“My oma and mom—Christmas 1944,” said Jane.
Reba nodded to the photograph. “I can see the family resemblance.”
“That was Garmisch before the war ended. She’s never been one to talk much about her childhood. She married Dad a few years after, as soon as the military nonfraternization laws lifted. He was stationed there eighteen months with the Army Medical Corps.”
“That sounds like a good story,” said Reba. “Two people from totally different worlds meeting like that.”
Jane flicked the cleaning rag in the air. “Isn’t that the way of it?”
“What?”
“Love.” She shrugged. “Just kind of hits you—BAM.” She squirted lavender and wiped the table.
Love was the last thing Reba wanted to talk about, especially with a stranger. “So your dad’s American and your mom’s German?” She scribbled a helix on her pad and hoped Jane would simply answer her questions, not ask any more.
“Yup. Dad was Texan, born and raised.” On mentioning her father, Jane’s eyes brightened. “After the war, he put in to get stationed at Fort Sam Houston and the army gave him Fort Bliss.” She laughed. “But Dad always said anywhere in Texas was better than Louisiana, Florida, or the damned North, for God’s sake.” She shook her head, then looked up. “You ain’t got family in New York or Massachusetts or anything, right? Can’t tell by accent these days. Have to excuse me. I had a bad run-in with a Jersey pizza baker. Left a sour impression.”
“No offense taken,” said Reba.
She had a distant cousin who went to Syracuse University and ended up staying in New York for keeps. Her family couldn’t imagine how anybody could stand the cold winters and conjectured that the bitter temperature imbued itself on the people, too. Reba had only visited the Northeast a handful of times and always in the summer. She was partial to warm regions. The people in them always appeared tanned and smiling—happy.
“I’m from down south. Virginia. Richmond area,” she said.
“What’s a ’Ginia girl doing out here?”
“Lure of the Wild West.” She shrugged. “I came to write for Sun City magazine.”
“Well, shoot. They recruit that far?” Jane flipped her cleaning rag over her shoulder.
“Not exactly. I thought I’d start here and eventually make my way to California—L.A., Santa Barbara, San Francisco.” It was a dream that still made her restless with hope. Reba shifted her weight in the chair. “Two years later, I’m still here.” She cleared her throat. She was doing all the talking when what she needed was for Jane to start.
“I understand, honey.” Jane took a seat at the café table and set her lavender cleaner on the ground. “This is a border town, for sure, a transient, crossover place, but some never get to crossing. Stuck in between where they were and where they were headed. And after a few years go by, nobody can recall their original destination anyhow. So here they stay.”
“That’s quotable.” Reba tapped her pen. “But you’ve lived here awhile, correct?”
“All my life. Born at Beaumont Hospital on Fort Bliss.”
“So where are you headed if you’re already home?”
Jane smiled. “Just ’cause you’re born in a place don’t make it home. Sometimes I watch the trains go by and wish I could jump on. Watch the planes scratch the blue and wish I was inside. Mom’s always called me a daydreamer, a stargazer, a rambler—whatever I am, I wished to God I wasn’t. Dreaming doesn’t do me a bit of good.”
Chapter Two
THE LEBENSBORN PROGRAM
STEINHÖRING, GERMANY
DECEMBER 20, 1944
Dear Elsie,
With news that Estonia has fallen to the Red Army, I write this letter with mounting anxiety for our good German forces and a heavy heart for the loss of our men. The compound here at Steinhöring and all the adjacent apartments have covered their windows in black. A handful of the girls lost family members—fathers and brothers. In addition, a number of Lebensborn companions perished, one of whom fathered my own twins. Poor Cristof. I only made his acquaintance the one time last spring. He was not yet twenty-two years old, skin still soft as a nectarine. Far too young to die. It makes me furious—this continued waste of life, this warring. I understand there is no better way to die than for the cause of our Fatherland, but I curse the foreign devils that spilt Aryan blood. We will not be trampled. This will only light a fire to our communal torch and Germany will be victorious! As the führer said, “The confidence of the German people will always accompany their soldiers.” And our confidence will remain steadfast.
Instead of wallowing in despair, the Program is committed to making the upcoming holidays the most spectacular ever. I am helping to organize the decorations for the Julefest feast. Already we have a number of commended officers who have accepted the Program’s holiday invitation. Our soldiers need companionship and support now more than ever. We are foraging the local communities for whatever meats and vegetables we can procure, and I’m determined to provide good quality bread and pastries like those in Papa’s kitchen. I have yet to find a baker who can match the Schmidt recipes and feel as though I’ve swallowed hardened mud after eating the things these Steinhöring bakers make. I miss home and our family so very much.
With the birth of the twins, I have had little time to spend with Julius. I hope to do so now that the babies are in the Lebensborn nursery. I’ll only admit this to you, sister, but I worry for them. They are both smaller than Julius was at birth. I hope that is simply a consequence of sharing a womb and soon they will grow round and healthy as any Aryan child. I can’t be perceived as producing inferior offspring. Already, it has taken far too many years to conceive again. The only reason I was allowed to stay was because I proved to be a faithful daughter of the Reich.
The officers enjoy my company, though I will not and could not tell even you the things I have had to do to remain by Julius’s side at the Program. Some of these men, while outwardly dignified, have debauched expectations in the bedroom. You are a virgin, Elsie, you do not know, and I pray every night that a compassionate German man will make you a wife before a mistress. That was the hope for Peter and me. I think of our last Christmas together when he asked for my hand by giving us the kitchen cuckoo clock and placing the gold band on the wooden figurine’s head like a crown. What a glorious Christmas Day! The cuckoo chimed and out came the ring. Mutti and Papa were so proud. How simple and happy life was then.
How are the Christmas preparations coming? Does the bakery continue to have many customers despite the lack of rations? One of the girls here has family in Berlin, and she said there is barely a burnt crumb to be had. Berliners are bartering gems and gold for unleavened bread and dried pork skins. I suspect these rumors are lies spread by spies to scare the faithful. Things are in short supply here, but one can still buy a sweet cake and a stein of dark beer on any given day. What is it like in Garmisch? How are Mutti and Papa? I must write them soon. I send them my love and the same to you.
Heil Hitler,