Before he could reach me, one of the Trümmerkinder lunged at him, a boy I had seen before who was older and so much stronger than Klaus. His face was sharp with a hunger that should never be seen in a kid's eye, and it wasn't for food. Klaus stumbled back, nearly falling.
"Hey!" I snapped.
I caught the older boy by the ear, not even trying to be gentle. "No," I hissed. "Leave him."
He scowled but backed off, rubbing his ear. The other Trümmerkinder watched, some laughing, some whispering, all with eyes too hollow for their age. Too broken. Klaus barely noticed. He was too busy staring at the miracle in his hands.
"Can I keep it?" he asked breathlessly.
That one question nearly cracked me open. He was only six, but he already knew the truth: chocolate like that could fetch bread on the black market. Oats. Maybe even a proper blanket or a shirt that didn't choke his wrists. It could keep us fed for a week.
A week.
My stomach twisted painfully. I thought of our empty pantry. I thought of the nights I pretended I wasn't hungry so he wouldn't worry. But then I looked at him, really looked. At the light in his eyes. At how he trembled with excitement. At how long he had waited to be a child again.
And I knew.
"Yes," I said, my voice soft. "It's yours. You go ahead and eat it. Just…not all at once, okay?"
His mouth fell open. "Inga?"
Everything emotion reflected in that single word—everything he feared, everything he wanted, everything he hoped—hit me like a tidal wave. I fell to my knees and hugged him so tight he squeaked.
"You decide," I whispered into his hair. "It's yours. But understand this: sometimes it's more important to live—really live—even for one minute…than to save everything for a future we can't promise."
It nearly killed me to say it. To tell him to be wasteful. But I wanted to see his face when he tasted something good. He pulled back, solemn as a priest, andbroke off a small square. He looked at me again for permission. I nodded. I watched him place it on his tongue, and his whole body reacted. His eyes rolled back. His shoulders rose. He sighed—this deep, ridiculous sound of pure joy—then laughed like he couldn't hold it in.
He laughed.
"Ingaaa," he groaned dramatically, "it's soooo good."
I laughed too, tears stinging my eyes. Then he held out another piece he'd broken off. "For you."
I shook my head. "No. It's yours."
But he kept his arm out, stubborn as a mule, his little jaw set. "Sometimes you have to live in the moment," he said very seriously.
I barked out a laugh, the sound surprising both of us. "You're right," I said, taking the chocolate. "You're absolutely right."
I put the piece on my tongue and closed my eyes. It was like falling backward through time. I remembered a Christmas, lights, a tin of sweets, my mother humming as she stirred something warm on the stove. I must have been five. Six. Before my father lost his job… before everything. He had been an architect, fired for refusing to join the Party. Because he wouldn't design the grand new buildings the Reich demanded. Courage cost people their lives back then. I suppose we were lucky that it only cost us our home.
The chocolate brought all of it back, bright and warm and unbearably precious, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't hurt when I allowed myself to do so. It was a warm memory, one I would cherish for the rest of my life.
When I opened my eyes, Klaus was watching me.
"Happy?" he asked.
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Yes. That made me really, really happy."
He beamed. "I'll get you more tomorrow," he promised somberly, like a knight making a vow.
A tiny laugh escaped me. "I know."
And as I looked at him—his teeth still stained with chocolate, his eyes shining—my mind flickered back to the words I'd told him about living in the moment. A pair of blue eyes rose in my thoughts. A quiet smile. A jacket, warm on my shoulders. Gideon.
My stomach fluttered, traitorous and warm.
I shook myself back to reality. "Come on, Klaus," I said. "Let's go home. I need to get ready for work."
