If the Walls Could Talk

If the Walls Could Talk

By Heather Ann Martinez

The young man opened the creaking door and started making excuses for all of the noise. I didn’t pay any attention to his ramblings. The house was old and this guest room was the second room built after the master bedroom across the hall. The young realtor refused to let me get a word in edgewise so I rudely interrupted him:

“This is where they lived, isn’t it?” I asked.

“This is where who lived? Really, Ms. Burch. I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was only one previous owner who had a daughter occupy this room when she wasn’t away at school. It’s just a guest room. Now, if you will come with me, I will show you the kitchen and the new den downstairs.”

He started walking toward the staircase expecting me to follow, but I stood in the middle of the guest room tapping my cane on the old creaking floor.

“You know who lived here, Mr. Button. You can’t be that daft after everything that happened during the war. If these walls could talk, I am certain they would have some stories to tell.”

“Ms. Burch, it just isn’t right to talk about what happened during the war. The war ended fifteen years ago. Hitler is gone. Peace has been restored and we don’t have to think about it anymore. People are rebuilding and moving forward. Why do you have to go digging up the past? Let me just show you the rest of the house. Then you can decide if you want to buy it or not.”

“I suppose you are right. You don’t have to remember the people that lived here and the sacrifices they made to keep other people alive. I know the scuff marks on the wall have been painted over and you can still see where the wheelchair rested next to the bed. You can tell the door knob to this room was lowered so that someone in a wheelchair could move about on this level. The kitchen used to be down the hall, not downstairs. Have I got that right, Mr. Button?”

“Yes, that’s right. How did you know that? That was not in the advertisement.”

“No, it most certainly wasn’t in the advertisement. I know because it was my niece and her father who owned this house. They took in a family that had a son; a son in a wheelchair.”

“They helped a Jewish family here in this room? How in the world did they get away with it? Hitler had a house two blocks up the street. Can you imagine?”

Mr. Button was now looking out the window and pointing in the general direction of where Hitler’s summer house was.

“My niece and her father had a lot of help. The boy in the wheelchair and his family were well cared for by a network of underground protesters who didn’t believe in what Hitler was doing. Many of us knew he was an evil man. We heard rumors about the camps. We saw families being dragged through the streets. Fathers being arrested for no reason. We couldn’t stand by and let it all happen. There just weren’t enough of us who could stand up to him, but there were the few. Hitler never saw us. We were well organized and no one outside our group knew what we were up to.”

“Are you German, Ms. Burch? You came to my office in New Jersey.”

“Yes, I am German. I grew up here. I changed my name when I moved to the United States after the war. I wanted to run away as far as I could and never look back. For a while, I thought the way you do Mr. Button. I just wanted to move forward. I didn’t want to think about this place or the people we helped. And yes, I do recall seeing Hitler and his people parading down the street acting as if they already owned the world. He liked to intimidate people and scare them into loyalty. He wanted everyone to know he was now their sovereign god. You should count your blessings Mr. Button.”

“Ms. Burch?”

“Be grateful you aren’t from here and that you don’t have ties to that monstrosity!”

“Why did you come back here, Ms. Burch?”

“My niece said there was a storage room behind one of the walls in this guest room. She told me she kept a diary about the family and their time of hiding. She found out the house had been restored and asked me to come here to get the diary before the house was sold to someone or it was demolished.”

“So, why didn’t your niece come herself?”

“She passed away. She never recovered from being shot when we were discovered, you see. I was shot in the leg. That is why I walk with a cane. My niece was shot in the shoulder and contracted an infection.”

I leaned against the wall and started tapping on it with my cane until I found an opening. Mr. Button pulled out a box. There was a stuffed teddy bear, a box of cigarettes, candles, matches and a leather diary bound with a belt. Tears started flooding from my eyes. I tried to conceal my emotions as I had most of the journey to this place, but I couldn’t stop crying now. Mr. Button tried to pretend that he didn’t notice. He was kind and generous in his own way. He convinced the people selling this house to let us come. He insisted that he show me the house and the owners gave him a list of features to talk about. They bought the house from the bank after we were discovered and fled. We had everything scheduled perfectly for three years hiding a family of three in this room. This is actually my first time in this room. I only came to the backyard alley to drop of bread and vegetables every Tuesday at four o’clock. That was when one of the neighbors had piano lessons and we could move freely about the streets. No one was particularly interested in our activities as long as the piano was being played.

It was on a Tuesday in 1945 that the piano lessons stopped. We decided that I should come with my basket of food in hand anyway. There were rumors that Hitler surrendered and the war was over. It would be several more weeks before these streets were freed from Hitler’s grasp. In the end, we did get the family to America. My brother-in-law did not survive the journey. My niece did but died of an infection several months later. The boy is no longer in a wheelchair. The American doctors were able to help him. He and his parents live with me in a house I bought with the last of my inheritance.  Mr. Button and I took the box with us back to America. I read most of my niece’s diary on the journey. She had newspaper clippings, pieces of fabric and pages of entries she wanted us to remember. Her life was cut short and her sacrifices will not be forgotten.