poisonous flower. Already, it was swelling shut. He was barefoot, still in his robe, his hair sticking up as if it had been electrified. I wished I had had the kindness of a comb to afford him at least that small dignity. He was always so smartly dressed, never a hair out of place. Next, they dragged out his housemate, Herr Bauer. He was naked except for the blood streaking his pale chest so that one could be forgiven for thinking he wore a red shirt. The blood came from a great gash across his scalp. Herr Bauer was too injured to resist and only moaned as they pulled him by the arms into the street. Herr Ohlsen cried out, “Why are you doing this? What crime have we committed?” until one of the officers smacked him hard across the mouth. Two of his teeth flew to the street and his mouth filled with so much blood I was afraid he would choke on it. After that, he did not speak again, and the officers loaded both men into a wagon and carted them away. Later, I heard Frau Schrieber say that they were lovers and that such men should not be allowed to live, let alone teach children.
I have not been able to keep my thoughts from Herr Ohlsen’s last words: “What crime have we committed?” No one, not even Frau Schrieber, has provided a satisfactory answer.