Children of the Stars Read online

  To my good friend Roberto Rivas, for that night of tangos and confessions.

  To my dear friend Larry Downs, who still believes that books can change the world.

  To the tens of thousands of bookworms inspired by my writing who will devour these pages with their insatiable eyes.

  An Excerpt from Auschwitz Lullaby

  Chapter 1

  May 1943

  Berlin

  It was still dark when I stumbled half-asleep out of bed. Though it was starting to get warm during the day, the mornings continued to be chilly enough to give me goose bumps. I slipped into my light satin robe and, without waking Johann, headed for the bathroom. Fortunately, our apartment still had hot water, and I could take a quick shower before going to wake the children. All of them but little Adalia had school that morning. I wiped the steam off the mirror with my hand and looked at myself for a few seconds, noting how the encroaching wrinkles seemed to make my blue eyes look smaller. I had bags under my eyes, but that was not surprising for a mother with five children under the age of twelve and who worked double shifts nursing to keep the family afloat. I toweled off my hair ’til it recovered its straw-blonde color, but I stopped to examine the gray streaks that were spreading upward from my temples. I got to work curling my hair, but that only lasted until I heard the twins, Emily and Ernest, calling me. I threw my clothes on and, still barefoot, hurried to the other bedroom.

  They were sitting up in bed chatting quietly when I entered the room. Their two older brothers remained curled up, grasping at the last few seconds of sleep. Adalia still slept with us, as the kids’ bed was too small for all five of them to squeeze in.

  “Less noise, sweeties. The others are still sleeping. I have to get breakfast ready,” I whispered. They beamed at me as if the simple sight of my face were enough to make their day.

  I pulled their clothes off the chair and placed them on the bed. The twins were already six years old and did not need my help getting dressed. The more people there are in a family, the more streamlined the systems have to be to help everyone get the simple tasks done as quickly and easily as possible.

  I went into our tiny kitchen and started heating things up. A few minutes later, the bitter scent of cheap coffee filled the room. That weak substitute of brown-tinted water was the only way to cover the tastelessness of our watered-down milk, though by now the older kids knew they were not drinking real milk. Every now and then with a bit of luck, we could get our hands on a few cans of powdered milk, but since the beginning of the year, rations had grown even scarcer as things got worse on the front.

  The children came racing to the kitchen, elbowing their way through the narrow hallway. They knew the bit of bread with butter and sugar that they were offered every morning would not linger long on the table.

  “Less noise, please, loves. Your father and Adalia are still in bed,” I scolded as they took their seats. Despite their hunger, they did not tear into the bread until I had handed around the mugs and we had prayed a short prayer of thanks for our food.

  Three seconds later the bread had disappeared and the children were downing their coffee before heading to the bathroom to brush their teeth. I took that moment to go to our room, get my shoes and coat, and put on my nurse’s hat. I knew that Johann was awake, but he always played possum until he heard the front door close. He was ashamed that I was the family’s breadwinner now, but everything had changed in Germany since the war began.

  Johann was a violin virtuoso. He had played for years in the Berlin Philharmonic, but since 1936, the restrictions against everyone who did not fit into the Nazi Party’s racial laws had grown much harsher. My husband was Romani, though most Germans used words like Gypsy or tzigane to describe people of his race. In April and May of 1940, practically his entire family had been deported to Poland. We had not heard anything from them in nearly three years. Fortunately, in the Nazis’ eyes I was a purebred; because of that, they had not bothered us since then. Even so, every time someone knocked on our door or the phone rang at night, my heart jumped involuntarily.

  When I got to the front door, the four older children were waiting with their coats buttoned, their school caps on, and their brown leather satchels at their feet. I looked them over, tied on their scarves, and dawdled at the part of the routine when I kissed their cheeks. Blaz, the oldest, sometimes pushed my effusive affection away, but Otis and the twins ate up those precious moments before we crossed the threshold to walk to school.

  “Come on, I don’t want you to be late. I’ve only got twenty minutes ’til my shift starts,” I said, opening the door.

  We had hardly made it onto the landing and flipped on the light when we heard the clop of boots noisily ascending the wooden stairs. A chill ran up my spine. I swallowed hard and tried to smile at the children, who had turned to look at me, sensing my unease. I gave a nonchalant wave of the hand to reassure them, and we started to go down. The children dared not leave my side. Typically I had to keep them from dashing headlong down the stairs, but the approaching footsteps quelled their energy. They crept along behind me, as if my lightweight green jacket might conceal and protect them.

  By the time we got to the second-floor landing, the sound of the boots filled up the entire stairwell. Blaz leaned over the rail to get a look and one second later turned back to give me the look that only an older brother can give to communicate what he knows without upsetting the younger ones.

  My heart starting racing then. I could not breathe, but I kept going down the stairs hoping that once again misfortune would simply pass me by. I did not want to believe that suffering had chosen me that time.

  The policemen ran into us right in the middle of the second flight of stairs. The agents were young, dressed in dark-green uniforms with leather belts and gold buttons. They stopped directly in front of us. For a silent moment my children looked in awe at their pointed helmets with the golden eagle, but then they dropped their eyes to the level of their shiny boots. A sergeant stepped forward, panting a bit, looked us over, and then began to speak. His long Prussian-style mustache shook with his politely threatening words.

  “Frau Hannemann, I’m afraid you’ll need to return to your apartment with us.”

  About the Author

  Photo by Elisabeth Monje

  Mario Escobar has a master’s degree in modern history and has written numerous books and articles that delve into the depths of church history, the struggle of sectarian groups, and the discovery and colonization of the Americas. Escobar, who makes his home in Madrid, Spain, is passionate about history and its mysteries.

  Find him online at marioescobar.es

  Instagram: @escobar7788

  Facebook: MarioEscobarGolderos

  Twitter: @EscobarGolderos

  About the Translator

  Photo by Sally Chambers

  Gretchen Abernathy worked full-time in the Spanish Christian publishing world for several years until her oldest son was born. Since then, she has worked as a freelance editor and translator. Her main focus includes translating/editing for the Journal of Latin American Theology and supporting the production of Bible products with the Nueva Versión Internacional. Chilean ecological poetry, the occasional thriller novel, and audio proofs spice up her work routines. She and her husband make their home in Nashville, Tennessee, with their two sons.

  Other Books by Mario Escobar

  Auschwitz Lullaby

  Remember Me (coming September 2020)

  Copyright

  © 2020 Mario Escobar Golderos

  Originally published as Los Niños de la Estrella Amarilla © 2017 by HarperCollins Español

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tho
mas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Epigraph translation is a paraphrase.

  “A Might Fortress Is Our God” lyrics by Martin Luther; translated by Frederick H. Hedge. Public domain.

  Translator: Gretchen Abernathy

  Spanish Editor in Chief: Graciela Lelli

  Spanish Editor: Juan Carlos Martín Cobano

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-7852-3479-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7852-3517-0 (international edition)

  ISBN 978-0-7852-3300-8 (e-book)

  ISBN 978-0-7852-3299-5 (downloadable audio)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  CIP data is available upon request.

  Printed in the United States of America

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