Free Ashes by Kathryn Lasky Page A

under my chin and lifted it a bit. There was a look that was almost like mist in his hazel eyes, one part wistful and one part mournful, perhaps. There is a word in German that means to feel a bit of each of these sentiments. The word is nachtrauern . And I had never in my life seen that feeling in Hessie’s eyes, but I did now.
    â€œDon’t worry, Liebchen . Those fellows were too drunk to remember anything.” He sighed. “And all this will be over soon. It’s a passing thing, a fashion.”
    It was so like Uncle Hessie to view all the world through his scrim of style, fashion, and taste. “ Kleinbürgertum —the pretty bourgeois—the lot of them, KB,” he muttered. To be KB was not good in Hessie’s book.
    â€œBaba says they are barbarians, Barbaren .”
    â€œHow alliterative!” Hessie exclaimed, and bent down to kiss my cheek.
    â€œDon’t make jokes. Hertha’s not KB,” I blurted out.
    â€œHertha?” He was puzzled. “What does Hertha have to do with any of this?”
    â€œI’m not sure. But she said to me a few weeks ago, before school let out that . . . well . . . she thought that . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut trying to remember her exact words. “She said that the Communists will make things worse and she felt that there might be a chance for things to get better with Hitler.”
    Hessie’s eyes darkened. He seemed to almost shrink a bit. His shoulders dropped.
    â€œAnd Uncle Hessie, Hertha wasn’t drunk like those louts. She was just . . . Hertha.”
    â€œShe’s tired.”
    â€œTired? What are you talking about? Do you see the way she buzzes around this house cooking, cleaning, helping Mama in the garden?”
    â€œShe’s tired of being poor.”
    â€œBut she has a good job with us.”
    â€œIt’s more than that. She’s proud. She is tired of being a loser. Germany lost the war. Our country has been humiliated by the Versailles treaty. And there are some people who, how shall I put it . . . they want a scapegoat, someone to blame. Jews, Communists. If they can blame someone, if those people are punished, then everything will be all right again.”
    â€œBut Hertha’s not like Herr Himmel, our Hausmeister . He’s mean. He’s horrible. He worships Hitler, I am sure.”
    â€œOh yes, Herr Himmel. You are probably right about him, and you’re also right about Hertha. She is nothing like Herr Himmel. But you have to understand, Gaby, that you don’t have to be mean to hurt.” I bit my lip slightly, a habit I had when I was thinking hard. “Complicated, isn’t it?” Hessie said.
    â€œYes,” I said softly, looking down at my bare feet. But then I had a sudden thought. I jerked my head up. “Uncle Hessie, how many Herthas are there in Germany?”
    He shook his head wearily, then turned and went back down the hall to fetch his valise.
    Â 
    Â 
    We quickly settled into the summer rhythms of our lake house in Caputh. I slept late. Mama and Papa were nice about that. Some parents made their kids get up early and go swimming in the ice-cold morning water of the lake, or do calisthenics, like the Rudemeirs two cottages down. Not Mama and Papa. Everyone got to do what they wanted, including Ulla who had stayed in Berlin. It was a holiday. Oh, except for one thing. I was the designated mouse hunter. We set traps at the end of summer and when we came back, after the winter, we emptied them. But invariably we would forget where we had put some, and a smell would begin to emanate. I was famous for my sensitive nose. Mama said I should be a parfumier and blend scents for perfume manufacturing.
    But mouse work occupied only the first few days at the beginning of the summer. After that I got to do just what I pleased, which was sleep late, sail, swim, or fish. Papa and I both loved to fish from the end of our pier. There were lake trout,