Out of Splinters and Ashes

by Colleen L. Donnelly

  Chapter 58

  His voice. She heard it rousing her, calling her name with an agonized shout, while other shouts barked and overpowered his. Her name from his lips was a lifeline in the darkness. She tried to respond, but she was broken. Unable to call back, unable to let go of the wood burning against what was left of the front of her dress where she pressed his mirror beneath her. She thought he called from his reflection as it lay mixed within the embers and rubble, beneath the acrid smoke forcing her awake.

  She had inched like a snake through tiny flames, searching for his voice. “I’m here,” she said, and lay down.

  “Amabile!”

  His cry was lost beneath the wail in her ears, sirens, curses. His hands touched her, so gentle, the smell of burning flesh wrapping around her own. “The mirror,” she thought to herself. Unable to talk, unable to stay in arms wrenched away with threats and more cursing.

  “It’s too late for her,” a voice snarled as she hit the floor, the mirror hot against her again. “Take him out of here. Look what he’s done.”

  She heard him call again, his voice fading with protests, with kicking against the charred remains of what little of her home was left. The only home they’d shared, except for what lay beneath her, and even it crumbling in the heat.

  A toe shoved against her leg. “She’s gone.” She couldn’t argue, she couldn’t nudge back. Only her heart was still alive as he fought against being dragged away.

  She lay alone in the remains—she and the mirror, all that was left of it, of him. Voices and boots pounded around her, but still she couldn’t stir. Only her heart. It listened for his call and her name amidst the German shouts and annoyance.

  A mirror. She heard the request in his language, and the translation from one of her Polizei. “Nein. Nichts. Kein Spiegel,” another of her police responded. No mirror. Had he sent a friend back to ask for it? Did he want to keep her reflection as she lay dying? Dead, he’d been told. More boots kicked around her. Anger from the man who spoke his language, as “mirror” and his name and words that said surely he’d taken it were spat over and over.

  Their likenesses smoldered beneath her until the building cleared and only the rare crackling of burnt wood spoke.

  “That her?” They rolled her to her back, and at last her heart spoke. She stretched her fingers toward the mirror.

  “She’s alive?”

  She was alive where she called his name, where her fingers reached for his mirror, stretching over the charred frame and lumps. Two broken lilies, the rest ashes. Her tears told them what she couldn’t, and they understood. “Gently, her and that thing she wants. That wooden and glass thing.” They scooped everything, and she held on, one of the lilies burning in her fist.

  Dietrich cursed and let the pages Oma had sent drop onto his lap, her revived writing tantamount to a confession, important enough she invested extra money to have it sent quickly to him here in New York. Did she know? How could she? He’d called Monika again, and she swore she hadn’t contacted Oma, but said she should. He cursed again. If Oma dared to send him pages so clearly Amabile, why didn’t she just say Crawley’s name? Say at least one of them was guilty. Then Dietrich could put to rest for Crawley’s wife what her ragged heart already knew. And show Cate… He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on his hotel room’s table. It was all true. But how could it be true? Wasn’t Oma saying “he” was Crawley and Crawley hadn’t left her behind after all but had been dragged away instead, told she was dead? Monika was less illegitimate, then. And Oma could be a traitor, one loving an enemy instead of just being his victim.

  Dietrich tossed the letter and the beginning of Oma’s new story onto the table’s top. It spun as he stood and stared through the nearby window, through cool glass panes, at the piece of New York City below, where Crawley lived. Living proof of fiction.

  He frowned at the tiny dots below him. Couples, people walking so close together they looked like one. Something Dietrich had never done. He’d been like the singular dots below…except for that one. One that was small and fast, jetting around the others as if needing to escape. He pressed closer to the glass, a ring of steam where he breathed. He followed the small dark dot, swiping away the fog.

  He ran, then. He grabbed his corduroy jacket and raced from his room, taking the stairs two at a time to the bottom. “Excuse me.” He let the woman who’d stepped in his way pass, her fragrance and the glint of jewelry blinding him. The revolving doors spun across the lobby, and excusing himself again, he timed his dart around obstacles and across the floor so he hit an opening at just the right time. Cold air blasted against his face as he spilled out onto the sidewalk. He glanced both directions and turned toward the one the runner had gone. Small and fast.

  He never ran. He did it anyway, though, through the crowd, the runner’s way.

  Chapter 59

  I stared at the open spot in the row of framed somethings along Non Bookends’ ceiling, where the mirror had been.

  “You’re dressed rather well. You going out with a friend?”

  I turned from staring at the empty space and from the faces I didn’t want to think about. “I’m supposed to meet Emerson.” I ran a finger along Grandma’s table and glanced up again toward the ceiling. Emerson’s voice had sounded taut when he called. Apologetic, a man torn between what his heart wanted and what his heart really wanted. “He’s coming here to pick me up.” A place he couldn’t bring my outfits back, a campaign to tie his land back to mine.

  “Why here?” Her deep creases deepened even more.

  “I was coming here…anyway.” I glanced at the folds between her brows. “Where’s the mirror that was up there?” I pointed above our heads. I waited for How did you know it was a mirror and What I do in my store is none of your business.

