I reached for the door handle, but he stopped me, his hand on my arm.
“She may not be the same person you remember. And to her, you might be a traitor. You need to be careful. Aware at all times. A lot has happened since you left. You shouldn’t trust anyone. Not even the baby sister who loved you and looked up to you.”
But he was wrong. I knew he was wrong. And I would prove it when I met him later at the safe house, Catrin by my side, or at least information on where I could find her.
I grabbed my bag from the floor of the car and opened the door.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
“Please. Remember what I said. And keep your papers hidden. I’ll wait here until I can’t see you anymore.”
I opened the door and got out, slinging the shoulder strap of my bag over my shoulder and looking back inside the car at my traveling companion. I wouldn’t say we’d grown closer as the days had gone by, but we’d developed a relationship. A fondness for one another. A sense of respect. And for me, a feeling of safety in his presence. I was nervous to be without him, but this next part had to be done alone.
I looked up the street, so different than it had been ten years before, then back at him.
“Lebewohl,”I said.
“Farewell,” he said, and I shut the door.
It was strange walking down the old streets. The quiet disconcerting. Even the soldiers, so prominent several blocks away, didn’t bother to monitor this area, the lack of inhabitants making it not worth their time or efforts.
As I drew closer to the building I’d once called home, I was shocked at what I saw just around it. Homes, shops, and businesses that had once stood strong and beautiful, were now shells of themselves, reduced to their bare bones by the fires that had ripped through the city, burning history, art, and lives. The city center was a shell of itself, the asphalt in some areas melted in large patches. There were mountains of brick piled everywhere, and the dust I kicked up as I walked settled on my coat and in my throat, making me cough.
Some of it I was glad to see in ruins. Government buildings, the homes of those I’d known supported the tyrant who had brought this disgrace down on our country. But other places, like my favorite bookstore, the sweet shop Ruthie and I spent our allowance in nearly every week, and the bench that had been our meeting place before we wandered off on some silly adventure, were harder to take, their absence tearing small holes into my heart.
The few trees that still stood were scorched, others bent and disfigured, their bark charred, ash dusting their exposed roots below. It felt otherworldly. But no world I wanted to be a part of.
My heart raced as I approached my old home, stepping carefully around the mounds of rubble, and noting that while the windows in the building across from it were blown out, somehow the windows in ours were all intact.
It wasn’t until I reached for the handle of the large front door that I realized the longtime doorman, Jürgen, wasn’t there to greet me. When I stepped inside, there was no concierge at the desk, and none of the other tenants milled about talking quietly in the lobby. There was just the echo of my footsteps skittering across the marble floor as I made my way to the elevator, taking in my dusty surroundings and the eerie emptiness around me.
I pressed the button for the elevator, but it didn’t light up. I noticed the large crystal chandelier hanging in the entryway was dark. The little lamps on either side of the concierge’s desk weren’t on either. No electricity. I’d have to take the stairs.
Grasping the handle, I pushed the door open and looked up, memories flooding back as I remembered Catrin and I begging Nanny Paulina to let us take the stairs whenever she took us out. Looking up the stairwell now, I couldn’t remember what was so magical about them, except perhaps that my parents never deigned to take them, and it had felt like going against their rules and lifestyle to not take the elevator like “civilized people.” I was pretty sure the only reason Nanny Paulina agreed was because she knew it would help wear us out.
I began climbing the fourteen flights to our top-floor apartment, stopping periodically whenever I reached a landing and heard a noise on the other side of the door. I was tempted to peek. To see who might still be residing in this building on the edge of the disaster that had ravaged buildings only a few doors down, but I pushed on. Contact with anyone but my family was a dangerous game I knew not to play.
At the top floor I paused, catching my breath and steadying myself before entering the narrow hall that led to the small, elegant lobby outside my family’s home.
Two identical benches still flanked the ornate double doors to the apartment. How many times had I peeked out here during one of my parents’ many parties to find guests had drifted out and perched, drinks in their hands, in this very space?
I looked at the doors that led inside, my eyes tracing the wood-carved pattern as they had so many times before. My breath trembled as I inhaled. I suddenly felt small. Scared. Once more that child, that young girl, that woman—on the verge—who wanted to run. Far and fast. Away from here.
And now I’d come back.
A flash of worry spread through me, Max’s words coming back as I reached my hand out to knock. I paused.What if he was right? What if too much had changed?
I glanced out the window to my right, taking in the sight of a city covered in ash. It wasn’t too late. I could leave now. Hurry to the house with the woman who would contact Max. It would take minutes and I’d be safe and soon on my way back. To France. To England.
To William.
But my hand moved on its own, rapping softly on the thick wood door, the sound echoing throughout the lobby. A minute passed. Two. Had I knocked too quietly? Maybe the reports were wrong and no one was here. I grasped the strap of my bag still hanging from my shoulder...waiting, listening. But there was no sound. No movement felt. It was strange to hear nothing. There had always been something, even from out here. The steps of our trusted butler, August. The hushed voices of my mother’s personal secretary or maid. The clank of pots and pans from meals being prepared by the cook. Perhaps it was a bad time. Perhaps there was never going to be a good time to return.
Perhaps my mother was already dead.
My heart sank as my mind immediately went to my sister. Had I come all this way only to receive no answers at all?
I took a step back, still listening, still hoping. But as the seconds ticked away, I began to fear the worst.
