White Rose Black Forest(58)
“A picture of his mother,” she said, scanning the room. Old black-and-white photos filled frames on every table, and several hung on the wall. Who was his mother? And where would he hide the microfilm on a tiny frame like these? A closed door beckoned, and she ran to it. She pushed into the bedroom and saw above the bed the framed portrait of a traditionally dressed, stern-faced woman. Franka pulled it off the wall and placed it facedown on the mattress. More explosions tore through the air, and now she could hear the sound of flak biting back at the airplanes above. The back of the picture was covered in brown paper, level with the sides, raised an inch off the picture itself. Franka dug her hand into the brown paper and tore it away. A small black object was taped to the inside of the frame in the bottom-left corner. It couldn’t have been anything else but the microfilm. Franka ripped it off and rammed it into her pocket.
The bombs came again as she made for the stairs, and she waited until the noise stopped before continuing down. She burst out the door of the apartment block onto the ruined street. A man who’d been calling out for her help minutes before was now dead. It was hard not to look at him as she ran past. She kept her hand in her pocket as she went, her fingers coiled around the microfilm. The front door of the air-raid shelter was shut, and she hammered on it with a closed fist and shouted to let her in. The door opened, and—panting, covered in dust and blood—she fell inside. Hundreds of people turned to stare at her, her hand stuck in her pocket as if cast in iron.
Hours passed. The bombing finally ended. The bandage the medic had placed on her head was itchy. He’d assured her that the gash was superficial, and that head wounds almost always looked worse than they were. She played dumb, nodding and smiling as he finished. The man beside her offered her his coat. She refused and asked directions to the hotel she’d booked into, hoping it was still intact. She thought of the Allied airmen dropping the bombs, wondered if they knew what they were doing, who their bombs were killing. Were they war criminals, as most of the people in the air-raid shelter would testify? Or were things like accountability for war crimes decided by the victors? She doubted that most of the criminals of this war would ever see justice. Those on the side that emerged victorious would likely be lauded as heroes, their crimes remembered as exemplary actions. Streets and railway stations all over the world were named after people who some would hold up as war criminals.
It was night when the crowd emerged from the shelter. Franka shuffled into an altered cityscape, the flames from the bombing still licking at the night. People said that it was the heaviest raid on Stuttgart so far. It would be days before the dead were all gathered and counted. Franka would be long gone by then. The citizens of Stuttgart walked like ghosts through the darkened streets, meandering around rubble and the bodies of those less fortunate than they. The howling of the sirens had ended for now, replaced by the wailing of tears and the silent guilt of those who had survived.
Chapter 12
John sat at the window for much of the time she was gone. He was thinking about Penelope. She pined for someone else now. Another man awaited her letters. He imagined the airman holding the envelopes up to his nose, smelling the sweetness of her perfume, just as he once did. He hadn’t thought about her much since she’d written that last letter to him, which certainly had not been sprayed with perfume. He thought back on how they’d laughed together, on how proud of her he’d been, and on how they’d made love. The bitterness within him had faded away. He wished he could see her, tell her that he was sorry, that she was doing the right thing. Her happiness had been the most important thing in the world to him once, and he hoped she’d rediscovered it with her new husband. It was impossible to be angry with her. Everything was his fault. He’d never cheated or even wanted anyone else, but he hadn’t been there for her. He knew there would be no perfect goodbye. They would see each other again, perhaps at some black-tie function where they’d glance across a crowded room at one another. Perhaps they could talk and wish each other well. It was something to hope for.
Thoughts of Franka seemed to intrude on everything else that crossed his mind. His attempts to wipe her from his consciousness were futile—she always came back. Her face seemed tattooed inside him. He fought the worry he felt for her. It was more convenient to treat her like any other asset—she would have her uses, but when he awoke that morning he felt the lack of her in the coldness of that cabin. It felt empty. He made his way out of bed, shunting himself out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The coffee was on the stove where he’d left it. Everything was untouched except by his own hand. It felt unnatural. The feelings inside him were ridiculous—surely a direct result of being cooped up here for so long. It was true that he hadn’t seen a woman like Franka in a long time. It was natural he’d feel some affinity toward her. She’d saved his life. She was brave and honest and beautiful. He couldn’t blame himself for inconvenient thoughts he couldn’t master. He couldn’t help that he’d memorized every curve of her face. There were some things beyond his control.
He finished his breakfast of dried fruit, stale bread, and jam and made his way out to the living room. His book was lying on the table by the firewood he’d need to light. He estimated that the logs would get them through another three days before Franka would need to go out for more. It didn’t feel right sending her out into the snow, yet she never complained. She never complained about anything. It took him a few minutes to get the fire going to the stage where he was able to sit back and relax. He wished he could do more around the cabin, but he was hobbled. He was more hindrance than help.