After the Train Read online

  I think about going to see Hans. Hans works for his father, who manages a hotel in town, and Hans is making what seems a small fortune by carrying travelers’ luggage up and down stairs. “I smile a lot,” Hans said. He gives Kurt and me a huge grin as a sample. “No matter who they are, I tell them the hotel is honored to have such important guests. I pretend to mistake the women for movie stars and the men for important politicians. I get huge tips.” I think of telling Hans, but he says whatever comes into his head, and he would blurt out my story the first chance he gets. I decide to talk to Kurt.

  Kurt is working in the market, where his father is a butcher. He tells Hans and me how he is instructing the owner of the market on better ways to run his business. The Niehl family lives in the upstairs of a small house near the Lindenplatz. Herr Niehl is a jolly man, and when I go with Mother into the meat market where he works, he always has a friendly greeting and a little joke. Kurt’s mother is more reserved. Kurt says she misses her family in East Germany. Visiting back and forth isn’t allowed.

  I tell Kurt I want to see him for a few minutes outside. Gustav is in the kitchen, busy at the stove, a dish towel tucked in his belt. There is the smell of walnuts. He pulls a cake out of the oven. Since Gustav has moved in with the Niehls, the whole family has gotten fatter.

  Frau Niehl says, “Gustav insisted on making a Nusstorte. You can take some home with you when you get back. Don’t go far now. Dinner is nearly ready.”

  Kurt and I head for the path that runs along the river. A flock of migrating ducks drifts down onto the river without a splash. They are like messengers from some wild and distant place. I imagine being an explorer traveling to the Arctic or maybe the Antarctic.

  Kurt says, “The ducks will be gone by morning. Someone will shoot them. You can’t blame them. At the shop they have a terrible time trying to find meat to sell, and a roasted duck is plenty tasty.”

  He sighs. But I can’t tell whether the sigh is for the fate of the birds or for a longing to taste one of the ducks. I want to tell Kurt what I have discovered, but now that I am with him I, can’t bring myself to give away my secret. He will think I have taken leave of my senses. I clear my throat. “I just read this strange story,” I say.

  “What strange story?” Kurt asks.

  “This boy found out he wasn’t who he thought he was—that he was adopted.”

  “What do you mean? Are you making up one of your weird tales?”

  It’s true I like to make up weird tales. I made up a great story about inside-out creatures whose insides were all on the outside. It was really disgusting. Another one I invented was about how gravity doesn’t work anymore and the whole world is littered with all the stuff that doesn’t fall down but just floats around in the air.

  “No, it’s a real story,” I say. “I read it in a book. The boy has nightmares about a woman. One day he sees some letters and a picture. When the boy sees the picture, he recognizes the woman from his nightmare. It’s his Geburtsmutter, his birth mother. He realizes he’s adopted.”

  “How could he be sure the woman in the picture was the same woman?”

  “She doesn’t just look the same, she feels the same.”

  “How come you know how he felt, and how come you came all the way here at dinnertime to tell me something you say you read somewhere?”

  “I’m just saying what was in the story. He saw some letters that suggested that his parents weren’t his real parents.”

  “So why doesn’t he just ask his parents?”

  “He doesn’t want to upset them. Suppose he’s wrong? It would be awful if he accuses them of not being his parents. They’ll think he’s out of his mind and probably never forgive him.”

  “He can look for his birth certificate,” Kurt says.

  “With the bombing during the war, a lot of stuff like that has been lost.”

  “I know. When we escaped from Gross Methling, in East Germany, we had to leave all our papers behind. Anyhow, why should you worry about some boy in a story?” Kurt gives me a suspicious look.

  Quickly I say, “I don’t know. It was just kind of interesting. I guess thousands of kids lost their parents during the war. That boy has new parents, and they’re good parents, so it’s no big deal.”

  Kurt says, “When you’ve got something besides stories from some crazy book, come and see me.”

  By now we’re back at the Niehls’ house. Frau Niehl wraps up three slices of Nusstorte, and I carry them home, eating only a small bite from each piece.

