Padlocked, p.5
Padlocked, page 5
Max repeated the phrases in their native Polish language.
“I don’t know why you bother with all that,” she said.
“I am learning both English and German,” Max said proudly. “Germany and Great Britain are going to join forces to rule all of Europe.”
“Hmph,” she said, her voice blending in with the whir of the sewing machine. “I imagine the other countries will have a thing or two to say about that.”
It had been this way for as long as Max could remember. He had no memories of his father, though a picture of him remained in a place of honor on the small fireplace mantle. He had been a slender man with rounded shoulders, his hair so pale that it almost appeared white. He had worked at a dairy on the outskirts of town. One day, when Max was barely two years old, his father had been kicked in the head by a cow. It had muddled his brain and speech, so that neighbors had said he’d been kicked silly. The injuries had been extensive, but he’d managed to linger for a few months before passing away.
With his father gone, Felka had become the sole provider. She had already been sewing clothes for the wealthier people in town, including Mrs. Weiss, who also owned the apartment building where they lived. After her husband’s death, she took to sewing almost every day. In the evenings, she left home to work overnight in a small factory that manufactured pipes.
She set the piece she’d been working on to the side and moaned under her breath as she stood. She placed both hands in the small of her back as she attempted to stand up straight. While Max continued to repeat phrases he heard on the radio, she crossed to the mantle and retrieved a jar. Rifling through it, she extracted several bills and ironed them out with her hand before returning the jar to its place on the mantle.
“Max,” she said, “please stop by Mrs. Weiss’s bakery on your way to work today.” She placed the bills on top of the radio. When she spoke again, she sounded weary. “Please tell her that I’ll have the rest of this week’s rent tomorrow.”
Max took the money and shoved it into his pocket.
“You’re going to be late for work, Max.”
“I won’t,” he said, though he stood and turned off the radio. He rehearsed the phrases he’d learned in English as if he were speaking to someone. He held a small, weathered English-Polish dictionary in his hands that he’d purchased from a library sale for a pittance, but he rarely opened it. It seemed like a lot of gibberish to him.
“Why do you bother with that language? You speak German and Polish. That is all you need.”
“Someday, I might speak to someone from England.”
She snickered. “They will have to come here. There is no possibility you will ever travel there.”
Max moved to the door. “See you in the morning, Mama.”
Felka followed him. As he opened the door, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Stay safe, my darling Max. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
“When you get home later, there is some cheese on the counter and leftover soup in the kettle on the stove. You’ll need to reheat it. It won’t be any good cold.”
“Thanks, Mama.” Max held the door for her as she slipped through. She did not wear a coat, though it would be chilly when she left work in the wee hours of the morning before daylight had begun to peak through the night. She’d once owned a coat, but Max suspected that she’d sold it years ago to buy food. Poland was frigid in the winter, and though she would have the sniffles all winter long, she would continue to go to work. She also did not carry a pocketbook or wallet, as she had nothing in either.
Max followed her down the steps. When they reached the street, she waved to him as she hurried off toward one end of town, while Max took a more leisurely stroll to his afternoon job in the opposite direction. He had plenty of time, as it was close, and he preferred to put off getting there until the last possible minute, as he had grown tired of sweeping the shop floors and the street in front of it about as quickly as he’d begun working there.
As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to discover a large crowd forming in front of the general store. He made his way past the people to the source of their interest. The shopkeeper had set up a television in the window and turned up the volume so everyone could hear.
It was not the first time Max had seen this television. It was the only one he knew that existed in their bustling town of Będzin. It was as sturdy and large as their dining table, a piece of furniture as well as a place to show moving pictures. The picture itself was grainy and flickering, its quality alternately improving or worsening depending on how the shopkeeper adjusted the rabbit ears. Despite the volume, the voice was muffled through the plate glass, and Max leaned in to listen more closely.
The event was the annual Adolf Hitler March of German Youth, or the Adolf-Hitler-Marsch der deutschen Jugend. The imagery was like nothing Max had ever seen before: row after row of boys in matching shirts, shorts, socks, and shoes with neat ties. They marched with their arms and hands precisely folded over their torsos. As they neared the Führer, their leader—a boy who appeared younger than Max—issued a command, and they stopped, turning their faces in unison toward Adolf Hitler and giving the Sieg Heil salute in perfect synchronization.
Hitler responded in kind, and with a slight wave of his hand, the group continued onward. Wave after wave of young boys repeated the march and salute before Hitler began to speak. His voice was low and calm, almost a monotone. Then, a few moments into the speech, he lifted his hand and punched at the air. His voice became more rapid, his movements more animated. As Max watched, mesmerized, he worked himself into a frothing, passionate, animated speech filled with rage and indignation.
The problem, he said, was the Jews. They owned everything. They owned the stores, the banks, and the cultural centers. They were a separate race, inferior to the Aryan race to which Germans belonged, and yet they prevented Germans from doing better because they controlled everything.
