I didn't believe it. But I said it anyway.
Because I needed to believe that somehow, someway, everything wouldn't fall apart again. I turned to Axel and Hilde. Axel shot to his feet, pale and shaking. Hilde clung to his arm, eyes huge.
"I'll be back," I whispered to them. "Stay with Elke. Don't leave the flat."
Then I stepped outside. The Russian soldier was waiting patiently beside a gleaming black limousine, polished so brightly it reflected the ruin around it like a twisted mirror. My stomach dropped.
"Please," he said simply, opening the door. "Come. Your father waits."
I looked back at the ruins, at the only home I had left, and then stepped inside the car. The door shut with a soft thud. The world outside disappeared as the limousine rolled toward Checkpoint Charlie, toward the East, toward whatever waited for me behind those walls.
The limousine glided silently through the sleepy, early-morning streets, its wheels whispering over cracked cobblestones. Berlin felt unreal, too quiet after the panic, after Klaus… I pressed my forehead to the cool glass as the world slid by.
People were already lining up with ration cards in their hands, shuffling their feet, blowing into cold fingers even though summer had touched the air. A few women had small children wrapped in blankets, leaning tiredly against their skirts. A baker's cart rattled past, the driver calling out the day's meager offerings.
And there—my heart squeezed—Old Manne, the man I'd waited beside so many mornings. He stood with his one arm tucked against his coat, staring ahead with that weary patience carved into all of us. I wanted to pound on the window and shout at him. Tell him I was engaged. Tell him Klaus was taken.
Tell him I was terrified.
But the car kept moving.
We passed the rebuilt blocks, new storefronts, smoothed stone facades, hopeful construction scaffolds catching the first pale light. West Berlin's stubborn determination glowed faintly, like a lantern refusing to go out.
But then—Checkpoint Charlie loomed ahead. A barrier. A border. A scar across the city.
American soldiers stood guard on one side, their uniforms neat, boots polished, rifles gleaming. Beyond them, past the striped barrier arm and the concrete teeth on the road, Eastern soldiers waited with blank expressions, weapons slung casually over their shoulders, as if violence were just another morning chore.
My stomach twisted.
The car rolled to a stop.
One of the American MPs stepped forward. He didn't look directly at me—didn't even try—but he peered into the car with suspicion, then glanced at the papers the Russian soldier handed over. His jaw tensed. His fingers twitched. For a moment, I thought he might pull me out, ask who I was, ask if I was here willingly. But whatever was on that paper—the Russian's pass—made his face fall still and cold. He stepped back.
The barrier rose.
And we crossed.
It felt like stepping through a mirror into a darker version of the world. The air itself seemed heavier. Even the light dimmed, as if the sun grew tired here. What smallflickers of hope the cleared-out West held—the new bricks, the painted storefronts, the cautious smiles—died instantly. On the East side, rubble still swallowed entire blocks. Buildings leaned like burned matchsticks. Men trudged rather than walked. Women stared with hollow, hungry eyes. Even the children—if they could still be called that—moved like shadows, stiff and silent, as though the simple act of living required too much effort.
"Why… why does it look worse?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
The soldier didn't answer.
We drove deeper, past lines of people waiting outside distribution centers, past groups of men clearing debris with dull eyes. Everything was gray. Everything was exhausted. Everything looked… hopeless.
This had been my city, too. It still was.
But even I felt the difference. As if someone had reached into this quarter of Berlin and pulled the warmth out of it. My heart thudded painfully. Was Klaus here? Was he somewhere in this cold, lifeless place, alone and terrified?
The limo turned onto a quieter street, a street that didn't match the rest.
The rubble thinned. Sidewalks became smooth. The grime lessened.
We turned again, and my breath caught. A villa rose before us. A real villa. Four stories, pale stone washed clean, windows intact, a balcony with wrought ironcurling like lace. The garden—an actual garden—overflowed with trimmed hedges, roses, and an enormous chestnut tree spreading its branches protectively overhead.
I stared.
It looked like something from a fairy tale. Something from before the war.
