“But you must,” Max said, leaning forward. “And perhaps you could take Luzi Weiss with you. She would be a good companion—”
“Does she have a visa?”
“I was able to... obtain paperwork for a visa.” He paused. The details of his transaction must remain secret. “I have a marriage certificate for Luzi and me. And a new baptismal certificate for her.”
“Oh, Max...”
“She doesn’t know, nor has she agreed to marry me, but her father knows. He wants her to leave the country.”
“She is a lucky girl, Max, for you to love her so much.” Her words seemed to float like the cigarette smoke in this place, asad reminder that her own husband hadn’t been faithful to his promises.
“Father only wants you to leave because he loves you as well.”
“Of course.”
“When this is over, he will destroy the divorce certificate, and you’ll remarry,” he said, though his words lacked conviction. But hope, no matter how false, was necessary to take the next step. One foot in front of the other until his mother was so far along the path that the motivation to begin her journey was long forgotten.
“Please take Luzi with you,” he begged.
“The French consulate only gave me a visa because of your father’s urging. They won’t make an exception for Luzia.”
“Before you leave tomorrow, you can speak to them about your daughter-in-law.”
“It’s not that simple, Max.”
He knew it wasn’t simple. The Nazis, it seemed, thrived on both complication and confusion when it came to ridding their country of the Jewish people. They changed the rules at random, created new processes and then changed them again to confound anyone trying to leave.
“Have you talked with Luzia?” his mother asked.
“I’ll speak with her tonight.”
Max stole over to Luzi’s apartment after darkness fell, dodging the bands of storm troopers that patrolled the streets by ducking behind trash bins and into familiar alleyways.
In the back of her apartment, the lamp glowed in the library, the window open. He listened for music, but none stole out into the night.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, his voice hushed, he called her name. If Dr. or Frau Weiss or their neighbor upstairs came to the window, he’d duck back into the shadows, blending again into the night.
But then he saw Luzi by the curtain, her hair cascading in curls over the shoulders of her white sweater, and his heart quickened.
“Max?” she whispered through the screen.
“I need to speak with you.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please, Luzi.”
He heard the cry of a baby in the background. “I must bring Marta,” she said. “I fear she has the croup.”
“The night air will do her good, then.”
He leaned against a tree, waiting. It had been too long since he’d spoken to Luzi, since the night of their dance, but she lived boldly, beautifully, inside his head, waltzing across the hardwood floor.
His breath caught when she stepped into the light of a streetlamp. She’d tied her hair back into a ponytail, making her look much younger than her seventeen years. And yet she’d aged in another sense. Perhaps it was her stooped shoulders, an invisible burden weighing her down.
Marta coughed, and Luzi patted her back, bouncing her gently as Max joined her in the light.
“Where’s your father?” he asked.
