I had an uncle I never knew. His name was Helmut, and he was an older brother of my mother’s. Helmut served on a German destroyer off the coast of Norway during World War II. He lost his life in one of the last sea battles of the war when an English destroyer fired on his ship. Helmut is buried in a mass grave somewhere near Bergen. Mother tried to find the site during a visit to Norway some years ago. The Norwegians were not so eager to divulge information. Mother never found his grave.

Once, when Helmut came home on leave from the war, he presented a snapshot of a beautiful Norwegian girl. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day,” he told my grandmother as my mother looked on. The story of his visit led to this scene in my novel, The Still Voice. It takes place in 1941. I think it’s appropriate for Christmas.

Brigitte shoved a cookie sheet into the oven, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to join her daughter in the living room. “Oh,” she glanced at the advent wreath on the end table near her chair. “Sophia, would you be so good and bring the matches in from the kitchen? I just sat down.”

Sophia brought in the matches and lit one of the four candles on the wreath. “Advent is late this year, don’t you think?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the first Sunday is already the seventh of December.”

“Speaking of late,” a crafty smile came over Brigitte’s face, “I need to change if we’re going to look at windows.”

“No rush.” Sophia looked, puzzled, at her mama. “We can go after coffee time. In fact, downtown’s nicer when it’s dark out and everything’s all lit up.”

Her mother flitted into the bedroom to change clothes. Sophia inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma of baking Pfeffernuß (peppernut) cookies.

On the sixth, St. Nicholas Day, her mama had filled the shoe she’d left in front of their bedroom door with Lebkuchen (gingerbread) and Zimtsterne (cinnamon star) cookies. They were both in an unusually festive mood, she thought. Probably because they loved Christmas.

“Aren’t you going to change?” Brigitte emerged from their room in her best dress.

“Ma, it’s just window shopping.” Sophia got up from her chair and started for the bedroom when a knock at the door stopped her.

“Would you get that?” asked Brigitte. “I have to turn off the oven.”

There was the sly smile again. Sophia went to answer the knock.

“Wolfie!” She threw the door wide open and flung her arms around his neck. “No wonder Ma’s been grinning like a monkey all day.”

“I told her to keep it secret,” beamed Wolfie. “I wasn’t sure until the last minute if I’d get leave.” He handed his mother a paper sack. “I stopped to get chestnuts.”

“They’re still warm,” said Brigitte. She poured them into a bowl, sat at the table, and cracked one open.

“Ma, in your best dress . . .” frowned Sophia.

“You have to eat them warm,” said Brigitte. “Sit a minute. There’s plenty of time for shopping.”

“Actually,” said Wolfie, “I made us a reservation at Café Maldaner, so we shouldn’t fool around too long.” He split open a chestnut with his thumbs. “These are good.”

“Tell us about Norway,” said Sophia.

He unfolded his wallet and laid a snapshot in front of Brigitte. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day.”

“Let’s see.” Sophia leaned across the table. “She’s as tall as you.”

“Almost,” he beamed. “She’s classic Norwegian. Very blonde. Long legs. Her name’s Finna.”

“So, this is the one.” Brigitte nodded. “And she will live in Germany?”

“I think so,” said Wolfie. “As for Norway, what a clean, beautiful country . . .”

“Will you have to go back soon?” asked Sophia.

“Yes,” said Brigitte. “How long do we have you for?”

“My leave is quite generous, actually,” said Wolfie. “I have until the twenty-eighth. I’ll miss your birthday, Sis. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m just glad you’re here for Christmas.” She hoped her disappointment didn’t show. People were usually around for her birthday as it fell on New Year’s Eve. She wondered why the navy needed Wolfie over the holiday.

“We’ll have fun.” He handed Sophia a peeled chestnut. “Any word from Max?” He looked, meaningfully, at his mother.

Brigitte clasped and unclasped her hands. “No. We just hear on the radio that our ‘men are fighting bravely on the Eastern Front.’ Of course, we know it’s a very cold winter.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Wolfie. “When the war is over, I want to show you Norway. Bergen is a nice harbor. It’s the second biggest city after Oslo. Green. Brick buildings everywhere. Ma, I know how you love brick. And the fish market! You should see all the types of fish . . .”

While Wolfie waxed on, Sophia changed clothes, making sure to bring out her fox muff.

“I remember that muff,” smiled Wolfie when she came out of the bedroom. “You’ll need it, too. It’s quite crisp out. Are we ready?”

The threesome linked arms as they sauntered toward the medieval city center.

