CHAPTER ONE
July, Hamburg, Germany
Lisette knew it wasn’t her fault but knowing it and believing it were quite different things. She still blamed herself. If she hadn’t had asthma, her father wouldn’t have gone outside every evening after dinner to smoke his pipe. He would have been inside on that warm summer evening instead of sitting on the wicker glider on the porch. If he had been inside, maybe the three men would have just passed by the house and found someone else.
They lived in Blankenese, on a hillside in a house that her father would teasingly compare to a hobbit hole, a comparison which would make her mother roll her eyes. After all, it was one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Hamburg, and their home with a view of the river had cost in the millions.
Lisette knew all this because her mother repeated it whenever her father would make the hobbit hole joke.
He’d just laugh. “Bilbo Baggins was rich. Although he got his money more honestly than I did.”
Of course, her mother was pragmatic and not all that interested in the exploits of hobbits, dwarves, and elves. Lisette’s father, though, loved Tolkien, read the stories to Lisette, even though parts of them were scary. But they were German. Lisette was accustomed to scary fairy tales. In the German version of Cinderella, as told by the Brothers Grim, the stepsisters end up with their eyes pecked out by birds.
Lisette’s father was a lawyer. She didn’t know exactly what he did at his job. She did know that he was older than her mother, by almost twenty years. She did know that he had made a lot of money, enough to buy their house on the hill. She did know that he had left his high paying job when she was five and taken a job defending Turkish immigrants. He’d told her that much – said that he needed to do something to pay back.
“To pay back what?”
He’d tugged on her braid. “When you’re older.”
“I’m nine.”
“Maybe when you’re ten.”
He’d said the same thing when she was eight.
She always had trouble sleeping. Sometimes it was because of her asthma. Her mother or her father would give her medicine to breath in. Sometimes, they would take her into the shower and run hot water. Then, one of them would sit with her until her breathing eased and she fell asleep. Sometimes, though, there was no real reason that she couldn’t sleep, except an undefined dread from being alone in the dark. Many nights, after her father or mother read her a story, kissed her goodnight, and turned on the bedside lamp, she’d wait until she heard them downstairs in the kitchen or the living room. Then she’d creep out of bed and sit on the stairs, listening to the rise and fall of their voices. Most of the conversations weren’t that interesting. Some were. It was how she discovered that her mother and father bought her the presents that she thought came from Weihnachtsmann, the German version of Santa Claus, on Christmas eve.
She didn’t tell them that she knew.
It was also how learned heard that her grandmother – her father’s mother - wanted to see her, but her father had refused. Her mother and father had argued about it, but it wasn’t too serious an argument. After all, as her father had said, it was his decision, and he had a right to make about whether he wanted his own mother to have contact with their daughter. Lisette’s mother had made a little noise about the rights of grandparents, but her heart wasn’t really in it. After a few minutes, she let it go.
There really weren’t that many fights.
Except for those about her father’s job.
Her mother wanted her father to go back to the corporate job he’d left. She brought it up a number of times. Lisette remembered the night when he’d shouted that he was done with that life. It was the only time Lisette had ever heard him raise his voice
The next morning, she asked him about it. “Why do you and Mama fight over your job?”
They were eating breakfast – a pile of breads and jams, nougat cream. She drank orange juice; her father drank coffee. From the windows of the dining room, she had a view of the back yard that wasn’t so much a backyard as just a hill covered with flowers.
“Your mother is scared.”
“About what?”
“There are bad people who don’t like what I do.”
“What bad people?”
Her mother carried a pot of coffee and her own cup to the table, refilling her father’s cup before sitting down. “Tell the child, Dieter.”
“When she’s older.”
“She’s old enough.” Her mother turned to her. “Have they taught you anything about Nazis in school?”
Lisette nodded. “A little. But that was long ago.”
“There are still people who believe what they believed.”
“Enough.” Her father’s voice was rising.
“No, it’s not enough. You putting yourself in danger. You’re putting all of us in danger.”
“Not now.”
“It’s not all on you.”
“I said, not now!”
He finished his coffee and didn’t answer. Then he kissed them both and left for work.
Two nights later, when her father was smoking his pipe on the porch, Lisette heard voices. She pressed her nose to the glass of the living room window just in time to see three young men surround the wicker glider where her father was sitting. One man, wearing a white tee shirt without sleeves, glanced her way, but the room behind her was dark. While she could see his face clearly, but she didn’t know if he’d seen her. He turned his gaze away, and she noticed on his upper arm what looked like the tattoo of a square standing on a point with two checks marks emerging from the bottom. She knew they were speaking, but she couldn’t hear the words or see her father’s face. She did see her father attempt to stand, and one of the men shoved him back onto the glider.
Then the man with the tattoo lifted his hand. There was a gunshot, and her father's face shattered - along with her world.
Coming November 9, 2022.
