A City of Broken Glass (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “What happened?”

  “My story within a story impressed them enough for them to talk to their German allies, and after another short stint in the general population, they released me to the SS.”

  “What did the SS do?”

  “I had expected them to kill me or torture me for details about Hahn’s death, which is why I did not try that story earlier.” He sighed. “But, oddly enough, they believed that one. They got me a real doctor. I healed for a few months. When I was well enough to leave the hospital, I first took a short leave of absence to take care of a small matter in Russia, then went to Switzerland to see you.”

  “What small matter?”

  “Not today.” He rolled onto his side, facing away from me.

  “All right, Lars.” After hearing him talk about being tortured, I wondered what could be worse. If he did not want to tell me, I could wait. I fit myself against his back and asked. “What happened in Switzerland?”

  He slowly rolled to face me. His breath whispered against my cheek. “I was afraid that I was being monitored by the SS, of course, but for me to visit Adelheid Zinsli was a reasonable thing, even though I had told them that I had ended our engagement before I went to Russia.”

  “You did?” Although the engagement had been fictitious, I was surprisingly hurt.

  “It was the only way I could explain why you did not contact me in Berlin when I was in Russia, Spatz.”

  I felt like a child, and a dull one at that. “Of course. Please go on.”

  He took in a long breath and let it out slowly.

  “Lars?”

  “I went to Switzerland to break it off with you.”

  I jerked my head back from him so hard that it smacked the glove box. “Break it off with me?”

  He slipped his fingers through my hair. “Did you hurt your head?”

  “W-why?” My head whirled. I had not expected this.

  “I was … broken, not fit to be in a family. I saw that.”

  “I would have welcomed you,” I said.

  “Of course you would have. You would have taken care of me as best you could, without regard to the cost to you.” He stroked my hair.

  “But—”

  “If you had known I was alive, you would have destroyed your life for me. As you risked death for your friend Paul, even though you have not been romantically involved with him for almost twenty years.” His muscles bunched.

  “I did Paul no favor.” I pulled away from him. “And helping you would not have destroyed my life.”

  “I was a mess, Spatz,” he said. “I could not sleep. I could barely eat. I was drunk more than I was sober. I was useless.”

  “I do not love you because you are ‘of use’ to me.” I forced myself to touch him, to swallow my anger. For now.

  He traced a fingertip down my cheek, and I turned to kiss it. “That’s why I had to leave.” He took his hand back. “Because I was damned if I would drag you and Anton down with me.”

  “Lars—”

  “It’s past the point of discussion now.”

  “It most certainly is not,” I said. “But not now.”

  “Something to look forward to,” he said. “The reporter forgets nothing.”

  I ignored that. “You did not break things off with me. We never spoke. I did not know that you came to Switzerland. What happened?”

  He settled deeper into the seat. “I spent a few days seeing if I was followed. When I was confident that I was not, I staked out the newspaper offices, as I did not know where else to find you. I did not have the banker’s address.”

  “I was not living with Boris,” I put in.

  “I know that now. Or at least I hope I do.”

  “Lars!”

  I heard the smile. “I do.”

  “Did you find me at the newspaper?” I went there often now that Anton was in school, enjoying the collegial atmosphere. Or at least the collegial atmosphere before Herr Marceau started to resent my political pieces.

  “I followed you to the park and saw you and the banker and the woman I assumed to be the nanny with a new baby.” His words sped up. He must be anxious to get through this part. “Boris and Anton played football and were happy together. You seemed content playing with the baby. I assumed that it was yours, and that you had married him.”

  We visited Boris on weekends so that he and Anton could spend time together. I sometimes stayed to play with the little girl that Anton called his sister. “I did not marry him, and that baby is not mine.”

  “I know that now,” he said. “But at the time it seemed logical. You had assumed me dead, perhaps mourned for a time, and moved on with your life. With the life you would have led had I never recruited you to courier for me. The life you should have led. I thought it would be easier if I did not reopen any old wounds you might have had and let you continue to think me dead.”

  “Those wounds never closed.” I grazed my fingertip over the scar on his eyebrow. “I mourned you every day until I saw you in Poland.”

  He shifted, and the seat squeaked. “I could not provide for you as he could. I could not father Anton as he could. I still can’t.”

  “How do you know what I want?”

  “I know what you need,” he said. “You didn’t need me.”

  I swallowed another argument. “After you inadvisably left Switzerland—”

  He chuckled. “Yes?”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I returned to Berlin and drank myself out of the SS, whored myself out of Berlin—” I flinched. He kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry, Spatz.”

  I lay still. It hurt to hear him say it, but no more than the rest of it. The thing that hurt the most was that he had left me.

  “I read your articles. When I heard that you were going to Poznań, I adjusted my route and went there to keep an eye on you, little knowing how much danger you would find. You know the rest.”

  “I think you may be leaving out as much as you are telling.”

