Early the following morning, Johannes kissed his children good-bye and called for a taxi. When it arrived, he instructed me to keep calling Am Steinhof to inquire about visiting hours. He would continue to write letters from his posting. He would appeal to ranking officers who had known him for years, knew Brigitta, knew what a sweet and happy child she was, and ask them to intercede on the Maiers’ behalf.
And then he left.
•••
Each day after Johannes’s departure seemed endless. I waited to hear good news either from Johannes by telephone or directly from Martine. No news came. Every day was the same.
The first week of June, fourteen days after Brigitta had been taken, Martine was at last told by a staff nurse on the children’s ward at Am Steinhof that she could see her daughter the following afternoon. But as she readied to leave the next morning, there was a phone call. Brigitta had come down with pneumonia and could not have visitors.
For a week, Martine called and begged to be allowed to see her sick child. She called Johannes’s unit incessantly to plead with him to intervene until he told her she had to stop. He was goingto be officially reprimanded if she did not. That would not help Brigitta.
Twice Martine drove to Am Steinhof to beg to see Brigitta. Twice she was turned away. Because, she was told, her little girl was too sick for a visit.
I could only watch over the older children and pray. Martine did not want my help and would barely look at me.
Martine’s parents came from Innsbruck to cry with their daughter and comfort their other grandchildren. They offered to take them all back to Innsbruck when their visit was over, but Martine would not be parted from any more of her children. After four days, Martine’s parents left, sad and worried for their daughter but unable to get her to change her mind.
I took long walks to find a measure of solace and to have time away from Martine. I’d often find myself in front of Brigitta’s school—the last place I’d been with her. I had braided her hair that day, had walked her to school while we counted squirrels and pigeons, had told her to have a good day, had waved good-bye.
On the eighth day since we’d been told Brigitta had taken ill, Frau Pichler saw me from the window of the school and gave a slight wave. It seemed to be a wave of farewell, though, and not hello. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Brigitta would never be coming back to Sonnenschein Grundschule, that I would never step inside it again to collect my sweet girl for home.
She was never going to leave that place she’d been taken to. They were going to keep her there forever, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Only a few days later, on a humid day in late June, and the last day of school before the term break for the remaining Maier children, Johannes arrived unexpectedly in the early afternoon. His face was wan and his countenance that of a grieving man.
“Where is Martine?” he said to me in a voice empty of strength.
The spinning world seemed to teeter to a stop. “What has happened?” I said. But I could tell by the look on his face and by the sudden splintering of my heart within me. I already knew why he was home from the war in the middle of the day. I knew before he answered me.
“The pneumonia was too much for our little girl,” Johannes said, his eyes suddenly rimmed with silver. “She is with God, Helen. He will watch over her now.”
I knew in my soul it was true. Brigitta was dead. But still I whispered the word: “No.”
Then I said it louder. Then I yelled it.
Johannes turned from me to find his wife.
I dropped to my knees on the rug on which Brigitta and I had worked on puzzles, played games, read stories, sipped hot chocolate.
I covered my face with my hands and wept.
30
JANUARY 1948
The last time I traveled to Oakland was long before the Bay Bridge had been erected, and the drive combined with a ferry ride had taken more than an hour. But now as I cross over the glittering water, Oakland lies ahead as if it is San Francisco’s cozy next-door neighbor.
I find Fairbrook Children’s Home easily enough after turning south from the bridge and making my way to a part of the city where fruit trees had once been as plentiful as the houses and buildings and streets are now. The home is located on one of these streets, flanked on either side by houses that had clearly been built after it. The three-story building is of wood and stucco and trimmed in creamy brown. A two-story residence is connected via a breezeway. From the curb where I’ve parked, I can see a fenced backyard and a small playground of sorts, empty at the moment of any children.
I step out of the car, walk up to the entrance, and ring the bell. A woman about my own age answers.
“How do you do?” I say cheerfully. “My name is Miss Calvertand I’d like to speak to someone in management, if I may.” I hope I sound professional and confident, and I must be successful, for the woman doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
“If you’re from the county and have a child to bring, I’m afraid we’re full,” she says. “I don’t expect we’ll have an opening for several weeks, if that.”
“No, I’m not from the county.”
The woman looks at me as if to assess me, glancing at my face and noting my graying hair. “I don’t suppose you’ve come about adopting one?” she says skeptically.
