Kurt watched from several paces behind Josep and the soldier. Josep dropped the bag of flour and it split open on the ground.
Even with his one hand, he had matched Josep punch for punch. His chin pained him and his midsection ached. But he would fight for Gisela. Never, ever would he let the music slip away from him.
And here lay his chance to win. To triumph. To take what belonged to him.
“Nein, nein.” Josep pled for his life in that ridiculous, broken German. How the SS officer didn’t notice the accent, he would never know.
He stood, watching the scene like a motion picture on the screen.
Gisela would be brokenhearted when he returned and gave her the news. But he would be there to comfort her. She would grow close to him as he stood by her side. Held her up. Ja, she would forget about Josep in time. They hadn’t known each other that long. Their bond couldn’t be that strong.
So he didn’t move. He could go and defend Josep, tell the man with the rifle a story of how they fought together at Stalingrad. Earn the Brit’s freedom.
Yet he didn’t.
He narrowed his eyes and continued as a disinterested spectator. The soldier jammed his rifle deeper into Josep’s ribs.
Kurt waited for the officer to pull the trigger. Why did he hesitate?
From the corner of his eye, Mitch spied Kurt.
Mitch took a breath and held it. Waiting for the bullet. Waiting until his life ended.
He thought about Gisela. Kurt would win her. He hoped she would be happy.
He thought about his father. He’d never get the chance to tell him he loved him. Understood him now. How he only wanted the best for him. Wanted to spare him from the horror of war. Wanted him to live.
All of this took a split second.
Then the door came into focus. If he could get there, he might have a chance.
Why not try? Even if he failed, he’d be no worse off than if he didn’t give it a go.
Still clutching the rations, he shot off like a fox in front of the hounds. A bullet whizzed past his neck. It dinged around him. The crowd screamed and scattered. A path opened in front of him.
Jackboots pounded behind him.
Already his legs and lungs burned from the effort. Each step, one closer to freedom. To life.
A searing pain ripped through his arm.
He blocked it out.
Lord, help me. Help me. Help me.
Daylight.
Shots.
“Get that man. He’s a deserter.”
Just keep running. Lord, help me. Help me.
Any second now, it would be over.
He pushed through the crowd. Surely the SS wouldn’t shoot into the mob.
The crack of a rifle split the air.
Women shrieked.
Forward, ever forward.
Pain in his legs. Pain in his arm. Pain in his eye.
He couldn’t see. He just ran.
With one surge, he came out on the other side. The street ahead was clear.
But he didn’t stop sprinting. Eric Liddell would be proud.
He turned left at one street, right at the next, until the shouts faded and all he could hear was the blood whooshing in his ears.
At last he stopped, his legs unable to carry him any farther. He sucked in air like a baby would suck a bottle.
Once the world stopped spinning, he pivoted and looked around. No one followed him. The soldier was gone. Kurt hadn’t struck out to find him.
The front of a building had been sheared away so Mitch could see inside. A couple sat at their kitchen table eating. They went about their business as if it were normal to have your flat exposed to the world.
Allied bombs had reduced several other buildings in the neighborhood into rubble. Nothing looked familiar. Where was he?
He walked to the intersection. Had he run in the opposite direction from home?
He wandered for a while. The sugar and sausages he carried grew heavy. Dusk fell. He walked until he had blisters on his heels. Until he despaired of ever finding home again. Across the city, an air-raid siren screeched. He ignored it.
When he felt like he couldn’t walk any farther, he stumbled on the street they had come down a few days earlier: Unter den Linden.
Thank You, Lord.
He made his way home.
Kurt sat next to Audra at the kitchen table, now relocated to the center of the cramped, dirty shelter, and stirred his coffee. The aroma alone was enough of a treat. To have half a cup was more than he could have hoped for. He determined to savor every last drop.
Gisela sat across from him, her spoon clinking against the mug as she stirred her steaming brew, the note pure, rhythmic. Her gorgeous eyes, always tinged with sadness, shone like a child’s on Christmas morning. She sipped a bit of the liquid from her spoon. “Whatever you did to get this, it was worth it.”
“Ja, it was worth it.” A Mozart piano concerto played in his head. “Punched in the stomach and the side of my head by others trying to stop me, but it was worth it.” Never would he reveal the true reason for his injuries.
“Are you sure you aren’t hurt? Should we have Dr. Liebenstraum look at you?”
Did he want tender concern from Gisela or admiration for his courage? “I’m fine.”
She blew across the cup, then set it down. “Should we have waited for Josep?”
“Nein. Because we got separated, there is no telling how long it will be until he gets home.”
“What if he got lost? Or stopped?” She rose from her chair and clasped her hands together. “Maybe we should go look for him.”
“Nein, nein.” She couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let her. “The sirens will sound again soon. It’s too dangerous to be out there at this time of night. He’s probably in a shelter somewhere. We would never find him.”
She sat, a little of the sadness returning to her eyes. He rubbed her hand. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”
How could the SS have let him get away? Kurt should be rid of him by now.
