For the past five years I’ve been working on this story:

After I inherited boxes of pictures and untranslated postcards in 2021, I realized the history I thought I knew about my family in WWII was grossly understated.

The reality was far worse, and interestingly, also far less talked about. Because the world was rightly dealing with the extreme atrocities perpetuated on Jews and other populations, the tragedy of Germans being forced from their homes in Poland was overshadowed. What’s 2 million refugees vs. 12 million killed in Concentration Camps?

That story of the refugees has rarely been told.

That’s why I’ve created this Substack—to give a perspective of WWII that’s been so neglected it was forgotten. But here it will be remembered, not to wave yet another victim flag, but to show how people can rebuild after tragedy.

It’s possible to live again, even after everything has been taken away.
It’s possible to find joy again, but you might have to dig hard to find that joy.

And I want to hear what you think about this perspective. Share with me your insights, your knowledge of history (I admit freely I’m no expert), and your suggestions for revisions (I hope to someday publish as a book.)
Here are two ways to access this 26 chapter book:

• Each week I’ll release a chapter of the book for readers for free, including photos of those involved.

• For paid subscribers, I’ll also release audiobook chapters, because I know a lot of you would rather listen than read (which is not recommended while driving a vehicle; don’t ask me how I know).

NOTE: I have changed many of the names to protect the innocent and the guilty. (For my family members, if you want to know the real names, email me and I’ll send you a chart.)

I believe in freebies, so I’m giving you the audio of chapter 1 as a taste to see if you want to invest in me for $5/month. (Just like Costco—free sample time.)

Below is Chapter 1 (of 26 chapters) so you can start reading.

Chapter 1

Yivenni saw the drop of blood on her school shoes and smiled smugly. Her grandmother would have been horrified, but that fish-faced girl, tragically named Flotraut, deserved to be punched in nose.

And it was a fantastic blow. Yivenni had never seen that much blood come from someone’s face before. And to hear her friends around her scream is surprise, one would have thought she’d knocked Flotraut’s nose right off her face. Rudely, Yivenni decided that would have improved her appearance.

Still, she tried to suppress her smile of triumph since she was “in trouble,” sitting on the cold white marble bench of infamy outside of the headmistress’s office.

Good girls got the wooden chairs along the wall. Some even had cushions.

Bad girls sat on the marble bench, from the Baroque period and beautiful in its carvings, but hard and unrelenting. It was a bench for admiring, not retiring, said one old teacher at the school.

Yivenni had never before been sent to the office for discipline. Girls who waited here for their doom quietly sobbed and straightened the seams on their knit stockings to appear as perfect as no one now believed they were. They would smooth down their blue-gray wool uniform skirts, maybe make sure their white blouses were tucked in properly, their hair tidy and neat.

Yivenni tried to feel some of that guilt which all 12-year-old girls should suffer when resorting to violence. She did pat her dark brown hair behind her ear to make sure her bobbed curls were in place. The rest of her uniform was fine. The spot of blood on the brown leather of her shoes was now drying as a darker stain.

She couldn’t completely hide her smile about that. She doubted that any of the other bad girls who sat here before her felt the coursing heat of utter victory over a stupid and hurtful fellow student.

She had no regrets, none.

Well, maybe a little regret. Her heat of triumph was slowly cooling on the marble, and she recognized there might be some collateral damage, as there was in any great battle.

She swung her legs back and forth to avoid making eye-contact with any of the important and very large women who bustled around in the office. There were three of them, big in their own ways, either very tall or very broad or very fat.

Yivenni knew she had an overly-critical mind and a too-quick tongue, which were often inappropriate. That’s what her grandmother frequently told her when she let loose another comment which shocked adults and amused her friends.

So maybe she had gone a little too far today. She didn’t even say anything, but was on the receiving end of harsh words. Wounding words.

Maybe she should have listened more to Oma who frequently scolded her for her uncivil behavior. But then Yivenni had also seen her grandmother smirk and turn to hide her laughter when Yivenni stated her honest opinions.

If only it could be Oma who would come to the school . . .

Maybe it would be Aunt Lena, who came to Neisse each Wednesday to check on the house and Yivenni for Opa. She would be calm and kind and not punish Yivenni by making her polish the silver or iron the linens. That was maid’s work, after all, and the maid had it pretty easy already.

A commotion down the hall caught her attention, and Yivenni winced. Down the long corridor at the other entrance, a man was yelling. His words were nearly unintelligible because his accent was so thick. It was Flotraut’s father. He taught at the lower-grades school across the street, and, again, Yivenni’s criticizing mind wondered how the little ones understood his words. Maybe all the children in his arithmetic classes would begin to talk in the same rustic, broken German he spoke.

The largest woman of the office—both tall and fat—hurried out to the hallway to calm him before he disturbed the other classes, and Yivenni could make out the words “bleeding” and “nose” and “broken.” Apparently Flotraut was currently at the doctor’s being examined.

