"Echo" by Pam Muñoz Ryan, Germany

The midwife looked from the witch's hovel to the dirty, uncombed waifs, already cooing at the infant in her arms.

Whimpering, he stood, taking hesitant steps until he came upon a procession of fir trees that formed an immense circle.

Eins, Zwei, and Drei held one another’s hands, their faces rapt.

The cottage was dank and ramshackle; the witch never replaced a thatch.

The sisters hod two consolations in their lives of drudgery.

But whenever he felt afraid, he secretly took the harmonica from its hiding spot, played a song, and escaped into its reverie, feeling the familiar sense of happiness and comfort, that peculiar and euphoric well-being.

Father would never have tolerated this posture.

But it made Friedrich feel less conspicuous, even if he was more vulnerable to things in his path.

And on one side, his skin was like everyone else’s, but on the other, a painter had dabbed shades of purple, red, and brown, turning his cheek into a mottled plum.

And the fat water tower—a stodgy obelisk standing sentry over the entire enclave—was his guardian in disguise.

The energy inside the factory was palpable.

As Friedrich and Uncle Gunter entered the massive hall—part warehouse and part assembly-room floor—Friedrich listened to the comforting whir of saws interrupted by the staccato sound of metal being punched.

They’d only exchanged a few pleasantries since he had started at the factory, but he seemed to enjoy goading Friedrich.

The harmonica had a rich, ethereal quality—the same alluring sound he’d heard earlier in the graveyard room.

Would he be able to sit in a classroom with students he’d never met? Even if he could endure the furtive glances and downcast eyes, what would be the point anyway?

“They will be lucky to have your talent,” said Elisabeth. “And now, more than ever, Germany needs its true citizens to rise to their potential to be shining examples.”

Let’s not disparage an instrument that goes back to the ancient Chinese sheng.

The cuckoo clock warbled.

At first, Uncle Gunter was genial and asked questions about Elisabeth’s work.

Feigning tiredness, he put on his coat and picked up his accordion.

“What’s wrong? You look pallid.”

She had an aunt with the same type of birthmark, and knew that it would be burden enough. Adding the stigma of epilepsy would be too much.

Some people think the convulsions are caused by demons or insanity and that it’s not a medical condition.

Every doctor has been ordered to report all of their patients with physical deformities, alcoholism, mental illnesses, blindness, deafness, epilepsy—there’s a list of transgressions.

“There is already speculation about how many will actually survive this surgery. Who is to say they won’t just kill people the Nazis think are undesirable, to create Hitler’s so-called pure race?”

And when I’m around, Father, I request that you speak favorably of Hitler, or say nothing. I need to believe that you might join the party, so that when I am questioned about my family by my superiors—and I will be questioned—I can say that I have no reason to suspect you of opposition.

In the broken chords, he heard the rhythm of Father and Elisabeth’s argument. The alternating notes—their banter back and forth—rose and fell. The music was as precise as their conversation had been brittle.

“They appreciate me. For my knowledge as a nurse, for my moral character and exemplary behavior. I’m ... I'm somebody to them.”

Anger and sadness choked Friedrich. His words came out stilted.

Father and Elisabeth tripped over the niceties of civil conversation.

Any injustice the Nazis impose on the Jews, they will impose on you, or anyone else they deem undesirable. It is unconscionable!

He said if you’re admitted, we can ask a conservatory representative to write a letter on your behalf—a dispensation letter. Apparently, Hitler and the Nazis make concessions for ‘loyal and true Germans of great aptitude.’ Your musical ability could be your saving grace.

“Something fortuitous has happened, Friedrich. I called a few friends to see if they’d join me to play some impromptu chamber music tonight and they’ve agreed.”

“Before we talk about the repertoire,” said Father, “Friedrich has agreed to play something for you at my bidding.”

For heaven’s sake, Martin, my brother is the new regional commandant for the Nazi police.

I cannot risk being thought a sympathizer. I cannot even be in the same house with a Jew. If anyone thought I was colluding...

Friedrich and I will go to work as usual ... go to the bank and take out money, but not enough to arouse suspicion ... luggage packed and ready ...

The next morning on the way to work, Friedrich was shadowed by worry and exhaustion; he’d hardly slept, and when he had, it was fitful.

He and Uncle Gunter had hoped Father would be questioned and released the next day or the following. When he wasn’t, they mulled the same questions over and over: Was Father being detained in town?

Every room had been searched and turned upside down; every drawer and closet had been pillaged.

That Martin and I are eager to join the Nazi Party. That you will join the Hitler Youth. And that you need help for your father’s sake, to bring him back into Germany’s arms. Part of it would be a ruse. But what difference would it make if it saves Martin’s life?

“She asked for my discretion in the matter.”

If Mrs. von Gerber hadn’t been trustworthy, Elisabeth could be the one questioned next. I think we can assume she won’t be our emissary.

You can take nothing of sentiment or value or it will be confiscated by the Nazis, except for the Reichsmarks, of course.

I suspect the commandant at Dachau will feel more amenable right before Christmas, too.