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“Where are they from?” I ask. Johann spoke to them in German, so they aren’t originally from France.
“Oskar”—he points at the barn—“Dieter, and I grew up together in Austria.” Johann’s tone is somewhat stiff, a newly erected wall now between us. And I feel, once again, the sorrow at the loss of his friend Dieter, who was executed for desertion.
“How did they end up in France?”
“Several months before Hitler invaded Poland, Margrit’s father became worried. He knew Hitler hated Jews and was a dangerous man. He didn’t predict the annexation of Austria to Germany, but he did know it wouldn’t be safe for them to stay there. Margrit’s parents begged Oskar and Margrit to join them. They escaped the only home Sonja had ever known.”
“Why France?”
“Because they thought it would be safer here.” There’s a challenge in his voice, as if he’s expecting me to tell the Gestapo he’s hiding a Jewish family. Expecting me to do whatever I can to protect my father and myself, regardless of what it costs anyone else.
“We all thought the same thing until Pétain sold us out to Hitler.” The bitterness behind my words is neutralised in my soft tone. “How long have they been in the barn?” How long has Johann known about the hiding space?
“I brought them here this evening. I discovered the trapdoor under the bales of straw a few weeks ago.” He levels a warning gaze at me. He knows exactly what the storage cellar was used for prior to his arrival at the house. He would have to be an imbecile not to piece everything together once he discovered the camp bed and the few other amenities in there.
“My father has nothing to do with it. Please believe me.” I maintain eye contact with him, praying it is enough for him to see the truth. At the same time, I know I have revealed I’ve been involved in something that will get me tortured and killed if the Nazis find out.
But why should he believe me? He doesn’t trust me. How could he?
Silence settles over us like soot, the uncertainty of Johann’s next move smothering my breath. I count the seconds in my head as I wait for him to respond. One. Two. Three.
“I believe you.”
He might say that, but the wall between us is still there, fully fortified. Neither of us can afford to trust the other, but we don’t have any choice. Too many innocent lives are at stake.
His words don’t bring me a sense of relief. If anything, the tension in my muscles increases.
I nod, a truce between us, an acknowledgment we both need to trust each other. For now, anyway. “They must be hungry. I can get them some food.”
“I’m sure they would appreciate that. Thank you.”
I leave and return a few minutes later with all the food I can scrounge up. Most of it is what Johann provided. If not for that, I wouldn’t have much to give the family.
I enter the barn to find his three friends sitting on a bale of straw. Johann introduces them to me.
Sonja, who cannot be more than six years old, is barely awake, her eyes half-closed. She’s leaning against her mother, who has her arm around her. Sonja clutches to her small chest the teddy bear Johann gave her, as if the toy gives her an inner strength none of us can imagine.
Margrit brushes her hand over her daughter’s hair. The soothing touch is the same one Mum used whenever I was scared as a young child. But there is a monstrous difference between a thunderstorm and the nightmare Hitler has inflicted on the Jews.
My heart aches for everything Oskar’s family has been through and for everything they still have to face. “I’ll get you some blankets to keep you warm.”
“We don’t want to be a bother.” Exhaustion slopes Margrit’s frail shoulders, saps the glow from her face I imagine was there before the war.
I crouch in front of her and take her hand. Her skin is cold and dry and rough. “It’s no bother. Whatever I can do to help, I will try.”
When I return to the barn a short time later, I am dressed and carrying blankets and hand-stitched quilts. The sun will be peeking above the horizon soon. There’s no point in me trying to go back to sleep.
Sonja has fallen asleep in her mother’s arms. Even in her sleep, the little girl looks worried. She should be spending her waking hours playing and laughing and learning. Instead, she’s spending them in hiding and fear.
“You need to rest,” I tell Oskar and Margrit. “You can stay in the hiding spot”—I avoid Johann’s gaze—“while we figure out how to get you to safety.”
“Thank you,” Oskar says. “We’re indebted to you.”
My lips slide into a sad smile, and I attempt to shift it into something more optimistic. But all I can think about is what the Jews in Europe are going through, all because of the hatred of the Nazi party and the misguided beliefs of its supporters. Allaire is concerned with how Christian wants to add communists to the Cashmere network, communists who share the German anti-Semitic views. Is there really any place where Oskar and his family will be safe?
The anti-Semitic views aren’t isolated to Germany. England has plenty of people who share the same horrendous beliefs. I’ve witnessed men and women look down their derisive noses at their Jewish neighbours. Heard stories of secret meetings among society members who support shunning Jews.
Johann and I watch Oskar’s family descend into what will be their new home for hopefully only a few days. Johann closes the trapdoor, shutting them away from the cruel outside world.