  “It was time to take it down.” Grandma lied, her own sort of fiction obvious, to hide a truth instead of divulging it.

  “Where did you get it?” Please say junk shop, antique store, someone’s trash.

  “It’s not really mine.”

  “Someone left it here?”

  “No.”

  “Whose was it?” Asking was hard, and I braced for Amabile’s, your grandfather’s, someone’s with blue eyes that could be trusted.

  “That’s what I was trying to find out.” She glanced up at the vacant spot. “I’m pretty sure I know now.” She looked back at me, all the furrows and ridges in her face sagging. “Oh, heck, I always knew. Just not everything.”

  Non Bookends’ bells tinkled. Neither Grandma nor I turned. It was dark outside, but the store was open and customers still came and went. I willed them away, so Grandma and I could talk. I willed Emerson to be late, really late, which he never was.

  “What did you know, Grandma?” Footsteps traveled around the store, and I willed harder that they would find a book and go sit down.

  “Through the Looking Glass,” she said, keeping her gaze on me.

  “Carroll. But…”

  “Right.” She walked toward her room. I wanted to follow, but I wanted even more for the mirror to be there and for her to bring it to me. To us, to show both of us, together, in a reflection, the real truth.

  “There you are, Catharine.”

  Grandma’s back disappeared around the last tower of books. “You’re early.” I twisted Emerson’s way.

  “I couldn’t wait.” That was true. I could see it in the pinch of his brow.

  “Grandma was just getting something…” I flipped a finger toward the back.

  “Do you want to help her?”

  “I think she’s bringing it out here.” I lowered my finger to the table and tapped. “It’s kind of personal, if you don’t…”

  “Catharine…” Emerson inched closer. “I want you to know how hard this has been on me. For me, too, I mean. Not being together… Getting the clothes I bought for you back that way…”

  “We should talk about this later.”

  “No, Catharine. Not late
r. Now. It’s that important.” He came close enough to latch his fingers onto mine. “I don’t want you to give back what I’ve bought for you. They’re yours, for always. So please, let’s get this settled. Fix whatever’s wrong.”

  He was trying to bridge the sea between us. Not just coming across the vast expanse but hoping to step onto my land. I glanced at the hand that was grasping mine instead of a bundle of hangers, and I thought of all the times I’d laced my fingers through his. “What sort of together do you want, Emerson?”

  “Well, the sort we had before. You beside me at dinners, at functions, everyone seeing us as a couple.”

  “You beside me at my grandfather’s hearing?”

  The black of his eyes darkened, or maybe his skin took on a slight blanch. I watched his head dip and then rise. “Yes. If that’s what you want. But understand that’s why Miles was there. He went in my stead, so in a way, I’ve been there all along.”

  Grandma rounded the shelves as the front bells clattered again, the glass of the mirror against her. She slowed when she spotted Emerson, then came on, stepping to the table and propping the mirror there with one hand.

  “Cate?”

  Grandma turned at my name, the mirror turning with her, a panorama of images and reflections gliding past with its spin until I turned also.

  “You were running just now?” Dietrich’s hair was damp, waves and strands wetted to his forehead as he nearly skidded to a halt behind us.

  “No, were you?” I took in the long legs built to run. Legs that were like my mother’s, and my…

  “I was.” There was almost a smile. “I’m certainly not a runner.” Long fingers combed through his hair. “But you are.”

  You’re so small. You’re not built like a runner. You’re not the runner I’m looking for. I stared at my enemy, the one who had brought nothing but horror, shame, and insult to me.

  “You should run,” Dietrich said.

  “He is running.” I waved a hand toward Emerson. “And doing a good job of it…at least he was…”

  “Not him,” Dietrich said. “I mean you should run.”

  I saw it then, what he meant. Not just should run, but what I should run from. I glanced at Emerson.

  “What about this mirror, Cate?” Grandma asked from behind Emerson and me.

  “Just a minute, Grandma.”

  “I’ll put it back, then. Another time, maybe.”

  “Sorry, Grandma.” I pivoted, Emerson turning with me. Charred and streaked images stared back at us from the glass Grandma held. I was there—small, brown hair, dressed in nice clothing. But Emerson’s reflection was tall and blond, dressed in a corduroy jacket. I swung to where Dietrich stood behind Emerson and me, pressed closer to Emerson, and looked again—tall, blond, corduroy, and a smile. The writer alongside the runner. Again.

  Chapter 60

  “You were fast. How was it you couldn’t move quickly enough to get away from the accident in Poland?”

  “I wasn’t that fast.” Grandpa sat as straight as he could in the witness’s seat, the unnatural slant of a man who’d walked most of his life with a limp. McCoy’s attorney pressed close with an intimidating nearness.

  “Fast enough your fellow soldiers remember that in particular about you.”

  “Irrelevant.” Grandpa’s attorney stood.

  “Your Honor.” McCoy’s attorney moved with ease in front of the military judge. “Private Crawley’s integrity and character are being evaluated here as evidence. Was he the honest man his attorney presents? Or not?”

  “Overruled. You may proceed.” The judge leaned back in his seat.

