Plus, Johannes had told me right after the annexation that he expected compliance from Martine, the children, and me when it came to anything having to do with the new regime. He did not want to be embarrassed or, worse, penalized at his army post over reports that his family or the American he’d hired had refused to comply with a government request.
“If it won’t take long.” I struck a more conversational tone. “Brigitta has class in a little while and we don’t want to be late.”
“It should only take a few minutes,” the woman said. “I have only a few questions and observations to make.”
I invited Fraulein Platz inside, hung up her coat, and ushered her into the parlor. Brigitta was seated cross-legged on the floor, still working on the puzzle. She looked up at the woman, squinting a bit to see her clearly. I was glad Brigitta did not try to rise to her feet, as getting up from a sitting position was always a little difficult for her.
“Brigitta, this is Fraulein Platz. She’s come to say hello and talk with you,” I said cheerfully.
“Hello there, Brigitta,” the woman said.
The child stared at the woman and said nothing.
Fraulein Platz turned to me. “Can she hear me?”
“Of course,” I said with a nervous smile. “But you are a stranger and she’s been taught to be careful with strangers.” Then I quickly added, “All the Maier children have been taught to be careful. The world isn’t always safe, you know.”
The woman looked at Brigitta again, seeming to size her up even as the little girl sat there with puzzle pieces around her folded legs.
“And how old are you, child?” the woman said.
“You can answer her, Brigitta,” I said when she did not answer. “She is not a stranger anymore because we’ve invited her in and shared our names. So now you know each other.”
“I’m nearly eight,” Brigitta said, a shy smile curling her lips.
“Can you stand up for me, please?”
Brigitta rose unsteadily to her feet using the coffee table as leverage. Fraulein Platz cocked her head and watched. I prayed that Brigitta would not stumble or collapse after having sat on the floor with crossed legs for so long. When she was finally standing, the woman set down her clipboard on a chair and drew closer to her. She tipped Brigitta’s face up to look into her eyes and turned her head to study the shape of her forehead and ears. Then she held up one of Brigitta’s misshapen arms, studying with a slight frown the three fingers at the end of it.
Brigitta giggled as the woman turned her arms this way and that and scrutinized Brigitta’s strangely shaped palms and missing digits.
“She can write her name and paint and tie her own shoelaces,” I said anxiously as the woman picked up Brigitta’s other arm and studied it, too.
Fraulein Platz let Brigitta’s arms drop, picked up her clipboard, and wrote for a few seconds. “And how old are your brothers, Brigitta?” she said a few moments later, not raising her gaze from her task.
“Werner and Karl,” Brigitta said, smiling wide.
Fraulein Platz looked up. “I did not ask you their names. I asked you how old they are.” The tone of her voice was neither kind nor unkind, but I felt a cold ripple of unease rush through me.
“Oh. Werner is fourteen. Karl just turned thirteen. And I’m nearly eight!”
“Yes, you told me already you are nearly eight. And can you tell me what street you live on?”
Brigitta looked puzzled for a moment. Then she cracked a little smile. “This one.”
The woman pursed her lips and started to write something.
“Perhaps if you asked her—,” I began, but the woman cut me off.
“I know you think you would be helping, but it is important that you do not interfere with the assessment, Fraulein Calvert. Thank you.” The woman turned back to Brigitta. “Can you walk across the room for me, Brigitta?”
Brigitta’s smile intensified as if this was a funny game. The little girl obliged, lurching forward to the far window in an uneven gait that I had grown used to but which now looked quite alarming. Brigitta turned and walked back.
“Thank you, Brigitta,” Fraulein Platz said. “Just one more question and we are finished. Can you tell me what my name is?”
Brigitta stared, smiling but open-mouthed. She could not remember.
But why should she be expected to? What seven-year-old remembers a stranger’s name after just meeting them? “If you were another child on the playground, she would’ve remembered your name, Fraulein,” I interjected. “It’s just the wrong question, that’s all.”
