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  Contents

  1 Not a Dream

  2 Apology

  3 Shopping Spree

  4 Speeding on the Autobahn

  5 Deadly Dogs

  6 Promises

  7 Mean and Catty

  8 A Watcher

  9 Nighttime Concerns

  10 At the Park

  11 Barret

  12 Volunteer Assignment

  13 At the Lebensborn Nursery

  14 Johanna

  15 The Watcher from the Woods

  16 Herr Konrad Strohkirch

  17 Unhappy Sunday

  18 Three Wise Monkeys

  19 Adrie’s Plans

  20 Trapped!

  21 Lies

  22 The Dentist

  23 My Heritage

  24 The Whole Truth

  25 Grandfather

  26 Reasons to Be Happy

  27 Sick Baby

  28 The Silent Ones

  29 The White Rose Students

  30 Lady-Bird, Fly Away Home

  31 Danger Ahead for Johanna

  32 Johanna’s Ordeal

  33 Desperate

  34 The Ride Home

  35 The Three of Us

  36 Lost Time

  37 Recuperation

  38 Just the Two of Us

  39 Princess of Secrets

  40 The Winter War

  41 White Rose Members Caught!

  42 Death Trial

  43 A Gift from My Father

  44 Time to Prepare

  45 Waiting

  46 Directions for Escape

  47 Good-Bye to Frieda and Adrie

  48 Runaways

  49 Hiding in Hamburg

  50 Inferno!

  51 Threats

  52 Trouble in Copenhagen

  53 Please, Save My Dog!

  54 Good-Byes in Copenhagen

  55 Escape to Neutral Sweden

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgment and Appreciation go to . . .

  About Joan Hiatt Harlow

  Für meine sieben Schätzchen

  (For my seven little treasures):

  Richie

  Jack and Sam

  Anthony, Abigail, Hope

  Owen

  Ich hab euch lieb.

  (I love you all!)

  From Noanie

  1

  Not a Dream

  The hot July sun crept through the open window by the bed, waking me from another crazy dream. I turned the pillow to the cool side, and closed my eyes, hoping to sleep again.

  But bits and pieces of the past week flickered in my brain, nagging at me. I clamped the pillow over my head, not wanting to wake up. Not wanting to remember.

  When Aunt Adrie and I arrived here last night, I was too tired to change or bathe. So I slept in the same clothes I’d worn for days. It was a dream . . . wasn’t it? I kicked aside the quilt and looked down at my crumpled clothes. No, it hadn’t been a dream.

  I nervously twisted the ruby ring on my finger and everything flashed back rapidly—madly. Aunt Adrie gave me the ring a few days ago—when she told me the incredible truth: she was not my aunt at all. She was my mother and I was Wendy Dekker. I was not Wendy Taylor from New York State, even though I had thought I was all my life.

  I looked down at the gold ring and its deep red stone—a rare pigeon-blood ruby. In the morning sun and shifting shadows of the tree outside my window, the ruby appeared to throb like the beating heart of a frightened bird—only I was the frightened bird.

  Adrie had never asked me if I wanted to run away with her. I hadn’t been given a choice, but I did want to be with Adrie. I loved her, and I would go wherever she asked me.

  However, the next thing I knew, we were deep in the Atlantic Ocean, in the middle of World War II, with bombs exploding around us.

  Now, here I was in this big bedroom in this strange house that Adrie said was “where I belonged.” The bedroom was beautiful with Oriental rugs, high ornate ceilings, and dark mahogany furniture. It wasn’t a bit like my little bedroom back in Derry, New York.

  Suddenly my eyes filled up with tears, and I wanted to go home.

  I was wiping my eyes when the door burst open and Adrie came in. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to breakfast.” She came closer, peering at my face. “What’s this? Have you been crying?”

  “Um, oh, just a little . . . homesick, I guess.” I reached for another tissue on the nightstand and hoped she would understand and take me in her arms and comfort me. Instead she threw her hands up in astonishment. “Homesick? You are home! This room, this entire house has been waiting for you since you were born. And now, finally, you are home. So why on earth are you crying?”

  “I—I’m sorry, Adrie,” I stammered. “Everything is happening so . . . fast. I hardly know who I am . . . or where I am. . . .” I tried hard to hold back more tears.

  When she spoke again, her voice was icy. “Get this into your head once and for all. You are Wendy Dekker, my daughter. And this”—she stretched out her arms, encompassing the room—“this is your home.”

  I had no choice after all. It didn’t matter if I wanted to go back to the States. It didn’t matter if I were scared or homesick or lonesome. I opened my mouth to speak, but she silenced me with her hand, palm up, and came closer.

  “Forget the propaganda you’ve heard back in the States—lies about Germany, Nazis, Hitler, and this war.” Then, grabbing a hand mirror from the bedside table, she held it up to my face. “This is who you are,” Adrie repeated fiercely. “Wendy Dekker.”

  The girl in the mirror—with teary eyes and a runny nose—was a stranger to me.