July, Hamburg, Germany
Lisette knew it wasn’t her fault but knowing it and believing it were quite different things. She still blamed herself. If she hadn’t had asthma, her father wouldn’t have gone outside every evening after dinner to smoke his pipe. He would have been inside on that warm summer evening instead of sitting on the wicker glider on the porch. If he had been inside, maybe the three men would have just passed by the house and found someone else.
They lived in Blankenese, on a hillside in a house that her father would teasingly compare to a hobbit hole, a comparison which would make her mother roll her eyes. After all, it was one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Hamburg, and their home with a view of the river had cost in the millions.
Lisette knew all this because her mother repeated it whenever her father would make the hobbit hole joke.
He’d just laugh. “Bilbo Baggins was rich. Although he got his money more honestly than I did.”
Of course, her mother was pragmatic and not all that interested in the exploits of hobbits, dwarves, and elves. Lisette’s father, though, loved Tolkien, read the stories to Lisette, even though parts of them were scary. But they were German. Lisette was accustomed to scary fairy tales. In the German version of Cinderella, as told by the Brothers Grim, the stepsisters end up with their eyes pecked out by birds.
Lisette’s father was a lawyer. She didn’t know exactly what he did at his job. She did know that he was older than her mother, by almost twenty years. She did know that he had made a lot of money, enough to buy their house on the hill. She did know that he had left his high paying job when she was five and taken a job defending Turkish immigrants. He’d told her that much – said that he needed to do something to pay back.
“To pay back what?”
He’d tugged on her braid. “When you’re older.”
“I’m nine.”
“Maybe when you’re ten.”
He’d said the same thing when she was eight.
She always had trouble sleeping. Sometimes it was because of her asthma. Her mother or her father would give her medicine to breath in. Sometimes, they would take her into the shower and run hot water. Then, one of them would sit with her until her breathing eased and she fell asleep. Sometimes, though, there was no real reason that she couldn’t sleep, except an undefined dread from being alone in the dark. Many nights, after her father or mother read her a story, kissed her goodnight, and turned on the bedside lamp, she’d wait until she heard them downstairs in the kitchen or the living room. Then she’d creep out of bed and sit on the stairs, listening to the rise and fall of their voices. Most of the conversations weren’t that interesting. Some were. It was how she discovered that her mother and father bought her the presents that she thought came from Weihnachtsmann, the German version of Santa Claus, on Christmas eve.
She didn’t tell them that she knew.
It was also how learned heard that her grandmother – her father’s mother - wanted to see her, but her father had refused. Her mother and father had argued about it, but it wasn’t too serious an argument. After all, as her father had said, it was his decision, and he had a right to make about whether he wanted his own mother to have contact with their daughter. Lisette’s mother had made a little noise about the rights of grandparents, but her heart wasn’t really in it. After a few minutes, she let it go.
There really weren’t that many fights.
Except for those about her father’s job.
Her mother wanted her father to go back to the corporate job he’d left. She brought it up a number of times. Lisette remembered the night when he’d shouted that he was done with that life. It was the only time Lisette had ever heard him raise his voice
The next morning, she asked him about it. “Why do you and Mama fight over your job?”
They were eating breakfast – a pile of breads and jams, nougat cream. She drank orange juice; her father drank coffee. From the windows of the dining room, she had a view of the back yard that wasn’t so much a backyard as just a hill covered with flowers.
“Your mother is scared.”
“About what?”
“There are bad people who don’t like what I do.”
“What bad people?”
Her mother carried a pot of coffee and her own cup to the table, refilling her father’s cup before sitting down. “Tell the child, Dieter.”
“When she’s older.”
“She’s old enough.” Her mother turned to her. “Have they taught you anything about Nazis in school?”
Lisette nodded. “A little. But that was long ago.”
“There are still people who believe what they believed.”
“Enough.” Her father’s voice was rising.
“No, it’s not enough. You putting yourself in danger. You’re putting all of us in danger.”
“Not now.”
“It’s not all on you.”
“I said, not now!”
He finished his coffee and didn’t answer. Then he kissed them both and left for work.
Two nights later, when her father was smoking his pipe on the porch, Lisette heard voices. She pressed her nose to the glass of the living room window just in time to see three young men surround the wicker glider where her father was sitting. One man, wearing a white tee shirt without sleeves, glanced her way, but the room behind her was dark. While she could see his face clearly, but she didn’t know if he’d seen her. He turned his gaze away, and she noticed on his upper arm what looked like the tattoo of a square standing on a point with two checks marks emerging from the bottom. She knew they were speaking, but she couldn’t hear the words or see her father’s face. She did see her father attempt to stand, and one of the men shoved him back onto the glider.
Then the man with the tattoo lifted his hand. There was a gunshot, and her father's face shattered - along with her world.
Coming November 9, 2022.