A City of Broken Glass (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  I took an unsteady step to the door. “I must wash up.”

  He walked next to me, opened the bathroom door, and watched while I sat on the vanity bench in front of the sink. When he clicked on the light, I stared into the mirror, shocked. Blood smeared my cheek. Blood crusted on my hands and cast. Blood streaked the front of my nightdress. No wonder he had thought me injured or worse.

  He ran hot water into the sink and wet the washcloth. I watched him in the mirror as he stroked it gently across my face. His expression said he expected me to stop him. I touched his hand. “I can do the rest.”

  He bowed slightly, picked up another washcloth, and left the bathroom. I listened to his steps approaching Paul’s room before I closed the bathroom door. I took another four headache tablets, hoping they might temper the pain.

  I studied my bloodstained hands. Paul’s blood. It was caked in my knuckles and under my nails. If I had gotten to him much later, he would not have survived. Paul, gone.

  I savagely scrubbed my hands clean and pulled the nightdress over my head. I stared at the bloodstains. I shivered, but I had nothing else to put on.

  As if on cue, Lars rapped on the door. “I have your robe.”

  I opened the door a slit, and he handed it through. “Thank you.”

  I closed Sarah’s too-short robe tight around me. At least it was warm.

  Although chilled through from sitting on the floor and from washing up, I lingered in the bathroom. I did not want to face Lars. He moved quietly around the living room, and I wondered what he was doing.

  Eventually, Lars called softly. “Spatz?”

  I stumbled out of the bathroom into the living room.

  He led me to the white-tiled stove that Paul and Miriam used to heat the apartment. I touched the smooth tiles, warm under my icy fingertips, glad that he had built a fire in it. He helped me into one of the chairs drawn up close to the stove, wrapped a warmed blanket around me, and tucked it under my feet. I took a cup of hot tea from his hand, and he sat in the other chair, very close. “I made it while you were washing up.”

  I wrapped my cold hands around the warm cup. “Would I frighten Anton if he saw me now?”

  Lars shook his head, eyes still worried. He handed me headache tablets, and I swallowed another two with a long sip of tea.

  “I should sit with Paul, in case he wakes and tries to do himself harm again.” Warmth soaked into me. I felt drowsy.

  “I tied him to his bed,” he said. “It seemed the best way for all of us to get some sleep.”

  “I thought you did not have the heart to tie someone down. Or so you told me.”

  He smiled with half his mouth. “I said I didn’t have the heart to tie you down. I have no such qualms about Paul.”

  “Poor Paul,” I said.

  “And I would much rather climb into your bed than his.”

  I blushed and looked at the steaming tea. “I had better clean Paul’s room before Anton sees it.”

  “I already did,” Lars said. “As best as I could in the overhead light. You just sit.”

  I set down the tea and settled into my soft blankets, grateful that I had nothing else to do. “Thank you, Lars.”

  He took my hand. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” I said. “But my head feels much better.”

  He squeezed my hand. “I am relieved to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  Fingers lingering on my temple, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “My pleasure. More than you know.”

  I grazed my fingertips down the line he had traced across my temple. I should get up and take myself to bed. I closed my eyes. I drifted off to sleep wondering what he was doing in Paul’s apartment, in Paul’s bedroom, in the middle of the night. Why had he not waited until morning to come around?

  * * *

  I awoke in Ruth’s bed. Anton’s blanket lay neatly folded on the floor. I touched my temple. For the first time since Poland, my head did not hurt. I lay there, savoring the absence of pain.

  But I could not lie in bed forever. Judging by the light, it was late morning. I had slept long and deeply. I put on a dress, made my bed, and headed for the living room.

  On the way, I peeked into Paul’s empty room. Lars had cleaned away every trace of last night’s disaster so thoroughly that I wondered if I had dreamed it. My glance fell on my cast. Blotches of blood stained its surface. No dream, then. Where was Paul? My heart beat faster.