  SIX

  THE NEXT DAY at work my head is still dizzy from finding the woman’s picture and trying to make sense of it. I can’t get used to myself as someone else, someone I didn’t know and don’t know how to know. I think about asking my father, but I’ll have to confess to reading the letters. Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what he says.

  I want to escape the puzzle and decide to spend the evening doing my assignment. I head for the library with my notebook and ask the librarian, Frau Kaiser, if she can find me some information on Claus von Stauffenberg.

  “Claus von Stauffenberg,” she says. “A good man who came to an unhappy ending. Let me see what I can dig up for you.” She bustles about and returns with a stack of old newspapers and magazines. “There are some tasty bits here,” she says, and hands me the bundle as if it were a plate of delicious candies.

  I turn over the papers, chew my eraser for a bit, and plunge in. I learned long ago that nothing is as scary as a blank page, so I fill it up with the first thing that comes to mind: my wish to find good people in Nazi Germany. Stauffenberg, I learn, was born to an ancient and aristocratic south German Catholic family. I do the arithmetic and figure out he would be forty-eight now. He grew up with his two brothers, Alexander and Berthold, in a sort of castle in Jettingen, a little town in Swabia. I look up the town on a map. Jettingen is only a short distance from the town of Ulm, where we lived when I was little and where Mother waited out the war. No wonder Father knew about Stauffenberg. He must have been a legend to everyone around there.

  Stauffenberg was tall—six foot three—and handsome. He was brilliant in school, wrote poetry, and could speak fluent Greek and Latin. He read every book he could get his hands on, but he was no bookworm. He excelled at sports, was crazy about horses, and even rode with Germany’s Olympic equestrian team. He was going to be a musician or an architect like my father, but he finally decided to follow the family tradition and become a soldier. Because of his love for horses he joined the cavalry.

  During the war he fought with the German army: in the Sudetenland (the western part of Czechoslovakia), and in Poland, France, Russia, and Africa; but all the while he despised Hitler and especially the Nazi Party’s paramilitary SA troops. Kristallnacht was a turning point for Stauffenberg. On that night the stores and homes of Jews were destroyed, their glass windows shattered. Jews were dragged out onto the streets and humiliated. Stauffenberg was horrified at what Hitler was doing to the Jews. His brother, Alexander, was married to a woman with Jewish grandparents, and Stauffenberg had many Jewish friends. As early as 1938 he was plotting against Hitler.

  He thought that because they were serving under Hitler, he and his fellow soldiers were fighting and dying for a dishonorable cause. He said he was “hungry for honor.” He believed that God had assigned him the mission of getting rid of Hitler, but it was no easy job. Hitler kept changing his headquarters, and giving out information on Hitler’s whereabouts was punishable by death. Stauffenberg himself couldn’t get close to Hitler. Impatient and frustrated, he asked friends of his who felt as he did, “Is there no officer in the Führer’s headquarters capable of shooting that beast?”

  In April of 1943 he was serving in North Africa with the Afrika Korps when his vehicle was strafed by British fighter-bombers. He lost his left eye, right hand, and two fingers of his left hand. After he recovered from his injuries, he was promoted and made staff officer to the commander of the reserve army. In his new pos
ition, he knew, he would at long last have a chance to be in the same room with Hitler. Stauffenberg decided the time had come. He said, “I’ll kill him myself with my three fingers!”

  On July 20 he flew to meet with Hitler at Wolf’s Lair, one of Hitler’s retreats. There were 80,000 land mines encircling Wolf’s Lair to protect Hitler from anyone trying to steal into his headquarters. Hitler never imagined that it would be one of his own officers who would try to take his life. In his briefcase Stauffenberg had two bombs. Using specially made pliers because of his injured hand, he armed one of the bombs by breaking a capsule with acid in it. In less than half an hour the acid would eat its way into the fuse and set off the bomb. Once Stauffenberg broke the capsule, there was no going back. In the meeting room he placed his briefcase under the table just where Hitler would be sitting, explaining that because of his injuries in Africa, his hearing was bad and he wanted to be close to Hitler so he could hear all the Führer had to say.