  Adrie went on. “You are not American and you never were! You are a German girl—ein Deutsches Mädchen. Germany is your fatherland and Germany is where your loyalties lie.” She opened the curtains wide and pointed to the world outside my window. “And that city out there—Berlin, Germany—is where you—Wendy Dekker—live!”

  2

  Apology

  Was I hearing correctly? Was this the Adrie I had loved so much all my life? I shivered as my brain tried to register her words—her ultimatum to me and my obligations to her.

  Adrie is my mother.

  I am German.

  This house is my home in Berlin, Germany.

  Get used to it!

  Then Adrie spoke in a gentler voice. “Now, take a bath, get dressed, and then come down to breakfast.”

  Still stunned and hardly able to speak, I followed her to the bathroom.

  “This is your own bathroom,” she said. “Everything you need is here. When you are done, come down to the kitchen and meet Frieda, our housekeeper.” Adrie left, closing the door behind her. I could hear her footsteps on the stairway.

  The bathroom walls were white and sprinkled with blue and white roses. On the shelves were matching towels. Even the soaps were molded into blue flowers.

  I turned on the hot water, found a tube of bubble bath in the soap dish, emptied it into the gushing water, and watched it foam. The scent was Lily of the Valley—Mom’s favorite perfume—my mom in New York, that is. I never said good-bye, I thought as tears welled up again.

  I must not cry. I must not!

  I pulled off my socks and thought about the German sailor who had given them to me to keep my feet warm on the subm
arine. He was as handsome and young and just as sweet as any American boys I knew. I didn’t hate him because he was German. He didn’t hate me because I was American. Why did there have to be a war?

  Then I remembered Adrie’s words: You are not American and you never were.

  I climbed into the tub and sank under the fragrant bubbles. Maybe everything will be all right, I told myself. Maybe I’ll be fine here in my new life once I get used to it.

  I had no other choice, anyway.

  After washing and rinsing my hair, I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself in a thick white bathrobe that hung on the door. I tiptoed across the hall to my bedroom and came to an abrupt stop in the open doorway. A woman was sitting on my bed, rummaging through my backpack!

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  Startled, she jumped from the bed, spilling some of the contents of my backpack onto the floor. She muttered something in German and hastily gathered up my belongings.

  I dashed to the bed and grabbed my things out of the woman’s hands. “Why are you poking through my stuff?”

  At that moment, Adrie entered the room. “What’s going on?”

  “This woman was looking through my backpack.”

  “Wendy, this is Frieda,” Adrie said.

  “She was going through my things.”

  Frieda and Adrie began speaking to each other in German.

  “Speak in English,” I insisted angrily. “It’s as if I’m not even here when you chatter to each other in German.”

  Adrie put her hand up, telling me to be quiet. “Frieda does not speak English, and you upset her with your attitude. Now apologize, please.”

  “She should apologize to me. She’s the one who—”

  Adrie interrupted and glared at me. “Frieda has been in this household for years. I would trust her with my life. Now, apologize to Frieda.”

  I plopped into a nearby chair. “I’ve only just arrived in this household. No one told me she’s allowed to—”

  “Apologize!” Adrie demanded.

  I looked up at the housekeeper. “I’m sorry, Frieda—”

  “Entschuldigung,” Adrie interrupted. “It means you’re sorry. Repeat after me: Ent-shul-digung.”

  I struggled to say the German word then waited for Frieda’s reaction.

  She simply nodded, folded the clothes that had fallen, set them on top of the dresser, and left the room.

  “You insulted her,” Adrie snapped. Before she left the bedroom, she added, “Bring those things that Frieda left on the dresser. She will iron them up nicely, and they will do for today.”

  I picked up the one skirt I had brought. It was plain dark blue and so crumpled from being stuffed into my backpack that I was sure no one would be able to iron it smooth again. The white blouse with blue buttons that went with it was just as wrinkled.

  After my outburst at Frieda, I hated to face her. However, I followed Adrie downstairs and into the kitchen. Frieda was standing by the stove. I tried to smile as I handed her my wrinkled clothes.

  She gave me a long look, took the clothing, and disappeared into another part of the house, off the kitchen.

  It’s my first day in Berlin, and I’ve already made an enemy, I thought miserably.

  3

  Shopping Spree

  Adrie brought me into the dining room and handed me a framed photograph of a handsome German officer. “This was your father, Karl Dekker,” she said. “He was a loyal officer in the Great War. Sadly, he was badly injured and never got over his wounds. He died when you were about six.”

  I concentrated on my father’s face, trying to see similarities to myself—maybe the shape of his nose or the arch of his brows—but there were none. I was looking at a total stranger. His expression reminded me of the pictures of German officers I had seen—determined, resolute.

  I handed the picture back to Adrie, who placed it carefully on the walnut armoire. “Did he know . . . about me?”

  “Of course. He was always interested in how you were growing and what you were doing.”

  “Was he a nice man, Adrie?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a fine German officer.”

  I already knew that. In fact, that was all I knew. What I wanted to hear was what he was really like. Was he kind? Was he gentle? Was he funny? Would I have loved him? Would he have loved me?

  We went out to the terrace, where Frieda had set up a breakfast of pancakes and sausages for me. Adrie had already eaten, but she sat opposite me drinking a cup of coffee. The food was delicious and I was so hungry, I asked for seconds.

