I expected another warning from the woman not to interfere, but she smiled at me instead. “You are very fond of this little girl, aren’t you?”
“Very!” A surge of relief replaced the alarm from before. “She is such a sweet child. She has limitations that you and I don’t have, but she makes up for whatever she lacks physically with having such a sunny disposition. She makes every day brighter, she truly does.”
The woman continued to smile. “And you have been her primary caregiver from the beginning?”
“I have. She is my main responsibility, although I am nanny to the other Maier children as well. And I assure you I have no plans to return to the States. Ever.”
I could see that the woman was paying close attention and listening to my reasoning. This was the moment to let Fraulein Platz know that Brigitta would always be cared for.
“I could have returned to the States before the war began,” I went on, “but I chose to stay here because I am committed to this family and to Brigitta.”
The woman seemed to take in my words with great interest. She was quiet for a few seconds, as if meditating on the wonderful relationship the Maiers had with their disabled child and how lucky Brigitta was to have such a doting caregiver. Me.
“Thank you very much for your time, Fraulein Calvert.”
“We’re finished?”
“We’re finished.”
We walked to the front entry. I retrieved Fraulein Platz’s coat and handed it to her.
“Good-bye, Brigitta,” the woman said, turning to the parlor, where the child stood in the entry, leaning on the doorframe. Brigitta smiled and waved.
Fraulein Platz turned to the door, and I leaned forward to open it. “Will there be anything else?” I asked, needing last-minute reassurance that I’d done the right thing in inviting the woman in.
“No,” the woman said with an easy smile. “That was all.”
Fraulein Platz said it with such a note of finality that I sensed a great weight lifting. I’d been smart to let the woman in so that she could see the wonderful home that Brigitta lived in and the environment in which she was thriving.
“Good-bye, Fraulein Platz,” I said genially, and the woman responded in kind.
When Martine returned to the house that afternoon, I pondered the wisdom of mentioning the visit from Fraulein Platz. Perhaps it would ease Martine’s mind to know that there would be no further inquiries into Brigitta’s health issues, because there had been some sort of test that morning and she had passed it. It was finished. On the other hand, there had been rumors oflate that disabled Austrian children were being moved from smaller institutions to larger ones to centralize their care, and that some were even being moved from homes where their families struggled to keep pace with the level of care needed. Martine had asked Johannes if these parents were given a choice in the matter, and he had assured her they had been. It was for the children’s own good that they were being moved to better-equipped institutions.
But I had seen how troubled Martine had been by this. She lost several nights’ sleep until Johannes convinced her that no disabled child was being pulled from the family home without parental permission. Martine had relaxed and had begun to be herself again. Bringing up the visit from Fraulein Platz would bring all that back again—the worry, the dread, the anxiety—though now it would be misplaced. And I felt confident that I had proven that day that Brigitta was not someone who would ever bleed resources from the government. It pained me to think about what might be happening to disabled children not living the fortunate life that Brigitta had, being taken from home and sent to live in faraway institutions. It was too much to consider. I could only think about Brigitta and her safety. Which I had secured that day.
Still, I waited to see if Brigitta would mention to Martine when she returned that there had been a visitor. She did not. Johannes was away with his platoon for several weeks, and so he did not come home asking how everyone’s day was or if there had been callers to the house, which he sometimes did. So it was easy for the day to spend itself without my bringing up the visit.
The world was an uncertain place at the moment. Martine worried every day about Johannes, as there were resistance fighters in the former Czechoslovakia and in Poland and even in Austria. She had confided in me that every time someone came to thedoor, she was terrified it was with news that Johannes was dead or critically wounded.
So even when it was just me and Martine in the parlor that night, enjoying a cup of tea before bed, when I could have told her there had been a visitor that day, I believed I was doing the right thing in saying nothing at all.
26
DECEMBER 1947
The hour-long drive to the Sonoma State Home for the Infirm is easy and peaceful and takes me through undulating hills of vineyards and fruit trees and hamlet towns where it seems nothing terrible ever happens. The pastoral scene outside the car soothes me as I mentally prepare for what I might learn this morning. As much as I want to find Rosie Maras, and quickly, I hope that she isn’t still at this institution after nearly nine years. But if she’s not, I will need to win the hospital administrator’s trust if I am to find out where Rosie was discharged and what became of the child she bore.
I follow the map George drew for me, skirting Santa Rosa proper, and soon I see the institution from the road: towering redbrick walls, paned windows, gleaming white trim, and a tall perimeter fence. Two majestic oak trees flank the gate. I approach the entrance and see the sign for the facility etched in granite. I read in smaller lettering beneath it,caring for the mentally encumbered, the epileptic, the physically disabled, and the psychopathic delinquent. I involuntarilyshudder, and a chilling sense of déjà vu makes me close my eyes for a moment.
An attendant steps out of a little gatehouse and comes around to the driver’s side of the car, carrying a clipboard. I press back the unbidden memory of a different hospital, a different time. I roll down my window.
“Morning. And who will you be visiting today?” His tone is friendly and courteous.
I force a smile in return. “I’m actually here to inquire about someone who was a resident here some years ago.”
“You work for the state?”
“I don’t.”
