“Emilee, I—”
In an instant, she was up on one elbow again. She kissed him quickly on the lips, cutting off his words. “Good night, Hans,” she said pointedly. “Go to sleep now.”
After a moment, he pulled her close to him and held her in his arms, his cheek against hers. But he did as she asked and said nothing more.
December 27, 1919, 4:40 p.m.—Eckhardt dairy farm, Graswang, Bavaria
Hans Eckhardt Sr. had turned sixty-two years old on October twelfth. Yet as Hans studied his father now, he realized that he looked at least ten years older than that. Inga had taken him up to Munich for his semiannual examination two weeks before his birthday. The doctor who had removed the tumor from his stomach back in the summer of 1917 pronounced him still clean of any further signs of cancer. Hans wasn’t sure he believed it. Inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, he could see his father declining. His energy levels were lower, his alertness duller, his memory less sure. Perhaps it was just old age creeping up on him, but he had always been so robust, so charged with purpose, so engaged in his dairy business. Even if the cancer wasn’t back, it had taken a heavy toll on him.
His father’s head came around. “Do we need more wood on the fire, son?”
Another discouraging sign. Hans Sr. was wearing the woolen sweater that Ilse had knitted for him for Christmas, and the room was actually a little warm for Hans’s taste. But his father was always complaining about being cold now. This from the man that for years had milked his cows in the dead of winter in his shirt sleeves. Hans got up and tossed a small log on top of the flames. When he sat down again, his father’s attention had turned to watch his three youngest grandchildren. There was a smile on his face and a look of grand serenity in his eyes. Perhaps he couldn’t always remember all of their names now, but here was the source of his greatest joy. And these three—Heidi’s youngest daughter, Miki, who would be five in February; Anna’s baby, Inga Helene, who was now nine months old and pulling herself up to everything; and his and Emilee’s own Alisa Maria, the youngest of them all—were an endless delight to him.
At the moment, Miki was “tending” the two baby girls. This was a self-assigned task. All the rest of the grandchildren were out in the south pasture making a massive snow fort with their fathers. And the women were crowded into the kitchen preparing supper. Miki had started with the fort but quickly got cold and came back into the house. When she found that Opa Eckhardt and Onkel Hans were in the living room watching the two babies—Inga Helene in a playpen, and Alisa in a wicker bassinet—Miki immediately took over.
She pulled them close enough together to sit between them and reach both babies as needed. At the moment she was a little frustrated because her attempts to mother them kept failing. Alisa kept dropping the rattle Miki pressed into her tiny fist, and Inga Helene had tired of playing peek-a-boo and was lying on her back now, her eyes starting to droop.
“Miki,” Hans called softly.
She turned, her brown eyes somber.
He patted his lap. “Lisa and Inga Helene are going to take a nap now, Süsse. Come sit with me and Opa.”
She was instantly up and came over to him but stood beside him instead of sitting. Hans put an arm around her. “Thank you for taking care of the two little ones so well, Miki. When they grow a little older, you and Inga Helene and Alisa are going to be more than just cousins. You are going to be best friends.”
She cocked her head at him and frowned. “Her name is Lisa, not Alisa.”
“Well, Tante Emilee and Opa Eckhardt call her Lisa. That’s her nickname. But her full name is actually Alisa, remember?”
“She doesn’t like it,” Miki said bluntly.
“Oh?” Hans said, suppressing a smile. “And how do you know that?”
“Because she pulls a face when you call her that.”
Hans’s father hooted. “Maybe it’s just gas bubbles in her tummy.”
“No, Opa,” she said, not happy to be contradicted. “She doesn’t like it. I can tell.”
Hans Sr. was fighting hard to stay serious. “Then I guess we’d better call her Lisa, Mausi.”
Miki put her hands on her hips and gave her grandfather a dirty look. “I’m not a little mouse, Opa.”
Her grandfather took her hand. “But Mausi is just another way of saying ‘sweetie,’ Miki.”