Several women clucked as they left their places in front of the store. They were followed by men shaking their heads. Yet, Max remained, transfixed. It was only when he realized that time was passing and he would be late for work that he managed to pull himself away from the television.
As he hurried down the street toward the bakery to give Mrs. Weiss the only money they had, he knew what he wanted to do with his life. He would not go to work at the dairy to pull on some cow’s teats, and he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life sweeping a rich man’s floor.
No. He was going to be one of Hitler’s Youth.
5
Hank, North Carolina, USA, August 1939
Hank sat at the head of the dining table, his wife beside him. She hadn’t changed much in twenty years; she was still as attractive as ever—at least to him. Her strawberry-blond hair was shoulder-length and pulled back from her face into gleaming curls meant to imitate Ann Sheridan, her favorite actress. Hank didn’t have the heart to tell her the style looked nothing like the actress, and he would have loved it just the same if it had been drooping in the rain. Her eyes were bright and alert, and he couldn’t get enough of them. Although he carried her picture with him, it was black-and-white, and he missed seeing those gorgeous blue eyes.
His gaze wandered to their eldest, Mary, who sat beside her mother and was the spitting image of her. His heart ached as he realized Mary was soon to be nineteen years old; in all his travels, she’d been frozen in his mind as nine or ten, her little hand held in his as they walked to the ice cream parlor or the general store for penny candy. As Dottie and Mary spoke about a dress Mary had seen in the store’s window, Hank’s attention roamed to the opposite side of the table, where Susanna and Ray were bickering good-naturedly. Susanna was two years younger than Mary and was more prone to live in her dreams than her older sister, who tended to be serious and mature. She also had a significant crush on Clark Gable and had the refrigerator calendar marked for the January release of Gone with the Wind. Hank imagined she’d strut around like Scarlett O’Hara for months. She already had the book dog-eared and worn and had dutifully followed the nationwide search for the movie role.
Ray was soon to reach the status of a teenager. His face was round and smooth, reminding Hank of his younger years before war and a hard life outdoors had weathered him. While Susanna read the behemoth Gone with the Wind, Ray was consumed by comics. His favorite character, like most boys his age, was Superman. He imagined himself as Clark Kent and even selected black, heavy-framed glasses like his. His bedspread contained the Superman logo, which had been challenging to find, but Dottie managed to get it for him last Christmas. Hank thought she discovered it in the Sears catalog.
“May I be excused?” Mary asked, bringing Hank back to the present.
“Yes, dear,” Dottie answered. She turned to the rest of the family. “Whose turn is it to clear the table and wash dishes?”
“My turn to clear the table,” Mary answered, “but I switched days with Ray. Buck is taking me to the county fair tonight.”
“And I’m doing the dishes,” Susanna added in a melancholy, singsong voice.
As the children rose and began clearing the table, a shaggy black-and-white dog lumbered out from under the dining table.
“Don’t give so much to Rufus that it makes him sick,” Dottie said.
“We won’t, Mama,” Susanna said with a sideways glance.
Hank rose from the table. “Care to join me, lovey?” he asked Dottie.
“I would love to.”
They made their way through the dining room into the hall, partially dominated by the hardwood stairs leading to the bedrooms, with an intricately carved railing in dark mahogany. The front door was open, as it always seemed to be, allowing the summer breeze to roll through the screen door, down the hall, and out the back screened door in the kitchen.
Dottie and Hank settled into the porch swing. Hank grasped Dottie’s petite hand. They were silent as they listened to the bullfrogs along the creek that ran on the opposite side of the road. It was after seven o’clock, and the sun was setting in a blaze of red and orange.
“Tell me why I ever left this,” Hank said.
“It was part of the deal, as I recall,” Dottie laughed. “You needed a woman who could deal with your long absences. I was the only one silly enough to agree.”
“You’ve done more than deal with them. You’ve thrived, Dottie. You’ve done such an amazing job with raising the children—”
“They’re only on their best behavior because you’re here.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short there, Dot. Raising kids all alone and working, too.”
“Well, it isn’t like I’m not getting your paycheck in the mailbox every week, you know. That pays the bills and then some.”
“Is it enough?”
“It certainly is. I work because I want something to do.”
“How’s the textile factory doing?”
“Very well. It takes me all week to put together payroll for the previous week.”
“You’re not working full-time, I hope.”
“You hope, do you?” Dottie needled him. “I’m up to 30 hours a week now that the kids are getting older. How many hours do you put in every week, Hank?”
“How many hours are in a day?” He mused. “I’m always at work.” He sighed before continuing. “I’ve been thinking, Dottie.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I think after I do this assignment in Germany, I’m quitting the overseas crap.”
She leaned forward so she could look him in the face. “You love working overseas.”
He shrugged. “I used to. And I still enjoy photography and writing. But a lot is going on in America, too, and it’s safer.”