The heat of triumph was completely gone now, the cold marble seeping through Yivenni’s woolen skirt and stockings to tamper her arrogance.

She had punched a girl—a poor girl, her Opa would undoubtedly tell her—and had caused real damage.

But compared to her grandfather, everyone in their city was “poor,” so that didn’t mean much.

A new, shocking thought came to her: what if breaking someone’s nose caused her to be expelled? Her Aunt Klara had graduated top of her class there, the best private school in Neisse. What would people think of her Opa because his oldest granddaughter was kicked out for fighting at the age of 12?

For the first time Yivenni considered her actions might harm the status of her family. A sick churning began in her stomach, and her head began to swirl.

Plus, she had really hurt someone.

Yivenni bit her lip, realizing that breaking Flotraut’s nose was the bottom of the list of things she regretted. Oma would be so disappointed in her.

It had been so much work to get accepted to the school last fall! Oma had been growing more ill, rarely leaving the house then, but Yivenni had been so proud to give her the news that she would be attending the same school Aunt Klara had. She had studied for the math portion for a month that summer in order to pass the entrance exam. Oma had beamed and declared that Yivenni earned a new bicycle. Privately, Yivenni had worked so hard mostly because of the suggestion of a new bike, but being accepted to the Lyceum was also very important.

But Flotraut? That fish-faced, sniveling girl had gotten in only because her father and his unfathomable accent worked across the road. She was a “scholarship” girl, with no scholarship in her ugly little brain—

“Yivenni,” said a stern voice above her that froze Yivenni’s thoughts, and she wondered if someone had read her wicked mind.

She looked up into the face of Headmistress Silvernail, and gulped. The school’s principal was a grand woman, stocky in build with her light brown-gray hair whipped up into a tidy bun. She had the looking-down-her-nose expression perfected. Her small blue eyes narrowed menacingly, and her high cheekbones reddened.

“Follow me,” Mrs. Silvernail commanded, in a voice like an angry horse.

Flotraut’s father had been wrangled into another office down the hall by the fat woman, but Yivenni knew it was connected by a narrow back hall to the other offices, and soon she might be confronting the man whose face was normally ruddy, but would likely be purple with rage.

Yivenni stood nervously, her previous pride now lodged as a tight knot in her belly. She noticed a cluster of her friends quickly coming down the hall. They must have been released early for lunch.

“Mrs. Silvernail!” one in the cluster of five girls called out. “Please! Yivenni was only—”

The headmistress held up one hand.

Every student in the Lyceum, from the first year 11-year-olds to the graduating 18-year-olds, knew what that motion meant: ‘Hush and Stop!’

No one ever dared not ‘Hush and Stop!’

Yivenni’s friends halted so quickly they nearly fell on top of each other, but pulled back with remarkable grace. They didn’t even slide on the smooth marble floor.

They also hushed just as impressively.

“Thank you, girls, for your support of Yivenni,” said Mrs. Silvernail crisply. “Should I need it, I shall call for your testimony. You may proceed to lunch.”

But they lingered until Yivenni and the principal were behind the heavy oak door, carved beautifully by some carpenter 200 years ago. Yivenni wondered how many anxious students that door had seen trembling in its history.

“Sit!” Mrs. Silvernail ordered, pointing to a chair. The thing about Mrs. Silvernail was that she wasn’t terrifying, or cruel, or even that loud for someone with a horsey voice. The middle-aged woman was just so authoritative that you didn’t feel you had any alternative.

Yivenni sat promptly on a wooden stool, as tall and straight as she could, as Oma had her practice sitting at home. Then she wondered if a more contrite, hunched over demeanor was expected. But slouching was always incorrect, wasn’t it?

Mrs. Silvernail took her chair behind the broad desk and leaned forward. “Why, Miss Yivenni Newfield, would a girl from your background and upbringing, take it upon herself to break the nose of a scholarship girl?”

The headmistress was excellent at layering guilt upon guilt with merely a question.

Despite her regret, Yivenni had a dangerous streak of defiance. She wasn’t going to start crying. That’s what every girl who sat on that stool likely did, but Yivenni saved her tears for truly awful things. She took a deep breath, then blurted, “She said that my father was a murderer.”

There. It was out. The horrible thing that horrible girl had said, and when Yivenni repeated those horrible words out loud, she decided all over again that, yes, Flotraut deserved the punch in the nose. Whatever happened to Yivenni next, she would just accept it.

She hadn’t tarnished her family’s name by retaliating. She had honored it. Not that her family would agree, though.

The headmistress recoiled slightly, not able to mask the shock of what Yivenni said. Or rather, what Flotraut had said.

“I see,” was all she said.

And then, uncharacteristically, she sighed. She took off her glasses as Yivenni held her breath in worry.

After an excruciatingly long moment—the chastising should have started a while ago—Mrs. Silvernail stood and came around the desk, something so changed in her demeanor that Yivenni didn’t know what to make of it. The woman seemed suddenly soft.

“Yivenni,” she said, and her voice was so gentle that Yivenni felt the forbidden tears building in her eyes.