“But I’m not a little mouse.” And with a toss of her head, she turned and flounced away.
Hans shook his head. “What is she going to be like when she’s a teenager?”
“Absolutely adorable,” came his father’s soft reply.
4:47 p.m.
After Miki left and didn’t reappear, Hans and his father sat quietly together for several minutes. Both babies were asleep now, and when Hans turned to look at his father, he saw that his eyes were closed too. He was considering going into the kitchen to see how the women were doing with supper or going out to see how the fort was coming along, but then his father stirred and his eyes opened again. “Mama said you’re going back tomorrow?”
“Yes, Papa. Our train leaves at 10:15.”
“You can’t stay through New Year’s?”
“No, Papa. I wish we could. I’ve been gone for almost a week now, and I’ve got a couple of trucks coming in Monday morning. So we have to be back by tomorrow night. But being here for Christmas was wonderful.”
He grunted something Hans didn’t quite hear.
“But you and Mama are coming up to Paula and Wolfie’s in a few days.”
“We are?”
“Yes, for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hans Sr. said.
He had been told that, but Hans didn’t say anything.
“But what about the milking?”
Hans smiled. Some things he never forgot. “Actually, your daughters and all of your grandchildren are coming too, but Rudi is going to stay here. So you don’t have to worry about the milking or about making the usual deliveries.”
“Oh.” Hans Sr. thought for a minute. “Why didn’t Paula come down too?”
“Mama asked her to, but she and Wolfie went to Unterammergau to have Christmas with Grandma Bauer instead. I think they went back to Munich today.”
“Probably because of the smell.”
Hans chuckled. Smell was a gross understatement. A dairy farm filled the air with the smell of manure mixed with wet, rotting hay, but that was nothing compared to the stench generated by a hog farm. All through his growing up years, about once a year his family would travel the seven miles to Unterammergau to his mother’s childhood home to visit with the Bauers. By the time he was twelve, Hans absolutely refused to go with them any longer. It didn’t matter that it embarrassed his mother. It didn’t matter that his grandmother saw through his flimsy excuses. He would not go. And now the smell reminded him so much of the rot and decay of the trenches in France that he had nearly thrown up when he had gone there with his family last Christmas. He had stayed less than an hour and then walked back by himself to Graswang. Neither his grandmother nor his mother had tried to stop him, but he could see that Oma Bauer was a little hurt.
“Your Grandmother Bauer is a good woman,” his father said after a moment.
“Yes, she is. She’s had a hard life.”
“Ja, ja,” his father murmured, “sad but true.”
Josef Bauer raised high-quality, fat pigs and had never had trouble selling them to the butcher shops and restaurants in nearby Oberammergau. He was a hard worker and a pleasant enough man when he was sober. The problem was that he was rarely sober. He not only drank up any profits from the farm but often the family’s food money as well. And he was one of those people Hans Sr. called a “sullen and ugly drunk.” The only thing he’d ever really done for his family was to send his daughters to Oberammergau as indentured servants. That’s how Inga had m
et Hans Sr.
Four years ago Josef Bauer had died of cirrhosis of the liver and Oma Bauer was left a widow. Hans was in France then and only learned of it months later, but he could still remember the mixed emotions he had felt at the news. A few months later, his mother sent another letter. Hans’s Uncle Cecil—his mother’s youngest brother—and his wife, Aunt Alberta, had moved back to the homestead, and Cecil took over the hog farm while Alberta cared for her mother. The transformation that followed was truly remarkable. When Hans had gone there last Christmas, he had been astonished to see neat rows of pigsties made of tin and filled with fresh straw. The troughs were clean, the water barrels were changed daily, and the pig droppings were cleaned out once a week. The smell was still there, but not anything like it had been before.
Hans’s head came up as he realized that he had gotten lost in his thoughts. His father was watching him curiously. “What?” Hans asked.
“I may not go to Munich. It is too far to go.”
