The Watcher by Joan Hiatt Harlow

said she had been expelled from her school. Why? What has she or her family done?”
    â€œShe’s a Bibelforscher —one of those International Bible Students who will not capitulate and renounce their religion. She will not salute our Führer, and she considers herself neutral in this war.”
    â€œI don’t care whether she’s a Bibel  . . . whatever . . . or not,” I argued. “I could use a friend my own age.”
    Adrie sighed. “It’s all right to work with her, but you should never be friends. Frau Messner seems to like and respect her. But Johanna had better yield her beliefs or . . .”
    â€œOr what? She’ll be sent away to the camps too?”
    â€œMost likely.” Adrie walked out the door.
    I went back to Johanna, who stood waiting for me.“Where would you like to start, Wendy?” she asked.
    â€œWith little Hunfrid over there behind the chair.” Once again I crossed over to the little boy who sat on the floor, his thumb in his mouth, looking totally lost and sad. I walked as far as I dared so as not to frighten him into hiding somewhere else. Then I again gathered the fuzzy toy bear in my arms and sat it on the rocking horse. “I don’t know children’s songs in German,” I whispered to Johanna. “But maybe it doesn’t matter.”
    Johanna nodded. “Just a melody and rhythm will delight him. That would be good for your first day.”
    â€œWe can name the bear Dobry, can’t we?”
    Johanna hesitated for a moment. “The officers here are very firm and determined to Germanize him.” Then she shrugged. “Well, no one is here but us, and it’s only the bear that has a Polish name. So I think it will be all right.”
    I held the bear up and asked, “Want to play, Dobry? Want to go to Boston?” I bounced the teddy bear in my lap as I sang in English a rhyme I had loved as a child.
    â€œTrot, trot to Boston? Trot, trot to Lynn.
    Look out, little Dobry, or you might fall . . . IN!”
    At the word in , I let the bear drop to the floor. I repeated the nursery rhyme several times, waiting for a reaction from Hunfrid. The first few times he only watched, but gradually he showed an interest and even began to laugh when the bear fell “in.”
    Finally I put my arms out to him. “Want to go to Boston?”
    Johanna gasped when Hunfrid climbed onto my lap.
    Once again I sang.
    â€œTrot, trot to Boston? Trot, trot to Lynn.
    Look out, little Hunfrid, or you might fall . . . IN!”
    I let Hunfrid fall holding his hands as he dropped to keep him from falling to the floor. Soon he was laughing and wanting more.
    â€œWi ę cej.”
    â€œThat must mean ‘more’ in Polish,” Johanna said, looking concerned. “We need to teach him how to say more in German, or Frau will be angry.” She clapped her hands to get Hunfrid’s attention. “Mehr! Mehr!” she said.
    Hunfrid became still for a moment. Then he yelled, “ Mehr. Mehr.”
    â€œGut! Gut!” Johanna pulled a cookie from her apron pocket and gave it to him.
    â€œGut!” exclaimed Hunfrid as he bit into the cookie. Then he looked up at me. “Mehr,” he said. “Boston.”
    Within a short time, I sang quiet songs and rocked Hunfrid as I sang. Soon he had fallen asleep in my arms. His blond hair clung around his forehead, and his adorable face melted my heart. This baby was so lost. How did his parents die? Why did the SS bring him here to Berlin? Surely, he must have had other relatives back in Poland who were worried about him and would take him.
    Frau Messner came by with a nod and a smile of approval, and I gave Hunfrid a kiss on his cheek beforeshe took him from me to another room.
    After lunch in the children’s dining hall, Johanna showed me around the nursery where the newborns and youngest babies lived. I had