  In the living room, Lars and Anton sat on the sofa building a kite of brown paper and sticks. Lars had rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “Good morning!” called Anton. “Lars and I went shopping already. Your breakfast is laid out in the kitchen.”

  Lars looked up from the kite. He was tying a knot with his teeth, while he held the kite’s ribs with both hands. He looked as carefree as Anton. My heart somersaulted in my chest. No, I told myself sternly, as if I spoke to a disobedient child. My feelings for Lars did not matter. Only my actions counted, and I had best mind them.

  Lars finished the knot and handed the kite to Anton. “Good morning, Spatz. You look better than you have for days.”

  “As do you.” He was shaved and showered and looked as if he’d had a good night’s sleep, although he had to have slept less than I. “Where is Paul?”

  “Kitchen,” Lars said. “I rebandaged his arm.”

  “You are a full-service man.”

  He gave me a wicked grin. “Not all my services have been fully utilized.”

  In spite of myself, I smiled.

  “But,” he said, “it’s early yet.”

  I shook my head at him and walked into the kitchen. My smile faded when I saw Paul. He hunched over the table, deathly pale, clutching a teacup with his right hand. Lars had done a neat job with the bandages, but I itched to take them off and see if Paul needed stitches. I did not think so last night, but it had been dark, and I had been too concerned with stopping the blood flow to worry about long-term healing. “How are you?”

  Paul raised sunken eyes to me and grimaced.

  I helped myself to a roll, drizzled it with honey, and poured a cup of tea. Lars and Anton talked in the living room about the best ways and places to fly a kite.

  “Do you intend to try that again?” I asked Paul.

  His lips thinned. “I think I’ll take your friend Lars up on his offer instead.”

  I choked on a crumb and coughed. “What offer?”

  “He said that you were badly injured a few days ago, that he will not let me make you another one of my casualties, and if I had any more drama I needed to exorcise, he would happily put me out of my misery somewhere quiet so you wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  I stared at him openmouthed. I would have a word with Lars. He had no right to speak so to Paul. I started to stand.

  “He was correct to be angry.” Paul put his hand on my arm. I stopped. “I did not know that you were so ill. Are you all right?”

  “I am fine.” I sat. “I am more worried about you. I apologize for Lars—”

  “I don’t know your complicated history with him,” he said. “But I’m starting to like him.”

  I grimaced. “It is not his right to tell you what you can or cannot do in your own home. With your own life.”

  “But you had the right to stop me from doing what I wanted with my own life?” He took a sip of tea.

  “That was—”

  “Different?” he interrupted. “Because you did it?”

  “I am not going to apologize for trying to save your life,” I snapped.

  “Perhaps you should not make Lars apologize for trying to save yours.” He splashed more tea into his cup, as if this ended the discussion.

  I swallowed my retort. I slept in for a few hours, and suddenly everyone had befriended Lars.

  I had to admit that he had taken good care of me last night, that he must have spent a great deal of time cleaning up blood in Paul’s room, that breakfast was lovely, and that
he had entertained Anton so that I could sleep in. If I were not careful, I would end up friends with him as well. Fräulein Ivona’s red mouth appeared in my mind, and I took a deep breath. I remembered too well where befriending Lars led. I would not let him betray me again.

  I tasted my tea: orange pekoe, my favorite. Lars again.

  “Paul,” I said finally. “What will you do?”

  He picked at his bandage. “I don’t know.”

  “You cannot try to take your own life again.” I moved his fingers off the bandage before he unraveled it. He let me.

  “You won’t allow it?” He dropped his injured hand in his lap.

  My teacup clanked into its saucer. “Think about Ruth. She needs a father more than ever.”

  “Perhaps she has a better one.” His brown eyes held so much pain, it hurt to look at him.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Who?”

  “Enough, Hannah. As I said last night, I’m not going to explain myself to you.” He sat up straighter. “I am no good to her here.”

  “Then leave Germany,” I said. “Take her out. I know a man who might get you false papers—”

  “Where would I go?”

