~ Alone and Betrayed ~
No one thought Ingrid Schmidt would speak a word. We all assumed she would just keep her mouth shut. The name “Ingrid” actually means “fair”, or “beauty”, but clearly, her parents didn’t care about any of that junk. They followed Hitler like hunting dogs, dragging their only daughter with them, who clearly had no problem doing so, as long as her stomach was full and her piggy bank overflowing.
🟌 🟌 🟌
It all happened one day in late August. The air was cool and a slight breeze ruffled the trees. I skipped along the street, coat pocket stuffed with photo strips that needed to be developed. My pride blossomed in my chest at the thought that I, the fourteen-year-old unassuming student at Whitehall elementary school. I hurried to the Muller house, knocking on the firm wooden door, glancing at the wilting flowers in the garden bed while I waited for Mrs. Muller to answer. Like us, the Mullers looked just as German as the rest of town. Most Munich citizens looked and acted the part they were supposed to play. Except for me. With my waist-length brown hair that cascaded down in waves down my back, my deep green eyes, thick lashes, and slim figure, I looked more like a Jewish young woman than a German young lady. Of course, the Nazis didn’t care. I looked like a Jew, acted like a Jew, and had Jewish heritage. I had all the proof they needed.
“Emilia?” Mrs. Muller peered out of the slit between the doorframe and the actual door. She was a cautious woman, her cropped blond hair pulled into heavy curls that bounced as she shook her head. “You shouldn’t be here. Peter will be back any moment, and you know we can’t…” She paused when a loud thumping noise cut her off. “Get!” she whisper-screamed, pushing me out of sight behind the house before I could say anything.
“Mutter, I need to go,” wined a short, stubby figure nearly out of my line of sight. Mrs. Muller scurried from the doorway, her voice traveling with her. I caught a few scattered words: “…sorry…coming soon…gotta go…”
Peter’s squeaking words came out loud and clear, though, and I made no attempt to hear it. “They’re not going to take me seriously, Mutter. I have to go now, or I’ll be kicked out!” A loud sigh came from inside, followed by a deeper voice, saying, “Clara, take him. You can finish your work later.” Mrs. Muller hurried out the door, clutching a small leather handbag and pulling on her coat as she wobbled dangerously down the stairs. Peter followed, a scowl digging into his cheeks, swinging a heavy metal lunch pail near his knees.
As they passed by me, Mrs. Muller glanced my way. I gave her a tiny nod. I would stay here until she came back.
The Mullers were funny people. Peter, their only son, had a build like a rather fat pig, and acted just like one. Sitting in his little mud puddle all day, bossing the kernels of dry corn around in their trough. It didn’t matter that they fed him and took care of him; he was still in charge.
In fact, Peter even had features that could have passed off as an animal. His blond hair lay in a straight bowl shape all around his head, and was shaved on the bottom, leaving him looking as though his head was a half-peeled orange. He had eyes that were more gray than blue, and his face was more or less the color of dough with a pinch too much flour. He was a Hitler Youth from the age of fourteen up until now, in his present eighteen years. Mrs. Muller had thrown a party for him not too long ago, to celebrate his graduation from the Youth.
Mr. Muller was also a heavy-built man, though he preferred not to say it. His hair piled on top of his head in a platinum haystack, and was greased down to one side, and one side only. His eyes were a mix of gray and green, with an odd dash of purple on the edges. He wore an odd combination of starched white shirts and loose, black cotton pants. He was one of the most trusted men in town, and was therefore trusted with the photo business.
Mrs. Muller was sweet but cautious, and could only be trusted when it came to secrets that wouldn’t put in much for her. Once, she found out that my family had been sneaking food from one of the shop owners working for the black market, and then discovered that anyone involved in the black market could get sent to jail, and anyone who turned them in got extra rations. Long story short, the Mullers received a sack of flour and some canned meat, while my brother was turned into custody.
He never came back.
I suppose we were lucky that Mrs. Muller spared the rest of us, by lying and informing the Nazis that Hans hadn’t informed the rest of us what he was doing. Still, from then on, we made sure never to peep a word to her unless we absolutely needed to. Namely now.
The Mullers were the only people in all of Munich that had a dark room. Mr. Muller was a photographer until the war began in 1939. He claimed it was too dangerous, not telling anyone he still had space in his basement where he kept the necessary supplies. Had he told us, we might have developed more evidence. We didn’t have nearly enough evidence yet. Maybe a strip or two of photos, and some handwritten letters written by soldiers or generals that we had snatched from underneath the local mailman’s elbow.
