Hans’s musings were interrupted when Heidi stood up and clapped her hands. “All right, children. Time for bed.” There were groans and cries of disappointment, but when Klaus got up, they immediately stopped complaining.
“You don’t have to say good-bye to Uncle Hans now,” Ilse said. “We’re all going to the train station tomorrow to see him off. So just tell him good night now.”
Heidi was nodding. “And, Miki, no more cake.”
“But Mutti, I’m helping Onkel Hans. He can’t eat it all.”
“That’s right, Heidi,” Hans said with a grin. “I need help.”
Heidi snorted softly. Anna shook her head. “You are not helping these mothers very much here, Hans.”
Inga couldn’t help but laugh. “I think Onkel Hans will be fine, Miki.”
Her eyes grew wide. “No, Oma. He needs me.”
Her father came over. “Kiss him good night, Miki.”
Pouting, she did so, but when Hans set her down and gave her an affectionate swat on the bottom, she promptly went to the back of the line of grandchildren. As Klaus scooped her up, she let out a howl, extending her arms in Hans’s direction. “Save me, Onkel Hans. Save me!”
How could he resist something like that? He started to get to his feet, but Heidi warned him off with her eyes. “No, Hans. We’ve got to be up early. She needs to get to bed.”
“But that is what uncles are supposed to do,” he protested. “Save children from their ogre parents.”
As Hans took his other nieces and nephews into his arms one by one and bid them good night, he found it harder and harder to speak. How soon would he see them again? He had missed so much. Annaleise was now attending Herr Holzer’s school. Kristen had helped her mother and grandmother cook supper tonight. Klaus Jr. and Gerhardt were already helping with the milking.
He turned to watch Anna, standing beside Rudi. They were holding hands. The roundness in her stomach was noticeably larger than when he had arrived two weeks before. Would he be back when the baby was born? He had not the slightest idea.
As the last of the family shut the door behind them, Hans’s father slowly got to his feet and turned to Inga. “I’m quite tired too, Schatzi. I think I’ll go up to bed.”
Hans’s mother went over and kissed Hans Sr. on the cheek. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, dear.”
“Gute Nacht, Papa. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He waved a hand and shuffled off. Inga watched him go up the stairs, not moving until she heard their door open and shut. Then she came over and sat down beside her son.
“He’s not doing well, is he, Mama?” Hans asked.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Her face, however, revealed more than her words.
Hans decided to change the subject. “Isn’t our little Miki a package?” he said. “She is such a little imp but so absolutely adorable.”
“Well, she adores her Onkel Hans. She’s going to miss you a lot.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss her and the rest of the kids.”
”Do you really have to go?” But then she shook her head quickly. “Never mind. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask that.”
“I do, Mutti. I need to be at the War Ministry first thing Monday morning. My two weeks are up then.”
“I know all of that,” she replied, her mood downcast, “it’s just. . . .”
“What?”
“Do you have enough money, Hans? Be honest with me.”
“I do, Mutti. I’ve still got about seventy marks.”
She reached into her apron pocket, withdrew a thin sheaf of bills, and held them out to him.
“No. I’m fine. Really.”
“It’s from Vati, too,” she said. “He said to tell you we will not take no for an answer.”
Hans nodded. “Danke. It will help if the Ministry is its usual inefficient self and my check isn’t ready yet. Now, what were you going to say?”
She was suddenly studying her hands. “I was hoping that we all might go to church tomorrow before you leave. It is the last Sunday of Advent.”
“I know, but . . . I have to be at the Ministry first thing Monday. And with the train schedules so unreliable, I can’t wait for a later train.”
“And what if your check isn’t there on Monday? Do you think you could make it back here in time for Christmas Eve? It makes me sad to think of you being alone on Christmas.”
He had to look away. “I don’t think so, Mutti. “It’s. . . . The trip takes so long. And I have to start looking for a job. I . . . I just don’t see how I can.”
Guilt washed over him like a wave, so he looked away. How could he tell her that Emilee had invited him to spend Christmas with her and her family?
Deciding it was time to change the subject, he suddenly had an idea. “Wait. Papa’s going to church? That’ll be the day.”
Her eyes never left his. “He goes every Sunday now. We all do.”
“Really?” Then the implication of that hit him. He leaned forward. “Have they. . . .”
She shook her head. “No. In fact, when we saw the doctor in Munich in mid-November, he said there’s no sign that the tumor has returned.”
“But you don’t believe it.” He didn’t make it a question.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just know that. . . .” She looked away. “I’m worried about him, Hans.”
“So am I. I’ve been surprised how little energy he has. And his color isn’t good.”
There was a quick bob of her head. “But you being home has been so good for him, Hans. So good. He’s happier than he’s been in months. Years.”
“As am I, Mutti.”
“And you have no idea when you’ll be back?”
He shook his head. “I hope soon, but I have to get my discharge pay. Then I’ve got to find work. And I also want to go the University of Berlin and see if I can get my scholarship restored.”
“Oh, good, Hans. That makes me so happy. But you won’t start there until the fall, will you?”