  “New York,” I said. “Sarah would take you in. Herr Klein has a spare room.”

  Herr Klein was an ancient Jewish jeweler who had fled Berlin in 1931. He and Paul had been friends. He would help Paul, and Ruth, too.

  Paul put his bandaged hand gently over mine. “Always working to solve the world’s problems, aren’t you?”

  “I did not spend years of my life dragging you back after the War to lose you now, Paul.”

  He smiled, not a real smile, but something. “So I owe it to you?”

  “You owe it to Ruth. And yourself. And some of it, yes, to me.”

  He squeezed my hand. “We’ll see.”

  “See what?”

  “What’s next.” He studied our joined hands.

  “You have to see that she is well settled,” I said. Hopefully, when he saw her, he would change his mind. “At least that.”

  “Do I?”

  “Who once told me that one cannot make a decision without all the facts?” I said. He had told me that.

  He smiled reflexively. “Some fool or other, I imagine.”

  “No fool like an old fool.” I put my hand on top of his. “Let’s find out the facts, Paul. Then you can make your decision.”

  “I’ll go see,” he said. “Happy?”

  He meant it. I smiled with relief. “Yes.”

  “But alone.” He took his hand back and stroked his bandaged arm. “I don’t want either of us to do anything that might endanger Ruth in her current situation.”

  “What could we—?”

  “Leave it.” He sounded worried. “Please, Hannah. Trust me?”

  I wanted to ask how I could trust him after last night, but when I looked into his eyes, all I could do was nod. I could not add to his burden.

  I put away the breakfast things, hoping that the familiar domestic tasks would bring me peace. But they did not. Paul seemed safe for today, but tomorrow, I could not see. Then again, were any of us safe? Could I find someone to create false papers for all of us, including Paul and Ruth?

  Herr Silbert was in prison. Or was he? I had only the shopkeeper’s word. I looked at the sun outside. In a few hours, a good friend and police officer would be having his lunchtime cigar. I could catch up with him and ask him to check on Herr Silbert’s whereabouts. I only hoped that this meeting would go better than my last meeting with the police officer, when he and his wife had expressed their loyalty to the Nazi government and summarily dismissed me after I had choked down a piece of strudel.

  I ran water in the sink. Paul stood next to me. He picked up a plate. I took it out of his hand. “You cannot wash with your wounded arm.”

  “But you can?” he asked tiredly.

  “We have two arms between us,” I said.

  “Like a three-legged race.” He stepped closer and wrapped his wounded arm around my shoulder. “I have a right, you have a left.”

  I held a plate while he washed it and rinsed it, then passed it to him to place on the drainboard.

  Behind us, Lars cleared his throat. Paul lifted his arm off my shoulder. I turned to face Lars, who gave me an icy look. I glanced up at Paul. Lars, with his different young girlfriend every week, dared to be jealous of my friendship with Paul? I stayed close to Paul’s side.

  “May we go to the park to fly my new kite?” Anton popped out from behind Lars. Perhaps not such a bad idea. The best concealment was pretending to be a normal German family doing normal family activities. Hiding in an apartment, particularly in the Jewish quarter, was likely to invite questions from the neighbors. Playing in the park was not.

  But everything in Nazi Germany had risks.

  I sighed. I might as well let Anton have a fun afternoon. I had a few hours to spare before I hoped to meet my friend with his lunchtime cigar and find out more about Herr Silbert.

  “It will do us all good to get out into the fresh air.” Lars nodded toward Anton, but he meant Paul.

  “That sounds delightful.” I said with forced enthusiasm.

  Lars looked at Paul and me, still standing close together. He raised his teacup toward me as if in a toast. So, he thought I was interested in Paul now. Let him. I tilted my head to show that I acknowledged Lars’s gesture.

  “The paste is dry on the kite,” Anton said. “See?”

  He turned to show me. The kite’s wooden rib jostled Lars’s arm. Tea spilled down the front of Lars’s white shirt.

  He pulled the shirt away from his undershirt, but both were already soaked through.