She would not cry, would not cry—

Mrs. Silvernail took Yivenni’s arm, pulled her up, then—

No one in the school would have believed it. Yivenni wouldn’t have told anyone about it, either, because for a minute she thought she’d entered some strange dream, because—

Mrs. Silvernail was hugging her. Firmly, tenderly, lovingly hugging her.

Yivenni hadn’t felt that kind of a hug since she received her last one from Oma last year. She didn’t know how much she needed it, either.

She hugged Mrs. Silvernail back. The tears were too many to resist, for the terrible words said about her father, and for her grandmother now gone nearly three months. She didn’t know how long she sobbed in Mrs. Silvernail’s arms, probably several minutes. It was as if the knot of anger in her belly had melted and come up to leak out her eyes, and she was unable to stop any of it until she was nearly dehydrated.

Weakened and now silent, she pulled a little away from the headmistress. Yivenni was startled by what Mrs. Silvernail said next, in reverent tones.

“I knew your father, just as I know your aunts and grandparents. No one knows what his state of mind was when he . . . with the gun . . . Anyway.”

Mrs. Silvernail took a deep breath.

“I’ve never told you this, but I don’t think he meant that to happen, Yivenni. He would have wanted to be here to watch you grow. He would be proud you are in my school.” She stood a bit taller. “And you will stay in my school. I have full confidence you will be as impressive as your aunt was.”

Yivenni didn’t realize she was gasping, either out of relief or exhaustion from her sobbing. But the weakness that overtook her meant Mrs. Silvernail had to hold her up. The woman was sturdy enough, but Yivenni still resented that she was showing such fragility. She had vowed when she was 10 years old to never show weakness—

The headmistress carefully sat her back on her stool, then smiled in a way that Yivenni didn’t know she could. “But for you to stay enrolled here, you need to promise me something.”

Yivenni managed a hoarse, “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Silvernail held up her imperious finger. “Stay far, far away from Flotraut and her family. Say nothing to her, never retaliate, never give her any reason to come after your opa.”

Yivenni nodded, still stunned at the merciful turn of events. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Silvernail brushed down her pleated jacket, which had a damp spot where Yivenni’s tears, and probably a little snot, had soaked in. “Of course,” she said, with her familiar sternness suddenly back in place. The headmistress was on duty again. “Besides, your grandfather gives me rides to my family in Bromberg twice a year when he visits his factories. Since the drive is several hours long, the conversation would be awkward should I dismiss you.” The headmistress smiled tightly.

Yivenni realized it was an attempt at levity. She smiled cautiously back.

Mrs. Silvernail nodded once. “A message explaining what occurred has already been sent to your opa at his factory. I will send a follow-up so that he’s aware of our discussion here. You may return to class. It seems you have missed lunch. That shall be your punishment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yivenni said yet again, and stumbled out of the office, dazed.

The remaining secretary in the office, the tall woman—her two more ample companions were down the hall presumable calming Flotraut’s father—watched Yivenni with sympathy as she headed to the corridor.

Out of sight of the office, Yivenni slumped against a wall and exhaled.

Had all of that just happened? The punishment was only to miss lunch, and she had to stay away from Flotraut? She wasn’t expelled? She punched a girl, and . . . and got away with it?

No, it was more than that. She had been hugged by the headmistress.

Oh, no one would believe that. Except for maybe Opa and Aunt Lena and Aunt Klara.

And what had she said about her father? She knew him, and she said, “I don’t think he meant it.”

Yivenni clenched her fist, but in hope this time. She’d always thought that, too, but never dared ask her family. She never talked to Opa, or Oma while she was still alive, about her father. She let them volunteer memories when they felt like it. They said very little, but on the rare occasions when they did speak of him, it was with great pride and affection. The same pride and affection they also gave her.

“I don’t think he meant it . . . He would be proud to see you in this school.”

Those words ran around in her head in unexpected happiness. What a confusing day.

She scurried off to the next class, nodded an apology for her lateness to her geography teacher, and he sent a stern glare back at her. She took her chair near two of her friends who looked at her with wide eyes. They had anticipated being called in to explain what they witnessed. Yivenni found out later they had practiced all lunchtime what they would say to defend their friend. It was unnecessary effort, which disappointed them a little. They had come up with some excellent descriptions. And when she didn’t come back, they assumed she had been expelled.

Silence was the rule of the geography classroom, but as soon as they were dismissed to the hall, Yivenni’s friends demanded to know what happened.

She hardly knew how to explain it as they walked to the next class.

“Well, Mrs. Silvernail was very . . . understanding. She said I could stay, but that I have to avoid Flotraut.”

“That’s it?” one girl squealed, partly in relief, partly in disbelief. “We already avoid her, and now we have even more reason to!”

“But what else? Did she yell at you?” another friend worried. “Did she pull out the ruler?”

“Let me see your hands,” said the third friend, gingerly pulling at Yivenni. “Do you need us to bandage your hands? Wait. There’s nothing there. No slashes.”

