“She might have.”
“Well, we’ll never know, will we?”
We both sipped from our cups.
“Martine wanted to let you go,” Therese said a moment later, “but I convinced her that she needs you now more than ever. And I tried to convince her that they were probably always going to come for Brigitta, no matter what you said or didn’t say. They would have come for her in Innsbruck, too. Innsbruck is Austria and Austria is Germany. They would have found her there.”
“There has to be somewhere safe to take Brigitta,” I said. “If I could just get her to England, I have friends there. And from there maybe I could take her to America.”
Therese laughed ruefully. “You have forgotten we are at war with England. Listen to me, Helen. The best thing you can do right now is care for Martine and her other children. Her heart is broken. She may be angry at you right now, but she is hurting. Let her be angry with you. She has to be angry at someone. And the other children will not understand this. They will need you, too.”
Therese finished the last swallow of her tea, stood, and took her cup to the sink. “I need to go. My own children will be coming home soon.”
I walked with her to the front door. Therese reached for her lacy shawl hanging on a hook on the hall tree.
“You’ll remember what I said, won’t you?” Therese said as she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. “I mean about speaking out against what is happening. You could get yourself deported. Or worse.”
I nodded. “I’ll try to be careful.”
Therese looked past me to the rest of the house. “This home already seems different without Brigitta.”
I couldn’t summon words in response. Therese turned and left.
The next two days as the family waited for Johannes were tension-filled. Werner and Kurt quietly sorted out the sudden absence of their youngest sister, saying little to anyone. The girls, especially Hanna, dealt with it by asking questions no one could answer.
Martine managed to leave her bed for short periods, but she couldn’t bear to see the reminders of Brigitta around the house— her photograph on the mantel, her slippers by the bathroom, her artwork tacked to the pantry door. She often retreated to her roomafter only minutes with her other children, overcome by the visible evidence that her youngest daughter, who should have been at home with her, was not.
Werner had noticed his mother distraught at the sight of Brigitta’s hair ribbons on the banister and offered to put them away. Martine had yelled at him to leave them alone and then had broken down and wept for having spoken to him that way.
The hours when the children were at school were the hardest, because then I was alone in the house with Martine. The first time she had ventured downstairs, Martine told me she did not want to discuss what happened.
“I know you’re sorry,” Martine said tonelessly, “but I don’t want to hear you apologize. I don’t want to hear it.”
“What do you want to hear?” I’d asked. “What can I do for you? I’ll do anything.”
“There is nothing you can do.”
And so I had kept my distance, busying myself with the children’s needs and taking care of all the meals. Twice that first day after Brigitta was taken and three times the second, friends came by to call on Martine. One brought a bouquet of freesias, another a plate of crullers. Martine refused to see them. I had to send them away, suggesting perhaps they try again the following week.
“How is she?” each one had said, and to each I had replied, “She is devastated.”
Finally, just before dark on the third day, Johannes arrived home by taxi. The children and I were at the dining room table eating cassoulet that I had made. He came in through the front door, stepped into the narrow entry with his duffel and travel bag, and the three girls rose as one from their seats to run to him, each one talking at once about the horrible thing that had befallen the family while he’d been gone. “Brigitta is gone!” “Brigitta has been taken.” “When are you going to get her back?” The two boys stayed in their chairs, watching with pensiveinterest as their father embraced their sisters and struggled to answer them.
The man looked haggard and ill-equipped, despite the commanding appearance of his military uniform, to handle his daughters’ many questions. He turned to me, and his gaze said,Help me. I rose from my chair.
“Come, girls.” I gently nudged the girls back to their places. “Let’s allow your father to sit down and have his dinner, too, and then he can answer your questions.”
Johannes looked both grateful and terrified as the girls led him to his seat. He noticed right away that at the other end of the table, Martine’s chair was empty. I dished him up a plate of cassoulet and brought it to him. As I was retaking my seat, Martine appeared in the doorway to the dining room. She had apparently heard the commotion of her husband’s arrival.
Johannes sprang from his seat and rushed to his wife, pulling her to his chest. Martine was like a rag doll in his arms. She closed her eyes against the strength of his embrace, as if needing to steel herself against feeling the intensity of it.
“I’m so sorry about all of this,Liebling,” he said softly. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Can you get her back?” Martine asked flatly. I noticed with alarm that she hadn’t asked when he’d get her back, but whether he could.
Johannes took a step back to look at his wife, his hands resting on her shoulders. “I came home as soon as I could, Martine.”
“But can you get her back?” Martine said again, the same way.