A rustle near the front of the house caught my ear. Suddenly, a girl jumped out from behind a thick evergreen tree. I squinted at her figure. Stringy blond hair, eyes and hair that were nearly translucent, beanpole body…
“Ingrid?”
She smirked. “Thought you’d never ask.” Tossing her greasy hair, she stalked toward me.
Me and Ingrid Schmidt were never friends. Never were, never tried to be. We were complete opposites, after all. I was a funny, popular girl who always had the best grades and was friends with almost everyone in school. She was closed off, and liked to hide behind people, using them to shield her before betraying them. And I had the sickening feeling that was exactly what she was doing now, only to me this time.
“What do you want?”
“Many things, Emi. Many things. Money, fame—”
“I mean right now, idiot,”
She smirked again. “Manners, Emilia. Manners. I just want to talk.”
“Yes, and I want this war to end.”
Ingrid’s face turned sour, and she scowled. “Fine. I’ll get to the point. I wanted answers. I hated this war. So I joined up with the resistance. With you.
“But I never got answers, did I? No, all I ever got were codes and riddles and little snippets of talk. Nothing ‘life changing’, if you get my meaning. You see, I only signed up for this whole job because I wanted answers. But as I said, I never got any. And I must make something in this whole situation turn to my favor in the end, don’t I? And I will, make no mistake. But, in order to win, I have to involve the Fuhrer. And so I did.”
My blood turned cold. “What did you do?” I whispered, falling back a step. Ingrid grinned, a slit of evil between her cheeks.
“What did I do? I told him, of course.”
“‘Him’?” I repeated, confused. Then it dawned on me. “You told the Nazis, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And Ingrid didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head to the side, nodding toward my house. “Yes, and they’re having a party on 31st street,” she informed me, referring to my street number.
I didn’t even reply. Just dashed down the street, not looking back. It wasn’t a far walk. Just two blocks, but I was huffing and puffing by the time I had run halfway.
As soon as I reached my street, I understood.
A blackened pit sat smoking where my house had stood. The bomb must have been big, because the hole stretched beyond our yard. It spread hot coals and ash over the houses directly surrounding ours, too. The rest of the street was filled with swarms of people – neighbors, friends, teachers – all being handcuffed and shoved into trucks and cars by Nazis.
Something caught my eye, and I turned to the sight of my own family, stuffed into a truck a couple yards from me. I wanted to run, to bang on those cars and demand my family be let go. But my mother just shook her head from the tiny barred window at the back of the truck. I would only join them.
My brother waved sadly at me from the window. My eyes glazed over at the thought of little Klaus, seven years of age, being taken to a concentration camp. And I knew, at that moment, that I wasn’t going to see him again. It didn’t matter if he escaped – which was doubtful, even with his spirit – or if he was given to some German family across the country. Even if he survived the war. He would live his own life, without me.
Suddenly, I wanted – needed, even – to rush over to that truck. To see him one last time. I ran to the tiny window, pushing my hand through the bars. My family pushed through to me, and Gunter started to cry. Klaus caught my shaking hand, twisting our fingers together. Mama swiped her own tears, before whispering in a shaky voice, “Emilia, you had better get out of here, before they catch you.” I nod, pulling away from Klaus.
Before I leave, though, Mama leans closer to me, so our faces are almost touching. I can see a tear clinging to her eyelashes, as she whispers, “Emilia, get out of this town. Get out of Germany. Don’t let this war break you. Tell our story, because we clearly couldn’t.” The truck starts to move, and Mama’s face is pulled away from mine.
“No!” I scream, racing after their receding faces. Mama’s face disappears into Papa’s chest, and I can tell that her shoulders are shaking with tears. “I love you!” My voice cracks, and I reach my hand one last time out toward them, catching up to the truck. Gunter catches my fingers, saying to me in a quiet voice, “Out of all of the children in our family, you were always the survivor. There was never a challenge you couldn’t overcome. Now go, overcome this one.”
“No!” I cry out, as my fingers slip and the truck moves faster than I can run. I ignore the pounding footsteps of the soldiers behind me as I scream, “Stay alive! For me!” As the truck disappears, I can see Papa’s head, slowly shaking back and forth.
I would never see my father again.