  He sat up suddenly. Cold air blew across my bare skin. I sat next to him and pulled the coat over us. I wondered what our lives would have been like if I had fallen in love with him in my twenties. Could I have lived the domestic life of a policeman’s wife, as my friend Bettina did? I tried to imagine us leaving for work in the morning, coming home at night, and not worrying about being arrested or killed. I could not picture it, and I reminded myself, he had been a Nazi when I met him. I had hated and feared him at the time. Besides, for many years after I had left Paul and realized that I did not wish to be married, I had closed the door on the thought of falling in love, until I met Boris. Even if Lars and I had met in our twenties, we would not have fallen in love.

  He adjusted my upside-down coat across my shoulders, fingertips lingering on my collarbone. A slight contact, but electric.

  I had fallen in love with him two years ago, unexpectedly and against my better judgment. The feelings had not gone away when I thought him dead, or when I saw him again in Poland with Fräulein Ivona. Whether I liked it or not, I still loved him. A better question was what I intended to do about it.

  “At Paul’s last night,” I said. “When I woke up and looked at you, you did not recognize me.”

  “What do you mean?” His heart beat faster. He must know I could feel it.

  “What happened to you?”

  He stared into the windshield as if the answer might be hidden in the dark garage. “I don’t know.”

  “I have worked with shell-shocked soldiers—”

  “Sometimes I’m somewhere else.” I felt his hand outside the coats clench into a fist.

  “Where?” I spoke as gently as I could.

  “I don’t know.” His tone was anguished. “My body is still there, functioning, but my mind is in a fog. I…”

  “Does it happen often?”

  “Not like it used to. It’s better, but I can’t promise that…”

  “That what?”

  “That I w
on’t end up back there in the fog.” He pulled me close. “I’ve never hurt anyone, not during those moments. If I thought that I would hurt you, that I could hurt you, I would stay away. I promise you that.”

  “You already made good on that promise,” I said bitterly.

  He put one hand on the crown of my head. “It was the best I could do.”

  “What is the best you can do now?”

  “I think I can stay. I’m better,” he said. “I can sometimes sleep more than a few hours. I am mostly sober again. Sometimes I can see through the … episodes, and stop them.”

  “How do I know you won’t leave—?”

  “Because.” He cleared his throat. “It would kill me to leave you again.”

  I heard truth in his words. “Can we build something where no one leaves? And no one dies?”

  He swept me into a rough hug. “God help us, Spatz.”

  I held him.

  Eventually, we lay back down on the lorry’s seat. He rearranged the coats over us. I stroked my hands along his body, exploring the things that had changed in the last two years. He had so many scars now. I began to kiss them, one by one.

  He arched under my lips and moaned softly. I smiled.

  A weight fell against the outside of the lorry. Knuckles pounded the window glass.

  20

  Lars snatched his gun off the dashboard and pointed it at the lorry’s window. With his other hand, he pushed my head down against the seat.

  “Lang? Is that you?” called a male voice with a Russian accent. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Lars’s shoulders relaxed, and he lowered the gun to his side. I ducked my head under my coat collar. Safe from danger, but not from embarrassment.

  Lars sat abruptly. A gust of cold air shot into our nest. I drew my coat high around me. He slung his coat over his shoulders, put a finger to his lips, and rearranged my coat.

  He cranked down the window. “Good morning, Herr Populov. I stopped by for a bit of sleep.”

  “Can’t spring for a hotel anymore, Lang?” Herr Populov laughed. “Hope he paid you in advance, Fräulein.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept my face hidden, wanting him to simply go away.

  “I paid her plenty in advance,” Lars said. “She’s my wife.”

  What a lovely introduction. I stifled a groan. I would have to meet Herr Populov now, and under the worst of circumstances. I sat up, careful to keep myself covered by my coat. My cheeks burned. What would my mother have said about me being caught naked on the front seat of a lorry and being mistaken for a prostitute, even with a man who was allegedly my husband? My father would have beaten me so hard, I could not have sat down for days. Then again, he had done that often, and for less.

  “Spatz, I’d like you to meet Herr Populov, the man who kindly extended us his hospitality last night. Herr Populov, my wife, Frau Lang.”

  I stretched my good hand across Lars. Herr Populov shook it with his calloused one. “I’m sorry, Frau Lang. I meant no offense. I’ll go wait in the office.”

  “My son is sleeping in there,” Lars said.

  “Son?” Herr Populov looked as if the roof had caved right in on his head. I imagine I looked no better, but Lars seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “If you could give me a few minutes,” Lars said. “I will meet you by the front door, and we can all pretend that this didn’t happen.”

  Herr Populov’s face retreated. Footsteps echoed off the walls of the cavernous warehouse. The overhead light snapped on, and the front door closed with a bang.

  “Sorry, Spatz,” Lars said.

  “You do not look particularly sorry.” I felt around on the floor for my clothes.

  He handed me my slip. “I am not particularly sorry to be here now. Perhaps it shows.”

  He kissed me gently on the lips, and I had to smile at him. “Embarrassed, yes. Sorry, no.” I wriggled my cold slip over my head and finger-combed my hair.

  “My god,” he said. “You are beautiful.”

  “I probably look a sight!”

  He gathered me into his arms. “A more beautiful sight I have never seen.”

  We stared at each other like love-struck teens.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d better get shaved and go talk to Populov before he comes back.”