Hans shook his head chidingly. “It’s only about sixty miles, Papa. An hour and a half by train, even with the change of trains.” Hans saw the line of his father’s jaw start to tighten. “Everyone but Rudi is going. Wolfie is going to take us all to the Hellabrunn Zoo. You’ll like being with the grandchildren for that. They’re all very excited about it.”
“It’s too cold to go to the zoo.”
Hans shook his head again. “The weather is supposed to be in the high forties next week.”
“We’ll see,” he grunted, his jaw thoroughly set now.
Hans knew what that meant. His memory might be diminishing, but the stubborn streak was as strong, or stronger, than ever. He wouldn’t be coming to Munich. Not unless Inga forced him to, and Hans guessed she would not do that. Hans sighed and stood up. “I’m going to see how supper’s coming, Papa. Can I get you anything?”
He shook his head, his mind already off somewhere else.
January 1, 1920, 1:40 p.m.—Grohl residence
“Guten morgen,” Paula said as she held the door open wide and motioned for Hans to come in. After he did so she shut the door and looked up at him. “Frohes neues Jahr, Hans.”
“And happy New Year to you, too.” He looked around.
“Emilee is in feeding the baby,” Paula said. “She’ll be out in a few minutes. Your mother is resting in one bedroom. Frieda’s in another one. How did things go at the zoo?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Fine. The kids were as excited about the trolley ride as they were about the zoo. That poor trolley operator. He’ll probably be deaf for life. We couldn’t shut them up. Even Heinz-Albert was whooping and hollering. The mothers let the kids talk them into taking them back to see the elephants again, so they’ll be along in about half an hour. Ernst and Wolfie stayed with them to help. I thought I’d come and see what help you needed.”
Inga appeared in the hallway and then came out to join them. She came over and gave Hans a hug.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Paula said to Inga. “Living here in Munich, Gretl and Bruno ride the trolleys all the time, but have your grandchildren never ridden a trolley before?”
“No,” Inga replied, “this is the first time. Heidi was quite worried that Miki might be frightened by the noise.”
“Miki?” Hans exclaimed. “Not in any way. She hung out the window and waved to everybody we passed. She’ll probably be sitting on the operator’s lap on the way back, helping him drive.”
As they chuckled at that, Frieda came out and joined them too. “So is Ernst going straight to the restaurant?” she asked.
“Yes. Fritzie wanted him there by three, so it’s not worth him coming all the way back here.”
“Then we’ll save him plenty of food,” Paula said.
“Knowing Fritzie,” Hans chuckled, “Ernst will get plenty to eat before he ever leaves there.”
Suddenly, Inga spun around to Hans. “Oh! I almost forgot. I have a letter for you.”
“For me? It came to Graswang?”
“Yes, day before yesterday.”
“From whom?”
A wide smile wreathed her face. “Ein moment,” she said as she hurried into the bedroom. A moment later she returned with her purse. She set it on an end table, clicked it open, and fished inside it. A moment later she had a long envelope in her hand. “Who is it from, Mama?” Hans asked again as she waved it at him.
She thrust it out at him without a word.
He took it, examining the return address, and gave a low cry as he looked up at his mother. “Elder Reissner?”
“Ja, ja. I got a letter too. He sent this to me and asked that I get it to you.”
Hans took it from her and turned and left the room. As he exited, Emilee came out with Lisa on her shoulder, patting her back. “What’s this about a letter?”
“For Hans from Elder Reissner. He sent me one, too.”
“And I got one,” Paula said. “Day before yesterday.”
Frieda came over to Emilee and held out her arms. “Here, let me take the baby. I can burp her.”
As she did so, Emilee turned back to Inga. “So what did he have to say?”
“I’ll let you read it,” Inga replied. “He wrote some things specifically to you. But the best news is that he and Bruder Westland are coming back to Germany with their wives.”
Emilee gave a low cry of joy. “Really? When?”