  I said, “Sehr gut, Frieda,” which Adrie told me to say and means “very good.” I hoped Frieda knew I meant it.

  Shortly after breakfast, Frieda brought the skirt and blouse to me—all beautifully pressed and ready to wear. “Danke,” I said with a big smile. I had come to realize how sehr gut it was to have Frieda cooking and ironing for us.

  Adrie went inside to dress, and I was alone on the terrace. The table was set under a maroon-and-white-striped awning that extended the length of the terrace. Although the July morning was hot, under that awning it was cool and comfortable.

  Across the street was a park surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence that stretched all the way up to the next street. The tall lush green trees of the park stirred in the light summer breeze, and the sun sent shadows through the leaves.

  Suddenly, for an instant, as the wind parted the branches and foliage behind the park fence, I saw a face! I stood up, straining to see better, but just as quickly, the branches and leaves gathered together and the face was gone.

  It must have been an illusion, I told myself. The sun and the shadows, along with moving leaves had given me the impression of a face. That was all it was—an illusion. I shivered and brushed the eerie feeling aside.

  Adrie and I took the bus to the Wertheim department store in the Leipziger Platz. The store filled up at least two or three blocks, and looked about six stories high—almost like a city by itself.

  “This is the largest department store in Europe,” Adrie told me when we stepped off the bus.

  Canvas canopies, painted with green leaves and branches, hung above the sidewalks along the wide street, concealing the sky. “From the air, this looks like a forest,” Adrie explained. “If enemy planes come, they’ll never know this is downtown Berlin.”

  “Has Berlin been bombed?” I asked.

  “Yes, we were bombed, but it wasn’t much of anything. However, it angered our Führer, and he ordered forty days of bombing Britain. The British called it ‘the Blitz.’ ”

  “Oh, I saw pictures of the Blitz in the news. The Germans bombed homes and hospitals—”

  “Served them right,” Adrie interrupted. “The British won’t be trying that again.”

  “I hope not.” After all, I lived in Berlin now.

  Once inside the store, it was easy to put the war, bombs, and fear aside. I loved to shop, and needed many things. We started with underwear, and Adrie bought lovely undies, nighties, and pajamas for me. Then we moved on to the next department and picked out shoes, then sweaters and a jacket.

  I hated the black shorts and white sleeveless shirts with black swastikas on them, and those ugly brown skirts that were the proper uniforms for girls. “I don’t want to join those groups,” I said. But then I added quickly, “Considering that I cannot speak German, the girls will know I’m American, and they’ll hate me.”

  “You’ll learn our language quickly because you are living here now. It’s the way babies learn to speak. They hear a language over and over, and before long they’ve mastered it.”

  “Isn’t there something else I can do here instead of joining a girls’ youth group?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  I was disappointed when she purchased the uniforms anyway.

  In the dress shop, Adrie bought me skirts and shirts and an adorable red-and-green-striped peasant dress with a white bodice and puffed sleeves, with a
n attached lace-trimmed apron.

  “You are a true German in this Bavarian dirndl, with your blond hair and blue eyes,” Adrie said with an approving nod. “Now we’ll have lunch at the little café on the first floor.”

  We sat in a booth and ordered chicken salad—Huehner Salat—and tea.

  “The government took ownership of this store because it was originally owned by Jews,” Adrie explained as we waited for our order. “Now all the employees and buyers are Aryans.”

  “Why did they take away this store from Jewish owners?”

  “Jews are outlawed in Germany now. In fact, it is a crime for Germans to marry Jews. You should keep that in mind.”

  “I have no intentions of marrying anyone. I’m not even fifteen yet.”

  “In any case, you are a German—an Aryan—and you need to keep that blood pure.”

  I had no idea who the Aryans were, but I didn’t need to ask because Adrie was about to tell me.

  “Aryans are a purebred race that lived years ago. Scandinavians and Germans, and some English, too, are descendants of that perfect race. Usually they are handsome, blond, blue-eyed, and fair skinned, like you.” She leaned over the table and spoke with a fervor I didn’t understand.

  “Above all things remember this: You have pure German blood for many generations on both sides of your family.” Adrie sat back and folded her hands. “Don’t ever forget. This is your heritage because you are one hundred percent German.”

  “I won’t forget, Adrie,” I promised. How could I forget when she keeps telling me all the time?

  We had so many packages, we took a taxi home. Frieda met us at the door and helped me carry my packages up to my room.

  Frieda had been cooking all the time we were gone, and something smelled delicious. We sat down at the oak table in the kitchen while Frieda ladled out beef stew into white bowls and set them on the table. Then she cut fresh bread that she had made herself, and served it on a platter next to a crock of butter.

  “Butter?” I asked, looking at Adrie. Back in the States, it was practically impossible to buy butter since the war.

  Adrie nodded. “The real thing—not that awful white margarine substitute. I am able, fortunately, to buy many luxuries. I’m rewarded well for the work that I do.” She took a slice of bread, spread it thick with butter, and placed it on my dish. “Here you go. Enjoy it.”