  Stauffenberg arranged for one of his coconspirators to summon him to the phone once the briefcase was in place. He left before Hitler entered the room. The plan was that as soon as he knew Hitler was dead, he would fly back to Berlin, take over the radio transmitters and police stations, and organize a coup against the Nazi government. He wanted to work out a conditional surrender with the Allies. He didn’t want just to get rid of Hitler, he wanted to destroy the whole Nazi regime. When he was a short distance from the meeting room, he heard a huge explosion. A dead man was carried out on a stretcher with Hitler’s coat over him. Stauffenberg was sure the dead man was Hitler.

  At once Stauffenberg flew to Berlin and announced, “The swine is dead.” He began to arrest the Nazi leadership, including his own superior, General Fromm.

  Hitler wasn’t dead. He had been protected from the blast by the heavy oak meeting table. Perhaps someone had also moved the briefcase. The man carried out under Hitler’s coat was not Hitler. Hitler’s uniform was in shreds and one eardrum had burst from the blast, but he was still very much alive and the war was still on. After surviving the explosion, Hitler bragged, “I am indestructible!”

  Hitler vowed a terrible vengeance. He ordered the Stauffenberg family exterminated down to the last member. Stauffenberg was executed that very day. After he was buried, Hitler had his body dug up and burned, and the ashes scattered to the winds. More than five thousand people thought by Hitler to have some connection with Stauffenberg were arrested and tortured. More than two hundred were executed. Hitler insisted on watching some of the executions himself. Both Stauffenberg’s wife and one of his brothers were sent to concentration camps. His other brother was strangled to death slowly. Almost all the Stauffenbergs’ close relatives were imprisoned. The Stauffenbergs’ five children were placed in foster homes and given new last names.

  I read and reread every word, but I can’t discover what happened to the children.

  Pencil in midair, I stop reading. Some of Stauffenberg’s children were just toddlers. Could I be one of those children? There is my nightmare and the picture of the mysterious woman. Hasn’t Father mentioned Stauffenberg himself? Is he trying to tell me something? When Father refuses to make me go to the Protestant church on Sunday, is that because I am Catholic, like the Stauffenbergs? I love Mother and Father, but how proud I would be to find that I belong to the aristocratic Stauffenberg family! How honored I would be to be related to that hero.

  Hastily I finish my assignment and run into the library bathroom. For the second time I find myself staring into a mirror, wondering who I am. This time I’m trying to see if I resemble Stauffenberg. I am of medium height and Stauffenberg was six foot three; still, I am only thirteen and haven’t reached my full height. I have to know the truth. I decide I can’t wait another minute. I head for St. Mary’s, where Father went after supper to meet with Pastor Heuer over some construction problem that has come up.

  He looks pleased to see me. “One minute, Peter, and I’ll be right with you.” I shift from one foot to the other while Father and Pastor Heuer bend over the blueprints of the church and mumble about this and that. At last father follows me out of the church. It’s nearly nine o’clock, but in the long June evenings the sun is still above the top of the row of old merchant houses. I like walking down the main street with my father. Lots of people know he is the architect working on St. Mary’s. I love him and I’m proud of him, but guilty and ashamed as it makes me feel, I’d be prouder of being the son of Count von Stauffenberg.

  Mother says you can see through me like a pane of glass, and it must be true, for after giving me a brief look, Father says, “Peter, is something bothering you?”

  I keep my head down, concentrating on kicking aside the maple tree seeds that have spiraled down onto the sidewalk. “Father, you know those nightmares I used to have, and I would cry out and wake you and Mother up and Mother would get so upset?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. But you don’t have those nightmares anymore. Why do you bring them up now?”

  “I still have them, only not so often and I don’t tell you because I’m not a baby anymore, and besides, I saw how much they worried Mother.”

  Father looks troubled. “You say you still have the nightmares?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I was rummaging around in Mother’s dresser. I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought there was something you and Mother hadn’t told me, some secret. I saw your letters to Mother and hers to you.” My voice gets hoarse and I feel my face grow red. “I saw what Mother said about taking a great chance and how maybe she shouldn’t have. She worried that you wouldn’t approve. There was a picture. The picture was of the same woman in my nightmare.” I stop talking because Father’s face is stormy.