“No marks at all? Yivenni! How did you get away with it?”

“Ah, I know. Her grandfather. How much did he offer her? One hundred bags of sugar? Beer?”

“No!” Yivenni exclaimed to the girls clustered around her, looking for signs of punishment. They seemed disappointed to not find any growing welts. “He doesn’t even know everything yet.”

“But I don’t understand how you weren’t even lashed. She should have been lashed!”

“Yivenni, what exactly did Flotraut say to you?” another girl asked. “I didn’t hear it. That girl is so arrogant—”

“You’d think scholarship girls would be humbler,” grumbled another friend.

“—but I didn’t hear what she said to you when you beat her exam score again.”

“So what did she say? Her face was so ugly when she snarled at you.”

Yivenni’s pace to get to her geometry class slowed, partially because she disliked math, but also because she didn’t know how to answer her friends. They knew she lived with her grandparents—well, now only her grandfather—but they didn’t know why.

It wasn’t something she talked about. People in their town used to point at her and whisper loudly, “There’s the poor little Newfield girl.” She remembered the last time that happening was maybe four years ago, when she was eight. There were far greater worries for their town to discuss now, instead of the tragedy of her parents.

Her friends had never really asked. But when it came up once, Yivenni had said only, “I lost my parents just before my first birthday.” Their quiet Ohhhh-I’m-so-sorrys had been enough. She recalled one of them asking, maybe two years ago, how she lost them, but ignoring the question made it go away.

Now Yivenni had stopped walking altogether, her friends clustered around her in a curious shield.

Yivenni finally came up with, “Mrs. Silvernail said I’m not allowed to discuss the matter with anyone.”

Seeing her friends’ disappointment, and knowing they would keep asking if she didn’t give them something more, she added in a whisper, “But it was about how she’d outshine all of us and be the valedictorian when we graduate. Then she’d take over the school and never allow girls like me in.”

When Yivenni reminded her friends that they did not hear her say that, or Mrs. Silvernail would come after all of them for repeating those words, Yivenni knew she’d won the day. The girls even all thumb-promised to never tell, but to avoid Flotraut the Fish for the rest of their six years in the Lyceum.

At the end of the school day, Yivenni felt a little passing sympathy for Flotraut, who she glimpsed in the hallway with wads of cotton in her nose, streaks of dried blood in her stringy brown hair, and bruises under her eyes. Her father screeched at Mrs. Silvernail because Yivenni was still at the school.

That afternoon, Yivenni experienced a confusing mix of regret and pride. Then sorrow but also overwhelming vindication. She hastily waved goodbye to her friends so she could begin to sort her feelings along her walk home. She needed time to consider how to handle what would be awaiting her.

Certainly Aunt Lena would be at their house, four blocks away, since she always came on Wednesday. She’d probably bring Norbert, who was 10, and Christa, who was just 5. Lena made the 20-mile drive from Munsterberg every week since Oma had died in December to check on Yivenni and Opa, and to bring food they didn’t need.

Opa would remind her, “Why do you think I have a cook? Why do I need food from your cook?” Then they’d trade delicate pastries or some hearty meat dish and both continue on with the same amount of excellent food as they had before.

Lena also came to give her children time to play in Opa’s lush back garden, which had everything from swings to a teeter-totter and even a home-made pool in the summer time. The grandchildren loved to play in the fenced off green space in the middle of the city, reserved only for the Newfields. Lena would also check on Yivenni’s school work—exceptional as always, except for math—and see that the laundry was done and the house tidied.

Then Opa would say, “Why do you think I have a maid, but to do the laundry and cleaning?”

It was just at thing they went through now.

But mostly Lena came to give Yivenni the motherly affection she no longer received from her grandmother.

There were occasions Yivenni secretly wished Aunt Lena could be her mother, or Aunt Klara. They were her father’s younger sisters, and she couldn’t have asked for more concerned, loving aunts. Lena was more talkative and inquisitive, while Klara was more quiet and reserved. But both women doted on Yivenni like the favorite niece that she was, and she adored both of them for that.

Maybe Aunt Lena would also bring with her Alfie Jr., who was three years older than Yivenni. But she rather hoped he didn’t come. Alfie wasn’t the nicest cousin. That honor belonged to Roland, the oldest of the ten grandchildren, and a mature 17-year-old who treated Yivenni as a little sister whom he actually liked.

Alfie Jr. treated her like an annoying sister he had to tolerate.

How would Aunt Lena react to the news about Yivenni’s hit? Mrs. Silvernail had already sent a message to her home about it, Yivenni was sure. The maid would have curtsied to the messenger and set the notice on the pile of mail which Lena would go through as soon as she came in, to make sure Opa wasn’t missing anything important. The mail and bills used to be Oma’s job. While Opa said he could handle it—he managed the affairs of over 100 sugar factories throughout Europe, after all—Lena and Klara worried adding the handful of bills the household generated would all be too much for him.