“I . . . I just don’t know, Mama. I’ve thought about coming down to Munich to look for work. I know that unemployment is bad everywhere, but Berlin seems to be hit particularly hard.”
“Munich would be wonderful.”
They both fell silent. After a moment, Hans had another thought. “Which church do you go to?”
“The parish church, of course. Papa doesn’t have the energy to go to Oberammergau any longer.”
“You mean our church? The Catholic Church?”
“Yes.”
“But . . .” He stopped, not sure what to say.
“But what?”
“I thought you were a Mormon.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling. “Yes, I’m still a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or the Mormon Church, as people call us. But the nearest branch of our Church is in Munich. So I attend mass here with Papa on most Sundays. When I go up to visit with Paula and Wolfie, Paula and I go together to the little branch there.”
“And your God doesn’t care that you attend a Catholic church?”
She laughed merrily. “No, I think my God, as you call Him, is not easily offended. Actually, I think we may both have the same God.”
Then Hans had another thought. “I heard that the missionaries had to leave when war broke out.”
“Yes. They all returned to America, except for a few that were native Germans. But I got a letter from Elder Reissner a few months ago. I sent it on to you. Did you not get that, either?”
Hans shook his head, disappointed.
“He’s married now, but he said he was going to come back to Germany after the war. He specifically said that he wants to see you again.”
“I would like that.”
“The branch president in Munich—that would be the equivalent of a parish priest—and his wife come down and visit me every month or two.”
“Really? From Munich?”
??
?Yes. We in our Church believe that we have an obligation to watch over one another and help people in need. They often bring me food.”
He cocked his head. “And you take it?”
“Of course. It would be rude of me not to.” She smiled, almost shyly. “But we’re doing well here on the farm. Better than a lot of others. So I always send them back with something for the other members of the branch. A brick of cheese or some butter. In the summer, fresh vegetables or fruit.”
To Hans’s surprise, this made him want to cry. It came out so simply, without any sense of it being a sacrifice. “And I’ll bet,” he finally managed, “that typically they go back with more than they brought, right?”
She didn’t answer, which was his answer. Hans got to his feet. “Well, dearest Mama, I need to pack. And you need to get some sleep too.”
Inga stood up and came to him, putting her arms around him and holding him close. “Thank you, Hans. Thank you for coming home.”
“No, Mama, it is I who needs to thank you. This has been wonderful. I’m sorry that I didn’t answer you letters sooner. Really sorry.”
“I guess there is no way you could be back for Christmas?”
“I would love to, but it all depends on the War Ministry.” He was glad her head was pressed against his chest so she couldn’t see his face. The moment he had his check, he was on a train to Pasewalk. “Uh . . . if I can, I’ll come. But don’t count on it.”
“And will you bring Emilee with you?”
He jerked up, staring at her.
“Do you really think I am that naive?” Inga clucked, shaking her head. “I assume that it was Emilee that you called from the telephone exchange in Oberammergau.”
“Mama, I—”
She laughed at his expression. “You’re in Graswang now, son. Not in Berlin. Here, everyone knows what’s going on in your life.”
She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’d better go see to Papa. Good night, Hans. We’ll have a good breakfast before you go.”
As she reached the stairs, he could see the weariness in her gait, and the guilt became too much for him. “Mama?”
She turned.
“My train doesn’t leave until noon. What time is church?”
Her eyes widened and suddenly filled with tears. “Nine o’clock.”
“We’ll have to go straight to Oberammergau afterward.”
A hand came up to her mouth. “Would you do that for Papa?” she whispered.
“And for you, Mama. And for you.”
December 23, 1918, 6:35 a.m.—Ministry of War, Mitte District, Berlin
Hans was in a foul mood as he approached the dark shape of the War Ministry once again. His train hadn’t made it to Berlin until after 3:00 a.m. After washing up in the toilet, Hans had found an empty bench in the train station and offered to pay the only porter on duty five Pfennige if he would wake him precisely at 5:40.
And now, here he was once again, staring at the building he was coming to loathe almost as much as he did the army itself. He stopped dead as he approached. There was no line outside. No guard handing out tickets. The sidewalks around the Ministry of War were completely empty. There was not a soul anywhere in sight.
He stood there for a moment, uncomprehending. Behind him, up the street about a block away, a milk cart rattled loudly as it made its rounds. Here and there in the apartment buildings and businesses, lights were on and smoke was coming from chimneys, but the Ministry was dark, silent, and utterly deserted.
Had he somehow gotten his days mixed up? Could it still be Sunday? But that was ridiculous. He had been in church yesterday morning with his family. This had to be Monday. Thoroughly baffled, Hans moved forward, trying to make sense of it. And that was when he saw a large placard taped to the inside of the main door.
NOTICE:
All offices of the Ministry of War are closed for the holidays.
Offices will reopen after New Year’s at 8:00 a.m.
Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.
Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.
Hans groaned and swore as he read it again. Then he smacked the door hard with his gloved fist. The glass rattled back at him. Nothing else changed.
