Page 125 of Hell to Pay
“You marry me, of course.” He was looking straight at me now, his voice urgent. “There’s a new U.S. law coming out this week, the War Brides Act. The captain told me. He thought I’d be interested, and he was right. As long as I can get permission from my CO to marry—which is a bit of an obstacle, sure, for guys trying to marry Germans or Japanese, but I can’t imagine it’s insurmountable—we get married, and all these troubles are over.”
“Oh,” I said faintly. “But?—”
“What?” Joe asked. “Look, I know it hasn’t been long, but it hasn’t been short, either. I met you eight months ago, and I’ve seen you almost every day for months now. You’re—I’ve never met anyone so fine, that’s all. This wasn’t how I was planning to say this, but I love you, and I want to marry you. And you love me, too. I know you do. I couldn’t feel like this unless you loved me. This is right, Daisy. If life is forcing our hand a little, so what? That doesn’t make it the wrong choice.”
Dr. Müller said nothing, just sat there. And I couldn’t think what to say.
“Whatever the problem is,” Joe said, “tell me. It’s going to take some time to get permission anyway, but at least we’ll have a plan. At least we’ll both know we have a future.”
I had to speak sometime. If there’d been no choice before, there was less than none now. I’d known that; it was the reason I’d gone to see him in the first place. “But you see,” I said, “thereisa problem, and I don’t know how to get past it. I don’t know if you’ll be able to get past it, either. I feel … I feel so much for you, too, but I don’t know, do you see? I don’t know if it’s right. I don’t know about love, or marriage, or … Andbefore you say any more, I need to tell you the truth. Even to try to get that position with the Army, there may be a problem. You see—” I took a breath, steeled myself, and went on. “I have only one document—myKennkarte—and it’s forged. Supplying my real document might bring up a … a problem. But maybe not, at least not for the Americans. For you, I—I don’t know. Maybe if I explain, though … maybe I can explain.”
“Daisy,” Joe said. “I’m completely confused. Justtellme.”
Dr. Müller said, “Ah,” in the satisfied tone of somebody who thinks, “Ithoughtso.”
I told Joe, “I came to see you today because I—because I—” I started shaking again and couldn’t stop. “Because I went to Mass and?—”
“Hey,” Joe said. “Hey.” He put his arms around me, right there in front of Dr. Müller, and said, “Whatever it is, you can tell me. If your father was actually a Nazi, that doesn’t mean you are.”
I reared back. “No. No, it’s not that.” I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “But I’ve known you under false pretenses, and if you’re to help me any more than you already have, I need to tell the truth.”
Dr. Müller said, “Would you like me to leave you alone while you sort this out?”
“And go where?” I asked. “We came to you, disturbing you on Christmas, because there was nowhere else, and you’re not well today, are you? Not nearly well enough to be out in this cold. And anyway, I need to tell you, too. I need the two of you, at least, to know the truth.”
“Well,” Joe said, “whatisthe truth?” He was holding onto his patience, I could tell.
I pulled out myKennkarteand handed it to him. He looked at it and said, “Daisy Glücksburg, born in Dresden. Wait—today’s your birthday. Or is it? What about this isn’t true, other than that your name is Marguerite?”
Dr. Müller said, “Ah,” again. As for me, I took out the tiny pair of scissors from my pocket and reached for the hem of the heavy coat. I cut the big, careless stitches with which I’d closed it up this morning, groped around inside, and finally pulled out a battered document.
“I carried it in my shoe for months,” I said. “My realKennkarte.”
Joe didn’t take it. “You’re a Jew, or more likely from a mixed marriage, with a Jewish mother. That’s what this is, isn’t it? It all makes sense now. Why your father didn’t serve in the military but your mother wasn’t sent to the camps, why they hid the Beckers, why you saved me. Why didn’t you go with the others to Föhrenwald, though? I’m glad you didn’t, but why not? And why wouldn’t you tell me, of all people? Also, that makes youmoreemployable with the Army. Of course it does.”
I said, “Look at it.”
He took it, finally. “Oh. That’s not it, then. And your real name is Marguerite von Sachsen. Well, the captain thought you were an aristocrat. So? What does it matter?”
“The birthdate, too,” I said.
He looked at it, looked at me, picked up my forgedKennkarte.“You’re not nineteen today.” He said it slowly.
“No,” I said. “I’m seventeen.”
He didn’t jump up. He didn’t even pull back, but I felt his withdrawal all the same. “So you were sixteen when I met you.Barelysixteen. My God.”
“Well,” Dr. Müller said mildly, “there’s sixteen, and then there’s sixteen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe asked.
Dr. Müller shrugged. “Merely that a young woman whosurvives the death of her family and friends, who spends months hiding a Jewish family’s identity and keeping them safe and finding a place to stay each night, who takes over a business and works long hours at it, is perhaps not precisely the same as a girl in America who walks to the soda fountain after school with a boy and shares a Coca-Cola with him when he asks for two straws.” Joe stared at him, and Dr. Müller said, “My wife and I used to go to the cinema on Saturday before the war. To the matinee, you know, which was less expensive.”
“How do you know all that?” I asked. “About the Beckers?”
“Dr. Becker and I became friends,” Dr. Müller said. “I had tea with him many times at this very table. He told me of his troubles under the Nazis, and of you. Oh, don’t worry.” He put up a hand to stop me speaking. “He was very discreet. He didn’t let on.”
“All right,what?”Joe asked. “What exactly is the big secret?”
