him and thought.
The old man had asked about the men’s positions in the front line. He must have meant the march on the Residenzstrasse. Eight years ago, after failing to take over the city in the putsch, the National Socialists had paraded through Munich, right into a waiting cadre of police officers. Her father had walked with Uncle Dolf in the front. When the shooting started, Papa had jumped in front of Hitler, his body jolting as bullets bit into his chest. Taking the shots intended for his leader.
The familiar band tightened around her chest, cutting off her breathing. Calm, calm . She closed her eyes and focused on the flow of oxygen in and out of her lungs. Three deep breaths, the old trick Hitler had taught her. Feeling the air flow into her nostrils, her chest filling.
The method worked, as it always did. She opened her eyes. The men in the front line—a famous Great War general, a former flying ace, an army colonel, a prominent National Socialist from Russia, the Munich SA leader, Hitler’s personal bodyguard, Hitler himself, and her father, Hitler’s old friend from the war.
Papa shot . . . Memories swamped her—the tickle of his mustache on her cheek when he kissed her, and the warm roughness of his hands as they patted her face.
They had been sitting on the kitchen floor, which was the only room they could afford to heat during the miserably cold November of 1923. Her father wore his Great War uniform and an armband decorated with a swastika, and they huddled beside the stove as he placed a kitten in her hands.
“It’s for you,” Papa said. “I’ve already named it Striped Peterl.”
“Papa, I love it!” She stroked its soft fur. “But what if it runs away, too? Like Little Franzl?”
A strange expression twisted her father’s face; for an instant, he looked afraid. But that was ridiculous; her big, strong father was afraid of nothing, and certainly not of the family cat that had disappeared a month earlier.
“You must be very careful with it,” he finally said. “Don’t let anyone else play with it. The cat is just for you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa. Thank you.” When she kissed him, she felt a sudden wetness on her cheeks and knew it came from his tears, and she cried, too, because Papa had promised by tomorrow night the National Socialist flags would fly from City Hall. But what he had to do first would be very dangerous.
And now, eight years later, in another house, in another part of the city, in another stage of her life, she felt like that nine-year-old child again, alone and mourning the father who would never return.
She kept his uniform on the armoire’s top shelf. When Mama had come home from the city morgue with Papa’s things, she had wanted to burn it, and toss out the battered shoes, the bloodstained woolen long johns. But Gretchen had begged to keep the shirt, the ruined cloth she had embraced over and over, sobbing because it hadn’t protected Papa at all, needing it because it had been the last garment to touch his skin.
The shirt had been tucked into a small square, and she shook it out, running her fingers over the bullet holes. So many holes, she couldn’t count them all, although she had tried. Gunpowder and dried blood, faint gray and rusty red, everywhere. Tears burned her eyes, and she started to fold it, freezing when she saw the tear in its back.
Her breath caught. A hole, on the back of the shirt, where her father’s shoulder blades would have been. A bullet hole. Gray powder had been ground into the cloth around the hole’s edges. Confused, she ran her fingers over the ragged circle, stiff with dried blood, discolored from a gun blast. Powder burns, the old man had said.
She knew the shape bullets made when they tore into something, and the grayish powder they sprayed if you fired at a close target. Uncle Dolf had taught her long ago, when she was a small child. He was one of the best marksmen in the city and believed everyone
The old man had asked about the men’s positions in the front line. He must have meant the march on the Residenzstrasse. Eight years ago, after failing to take over the city in the putsch, the National Socialists had paraded through Munich, right into a waiting cadre of police officers. Her father had walked with Uncle Dolf in the front. When the shooting started, Papa had jumped in front of Hitler, his body jolting as bullets bit into his chest. Taking the shots intended for his leader.
The familiar band tightened around her chest, cutting off her breathing. Calm, calm . She closed her eyes and focused on the flow of oxygen in and out of her lungs. Three deep breaths, the old trick Hitler had taught her. Feeling the air flow into her nostrils, her chest filling.
The method worked, as it always did. She opened her eyes. The men in the front line—a famous Great War general, a former flying ace, an army colonel, a prominent National Socialist from Russia, the Munich SA leader, Hitler’s personal bodyguard, Hitler himself, and her father, Hitler’s old friend from the war.
Papa shot . . . Memories swamped her—the tickle of his mustache on her cheek when he kissed her, and the warm roughness of his hands as they patted her face.
They had been sitting on the kitchen floor, which was the only room they could afford to heat during the miserably cold November of 1923. Her father wore his Great War uniform and an armband decorated with a swastika, and they huddled beside the stove as he placed a kitten in her hands.
“It’s for you,” Papa said. “I’ve already named it Striped Peterl.”
“Papa, I love it!” She stroked its soft fur. “But what if it runs away, too? Like Little Franzl?”
A strange expression twisted her father’s face; for an instant, he looked afraid. But that was ridiculous; her big, strong father was afraid of nothing, and certainly not of the family cat that had disappeared a month earlier.
“You must be very careful with it,” he finally said. “Don’t let anyone else play with it. The cat is just for you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa. Thank you.” When she kissed him, she felt a sudden wetness on her cheeks and knew it came from his tears, and she cried, too, because Papa had promised by tomorrow night the National Socialist flags would fly from City Hall. But what he had to do first would be very dangerous.
And now, eight years later, in another house, in another part of the city, in another stage of her life, she felt like that nine-year-old child again, alone and mourning the father who would never return.
She kept his uniform on the armoire’s top shelf. When Mama had come home from the city morgue with Papa’s things, she had wanted to burn it, and toss out the battered shoes, the bloodstained woolen long johns. But Gretchen had begged to keep the shirt, the ruined cloth she had embraced over and over, sobbing because it hadn’t protected Papa at all, needing it because it had been the last garment to touch his skin.
The shirt had been tucked into a small square, and she shook it out, running her fingers over the bullet holes. So many holes, she couldn’t count them all, although she had tried. Gunpowder and dried blood, faint gray and rusty red, everywhere. Tears burned her eyes, and she started to fold it, freezing when she saw the tear in its back.
Her breath caught. A hole, on the back of the shirt, where her father’s shoulder blades would have been. A bullet hole. Gray powder had been ground into the cloth around the hole’s edges. Confused, she ran her fingers over the ragged circle, stiff with dried blood, discolored from a gun blast. Powder burns, the old man had said.
She knew the shape bullets made when they tore into something, and the grayish powder they sprayed if you fired at a close target. Uncle Dolf had taught her long ago, when she was a small child. He was one of the best marksmen in the city and believed everyone
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