I'm thrilled to welcome Andie Newton to my blog today.
A Child
for the Reich
From the USA Today bestselling author
comes a gripping new emotional WW2 historical novel. Inspired by a true story!
'A moving story of a mother's love battling against
the determination of the Reich to create a pure Aryan race…A recommended
read' Glynis Peters
'An intensely moving, brilliantly researched novel
about love, loss, and the lengths a mother will go to for her child…utterly
compelling' Deborah Carr
Rumours of the Nazis coming for Czech children swept
through the villages like a breeze through the trees, and the story was always
the same…
They wanted our children to raise as their own
Since her husband, Josef, joined the Czech resistance
three years ago, Anna Dankova has done everything possible to keep her
daughter, Ema, safe. But when blonde haired, blue-eyed Ema is ripped from her
mother’s arms in the local marketplace by the dreaded Brown Sisters, nurses who
were dedicated to Hitler’s cause, Anna is forced to go to new extremes to take
back what the Nazis have stolen from her.
Going
undercover as a devoted German subject eager to prove her worth to the Reich,
the former actress takes on a role of a lifetime to find and save her daughter.
But getting close to Ema is one thing. Convincing her that the Germans are
lying when they claim Anna stole her from her true parents is another…
Purchase Links
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Author Bio
–
Andie Newton is the
USA Today bestselling author of The Girls from the Beach, The Girl from
Vichy, and The Girl I Left Behind.
She writes gritty
and emotional war stories about strong women. Andie holds a bachelor's degree
in history and a master's in teaching. She lives in the beautiful Pacific
Northwest with her husband, her two boys, and one very lazy cat.
You can find book
club discussion questions on andienewton.com.
Social
Media Links –
Twitter: @AndieNewton
Instagram: andienewtonauthor
Publisher
Socials:
Twitter: @OneMoreChapter_ @Harper360
Instagram:
@onemorechapterhc @harpercollins360
Website: http://andienewton.com/
Below is an extract from A Child for the
Reich. The Brown Sisters, nurses sympathetic to the Reich’s cause, are in town
searching for Aryan-looking children to kidnap and take back to Germany to
raise as their own. Sisters Anna and Dasa are moving their children from one
house to the other, under the cover of night so that nobody can see them. The
sisters have a secret they are hiding from the children, though they are
starting to figure out something is going on.
Extract:
We waited until dusk before sneaking over
to my house, through Dasa’s brown pasture where nobody from the road would see
us with the children. Matka didn’t like having to change beds, but she wasn’t
about to stay at Dasa’s now that the Reich had visited it.
“There will be more dead Germans by
daybreak if I stay at that house,” Matka said. “And as for you, Dasa. You’ll
confess to God. We can go to a church and make it official in the sanctuary,”
Matka said. “He’ll understand because she was a devil. When the signs are
right.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Matka,” I
said. “You can’t be religious yet lead your life by signs and omens and fairy
tales.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can. It’s who we are,
Anna.”
“I’ll tell you who we are, Matka. We’re a
family of secrets, and this is just another secret we’ll have to keep.” I
reached out to pet the baby’s head in Dasa’s arms. “There’s so many now…”
Knowing German was the mildest secret we
kept, and the baby so far was relatively easy to hide from the villagers. Our
husbands’ fates were our biggest lies. Matka had taken her wedding band off,
thinking someone would kill her for it, but I kept my wedding band on. Rumor
had spread that my husband was working in Prague, when in fact he’d fled for
the Czech Resistance. It was the lucky break I needed to keep the German men
away from my land, but things were harder for Dasa. To qualify for assistance,
she’d told the New Town Hall her husband had died, and it was to her detriment.
Ever since, more and more of her pasture had been eaten up by German landowners,
taking what they wanted.
We led the children into my cellar, walking
down the rickety wooden stairs with Ema half asleep in my arms.
She roused when I went to lay her down.
“Where are you going?” Ema asked.
“Aunt Dasa and I are going to sow some seeds
tonight. The moon is right for planting, all the signs are there.”
“That’s right,” Dasa said as she made up
beds for her girls with blankets and hay we used for insulation—Brigita with
the biggest blanket, and her two other girls sharing one. “You know how the
best planting happens during the night.” “Yes,” Ema said, sweetly.
These were stories we told ourselves.
Stories we’d been brought up on. All good Czech families had their stories.
“But how come I can’t sleep in my own bed?”
Ema asked.
“Ah, sweet girl,” I said, “you ask too many
questions.” I tucked her into her new bed. “It’s just for tonight.” Ema sucked
her thumb, looking up at me from the floor. “Kisses,” I said, and she pulled
her thumb away so I could kiss her cheek.
“But you didn’t finish the story,” she
said, reaching for me, and I kissed her once more.
Matka brought down Ema’s old baby basket,
and we placed Dasa’s young son into it, blankets wrapped around him, unknowing
what despicable deed his mama and I were about to go off and do. I lit a few
candles in jars and placed them on the shelf. Brigita watched us looking at the
baby, and Dasa snapped for her to roll over and go to sleep.
“I’m scared,” Brigita said after she pulled
the blanket over her head. “Something isn’t right. Both of you, Aunt Anna,
Mama…”
Dasa kissed her daughter’s head through the
blanket, giving her a squeeze, before following Matka up the stairs without
another word.
“Mama,” Ema said from the covers, hands
grabbing at the air between us. “The story. Lay down…”
Candlelight flickered between us. “Scoot
over,” I said, and she made room for me on the floor. Dasa waved impatiently
for me at the top of the stairs, but Dasa would have to wait. The Brown Sister
would have to wait. Right now, Ema needed me.
I lay down.
Ema played with my fingers, the candlelight
dancing over her little cheeks and glistening in her eyes. “Now, what story did
you want to hear?” I asked, and she swiftly answered.
“The one about the actress in Prague.” “Oh
yes, the woman from Prague.” I brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes.
“Tell me how pretty she was. Tell me about
the prince.”
I kissed her hand, thinking up ways I could
tell her about her father and me, ways a child would understand. “When her
prince first saw her, it wasn’t the makeup he noticed, the fancy dress, or the
jewelry that glittered around her wrists and neck.”
“It wasn’t?” she asked.
“He noticed her eyes. Looked right through
them as if he could see her soul—as if he knew her soul—but how could he? He’d
never met her before. And that’s what it’s like when love strikes. There’s a
connection. Like me and you.” I snuggled her close. “We didn’t know each other
before you were born, but we loved each other instantly.”
“I love you, Mama,” she said, and I kissed
her cheek when she threw her arms around my neck for a hug. “Did they get
married?”
“They did,” I said. “And it was the most
beautiful wedding in all of Prague. An evening wedding under the stars. And
they danced and danced and danced, and he told her he’d never leave her side,
and she believed him because he was her love.”
I stared off into the gloomy cellar,
remembering the champagne, the cheers, and the toasts from our families.
Everything in the world seemed possible that night—a fairytale start.
“Was the devil there?” Ema asked.
“The devil?”
“Every story has a devil in it,” she said,
and my eyes welled with tears, remembering all that had gone wrong since.
“The devil showed up after the wedding.” I
pressed her fingers to my lips. “But that part of the story will have to wait
for another night.”
She rolled over and sucked her thumb. Josef
would have hated her sucking her thumb at five years old, but it was a comfort
to her, and I let her do it.
I took hold of the light string, pausing,
looking at our children sleeping on the cellar floor, in that dank and dark
place where no children should ever sleep. “Damn you, Josef, for leaving me,” I
whispered into the air, and I pulled on the light string.
Thank you for sharing!
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