I hand the papers to the police officer reaching for them. He scans them, takes a look at me, returns his gaze to the papers, then again, back at me.A third will mean he’s spotted something…or so I tell myself.
“Albert Amsler,” he says, “what are you traveling with in that crate?”
The words tango on my tongue as I try to place in them in the right order as quickly as I can. “I’m a personal chef to an SS?—”
“Okay, move along,” he says before shifting his gaze to the next person in line.
I feel as though I’ve gotten away with murder, giving me the extra bit of energy and confidence I need to make it back to my old neighborhood in the hope that Papa has made it home. The walk feels much longer than it ever did before. Everywhere I look, red flags wave, loudly claiming this city as a home to the Nazis. I haven’t felt welcome here since I was thirteen. I shouldn’t feel any differently now.
One block left to walk before reaching my old, enclosed neighborhood. What once smelled like firewood from piping chimneys and a faint scent of pine from the outer encirclement of trees, now only reeks of horse manure left behind from whatever parade must have come through here last.
The street I lived on looks the same until I reach my house, first up on the left. Mama’s curtains in the front window have been replaced with green linen. I’m not sure Papa would do something like that. I grab the doorknob and twist to push myway inside, but the knob doesn’t budge. I knock while keeping my gaze on the window. The curtains billow against the glass a brief second before the front door opens.
“Yes, can I help you?” A tall, thin woman with rigid stone-like features stands before me with her eyebrows angled to a point.
“Uh, yes, are you—do you live here now, or?—”
She glances over her shoulder as if she needs to check her response with someone but when she returns her cold hard stare, she says, “It appears to be so, doesn’t it now? What can I do for you?”
“I apologize for bothering you. I was only looking for my father.”
“The only man who lives here is my husband, and he’s most certainly not your father.”
She closes the door without giving me a chance to apologize again.
This doesn’t mean he isn’t around here somewhere. The house could have been occupied as soon as we were forced to leave. I knew it would be unlikely to find him here in our home after all this time, but it had to be the first place I’d start.
I spin around, debating which door to knock on next, wondering if Emilie’s parents still live here, and Felix’s, Otto’s and Gerty’s parents too.
I choose Emilie’s door first and my heart thunders as I lift my hand to knock. Seeing her again after all this time would more than make up for the disappointment of not finding Papa right away.
There isn’t a sound from the other side of the door, but I wait another moment before knocking again. The stillness within the house seems clear so I move on to Felix’s front door.Please, be home.
Seconds after I knock, footsteps scuttle along the wooden floors until the door opens, leaving me face-to-face with FrauWeber, Felix’s mother. The sight of a familiar face stiffens my chest as I want to jump into her arms and steal a moment of what feels like home from her.
“Danner?” she whispers.
I glance around, nervous about who might be listening, hearing my name is something other than Albert Amsler. I shake my head. “May I come inside?”
She scoops her arm behind my back and pulls me in at once, then draws the curtains inside just as quickly. “What in the world are you doing back here? You should be in Poland with your Mama and David, yes?”
I place the wooden crate down between my ankles, happy to free my hands for a moment. “I was there, but there was news that some of the Jewish prisoners were released due to overcrowding. I thought Papa might have…”
By the mere look on her face, I can already tell she hasn’t seen Papa and hasn’t heard a word about this news.
“You thought he was back home,” she says, placing her warm hand on my cheek. “Sweetheart, we haven’t seen him at all. I’m so sorry you’ve traveled all this way.”
“Thank you, I just need to find him somehow. He’s somewhere and, well, if anyone will find him, it will be me.”
“Of course,” she says. “I hadn’t heard about the police releasing any of the previously arrested Jews but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
I contemplate what to do next. I put all my hope into walking back into my home as if we had never left. “Thank you for letting me know,” I offer, reaching down to lift my crate back up with my sore hands.
“Where will you go? Who are you staying with?”
Emilie’s parents might take me in. “Do the Marxes still live down the street?” I ask, curling my fingers around the wooden frame.
“Of course,” she says. “Although they’ve been quite busy lately with planning a wedding and all. They hardly ever seem to be home much these days.”