Yivenni walked home slowly, the day’s events weighing her down. Normally she enjoyed her walks home, because she loved architecture—the old churches, the fancy gild work, the statues, the gargoyles, and the water fountains. Neisse was known as the Silesian Rome, and while not as ancient and massive as the original Rome, the baroque and renaissance designs always fascinated her. Not many girls her age cared about the shape of steeples, but Yivenni found it immensely intriguing that the builders could have made them straight, but added bulbs and baubles and curlicues, just because they could. Oma was the one who would point out such details to her. Yivenni felt it important to remember every last one, to remember her grandmother.

But today she rarely looked up from the wide pavement, only to make sure she was going the correct way. When she noticed that she was next to her favorite stationery store, she decided she wasn’t in that big of a hurry to hear Aunt Lena’s take on the day’s events. She could take a five-minute detour.

She loved the crowded, tidy little shop, with a bookshelf in the back carrying a selection of the newest titles, and walls lined with beautiful papers and inks and pens and stationery. She already had a few sets of her own monogrammed pages for writing to her aunts and cousins. But Oma had frequented the store, always with Yivenni in tow, to allow her to choose a new book or find some drawing pencils. And always Oma chatted with the shop owner, and her assistant, Mrs. Wrinkel. Somehow between the three women, they knew everyone in Neisse and shared the news the others had missed. While the gossiping went on, Yivenni would choose yet another new trinket to take home—a book, or piece of parchment, or a fancy pen.

Yivenni didn’t need any of those today, and was going to make the excuse she was just seeing what was new on the back bookshelf. She could pretend, if only for a moment, that Oma was chatting at the front desk with Mrs. Wrinkel, waiting for Yivenni to make her selection—

“How are you, dear?” Of course it was Mrs. Wrinkel, who looked at her with sad eyes. “Do you need anything?”

Yivenni shook her head, finding herself choking up. Clearly Mrs. Wrinkel wasn’t up front chatting with Oma.

“No,” Yivenni finally said. “Just looking.”

Mrs. Wrinkel nodded. “You do realize your grandfather has an account with us. Should you need to buy anything, he’ll pay for it at the end of the month.” Then Mrs. Wrinkel held up a beautiful pencil with tiny etchings of flowers carved on one side.

Yivenni breathed in delight. That skinny pencil held the kind of details that Oma would have loved: the floral motif, the pale blue of the paint, the care to make something so average into something extraordinary.

Mrs. Wrinkel smiled at Yivenni’s reaction. She knew Marianna Newfield’s taste in pencils.

Yivenni gingerly took it from Mrs. Wrinkel, thanked her, carefully set it in her pencil bag, then set off for home. Now she looked up more often, rather than down at her feet.

Not much had been sorted in her head yet as she strolled, because her city was a beautiful distraction. It wasn’t huge, only about 30,000 people, but enough to make the place interesting. And it was old, founded back in 900 AD, and maybe even earlier, since Roman artifacts sometimes turned up when someone dug deep for a basement. Every church, every building, every water fountain was a work of art, and Oma would tell her what each column or corbel was named.

“But I don’t remember what that window cornice is called,” Yivenni murmured to herself, staring at an arch in a shop across the street. “Never mind,” she assured herself. “Aunt Lena can tell me. We keep going forward,” she mumbled, repeating her grandfather’s favorite saying.

We keep going forward, he would say when any kind of trouble came.

After Oma died, he must have said it a dozen times that next day when he held Yivenni as she sobbed. “It’s all right. We keep going forward. Going forward.”

Yivenni had hated that. She had rather just stand still and feel.

But Opa wasn’t for standing still, or feeling. He was an inventor, an engineer, and such a man never stays in one spot for long. One always keeps going.

And so did she, knowing that the four blocks to home wouldn’t take long, and that Aunt Lena and whichever children she brought would already be waiting for her. The school that the Rudolf children attended let out earlier than Yivenni’s, giving them time to drive down and arrive when she did.

Too soon she was in front of the building her grandfather had bought twenty years before, when he moved his wife and three children to Neisse. The first level of the building was rented out as a grocery store, which was convenient for whenever the cook needed ingredients, or Opa had a sudden craving for fruit or, more often, cigarettes.

A discreet yet beautifully painted doorway to the side of the grocery store led up to the apartments she and her grandparents shared. When Opa first bought the building, the second floor was two large apartments, but Opa combined them for his wife and children, who were then teenagers and a young adult. Somehow they found the means to update and redecorate the entire floor to be a beautiful and modern home, even though Germany was struggling financially after the Great War. Yivenni knew that the sugar company that hired Opa back then gave him a lot of incentives to move to Neisse, and those incentives must have paid for the remodel.

There was a third floor to their building as well, which was mostly storage rooms but also a few apartments. Opa didn’t rent those out, though, because when the aunts and their husbands and children came for extended visits, they’d often take over those rooms to spread out the children. But occasionally Opa rented a small apartment to someone needing a place to stay until they could get back on their feet again.

