When I nodded, the man crouched beside Adele’s body and whispered, “Let’s get you up on the bed, Mrs. Rheinberg.”
He cradled her gently in his arms as if she were a child. Then he stretched her out on her bed and even pulled the blanket over her, right up to her chin. I started to cry again at the kindness of his gesture.
People could still be good.
I told the couple I needed to wash my face before I went home and saw my children. I let myself into Adele’s bathroom and closed the door before I turned on the light—just in case Mayim was still there. I was relieved to find she wasn’t—although I had no idea if she was hiding elsewhere. It was too risky to search for her. All I could do was pray.
There was no answer the first time I called Jürgen’s lodgings. The second time, he answered on the third ring, sounding dazed and sleepy. Without preamble, I told him that Adele had passed. I didn’t mention the Gestapo or the circumstances of her death. At first, he didn’t even react.
“Jürgen, did you hear me?”
“Did she die at home?” he asked stiffly. I was trying to be brave—for him, for Adele, for the children—but that question broke me. In a strange way, Adele had gone to meet her maker on her own terms.
“She did,” I said, and then I choked on a sob. “She died at home.”
There was another long silence over the phone. Then Jürgen said, “I’m coming home. Right away.”
“Will you be allowed to?” I whispered, a sharp edge of bitterness in my voice.
“She was a mother to me,” Jürgen said, his voice breaking midsentence. “Of course I’ll be allowed to.”
He hung up quickly after that. I’d never seen my husband cry, but I understood that he needed to, and I understood his need for privacy.
I was on the sofa later that afternoon, wrapped in Mayim’s knit blanket, waiting impatiently for Jürgen to arrive. I had a crumpled, tearstained letter in my hand. I’d fished it out of Adele’s sweets jar early that morning before the children woke.
Dearest Jürgen and Sofie,
Jürgen, you were a gift from God to me during the worst period of my life, living proof that no matter how dark the night, the dawn will always come. Raising you and being a part of your life was one of the great privileges of mine. And, Sofie, I have treasured your friendship in these past few years. Do not underestimate yourself. You are stronger than you know.
My loves, these monsters who rule our country are taking us all to uncharted territory, and if you’re reading this, it seems I have run out of days to be by your side supporting you through it. Be courageous, but also be smart.
I am grateful for every single minute I spent with you. Please tell the children their Oma adored them.
Love always,
Aunt Adele
Ultimately, we would have to burn it. But until Jürgen had a chance to read it, I could cling to it, as much a comfort object as Mayim’s blanket had become.
It had been an impossibly hard day. I’d broken the news to the children on my own, consoled them on my own. I’d tried to convince Georg to stay home, but he was adamant he needed to go to school, and although his eyes were red rimmed as he walked out the door, he hadn’t shed a tear. Even after he left, Gisela and Laura were both so demanding—I felt I’d been attending to their needs every minute of the day.
The knock at the door was unexpected, and at the same time, irritating. I just wanted to sit with my grief for a few minutes. I stuffed Adele’s letter into my pocket and dragged myself to the door, and was startled to find Lydia there.
She was holding a Crock-Pot in her hands, her expression one of intense sympathy, mixed in with some awkwardness.
“I heard about Adele and I just—Sofie, I’m so sorry. I know she was important to your family.” She extended the Crock-Pot toward me. “Soup. So you don’t have to cook your children dinner tonight.”
I took the Crock-Pot and set it on a little table inside the foyer, and then I turned back to her.
“When did you change your mind about the Jews?” I blurted. Her eyebrows rose in surprise and alarm. I was a long way past thinking straight, and that Crock-Pot reminded me that at her best, Lydia was a great friend—a woman of true kindness. But something ugly had emerged in her, and I desperately wanted to understand what had changed.
“I always knew,” she said quietly. “Don’t you remember at finishing school? I was polite to…that girl…because that was the way, but I never understood why you couldn’t see that she wasn’t like us. We had to pretend for a long time, so it was a relief to me and Karl when right-minded Germans came to power in this country.”