A City of Broken Glass (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “You got another letter today from Berlin,” he said. “It was no love note.”

  “Same author as before?” Nearby, Anton had crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the booth, staying as close to me as he could. And eavesdropping.

  “Same as before, except that the author said something about how ‘he wrote her and said that he would meet with you that day.’ Does that make any sense?”

  “No.” But I wished that it did.

  “Should I fetch the letter?” Herr Marceau asked. “I’m sure you will want to hear it in its entirety. It is quite … colorful.”

  I bet. I had no desire to spend even a second on such foolishness. Paul and Anton needed to get home. “I have to get off the line soon. But tell Herr Knecht that I did not intend to come here.”

  “So someone coshed you on the head and dragged you across the border?” he sneered.

  “After a fashion,” I said, “yes. Please, see if Herr Knecht can get me back out.”

  Astonishment crackled down the line. “You are not joking.”

  “I wish that I were.” I pulled my wool coat tight against the cold. “Get a lawyer on this.”

  “Why not take the next train home? The paper could send someone else to cover the story.” He meant himself, of course, and I would have been happy to give him this one.

  “It is not about the stories. I was forced into the country illegally,” I said. “And I am not certain they would let me leave again.”

  He sucked in a long breath. “The Swiss embassy?”

  “Find out if Herr Knecht can get assurances that they will help me leave,” I said. “And I will be on their doorstep in an hour.”

  “That sounds very dangerous.” He did not believe me.

  “I know,” I said. “Can you get Herr Knecht?”

  He hesitated. “He is not here.”

  I wondered if he told the truth.

  “Are you certain you do not wish to hear the letter?”

  “I have to get off the line now,” I said. “If it is tapped by the Gestapo, they might be on their way.”

  “You sound like a spy film.”

  “I have stumbled into one,” I said. “Take care, Herr Marceau.”

  I broke the connection and herded Paul and Anton into the nearest subway station.

  Dark and cold pressed against us as we rode back to the apartment.

  I massaged my temples. My head still ached, and I felt more tired than I should. Still, I had managed to stay awake the entire day, which had to be an encouraging sign.

  Anton rode next to me, subdued by the trip to the orphanage. He was deeply shaken by what he had seen, aware that might have been his fate had I not taken him in. I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and he leaned against me.

  Paul sat in silence on a different bench. I suspected that he had not expected to find Ruth in the orphanage, but now he had no hope and no idea where to turn. His best source would be the mysterious man whom Anton had discovered, but who might know more about him? Miriam must have had friends, surely. Hopefully friends who had not been deported. Tomorrow we would find them.

  We arrived at the apartment building. Paul insisted that Anton and I go in a few minutes before he did, so that no one would think that we were together. He had not been that careful when he had come in with Maria yesterday. Or perhaps he had.

  I got ready for bed. Paul had pressed me to use Ruth’s bed instead of spending another night on the tired sofa. Anton had already lain down on the blankets I spread for him on the floor next to me. Before I settled in to bed, I donned Sarah’s old nightgown and robe and padded out to the living room, where Paul sat on the sofa in darkness. “Paul?”

  He raised his head slowly. “Yes?”

  “We will start fresh tomorrow. Someone will know this man who visited Miriam. And he might well know where Ruth is.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Hannah.”

  Helpless, I stared at him.

  “Good night,” he said, and I understood his tone of dismissal.

  I left him sitting in the dark and returned to Ruth’s room, where I stepped carefully over a sleeping Anton, who lay on his back, arms flung out to both sides as if he had to cover as much of the floor as possible. He had kicked off the blanket. I covered him again.

  I lay on my side on the little bed and watched his boyish chest rise and fall. I could not imagine life without him, as I suspected that Paul could not imagine life without Ruth. He would not have to. We would find her.

  Tomorrow morning, Lars would return from his mysterious errand. He would have some idea of what to do. He had been an effective police detective. He would think of things that we could not. He would help Paul to find Ruth.

  Stop that, I told myself. Do not rely on him. You should know better.

  A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. Murmurs came from the front hall. Two men, by the sound of it. Paul and Lars, or someone else?

  I peered out my door and down the hall. A man in a white coat stood behind the sofa, talking to Paul. Was he the mystery man and was that a scrap of his coat on the cupboard hinge?

  I waited until he left before venturing out in my robe. Paul sat alone on the sofa, hands resting on his knees.

  “Was it someone with news of Ruth?” I stood next to him.

  He stared at his knees. “Yes.”

  “Where is she?” I asked. “Is she well?”

  “She is in a safe place.” He sounded defeated rather than relieved. “And she is fine.”

  My heart lightened. Ruth was well. “Where is she?”

  “Somewhere where she is better off than she ever could be with me.”

  “What nonsense! Who told you that? You are her father.”

  He turned his hands palm up. “Perhaps she needs to start a new life, with a new identity.”

  “Paul—”

  “What can I provide for her?” His words were angry, but his eyes were sad. “The same misery and death that her mother suffered? That’s all I have to offer, Hannah. To her or myself.”

  “She is your daughter and she loves you. You cannot take away her father so soon after she lost her mother. Whom did you just speak to?”