  “I want to be dressed the next time I meet him,” I said. “So, go.”

  He climbed out of the lorry and shut the door.

  I resumed my search on the lorry’s floor. My clothes were scattered, and it took me some time to find them and get dressed. I lifted Paul’s shirt off the steering wheel and hung it over my arm before stepping into my cold shoes and hurrying across the concrete floor to the office.

  I stood next to Anton’s makeshift bed and studied his face, relaxed in sleep. I folded Paul’s shirt and added it to my bag. “Anton?”

  “Here.” He yawned loudly.

  “We have to leave now, so that the shop can open for business.”

  Lars emerged from the washroom, wiping shaving cream off his face. “My apologies, Frau Lang.” He kissed me on the nose and was gone, leaving behind the scent of his eucalyptus shaving cream.

  Anton rubbed his eyes and sat. “Are you two pretending to be married again?”

  “After a fashion.” I handed him his shoes and pointed to the washroom. “And if it comes up outside, Lars is your father.”

  Shaking his head, he trudged over to the washroom.

  I folded his blanket, then packed the nightshirt he had used as a pillow. We had unpacked nothing else.

  Anton stumbled back out and leaned against the wall. “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.” I stepped past him into the washroom. I looked at the filthy floor and wished for the luxury of waiting for better facilities. Instead, I splashed cold water on my face and hands, and smoothed my hair. I chanced a glance in the mirror. My relaxed face told the story of last night’s events in the lorry. I hoped that it would be too dark outside for Herr Populov to notice.

  Best to get it over with. I collected our things, and Anton and I walked to the front door.

  Herr Populov and Lars stood next to the warehouse. The cherry of Herr Populov’s cigarette shone red against the early morning gloom.

  Lars took my bag. He ruffled Anton’s hair. Anton gave him an aggrieved look, me a warning one, lest I decide that hair ruffling was suddenly acceptable.

  “My apologies for the … the inconvenience,” I stammered to Herr Populov, blushing.

  Herr Populov’s hearty laugh rolled out. “Not a problem, Frau Lang. Your husband explained to me that you will be here for the next few nights.”

  “We appreciate the hospitality.” I hoped that darkness hid my glowing face.

  “Anton,” Lars said. “How about you open the door so I can fetch the lorry out here before your mother faints on the grass?”

  Anton stepped over to me. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” I said. “Thank you. But, please, do get the door.”

  Lars and Anton walked back toward the warehouse door together.

  “He’s a fine man, your husband,” Herr Populov said. “It’s an honor to help him, and you and the boy.”

  “Thank you.” I wondered what he knew about Lars. Had they met in Russian prison?

  He opened a pack of Sobranies. Russian cigarettes, too. “May I?”

  “Of course.” I hated the smell, but could hardly tell him what to do at his own warehouse, especially considering my own actions here. “Have you known my husband long?”

  “Long enough. He’s helped me more than once, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I itched to ask more, but Lars stopped the lorry and stepped down to open the door and help me in. He slid in beside me.

  “Breakfast?” Lars asked.

  “Places are open this early?” Anton rested his head against the window. “People eat in them?”

  Lars chuckled. He waved to Herr Populov as we drove away.
<
br />   Even at this early hour, lorries had begun to arrive at the warehouses around us. The workers wore mostly blue overalls and shouted greetings to one another. I sank down in the seat, wondering if they were watching me as much as I watched them. Tomorrow, I would wake up earlier. “A tea would not come amiss.”

  I looked over at Anton. He had gone back to sleep.

  “I envy him the sleep.” Lars turned off onto a street that led out of the warehouse district. We passed battered brick apartment buildings.

  “Me, too.”

  “I left Populov a list of supplies. He said he will have them by the end of the day, so tonight I can build the compartment.”

  “Wonderful.” I covered my mouth and yawned.

  “My apologies for the wake-up call,” he said.

  “The warehouse experience was not quite up to Hotel Adlon’s standards.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Parts of it were sublime.”

  I leaned against him. “They were.”

  We drove in silence. The sky slowly turned dove gray. We stopped near a café as its inside light flickered on. The waitress took chairs off the tabletops. We would have a bit of a wait before she was ready to accept breakfasters.

  Lars gestured at the sky. “So, in the cold gray light of morning, do you want me to slip quietly away from this noisy crowd?”

  I recognized the Rilke quote. I also knew the last line. “Only if I come, too.”

  He dropped his arm around me and drew me in close. “Good, Spatz.”

  Together we watched the waitress bustle around. He rested his cheek against the top of my head. His breath stirred my hair. This moment, this sky, Lars warm by my side, and Anton asleep a meter away. That was what we had.

  Paul had nothing. Grief choked out my feeling of peace. I had no right to it.

  The waitress unlocked the front door. Lars stirred. I shook Anton. “Breakfast time.”

  Anton stretched like a cat. Looking at him made me yawn.

  In the restaurant, Lars convinced the waitress to give us a large table at the back. All three of us were ravenous and ordered eggs, rolls, meat, and tea. She shook her head, clearly disbelieving that we would finish it all.