Audra sipped her coffee. “I agree with Gisela. He won’t be able to find his way in the dark.”
What was she saying? Josep couldn’t return.
“Tomorrow. If he doesn’t return by daylight, I’ll go look for him then.” He had no intention of ever finding him.
Gisela smiled, sunshine filling the room. “Danke. I hope he’ll be safe tonight.”
The music in his brain crescendoed.
For a while, they sat in silence. No sirens sounded, no bombs fell.
The peace was broken by a knock on the door.
Gisela ran to answer it. Nein, nein. It couldn’t be. Don’t let it be.
He followed.
She turned the knob. Josep fell across the threshold. She caught him, her arms tight around him. “Thank God, thank God, you’re back.” She kissed his forehead.
He held out the bag of sugar and the stick of sausage. She smiled and laughed and tears trickled down her cheek.
Like a needle scratching a record, the music stopped.
Gisela sat beside Mitch on the green couch, holding a cool cloth to his eye, careful not to cause him more pain. He was home. Safe. Now, if only Mutti would come. And Vater, Opa, and Ella. “What happened?”
He looked up at Kurt with his one eye. Why? Kurt scowled. What were they hiding?
Mitch winced. She lightened her touch. “We had to fight for what we wanted.”
“What were you doing out there? What took you so long to get home?”
“They shot at me.” He held up his right arm. A red streak ran the length of it.
He’d been grazed by a bullet. “You never should have gone. I told you not to.” She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. She found an old roll of gauze in their first-aid kit, and after cleaning out his wound, she wrapped it around his arm.
She leaned over and whispered, “Now tell me what really happened. I haven’t heard the truth.”
He tipped his head, gave a wry smile, and exposed one dimple. “Why would you say that?”
She wasn’t in the mood for his joking. “You didn’t get separated from Kurt.”
He sobered, his dark eyes clouding. “No, I didn’t. But I don’t want to get into the ghastly details now. Keep him away from me. If he gets close, I haven’t a clue how I’ll react. Or how he will.”
“He gave you this black eye.”
Mitch didn’t answer. What had happened between the two of them?
A shiver ran down her spine.
April 25
The howling keen of the Stalinorgel—“Stalin’s organ”—pierced Gisela’s ears. The Holtzmann sisters covered theirs and whimpered. The multiple rockets from the launcher mounted on the backs of the Red Army’s trucks found their targets not far from where ten frightened people cowered in the cellar.
Gisela’s heart bounced around in her chest, no rhythm whatsoever to its beat.
The rising and falling wail from the powerful and deadly weapons continued around them. Like a baby crying but magnified ten-thousand-fold.
Annelies and Renate screamed at the sound. With shaking hands, Gisela sat beside them on the bed in the corner, gathered them close, and whispered to them. A loud whisper, to be heard over the screeching weapons. “This is the end, girls. Soon, one day very soon, it will be over. The air will be quiet again.”
Another group of yowls rent the skies and shells landed in the garden. The hair on her arms bristled. “Oh God, bitte, bitte. Don’t let them set off that bomb.”
They didn’t. A few bricks fell from the little house, splintering as they hit the pockmarked street within a meter or two from the cellar window. Glass rained down from the panes above, shattering upon impact. Light reflected off of their ragged edges, a prism shooting rainbows over the pavement.
Stone by stone, their shelter was being reduced to rubble.
Jorgen slid across the bench on the wall, closer to her. Gisela motioned him over with a flick of her hand. He came to the bed and nestled against her. If she had left him standing on that street corner with the rifle in his hand . . .
Another loud explosion rocked the building. Gisela shielded the children with her body as limestone dust showered them from the arched ceiling above.
As the ground stilled, she looked Mitch’s way. He sat on the second bed beside the Holtzmann sisters, holding their hands, reassuring them that this was not the end of the world.
“Oh, dearie, dearie,” Bettina chanted.
Katya gave her own plaintive wail. “Sister, my sister.”
For a moment, the fighting subsided. Mitch slipped to Gisela’s side. Kurt narrowed his eyes. He had been sullen and angry the past couple of days.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She nodded and smiled for the kinder’s sake. They were frightened enough.
“You’re as white as my mum’s roses.”
“That sound.”
“The music of Stalin’s army.”
Exhausted after countless nights of little sleep, she rested her head on his shoulder. “What will happen to us when they arrive?”
“We won’t worry about that now. God will take care of us.”
“Shouldn’t we be prepared? I heard some of the women in the bread queue talking the other day. If you are dirty and old, the Russians won’t want you.”
He gave a quiet little laugh. “You are neither dirty nor old.”
“They said to put coal on your face and flour in your hair. Don’t comb it or bathe.”
“Not now. When the time comes.”
His presence warmed her and the quiet lulled her to sleep.
She had just nodded off when the terrible screech of the Stalinorgel let loose once more.
Oh God, why not one quiet day? Why not one peaceful night?
Machine-gun fire punctuated the brief intermissions between the rounds of the rocket launchers.