  “She is better off without me.” He sank deeper into the sofa. “I wish it weren’t true. But it is.”

  “Who was here?” I put my hands on my hips.

  “I will not tell you, Hannah,” he said. “So, please, stop asking.”

  “Then tell me where she is, so we can make certain that she is well.” I felt like Paul’s mother. I took my hands off my hips and sat next to him instead. The sofa creaked.

  “She is my daughter. Not yours.” He shifted until his leg was straight out in front of him

  “Are you certain that—?”

  “Any decisions about her welfare are mine alone. And she is better off without a Jewish father weighing her down. Everyone is.” It was rare for Paul to speak with such authority, and I knew I would not be able to dissuade him. Not tonight, anyway.

  “I hate to ask this, Paul.” I hesitated. “Is Ruth yours?”

  His shoulders slumped.

  I pulled out the gold locket and removed Ruth’s picture to reveal the blond man behind. “Do you know this man? Might he be Miriam’s brother? Or a friend?”

  “He is not her brother,” Paul said. “Or a friend.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, Hannah,” he said. “Just … enough. Please, let me be. This is difficult enough without your meddling.”

  I shifted away from him on the sofa. He was correct.

  “Don’t be angry.” He took my casted hand. “It’s just all so hopeless.”

  “Sleep on it, Paul. Things will feel different in the morning.”

  “What if—?” His voice quavered, but he steadied it. “What if they don’t?”

  “Then we will see.” I sounded brave, but I had no idea what we could do either.

  He gathered me into his arms and rested his chin on my head, as
he used to twenty years ago. Back then it felt hopeful, but tonight it felt lonely. Eventually, he kissed the top of my head and said, “It’s late, my dear.”

  He disentangled himself and stood, extending a hand down to help me up. “Is your complicated friend Lars coming by tomorrow?”

  “He says he is.” I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. “But he is not always reliable.”

  “Really? He strikes me as a very reliable man indeed, where you are concerned.”

  “That is exactly what I used to think,” I said, “until I was proved wrong.”

  We walked back to our separate bedrooms.

  “Best of luck with him,” he said. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He touched my nose lightly with his fingertip. “Good night.”

  It sounded more like good-bye than good night. He turned and went into his room, pulling the door closed behind him. I stood uncertainly in the hall, staring at his closed door. I would talk to him again tomorrow, and make him see reason. If he just checked on Ruth once and made sure that she was safely settled, I would let it go.

  I crept past Anton and settled into my child’s sized bed. My head ached for a long time before I drifted off to sleep.

  I awoke to the sound of a clatter, as if something had dropped to the floor. My heart raced. I lay still, listening. Silence shrouded the apartment.

  The sound might have come from upstairs or outside, but I could not shake a feeling of dread. I sat up and listened. Nothing. I got quickly out of bed, driven by a sense of urgency I did not understand.

  The streetlamp’s dim light provided enough illumination for me to see Anton, still sound asleep. I dropped a hand to his warm head, stepped around him, and padded to the door, wood cold under my bare feet.

  I crept through the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the hall, searching for an intruder. All cloaked in late-night darkness, but empty. I paused in front of Paul’s door. I thought of knocking, but decided instead to glance in without waking him.

  I eased the door open. Hinges squeaked, and I froze. Paul’s curtains stood open to the streetlamps, his room brighter than ours. His form lay at an angle under the quilt, taking up more than half the mattress. Years before, I had chided him about using more than his fair share of the bed.

  One pale hand dangled off the mattress almost to the floor. Nothing looked out of place, but a compulsion rose up my spine. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

  The floor was empty except for a small thin shape, centimeters below Paul’s fingers. It rested in a pool of liquid. Had he spilled water?

  I stepped closer. The familiar smell of blood filled my nostrils. It dripped from the tips of his fingers, landing on the small object. A straight razor. Had that caused the clattering that woke me? I wished I had gotten right out of bed and come straight here, before he’d had time to lose so much blood. Now that I looked for it, blood was everywhere. It stained the bedspread and pooled on the floor. Sadness unfolded in me like a giant bird.

  I brushed it away and dashed to the bed. When I rolled him over, his eyelashes fluttered against his white skin. I felt for his pulse. Weak and thready.

  “Paul,” I said softly so as not to wake Anton. He did not move. I dropped to my knees next to the bed. How could he leave Ruth? Leave me?

  I fumbled for a wrist, but the cast made me clumsy. His right arm seemed uninjured, but blood slicked the left. I lifted his wounded arm high above his heart and pressed hard against his wrist with my left hand.

  I was slow, and every second counted. I cursed the Gestapo man who broke my arm.

  Paul moaned and tried to pull his arm back down.

  “Don’t you dare fight me.” I sounded harsh and angry, but I did not care. I smashed his arm against the wall and pressed on his wrist. He had missed the artery, but opened a large vein. He struggled weakly.

  I tucked my chin to see better. A slit ran from his elbow to his wrist. I winced at the determination that the cut revealed. Oh, Paul, I thought. Paul.

  I stared at the wound, trying to think as a nurse. He did not need stitches, I thought or hoped. I had no idea how I could get them into him if he did. He twisted his wounded arm. I pressed it harder against the wall with my good hand.