Yivenni trudged up the front stairs to the second floor. The back stairs were used for deliveries from service men or the butcher, or by Opa when he parked his Mercedes Benz in the private back parking lot. Yivenni took the grand front stairs that deposited her at the main double doors of their apartment.

She hesitated on the landing. To her right was the larger apartment where the family generally met, connected with back passageways to the apartment on her left, now not used as much. Directly in front of her were the stairs heading up to the third floor.

She put her hand on the doorknob which would open to the grand foyer, and could already hear Alfie loudly discussing something. He was likely in the sitting room, where walnut-faced walls echoed his voice. She could picture her younger cousins sitting on the upholstered chairs that surrounded the walnut oval table, and maybe Aunt Lena was lounging on one of the couches, her hand dramatically draped over her eyes because of whatever Alfie was complaining about now.

Alfie was likely in Opa’s corner, where Opa liked to smoke his pipe. He kept his supplies on a small table topped with black marble, with a few chairs for those who wished to join him. Knowing Alfie, he was trying to get into Opa’s tobacco stash, and some sibling was telling on him.

Or maybe they were in the large dining room which also served as another living room, where the walls were faced with cherrywood. On one side was the dining table and chairs, while on the other was another couch to offer views to the street below. The ceramic oven stood in the middle, heating the rooms amply during the winter. Because it was still cool today, the maid had likely kept the fire going, and maybe the family was in there. She could hear Roland telling Norbert and Christa to go outside to play. The March snow had melted and the back garden wasn’t too muddy.

Yivenni had to make herself go in. Maybe she could slip through the foyer unnoticed, past her squabbling cousins, and sneak down the hall behind the stairs, and over to her bedroom on the quiet side.

She carefully opened the door and knew her plan had already failed. Aunt Lena hadn’t made it to either the sitting or living rooms, but stood in the foyer where the coats were precisely hung and the boots carefully set to dry. She was earnestly reading a piece of paper, the ripped envelope in her hands.

Her aunt was a sweet-looking woman, with dark brown hair she wore pulled up into a complicated bun, gentle hazel eyes, and just the right amount of plumpness around her body to make her hugs extra soft.

Spying the envelope in her hand, Yivenni recognized the crest from her school.

The letter was from Mrs. Silvernail.

Aunt Lena looked up at Yivenni who stood halfway through the door, but she addressed her two youngest children. “Norbert, Christa—do as Roland says. Go down to the back garden. Look to see if the first tulips are coming up yet.”

The two children hugged Yivenni briefly as they passed her to go down the stairs.

Alfie, who stood to the entrance of the sitting room, was smirking. “She’s in trouble, isn’t she, Mama? That’s a message from the school, and it got here before Yivenni—”

“Hush, Alfie!” Roland said, and looked anxiously at Yivenni.

But Yivenni was still watching her aunt, whose lower lip was trembling. She didn’t yell, but instead held out her arms.

“Come here, you dear girl!”

Yivenni wasn’t sure how she still had tears left, but she let them slip out while her aunt hugged her. She cried out of sheer relief.

“You poor thing. Oh, what a horrible girl that Flotraut must be. But I shouldn’t say that. Really, she can’t help it,” Lena babbled quickly as she usually did. Sometimes it was a real task to keep up with her words. “Her father is a ridiculous man. We’ve had run-ins with him before. He’s an immigrant, you know. But oh! Not that that means anything, my goodness. My own mother was an immigrant! But she spoke better than that man, and she wouldn’t have been so arrogant as to think her only child was the greatest human alive and deserving to say whatever she wants. The nerve of her! What does her father say at home that allows her to think she can say that to you in public?”

Yivenni was partially crying but also partially giggling to hear her aunt go on a tirade in her defense.

What she hadn’t noticed was that Alfie and Roland had taken the message from their mother and were reading it. By the time Lena snatched it away from them, Alfie was staring, mouth wide open.

“What I want to know is, how on earth did you get away with it? I mean, you broke the girl’s nose, and everyone’s hugging you?” Alfie frequently caused all kinds of trouble, and never got away with anything. And no one ever hugged him after the fact in all his 15 years. Not that he would have wanted that. Still, the disparity annoyed him.

He gestured to the note his mother was now shoving into her skirt pocket, and turned to Roland. “Have you noticed? Yivenni always gets away with it! No matter what ‘it’ is!”

Yivenni’s eyes met Roland’s, and he was smiling forgivingly. There was never any real animosity among them. Well, at least not from Roland. Both boys were now shaking their heads with just a touch of jealousy, because Yivenni also had to admit that she was disciplined—when she was disciplined—with a much gentler hand than they ever were.

She would be the first to admit that she often got away with behavior none of her cousins could. Life was unfair. Turn it to your advantage whenever you can.

She heard heavy footsteps coming up the back stairwell, meaning they came from the garage in the back garden, and it wasn’t Norbert and Christa. It meant someone had just parked his Mercedes Benz and was coming home early.

Opa never came home early from the factory, unless he had news.