Cursing his luck, cursing the army, cursing Frau Hessler—she probably did this just to spite him—cursing whatever gods there might be in the heavens, he spun around and started on the half-hour walk back to the train station.
7:08 a.m.—East Railway Station, Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg District, Berlin
As Hans walked through the main doors of the station, pushing his way through the outgoing rush of people coming into the city center for work, he suddenly stopped right in the middle of the rush as a thought hit him. People shot him dirty looks as they jostled their way around him. “Get out of the way, Hohlkopf,” an older man in a business suit snarled at him.
“Blockhead yourself,” Hans tossed back over his shoulder as he started forward again. That sent him straight into a woman about Emilee’s age, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gave him a venomous look and muttered something under her breath. “And Merry Christmas to you too,” he snapped. But he did start angling his way off to the side to get out of the press. Once he was clear, he stepped behind one of the pillars and stopped to collect his thoughts.
On the walk back from the Ministry, he had fumed and cursed and railed against this newest development. Now, as he looked up at the schedule board and the large clock above it, he realized that he had another problem. There was a northbound train at ten, so he was in luck.
When he had called Emilee, he had warned her that the government bureaucracy might bog him down for the better part of the day. So he had told her not to expect him in Pasewalk until that night. Now, with a ten o’clock train, he would be there by one thirty or two o’clock. But Christmas was only two days away. The chances of Emilee being home at midday were small. She would be out buying food or doing some last-minute shopping for presents. Hans didn’t find the idea of sitting in the house trying to make conversation with Heinz-Albert for several hours highly attractive. So he headed for the telephone exchange. He hoped it was still early enough that she would be home.
Fishing her letter from his inside jacket, he found her number and walked over to the small telephone exchange in the far corner of the station.
It took about four minutes before the phone in his booth rang. The operator’s voice told him she was putting his call through.
For a few moments, Hans was afraid no one was going to answer. But on the sixth ring, a male voice answered. “Hallo!”
“Uh . . . hallo. Is Fräulein Emilee Fromme there, please?”
A long pause, then, “Who is calling, bitte?” It was Heinz-Albert, the younger brother.
“This is Sergeant Eckhardt. Sergeant Hans Eckhardt.”
A soft grunt, then, “Einen Moment.”
He heard a door open, and then the voice called out, “Emmy. Telefon.”
Footsteps, then her voice come on. “Hans? Is that you?”
“Guten Morgen, Emilee. How are you?”
“Oh, Hans. I am so glad you called.”
“Well, it’s good to talk to you too, Emilee. Uh . . . I’ve had a slight change of plans and—”
She rushed on, not hearing him. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t call before I had to leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yes. Things are so mixed up here. I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to do Christmas dinner.” His shoulders sagged. “Oh.” What did I do wrong now?
“Ernst and I are leaving for Königsberg in about twenty minutes.”
“What? Again?”
“Yes. I am so sorry. I didn’t know how to reach you. I called your family in Graswang, but they said you left yesterday.”
That brought him up straight in a hurry. “You talked to my family?”
“Yes, to your mother. I left them a message for you in case you called them.”
There was a sinking feeling
in the pit of his stomach. “What kind of a message?”
That took her aback a little. “That we couldn’t do Christmas dinner.”
Putting his hand up to his eyes, he let out a slow breath. So now, Mama knows that I lied to her. Wonderful!
Hans?”
“Yeah. I’m here. I’m . . . I understand. I’m disappointed, of course, but you do what you have to do.”
“We tried to put it off until after Christmas, but. . . . Well, let me explain. You know how Ernst and I went up to Königsberg to get my mother’s home ready to sell?”
“Ja, I remember.”
“Well yesterday our land agent called to say he’s found an interested buyer who has made a solid offer on the house. This is wonderful news, but they want to take possession immediately. No later than January 2nd. Earlier if possible. So that means we’ve got to go back and get all of Mama’s stuff out before the first of the year.”
“I see.” Yet another setback.
“We arranged for a truck, but then it fell through.” She hesitated a moment. “That would have been perfect. I was even thinking that if you didn’t have to go right back, I might impose on you to come to Königsberg with us and help us load the truck.”
“Really? I could do that. I would love to do that.”
“I knew you would say that. Then, late last night, Ernst got a call from a friend of his who lives not far from Pasewalk. He runs a wholesale butcher shop and owns his own truck. Ernst had asked him earlier if we might borrow his truck for a few days. He said no, of course, because he uses it every day. But last night, he called to say that since he’s pretty well sold out of all the meat he had for the holiday, he’s going to close shop and visit his family in Hanover this week. So the truck is available until Sunday . . .” she paused for a moment for effect, “and he has sufficient gasoline ration to get us there and back. We’ll have to pay him, of course, but. . . .”
“That’s wonderful, Emilee. What a lucky break for you.”
“It’s a little miracle, actually.”
“And I’ve got good news too. The Ministry is closed until after New Year’s Day, so I’m at the train station. My train leaves in an hour and half. I can be there by two or three. Then I can go with you.”