“Maybe Annika was trying to hide her secrets in plain sight. If she didn’t want an adult to find it...”
“No better place to hide than in a children’s book.”
She nods, pushing her reading glasses back over her short hair. We’ve commiserated over the years about how few adults actually open books written for younger people. The older population,we both think, would learn a lot about children by reading what intrigues them. And while I’m admittedly biased, some stories written specifically for children are light-years more entertaining than what’s marketed toward their parents.
The author of the list certainly valued precision in her script, taking the time to do her work well. She seemed to care deeply about what she was recording, and I wonder if it was Annika Knopf trying to hide something between these pages or if her mother wrote this list for her.
I glance again between the two books—one on the shelf and one in Charlotte’s hands—and wish they could both tell me about their journeys.
“I can’t read any more today.” Charlotte lowers the book to her lap.
This time I pat her leg. “It’s okay.”
“My mind is still sound, just not my recall.”
“Your mind is even sounder than mine.”
Charlotte continues flipping through the pages, scanning the illustrations of Bambi playing with his cousin Faline, hiding with his mother in the forest. Some of the illustrations are printed in bright colors, others in black-and-white. Then she looks back up at me. “Did you see the picture?”
I scoot toward her. “What picture?”
She slowly rotates the book, and I see a yellowed photograph, torn from a newspaper and attached to a page near the end of the book with about a dozen pieces of clear tape. It’s a picture of a young man, seeming to gaze into the eyes of a woman cut from the photograph, though her gloved hand is resting in his. He’s striking, with light hair and a smile that must have stirred the hearts of many young women in his day.
The caption’s missing as well, but I can read the name of the newspaper and the date above the photograph.
Neues Wiener Tagblatt. 6 May 1938.
“The Vienna newspaper,” Charlotte says.
“Perhaps Annika was from Austria as well.”
Charlotte closes the book, staring down at the cover. “I was baptized in 1938.”
Elbows on my lap, I wait silently. She rarely speaks about her memories from the orphanage or the tragedies of a great war that spared no one, including the children.
“I wish I could find your family for you, Charlotte.”
She reaches for my hand; her skin is so soft, so thin, that I worry about bruising her. “It’s much too late for a reunion now.”
“Do you still want to know what happened to them?”
“Sometimes I do.” Her voice shakes. “Other times, I’m afraid to find out.”
“Everyone should know their story.”
Closing her eyes, Charlotte rests her head against the chair. “Hopefully this Annika left Europe long before the war began.”
Charlotte’s hand nestled inside mine, I allow her the space she needs to drift away. I would never do anything to hurt her, but I wish I could gift her with something good from her story.
CHAPTER 7
MAX
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
MAY 1938
Chandelier light glowed on the gilded walls of the ballroom as Herr Krause, the conductor, lifted his baton. Then the members of the orchestra filled the chambers and balconies of theRathauswith the flush of music. The marble columns lining the room vibrated with their song, the German flag fluttering behind them.