“There isn’t much going on here right now,” she admitted. “Politicians are pounding their chests, saying we’re heading for another war, which nobody wants, believe me. It’s nice and quiet here. Days are predictable.”
A black Ford with whitewalls pulled in front of the house, and Mary stepped outside. As she made her way across the porch and down the steps, a young man with close-cropped brown hair made his way around the car and opened the door for her. “Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Mullins!”
“Hey there, Buck!” Hank answered. “Have her back by midnight, son!”
“I’m eighteen, Dad,” Mary said, rolling her eyes as she slid into the front seat.
As they pulled away, Hank asked, “Do we know if she’s safe with him?”
“Stop it,” Dottie said, slapping him playfully on the knee. “You checked him out the last time you were here, and the time before that. Buck’s a good kid, Hank.”
“Is he working now?”
“Same place he worked all through high school. But now, he’s made manager. He’s also enrolled in night classes.”
“College?”
“College.”
“Hm. Good for him.”
“So, you were saying this is your last overseas assignment? I don’t know if I believe you.”
“It is, Dottie.” Hank turned serious. “I feel like I’m getting too old for this.”
“You’re only forty-one!”
“Well, it’s not like I plan to retire, that’s for sure. But I want to come back home. Maybe the magazine can find me some assignments in the States. Even if I had to travel, I could get back home more often, and it wouldn’t take me forever to get here.”
“How long are you here for, Hank?”
“A week, ten days, tops.”
“And your next assignment?”
“A month, maybe, if that.”
“So, you’re saying you’ll be back home for good this fall?”
“Would that be a bad thing?”
“Oh, it would be horrible.” She tried to tweak his arm, but he dodged her. “I give you until spring. By then, you’ll be itching to go where the action is.” She hesitated. “No, I think the first of the year.”
“Cut it out,” Hank said, pushing the porch swing a little higher. As Dottie squealed, he wrapped his arm around her. “Hey, I have an idea.”
“Oh, Lord. The last idea you had gave us Ray.”
“Let’s go to the county fair.”
“What?”
“It’s a beautiful night. The sun is setting. The whole thing will be lit up. We can stroll around, get cotton candy, maybe I can win you a prize.”
“You know what? Stop this swing, so I can get off. You just got yourself a date.”
6
Max, Będzin, 1939
Max paused at the door as his eyes adjusted to the meeting hall’s gloom.
The sun had shone brightly just a few minutes earlier, as he’d made his way from the shop. The shopkeeper had not been pleased that Max had wanted to leave a few minutes before they closed, but Max had dutifully cleaned the floors, swept outside, and even swept into the street in front of the store. He’d walked three blocks and up two flights of stairs with an armful of groceries for Mrs. Bosko, because she couldn’t be bothered to leave her flat at the age of 97. And he’d even crawled into the darkest corners of the cellar because someone claimed to have seen a mouse escape from the fruit section into a hole by the cellar door. He suspected the customer wanted food at a discount, but the claim could have shut them down. As the lowest-ranking employee, he was a no-brainer to send after the phantom mouse. He was so pissed that he took a piss in the cellar’s back corner.
His day changed when he entered the meeting hall for the monthly meeting of Jungdeutsche Partei, the Young German Party. It was a clandestine gathering that took place each month in a different location, lest ever-vigilant but narrow-minded intelligence services discover them. Members were sworn to secrecy, their backgrounds carefully investigated. Above the surface, he was just another young Polish man at the lowest rungs of society, still living with his mother, unable to find suitable employment, too poor and academically challenged to attend college. Here, he was somebody.
Several young men, most still in their teen years, greeted him by name as he pulled his Nazi armband from his pocket and placed it around his arm. His heart soared at the two Nazi flags draped against the front wall, flanking a makeshift podium, before making his way around the room, shaking hands, joking, and making small talk. Here, he was treated like a business leader, a member of a valued society, someone to be trusted with their deepest, darkest secrets and aspirations.
“Hello, Max.” The voice was silky with a touch of mischievousness breaking through.
Max turned to find Stella Kowalska standing in the doorway. His heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he laid eyes upon her. She was seventeen years old, with ash brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders to curl around firm, round breasts. Her eyes were the color of seafoam, her lips richer than rubies. They had taken their assessments at the same time, which involved sitting under bright lights while their eye and hair colors were appraised and their noses measured, all while they were asked rapid-fire questions about religion and lineage. Both had been assessed as Nordic, the highest possible. It had taken several long months before either had been admitted, while their backgrounds were subjected to lengthy analysis.
“Stella,” he said, straightening his spine. “How nice to see you again.”
“I am waiting for you to chair a meeting,” she said with a sly smile. She brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.
“I will. I will.”
“And get a good speaker. Someone to inspire us all.”
“Oh, yes.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he stood there woodenly, a smile plastered on his face, and was thankful when they were interrupted.
“Please, everyone, take your seats,” a young man announced at the front of the room. “We have a very special speaker this evening.”