She rose from among the kinder and peered through the narrow window above them. Wehrmacht boots and black SS boots dashed past. One shiny pair came to a sudden stop in front of the window, then lurched forward as a Soviet bullet met its mark.
Gisela turned away, unable to watch more. Kurt stood right behind her and she couldn’t but help fall into his arms. “Come and sit. This is too much for you.”
She trembled and allowed him to lead her to the cream-and-green davenport they had pushed against the far wall. He knelt in front of her. “There is nothing to worry about. I won’t allow you to come to any harm.”
“You can’t say that. We’re helpless against this assault.”
“I won’t leave your side.”
She tried to take comfort in his words.
The gunfire ramped up once more, as did the howling squeal of the Stalinorgel, driving away the warmth in her limbs, chilling her all over.
Annelies covered her ears, missing most of the tale Mitch wove about princesses and castles, dragons and knights in shining armor. Even the beauty of his words could not overcome the ugliness on their doorstep.
Day turned into night. Neither the gunfire nor the Stalinorgel music stopped for a breath. Those dragons breathed fire and ravaged the decimated city.
At last, Renate and Annelies and the Holtzmann sisters gave in to their exhaustion and fell asleep on the bed. Gisela knew she would never rest while those monsters stood on the doorstep.
The thought of a good cry held some appeal.
She needed a break—a break from the boredom, the anticipation, the dread. She had to see something other than passing shoes—the tall, black boots of German officers, the midcalf brown boots of the field soldiers, the serviceable brown-and-white pumps of women scurrying to stock up on the necessities before the Russians arrived. She slipped from the shelter on the pretense of using the restroom and climbed the steps to the almost-empty second-floor bedroom that faced east.
Rocket fire colored the horizon blood red. A cacophony of shells and bombs and machine guns composed the strangest music. Explosions, like fireworks, lit up the heavens.
In a way, she believed this had to be a dream. Events like this didn’t happen to average people. They lived happy lives with family around the table, plenty to eat, and the basics of existence. Not like clay pigeons, targets for whatever aircraft flew in the air. Not like sleepwalkers, passing the dead and bloated bodies of their school pals, neighbors, and family. Not like hungry baby birds, waiting with mouths open for the next morsel that might drop their way.
She pressed her nose to the glass, surprised that it bore no cracks or bullet holes. She closed her eyes, blocking out the nightmare.
A tap on her shoulder and she jumped as high as the Eiffel Tower. Clutching her chest, she turned to find Mitch behind her.
“I’m sorry. I tried to make noise”—he studied his stockinged feet—“but you were in a far-off place.”
She touched his face, his beard coarse and bristly. “A place where this is nothing but a bad dream. A place where I will awake and find myself in my rose-papered bedroom in California, Margot asleep in the bed beside me.”
“I have dreams too.”
“Of flying?”
He nodded. He understood.
“Why did you come after me?” He should be with Audra, comforting her.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“What did you mean when you spoke about Audra and me getting married?”
“Just what I said. It’s a plan you two have, but one that may never be a reality.”
“I haven’t any desire to marry Audra.”
She dared to look into his chocolate eyes. They were soft, kind. Perhaps loving. “Not now you don’t want to marry her. When this tragedy finally ends.”
“Never.”
Could it be that the love she saw in his eyes was for her?
“I love another.”
That, she couldn’t bear. For half a second, she’d had hope. “Let’s count to three and resolve to wake up.” She closed her eyes. “One . . .”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“In case this is a nightmare and we wake up an ocean and a continent apart from each other, I want you to know I love you. That has been the sweetest part of this dream. The part I don’t want to wake from.”
He loved her? “Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
“I do too.” Her heart dreamed along with his. “I’ll be sorry to wake up and find you gone. Promise me you will try to locate me in California.” Her heart pained her.
“I will. I promise. Will you slap me again if I kiss you?”
Part of her still didn’t believe she had done such a thing. She shook her head. He leaned in for a kiss that she couldn’t refuse. His lips came to rest on hers, the pressure gentle, soothing. Yet a fire raced through her and she pulled him closer. He held the back of her neck, his probing fingers pulling out her hairpins.
The passion intensified and he pressed his lips tighter to hers. The breath she drew wasn’t sufficient. His heart beat over hers, their tempos in unison.
Mitch took her head in his hands and pulled away, his eyes intent on her. “You are the most incredible, beautiful woman I have ever met.”
“Because if the kiss had gone on longer, I’d not have been able to control it. You fill me, complete me. I want you to be mine. I fought for you.”
This had to be real. “You fought Kurt.”
“He swung at me. I defended myself. Fought for you. He wants you as much as I do.”
“No one has ever fought for me.” That only happened at the cinema. It made her dizzy to think about. At the same time, anger surged in her toward Kurt. Didn’t he understand she wasn’t going to be his? Ever? “No wonder you don’t want to be near him. I’d throw him out on the street if it wouldn’t be his death sentence. But he won’t get me. I love another.”
His smile, his dimples, his love left her woozy.
He brushed his hand over her lids and she closed her eyes. “You have been the most beautiful dream. One, two . . .”