two

The bed was warm. I could see the flicker of the gaslights outside, so it was still early, too early to think about getting up. I turned over, the letter still on my mind. Mama had finally read it aloud last night, and it was just as she had said.

“We have room for Katharina,” Uncle Lucas had written. “She will have her own room. From what you have written over the years, she is quiet and helpful. . . .”

Her own room. What would that be like, I wondered, not having to share a bed, stretching both arms from one side to the other? I saw it in my mind: shelves in the cabinet to spread out my petticoats, my stockings, my gloves; my hat perched on a shelf all by itself.

If only the uncle had added one more sentence.

We have room for Dina, too.

If.

Mama always strung happenings together with that word, reminding me of the garnet necklace she looped around her neck every morning.

“Don’t you see, Dina?” Mama had said one day last month, tapping one thin finger gently on my wrist. “If you hadn’t forgotten the bread rising on the stove . . . if you hadn’t banged out the door with enough noise to wake the dead . . . then you wouldn’t have bumped into Frau Ottlinger with enough force to send her flying off into the street.

“And—” Katharina had barely held back her laughter—“if the street hadn’t been clear of carriages at that very moment, Frau Ottlinger would have been run over by a horse.”

“Ah, no,” Franz had said, nudging Friedrich. “Frau Ottlinger would have run over the horse.”

Friedrich had nearly fallen off the kitchen chair laughing, but Mama had tapped harder. “That’s not the point. The point is I nearly lost Frau Ottlinger as a client, and I did lose the bread. When it came out of the oven, holes the size of your fist ran through it.”

I turned over in bed again, punching my pillow, thinking of another day sewing for Mama’s clients, threading needles; running fine stitches in and out of the silk, the linen, the wool; working on seams, and darts, and plackets.

And then I remembered. I sat up straight and slid out of bed in one motion. How could I have forgotten what my plan was for this morning? Still I hesitated. What I was going to do was so simple. Usually so easy. But now so dangerous.

Next to me, Katharina slept on like the dead, her dark hair covering her closed eyes with their long straight lashes . . . camel eyelashes, I called them.

I twisted my hair up on the back of my head, then opened the door quietly, a pair of old shoes in my hand.

The second-floor stairs couldn’t fool me. The top steps were quiet, as they should be. It was only when I reached the ninth and tenth squeaky treads that I had to watch out.

With both hands I put my weight on the banister. I glided over the next two steps on my bare toes, plink plink, and raced to the bottom.

Safe.

Mama slept on; so did Katharina. Franz and Friedrich were probably awake, fighting in their bedroom. But what did they care about what I was doing?

Outside the hall window I could see the great Cathedral of St. Stephen, and in front, the river with its thin spirals of early-morning mist.

I tiptoed into the sewing room and pulled on a pair of Papa’s old pants from the drawer—so old I could see the large uneven stitches I had made in the waist when I was beginning to tailor.

What would Mama say if she caught me wearing trousers? I couldn’t imagine. But the last time I had done this, my skirt had been muddied, almost ruined. I had had the worst time hiding it from her.

I sat down on the slipper chair to squeeze my feet into worn shoes with cracked leather. I didn’t dare wear good shoes for what I was about to do.

At this hour of the morning the forms of Mama’s clients looked like ghosts without heads, arms, or legs, waiting to have fabric draped over them, pinned, and sewed. In the center was the form of Frau Ottlinger, our richest client, but certainly not the thinnest.

Frau Ottlinger and I had something in common: we both loved wide noodles, and coffee cake for dessert. And when I knelt on the floor to pin up her hem, she’d wink at me. “Put the candy plate a little closer on the serving table, Dina,” she’d say. “We don’t want it to fall off, do we?”

But never mind that now. As soon as the six o’clock bells sounded, Mama would be out of her bed, and Katharina, too. I rooted through the drawers for the pattern I was looking for; then, back in the hall, I opened the door. König, our cat, padded out ahead of me, and I stepped outside myself. It was chilly, but there was no going back for a wrap.

“Dina.” The voice came from above. Franz was leaning out the window still in his nightshirt.

“Shhh,” I called up. “Go back to sleep.”

“I want to come with you to see the soldiers.”

Heaven! Mama would collapse if she heard that. “I’m not going to see the soldiers,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. I motioned for him to close the window. “Want to fall out?”

I looked to be sure no one was in the street, then crossed the walk with König and slid down the bank of the river, out of Franz’s sight, out of Mama’s hearing.

The river was beautiful in the morning, peaceful. I knew this time of day well. Many times I had rowed across to the French side to talk with my friend Elise, and to exchange patterns. What did we care that we were on opposite sides of the war!

Mama and Katharina talked endlessly about the war: Otto von Bismarck’s North Germany linking up with us in the south to create one country to fight against the French. And now the infantry was going to take Fort Mortimer away from the French, then their castle at Neuf Breisach, and move on to the castle in Belfort. But Elise and I didn’t talk about any of this; we tried not to think about it.

Next to the stone wall that kept the river inside its boundaries lay an abandoned skiff. I had used it many times. As the river began to capture the rosy sunrise, I slid into the skiff and began to pole my way across. I knew Elise would be waiting for me.

I glanced back at the cathedral that towered over our town. Soldiers were there, our own German soldiers, in the bell tower, using that height to watch the fort on the French side. Soldiers in such a holy place!

I thought about going back, but Elise wanted my dress pattern as much as I wanted the new French design for a hat that she had promised me.

I saw her waving and nudged the skiff onto the landing. “A little wet, this pattern,” I said apologetically.

“You must go right back,” she said, handing me the hat pattern, made of thin paper with its cuts and arrows, and directions in French.

We hugged for one quick moment; then I was on my way back. I could see myself wearing the most elegant hat in Breisach on Christmas morning.

And then I thought . . . there was something I could do for Katharina. I took a breath. I could make the hat for her.

Mama had a saying: As much as you hate sewing, Dina, that’s how much the needle and thread love you.

I knew it was true. We all knew. For some reason, my stitches were straight and true, my seams almost invisible. I could cut into the fabric almost without using a pattern. Yes, as hard as it would be to give up making it for myself, Katharina would have that hat. I’d keep it a secret until the very last moment.

Even as I thought it, I had to swallow. I comforted myself with the thought of the hat I had made earlier, my beautiful hat that I had copied from a picture of one worn by Elizabeth of Austria.

Frau Ottlinger coveted that hat. But even Mama shook her head. “It is Dina’s, and it is not for sale.”

But the new hat, even more wonderful, I would surely give to Katharina.

So busy was I daydreaming, I didn’t look up until the skiff bumped into our side of the river. I barely heard the heavy boots sliding down the bank toward me, and by that time it was too late.

It was one of our own soldiers! His rough hand covered my mouth. He was so close I could smell the onions on his rank breath. I fought him, feeling my hair caught in the buttons of his tunic. “French spy,” he said.

I couldn’t shake my head, couldn’t answer. He stepped back and I was pulled along with him, up the riverbank to the street, where König stood guard over a poor dead mouse.