  “Stay still,” I said through gritted teeth. He collapsed, either because he understood or because he was too weak to fight.

  With my casted hand, I yanked the frayed pillowcase off Miriam’s pillow. I bit down on the edge and tore off a strip, the ripping sound loud in the quiet room. Even though my casted arm seared each time, I tore off another and another, dropping them awkwardly on the quilt and cursing my cast. Through it all, he barely stirred.

  When the pillowcase lay in shreds, I bound up his arm. I worked from elbow to wrist. I had only one strong hand, so I had to tie the knots with my left hand and my teeth. Frau Doktor Spiegel would have marked me down on neatness, but by the time I finished, the bandage was secure.

  When his arm was covered and the bleeding stopped, I wiped my hands on my nightdress, leaving streaks down the front. Both my hands were still sticky with blood. It had soaked into my nightgown at the knees when I knelt next to him. How much blood had he lost?

  I felt for his pulse in his good arm. His heart beat steady and stronger than before. I let out a breath of relief, suddenly aware of the room’s temperature, and that I had left Sarah’s robe hanging next to my bed. Just as well, since it, too, would have been soaked in blood now. My headache returned full force, and I slid down to the floor by the bed. The wood felt cold on the backs of my legs.

  He clutched my hand. “Hannah?”

  “Here, Paul.” The room whirled. Nausea grew in my stomach. I took a deep shuddering breath. I had to hold it together, for him.

  “Why stop me?” he whispered.

  “I am a nurse.” I swallowed bile. “I could not help myself.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  “We should get you to a doctor.” Although I did not know if either of us could stand.

  “Please,” he said. “Let me stay here. Just don’t leave me alone.”

  “I won’t.” I took his good hand and leaned my back against the side of his bed. It felt better to have something propping me up.

  He stirred.

  “Hush,” I said, as if he were Anton, newly wakened from a nightmare. “Tomorrow.”

  He quieted.

  Soon I would get up and call Frau Doktor Spiegel. I closed my eyes for a moment to rest. Only a moment.

  14

  Light seared my sleeping eyelids. I tried to open them, but they were too heavy. Was my injury to blame? A flame of panic ignited at the back of my skull, too small to help me.

  “My god.” A familiar voice.

  Hands lifted me. I struggled through the pain in my head. Someone said the word no over and over, a litany.

  Arms tightened around me, and the sound stopped.

  “Not now,” he whispered. “Please not now.”

  Arms crushed me. I conquered the pain in my head and pushed through to wakefulness. “Let me go!”

  The arms did not release. Whoever held me rocked us both from side to side. Where was I? Why was I so cold?

  “Can’t breathe,” I choked out.

  The arms loosened. A fingertip trailed down my cheek. I wrenched open my eyelids. Lars had arrived and turned on the overhead light. He held me tightly.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Please.”

  I focused on his familiar dark eyes, but a stranger looked back. As one had during my last visit, in 1936. Blood had triggered an episode in him, then. My blood. “Lars?”

  He stared as if he truly could not believe that I spoke. He still did not recognize me. He was having another episode. I yanked my arms free and put my filthy hands on his warm cheeks. “Lars?”

  Something stirred behind his eyes. Recognition? I held his face so that he could not look away. “C
ome back to me.”

  He blinked, but his expression did not change. I had not reached him. He fought his own demons, either the ones he had created as an interrogator for the SS or others I did not know.

  “It’s me, Hannah.” I could barely move in his grip. I shivered, from cold and from fear.

  Probably to warm me, he shifted me closer to his chest, hiking me into his lap. I felt him harden under my leg. Recognition dawned in his eyes. “Spatz?”

  So that part remembered me best. Any other time, it would have been funny. I did not know whether to be offended or flattered. “Lars?”

  His eyes cleared. He was back.

  “Where?” He felt my head, my arms, my shoulders. “Where are you hurt?”

  I put my hands over his, stopping his exploring. His eyes spoke a question. He was still there.

  “I am not hurt.” Or at least nothing new.

  He pulled his hands free and went back to checking me. “But you’re covered in blood. Where are you hurt, Spatz?”

  “Not mine.” I struggled to sit up. “Paul’s.”

  Expressions chased across his face, ending with relief. He sagged against the side of Paul’s bed. “Thank god.” He kissed the top of my head, my forehead, my cheeks.

  I leaned back before he could get to my lips.

  He gently released his hold on me.

  “What are you doing here?” I rested my palm on Paul’s chest. He slept deeply. I took his pulse. Strong. He would make it through.

  “I came back to…” Lars’s gaze traveled around the room, noticing blood on the walls and dried in blotches on the floor. “What happened here?”

  He noticed the razor. I had not bothered to move it. He picked it up. “I see.”

  “I need to clean up,” I said.

  He eased me off his lap and stood. Light-headed, I closed my eyes and leaned back against Paul’s bed.

  Lars put a hand down and helped me to my feet. I swayed.

  “Your head?” he asked.

  “Hurts. Dizzy.” I read alarm in his eyes. “Not like right after.”

  His eyes said that he did not believe me, but at least his mouth stayed silent.