“I see why you and Adele were friends.” I smiled tearfully.
“It was nothing,” Martha said dismissively. Then her face fell. “I wish I could have done more for her, Sofie. There were thousands of Poles camping out in the open at the border because the Reich wouldn’t let them stay but Poland wouldn’t let them in. I don’t know what happened after she left my car, but I think of her all the time.”
After that, Martha mentioned that her son knew of several other Jews in hiding. I could no longer help Mayim, but that didn’t mean I was powerless.
Not even Jürgen knew that every Wednesday I dropped some of Adele’s produce off to Martha—caring for an elderly Aryan German, just as the Reich wanted me to do. But in a layer of folded newspaper at the bottom of the basket of produce, there was always a stack of Reichsmark—as much as I could skim without arousing suspicion from Jürgen. I knew he wouldn’t protest if he knew what I was doing, but I wanted to protect him, just as Adele had tried to protect me.
I never met Martha’s son, but I knew he always visited her on Wednesday afternoons. While he was there, he’d collect the cash and pass it to Jewish friends who needed it most.
I never learned who the recipients were. It didn’t really matter. I desperately wanted to help—but I knew, deep down, that my gesture was so small as to be laughably insignificant.
Besides, the gesture was intended to do good, but in a way, it was also selfish. It was the quiet reminder I needed. It didn’t matter who I pretended to be. The Nazis could take my best friends and even my children from me—but they would not touch my heart.
“Oh, hello, dear,” Martha greeted me that Wednesday. “It’s good to see you. And hello, sweet Gisela.” Just as Adele might have done if she were alive, Martha bent into the stroller and gave my excited daughter some candy.
I set the basket on Martha’s kitchen table. She bustled around the kitchen, chatting about this and that as she made me tea.
“The strangest thing happened,” she said. “I got this letter and I don’t know what to do with it. I think it might have been incorrectly addressed. Could you take a look and tell me what I should do?”
I accepted the letter as she handed it to me—but almost dropped it when I saw the familiar handwriting.
Dear Frieda,
Do you remember me from those days as childhood neighbors in Potsdam, all of those years ago? You probably do not, so I will try to jog your memory.
There was that time when I fell and broke a bone in my wrist, and as I lay on the ground in such pain, you were so distressed that we forgot our roles somehow, and I wound up comforting you. And then one summer we wanted to swim in the creek but my brother was unwell, so my mother told him he couldn’t join us. He set fire to a cloth in her kitchen to distract her and followed us to the creek! Such a rascal back then, and he’s such a rascal today—even now that he is a husband and father.
It was his idea that I write you to let you know that I still think of you, even after all of these years. I imagine you will wish you could reply to me, but the timing of this letter is unfortunate, as I’m about to go traveling, so I won’t leave a return address for now. Life is too short—one never knows what lies around the corner, so I wanted to send you my well-wishes while I could.
If I settle someplace, I will write you again so you know where to find me. For now, just know that I am happy and well, and my life has worked out just fine. I will never forget you or your kindness to me.
Very best wishes,
Anna
Mayim! Frieda—my grandmother’s name; Anna—hers. So many references to our past together, not one of them subtle, but clever Mayim had found a way to hide her identity in such a way that no one in the world could possibly know who wrote that letter except me.
“What should I do with it?” Martha asked me innocently. I looked up at her, my vision blurred from tears, and she winked at me. “Yes, it’s clearly not intended for me. Since there’s no return address, I’ll throw it into the trash.”
But later, Martha followed me to the door, and as we embraced, I whispered in her ear, “She didn’t know where you lived. I remember she said that, the night Adele died. How did she find you? And how did you know the letter was for me?”
“I gave her my address as I drove her to the border, just in case there was anything else I could do for her. The envelope was addressed to me, but when I opened it, I was so confused to see the letter addressed to someone else. I almost threw it out, until I remembered her telling me she met you in Potsdam. Now at least we know she made it to her family. I hope that brings you some peace.”