“I tried, but I couldn’t make out the words.”
She hands me the book. “I wonder where Schloss Schwansee is located.”
“I couldn’t find it online.”
“So you’re off to Charlotte’s...”
“This afternoon, if you don’t need me here.”
“Have at it,” Brie says before greeting another customer. Her interest in the German notes has come and gone, but me, I’ll obsess until I know what they say.
Annika Knopf, I suspect, has probably passed away by now, but every time we receive a book with something unusual inside, I want to reunite the item and book with the child who once owned it, as if I could return a piece of what I hoped was a happy childhood. In this case, perhaps Annika’s descendants would be intrigued by whatever she wrote inside this book. In my story-world optimism, I can help provide a happy ending for their search.
Then again, it’s entirely possible that Annika’s descendants sold this book even though they knew about the handwriting. The money might have been more important than preserving a family heirloom.
Kathleen reaches for her son’s hand, and before I can escape to the back room, they are beside me. Jack in his pressed shorts, button-down shirt, and a clip-on tie. Kathleen in white capris,a sage-green blouse, and heeled sandals. I, on the other hand, resemble Raggedy Ann, except my curly hair is light brown and I’m wearing black-framed glasses with my striped socks and blue sundress.
“I’m sorry we were late for story time,” Kathleen says, sounding genuine with her apology.
“No worries. I’ll be here again next Saturday.”
Jack eyes the cape tied around my neck. “Are you Superwoman?”
I swallow my sigh, deciding in that moment that Superwoman is better than Raggedy Ann. “Perhaps.”
“I like your socks,” he says.
“Thanks. I like your tie.”
A stack of new books in their bag, Kathleen and Jack walk out of the store hand in hand, headed north toward the roundabout—known in our town as the square—where the annual Memorial Day festivities are about to begin.
Watching Kathleen through the window, my thoughts drift again to how different my life would be if Scott hadn’t met her. I’d be married like Brie, perhaps even have a child of my own. No wandering around a bookstore in the midnight hours for me. I’d be content in my own home, with my own children, not trying to reunite lost items with their owners.
Drums thunder in the distance, followed by the crashing of cymbals. In seconds the bookstore empties, our customers pouring out onto the sidewalk as they wait for the bands and floats to roll by, the candy raining down from the sky.
Inkspot curls around my ankles, and I tuck the oldBambibook under my arm to pick up the cat. Together we watch the grand marshal, the mayor of our town, marching toward us, the high school band and color guard close behind.
In our celebration, we remember together those who served our country around the world, those who lived to tell their stories and those who died fighting against tyranny. And we remember with hope for peace against the tragedy of war, hope that none of my Saturday-morning kids will have to leave their families to fight.
CHAPTER 4
MAX
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
MARCH 1938
Gray cobblestones pressed into Max Dornbach’s knees as he knelt in an alley near Heldenplatz and scratched Frederica, the stray tabby cat he’d befriended, behind her ears. A peaceful ruler, her name meant. And right now, they desperately neededder Friedenin Austria.
Frederica liked it when he scratched her ears, but even more, she liked sharing whatever he brought for her in the rucksack that held his lunch and books forGymnasium, a rucksack he carried even on days like today when the schools were closed. She mewed when he retrieved the strip of bacon along with a chunk of mild Drautaler cheese, devouring it rapidly from his palm.
He could almost hear his mother’s voice, scolding him for feeding a stray, but secretly she liked animals as much as he did.
She wasn’t in Vienna to scold him anyway. Instead of driving back to the city last night, she’d opted to stay at their summer estate for another week.
A roar erupted from the heart of Vienna, rippling out into the corners of its districts. Crowds had gathered on the lofty road called Ringstrasse, buzzing like a thousand hornets around a nest. Many of them waved flags and belted out the lyrics of a Nazi anthem as if they’d been National Socialists all along.
“For the last time, the call to arms is sounded!”
