them. Her father had told her to mind her business, not to question or speak her opinions aloud. “You’re not in America,” he’d said, “and things are tense, uncertain here just now. You don’t want to leave a mistaken impression or—” he’d half smiled—“create an international incident.”
As nearly as Rachel could tell, she wasn’t in Germany either—not the Germany she remembered from her childhood visits. This one was covered with black-jackbooted SS and grim-faced Gestapo, awash with brown-shirted Hitler Youth goose-steppers—hard-faced,energetic, and intimidating. She knew her father wasn’t teasing; he was warning, ordering. Rachel appreciated neither. She wanted to go home.
Friday morning, September 1, dawned gray and cloudy. Rachel’s sleepy late-summer morning was sharply interrupted by Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler’s radio broadcast at seven, proclaiming that German troops had crossed the Polish frontier at four that morning, advancing in a “counterattack.”
She scanned the morning paper slipped beneath her door, but there was nothing about the invasion, making the radical reports seem surreal, more like radio theatre than reality.
Not a face in the hotel dining room an hour later registered surprise. Guests breakfasted on dark rye bread covered in sliced meat and cheese just as they did each morning, as if invading a bordering country happened every day. Waiters with steady hands poured hot drinks from steaming silver pots.
Rachel hovered round the hotel, almost afraid to venture through its front door. Luncheon was soup, salad, meat, and vegetables as usual, waiters still steady, though more reserved. By three in the afternoon Rachel felt as though she’d slipped through a rabbit hole where nothing was as it appeared. She remembered Kristine’s words about the execution of T4. “When the nation goes to war . . .”
Her father wasn’t back yet. There was no one to talk with—no one she dared talk with. But if she sat another minute, she’d crawl out of her skin. “Shopping,” she said aloud, dabbing the corners of her mouth and throwing her napkin to the table. That was something she could understand, something she could do besides eat apple strudel and dunk coffee cake and pace her hotel room floor.
She stepped into the late-afternoon throng of shoppers and workers, most walking Berlin-briskly about their business, but with faintlydazed expressions, a hint of uncertainty shading their brows. And then there was the underlying apathy . . . which she understood least of all.
Hawkers of newspapers cried out their specials with the only true emotion she witnessed: “Counterattack on Poland! Army advancing! War is on!”
Rachel could not believe such madness. Even she knew that Poland’s army was no match for Germany’s. To imagine that they had sprung first . . . she simply couldn’t buy it.
She headed for the main shopping district and the stores she knew. Surely her father would see they needed to leave immediately, to return to the US earlier than planned. Anything she wanted to take home, she must purchase today.
She wasn’t prepared for the army of curb painters. “Blackout preparations, Fräulein,” she was told. “Tonight’ll be the first. Just a precaution, these lines, to help us find our way in the dark. Our Führer will never let the enemy through.” He stood, arching his back. “But you might want to keep your gas mask handy, if you’re out tonight.”
Poland bomb Berlin? It was hard to imagine. But if Hitler didn’t withdraw his troops, Britain and France would surely join the fray by sundown. They were bound to Poland by treaty. Rachel walked faster, determined to be back before dark. She didn’t have a gas mask.
It was nearly seven when she stepped from her last store, pleased with the new season’s rich-brown and belted cardigan she’d bought at a fairly reasonable price, only slightly embarrassed that she could think of fashion when
As nearly as Rachel could tell, she wasn’t in Germany either—not the Germany she remembered from her childhood visits. This one was covered with black-jackbooted SS and grim-faced Gestapo, awash with brown-shirted Hitler Youth goose-steppers—hard-faced,energetic, and intimidating. She knew her father wasn’t teasing; he was warning, ordering. Rachel appreciated neither. She wanted to go home.
Friday morning, September 1, dawned gray and cloudy. Rachel’s sleepy late-summer morning was sharply interrupted by Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler’s radio broadcast at seven, proclaiming that German troops had crossed the Polish frontier at four that morning, advancing in a “counterattack.”
She scanned the morning paper slipped beneath her door, but there was nothing about the invasion, making the radical reports seem surreal, more like radio theatre than reality.
Not a face in the hotel dining room an hour later registered surprise. Guests breakfasted on dark rye bread covered in sliced meat and cheese just as they did each morning, as if invading a bordering country happened every day. Waiters with steady hands poured hot drinks from steaming silver pots.
Rachel hovered round the hotel, almost afraid to venture through its front door. Luncheon was soup, salad, meat, and vegetables as usual, waiters still steady, though more reserved. By three in the afternoon Rachel felt as though she’d slipped through a rabbit hole where nothing was as it appeared. She remembered Kristine’s words about the execution of T4. “When the nation goes to war . . .”
Her father wasn’t back yet. There was no one to talk with—no one she dared talk with. But if she sat another minute, she’d crawl out of her skin. “Shopping,” she said aloud, dabbing the corners of her mouth and throwing her napkin to the table. That was something she could understand, something she could do besides eat apple strudel and dunk coffee cake and pace her hotel room floor.
She stepped into the late-afternoon throng of shoppers and workers, most walking Berlin-briskly about their business, but with faintlydazed expressions, a hint of uncertainty shading their brows. And then there was the underlying apathy . . . which she understood least of all.
Hawkers of newspapers cried out their specials with the only true emotion she witnessed: “Counterattack on Poland! Army advancing! War is on!”
Rachel could not believe such madness. Even she knew that Poland’s army was no match for Germany’s. To imagine that they had sprung first . . . she simply couldn’t buy it.
She headed for the main shopping district and the stores she knew. Surely her father would see they needed to leave immediately, to return to the US earlier than planned. Anything she wanted to take home, she must purchase today.
She wasn’t prepared for the army of curb painters. “Blackout preparations, Fräulein,” she was told. “Tonight’ll be the first. Just a precaution, these lines, to help us find our way in the dark. Our Führer will never let the enemy through.” He stood, arching his back. “But you might want to keep your gas mask handy, if you’re out tonight.”
Poland bomb Berlin? It was hard to imagine. But if Hitler didn’t withdraw his troops, Britain and France would surely join the fray by sundown. They were bound to Poland by treaty. Rachel walked faster, determined to be back before dark. She didn’t have a gas mask.
It was nearly seven when she stepped from her last store, pleased with the new season’s rich-brown and belted cardigan she’d bought at a fairly reasonable price, only slightly embarrassed that she could think of fashion when
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