  “I’m sorry,” Anton said.

  “It serves to reinforce my point that indoors is no place for a kite.” Lars unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped it off and hung it over his arm. “I’ll go wash up.”

  He had always looked good in an undershirt. I turned back to the breakfast things so that he would not catch me looking.

  “I have something you can borrow,” Paul said.

  But before he could fetch it, someone knocked on the front door.

  “I’ll get the door,” Paul said. “Into my room. All three of you.”

  15

  Anton, Lars, and I slunk down the hall to Paul’s bedroom. My heart sped up when I stepped across the threshold. The clean bedspread, the light through the curtains. Everything felt warm and friendly, as if last night had never happened.

  Lars rested his palm on my lower back, as if to keep me in balance, and I found myself leaning against it. I stood up straight. What did he feel in this room? What had he been thinking as he held me on the floor last night, soaked in blood? To whom did he think he apologized? It had not been to me; of that I was certain.

  A little boy’s voice piped up from the front door.

  “Reuben.” Anton stepped toward Paul’s door. “May I go talk to him?”

  “But stay in the apartment,” I said.

  Lars pulled his undershirt over his head and wiped the back of the shirt across his chest, which looked every bit as muscular as I remembered. He dropped the soiled undershirt on Paul’s bed. Last night I had rested against the side of that bed in Lars’s arms. I tried hard not to think about how much I wanted to be there again.

  Instead, I stepped to Paul’s wardrobe and opened the door one-handed. Shirts and undershirts were stacked neatly on the top shelf, where he had always kept them. I took out a white shirt and an undershirt and turned to give them to Lars.

  He stood by the window with his back to me, looking at the street below.

  Walking over with the shirts, I noticed his back. In 1936, it had a few shrapnel scars, but a new story of pain was inscribed on his skin now. Angry pink lines of scar tissue crisscrossed his back.

  He caught my expression reflected in the window. “Quite a mess, isn’t it?”

  I offered him Paul’s undershirt. “How?”

  “Russian pris
on.” The undershirt muffled his words as it went over his head. “About a week after we parted. Not a hospitable lot, I’m afraid.”

  I gasped.

  He gently tilted my chin up so I had to look into his eyes. “You didn’t think I was avoiding you on purpose, did you?”

  Shame burned in my cheeks. I had thought just that. “Why were you arrested?”

  “A charge of espionage,” he said. “Carelessness.”

  If I had not uncovered the evidence that had sent him to Russia, he would never have been there to be arrested. “Lars—”

  “Don’t take responsibility for that.” He released my chin and put on Paul’s shirt. “You have enough already.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “The prison decided to withdraw its hospitality in January.” He quickly buttoned the front of the shirt. Paul was taller than he, so the shirt hung on him as if he were a boy dressing in his father’s clothing. It looked strangely endearing. I folded one of his cuffs back, conscious of how close my fingers were to the soft skin of his wrist. He drew my hand up toward his lips.

  Anton spoke from the doorway. “January was ten months ago.”

  I took my hand off his shirt and stepped back from Lars. Ten months was a long time. What had he been doing?

  “You certainly did not teach him to hold his tongue,” Lars said.

  “I do not excel at that myself, so I find it difficult to teach.” I rubbed my fingers across the top of the hand that he had almost kissed.

  Lars tucked in the shirt. “I can imagine.”

  I turned to Anton. “Do not be impertinent, Anton.”

  Anton crossed his arms.

  “What, exactly, have I done to make you both so angry with me?” Lars asked.

  He had left me waiting in Switzerland, thinking him dead, and he wondered why I might be angry? My head started throbbing, and I took a shaky breath.

  “One of these days,” Lars said, “perhaps we can have a conversation when you have no injury to hide behind.”

  “Doubtful.” I thought back to conversations we had after I had been shot, had a broken rib, and had been poisoned by toxic gas. “I so often come to harm around you.”

  “Due to your efforts and in spite of mine.” He swept past me into the hall.