Yivenni exchanged quick looks with Lena, but her aunt didn’t seem worried. She shook her head quickly to reassure her, and they both watched as the door opened.

Opa stood there, slightly hunched over as he always was from spending hours over machinery when he was younger, and he removed his hat from his balding head. Oma had said he would have had more hair if he hadn’t always shaved it off to keep from getting any caught in machines, but Yivenni doubted that. He wore one of his many three-piece suits, with a perfectly knotted silk tie and a crisply starched white shirt. There was always a presence about Ulrich Newfield, a natural tendency to make everyone else take a small step back and wait to see what he would say. But today he didn’t appear to be the largest employer or wealthiest man in the city; his face was anguished and his eyes were weary.

He said nothing but held out his arms to his granddaughter, and Yivenni rushed to him.

Alfie and Roland chose that awkward moment to head to the kitchen to see what the cook might have for two growing teenage boys.

Opa squeezed Yivenni and released her. His first words were straight to the point, as usual.

“We have to do some damage control,” he explained. “I spoke with Mrs. Silvernail on the telephone before I came home, and she suggested that you stay very quiet and very far away from Flotraut. I’ll personally make sure her clothing gets cleaned properly. There’s that good cleaners down the street—”

Yivenni cringed. “Opa? Flotraut’s mother works there.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s convenient. She owns the place?”

“No, she’s one of the laundry women.”

“Ah,” he said. “Umm.”

“You could,” Lena cut in, “send money for the cleaning of her clothes, plus a little more.”

Opa nodded at that. “Would you . . . would you arrange that, please? You always seem so eager to do something for us here.”

“Yes!” Lena said, sounding immensely relieved. “I’ll have Roland bring it down there before we head home this evening.”

Lena ended up sending both boys with the envelope Opa put together. Roland had gasped quietly when he saw the amount to be delivered to the other side of town, with the “cleaning payment.” Yivenni didn’t dare guess how much “cleaning” Opa was expecting, but it should have been enough to keep Flotraut’s parents from complaining they weren’t appropriately compensated.

After dinner made by their cook, a young woman from France (because Oma always hired cooks from France), Yivenni went over the alphabet with little Christa in the sitting room until it was time for the Lena and her children to leave for home. Yivenni could hear bits of an intense discussion between her grandfather and aunt in the dining room. She gave Christa some letter blocks to put in order so she could sneak across the hall to the closed door and eavesdrop. They were surely talking about her, so she rationalized it was important to know what it was.

“—you have to realize this behavior of hers is indicative of her grief! I know you’ve been doing your best, but she needs more.”

“I’m home as much as I can be, Lena. But your Alfred knows as well as I do that to implement the new upgrades, I must be at the factories—”

“That’s fine, Father. No one is asking you to adjust your work load. Just be open to the idea that things may need to change for Yivenni. She needs more observing—”

“The Kohlers have been very eager to take her in when I’m gone, so there’s no problem there—”

Yivenni smiled at the mention of the Kohlers. She did adore them. They lived a few blocks in the opposite direction from her school. When Opa was gone to install his machinery in other factories around Europe, she’d pack a suitcase to school, then walk down the other way to her second home at the Kohlers.

Friedrich Kohler was a brick layer, and although he and Freida had been married for nearly 20 years, they never had children of their own. Yivenni had always known them. Frieda had been Yivenni’s nanny when she was a baby, and then, when things went horribly wrong, the Kohlers served as her foster parents until Oma and Opa had all the legalities worked out.

The Kohlers had come to every birthday, every Christmas, and now every funeral. Yivenni even had a tiny bedroom in their small apartment.

But the way Aunt Lena was now talking, the fear that Yivenni might not be able to spend two weeks of every month with the Kohlers suddenly struck her.

“Father, you know I love Friedrich and Frieda,” Lena was saying. “They’re wonderful to Yivenni. But consider that she needs more stability. Last week, when the Kohlers were gone for two days, who took care of Yivenni?”

“Our maid is very competent,” he said, sounding insulted. “Martha has known Yivenni since she was four years old. She has the routine down pat and gets her off to school. Besides, I send postcards each week, letting her know where I am—”

“Yes, Father, I know.”

Yivenni heard Lena shuffling some papers.

“Right here, look what you wrote to her in January: ‘My child, how are you? I hope you are well. I think of you whenever I have time.’ Whenever you have the time? Everyone knows you never have time! And then you wrote, ‘Be very good, my dear child. Your dear grandma is no longer there.’”

Lena slapped the postcard, and on the other side of the door, Yivenni flinched.

“As if she needed a reminder that her grandmother had died just the month earlier! Father, you didn’t even take a full month to mourn her, and left the day after Christmas for another factory visit! And this last line of the postcard: ‘Be good so that I can enjoy you’? What’s that supposed to mean? How much pressure are you putting on that poor girl?”

Yivenni swallowed hard. She hadn’t read the postcard in that way, that he was expecting something from her. She just thought he was his usual direct way. Not deliberately thoughtless or insensitive. Just a little clueless.

