I thought about Jürgen’s concern about his future citizenship application and started to feel uneasy. What would even happen if Jürgen fell out of favor with the rocket program? I could only guess that our fresh start in America would end. And then what would happen to us?
My heart sank. Maybe staying out of Lizzie Miller’s way wasn’t going to be enough.
“Has Calvin said anything to you about his wife?” I asked Jürgen that night. I was washing the dishes and he was beside me, drying them with a towel. Maybe any ordinary husband and wife wouldn’t notice such routine moments in a day, but I tried to be grateful for every single one.
“Not really. He did try to apologize after the party,” Jürgen said. He reached past me to put a mug back into a cupboard and explained, “He told me Lizzie’s brother served in Europe and has never been the same. But Cal hasn’t mentioned you since, which is a little awkward, since he’d been looking forward to meeting you.” He paused. “He never said a word about that break-in business. Someone else was behind it for sure—I doubt he even knew the police were called.”
“Is he a good man?”
“He’s the manager, but I have the greater technical knowledge—there’s always a tension in an arrangement like that. But he’s kind and generous. I enjoy working with him.”
“Lizzie seems a lot younger than Calvin.”
“She does.” Jürgen shrugged. “So? You’re four years younger than me.”
“That’s hardly the same. I heard she only married him for his money.”
“Sofie,” Jürgen said, giving a startled laugh. “Since when do you engage in that kind of gossip?”
“I’ve made one friend since we came here and she warned me that Lizzie Miller has been telling the other women that you are a Nazi. That you were in the SS and ran a camp.”
Jürgen dropped the dish towel. He bent to pick it up, his movements slow.
“Lizzie Miller has been telling people that?”
“I avoided the question when Avril asked.” I hesitated, some instinct niggling at me. “It did seem more of a fishing expedition than an accusation, to be honest.”
Jürgen dried the last mug, then hung his towel up on a hook. He exhaled slowly, his expression pinched.
“I know Calvin has only seen the sanitized version of my history—Christopher told me so himself.”
“Maybe you should talk to Calvin anyway?” I suggested carefully.
“And what?” he asked bitterly, shaking his head in frustration. “Tell him his wife might be starting rumors that have a hint of truth?”
I understood the self-loathing on his face, even if I hated to see it.
“So what do we do, then?” I asked quietly.
“We have to ignore it. All of it.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he interrupted before I could. “Sofie, all of these problems started when you and Lizzie Miller got off on the wrong foot. My work situation is far too important to all of us for me to drag your personal conflict into it.”
Jürgen was right. These problems had all started with me and Lizzie at that picnic. One awkward conversation, two women getting off on the wrong foot—Lizzie not seeing our humanity, me getting defensive.
Maybe that was what I needed to fix.
30
Sofie
Berlin, Germany
1938
Jürgen missed the birth of the baby. Whatever milestone he was working toward was more important even than the birth of our daughter, at least according to Otto, who wouldn’t grant him leave. I left the older children with Adele and went to the hospital alone.
I called him after she arrived. Exhausted but elated, I told him about her delicate features, her barely there eyebrows, her wispy hair. The frustration in his tone was palpable as he promised he’d be home to meet her in a few days.
But the very next morning, Hitler annexed Austria. From my hospital bed I read a newspaper that showed photos of wildly enthusiastic crowds on the streets of Vienna, welcoming Hitler and celebrating the annexation. I stared at those photos for hours, trying to figure out if I could trust the images. Who would welcome Hitler to their nation? Surely this was some artifice invented by the Department of Propaganda.
Jürgen called the hospital to tell me his visit had been delayed again but he was sending a photographer to the hospital as a consolation prize.
“I’ll have to name her myself, won’t I?” I snapped.
“A good German name. A strong German name,” he said cautiously. I huffed impatiently. It wasn’t as though I was about to name the child Mayim, although I might have entertained that thought under different circumstances.