“Wolfie,” asked Sophia, when they’d stopped at a Glühwein (mulled wine) stand near the Marktkirche, “what’s the Bruno Heinemann doing in Norway?”

“We’re there to keep the shipping route open for iron ore from Scandinavia,” he said. “Ah, there’s Hertie up ahead. I always like their window.”

Standing in front of Hertie, Sophia didn’t know where to look first. There was a train that carried Santa through an elaborate village, a rotating Ferris wheel, and a hot-air balloon whose bountiful basket rose and fell with little puffs of air. Everywhere, white lights twinkled and reflected off glittering snow.

“See how everything moves,” laughed Brigitte. “Even the angels turn around the top of the pyramid.”

“I hope Helga has her pyramid out this year,” said Sophia. “Hers is fantastic.”

“That reminds me,” said Brigitte, “Helga wants us to be there at six o’clock, Christmas Eve. She’s putting up Rebeka and Georg, of course. I can’t believe she’s offered to put up Petra and the twins.”

“There’s not much choice, is there?” asked Wolfie. “She can hardly send them packing.”

“It sure is different with the men gone,” said Brigitte.

“What am I?” asked Wolfie. “Cold potatoes?”

“No.” She took her son’s hand. “You said you wanted to stop at Hettlage. We should do that before they close.”

Wolfie’s former coworkers were as glad to see him as he was them. His onetime boss recommended several items for Sophia, including boots and mittens. For Brigitte, there was an assortment of coats. One after another, Hettlage’s employees stopped by to visit.

“Bergen is beautiful,” Wolfie repeated to each one. “It’s west of Oslo . . .”

“Wolfie, how about this one?” Brigitte modeled a black cloth coat.

“Isn’t there one with a fur collar?” He turned to talk with a former colleague. “Now, Tromso is much farther north . . .”

“That’s Petra’s style,” said Brigitte. “Anyway, there aren’t any. I’ll take this one.”

“We’re having record cold this winter,” said Wolfie. “No furs?”

“Can I have this?” Sophia was captivated by a blown-glass ballerina.

“Boots would be more practical,” said the saleswoman.

Crestfallen, Sophia put the ballerina down.

“If she wants the little figure, we’ll take it,” said Wolfie. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

“Hettlage isn’t the same without you, Herr Brandt,” said the saleswoman as she folded Brigitte’s coat in tissue paper. “What’s it like?”

“Well, Norway is . . .”

“No,” said the young woman. “Serving on a destroyer. What’s it like?”

“The war has gotten serious,” said Wolfie. “More than that, I’m not allowed to say. I do miss the pretty girls, like yourself.”

The saleswoman blushed as she handed them their purchases.

“Thank you for my present, Wolfie,” said Sophia as they cycled through the revolving door.

“You’re most welcome. Now, on to dinner.”

“Just like old times,” said Sophia. She and her mother linked arms with Wolfie for the walk to their café.

As they passed Karstadt, they stopped to press their noses against its display window. A sleigh ferried Saint Nicholas above a small village where lighted wreaths twinkled red and green in the shop windows. The bell in the chapel tower swung to and fro and, everywhere, flakes of shimmering white snow contrasted sharply with the brown slush under Sophia’s feet.

“Come, you two,” said Brigitte, “I’m hungry.”

At Café Maldaner, Sophia dawdled near the display shelves at the front, where tins of tea kept porcelain Santas company. The host appeared and led the trio to a table below the carousel horse.

“I’m famished,” said Wolfie. “Everything on the menu looks good.”

“I know what your sister and I are having,” said Brigitte. “Let’s order.”

“Ah, Mama,” said Sophia, “I’d like to choose my own.”

“Well, little Miss Independence,” said Brigitte. “You have a few days to go yet before the stubborn teenage years.”

Wolfie cupped his mother’s hand in his. “Let her go. There’s our waiter. Make up your minds.”

When the waiter had taken their order, Wolfie turned to his sister. “I’m amazed by your letters. Ballet, acting, singing. How do you keep up with it all? Have you thought of perhaps focusing on one? Actually, if you chose one to excel in, you might get ahead faster.”

“Let her have fun,” said Brigitte. “She’s just a kid. Maybe she won’t end up doing any of those things. Maybe she’ll be an executive secretary.”

Sophia scowled. She loved her family, but on this they needed to butt out. She was going to be a ballerina. Or perhaps a famous soprano like Erna Sack, the German Nightingale, who sometimes stopped in at the Baba Bräu restaurant. She hadn’t yet decided which.

***