She heard Opa answer quietly. “Yes, I regret that postcard. I was . . . that was a hard day. I know I shouldn’t have left so quickly after her funeral. It was just easier to get back to work, to keep—”

“—going forward, I understand, Father, I really do,” Lena said, as if she’d had the conversation too many times before. “And I’m so sorry. I guess I have not realized just how difficult all of this must have been on you. Klara and I have been so focused on Yivenni.”

“As you should be.”

“No, Father,” Lena’s tone grew tender, “we should be focused on you as well. You and Mother had 41 years together. That’s going to take a lot of adjusting to get used to, her being gone.” Lena’s voice was so quiet Yivenni could barely hear her. “It was so hard when we lost Paul. It took a long time to adjust to that.”

Opa’s voice was low when he answered her. “The Gray Sisters, taking care of your mother—they believed she never got over that. She never adjusted.”

There was silence in the dining room, and Yivenni held her breath. The Gray Sisters were Catholic nuns who were also nurses. Whenever she was ill, a sweet Gray Sister came to care for her. The women had spent nearly all last autumn at the house, taking care of Oma, even helping Yivenni with her homework. But they had mentioned her father? It was rare she heard anyone talk about him.

“You know the doctor said her heart was failing,” Opa was saying quietly to Lena, “but the Gray Sisters believed her heart started breaking when we lost Paul. The only reason it held together was because of Yivenni, because she needed us. She wasn’t even a year old, just learning to walk. The Gray Sisters came to calm your mother then, after the news. She looked at little Yivenni, she no idea what tragedy had just occurred to her, and Mariana said, ‘Ulrich—we have to help her. We have to raise her.’ She wanted me to fix all of this.”

“But Father, you can’t ‘fix’ everything like it’s a machine,” Lena said gently.

“But we try,” he said, resolutely. “My dear Mariana couldn’t keep going. Her heart started breaking with Paul, and it broke completely 11 years later. It held together so long only because of Yivenni. But my heart is still strong, so I will keep Yivenni going.”

Lena sighed. “Father, please consider. Klara and I have talked about it, and Karles and Alfred agree: what if we all take Yivenni? I could have her for the school year, she can go to the same school as Alfie and Roland. It’s excellent, you know. Then during the summers, she could go to Cosel and stays with Klara and her family—”

“No.”

“Father, just think—”

“NO!” he snarled in a whisper, and Yivenni, outside the door, nearly stumbled back in alarm. She’d never heard him so angry.

“No, Lena. I can’t lose her,” Opa said in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose another person. I’m sorry, it’s so very selfish, but I promised Mariana, and I promised Paul—I will take care of her.”

Lena sighed heavily. “Father, she’ll be a teenager soon, and you recall how difficult teenage girls can be. You had two of us!”

He chuckled sadly. “I do. And I also know how much I need a teenage girl in my life. Please, Lena—”

Yivenni was startled to hear what sounded like quiet crying coming from her grandfather.

“—You can’t take her. I will find a way to make this all work. I will fix it all. She’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Father,” and now Lena was softly crying, “We don’t want to take her away from you! Absolutely not. Just please, consider it. Both of our families are successful, our husbands make good money, we have plenty of space, access to the best schools . . . Just consider, if things become difficult, if Yivenni acts out more, if your travel schedule becomes more hectic, remember you have two very capable daughters who are good mothers, and we’d both love to mother Yivenni.”

Yivenni was leaning against the wall now, her hands in front of her mouth, trying to comprehend the plans she was hearing. She loved being with her aunts, their husbands, and their children. She never felt like an outsider but was welcomed and cared for like their own children. She usually spent long summer vacations with Klara’s family, and the idea of spending the whole summer in Cosel sounded marvelous. And living with Lena—didn’t she just earlier wish that, for a moment?

But oh, to hear Opa! He was crying, wasn’t he? He promised Oma, he promised her father.

But most of all, he needed her. She could hear it, as clearly as Lena must have heard it.

She hurried back across the hall to sit next to Christa on the blue velvet sofa. The little girl was thumbing through a book with pictures in it, oblivious to Yivenni wiping tears from her eyes. She likely hadn’t cried so much in one day, ever. But she had to present a good face when Opa and Lena came out, which, according to the scraping sound of chairs in the dining room, would be at any moment.

A minute later, the door opened, and Opa and Lena came out to the hall wearing warm smiles which appeared quite fake. Both of them had red eyes.

“Good news!” Opa said as he came to the sitting room. “This weekend both families are coming down for a visit, just like before.” He didn’t have to say, Before your grandmother became ill and died. “That will be nice, won’t it, Yivenni?” Opa said with an almost genuine smile.

She knew why they were coming: they all thought she was showing signs of, what did Lena call it? Grief of some kind? And they wanted to make sure she was all right. She realized both she and Opa would likely be on inspection. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that yet, but she put on a smile as fake as theirs.

“That’s wonderful!”

End of Chapter 1