Echoes Page 0,77

the house had been destroyed on Kristallnacht, and its inhabitants were gone. She wondered if they were hiding somewhere, if they had the sense to flee. In desperation, she stopped at her church on her way home, and spoke to the priest. She explained that she had known a Jewish family years before, and feared that they had fared badly on Kristallnacht.

“More than likely, I'm afraid.” The priest looked grim. Catholics weren't entirely safe from Hitler either. He had no great fondness or respect for the Catholic Church. “We must pray for them.”

“I was wondering…do you suppose there's any way of learning what happened to them? Someone said they were deported. But they can't all have gone, at least not the women and children.”

“You never know,” the priest said quietly. “These are frightening times.”

“Well, I didn't want to cause you any trouble,” Beata said apologetically. “I just felt so badly when I heard now at the bank. If you hear anything, let me know.”

“What was their name?”

“Wittgenstein. Of the bank.” He nodded. Everyone in Cologne knew the name. It was a big statement if they had deported them. But anything was possible now. Kristallnacht had opened the doors of hell, and unleashed demons beyond anyone's worst fears. The inhumanity of man in its most shocking form and colors.

“I'll let you know. I know a priest in that parish. He may have heard something, even though they're Jewish. Eventually these things get around. People see. Even if they're afraid to talk.” Everyone was afraid now. Even Catholics. “Be careful,” he admonished her as she got ready to leave. “Don't try to go there yourself.” He knew she was a kind-hearted widow with a young child, and might try to do something foolish. And she had a special place in his heart because of Amadea. The mother of a Carmelite could only be a good woman, and he knew she was.

It was the last week of November when he stopped her on her way out of church. Daphne was distracted talking to a friend. And Beata had written nothing to Amadea about her concerns.

“You were right,” the priest said quietly as he fell into step beside her. “They're all gone.”

“Who?” she asked, looking distracted. She remembered asking him, but he was being so mysterious that she wasn't sure if this was her answer, or if he was talking about something else.

“The family you asked about. They took all of them. The next day. The entire family. Apparently the man who owned the bank had a daughter and two sons, and another daughter who died years ago. My friend knew him well. He saw him walking in the neighborhood quite often, and he would stop to talk. He said he was a nice man. A widower. They took them all. The widower, the children, even the grandchildren. He thinks they were sent to Dachau, but there's no way to know. In any case, they're gone. The house will be given to an officer of the Reich most likely. I'll say a prayer for them,” he said, and then moved on. There were a lot of stories like that these days. Beata felt as though she was in shock, and said not a word to Daphne as they walked home.

“Are you all right, Mama?” she asked quietly. Her mother seemed very nervous these days, but everyone was. Several children had been taken out of her school, and everyone had cried. The teacher had scolded them for it and said they were only Jews, and didn't deserve to go to school, which Daphne thought was very rude, and sick. Everyone deserved to go to school. Or at least that was what her mother said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I'm fine,” she said tersely, suddenly grateful for what the priest had said, that Jacob Wittgenstein had had a daughter who died years ago. With any luck at all, the world would assume she was dead. So far, no one had bothered them at all. She was a Catholic widow, with one young daughter, and another who was a nun. Thank God for Antoine. “I just heard a sad story about a family I knew who got deported after Kristallnacht,” she said softly. Her entire family was gone. Her father, brothers, sister, their children, her brothers' wives. Gone. It was beyond belief. God only knew where they were and if they would survive. One heard horror stories about the camps. They were supposed to be work camps, but