  Roughly grasping my arm, he pulls me toward an iron bench. “Sit down.” He shoves me onto the bench and settles down beside me. “Peter, you had no right to go through your mother’s things. It’s inexcusable to read private letters.”

  “I guessed you had some secret, but you would never tell me what it was. Now I know I’m right.”

  Father puts his hands to his face, then quickly takes them away and glances about to see if anyone is watching. The street is deserted except for a large tabby cat prowling among the shrubbery, searching for a bird. “You’re right, Peter. We have not told you the truth. Your mother was very much against it and I went along with her wishes. If you went to her as you came to me just now, bursting with your story of reading the letters and worst of all trying to connect the woman in the picture with the woman in your nightmares, I tell you honestly, Peter, it would break her heart. I promise I will talk with her, but give me a few days to think of how I will do it.”

  “Can’t you tell me now? I won’t tell her I know.”

  “No, Peter. Hard as it may be after what you have seen, you must trust me.”

  “Can I ask just one question, Father?”

  “Just one, but then the subject is closed until I am ready to discuss it with you.”

  “Am I related to Claus von Stauffenberg?”

  “Stauffenberg! Whatever gave you that idea? Certainly not! Now, I have answered your question. Not another word on the subject.”

  Father appears shocked at my question, but I can’t tell whether I am very wrong, which I refuse to believe, or whether I have hit upon a truth Father will not admit. Maybe he is afraid the Stauffenbergs will take me away. I promise not to say another word to him or to Mother, but I hatch a plan. I have no intention of waiting for days or weeks or years to find out who I am, and I didn’t believe Father when he said I am not related to Stauffenberg. I am sure he is just trying to put me off.

  After dinner I sneak some good writing paper from Father’s desk and a picture from our photograph album of me taken on my fifth birthday holding a pet rabbit I had been given as a present. I have no address for the envelope, but surely everyone around the area of Jettingen will know the Stauffenberg family.

  Dear Frau von Stauffenberg,
r />   I want to tell you how much I admire your husband. He is a great hero and you must be very proud of him. I am sorry to trouble you and this might be a shock, but I could be a long-lost member of your family. I know that your children were taken from you and the children of your husband’s family were taken from them. Although my parents won’t tell me where I came from, some things they have said make me think I might be a Stauffenberg. I am a thirteen-year-old boy who grew up near you and who doesn’t know who his real parents are, although I have very nice parents now. I am sending you a picture of me so that you or someone in your family can recognize me. I would appreciate hearing from you as soon as possible.

  Peter Liebig (von Stauffenberg?)

  I stuff the letter into an envelope and, before I lose courage, run to the mailbox and drop it in. It’s nearly dark now, but I find Hans and Kurt under a streetlight. We walk along the darkened streets planning what we will do on the weekend. I feel bad, knowing that if I go and live with the Stauffenbergs, I might not see Hans and Kurt again. I tell myself that I will send them train tickets and comfort myself with thoughts of going to meet them at the station in a big black Mercedes—and maybe with a chauffeur driving.

  SEVEN

  I TOSS AND TURN all night. When morning finally comes, the bedding looks like a squirrel’s nest or a dish of noodles. As I dress, I imagine the Stauffenbergs seeing my letter, recognizing me, being excited, and sending me the fare to come and join them. My summer will be spent in their castle getting to know my real family. When I finally come downstairs, I look at my mother and try to guess if Father has said anything to her about my discovery, but she looks just as she always has and warns me I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.

  In the early morning as Father and I walk to the church together, the summer day is still cool. Mist covers the ground. As the sun warms the earth, the town gradually appears through the mist so that it looks as if it has been newly made. As we walk along, I keep hoping Father will say something about my nightmare and the woman, but he doesn’t. Instead he uses the walk to work to tell me all his problems. Crucial construction material has not been delivered, and what has been delivered is not what was ordered. A workman is drinking on the job. Father is having an argument with the pastor of the church about how to place the pulpit. I guess that he is using a list of problems to evade what I really want him to talk about.