Chapter 1: The Allure of a Secret Mission

My friend Katie was the epitome of a busybody. Her father owned a pub at one end of our small town, and if something noteworthy occurred within a 30-mile radius, she was bound to know. Often, she was privy to events that never actually transpired.

So, when Katie first introduced the idea of Trudy, I approached it with skepticism. However, the concept was too enticing to ignore. Helping a fading Nazi heiress navigate her tragic circumstances? Who could resist such an adventure, especially at the tender age of ten?

Though it had been 50 years since the war concluded, a ten-year-old wouldn’t concern herself with such trivialities. Trudy, with her thinning, naturally red hair, appeared to be no more than 50. Yet, to a ten-year-old, anyone over thirty seemed ancient, and anyone with gray hair was practically a relic.

While Trudy wasn't quite a relic, she certainly seemed old enough to have partaken in something nefarious during the war. Katie's narrative was captivating:

Trudy was married to a high-ranking Nazi officer. Following his execution at the war's end, she attempted suicide by leaping from a window in their home—yes, the attic window over there. Miraculously, she survived but was left wheelchair-bound and mentally unstable. For years, she lived off the gold her husband had pilfered from the Jews, but now that gold was depleted. She was starving, slowly fading away alone in that very house.

It was a storyline that could easily grace a Hollywood script—I was instantly captivated. Everything seemed to align perfectly with what little I knew about Trudy. She was indeed wheelchair-bound, spoke only German, and appeared somewhat disoriented.

Once a villain, she now required our assistance. Utterly abandoned, we became her last glimmer of hope.

Naturally, our mission posed significant challenges. We couldn't ask our parents for food for a Nazi villain, so we devised a plan to sneak it out of our homes. We had to keep our mission a secret, especially from friends who might not keep such a high-stakes endeavor confidential. We also needed to evade the neighbor woman, who visited Trudy twice daily, likely searching for remnants of that old gold and potentially subjecting Trudy to pressure regarding its location.

Despite the risks, we approached our meeting spot in front of the pub at sunset with determination.

Taking turns carrying a heavy basket filled with leftovers, we crept along the dimly lit road leading to town. Hiding in a bush, we had a clear view of Trudy's house across the creek. All the windows were dark, save for one, faintly illuminated by a nightstand lamp. The neighbor had long departed—it was time to act.

Our plan was straightforward. We tied together several jump ropes and attached one end to the basket handle. We would toss small pebbles at Trudy's window to catch her attention. When she opened it, we would throw her the loose end of the rope and assist her in hoisting the basket to her room. Inside the basket, we left a note explaining our intentions. Having taken a couple of years of German in school, we felt confident in our message:

LIEBE TRUDY. WIR SIND DEINE HILFE. WIR BRINGEN DICH ZUM ESSEN JEDEN TAG.

Quietly, we crossed the small wooden bridge over the stream, every creak echoing our anxiety.

Upon reaching the old brick farmhouse—simple and austere—we discovered the door was unlocked. No ropes or notes were necessary. Above the door, a stone statue of a saint loomed, its cold gaze seemingly judging us. It stood with an outstretched arm, a reminder that God watches over all. I felt a strange sense of guilt, unsure of the reason—was it for aiding a wartime antagonist? For pilfering food from our homes? Or for deceiving our parents?

Regardless, we pressed on.

Inside, the house was dark and chilly. We left the door ajar, providing a sliver of light in the musty corridor. The staircase was a black void, beckoning us.

We ascended the ancient stone stairs, the faint golden glow from Trudy's room at the far end guiding us.

The space was cozy, an apartment formed from a kitchen, dining area, living room, and bedroom. Everything was old—not unappealingly so, but nostalgically charming, as if time had stood still since the war.

Trudy's wheelchair rested by the bed, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Katie knocked on the open door. Silence.

Katie knocked again, harder.

"I think she's dead," Katie speculated.

"Should we fetch a doctor?"

"No, let’s check first."

Eventually, we discovered that Trudy was merely asleep, blissfully unaware of our presence. After much internal debate, we opted not to wake her, uncertain whether she would even recognize us.

We left the basket and note on the kitchen table, stealing another glance at the enigmatic woman whose life we had just touched, before departing.

As we exited, the stone saint seemed to shake its head in disappointment. Odd, considering we had just performed a commendable act.

We felt exhilarated and proud. For days, we discussed our adventure, plotting even bolder plans for our next visit.

However, that visit never occurred. Eventually, our conversations about Trudy dwindled.

Perhaps we became distracted by new pursuits, or maybe fear held us back. I know I was intimidated.

For months—and even years—I consciously avoided Trudy's house. It wasn’t difficult; it lay off the main road, easily visible yet always ignored.

I think I was evading something—perhaps my conscience or maybe a commitment that required more than I was willing to give.

In truth, Trudy never truly needed our help to survive, and I believe we were aware of that even then. She lived several more years after our initial encounter.

I can’t recall how I learned of her passing or how long it took before I returned to the scene of our youthful adventure.

One day, after her death, I visited her old home. It appeared even older and more desolate than before, and this time the front door was locked.

The saint remained, still strict and judgmental, but now his gesture seemed less directed at me and more a commentary on humanity—on wars, killings, indifference, and the suffering of others.

On a personal level, it felt as though we had made amends that day. I appreciated his watch over Trudy through the years, and perhaps he felt a sense of understanding towards me.

I found peace with Trudy—her elusive existence, the unanswered questions surrounding her life, and the guilt I carried for abandoning her so swiftly.

Whoever she was.

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This article was published on June 16th, 2024, in Deep. Sweet. Valuable. publication.

Chapter 2: The Visit to Trudy's House

In this documentary titled "Saving Trudy," we delve into the complexities of Trudy's life and her struggles post-war. The film captures the essence of compassion and the impact of childhood decisions.

"Trudy Says Hello!" features a personal reflection on the lessons learned from Trudy’s life and the innocence of childhood friendships.