  “You ran into the exploded area, is that correct, Private Crawley? A civilian vehicle loaded with fuel.”

  “I did.”

  “To help?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “I was shocked at the initial explosion, then ran when I heard the screams. It was impulse more than thought, but I assumed the worst was past. I didn’t think about another tank blowing just as I got close. I was fast in a way, but not nearly fast enough to do what needed done and get away.”

  “You were the first to enter the area, right?”

  “I was the only one. The accident was remote.”

  “Remote? What were you doing in a remote place?”

  “Walking, sir. I was shipping out soon. Just collecting my thoughts, and thinking about France ahead.”

  “So you were out walking alone. Where was Lieutenant McCoy?”

  “Wrapping up in another country. He told me I’d done a good job and to go stretch my legs until it was time to go.”

  “You ended up breaking a leg, instead. Is that right?”

  “No, sir.” Grandpa stared down at his lap. I could imagine that leg, long and thin, like a cane instead of a limb. “Not then. That happened in France.”

  “Okay. So you witnessed the blast in Poland, heard screams, and ran toward the burning truck. A second explosion occurred, one you weren’t quick enough to get away from. As a result, you were burned. Tell us about those injuries.”

  “The second blast burned my arms. Most of the flames from the first explosion were at the rear of the vehicle. I had just reached the cab, my arms shielding my face, when the gas tank itself caught fire. It flashed and burned the shirt off my arms and chest.”

  “I see. And the leg?”

  “I received treatment for the burns in Poland, then further treatment in France. I was still medicated for pain and infection when I made a misjudgment behind a backing vehicle. Wasn’t fast enough, again, I guess. My leg was crushed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Private. Did you make any friends, of sorts, while in Poland? Who helped you after you were injured?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Medical people helped at some point. Then Lieutenant McCoy came to help see to my treatment and have me sent to France. No friends, though. I wasn’t there long enough to form friendships, not to mention the language barrier without a constant translator. Nor was there time, with my duties.”

  McCoy’s attorney strode back to his table, lifted a folder, and took it to the judge. “We do have records of such a blast in Poland. All of this occurring August 12, 1936. Nothing left but a charred vehicle, the rest ashes, no bodies identified. Local authorities took over.”

  The room was quiet. Even Grandpa was still as the judge read through the folder.

  “No further questions for now.”

  Grandpa’s attorney stood then and presented identical reports to what the judge had just read but with paperwork included that described Grandpa’s stay in Poland and records of his treatment for burns.

  “So what did you do during your stay in Poland?”

  “I was stuck at the airport and then at a train station when I arrived. Five of us had been assigned there, each to different locations. It was a country on edge, and a US soldier wasn’t completely trusted. After I received clearance, I was escorted to my barracks—a room, actually—and told to stay there. I did, until the lieutenant had me cleared for work.”

  “So where exactly was Lieutenant McCoy?”

  Grandpa stared at his attorney. I glanced at McCoy. He didn’t move. Only his attorney rolled a pencil between his fingers. “Like I said, we had men scattered all over, doing jobs, most of them in France, a few in Belgium for the elections, and some in Poland. He was working with all of us.”

  “Jobs designed for a possible war?”

  “I wasn’t privy to all that our units were doing.”

  “So McCoy could have been anywhere. Maybe even Berlin?”

  “Objection.” McCoy’s attorney’s pencil stopped moving. “It’s not Lieutenant McCoy on trial here.”

  But it should have been. It was his communications those first army officers were investigating, not Grandpa’s.

  “Let me rephrase the question. Where was Lieutenant McCoy before coming to Poland?”

  “I wasn’t given that information personally. I wasn
’t well at that time, so I didn’t ask, either.”

  “Did Lieutenant McCoy have friends or acquaintances in Poland? Did he already know anyone there?”

  “He may have. He had at least spoken with them, if not met them before.”

  “Yet you had none. No further questions at this time.”

  I glanced at Emerson in the quiet. “Grandpa wasn’t in Berlin,” I whispered.

  His dark brows conferenced in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t understand what he needed to, that Grandpa might be freed from a mess that should have been McCoy’s, or even Dietrich’s, especially if he was never in Berlin.

  McCoy took the stand, and his attorney spoke of the information leaked to Berlin, the supposed list that had never been recovered, and of the Aryan-looking American who allegedly relayed and was to deliver it. He spoke of Grandpa’s Aryan look and his reputation for being fast, whether Grandpa could slip in and out of Germany and be quick enough to deliver a list while in Poland or Berlin without arousing suspicion.

  I’m not a runner. Running’s not in our family. You shouldn’t run. I’m not fast enough.

  “You can see from photos of him he was the Aryan ideal. And he was certainly fast.”

  McCoy said it like a man under oath, one who knew he was bound to the truth.

  Effective if he was shifting the blame to another.

  “I’d only seen him do recreational running, though, no racing. Just fun and games the men sometimes did in their off times.”

  “Tell us what you know about the list…how it was supposedly relayed.”

  “From someone in the US military, through several hands, until it was to end up in Berlin with the German army. Again, through a US military person.”