“In the summer of 1921. For the Passion Play. He wants us to confirm that Oberammergau is still planning to put it on and to send them the specific dates.”
“I thought that was just talk when they said that,” Emilee said. “I never thought that they would really do it.”
“I wondered too,” Inga said, smiling happily. “But they say they are. President Schiller will be so happy to hear that they got back home safely.” Then she had an idea. “Emilee, the rest of the family is going home tomorrow. School starts on Monday, and they want to get home and get things ready. But I’m staying over with Paula until next week. We’re going to go to the branch meeting on Sunday together. Would you like to come?”
“Oh, yes, Emilee,” Paula said. “Do come with us. Each time we go, President Schiller asks about you.”
Emilee hesitated, turning to her mother. “Uh . . . I promised Mama that I would go with her to that Lutheran church that’s not far from our house.”
Frieda shrugged. “We can do that another time,” she said, but clearly she was disappointed.
“No, Mama. I promised.”
Paula looked as if she might push them a little, but Inga quickly spoke. “That’s nice,” she said. “It’s nice that you and Emilee can go together again.”
“I like it too,” Emilee said. “It doesn’t seem like Sundays when I’m not in church. And, surprisingly, Heinz-Albert likes to go too. It seems to calm him for the day.”
Frieda then spoke, surprising everyone. “Emilee has told me about your meetings, Inga, and how impressed she is with how your members take care of one another. Perhaps someday, Emilee and Heinz-Albert and I might come to one of your meetings. Would that be permissible?”
“That would be wonderful,” Inga said. “Visitors are always welcome.”
“I think you would enjoy it, Frieda,” Paula said, trying not to look too pleased. Then she returned to what they had been talking about before. “By the way, Elder Reissner sent us Brother Westland’s address too. Emilee, what if later today you and Inga and I sit down together and write a note to him and his family and answer Elder Reissner as well?”
“I would like that very much,” Emilee said.
“That’s a marvelous idea,” Inga agreed. “I’d like to ask Elder Westland if he will send us a picture of his family. I have one of Elder Reissner’s wife and children. They’re a beautiful family.”
January 14, 1920, 5:40 p.m.—Eckhardt residence
/> As Hans finished buttoning his overcoat and wrapping his scarf around his neck, he turned back to the living room, where his wife and mother-in-law were sitting together on the sofa. Frieda was holding Alisa on her lap, and Emilee was knitting something. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“No, we’re fine,” Emilee said. “How late do you think you’ll be?”
He shook his head. “Not sure. Hitler managed to convince the committee to spring for enough money from the treasury to pay for mimeographed copies of our announcement instead of handwriting them like he’s always done before. He also took out a small advertisement in the Munich Observer.”
“The Observer?” Emilee exclaimed. “Isn’t that one of Munich’s leading newspapers?” When Hans nodded, she added, “So Adolf has high hopes?”
He nodded again. “Oh, yes.”
“Do you?” Frieda asked Hans. She was not yet convinced that this so-called political party was ever going to amount to anything.
“I am hopeful. But, to be honest, I’m worried, too. Adolf convinced the committee to rent a bigger hall just in case. It’s in a cafe called the Hofbrauhaus Keller, nearer to the center of town.”
“How much bigger?” Emilee asked.
Hans pulled a face. “The room he got will seat a hundred and thirty.”
“Oh, my,” she said, frowning. “And your attendance at the last meeting was how many?”
“A couple of dozen,” he said glumly.
“And will Adolf be speaking?”
“Yes, for twenty minutes. But that was only after a major row about it in our last meeting. Herr Harrer has secured a university professor to deliver the principal address, which is fine, I guess. But when I recommended that Adolf be given thirty minutes after the professor finished, Harrer went off like a rocket. He’s a decent sort of a chap, but he considers himself quite the orator, though he is duller than a chloroform rag. I think he was hoping the committee would ask him. But he strongly believes that Adolf is not an effective orator.”
“And did he tell Adolf that?” Emilee wondered.